The Disassembling of Hermione Jane Granger
The clock is ticking and the children in the yard next door are screaming, yelling at the tops of their tiny lungs because it is finally spring, finally that bit of sun and a deep indigo sky that pours out honey warm across their energetic faces. Hermione watches them from her dining room window, smiles slightly at the wild hair of one particular little boy and wishes that she could laugh as loudly and hysterically as he seems to be able. The room is cool around her, chilling to her skin, and she wishes she could run and jump and play, but instead she drags her eyes back to the man in front of her, eyeing his burnt skin, the rough of his freckled flesh taut over his knuckles as he rubs his hands nervously, glancing from her, to the glints on the window and the world beyond, before sliding back to her.
"Hermione, I know we haven't, uh- "
With a wave of the hand, she stops him. Looking again to the window, she watches the kinetic shoves and pushes, the toppling tumbles and boisterous battles erupting between the miniature men and the full grown mothers rushing to grab them bodily, remove them from each other, though they just keep screaming and smiling and screaming more, and finally, Hermione turns back to Ron with her back rigid and her shoulders straight, though there are possibly tears in her eyes, possibly a shooting pain in her chest, a tightening around her lungs.
"Don't say anything… " She is mumbling, she is tired and unsure and can't move her fingers from the coffee cup clutched in her hands, can't tell him to just leave already, can't tell him that he's killing her because his pain hurts; his eyes burn holes into her skin and leaves marks like scars from the war; she can't just tell him to let her breathe, for one moment, to let the air calm her and the silence soothe her. Right now she is most likely, just possibly not okay, not in the least, no matter how much her brain is churning and whirling to find a solution, analyzing the angles and performing the equations, because it is breaking down at the speed of light, and she is just too damn tired to try and think logically of how to fix it.
He stands, leans over the table with hands no longer nervous braced on each side of her, and she can't pull herself from that face of sadness, the blatant remorse splattered like rain across his cheeks, and she is quite sure he is speaking, is saying every little word she cannot hear, will not hear right now, because she knows, she bloody well knows that they're over, and all the roaring and rushing in her ears can attest to the fact that she knows why and how and, obviously, when. Meeting his eyes, she reaches a hand up to his face and shakes a head at the tail end of his tentative explanation.
"I know, Ron, I know. Just go for now, really, we-" She chokes on the word for a moment, feels it's weight in the back of her throat before reflexively swallowing it down, "We can talk about the details later. I really need to be alone right now... If that's okay?"
He nods, though the colors of his dark eyes are indistinguishable in the resigned hues, pity and pain and maybe anger swirling in their depths. He leaves without a word, the door closing behind him as he makes his way to the backyard, where the wards end, apparating away with a sad glance back that Hermione can imagine, can almost guarantee occurred before suddenly, the house (not their house, really, never their house) is so silent, so large and looming around her that every little hitch and catch of her breath resounds like opera in her ears. Standing, moving, step over step, she takes her cup and places it in the sink, stares at the small bits of water reflecting the entire world out beyond her, the entire world that almost seems like nothing more than the careless smatter of water gleaming up at her. The blues and yellows shimmer into greens and the opalescent rainbow that emerges out of the colors reminds her of the glass in her laboratories and the bright incandescence of each of her potions, but flashes of red keep tainting her vision so she smears the water until her sleeves are wet and before she knows what she is doing, she is crying and screaming as loud as those children were, kneeling with her head on the counter, kneeling and knowing the world is very quietly, very crudely falling apart.
*****
"Miss?" The secretary looks up inquisitively, cocking her head as if she should know who stands in front of her desk, yet quite obviously does not.
"Is Harry in? I need to see him, if it's possible," Hermione is keeping her eyes away from the concerned up and down looks the woman is running all over her body, analyzing the damp sleeves, red eyes and over rubbed cheeks that indicate serious issues have occurred.
"I'm sorry, Miss, but Mr. Potter requires all of his meetings to be scheduled well in advance. He's a very busy man and can't exactly hold court to any who wishes to just drop in.."
"Honestly, Ma'am, I'm not in the mood." With a sigh, she steps around the desk, hearing the tap, tap of the secretaries too tight, too shiny leather shoes following behind her as she bursts into Harry's office, needing, just needing, a strong supportive arm to snake around her and tell her in soothing tones that "Everything is going to be okay, Hermione, just relax." But before she can rush to Harry, before her tongue can loosen and the whole stinking, rotting mess can come rolling off like confession in parochial school, she comes up short and in fact stops in one swift motion, feeling the soft body of the secretary collide momentarily, so very briefly with her back that it shakes her.
