Chapter Text
The letter sits on the top of the dresser, a chilly breeze drifting in through the open window rustling the pages.
She doesn’t really care if they are disturbed and get blown off the surface. All she cares about is how foolish she feels; what people must think…Hermione’s shame and anger comes in vast waves that crash against her, interspersed with moments of sadness. She’s all cried out by now. Her crying had started and finished several hours earlier, evidence streaking the ink of the discarded letter.
She’d spent years trying to encourage Ron to write her letters. It’s ironic that he’s only just now learned how to pen something to her. If her pride had not been so wounded hours earlier, perhaps she wouldn’t be feeling quite so mournful now. She has no doubt the entire ordeal will be splashed across the front page of the Daily Prophet the following day. Vultures always circle low where there are fresh carcasses to be picked clean.
She can just see the Headline now: War Heroine left at the Altar, see page six for details. The intimate details of her life will be put on display for all to see. She can’t wait to read which “close friend” is going to give the reporters a quote.
Snorting in disdain, she drags herself up off the floor where she has been sitting propped against the side of her bed, shutting the window. Thank goodness she and Ron had decided until after they got married to move in together. If she acts quickly, she might even be able to have her name struck from the house they’d chosen to lease together when they consolidated their lives.
When she walks into her bathroom, Hermione quickly makes use of the loo before washing her hands, stealing a glance up at the mirror to survey the damage.
She balks.
Apparently, when you put on makeup to go get married and end up crying it off, it’s going to look like a horrible fucking mess afterwards.
Sighing heavily, she reaches for a flannel in the cupboard beneath the bathroom sink, wetting it so she can use it to remove the messy remains. She goes further, washing her face properly so that she doesn’t feel quite so horrendous about how she looks with her face still puffy from earlier.
Really, Hermione knows logically she is going to be all right. In the past twelve months leading up to their wedding, she and Ron have been fighting with each other more than ever. Never in a million years did she think he would do something so callous as to call it quits on the day they were due to be married.
If she’s honest with herself, she doesn’t think the love they have for one another is strong enough to build a marriage on. She can’t even be mad because she’d drawn the same conclusion—it was just that she seemed to be the only one willing to put any effort in to change things. Now she knows it’s because he has fallen in love with someone else.
At least she knows it wasn’t mostly her fault.
Maybe.
Standing in the doorway to her bedroom, she gazes back at the dresser with the letter, her engagement band sitting atop it, the giant white diamond in the middle of it twinkling at her mockingly. Now she is going to have to pick up the pieces of her life and figure out where to go from here, when all she wants to do is go to sleep for a very long time—or at least until her being left a the alter stops being the laughing stock of the magical community.
The thing she is looking forward to the least are all of the pitying looks she is bound to receive from the general populace.
She can’t stand it when people pity her.
Breaking her gaze from the offending letter and jewellery, she trudges towards her kitchen and fills the kettle, setting it on the hob so she can make herself tea. She isn’t sure if the tea is even going to help—all she does know is that it makes her feel warm when all she can feel is the cold both inside and out. Maybe if she wills it hard enough, she can shut out all of the thoughts of failure currently taking up space in her brain.
Instead of waiting for something unlikely to occur, Hermione walks back to her room, picks up the letter and the discarded ring, and tucks them away in the bottom drawer of her dresser.
“Why don’t you come back with us, sweetpea?”
Her mother means well, but something about her request doesn’t quite sit right with her. It does make sense, but the idea of going to Australia on her own on the honeymoon that had been planned for her and Ron…How pathetic would it seem if she went on a couples retreat by herself, she wonders? She agreed to meet with her parents in the restaurant near their hotel that morning, and though she is grateful for their support, Hermione can’t help but feel too exposed where she is.
“At least think about it,” Jean urges gently, jolting her from her maudlin musings.
Realistically, Hermione knows she doesn’t want to return to work early. She has already taken the time off, and if she goes back to work, she can only imagine how many people will be staring at her, whispering behind the back of the Muggleborn witch who was stood up by the groom at her wedding. She always hates the notoriety she has from being associated with Harry, but even more so during times like this.
Not to mention how sad it will be to spend Christmas alone for the first time in years—no way she is spending the holiday at the Burrow.
“I’ll think about it,” she agrees.
Beside her, her father—David—is sitting quietly, contemplatively. After a few seconds, he chimes in with, “You and that Ronald were never well-suited.”
