A:N: Okay, so this chapter builds up to why they broke up, but I'm saving the actual retelling moment for the next chapter. Also, if you have a harder time following this time around, it's because I tried to go with a stream-of-consciousness feel for Ron's POV. Enjoy!

Ron hated her bloody flat. Hated it. Of course he had never passed through the threshold, and had even strengthened the protective wards around it from time to time, but it was in a seedy part of town inhabited by no-good muggles. The mornings seemed safe enough, but once the sun set it felt like an entirely different place. He had seen them rove about nocturnally, peering in car windows, cat-calling women, and one time even witnessed a bloke brandish a knife menacingly at a passerby.

Though he never dreamed of approaching her, never spoke of her, and tried his hardest not to think of her, he refused to turn a blind eye to her safety. Ron had seen her beaten and tortured before, and made a promise long ago that it would never happen again on his watch.

Her routine made this quite easy. She left work at half past six, walking instead of apparating. For some reason, this had irritated him when they were together though he didn't mind as much now, aside from the two-minute walk in the dodgiest section of her neighborhood. He assumed it used to bother him because it made him feel like a lazy git.

On Monday, she went to the wizarding library next to the apothecary. On Tuesday, the muggle grocer. On Wednesday, dinner with Ginny and Harry. On Thursday, straight home after getting takeaway (when Ron had dinner with Ginny and Harry). Fridays and Saturdays were most difficult, as she would occasionally pick up flowers, stop in Flourish and Blotts, go out with colleagues, or read at home. When she forgot to draw the curtains, he could spot her with an open book in that worn old chair sometimes. And Sundays were always reserved for her father.

Her mum passed away a little more than a year after the war. Ron had held her for hours each night, consoling her the best he could. She was completely devastated, wracked with grief for the not only her mother's untimely death, but also time lost during the war and worry for her father. It was one of the most helpless seasons of his life. He did anything he could to make her days easier, to try to bring lightness to her despair. He hated seeing her blotchy face, feeling her crushed spirit, listening to her hiccupping apologies.

Almost as much as he hated this bloody flat.

Hers was on the ground floor, easiest to break into. She fumbled with her key sometimes, making his knuckles white with tension when she took more than a few seconds to locate it. Occasionally she would look around and accio her key, which entertained him more than he cared to admit. Crookshanks could be seen roaming about the tiny overgrown gardens and prowling the small parking lot, but darted inside the flat when she returned from work.

Ron's work schedule was erratic. Missions sent him all across the UK, tailing dark witches and wizards. He became quite the pursuer. When he couldn't be there to keep her safe, he channeled all his energy into hunting those who threatened the peace and safety Shacklebolt's ministry had fought to reinstate. Ginny then became the protector.

When Ron initially asked his sister to look out for her while he was on assignment, it was when they were still together. Ginny would crash at the flat they shared, or she would sleep at Ginny's. There was no negotiating – Ron was stubborn when it came to this. Soon it became second nature for Ginny, and the two young women became accustomed to their regular sleepovers when Ron and Harry were away.

When they broke up, Ron couldn't even utter her name to his family. Ginny had found him crumpled on the floor of the shabby room he was renting at the Leaky Cauldron, pissed out of his mind. The youngest Weasley had listened to the blubbering version of what happened and dusted her brother off, apparating him to Harry's and later checking in on Hermione. She'd been the go-between ever since, providing stability to their new, shitty single lives and convincing Harry not to take a side, either. They were equally there for both of them, though quite separately.

Both vacated their former flat near Diagon Alley…they couldn't bear to cohabitate with each other's ghosts. Ron moved in with Harry, as Ginny spent most of her time at training in Holyhead.

"She'll be fine, Ron…I'll check in on her when I can," Ginny reassured him the first time he was given a case post-breakup. He had been infuriated when he learned of where her new residence was.

"Why can't she bloody well live with her father? Merlin knows that house has more bloody rooms than he knows what to do with! How could you let this happen?" He had come to regret the way he roared at his sister, but the disappointment in her failure to dissuade the brunette witch to live somewhere sensible hadn't faded much. Harry even got involved, threatening to throw Ron out if he continued to hoist unrealistic expectations upon the two of them.

It had been two weeks and he had followed her home most nights, despite how painful it had been to see her again. He hadn't mentioned his new evening routine to a soul, including Harry, fearing he'd be sent off to the Janus Thickey Ward. But Ginny knew the depth of loyalty he had to protecting the girl he loved, and she promised him one night, after finding him belligerent leading up to his first overnight mission, that she would look after her when he couldn't.