Of course Ron is here, Hermione thinks, of course he would make it to his best friend first, tell him in one whole mess of "I don't know, mate, it just.. it just got bad there in the end,", because, really, why didn't Hermione just think for one second before scrambling up from her kitchen floor in a frenzy and grabbing her keys, at least knowing she couldn't apparate, couldn't fly in this state, then driving in a rush to get here, driving in a rush to get to Harry when she knew this would be how it would go, too… She blinks and closes her eyes for one minute, licking her lips and taking slow, deep breathes.
"Hermione!" Harry is surprised; his tone projects it in loud waves, his hand pulling from Ron's shoulder as quick as if it were on fire. Ron looks down at his own hands, awkwardly splayed out on his knees, and ignores the woman that he used to be so in love with standing in the doorway.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know…" She trails off, shakes her head again, feels like she'll never be able to escape the feel of her curls bouncing apologetically off of her cheeks and smiles sadly at Harry's concerned step forward.
"Really, I'm sorry to interrupt, I-.. I'll just talk to you later, Harry," Hermione turns blindly to leave, hears the call of her name but finds the exit quick and with an efficiency she thought had abandoned her, makes her way out of the Ministry of Magic and out into the streets of muggle London, feeling lost, blending and melding into the faceless, constantly moving crowd that litters the streets.
She moves with them, follows their stops and their starts as she watches the ground beneath her come into contact with her feet before disappearing, a new patch with a new crack appearing and then disappearing as she shuffles forward. Sneaker to concrete, shoe to ground, she is focusing only on this, lift of one foot, the eventual fall forward, her momentum carrying her to catch herself with and then take another step. Over and over she steps forward, completely oblivious of the world around her as she wanders and thinks of her life post-Hogwarts, thinks of the war and Voldemort, thinks of her wedding day and the rose petals and how that was only a year ago, only a year ago she was dancing and laughing and celebrating that they won... even if it was hollow, even if they could keenly feel the absence of their comrades, they had won and they were healthy and happy and toasting Snorkacks, and really life was so terribly, sweetly good that day that she should've realized it never, ever would have stayed that way.
Feeling crushed under the weight of a formless dark and lost at the realities of it, she doesn't know where to turn, looks up and down familiar streets, walks back and forth and around, aimless and needing purpose yet finding none. Instead, she finds herself at the entrance to Diagon Alley and the wizarding world with a sense of relief, hoping to find something, anything in the normalcy of such a familiar, yet distant place. Eyes train on her the moment she steps through the creaking door of the Leaky Cauldron, but she is used to this: their appraising and constant stares are almost like a caress upon her skin, heavy lidded eyes watching from underneath caps and robes; she hates it, hates how they put her upon a pedestal but understands it, knows her persona is larger than life to them because it is larger than life for herself. She quickens her pace, exiting to the alley beyond, feelings of being an alien life form to be studied under the cool gaze of a microscope warring with her natural confidence and desire to throw her head back because she is still Hermione Granger, even if she has to remind herself, even if she doesn't feel like it, even if Hermione Granger is falling apart, she is still... Hermione Granger.
"Mrs. Weasley! Mrs. Weasley!"
To hear that name, his name, ringing out over the din stops her dead, leaves her bewildered and almost stumbling. She knows without turning that it is some glucose sweet reporter with Rita Skeeter glasses and less tact, for only they were blithe enough to continue to use that name, only they persistent enough to disregard her express desires... but she is almost brought to tears by the constant calling, cannot stop thinking of her name, that name, how she was never truly a "Mrs. Weasley" like Molly or Fleur; no, she had kept her own name despite Ron's begging, his insistence that it wasn't male appropriation, it wasn't masculine oppression of the feminine, it was just family, just... tradition.
"Mrs. Weasley! Please, one moment!"
Bowing her head, she casts her eyes about frantically, searching for a hiding place, a place away from people who know her name and face and marital status, yet knowing a place like that didn't exist for war hero's, for famous witches with famous best friends and famous soon-to-be ex husbands. Panic swells in her stomach, clutches and tightens her chest and wildly she turns, knocks into the mumbling man in front of her and does not stop, just pushes through him and the rest of the crowd to the wall of shops and pubs, needing away from the moving, the breathing, the rapidly approaching reporter still calling the name that is not hers. Seeing an understated, dark wood door in the mass of window displays, she makes her way to it, pulling it open with a covert glance over her shoulder before ducking in, feeling safe.
