Ron returned from work, letting out of sight of some contentment when he reached the small kitchen of his apartment. He sat in front of the table, putting his head in his hands. Slowly, he let all the pressure of the day wash off his shoulder before letting his hand fall on the table. He let his gaze wander around the room until he felt a familiar pair of eyes piercing his back.
He turned around, and a faint smile appeared on his lips. His wife was standing behind him, a slight smile decoring her tired face. She had been alone all day taking care of their firstborn, and he could feel her tiredness.
The corner of her smile hangs upside down, and her eyes reflected her grey mood. However, it wasn't what had made him turn around. He could see something else in her eyes, that incredible soar sadness, the way her eyes always watched him without seeing him.
She sat in front of him, brushing his shoulder in passing. She felt like a leaf in the autumn wind, her hand refusing to grip the reality of his body. He tried to catch it before she let it slip, but he could only grasp air.
He let his eyes wander upon her. Her small face was ill-looking, her eyes sunken in her orbits, her once-upon-a-time beautiful brown hair falling around her, framing her in her glory and decay.
She didn't say anything, watching his face, the details in the lines of his face that reminded her of another time. From the color of his hair, his eyes to the small scar on his right temple, everything that made him himself, and ultimately what didn't correspond to the mental image of who she loved.
He could see her deception, her sorrow, how she steadied herself in her chair, how she swallowed her crying, trading it for a fair smile. Nothing was more painful for him than to endure her lookout for details.
After her careful inspection, she rises again, busying herself around him, putting out the plates. All he could do was stay there, looking at her back and the tension in her shoulder. Her hands were working fast but without passion. She went to lite the stove, and as the small flame rose, he wondered to himself, once again, why.
He had wanted to blur out this question for so long now. Why?
He could never bring himself to ask, too afraid. What would happen when he would finally break that wall between them? Would she even answer, or would she run hide away?
As the sun slowly disappears, setting the kitchen in an amber light, he felt his mouth move. His lips parted, his tongue rose to his teeth, and he uttered a few words.
Make small talk was saying his conscience. Don't say it, not now.
They both had been destroyed by the war. It took a toll on both of them. When it rained on the cold day of winter, he could feel the shivers of death in his bone. Don't talk, don't break what he had fought for. Don't ask. Don't ask.
Shaking his head, he realized he couldn't say it. He never could, and he probably would never. He rose to his foot and approached his wife. She hadn't moved. Slowly, as if she was made from porcelain, he put his hand on her waist, sliding his arms between hers, squeezing her toward him. She put her hands on his arms, her wedding ring catching the dim light of the room. She let her head rest on his shoulder, closing her eyes. He could feel her heartbeat under his finger as he slid them under her shirt to touch her skin. There was nothing provocative about it; he was simply touching her waist, his warm fingers oh very so slightly tracing ghost forms.
She didn't react, letting him touch her as if she didn't possess her own body. She wasn't warm. She was as freezing as a ghost. Her bones could shatter from the mere pressure of a single finger against her skin. But she didn't push him away, she let him brush his finger on the small of her waist, the gold of his wedding band burning her skin, itching her to push his hands away.
Hermione had always expected them to end up together. Everyone had. It was as if it was written in the stars themselves. Two souls and bodies made to be together. Soulmates that what the words their best friends used when they raised their glasses to their love that dreadful day of July. She wore white, and her jaw was almost broken from clenching her teeth. She had cried all ceremony, hiding behind a smile of happiness.
All she could see were the faces of the people that loved them. All this love, it was nauseating. She wanted to flee, wanted to run, wanted to… But she hadn't. She had stayed, her perfect practice smile plastered on her face, small tears rolling down her cheeks. They had to say it was because of happiness.
No one had asked if she was happy. Everyone assumed she was. But no one asked; maybe no one cared.
She could still feel the pressure in her heart when the priest had asked her to say, « till death do us part ». Yes, until death, she would be his. She would sit there, by his side, until her end. She had promised to love him until then, and she tried to hold her promises every day. She did what she could, and she even said yes to kids. Maybe a baby could make her heart beat again?
Hermione could still feel her husband's hands on her waist, holding her down to earth, to reality. A reality she didn't want to be in. A reality she hated more than she had ever hated anything or anyone.
She could feel the walls of her apartment closing on her. She could feel life trying to swallow her all. The baby screams, keeping her in check, her husband's hands keeping her trapped.
Hermione sometimes wondered. Did she love them? Could she love them? Was she even capable of love after … ?
Him. All she could see when Hermione heard about love was him. His small and delicate smile and his grey eyes that followed her everywhere. She could still feel his hands on her body, how he used to trace every curve of it, dropping a kiss on every scar, every beauty mark. He used to trace patterns on her back when she fell asleep. He used to put his hand behind her neck when he kissed her, holding her close to his chest.
But war was the death of love. He had fought and fought, but he had lost. The last time she saw him, he was hauled away by prison guards, his grey eyes cast to the ground, refusing to look at her. She had pleaded for his release until he told her to stop and go away.
But no one knew of that. Of her pain, of her heartbreak. No one had asked. She was alone, utterly alone inside of her memories. And when Ron had kissed her after the last battle, she had heard the lock of her existence shutting. When she saw the look on his face, those damn grey eyes, she knew it was over. When she fought for him, she had already known.
He killed himself three days before her wedding. Two before his release.
Ron could feel his wife tremors, how she tried to hide her crying eyes. He tried holding her to his chest, remembering how much he loved her. How important she was to him. So he held her, refusing to let go, even when she pushed him away. He held on her waist, on her hands, his eyes looking for hers. When he saw the tears back on her cheeks, he finally let go.
He let her go for a second and then tried to get her back in his arm. He would show her how much his love was enough. They could be enough together, he had enough love for them both. They could be happy; he had always known it. When she locked herself in their bedroom, once again pushing him away, he let himself down on the ground, his head in his hands.
He could hear his baby, their son, starting to wake up. That little piece of both of them. His own little family. He had enough love for them both; she didn't need to love him. He could share the love he had for her with her. But in the dark of his mind, the same question always coming back. Why did she choose him?