She balks at him. “Daddy, you—what do you mean?”
“Well you’ve never had a whole lot in common, have you?” David explains. “You’re quiet and intellectual, and he’s from a rather large, loud family. I like the Weasley’s a great deal, but perhaps all of this is for the best.”
Hermione continues to stare at him, stunned. She agrees with his assessment, though, she can’t quite get past the manner in which Ron chose to break off their wedding. There had been numerous times over the past twelve months where he could have ended things, but he chose to humiliate her on the day they were due to wed.
Glancing up at her father, she shrugs. “You may be right, but he could have saved us all the trouble of bothering to plan and invest money into this wedding in the first place if he’d just said something .”
David puts an arm around her shoulders and draws her near to him for a tight hug. She goes without resisting, and her mother moves around to her other side so that they are both embracing her. As she sits there being comforted by two of the people in her life she cares the most about, her chest begins to feel heavy, like the emotions are pressing down on her. When she blinks, a tear she doesn’t even realise she’s shed, lands on her hand.
A few more drops fall, making way for the flood of emotions she’s been repressing the past two days.
She has no idea how much time passes as she empties herself of tears, but eventually she stops crying. There are damp tissues clutched in her hand, on the table before her, and in a pile beside her. Both of her parents are holding fresh ones out towards her as she dries her face and blows her nose. Her face feels puffy and Hemione knows how terrible and red she must look.
Strangely, the weight on her chest feels a little less heavy than it did all morning. The pain and humiliated feelings haven’t dissipated—only time will do that—but she feels more hopeful now she won’t have to feel this wretched forever.
“Thank you,” she tells both of her parents, accepting another hug from them both before they move away so as not to crowd her; they know her so well.
“Any time, sweetpea,” David says, patting the hand nearest him.
They leave the hotel restaurant together, and she tries not to feel too self-conscious about blubbering in a public place. After all, none of the staff would remember her past the end of their shift, and any of the other patrons would be very unlikely to see her again. As she walks with them to the lobby to see them back to their room for the next two days, she ponders what her parents have suggested.
It’s clearer now that this entire ordeal is taking an emotional toll on her, and she is terrified of the prospect of having a meltdown at work; a far scarier prospect than crying in a Muggle restaurant. At the Ministry, the walls have eyes. She’d be back on the front page of the paper making a spectacle of herself again, but with tears and mascara running down her red face.
That thought causes a shiver to run down her spine.
At the lift she kisses both of them on the cheek but stops them as they are about to enter the lift, grasping her father’s hand.
“All right,” she says, almost chuckling at their confusion.
“Hermione—” Jean begins in confusion.
“I’ll go with you to Australia,” she elaborates with a smile.
David recovers from his surprise a lot faster and envelops her in a tight hug. Kissing her on the forehead, he says, “Wonderful.”
“Will you still go on the sightseeing tour?” her mother asks. “And will you stay with us a few days beforehand for Christmas?”
Hermione nods. “Yes, I’ll stay with you, and yes to the tour as well, seeing as it’s all paid for and non-refundable.”
She still feels bitter about this. When they’d been planning their wedding and honeymoon, and she’d told Ron that a lot of what they were booking was non-refundable—another point at which he could have told her he didn’t want to get married.
Swallowing down her rapidly mounting anger, Hermione bids her parents goodbye and leaves their hotel, intent on returning home so she can work out what she’ll need to pack.
The castle is cold and oddly quiet.
No students remained, every one of them returning home to spend time with their families over the long Christmas break. Since the war, rarely do students remain at the castle over the holidays.
It is better this way. Offloading his dilapidated estate at Spinner’s End meant more time in residence at Hogwarts, which suited Severus just fine. His summers are spent doing research, and now that the castle is just as deserted, he can focus on personal projects instead of marking endless essays and soothing the fragile psyches of the Slytherins.
The first two days he spent in his rooms catching up on all of the books he was forced to neglect due to his workload as both teacher and Deputy to Minerva. He sincerely hopes she never retires—or if she does, she chooses someone else as her successor. He has no desire to ever be Headmaster again.
This morning when he woke, Severus chose to dress in his work robes so he could brew potions for the infirmary. As he moves two cauldrons onto the workbench in his lab, a sharp wrapping against the door startles him, causing him to almost drop one. Straightening out, he frowns as he walks to see who chose to disturb him, not at all surprised to see Minerva on the other side.