The bar is dim and shadowed, heavy green lights sickly trying to survive the swallowing darkness. The patrons notice her immediately just as they do everywhere, though here her cream blouse and slacks are a stark contrast to their uniformly black robes and she feels distinctly uncomfortable at the lascivious sneers plastered across the faces of a few particular men seated at the bar. Her heels click loudly as she moves further in and the sallow faces are resentful with bitter gleams in their accusing eyes and spite in their stoic postures. Stomach sinking, Hermione falters, almost stops herself from moving as she notices the dark haired woman sniggering to the bartender in the corner. She cannot turn, will not flee as Pansy Parkinson glances her way, smirking widely over a decadently bright, bubbling drink. Hermione continues walking, her head high and shoulders squared, but she is layering the world down, piece by piece, so all she can see is the scuff marks on the floor and the dirty brass bottoms of each chair as she carefully walks by.
She thought she was escaping, but now she knows she is caught in the center of the web, incapable of struggling for fear of the bounds tightening. Reaching the stools, she sits with aplomb, one seat up from the bemused Slytherin and two seats down from the dark group of men still eyeing her conspicuously. The bartender barely huffs in her direction and she is reminded of one of the dark Inns in Scotland that she and Harry had stayed in during the weary weeks they had hunted for the Hallows, where the barkeep had wiped their glasses on his dirty apron before filling their glasses with ale without prompting.
"Silver Tongue's Serpent Wine, please," She says quietly to the man's back, taking in his patched yet once tailored robes. Glancing over at her, he scowls, beady black eyes narrowing as he reaches for the unmarked green bottle to his left. Lips curling, he slyly tugs at his sleeve, pulling it back to briefly reveal the black top of the Dark Mark, its ugly tongue twisting up through an empty eye socket. She does not visibly react, but his aim is true and she cannot blink the grotesque skull away, though he turns, smiling as he offers her the drink, arm now covered. She is stuck, staring at the glass but making no effort to grab it, instead remembering that mark bright against the pale skin of so many dead. She remembers the mass burial, mandated by the Ministry despite protests of all types and how the faces... so many faces—silent and peaceful, so different from when they were alive and fighting, so different--
"Thanks, Jeeves," a sardonic voice interrupts her, jars her from thinking of the bodies, of the men they were before they died, of all her fallen comrades and focuses her attention on the forearm that is surprisingly clear and smooth, unmarred as it snakes back, her wine glass grasped surely in it's owner's hands.
"Funny finding a hero in the enemies den, eh, Granger?" The Slytherin says conversationally, her sharp locks of raven hair tumbling about her face and her blood red lips quirked in an almost smile, definite sneer--she is sultry and dangerous all at once, attractive in the planes of her skin yet ethereal in the shadows of the bar, the same yet nothing at all like Hermione remembers. She takes a large draught of Hermione's drink, setting it down in front of her with a clank.
"The war's over, we shouldn't be enemies anymore," Hermione replies mechanically, not believing it herself, not able to look the other girl in the eye or forget the blood on her hands or walk out of this pub, only able to stare at her clenched fingers, tight around the shining stem of her glass.
"Excuse me if I laugh, but even you're not that naive in your ideals," Pansy retorts, mirth staining her tone as she leans over and lounges like a sullen, sleepy cat across the bar.
"No matter which side you were on, Parkinson, we've all lost." Hermione replies, never lifting her eyes.
"Some of us more than others," The woman responds, no longer smiling as she looks straight at the other girl, not self-righteous but with hard, serious eyes.
Hermione hears the bitterness, sees the frown swelling on the other girl's lips and thinks of the girls family, locked away in Azkaban. They had thrown themselves on the alter of governmental mercy after the final battle, using Lucius Malfoy as a liason to broker a deal with The Order. The conditions were set: Their estate and the majority of their assets were seized, they agreed to confess what they knew of their companions, and they accepted mandatory life sentences in prison, though they had the chance for good behaviour parole. It was harsh – but, they had done it for Pansy, ensuring that she had no ramifications for her participation, unlike Draco who had to spend a limited time himself in a lower security holding cell that had been created for overflow from Azkaban. Hermione wonders if it changed the other girl, to have lost everything save for enough galleons to scrape by on; she had heard that the girl had a trust, but couldn't access it until she married. Surprisingly, she is ringless.
Hermione stands, ready to leave, embarrassed and uncomfortable in the quiet stare down. She fishes in her purse, dropping the galleons for both their drinks on the matte black counter and for a moment feels the smoothed wood beneath her fingers, the cool tip of her glass sloping to the crisp edge of its curve. Pushing the glass away, she goes to leave, stops at the feel of a warm palm at her elbow, tugging her to face the brunette.
"Maybe this isn't the enemies den… just the losers, huh?" She says quietly, barely lifting her eyes to meet Hermione's, "Remember that if you decide to come back." Letting go, she turns back to the bar, signalling for the man to bring her another.
