Chapter Five: Promises & Apologies

TW: Domestic abuse (grabbing of upper arms), PTSD response (stuttering), gaslighting,

Harry catches Hermione in the atrium a few days later, his hand finding her elbow in the crowd before pulling her into a secluded alcove near the cafeteria.

"Merlin's beard, Harry! You'd think we were sneaking around or something." His green eyes are intense as they bore into hers. The look he's giving her is an echo of what she saw during the war. His jaw clenches tightly, the muscle jumping as it moves beneath the skin. His brows furrow together, almost touching.

A cool chill runs down her spine. She waits for him to speak, her previous outburst feeling preemptive.

"I don't want to alarm Ginny and rehash old memories"—he lets go of her arm, rolling his shoulders back—"but I need you to tell me again exactly what you saw in the Department of Mysteries."

She squints at him. "Honestly, Harry, I've told you everything I can remember. It's probably nothing…" She lets her voice trail off as his gaze hardens. "I probably just hallucinated it or something, no one knows what kind of magic is down there. Really, it's nothing."

His shoulders tense as if he's holding something—a response, a visceral reaction—back. That none-too-subtle movement irks her for some reason. The old Harry, the one from school, would press further. He would ask questions and help her get to the bottom of whatever is going on. He'd pester her until she would inevitably relent to end his incessant nagging.

But the new Harry? He thinks before he speaks; he calculates his answers, weighs out his words with caution. No longer does he pester her, and pick her brain to push her further.

"There shouldn't be anything down there that causes hallucinations, Hermione."

Caught in her lie, she presses her lips together. With clenched fists at her sides, she takes a deep breath before relaying everything that happened all over again and repeating the things she told him over dinner just a few days prior. Like a broken record.

"A person locked up down there...it's...that's preposterous, 'Mione. We won. There's nothing down there, not anymore." He runs a hand through his hair, causing it to stand on end before looking away, back into the atrium, collecting his thoughts. She notices the purple bruising around his eyes, his skin looking almost grey in the dim light. "Why would they be keeping someone down there…" he chuckles under his breath patronizingly.

Hermione shifts her weight from foot to foot, suddenly aware of how many people are moving from one end of the atrium to the other. There's always constant noise in the Ministry, people coming and going, the low hum of conversations swarm like bees in the summertime. She used to find the noise refreshing, almost comforting, and now she finds it to be nothing but grating. The sound penetrates deep within her, crawling under her skin.

"I don't know, but when I went back down there I didn't find anything—" She stops herself, biting her lip and shifting again. Harry isn't paying attention to what she's saying, his gaze far off, glazed over when he draws his attention back to her. She debates whether or not she should tell him her theory, that the Ministry is using magic to hide the room away instead of playing it off as a trick of the mind, but before she can continue he speaks up.

"Something was stolen from the Auror's office the night we had dinner." He's serious, his expression hard.

"Wha—"

"It was a confidential file, something Gawain and his partner have been working on." He looks around, ensuring no one is close enough to hear. Her heart soars, pounding in her ears as she focuses on his face, and the sound of the authoritive tone in his voice. "Only a few members of a task force, me including, know about it."

"You mean—"

Harry opens his mouth to interject but quickly shuts it again, his skin puckering around his scar as he frowns deeply.

He doesn't want to tell me…he knows more than he is letting on but doesn't want to tell me.

"I think the stolen file has something to do with what you saw in the Department of Mysteries. There have been rumors about a recent breach of non-Ministry members entering the ninth level. Maybe it's all connected."

The air has been sucked from her lungs, bile rising in her throat.

"Hermione, it's over. It's all over. We won, remember? We fought and we bled and we won," Ron says with a finality she hasn't heard in years. He glares at her, his face is so close she can see the hint of freckles across his nose, proof of the early summer sunshine.

They're doing the dishes together—the Muggle way—in her kitchen. Hermione always washes, while Ron always dries. A silent chore they share together whenever he comes to hers for dinner. Ron has the tea towel slung over his shoulder, hands poised on the cheap laminate of her counter. She faces him, turning off the sink, hands still sudsy.

"You're not listening to me, I think I've figured it out. I think that la—" His hands, quick as lightning, reach out and wrap around her biceps. The sudden collision of him into her, the grip on her arms, is enough to stop the air in her lungs.

