Chapter 1
July, 2000
Hermione studied Ron from her seat on the other side of their living room, wondering how they had come to this. Sure, she had had doubts about him as a partner, but when he proposed two months after the war, she pushed those aside. He had never been able to meet her on an intellectual level in all their time together, and he certainly had lacked in emotional maturity, but Ron made her laugh. There was no one better at making her smile, even when she was at her lowest. And when he had returned to her and Harry during their Horcrux hunt she had thought he finally grew up. He had certainly put up an effective facade. And even when it began to crumble, she tried to have faith in him. He was coping, she told herself. They all were. So she couldn't blame him when he occasionally threw a tantrum, or when he drank a little too much, or even when they began to argue more than ever.
The arguments started over little things; he didn't like the way she arranged the kitchen when they moved in together. He had called Molly while Hermione was at work and asked her to reorganize everything. Hermione had felt humiliated, betrayed, and furious. But then, it was a good system wasn't it? It had certainly worked for Molly during all those years of having a horde of wild children running about, and eventually she had conceded. Little things like that had continued to plague them, but Hermione convinced herself it was just the growing pains. They were still practically children, after all, and coping. That was her mantra, repeated over and over and over, on the nights when he stumbled in hours after he had promised to be home, reeking of alcohol and sweat and vomit. He was coping, she told herself, when Harry and Ginny's wedding attracted the entirety of the wizarding UK's media and even a few international reporters, and instead of being happy for his sister and his friend, Ron threw a fit that their own wedding had attracted so little attention in comparison. It had taken nearly three hours to calm him down when the wedding was over.
And that was another battle, their wedding. He had pushed, and pushed, and pushed, until what was supposed to be one of the best days of her life, no longer felt like it was hers, or even theirs. Ron had managed to talk her into a bigger and bigger guest list, into a dress that, in her opinion at least, was rather gaudy and over the top. Into a reception that was filled with more strangers than family and friends. But she was desperate to make him happy, to find happiness for herself, so she acquiesced. She wore Aunt Muriel's goblin-made tiara. She danced with Ministry officials whose names she barely knew, and she had spent nearly two hours posing for photograph after photograph until Ron was satisfied. He had opened the wedding to the press, and it had made her want to tear the bejeweled pins from her hair when she saw Rita Skeeter prowling about the dance floor. But that would have ruined everything, so instead she smiled demurely for photos and made endless, banal conversation with important people Ron wanted to impress.
It had taken two years, but she was finally, finally, through. Laughter and smiles were not enough. She couldn't continue through life with a partner that wanted to parade her about when it benefited him, but perhaps most of all she couldn't be with someone who believed her most important role in this life was to be the mother of his children. When he had first brought up the idea of trying a year ago, it had filled her with dread. At first, she had assumed it was because she simply didn't feel ready to be a mother. But session after session with her Mind Healer, Yelena, only brought her back to the same conclusion: she dreaded becoming a mother because in so many ways, she already was one, and to someone who should have been just as grown as she. Ronald simply wasn't ready to be a father, and she had no desire to act like a single mother, especially not when she still had ambitions and dreams of her own to chase. And she had finally caved and told him as much, after months of begging him to come to therapy sessions with her. He had insisted over and over again that whatever it was, they could work it out between them. So here they were, "working it out", which had turned into a yelling match that she was certain every flat in their building could hear.
"What the bloody hell does that even mean, 'you're not ready to be a father'?" Ron demanded. "How can you tell me what I'm ready for?" he was fuming, and she could almost see the steam coming out of his ears as he yelled.
"It means exactly what it sounds like, Ronald. I want to be a team," she pleaded, trying to focus on using the "I statements" Yelena had told her about. Make it an us problem, she had said, not a him problem. It's important to face these issues together, as a couple. Yelena's face had crinkled a bit, an acknowledgment that what was she saying was much easier said than done, but she continued anyways. Remember, Hermione, it's you two together versus the problem, not you versus each other.
"So let's be a team and build our family together!" he cried, clearly unable to understand what she was trying to say. Hermione knew in that moment that what she was about to say was going to end things between them. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name, but she couldn't stop herself. Despite hundreds, if not thousands, of conversations over two years of marriage surrounding shared responsibility, division of labor, and dealing with trauma in healthier ways, nothing had changed. Not a single thing. She still came home from work and cooked dinner alone. And then cleaned up alone. And on Saturdays, he would leave and get utterly smashed at the pub while she did every other thing around the flat she hadn't been able to get to during the week. And Hermione was done.
"We can't be a family if I don't have a husband to support me," she said, the words coming out of her so calm and cold that she stunned herself. "But I-" Ron tried to interrupt, but Hermione held up her hand, cutting him off, deciding that she needed to just get it out.
"You bring home a paycheck as an auror, and that's all well and good. But I also bring home a paycheck, and it doesn't end there for me. I still clean the whole home alone, despite begging you over and over to help. I do the grocery shop on weekends while you go out and get smashed. Hell, I even-" and here Hermione had to pause and laugh at herself, as the realization sank into her in a whole new way. "I even pick up your dirty socks and clothes that you can't be arsed to charm into the laundry baskets. I change your clothes when you come home covered in your own sick because you can't hold your liquor! I have to feed you every meal, every day!" Her laughter was rising in pitch and volume, and Hermione recognized that she probably sounded hysterical in that moment, but she just couldn't care. "An actual child might be less work, Ronald!"
Silence. All her rant was met with was silence. And then he hammered the last nail in, all by himself, finally acting like a big boy, came the unbidden thought, and she couldn't stop herself from laughing when he squinted at her and asked, in complete earnestness, "Mione, have you been drinking?"
Hermione didn't even bother to dignify that with a response. She simply rose from her seat, turned on her heel, and stalked out the front door.