Hermione doesn't try to respond, just leaves, thinking that her world is upside down when she is having civil drinks with Slytherins as Ron draws up divorce papers. The absurdity amuses her and she finds herself laughing to keep from crying and decides that she must work, must be clean of this chaos before her mind stutters and stops. She goes to find her car, to take it home before apparating to the lab and to her calming potions.
"Hermione? Hermione, it's Harry… I know you're screening your calls.. Ron, well, he told me he was trying to get a hold of you to get his stuff… But, really, Hermione, we need to talk, you can't just keep holing up in your office, I'm worried about you."
Click. Beep.
"Hey, it's Ginny. He's a real prat, isn't he? Mum's in an uproar! He's been an absolute terror at the Burrow, sleeping in the buff on the couch and right scaring Dad in the middle of the nig- Well, I guess that's really not what you want to hear, is it? I care about you, too, Hermione.... hell, I'm calling you on Harry's felly-tone! Please, just floo me, okay? Bye.."
Click.
"Hermione, it's Ron. I need to come by the house within the next few days and pick up more of my clothing, it's getting bloody ridiculous with only a couple of robes. Just tell Harry a good time, and I'll swing by. Blimey, Hermione, this is hard… I… I just… I just wanted you to know that I still love you, I do. Please, remember that and that… I'm sorry.. "
Click. Tap. A small beep resounds throughout the flat and a small, electronic voice calls out: "To delete this message, please press 1. To save this message, please press 2…"
It has been two weeks and she sits in her living room with a small tumbler of Ogdens', ignoring the calls from the floo and the telephone that has been ringing off the hook. She is already well and truly trashed, to the point where her bookcase is triple the size it was when she started, and she can't see the muggle photos of her parents through the blurry haze. She is grateful she cannot see the tentative smile on her mother's face or the small tuft of hair that pokes up and out from the back of her father's head, no matter the effort he put into shaping it properly. Staring at the deep amber liquid in her glass, Hermione thinks she has cried every drop she can, leaving her barren with nothing to offer. She knows that she could visit them in Australia, but it would be too hard to have them look at her with unfamiliar eyes, too much to have to introduce herself to her own parents. All she can do is sit here and drink, listening sadly to the calls playing on the answering machine, reminded of her sins—her grandparents had no idea that their names aren't Mr and Mrs Johnson and that their only daughter wasn't dead in a tragic accident that also killed her husband—No, they had no idea that their granddaughter was a witch; she and her parents had decided unanimously to keep them out of the loop, but it presses on her now, two years to the date when she sent her parents away… She gasps, wanting so badly to cry but stuck, wishing for something, anything that would make her feel less than numb—which is all she feels, all she knows these last few weeks post-Ron, post-war, post-everything, as it were.
She pulls herself up from the chair, attempting to move, but finds herself stalling, falling forward to clutch at the sides, almost spilling the last bit of alcohol left sloshingly desperate in the bottom of the glass. She repositions herself, looks up from the floor at the house around her, looks up from her tops down bottoms up eyes at the sedate antique clocks, family photo's and heirlooms hanging from wall to wall, her academic ribbons and certificates from primary school, the piano she had never learned to play and still the magazines, her mother's Home and Garden stacked perfectly next to the recliner... nothing different from when she was a child, still here, still the same after years of trying, attempting to make it her own, yet never letting it truly changed.
Anger floods her, fuels her to move and stand, looking around at this mess, this horribly and perfectly encased tomb of a life she left behind, still so pristine that she sometimes sees them around a corner, hears their laughter in the halls--can remember hearing Ron in the kitchen and thinking it was wonderful her father was cooking, thinks of the nights she spent in this house with Ron and still wishing for her mother to tell her to turn off the lights, still wishing for a childhood and a life and a way she never found and now she sees it all as a mockery, all a damned slip shod construction thrown together. Her head pounds and she flails out, finds the dictionary next to her fathers chair (never Rons, no matter how he spelled it, it was shaped for her father, always her father), picks it up and feels its weight in her hands, remembers running her fingers over the words her parents told her to look up, remembers Ron spilling pumpkin juice and ruining the cover, ruining it because it was theirs and she couldn't touch it with magic, couldn't fix it.... She hefts it in her hands and flings down, knocking it into the glass lamp, pushing over the side table, furious, sad, spinning around and screaming, knocking everything she can find, scratching her hands on the paintings she claws down, smearing small bits of blood on the Weasley crest she tears from the wall, rips apart into tiny pieces. Shaking, she feels the wall, feels her way forward and thinks she's going to die, thinks, thinks, thinks of it all.