His glare turns menacing as he raises his voice at her, "No, Hermione, you listen to me for Godric's sake. Why can't you fucking let it go?" Brow lowered, his usually joyful blue eyes turn steely.

She yelps out when his twisting grip squeezes her a bit too harshly. "Ron, let me go."

Realising what he's done, he promptly lets go and turns away. Raking his hand through his hair, when he turns back to her, that distant look is gone from his eyes. She can't help the recoil that wracks her body.

"I can't do this." She doesn't move, doesn't even breathe as she watches his mouth open and close for a moment before he continues, "I don't want to run around the Ministry and solve riddles. I don't want to comb through books and go into the Department of Mysteries to find some person. A person who is probably there for a reason!" His tone is stern, face red as his hands animate his words.

Tears burn at the corner of her eyes, prickling and stinging through her nose and into her throat. She tries to swallow back the emotion. Tamping down the fear and anger that are threatening to rise. She keeps her eyes trained on his, unmoving when all she wants to do is look away. She's always the one to look away, always the one to shrink when Ron gets frustrated, to placate him when he gets frustrated with her.

He doesn't have his hands on her anymore but the way he grabbed her just now, the way his fingertips clenched at her skin, causes her hands to shake, bones rattling under her skin.

Hermione turns her back toward him, no longer able to hold his gaze. She wipes her damp cheeks and pulls her sleeves down, wrapping her arms tightly around her body. Her still wet hands soak through her top, the soap staining the fabric. She hates feeling the ghost of his touch on her body as she clutches at her own ribs.

"Hermione, 'Mione. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—" He tries to touch her, tries to pull her into an embrace and it makes her skin crawl, makes her want to rip off her own flesh.

"S-stop. D-don't t-t-touch me…please don't touch me." Her eyes are closing, her voice stuttering as she starts to shake.

Alone. She wants nothing more than to be alone, nothing more than for him to leave, to get out of her apartment.

How did I ever expect him to believe me? How did I ever think he would help me?

This is how it always ends, how it will always end.

"'Mione, please. I'm sorry, come on. You know I didn't mean to." She turns away from the sound of his voice, towards the window in her kitchen. Her eyes open slowly, focusing on the streets below.

"Out!" she says in a tone of finality.

Arms still grasped tightly around her body, she hears him pulling on his shoes, and watches him in the dingy reflection of the glass. She continues to listen, waiting for the door to open and close again before she allows herself to fully fall apart.

Sinking to the floor, she lets it all out, sobs wracking her entire body, cheeks wet with tears. She can no longer catch her own breath. Hands shaking and chest hitching, she finds herself crumpling, giving in to the gravity of it all and lying on her floor.

The Ron that screamed her name in the cellar of Malfoy Manor is no longer with her, the one who saved House Elves from the Hogwarts kitchens during the battle, the one who fought side by side with her. The one who fought for her is no longer around.

Instead, he has been replaced with someone who decided he was alright and moved on one day without ever looking back. He just kept going. But it's hard for her to continue, to keep moving forward when the world has changed.

The first time this happened, the first time Ron lost his temper it felt like pressure being released. He had held it in for so long during their Horcrux hunt, his pent up feelings towards Harry, who rarely showed a wavering doubt that good would not triumph over evil.

At that moment, Ron's anger towards Harry's optimism didn't frighten her, it felt real and raw and like someone was finally telling the truth after so many years of lying. The next morning, when she woke up and it all finally sunk in, that he had actually left her alone with Harry to figure everything out, Hermione felt a gnawing emptiness that filled the cavities of her chest. Even now, it still lingers while she lies on the kitchen floor.

It happened again. After the war when her nightmares were at their peak. Hermione found herself wandering in a space between dreams and reality. Testifying in court, preparing her statements, conducting interviews about her experiences. Waking in fits of screams, her body drenched in sweat as Bellatrix's knife pressed against her skin.

The hollow feeling never left.

Right before she went back to Hogwarts was the first time he grabbed her. They were at the Burrow, while everyone else was playing Quidditch on Ginny's birthday, they fought in the hallway. She must have said something to upset him because he was on her immediately.