And here he was again, seventeen months after that horrible night in the ministry when everything came to a head. He could see her, clear as day through the window, in the modest pale pink dressing gown he knew she liked. Her hair was curly as ever, tumbling past her shoulders.

Fuck. He missed her.

She disappeared from view and all he could see was that blasted cat, bleary yellow eyes and dark silhouette. He remembered with fondness how delighted she had been to find that damn cat after their return from Hogwarts, letting out a girlish squeal when Auntie Muriel emerged with the orange terror stuffed into a birdcage. Ron had lived with that cat at Grimmauld Place, their temporary home with Harry until they decided to live somewhere less dreary. Flashbacks of Death Eaters perched across the street did not help ease Ron to sleep at night.

The only upside to their stint at Harry's inherited home was the precious, unhurried time he spent with her. Their physical injuries were healing, but they helped one another with the invisible wounds. Hers came in the form of thrashing nightmares, fits of tears, and the need for physical contact. Ron's were darker, more sinister – he suffered intense panic attacks, paranoia, and anger. Twice he managed to rip off heads of the dead Black family house elves charmed to the wall – an incredible feat considering that they had been unmoved for centuries. His powerful magic would explode with anger, ruining household furniture and irritating Harry to no end. She had been patient with him, calming him down with cool hands on his cheeks or whispered words in his ear. He knew it frightened her, his uncontrolled magic, but there was really nothing he could do about it. Keeping his emotions buried and repressed inside just wound him up tighter.

But they also had times of healing in that old, dingy house. Laughter pierced the solemn air, shades thrown back to fill the house with glorious light, delicious food filling every inch of the long dining table some nights, rivaling the Hogwarts feast. Surviving Order members stopped by regularly, bringing games and more food and new babies and reports of the successful ministry, which added to the newfound sense of freedom they were all getting accustomed to.

There was also the newfound sense of wonder Ron found in his girlfriend. That silly word not coming close to how he defined her. She had been the object of his fascination and delight for years, but now he could actually express that to her. The nights spent in springy king-sized bed in the blue bedroom on the third floor, cuddling behind her, knowing she slept best with his arm loosely around her waist. The way she murmured his name sometimes in her sleep. The chill in the house that brought them even closer, enveloping one another in a shared warmth. The whispered conversation, unhurried, late at night.

Their level of intimacy and comfort with one another grew as the days went on. He told her things about himself he never dreamed he'd confess. He abandoned any pretense of having it all together around her, though he strived to be there for her in the ways she had supported him. She listened patiently; careful to only interrupt when she felt he was being too hard on himself. In time, she reciprocated her anxieties and fears. He remembered tracing the scar on her neck one night, allowing tears to fall down his face silently as the recounted a recurring traumatic image of Bellatrix sitting on her chest. Bearing their souls to one another became more natural, but Ron could tangibly feel that ominous autumn creeping upon them, leading to a separation neither felt they could overcome. She clung to him those nights in Grimmauld Place, burying her face in his neck. Anxiously he would soothe her, fearful of how she would handle the imminent nights alone in Gryffindor tower.

The years that followed were a whirlwind – she returning to Hogwarts as he and Harry entering their hellish training academy, the agony of being separated for months at a time, him nearly getting kicked out of the program when his outbursts were nearly uncontrollable. The desperate way they made love after being reunited at Christmastime, touching one another like they might never get another chance. The elation of realizing they were both employed by the ministry, able to finally have some stability. The decision to move into the quaint upstairs flat above the antique shop. Her terrible cooking. His hands running up and down her arm as she read on his lap on the sofa. Her peals of laughter when he recounted episodes from work. The pride he felt when he held her hand in public. The dizzying way she looked smiled at him when he brought her home a new book. Her weight on his chest when she fell asleep overlapping him. Kissing her and kissing her and kissing her. Merlin.

But it hadn't all been daisies and sunshine, either – she was beyond stressed at work, obsessively bringing home case files and leaving for the office before he even woke up in the mornings. The few times she lost a case, it tore at her soul – the unjust abuse against a magical creature without a conviction felt raw and personal. Her nightmares were waning until the news of terrible sickness and then death of her mother, leading to the worst nights of sleep followed by long days at the office. She was constantly teetering on the verge of a breakdown from sheer exhaustion. Ron remembered stroking her hair as she woke from a kip on the sofa when they had flooed home at midday, begging her to stay home and request a longer leave of absence from work.