The telephone rings again, startles her, but she just watches it, knows if it's Ron she'll scream, answer and yell, tell him every damn thing that could be said and then hang up and burying it all, the whole house, one swift set of spells and it would disappear and she would never have to look at it again, never have to think of the jumpers and gifts and mutually bought things that needed to be separated, divided, her life, his life, her parents lives all in small containers, reduced boxes to fit in a trunk. The steady ring resounds with the beats of her heart, a cacophony in her head, and when she hears her grandmother's voice on the answering machine she buckles, feels ill and bolts to the door, makes it to her porch before vomiting. Kneeling in the spongy grass in an agonizing limbo and feeling wretched, she wants nothing more than another drink, another blur to her already gauzy perception.
Standing, she thinks of that bar and thinks of losers, thinks that she belongs there now of all times, morose in her consumption, alone yet apart of that commiserating air of defeat. With a pop, she brings herself to Diagon Alley, stumbles sickeningly and almost vomits again, thanks Merlin that she didn't splinch herself, didn't die in such a randomly stupid act as apparating under the influence. It's twilight and there are still people milling about, still children tugging on their mother's hands and she feels ashamed, hates that she is in public but knows she can't be alone, knows that she has to be away from that house of ghosts, living and dead.
She knows she's in trouble when she walks into the pub still this drunk, but her hands have steadied and her thoughts have cleared. She did not expect Pansy Parkinson to be here again, didn't expect to be hazily drawn to her languid form sprawled in her chair, legs swinging almost childishly as she twists a dark strand of hair between her fingers. For a moment, she is unseen, standing outside looking in, just as she always was as a child, sad and feeling out of place. But Pansy turns and Pansy smiles, a fierce show of teeth that reminds her of the blood in her veins, pounding, pounding, pounding-- she suddenly knows she is prey from the naked stare and never moving eyes that collapse the world into them, propels and pulls as a black hole swallows.
Hermione thinks that she is a good girl, always reliable; she is safe and secure and brilliant at making things work and this is why she is loved, that is, was loved. Viktor had loved sitting quietly, affectionately holding her hand beneath the table as they both studied, quiet in their repose. There had been no harm; no chance of scandal for it was too intellectual, too tender to be more than that. Maybe she had wanted more, when his hands fell heavily on her shoulders and his thick accent whispered her name--but he had never pursued and she just wasn't that kind of girl. Ron was everything she thought she wanted--She had waited through his mother and Harry, through the girls and the war and the firewhiskey, had waited until he had realized the truth; waited until he realized that she was the marrying kind, the right kind, the one to hold him when he woke with nightmares, the one his family expected. But Ron didn't look at her like Pansy looked at her now, no, she had always wanted him more than he wanted her, wanted the life more. This is different, though, primordial in it's heat and Hermione doesn't know what to do, can only move forward at the unspoken beckoning in the other girls eyes, thinks that nothing good can come of this, nothing can come from this lack of control.
"And the lion returns to the snakes' den, desirous of their hole," Pansy says and leans back lazily, running her eyes up and down, alighting on the bleeding fingertips and wrinkled shirt, follows the curves of hip and breasts, finally lingers on the flushed face and glassy irises.
Hermione sits unceremoniously, grabs for the other girls drink and downs it quickly; the explosively sweet taste a shock to her tongue, slimy and cool. She sets it down and turns to the other woman, stares her straight in the eyes.
"What makes you crack? Break into a thousand pieces until you can't pick them up without slicing yourself, can't move without... without gouging shards into your skin?" She asks, surprising herself with such candour.
"Looks like divorce from a simpleton will do it to you," The woman replies jovially, quirking an eyebrow.
Hermione doesn't respond, sways slightly but centers herself, opens her eyes to the woman and looks, really looks at her. Her skin is too pale and her clothes not nearly as chic as they once were, she is gaunt and bony, jutting out almost sickeningly from the confines of her robes and yet she fits in her skin, holds herself like a queen that all must recognize, revere even in this rubble, this dusty and dark structure. She is better because she knows her place is at the top; she is better because she is like this even after her people and ideals and lifestyle was slaughtered; she is alive and Hermione wants, wants so badly to make everything right, to feel alive, to feel right and beautiful and in control, like Pansy; she wants so many things, so suddenly that her teeth are on edge and her hands are sweating, shaking with the force of it. Pansy seems to see this, she seems to smile, there is something lurking behind it and Hermione doesn't know, doesn't care, just needs to feel it, whatever it is, touch it and capture it, call it her own. So she reaches forward, grasps a hand in her own and holds it tight, close to her chest.
"Have you ever wanted something so.. Have you ever just wanted something and you didn't know what, couldn't figure it out?" She asks, slurring slightly though she knows what she's saying. The other woman looks at her critically, calculating and weighing her response, but she does not remove her hand, she does not pull back.
"Sometimes," She responds with a definite smile, leaning in close and breathing the word into Hermione's wild mass of curls.