“Headmistress,” he addresses her curtly.
She lets out a long-suffering sigh before following him into the lab and shutting the door behind her. “Severus, good morning,” she greets, coming to stand at the corner of the bench as he continues to retrieve the equipment he requires.
“What can I do for you, Minerva?” he asks her, not bothering to stop what he is doing; she is the one disturbing him, after all.
“Straight to business, then,” she replies with a chuckle. “Fine. I was wondering if you had any plans to leave the castle over the holidays?”
He looks up at her to raise an eyebrow as if to say, “really?” before he shakes his head no. “Of course not.”
Her lips pinch together in thought, which he sees in his peripherals as he sets up the cauldrons over the flames he sparks with a prod of his wand. “Could you?” Minerva presses.
His eyes narrow this time as he pauses to give her his attention. “Why on earth do you want me out?”
The Headmistress gazes at him wearily. “Aside from the fact that you are nearly thirty years past due for a holiday,” she begins, to which he snorts, “there are some necessary updates to the castle that must be made to the plumbing on all floors. The three weeks of this holiday seemed like an appropriate time to have works completed, hence my wanting you to vacate and vacation.”
He stares at her silently, and he is certain that disbelief is written on his features. “You couldn’t have said something to me before the blasted holidays?” he grouses.
Minerva shrugs. “The board of Governors only approved the work two days ago and it’s taken me this long to find a contractor willing to do the work.”
“Why would you not do this over the summer?” he hisses.
“If I wait that long, poor Argus will have his work cut out for him managing plumbing problems all over the castle once the students return,” she explains, crossing her arms and staring him down.
Severus ponders what she has said for a moment. He knows what she says is true—the school plumbing has been a source of disruption, and one that Peeves regularly takes advantage of when he is in a chaotic disposition. He is loathe to leave, his plans currently revolving around having a quiet castle largely to himself.
“Where the hell do you expect me to go with such short notice?” Severus demands, crossing his arms so he can stand straighter, staring down his nose at his friend and employer.
She smirks then, and he can feel his stomach sour. What the hell does she have planned for him? The expression she wears gives him extreme cause for concern.
His nostrils flare as he says, “Witch, where are you sending me?”
The grin that appears is truly terrifying. “Australia.”
He has just enough command over his faculties to stop himself from outright gaping at her. “Australia,” he repeats, his voice controlled.
Minerva nods. “I thought you might enjoy being somewhere you don’t know anyone, and this way you will still get to enjoy some peace and quiet,” she tells him. “Besides, you could use a little sun.”
He grits his teeth. “Minerva—”
“Oh don’t you Minerva me,” she says, waving him off. “It’s only three weeks. Consider it a Christmas gift.”
“I am overjoyed,” he drawls, completely deadpan.
Minerva turns and crosses back to the door, pausing with her hand resting on the doorknob to look back at him. “Come up to my office tomorrow morning at 9 o’clock sharp—pack for warm weather.”
The door swings shut behind her, closing with a soft ‘snick’. As he tries to comprehend what just happened, Severus continues to stand still, arms hanging uselessly at his sides, unable to believe how easily Minerva had gained the upper hand.
He was losing his touch, clearly.
At exactly 9 o’clock he enters Headmistress’s office.
After he finally snapped out of his daze, Severus completed his brewing for the infirmary before his indignation over being kicked out of the castle for the holidays set in. As he’d packed, Severus found himself clenching his jaw so tightly he ended up with a tension headache. Now, as he stands in Minerva’s office wearing Muggle jeans along with a shirt and black jumper, luggage shrunken down to fit in his pocket, he is torn between wanting to make her feel guilty, and curious to know exactly what kind of holiday she is sending him off on.
A moment later she bustles into the office from a door located in the back corner that he knows leads up to the Headmistress’s chambers. Once upon a time they were his, after all, much as he hated every moment he lived there.
“Oh good, you’re here,” Minerva mutters, opening the top drawer of her desk and riffling around in it. She appears to find what she was looking for and hands him a battered-looking wooden spinning top toy. “This is your Portkey—I do hope you have a change of clothes somewhere?”
“And just where exactly will I find myself on the other end of this blasted contraption?” he asks, ignoring her question about his wardrobe.
“Sydney,” she answers. “It’s a hub, so there will be plenty there to keep you busy.”
“Minerva—” he begins impatiently, but she holds up a hand and produces a folded parchment along with a brochure which she hands him.
