I saw in my mind fairy lights through the mist
I kept calm and carried the weight of the rift
Pulled him in tighter each time he was driftin' away
Time had a funny way of going. It slipped, extended, distended; it froze and rushed. The past few months were the former, a rush of events and a casual routine of sleep - work - sleep, the occasional shared coffee with a friend or two when Hermione could spare the Time. She rarely did. She preferred soothing her nightmares with paperwork and discovering the new facets of the world.
Ron understood, of course. He knew her inside and out, had been her lover for a year now and her friend for an eternity. They passed each other in their shared flat, exchanged quick kisses here and there, and Time rushed around them.
Plus, it wasn’t like he did not enjoy his free time. He had his own job, a weekly quidditch game with his friends and a regular appointment with whoever wanted at the Leaky Cauldron. He spent weekends at the Burrow, where his mother could feed him his favourite meals and his first nieces and nephews ran around his legs. He revelled in his newfound fame and signed autographs, never refused a pint from a grateful witch, never refused anything to anyone who recognised him. Which Hermione understood too, because she abandoned him all week, so it was only fair he enjoyed his weekend the way he saw fit.
Hermione used to be able to control Time (she sometimes longed for the days when she had a time-turner around her neck, and an infinite amount of moments to spare), but she did not control the way it froze suddenly.
It froze with one word, like a command.
Stop.
It extended and distended with the rest of the sentence.
I think we should stop.
And, really, Hermione should have been expecting it. Was expecting it, truly, if she was honest with herself.
“I tried,” she answered. “I tried to be here more, and make you laugh, and support you. I swear I did.”
He had only scoffed, and left her to drown himself in firewhisky and ale.
My spine split from carrying us up the hill
Wet through my clothes, weary bones caught the chill
I stopped tryna make him laugh, stopped tryna drill the safe
This had never been the plan. Ron was supposed to be safe and steady; loyal to a fault, reassuring and comforting. He was never supposed to be the reason why she needed reassurance and comfort. Had she not been enough? Had her trauma been too much?
It had been for her, at least. Too much.
Still, she picked herself up, boxed up her life and moved everything to a new flat that was just hers. The living room became a library, the kitchen a coffee-themed haven, the bedroom a cosy nook of peace. Gone were the Chudley Cannons’ posters, gone were the bottles of butterbeer in the fridge, gone were the clothes littering the floor.
She heard that Ron had moved back to the Burrow from Harry, but that was it. Gone was the Golden Trio.
Time extended and distended, when Molly Weasley sent a letter explaining that Hermione should maybe stay away from the Burrow for now. She was very sorry, but it seemed like such a strange time for her son, for her family, to hear that it was over, and really Sundays are for family and we should reflect on our time together, us who are still here.
Oh, how Molly Weasley had a talent for stabbing. Was Hermione not family, after eight years of friendship and solidarity, after Christmases and summer holidays, after Quidditch World Cups and battles fought side by side? Was Hermione not grieving too, for the loss of her parents, for the loss of her friends, for the loss of her childhood?
Time extended and distended again, when Witch Weekly reported that Ron Weasley had moved on, and fast; Time froze for a second and slammed back into her chest when it was revealed that he had moved on with Lavender Brown.
It made her sick.
The once petty bully, now vapid gossip; the one who had always laughed at Hermione’s hair and teeth and hopes and dreams. The one who had nagged the first time she had caught Ron’s attention.
The knife twist it was, to hear that she had won again.
Thinkin', "How much sad did you think I had
Did you think I had in me?"
Oh, the tragedy
Subtly, Hermione lost more than a lover. She lost more than a friend, more than a brother, more than a companion. She lost everything that came with him.
He knocked on her door, once; she was almost hopeful he was here to take it all back.
Her speech was ready. I’ll love you better, I’ll be here more, I’ll learn how to cook. How out of character, for her, to lay down her self-worth and stomp on it. But Time, again and again and again, extended and distended as he wet his lips and stumbled into her flat, flopped into a chair and propped his feet on her side table.
It extended and distended in an unreal moment of truth, and for the first time in months, she froze It with two words.
You swore.
She froze It with willpower and barely concealed rage.
You swore you loved me.
But he never had, had he? He had loved the idea of her, maybe, the meant-to-be everyone whispered and the easiness of a relationship which fell into his lap. He loved her willingness and her blindness, the willpower he recoiled at now.
He loved that he could fall in love with a woman who had always been here for him, and had never once asked for it back.
“You were relentless in your need for perfection, and I can’t be that ‘Mione!” he had yelled at her; his breath reeked of cheap muggle vodka.
“I never wanted you to be perfect, Ronald, I wanted you to love me, and my flaws, and my bad moods, and I wanted you to do that everyday!”
Not just the days he was happy. Not just the days he felt enough.
She wanted that, for herself, she realised. She wanted someone who would love her whilst being angry with her; someone who would cherish her whilst they hated her.
You swore that you loved me, but where were the clues?
I died on the altar waitin' for the proof
You sacrificed us to the gods of your bluest days
He left.
He left her flat, first, and then her life, slowly, until he was gone and she had not even realised he had been trickling away.
He found someone else, after Lavender, and someone else again after. He settled, she heard from Harry, with someone he loved correctly.
She left, too.
She left London, first, and then her memories of them, slowly, until she could look back at their time together with a gentle fondness. You look happier, said Harry, when you love yourself correctly.
She found someone else, after Ronald, and that someone else never wavered.
So long, London
Had a good run
A moment of warm sun
But I'm not the one
So long, London