"But doesn't-"
"Shhhh," Pansy says, "You are already too drunk to regret your decision, so be a Gryffindor and do something brash."
She is sinisterly beautiful, she is severe, she reminds Hermione of those women in old noir movies: volatile, cigarette smoking women in little black dresses with red lipstick, up and open for anything. But there is hesitancy, there is awkward insecurity in the way she fidgets, smoothes her dress and Hermione wants this so much that she takes a chance, wants to plummet into the unknown cold air beneath her and fall, fall until she doesn't remember ground. She kisses Pansy soundly, the taste of whiskey sour and sweet, candy apple syrup coating her tongue and it is an elixir, it is tonic, the ambrosia of the gods and she is really falling, unable and not needing to breathe.
They part like the ocean recedes from the shore, slow and simple and with messy care. Pansy is smirking and Hermione is ready, now, she is ready and willing and daring and her skin is hot, so she pulls Pansy closer for the heat, the burn, and kisses her again, again, until the whole bar is covertly watching them, wondering. They shift, stop, shuffle-stumble to the exit, still somewhat entangled, make it to the street where Pansy kisses her, hard and dominating, powerful.
Vision spinning again, Hermione lulls, feels held up by the arms around her, smiles up at the sky and the dark shadows, looks back to the earth, the planet, sees Pansy's face and smiles again. She isn't thinking, she is only feeling, she is feeling the world breathe beneath her and she follows Pansy up the street, topsy turvy. They reach stairs, curving, long stairs that Pansy pulls her up, tangles her against the wall and reaches under her shirt, caresses her passionately, possessively before pulling her forward, towards a door at the top.
When they are in bed, finally, pressing teeth to flesh and branding each other anew, Hermione feels wild, like an animal, the rush of two hearts, two hands to her two hands, breasts to breasts, and stomach to stomach; she wants to devour this woman, climb inside her skin and become her, be her in this frenzy. The sex is amazing, heated and desperate and drunken, a push and shove that Hermione hadn't realized she needed--being possessed like this, a conquest. But when it's over, there is something in Pansy's eyes, not just slight moisture, but something that makes Hermione think, something that makes her feel more than her skin and her clit and her mouth, but she is too intoxicated and dazed to figure it out, too tired to keep her eyes open and instead she sleeps, curled in on the other woman in sweaty exhaustion.
***
When she wakes, she is alone amidst silky black sheets, damp and overly hot, uncomfortable. She doesn't realize where she is for a moment, shifts and kicks at the sheets before turning onto her back, sees the mirror hanging from the ceiling and bolts up, stares at her naked self. A thousand colliding images crash in upon her minds eye and she remembers clearly the other woman's hands and the sultry, delighted laugh Pansy had emitted when undressing her: the slow, tantalizingly deliberate unveiling that had left her vulnerable and raw and seeking. She collapses back onto the bed, clutching her head and trying to banish the images and the seeping arousal already curling itself into her skin, reminding her of the aches and the pleasure-pain deep in her bones.
As she lies there, she is startled by the distant sound of a door slamming and she abruptly sits back up again. Panicked at the thought of meeting Pansy Parkinson in the light of day, away from the shadows and shrouding desperation of the pub, she shimmies out of bed, frantic. She isn't sure if the woman that kissed her, talked through her and down her and flayed her bare was even real; she was sure that her childhood enemy would burst in to taunt her or bribe her, crumble her in selfish fists. She isn't even sure if she is the same woman that responded, initiated in her stupor and wonders if maybe she has lost her mind as she has lost everything else: in a cascade of balls dropping and plans crashing.
Finding her clothes in a pile near the ornate side table, she dresses quickly before creeping to the door and cracking it open, peeking out. She sees a long hallway she vaguely remembers and ducks back into the room, having caught a flash of Pansy turning the corner. Desperate to get away, she pulls out her wand, muttering a detection spell to determine any protective or anti-apparation wards and when finding none, briefly scans the room and hopes nothing has been left behind. She disappears just as Pansy walks through the door, her light smile instantly souring at the loud crack.
Hermione opens her eyes to the backyard of her house, wonders what time it is and if she is missing work, feels shaky and hot as she walks the familiar step stones to her porch. She lightly brushes her fingers across the base of her neck, remembers the feel of slightly uneven teeth gently sinking in and taking hold, suckling—The dull ache makes her feel guilty and dirty, makes her wish for Ron and that she had woken up next to him, safe and unconcerned; she wishes she could go back and live it all differently, start over and make no mistakes, no missteps in the path. Defeated, she sighs, unlocks the backdoor and walks in, feeling exhausted and drained, like a vampire's victim.