The rest of the encounter is foggy, but the feeling of guilt still haunts her. It had to have been her fault, something she did, something she said.

I should help him more.

I should be there for him when he needs me.

I should be more supportive.

He's been through a lot. This is the first Weasley birthday without Fred…

I should be a better girlfriend.

After their initial fight, he pushed her away. Hermione thought that some time and distance would make things better, that once she was back at Hogwarts, things would fix themselves and Ron would find his bearings again and not take it out on her.

But it happened again. And again. During Christmas, in the quiet solitude of his bedroom. At Easter, on the front step of Grimmauld Place. Then, at her graduation, in the confines of the second-floor girls' bathroom away from prying eyes.

He has been through so much…his brother is dead…work has been stressful…I say the wrong thing…I'm egging him on…

There was always an excuse, and she never told a soul. At one point, she thought of telling Ginny, but confiding in his own sister felt like a treachery.

But how could she do that to him? He's been working so hard and going to the mind healer upon her suggestion. It wasn't abuse, right? Ron may be one to occasionally lose his temper, but he would never do anything to purposefully hurt her. He's never actually hurt her. Never left any lingering bruises. And the pain usually went away the next day…

She couldn't accuse Ron—a war hero—of it. Of abu–hurting her.

Her thoughts fade; she can't even stomach the word, or stomach the thought of that ever happening.

Crookshanks's trill pulls her from her thoughts. He's undeniably excited now that Ron is gone. Paws thud on the hardwood before prancing into the living room. Another trill escapes before his face presses against her side.

"I'm alright…I promise, I'm alright," she manages to say, sniffling and wiping her eyes before stroking his head with her tear-stained hand.

He looks at her with those warm golden eyes, as if to say I know you aren't, and he keeps her company for the rest of the evening as she wallows on the floor a little longer.

There's a modest bouquet of flowers sitting on her desk when she arrives at work. Colourful carnations and Baby's Breath in a too tall vase with a cream coloured card tucked between two buds.

Sighing, she reads the card, turning it over in her hand. Ron's always had sloppy penmanship, but this looks like it was written in a rush. Like he didn't take any time to think about what the card should say.

"Today isn't your birthday, right?" Connor's voice startles her, turning to see him standing in the doorway of her cubicle. He smiles at her, a subtle, charming curve gracing the corner of his lips.

"No-no, it's not my birthday."

Hermione pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to keep the tears at bay, the tumultuous emotions threatening to rise.

He knows Ron only sends flowers on her birthday, he's keen enough to notice. Part of her wonders if everyone can see it and she's just making poorly disguised excuses. She doesn't think she can live with the idea of people knowing how he treats her behind closed doors.

"Are you doing alright, Granger?" Lowering his voice, Connor steps into her cubicle, leveling her with a serious expression. His dark eyebrows are almost touching, kind black eyes attempting to look directly into her soul.

I thought I was…I thought I was doing so well…

"Yeah-yeah, I'm doing fine. How are you this morning, Connor?" Shaking her head and taking a deep breath she meets his gaze, and Ron's flowers forgotten.

He leans back, crossing his arms and giving her a nod. "Just wanted to check up on you, and make sure everything is okay. There have been some really heavy case files coming across your desk, and I know we're understaffed." He waves his hand in the direction of the high stack piled next to her, photographs and write-ups spilling from their manila folders.

"I appreciate it, Connor. Thank you for taking the time."

He moves to turn as if he's about to leave when he stops abruptly. "I know we don't know each other outside of work, and you have no obligations to, but my door is always open, you know, if you ever need someone to talk to." Her heart lurches into her throat; she's worried he can see it, pounding just below her skin.

Does he know she's been sneaking off to the Department of Mysteries? Does he want her to divulge what she's found? Can she trust him? Is he just waiting for her to break up with Ron?

She feels sick for the rest of the day, worry creeping over her like a curse. She and Harry go to lunch together in the cafeteria as they do most days. Unable to even stomach the thought of food, Hermione picks at her plate as Harry tries to talk to her about Ron.

Ron has filled him in on what happened, but of course, coloured it in his favour. Harry—forever taking the side of the peacekeeper—tries to remain neutral between his two best friends.

