Chapter Text
She was trapped, writhing under a sparkling chandelier. Her eyes were squeezed shut from the pain but when she opened them slightly she caught a glimpse of unruly black curls and an expression of maniacal laughter. She felt a wand at her arm. She attempted to jerk away to no avail - Bellatrix caught her arm and began to carve–
She blinked and all of a sudden she was standing on the other side of the room. In her former position lay a pale, freckled, ginger man with his arm firmly in Bellatrix’s grasp. She lurched forward, trying to get to Ron, but found she was held back by invisible walls holding her in place. Ron’s arm was finally released and as he let it slam to the ground, she screamed. Where he used to have unmarred skin now contained the words “BLOOD TRAITOR”, with blood dripping to the floor from each letter. As she watched the black marble around him continue to fill with a pool of glassy blood, she yelled his name. “RON!”
Hermione bolted upright. She looked around, twisted in her sweat-soaked sheets. Her stomach lurched and she rapidly kicked the blankets off her before running to the bathroom. She fell to her knees, grasped the porcelain on either side, and promptly emptied her stomach. She continued to kneel over the toilet for a few more moments, gasping to catch her breath, before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and slumping against the bathtub.
Something wet dripped against her arm, clutching her knees. She lifted her head and tentatively raised a hand to her cheek. A tear. Then another, and another, until she was sobbing on the floor of her bathroom.
It had been six months since the war ended. Six months for everyone else to heal, and to move on, and put the war entirely behind them. Hermione didn’t know why she was unable to do the same. She looked around at everyone in her life and it seemed like they were all doing better. Harry and Ginny had fully moved into Grimmauld Place and Hermione knew Harry was planning to propose to her within the next couple of months. Ron shared her bed every night and barely stirred, able to sleep through every night without so much as a hint of a nightmare. Even George, who lost his twin, the other half of him, had reopened Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes to honour Fred, and business was doing better than ever.
Meanwhile, Hermione was wracked with nightmare after nightmare. During the day, she could not stomach most foods, knowing it would just come up as the sun went down anyway.
With a deep breath, she pulled herself off the bathroom floor. She rested her hands on the counter, looking down at the sink, and slowly raised her eyes to gaze at her reflection in the mirror.
She barely recognized herself.
Her collarbones were overly pronounced, her face gaunt, and her eyes sunken. The permanent gleam of happiness she used to have in her eyes, that twinkle that signified such happiness, was gone, replaced by a dull, hollow look.
She looked away. Quickly brushing her teeth and rinsing her mouth, she returned to bed, straightening the sheets and sliding under them as quietly as she could.
“Mione?” Ron mumbled, turning towards her in the bed.
“Go back to sleep, Ron.”
Hermione busied herself with preparing tea as she heard footsteps thump down the stairs. Two milk, three sugars for Ron; one milk, one sugar for herself. She placed both cups on a tray and lightly placed the tray on the breakfast table before tending to the toast that had just popped out of the toaster oven.
“I don’t understand why you insist on doing it that way, Mione. A simple charm could do exactly what this toastie thing does in a fraction of the time,” comes Ron’s voice from behind her.
She didn't turn. “I told you, Ronald, I was brought up doing it this way. It reminds me of my parents.”
Silence.
She slowly, reluctantly, turned to face him from her place at the counter. He looked grim as he meets her eyes. “Did you have another nightmare last night?”
She nodded.
“Mione…”
“Ron, I tried not to disturb you, I really did. I didn’t think I woke you up until you said my name, and even then, you fell right back asleep.”
“It’s not about that.” He stepped towards her and captured her hands with his, holding them delicately between their bodies. “How are your sessions with Healer Cloutier going?”
She looked to the corner of the kitchen nervously. She itched to tear her hands away from his grasp and escape to the library. “I don’t know. Fine, I guess. Why do you ask?”
“Because, Mione, I can’t keep doing this.”
Her stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”
Ron sighed. “I mean, I want to start our lives together. I want to move forward. I want to start thinking about marriage, and children. Bloody hell, let’s talk about at least moving in together! Or even, when will you let me connect our Floos? We’ve been dating for over half a year and I still have to Apparate to the base of your driveway and walk to the door.”
Her eyes started to sting. She backed up as far as possible, hitting the counter, and tilted her face upwards as she began to blink furiously. How was she supposed to explain that although illogical, if she connected their Floos then she would be constantly worrying about how if someone were to break into his house, they’d be able to access her house? How was she supposed to tell him that she doesn’t feel safe in her own home as is? “I’m sorry, Ronald, that six months isn’t enough for me to move on from the war and start thinking about having babies. I’m sorry that I finally feel okay enough to not check and re-check my wards every night before bed and every morning when I wake up. I understand that you and everyone else seem to have forgotten about the war entirely, but I haven’t. I need more time.”
He stared at her. “ What about me? Hermione, I can’t waste away next to you. I feel like I’m going backwards by dating you and seeing your lack of progress. What if I can’t give you more time? ” He shook her hands aggressively in his own, pleading with her to understand, pleading with her to just try a little harder, do a little better.
She can’t.
She’s doing the best she can.
She told him as much. “Ron, every bone in my body rebels against me when I leave the house. It takes so much mental energy to do anything these days. I’m constantly worried that one of the Death Eaters we didn’t capture or kill is going to spring up and hurt me or those I love. Dolohov, Greyback, name it. Just going to the Ministry and my lab for work requires me to stand in front of the Floo for ten minutes every morning.”
“Then when? When, Hermione? I need a timeline - I need to know what I’m in for before I waste more time in a relationship that’s not going anywhere.”
She raised her head, eyes narrowed. “ Waste?”
“Yes, waste! I’m not going to sugarcoat it, Mione, that’s what we’re doing here. We’re burning time while everyone else moves forward and we continue to stay stagnant. By the time you’re ready for me to move in, I could probably have dated and married a different witch altogether. You do understand that, don’t you?”
“What’re you saying exactly? Are you saying I either somehow accelerate my progress, which I am already trying my very best to do, or you leave me for someone else?”
“Yes.” She looked up, startled. “Yes,” he says more confidently. “I’m sorry, Mione, I love you, I really do. But this is the best I can offer.”
“I was TORTURED, Ron. We fought in a war , Jesus.” Her voice broke. “My parents died. I’m sorry I can’t move on from that in six months.”
“I’m sorry too. I get it, I do. But I can’t keep going around in circles. I need someone who’s willing to move forward with me.”
“Get out.”
Ron stared at her. “What?”
“You heard me. Get. Out. I need to be with someone who understands that I need to move at a slower pace right now. I am not going to have my healing be set back by a narcissistic man who believes that when he’s ready for something, I should be ready for that same something. So if you can’t handle the fact that maybe I might need another year before I’m even ready to think about marriage, let alone children, then leave.”
He looked at her for a long moment while silence reigned around them. “Fine. I will. And you know what, Mione? When you heal, whenever that is, and you’re ready, don’t come crying to me. Remember this conversation, and remember that you’re the one who told me to get out.”
Ron spun on his heel and made for the door. And all Hermione could hear were the thumps of his feet, sounding more and more like a death march the farther he got from her. And as the door opened and slammed shut, she slid down the cabinets to the floor, mirroring her position from last night.