Her brain is assaulted by the knocking on the door, heavy knuckled raps that she knows must be Ron, but she wavers at the doorway to the living room, taking a good look at the room before her. It is unchanged, still stands quiet in its disarray and mocks her in how tame it really is, how Hermione Granger it is even in its clutter. She almost feels like laughing at the thought, almost feels like crying because her life is falling apart because she is too much of herself or plainly not enough. She stares at it all, blank even when the knocking stops and Ron walks in, faltering when he sees her standing amidst the scattered books and knick-knacks, a look of death calm gracing her features.
"Blimey, what happened?" He blows out, stepping over the ottoman and stopping in front of her. He looks clean and healthy, cream coloured robes highlighting the mellow browns of his eyes and his golden hair tousled, growing long and framing his face. His concerned and open expression breaks her, makes her keen in desire for his arms around her and his reassuring whispers.
"You're here for your things, I assume?" She finally asks, swallowing convulsively as she watches him fidget, ignoring his question in hopes that he doesn't press the issue.
"Well, yeah, but I did want to check on you. I came by last night and you weren't here… I was, er, well I was worried," He admits, lifts a hand to his neck and rubs the muscles, looking away from her. A warm affection spreads through her and she is filled with sadness at it, missing that constant in her life, missing his face and his awkward words, no better in adulthood than when he was in school but tempered, more gentle and perceptive. She steps towards him and yearns to wrap her arms around his torso and tuck her head beneath his chin, but stops herself, perplexed and eyes shining as she looks at him.
His face is an open book, tight knitted brows and a concerned down quirk to his thin lips. He looks like he wants to step forward as well, his arms twitching, but instead he ducks his head, looks away from her and steps back a half step, just enough to show distance. When he does look up, she can see his eyes go to her neck, her face, her hair, eyes hawk-like and sharp, analyzing her. She resists the urge to reach a hand to her neck, feeling the throb of her bruise. She wonders if he can see it, see Pansy all over her from her pulled up and tangled hair to her quivering thighs and bitten neck.
She tries to respond, but is paralyzed, caught by the carpet and unmoving, watching him waggle his eyebrows in confusion, glancing around and taking in the ripped wall decorations and the Weasley crest in pieces on the floor. She is reminded, suddenly, of Pansy and the words, the litany littered across the terrain of her skin—thinks that Ron doesn't look at her and want, no, not like Pansy wanted her, not like Pansy—she can hear the words, candid and soft across her ear: "I bet you never crawled out of your skin for him, never begged, did you, Granger?"
Indignation burns deep, like bile rising, burning her throat and she thinks wildly that Pansy was wrong, this was wrong – she did really want Ron, she wants him as the man and not the idea, wants… really wants this, not that woman in black, not the cigarette smoke and the alcohol and the sex—she can be what Ron wants, she knows she can be more. Looking up at him, she knows that this is it, this is her last chance to get it back; to get herself back and show Ron that she can be the wife and the lover and the friend, all in one, not just two pieces of the whole, not just partial segments adding up to less than enough.
She steps towards him and he is startled, cocking his head at her as she advances with a look of pure determination on her face. Kissing him is out of character, pushing him to the sofa, tearing at his clothes as she whispers things that Pansy had whispered to her, seductive nothings of want and need—words meant to show him she can be what he wants, show him and have him again. She knows he's surprised by his soft "ooff" as she falls atop him but he is shell-shocked, too slack jawed at her brashness to stop her. They do not make love but they do not fuck, some cross between the two that leaves her filled but barren, breathless but determined, clutching him so tightly she knows he can't breathe either, though it doesn't matter because they are a mess on the floor, unconcerned with air.
He was her first and it is familiar, so familiar to have his arm slick and wet against her stomach with his breath heavy on her breast as he slows his heartbeat and relaxes, thick and lazing across her like a Celtic god. She feels a cold relief, a static joy that he is back, sharing her air and within her walls. She shifts, holds him tighter and inhales deeply of the wet, warm smell of his scalp. The damp red locks tickle her nose, remind her of Quidditch , grass, and the few memories of happiness they had once they left Hogwarts. It feels natural and right in the calm of her mind, but her stomach is churning and there is a warning in his sighs, a klaxon disturbing the air as clear as the dust particles dancing around them in the slats of light oozing in through the center windows. He starts to sit up and pull away but she presses against him, thighs shivering against his hips, chest hitching.
"Hermione," He is sad and careful as he pushes her down, looks her in the eye with muted irises, spiralling out from the abyss of his pupils, hypnotizing her. She is lost in them, maybe just lost and she cannot speak, can only plead with primal eyes.
"Please, please, Hermione, let go," He whispers, prying gently at her fingers on his bicep and grasping his shoulder. She loosens, feels her rigid digits bend, break their hold sorely, aching as she collapses back against the floor, closing her eyes to his clumsy searching and the flushed skin slowly being covered.