Ron wasn't immune to stress of life in their new reality, either. Two years of auror training pushed him to his limits. The suffering of the war was compounded by simulations in training, leaving him desperate for an escape. He nearly failed every examination, getting by only with the help of his fellow trainees. It was humiliating. Trauma flooded every facet of his mind. The flashbacks were unending – Harry dead in Hagrid's arms, watching her get kicked and crucio'ed by that psychopath until she passed out, lifeless Fred being dragged across the stone floor by Percy, Lavender Brown's ravaged body…Merlin, all the bodies.

When she wasn't home by the time he left the office, he frequented the pubs. Drinking made him miss Fred, and so he drank more to forget about Fred. When Ron came stumbling through the door completely wasted, she would roll her eyes and ignore him, choosing the silent treatment as punishment for his offensive activities. When she ignored him, he yelled at her. She screamed back. It was misery in that little upstairs flat when they both took their anger out on the other. What always brought them back together again were nights she desperately needed to sleep. There was no mistaking he acted as her security blanket, and shamefully used that to his disadvantage. He manipulated her into apologizing just so he would slip back into bed and pull her close, knowing she had a same sort of draw to him as a moth to a flame. As he was beginning to have to his alcoholic escapes. It was nauseating.

But there she was, seventeen months later. Healthy, alive, effortlessly gorgeous as ever. Moving about in the flat that he hated, because it was her flat. Because she had a life that only included him unknowingly in the shadows, too afraid to confront her.

A light drizzle began to fall. Ron wanted nothing more than to knock on her door, but shame kept him glued to the sidewalk under the awning of the closed newspaper stand. A light flickered and went out. No – he could still faintly make out the light. The curtain had just been drawn tightly shut.

"Sweet dreams, 'Mione," he whispered hoarsely before apparating with a crack.

She woke with a start, her stomach twisting uneasily until she realized she had fallen asleep on the sofa. Crookshanks sat on his haunches before her, meowing loudly.

Hermione groaned, sitting up and stretching her arms high above her head. A pile of books lay on the floor, and Hermione vaguely remembered skimming them as she had tried to doze off last night.

"Poor boy, are you hungry?" Her voice was thick with sleep. She rose lightly, heading to the kitchen to fill Crookshanks' bowl. He followed her closely, watching her every move. She paused to pull a cup from the cabinet – one of her mum's favorites with delicate light blue flowers painted on its surface. It had survived 27 years of marriage as well as a move to Australia and back.

"Merlin's pants!" she exclaimed, noticing the time. It was nearly seven! Tea would have to wait until she was in the office. Eloise from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes had gifted her a marvelous elderberry kind she had been saving for a lousy day. Hermione hurriedly dumped food into the cat's bowl and rushed to get dressed, muttering unsavory words Ron would have been proud to hear.

Ron. She ignored the sensible, survival side of her and wondered if they might cross paths today. The aurors nearly never arrived early unless they had to, walking about in small groups and keeping mostly to themselves. She avoided them like the plague, only arranging to meet with Harry outside of work or requesting they meet in her office. Never, under any circumstance, did she enter Level Two at the Ministry of Magic.

Since their separation, Hermione unexpectedly saw Ron a handful of times. Once he tried to board her lift at the ministry one morning in a rush, but upon noticing her, acted as though he had seen a ghost and fled. Another time she had spotted him at the library, pacing near the entrance and clearly attempting to untangle himself from a conversation with Ernie Macmillan. Several ministry-wide events had forced them into the same large room together, and when she was called on stage to share an impromptu speech they had made eye contact for a fraction of a second. It quite literally took her breath away. He had also been publically praised by ministry officials for his tenacity. By and large his unit had the highest rate of success, though no one in particular ever took credit for the victories. Ron especially avoided the limelight. Each occasion had been physically painful – a bit like freshly cutting open a wound she had naively hoped was mending.

Zipping herself into a simple black skirt and hastily buttoning her crisp white blouse, Hermione glanced in the mirror and noticed her cheeks were unusually rosy. The flushed sensation tended to happen when she allowed herself to think of Ron.

