Hermione waited to see what mood he would be in when he came home.
After all this time together, she could sense whether he was angry or upset just from the way he landed in the fireplace. Even if she was in another room, she would hear him arrive and knew instantly whether the evening would be spent trying to soothe him and prevent yet another argument or whether there was a chance that they might have a relaxed meal, happy and laughing as they had been when they were younger.
She had always thought that she and Ron were meant for each other. They had grown up together and been friends for years, they had been through so much together, they had a history which bound them to each other irrevocably. With someone else the transition to a romantic relationship might not have worked, but when they had finally kissed during the Final Battle it had seemed like everything had aligned and was just Meant-To-Be. Early on in their relationship, she had sometimes thought she would have liked Ron to share her love of books and knowledge and want to have in-depth and intellectual discussions with her, but she had been so happy to be with him that she had put these thoughts to one side and put her faith in the old adage that opposites attract.
After the war was over, the adjustment had been difficult for them all. There were some days when she could hardly drag herself out of bed; the enormity of what had happened hitting her like a wall. When she and Ron and Harry had actually been in the depths of the war, searching for horcruxes, running from Voldemort, the adrenaline had kept them going. None of them had really stopped to consider the magnitude of what they were doing, the danger they were in, the importance to the world of their mission. Looking back, she thought that if they had they might just have crumbled under the weight and the pressure. Instead they had kept pushing, planning, fighting, doing what was needed to, what they had to do. It was only when it was all over that the anxiety and stress came and the reality of what they had accomplished almost overwhelmed them. It hadn't helped that the press and the general public hardly gave them a moment to process what had happened, to grieve for their lost friends and family, to mourn for their lost childhoods. For months she had been a quivering wreck, jumping at the slightest sound, finding herself in tears over the smallest thing.
So when Ron's attitude towards her started to slowly change she had simply put it down to post-war adjustment, his grieving for his brother, and her being overly sensitive. During her year back in Hogwarts, whilst Ron was working at the Ministry, their weekends together began to be peppered with him criticising her; for her appearance, for her not replying to his owls quickly enough, for her post-war tears or for her not behaving as he expected her to. His moods would change in a flash; one minute they'd be kissing and cuddling together on the sofa, the next he would be shouting at her and calling her an idiot. She'd never entirely know what she'd said on done to trigger these episodes, and when she'd argue back and stand her ground somehow it always ended up with her being in the wrong and apologising.
But she loved him, with all her heart. He needed her and she needed him; she reassured herself that things would improve, when she left Hogwarts and were living their real lives, as the war and its impact faded into the past, into something manageable even though it would never disappear. Even so, she started putting more effort into taming her hair and dressing to please him, rushing to answer his owls or get something he wanted, hiding her own feelings – anything to make him happy, help him deal with his grief. She began holding her tongue so she wouldn't annoy him by being too smart or argumentative, for having a different opinion to him, for suggesting he might need to speak to someone outside of their close-knit group, someone neutral, who would help him come to terms with the horrors they had endured.
It wasn't as if they didn't share happy times together, when they laughed and danced around the kitchen of their new flat, when they went on holidays or out for dinner, when they talked about their time together at Hogwarts, before the war. But these were interspersed with increasing regularity with periods of strain and drama, of arguments and tears. He seemed to expect her to think and behave as his mother did, and whilst she loved Molly Weasley, who had been a surrogate mum to her for so long, she was never going to be that sort of homely woman, nor was she going to do everything for Ron and pander to his every need. She expected a relationship of equals, as her parents had, but as the years passed Ron became increasingly traditional in his attitude towards their relationship.
Underlying it all there was a sense that she was lucky and should be grateful for his love – she'd never been pretty or popular, she'd never been the girl that boys looked at or wanted to date. Instead, she was the bushy-haired, socially awkward swot who men didn't seem to see in a romantic light. The fact that Ron loved her and wanted to be with her had always surprised her and as time went on she convinced herself that no-one else ever would have and that without Ron she'd be alone.
Eight years after the war, Ron had proposed to her and she had accepted with great joy and happiness. She hoped that the fact that he had finally proposed meant that the dark, post-war years were over and that they could start their new life together without that strain. But not long after the wedding – which was the happiest and sunniest of days – the problems resurfaced with a vengeance. Everything she did was wrong, he'd turn angry at the slightest thing, blame the smallest thing on her, shout at her for trying to defend herself against his barrage, tell her she was a pain, that's she'd let him down, that she didn't care or support him. And as time went by she blamed herself, walked on egg-shells around him, pandered to his every need – anything to make him happy with her.
She knew his behaviour was wrong, but she didn't know what to do about it. She had no-one to talk to about it – she knew her parents would be horrified and she couldn't bring herself to feel their pity and their concern. And she'd never really had friends who were just hers – they were always friends to the entire 'Golden Trio'. When she'd tried to do make friends that were hers alone, Ron had complained at her leaving him alone for an evening. If she went out for drinks with friends from work she'd find the protean charmed galleon in her pocket glaring hot within an hour, with Ron asking where she was and when she was coming home. If he came out with her, he'd frowned at everything anyone said, not engage with anyone and generally made the evening so uncomfortable for everyone that they'd leave early. After a while, she had just stopped going out and trying to have new friends, preferring to avoid the arguments that were bound to follow. So they just spent time with the Potters and the Weasleys, her presenting her happy, competent, together façade, whilst wondering how she had got to this position.
She heard him land in the fireplace. He swore.
Her heart sank.