“That’s your itinerary,” she informs him. “There are a lot of organised activities included in your package, though I have no doubt you will do whatever it is you like. But perhaps you could consider—”
“Isn’t it enough that I’m leaving the castle?” he interrupts.
She purses her lips but nods, reluctantly conceding. “Oh very well, you old sourpuss. Do whatever you like.”
Severus sighs heavily and clears his throat. “When exactly is this due to activate?” he asks, holding up the spinning top.
“In five minutes,” Minerva answers, glancing up at the clock on her mantle.
“And just where are you going during all of this?” Severus asks her. His time is running out very quickly, but he desires answers—even if those answers are bound to infuriate him further.
“I have my home in Alba,” she answers. “I’ll be visiting there with my sister and her family.”
Ah , he thinks. Of course, he’d quite forgotten that some of the other staff had homes away from Hogwarts. Situations, such as the one he now finds himself in, always make him regret selling off the house in Cokeworth. It may have been a dump, but it was his flaming pile of rubbish.
Before he can ask anything else, the wooden toy in his hand warms; the only signal before the uncomfortable tug at his navel followed by the push and pull of pressure against him as he is ripped out of one place, soon to be deposited in another.
Whatever he was planning to say is lost in the void.
Two days in Sydney is all it took for Hermione to feel truly alone for the first time in many years.
Her time she spends reading and moping in her room, too lethargic to entertain the prospect of having to speak to other holiday goers at any of the organised activities. Spending time with her parents was about as much socialising as she desired to do. She has no idea what she was thinking, coming to Australia to go on the Honeymoon she was meant to be on with her now ex-fiancé.
Christmas was a quiet affair.
Hermione was glad she chose to spend it with her parents. But when the first few days of the holidays were over, she packed her suitcase and headed for Sydney, leaving her parents behind at the home just a couple of hours south of the busy coastal city.
Now, as she lies on her side, staring out the window of her hotel suite, she contemplates leaving early and going home so that she doesn’t have to deal with the guilt of not attending any of the planned activities she paid for in advance. Rolling onto her back, she stares at the ceiling. It feels like a weight is pressing down on her, leaving her paralysed and a little breathless.
Was she truly in love with Ron? Not in the way she once did—not for a couple of years now. Was she willing to work through the things she was concerned about? She used to think she was, but now she is wondering if perhaps she was fooling herself. Either way, this failure feels like another she can add to the pile of disappointments her adult life is stacked upon. Now, everything feels a little less satisfying than it did before. The idea of going back to work, at her job which she has dedicated the last eight years of her life to, feels impossible.
Why go back to a place that has been a huge sore point and the source of most of her relationship troubles—at least according to Ron. His main complaint over the years always related back to her job; working long hours, being away from home for too long, and not attending enough of his Quidditch matches. It was always something with him.
Sighing heavily, the breath she blows out shifts a curl laying on her face into her eyes, which Hermione brushes away carelessly.
Outside the window, the sun is beginning to finally set. It’s quite late—the days are long in the summer. Her stomach growls then, reminding her that she hasn’t eaten since her late breakfast that morning. She slides off the bed, slipping her feet into the hotel slippers and donning the white terrycloth robe.
Picking up the phone, she calls the room service number and orders dinner from the hotel menu, moving to the bathroom so she can shower while she waits for her food, not wanting to scare off the hotel staff in her unwashed state.
As she dresses after her shower there is a knock at the door, followed by the hastily spoken, “Room service!”
When she opens the door to peer out into the hall, she finds a large silver tray set in front of her door awaiting her as she instructed them to do. The first couple of times she ordered room service, she felt incredibly uncomfortable and self-conscious when the staff entered her room. What were they thinking? Did they pity the poor single woman on a holiday by herself in a foreign country?
She knows logically there is no way any of them care about her or what she is doing stuck in a hotel room on holiday. But still, the doubt niggles at her.
Lifting the tray and bringing it into her room, she sits on her bed and uncovers her meal. She’d been hungry when she ordered, but now, as Hermione stares at her food her appetite is gone. Forcing herself to shove a fry into her mouth, she nibbles at it, staring at the window where the street lamps are lit and now visible, pale white spots of light-emitting an ambient glow against the darkness.
She continues to stare out at them as she slowly eats, listening to the sound of cars from the street, and the waves as they crash against the beach.