He was dashing – there was no mistaking it. Of course she'd always found him attractive, but as he had grown up before her eyes it was undeniable. It was also no accident that he frequently graced the Prophet. His muscles had grown more pronounced, his lanky form filled out. She wondered what he looked like in person with short hair. Witches had gazed at him following the war. Even at the ministry, while they were still together, she would find herself getting overwhelmed with the urge to stand as humanely possible to him at the most inappropriate times. His masculinity, his distinct Ron-ness brought out an impulsive side in her she fought to suppress. Her job, of course, was more important. Or so she had thought,

A terrible noise disrupted her reverie as a crash from the next room pulled her back to reality, causing her to hurry to the kitchen and find bits of light blue porcelain shattered across the floor.

"Naughty Crookshanks! Shoo!" she cried, scaring the ginger cat out the door. Now she was down to three treasured cups from her mum's collection. It wasn't uncharacteristic of her pet to inadvertently cause minor damage from time to time, and she already began to feel poorly for how she reacted.

"It's just a thing," Hermione whispered to herself, dusting up the mess and tossing the glass into the bin. Her mum would have cared much more about how she treated people and animals than she would a silly little shattered teacup. Getting to her feet, Hermione straightened her skirt and decided to apparate straight to work. There wasn't time today to dawdle.

"I can't keep up with this, Harry. It's mental how much they've got us working," Ron complained loudly, not caring that his cubicle technically wasn't soundproof. Schedules for the week had been posted and he was being sent in search of Macnair for the next three nights in a row, along with two other blokes. Harry was on standby.

"Don't know what to tell you, mate. They clearly think you can get the job done," Harry responded from over his left shoulder. "Did you see the Evening Prophet? You made the front page."

Ron grunted in reply, irritated that Harry wasn't as peeved as he was to be subjected to another week of dangerous operations and the promise of little sleep.

"Don't bleeding get paid enough for this," he muttered, scanning the file for any new information on the raid.

"Nothing! How the fu–"

"Watch it! Keagan's back from leave. If he catches you swearing about placements this week you're in deep dragon dung," Harry warned, shooting his friend a concerned glance. Harry had seemed to somehow find favor with their manager, if you considered getting the cushy research jobs and occasional London tailing a reward. The Chosen One seemed content for once in his life to not be constantly in impending danger.

The two read over their files in silence as their colleagues filtered in. Sure enough, their balding Head of Department bustled in, whistling to the tune of a popular muggle pop song. Ron had heard it blasting from the cars near her flat.

"Weaaasley," Keagan bellowed in his thick Bristol accent, "meet me in my office soon as you can."

"Bloody hell. Can't be good," Ron murmured to Harry. It was bad enough he had three consecutive nights on operations. Keagan never seemed too impressed with anyone, so he could only imagine this was some sort of reprimand. Rising from his desk, he walked up to his manager's office and was beckoned inside.

"Shut the door, will you? Weasley, I have new plans for you. Forget the mission," he shook a finger at him, "I need you on an interdepartmental case. Some lunatic has apparently released a Lethifold in London-"

"Are you fucking serious?" Ron interrupted loudly.

"- and I need you to ensure we destroy it before it kills anyone else. Two muggles reported missing so far, lady in Chelsea claims she saw her neighbor gettin' choked and eaten by a blasted cape out her window this morning," Keagan finished, choosing to ignore Ron's profane outburst. "And a black cape with the dark mark appeared in the Minister of Magic's office this morning."

"Why is this interdepartmental? Seems like it should –"

"It starts with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures but ends with us finding out who did this. RCMC's done the backend research on the beast, but we need good press to end this menace."

Dread filled him as Ron considered what consequences this might hold. Surely the gods above wouldn't partner him with the only employee he actually knew in Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He'd feign sickness. He'd quit. He'd pay Harry 500 galleons to do it for him.

"But sir…why me?"

"You, Weasley, have a chance at a leadership post…consider this a test, if you will. Should you have enough skill and gumption to actually solve this, it will pay off well for you. I'm giving you twenty-four hours. If you can't figure it out, you're back on overnights."

Too stunned to question further, Ron passively accepted the case file and rose to leave. He had no idea if he was intended to be flattered or offended by what was just revealed to him.

"Wait, sir… how do I find out …who's, um, working with me… on this?" Ron asked hesitantly, feeling the color already drain from his face.

"Merlin's beard, Weasley! You have two legs and a mouth on you. Walk yourself to Level Four and ask them your damn self."

A/N: Stick with me. It's going to get good.