XIII.
The nightmare ricocheted through her again.
Harry sat on the couch across from Hermione. She’d folded herself into her chair, wrapping her arms around her legs as if she could physically hold herself together. But it wasn’t working. Her hands shook, and silent tears cascaded down her flushed cheeks.
“I hate that you found out this way,” Harry said softly.
Her eyes snapped up to meet his.
“Would there have been a better way to find this out?”
The absence of the gold band around her finger nauseated her.
“Mione,” Harry whispered her nickname.
Harry was never good at emotions. He’d never had to manage his own, much less the weight of others. He preferred those with rising emotions to sink into a silent reclusive state. It allowed him to remain unbothered. Perhaps that’s why he and Ginny got on so well. She was so good at tamping down her emotions. Her anger would burst through every once in a while, but anger was at least an emotion Harry could rationalize with. But tears and love and affection all bristled against him and made him retreat within himself.
“Why her?”
Hermione knew the answer as the question left her lips. Lavender had a seductive air about her that had confuddled Hermione for years. She didn’t have sex appeal. She didn’t have lustful allure. She was Hermione. She was loyal, kind, and steadfast. She would have given Ronald a home with children and consistency. She would have offered him a lifetime of comfortable exchanges.
But he didn’t want that. He wanted lust. He wanted power over another female. And he’d never have that power over Hermione. He’d always be in her shadow. She was high achieving. She was making moves in the Ministry. She was making more money than he was as a sub-par Auror. Her ambition intimidated him. He didn’t want to rise and meet the same challenges she did. He wanted someone he could conquer. Someone to best. He showed his true colors years ago when he taught her Wizards’ Chess. She learned it, mastered it, and beat him. And no one beat Ron. Not even Percy.
“Hermione, do you really care?”
Harry’s words snapped against her face like a slap.
“Harry! Of course, I care!”
He gave her an imploring look as if she were being anything but painfully honest.
“You care about work, Hermione. It’s the next thing you need to be the best at. But you’ve never been the best fiancé. You never even tried to be.”
Harry’s words devastated her. Her fault?
“It’s for the best, Mione,” Harry said, standing up. “Ron needs someone who will pour all of herself into him. Like Molly does.”
It’s for the best. Those words whispered over and over in her head. Harry headed toward her Floo and left her alone with her thoughts.
***
Hermione was in a lethal mood the days following Ronald’s announcement in the Daily Prophet. Not because he was with Lavender. She knew that was inevitable. It wasn’t even because a piece of her was jealous. She didn’t want Ron. Not anymore. Not after everything that had happened. But the feeling of inadequacy was what grated on her. Lavender was something Hermione never could be. A seductress. Tempting to the opposite sex. Hermione could never hope to achieve that kind of power over any man. No one would want her that way. No one’s eyes would rake over her body like she’d watched Ron’s roam over Lavender.
She tried to take their separation like an adult. She swore to him they’d still be friends and made every effort to keep things as normal as possible. If not for her sake, Harry’s. But it wasn’t the same. Ginny and Harry began seeing Ron and Lavender for double dates. Harry and Ron began canceling their usual Wednesday lunch plans with her, feigning stupid excuses each week. She tried desperately to connect with them and work. She even read up on the bloody Quidditch stats. But their exclusion was impenetrable.
She even confronted Harry about it.
“You’re shutting me out,” she said. “You’re all I have.”
“Hermione,” he sighed and rolled his eyes. “No one is shutting you out! You’re imagining all of these wild scenarios in your head. You’re swamped with work; you barely make time for anyone outside this office. You chose the Ministry over us.”
Hermione glared at her glass of wine from her usual seat.
She’d never chosen the Ministry over them. She’d never chosen anyone or anything over the two of them. Hadn’t he seen that enough times during school? Every summer. Every holiday. Every facet of her life had been completely handed over to Harry Potter and his marvelous adventures. And where had that left her? Alone. Alone when she needed them most.
Nott’s tall figure sat across from her and met her scowl with his own.
“You know, I liked you better when you were flirtatious,” she said.
“Well, it’s hard to flirt with a dead witch.”
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“I’m fine. We know the right combination of potions now, and I carry them with me all the time.”
“I can’t stop the deterioration happening inside of you.”
“Not with that attitude you can’t.”
His jaw strained under the force of his clenched jaw. Pansy wrapped a hand over his shoulder and placed a martini in front of Hermione.
“She already has her wine,” Nott argued, and Pansy squeezed his shoulder.
“I just heard,” she said.
Her voice was thick with an apology as she looked at it.
“It’s all right,” Hermione said. “I’m happy to do it.”
Nott’s hand reached around the martini stem and pulled it back out of Hermione’s reach.
“Theodore,” Pansy warned.
“Give it to me,” Hermione said.
“I’m done. Something bad is going to happen,” Theodore said. “I feel it.”
“If you’re that worried about it, then make the potion.”
“I’m trying,” he snapped back.
“Then try harder.”
“Is it so hard to believe that people actually care about you and want to keep you alive?”
She knew it wasn’t fair to be releasing her feral mood on Theo. But if she was being truthful, she was tired. She didn’t want to cast the spell anymore. She wanted to give up. But she knew she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Not when she was this close.
“I don’t need people to care about me. I need them to do the job they’re hired to do.”
Hermione took advantage of her viperous words to Theo and took the glass from him. Her teeth connected with the olives, and Pansy’s voice filled her head.
Zacharias Smith.