Hermione has a hard time reining in her frustration, pushing the anger down when all she wants to do is lash out. Why is it that Ron gets to be emotional and she doesn't?

The endless cycle of keeping her anger abated is wearing her down.

In the late afternoon, Connor comes to her desk to chat about evidence from a case. One of the other clerks is having trouble with it and he's talking it over with her. She wants nothing more than to scream. To tell him to go away, the other clerk can figure it out themselves, she has enough to do. But she bites her tongue and puts on a strained smile, attentively listening to Connor speak.

The world is swirling around her and all she can do is watch. All she can do is nod as everything creeps up. She struggles against the constant current that threatens to sweep her away.

At the end of the day, she bids Connor farewell as he scratches away on parchment, looking up at her and smiling before she leaves. Making her way across the atrium, she keeps her head down, not wanting to stay and chat with anyone. She only lifts her gaze to make her way to the fireplaces—getting in line to wait her turn—when she catches Morag's eyes.

She looks put together again, her long hair in a tight French braid. She's less frantic than the last time Hermione saw her, head no longer on a swivel as she looks at her.

Eyes the colour of violets meet hers.

Pansy.

Morag takes a sharp turn in the opposite direction the second Hermione registers who she's looking at. At a brisk pace, Morag heads towards a bank of elevators that are funnelling people into the atrium. Going against the stream of people, she slows and Hermione is hot on her tail.

Catching someone's shoulder, Hermione mutters an apology and loses Morag for an instant in the crowd. Her head snaps in the direction, a scowl painted across her face as she careens into another person. Their hands grip her shoulders tightly and the sudden invasion of her personal space sends her reeling. Shaking off the offending hands, Hermione clutches herself tightly, trying to see where Morag has gone.

Morag's French braid whips around in front of her as she heads in the direction of the emergency stairs, which are conveniently located next to the elevators.

Pushing her way through the throng to reach her, Hermione slams her hands against the door.

"Stop! Morag! Pansy! Whoever you are! Stop! I know you're ignoring me!" Hermione screams as Morag's kitten heels reverberate against the tile, clicking all the way down the stairs. She almost slips, catching her balance and gripping the railing hard with one hand before bounding down after her.

The stairwell is narrow, short stacks of stairs connected with tight landings all the way down. Tiles cover the floors and walls, all in the same shade of inky black. Lit by dim gas lamps, it's hard to tell if the staircase's descent ever ends. Hermione peeks over the side of the railing, trying to see how far ahead Morag is.

There's the sound of a door opening and slamming shut and she can just barely see the floor she's disappeared into. Counting the levels, she makes her way to the door.

The Department of Mysteries.

Hermione stops dead before the door, debating on whether she should try and be quiet, attempting to figure out if Morag is luring her into a trap after blatantly ignoring Hermione's presence.

Her hand hovers over her wand as she presses open the door. Morag stands in the very centre of the antechamber, head whipping around like she's looking for something. She stops upon hearing the door, eyes meeting Hermione's before she dives for an alcove. Both hands are wrapped around the door handle and she rattles it haphazardly.

Slamming her foot onto the tile, her hands fly to her sides in rage-filled fists. "I know you're in here, you idiot! I'm here to fucking help you!" Pansy's voice echoes in the chamber. She produces her wand from a hidden pocket in her dress, throwing out a spell. The purple light beam hits the door with a dull thud. Nothing seems to happen, so she does it again and again.

Slowly, her features begin to melt. Her long brown braid severs itself from her head, disappearing into a puff of smoke. Her prominent black bob sways back into place as she moves, bangs ending just above her perfectly arched brows. Morag's curves smooth into harsh lines as the effects of Polyjuice morph her back into Pansy.

Hermione's shoe squeaks on the tile and Pansy's head snaps in the offending sound's direction, violet-blue eyes narrowing. She looks defeated and helpless—an expression Hermione immediately recognises. Her pained expression of desperation contorts as she holds Hermione's gaze, her lips curling into a sneer.

"Pansy, wai—"

As Hermione starts to speak, Pansy lets loose a horrendous defeated scream and runs to the elevator, throwing herself inside. Before Hermione can get to her—before she can even think of finishing her sentence—she's gone, leaving Hermione behind in the Department of Mysteries.