Of Fathers and Sons

Ron trudged up the stairs to Art's third-floor bedroom, which had been Hermione's when she was a little girl. He dreaded the conversation before him.

Art was pacing around his room dodging books that were flying through the air.

"What are you doing?" Ron asked, when he stepped into the room.

"Alphabetizing my books." Art glowered at him. "I have to go back to school."

"No. What you have to do, is sit down. And stop these bloody books flying about." So like his mother, Ron thought.

Art waved his wand and the unshelved books dropped to the floor. He sat on the edge of his bed.

Ron pulled the desk chair over and sat facing his son. "So, you've put your mother in a right state."

"She lied to me," Art said sullenly.

"Don't be ridiculous. No one lied to you."

"She–"

"Did nothing of the sort," Ron finished for him.

"But–"

"She did nothing of the sort!"

Art looked away from him.

"Look, son," Ron continued, reminding himself to remain calm. "We had lives before we were your parents."

"I know that," Art grumbled.

"I don't think you do, or you wouldn't have thrown such a fit about this."

"I didn't throw a fit."

Ron raised his eyebrows.

"Mum was the one who tore up the magazines."

Of course she did. Ron cleared his throat. "Can you blame her?"

Art sighed and his shoulders slumped. "I thought you two were always together. I thought you always loved each other."

"We were, for the most part, and we always loved each other, even when we were apart."

"How could she love you and live with Uncle Viktor? Was she just living with him for the money?"

"First off, he wasn't your uncle when she was living with him. Technically, he's not your uncle now, you just call him that, but that doesn't matter. You should know your mother has never been interested in anyone's money."

"Was it because he was famous?"

Ron couldn't help but chuckle. "No, son. It was not because he was famous. Golden Trio, remember? She's plenty famous on her own and she hates it. She hated being on all those magazine covers. She hated her picture in the paper. She always has. Again, you should know that."

"Then why?"

Ron sighed. "Because, after the war, things just went sour between us. For a bit anyway."

"A bit?" Art look incredulous. "According to those magazines, they were together for three years."

"Well, out of all the years your Mum and me have been together, son, three years is just a bit of a bad patch." Ron smiled.

"It's not funny."

"No. It certainly wasn't at the time, but I tell you what, in some ways, your Mum leaving was the best thing that could have happened to me."

Art's jaw dropped. "How can you say that?"

"Because, it woke me up. After the war, when I was injured, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself and just puttered along, relying on her, expecting her to fix my mistakes and take care of things, when she was in no shape to do all that. And all the while, I was such a prig to her. But when she finally left. When I finally chased her away, it was like a splash of cold water in my face. I knew I had to get on with my life, leave the war behind me, and start fresh. I had to concentrate on building something on my own without her. It was the hardest three years of my life, but I can't say I'd trade them."

"So why did you take her back then?" Art asked, clearly shocked by his father's admission.

"Are you mad? The day Hermione walked back into my life was like the sun came back."

Art picked at his bedspread. "Come on, Dad."

"What?" Ron said. "Your mother is extraordinary. I was with a lot of women during those three years, and I can tell you, not one of them could hold a candle to her."

"Yeah," Art mocked. "Because teaching history at Hogwarts is so extraordinary."

Suddenly angry, Ron pulled his son off the bed by his arm and dragged him to the window. "Look at the garden."

Art looked out the window and his eyes widened.

"What happened?" he whispered.

"You upset your mother."

"What? Mum did that?" Art was clearly shocked.

"Yeah," Ron said, nodding. As they stood there, the garden returned to its normal proportions.

"I didn't know she was interested in herbology."

Ron shrugged. "She's interested in everything."

Art looked out at the garden again. "But that isn't casual spell work, Dad."

"I don't know anything magical your mother can't do. You've grown up with her, so you don't notice how effortlessly she does a lot of magic that other witches and wizards can't do or struggle to do. Just because you're used to it, doesn't make it any less extraordinary to everyone else."

"Then why does she–?"

Ron put his hand on Art's shoulder. "Because it suits her right now. She wasn't always a teacher."

"What was she?" Art asked.

"You'll have to ask her."

"Why can't you just tell me?"

Ron smiled. "I just can't."

"That's not fair."

"You know what's not fair? It's not fair that your mother had one other relationship, besides me, and people feel free to write in to a national magazine and call her a filthy, mud-blood, slag. That's not fair. It's not fair that just because they were famous, years after anyone cares, her son finds out about it, and has to see pictures of his mother in another man's arms. That's not fair. It's not fair that I was with a dozen women in the same time period but no one seemed to mind that. That's not fair. Then again, that's life in a nutshell, now isn't it? Not fair."

Art walked back to his bed and flopped down. His face crumpled. "But those pictures, Dad. It hardly even looked like Mum. If I hadn't seen her name, I don't think I would've known it was her. He always seemed to have his hands on her. It was, it was…"

Ron could see he was struggling not to cry. He sat next to Art and put his arm around him. "I know it can be upsetting to see things you aren't expecting, son, but she's still your mum. That was a long time ago, another lifetime. It doesn't have anything to do with now."

"I just can't believe Mum would do that," Art whispered.

"Well, you might try and remember that she wasn't your mother back then. And she wasn't my wife. That part of her life has nothing to do with us."

"Yeah." Art fell sideways onto his pillow.

Ron sighed. "You mean the world to your mum and me. We both love you, Artie, more than anything and nothing can change that. No one meant for this to hurt you."

"I have to get back to school," Art mumbled without looking at him.

"You want me to go with you to explain why you're late?"

Art shook his head. "I'm not that late. I won't get into trouble if I take the Floo right to the common room."

"Alright then." Ron patted his shoulder and stood. "I'm going to go check on your mother."

Art nodded mutely.

Ron hesitated at the door, but he felt like Art had probably had all he could take of this tonight, so he decided to let it be.