"Look at me, come on," He says, kneeling before her and putting a hand on her still naked and sweaty thigh. She looks up through her lids, takes in his watery eyes and the sheepish, pinked face and feels tears spring unexpectedly to her eyes, sharp and prickling.
Nothing has changed, she can see, nothing has changed. Scrambling up, she ignores his nervous and tight assurances and dresses quickly, feeling a sweeping sense of déjà vu, remembering the spice of Pansy's sheets and the hardwood floor cold against her bare feet as she tugged on these same clothes earlier. Shaking her head, she grasps for her wand, shoving the lovely throw pillows her Aunt Marjorie had given them for Christmas to the ground before finally retrieving the item, wondering where to go now, how to get out.
"This, ahh! Hermione, we bloody well need to talk about this," Ron begins, trying to look her in the eye, failing miserably when she cuts him off with a resounding slap across his cheek. His face is red and her hand is stinging, her heart hurts, it is all spinning, spinning around her head in the silence, the splotches of sunlight between them as long and deep as a flashlight's ray into the ocean, ever reaching. Alone, she turns and walks to the door, leaves him and his wide-eyed surprise standing in the center of her living room, surrounded by the thousands of small, twirling dust motes.
***
She stays away from Ron and the pub and her own house for weeks, instead sleeping in her office or visiting her grandparents in Wales, falling asleep fitfully on their couch to the Discovery channel and dreaming of work—but all of her potions are names and feelings, not simple liquids, and she finds herself pouring hatred into lust to mix with loss and love all in sterile glasses, gleaming sharply. She doesn't want to think or remember, so she shies away from her grandfathers brusque questions about work and home, avoids her co-workers and doesn't answer, or even open, her post, preferring the silence of her research and the calm of her lab. Despite this, she thinks of Pansy often, remembering bits of school and the search for Deatheaters, comparing that girl to the woman she had been with during that hazy night.
She analyzes every angle, scrutinizes herself, and stats out every variable she can see, still finding no answers to the tumult of questions seething beneath her forced calm. She knows that the clamp she has tightly affixed to her emotional response will unwind; she knows that it can't last but she fights it for so long that when her grandmother softly pushes her out and tells her to act more like her mother, she can't seem to leave the sidewalk. Instead of going home, she stands on the street, cold though the night balmy, and feels their eyes peeking through the kitchen and their certainty that she can do it.
She stalls, undecided and staring at Garroting Way, watches the lonely pavement shudder in the shadows, the twinkling lights of a dozen cookie cutter homes mocking its plight. She tugs at her collar, feeling a stranger on familiar roads, thinking of her parents and how they had hated the rows and rows of identical houses in neighbourhoods like this, always telling Hermione to stand out, even in housing, cars, anything and everything. Though they were conventional dentists, though they were practical and strict, they were also a passionate, determinedly unique couple that Hermione had always modeled herself after, wanting that kind of sedate yet colourful life. She had lived it for a time, Weasley red tinting her world rosy, but it had never fit the way her mum and dad had—Hermione had rationalized that it was because of Voldemort and the battles and the fear, but she is sinking with conflicting feelings and a small part of her is screaming out because none of it makes sense anymore.
She wants to go home, but remembers Ron with a bad taste in her mouth and it is too late to go to the office as the sweet cleaning man, Albert Huffler, had taken to conspiring with her secretary, informing the nosy old woman of when she came in after hours. Turning, she eyes her grandmother ducking behind the curtain on the window of the kitchen door, thinking she must look absurd standing there listlessly. Huffing, she puts her hands in her pockets, kicking out at imaginary pebbles on the concrete sidewalk.
Unbidden, an image rises like smoke in her mind of Pansy half smiling, propped up on her elbow and head cradled in hand. Hermione does want to seize the situation, forcibly connect the dots like her mother would have, even if the dots feel like squares and triangles, but she is still conflicted by too many mountains upon her shoulders. Looking back at her grandparents manicured lawn, she thinks that this is all ridiculous—her quivering stomach muscles and bitten lip, the fear gripping her throat—all of it is very, very absurd. Breathing deeply of the tangy air, she stares up at the stars, feels the heaviness that had been weighing down on her lighten, break up minutely with every inhalation. She feels that it is time; it is finally time to go home and clean up the mess she left, both of the house and of her life. She feels hopeful as she waves partially back at her grandparents still watching from the window, preparing herself to leave, excited to get home and pack up all of the tokens of lives unlived, organize and create her life anew before maybe (just maybe) going back to that pub and finding out what would happen if she kissed Pansy Parkinson sober.