Chapter Text
Hermione Jean Granger.
Hermione Sat by the lunette window, her eyes were hardly fixated on anything aside from the colourless sky. Save for the birds that occasionally flew by, she had thought of little else besides reminiscing about the youth she once shared with someone whose mind and soul had once intertwined so effortlessly with her own. Now, he exists only in the murky depths of her memory.
She watched as three— perhaps four— birds fly across the sky. She never truly counted them, but did she so subconsciously. Losing herself in old memoirs, she would glance up again and forget how many there had been.
She hadn't stepped outside the house for a week and a half, refusing to see any of her loved ones. Likely aware of how much the war had altered their lives, and how many people had been taken from them. Too many losses. Too many young souls who never lived beyond their twenties or thirties. Too much grief left behind. All because of a dark wizard who sought to rule the world.
As far as she could remember, the last time her emotions truly got the better of her was when she saw Fred lying lifeless amongst the rubble after the war. The world had blurred around her. The face she had once woken up beside, shared sleepy morning breaths with, and caught glimpses of before Quidditch matches now lay motionless, covered in bruises and soot stained ash. Gone.
That had been the loudest cry she had ever let out.
Or perhaps it had been after the final battle. One week became two, then three, then five. The days slipped by while tears refused to stop streaming down her cheeks. Her eyelids remained swollen from endless nights of grief. Until one day, she found herself allowing to not do so anymore. In short, simply stopped. She became numb and hollow.
She no longer reread the letters he had sent that she never managed to answer. Too occupied with Voldemort and Death Eaters chasing them with their lives on hold, changing places in between to hide— so in that case, she had decided to burn it all for good. Rather guilty and angry at herself for not writing back.
Yet there she knew that even if she rummaged every last piece of him still lingering in her life and set ablaze, she would end up exactly where she has always been; trapped in the same place she desperately wished to escape.
To her much recall, it had been six months since Harry brought an end to Voldemort's cruelty, and six months since Fred's death.
With each passing day, time felt less like healing and more like torture. It dragged her through life at a slower pace than everyone else. As people are applying for jobs at the Ministry, announcing engagements she scarcely cared about, or marrying their childhood sweethearts. None of it seemed real to her. Perhaps if the news came from one of her closest friends, she would muster enough energy to congratulate them if she felt like replying at all. Even that happened only intermittently.
It had not clicked to her notice that everyone else was beginning to move forward and rebuild their lives while she remained stuck in the ruins of hers, trying desperately to forget the future she had been meant to share with him before it was robbed of how shortly time they had.
Most days, she sat quietly in the corner of her room, lost in a daze. On rare occasions, when a temporary of motivation found her, she would move to the window and stare blankly at the dull world beyond it. Nothing else seemed to matter anymore in a world where Fred no longer breathed.
The sound of her doorknob clattering earned only a brief glance from her. It no longer bothered her as much as it once had. Lately, she likes to think she had found a different way to cope with his death; a luminous path or at least, that was what she tells herself before ineluctably sinking back into the same cycle.
"Hermione."
The sound of Ron's gentle voice pulled her from her reverie, but her eyes remained hooked on the window. She didn't dare turn around.
She hears his footsteps thud faintly, each one growing closer until he settled beside her.
"Talk to me, darling." His gaze cruised to the view beyond the bay glass before returning to her face. "You haven't been eating properly."
Hermione didn't respond, nor did the corner of her lips twitch. Physically, she was there. Emotionally, she wished it was Fred who lived instead.
Her voiceless throat made no sound but her hush breathing. He sighed. There wasn't much left he could do for her. Like every other day, he would come to check on her. Their bedroom; correction. Although it hadn't truly felt shared in months. As he regularly brought in food. Maybe flowers. Perhaps, only himself. On rare days, however, he would be met by the sight of untouched meals sitting cold on the nightstand beside the bed.
Somewhat, he still persisted.
Regardless, he’d collect the forgotten plates and return to the kitchen, only to repeat the same pattern the following day. Cooking homemade meals, trying recipes he thought she might enjoy. Most recently, a traditional French seafood stew; bouillabaisse, her favourite. A dish his girlfriend hadn't even taken a single bite of.
He supposed it wasn't as good as Fred’s. And it will never be.
In Hermione's eyes, it often felt as if he will never do nothing right. Except love her.
And even that had only lasted for a little while, those short months after his brother’s death, was it bathed with affection and exchanged gifts before everything began to fade.
Ron no longer questioned it. No longer seeking for answers he knows he’II never get.
As he knew deep down, he had always known what he only was to her—- a distraction. That’s it. Something to fill the unbearable emptiness his brother had left on the girl he had liked for years secretly.
Sometimes, he wondered whether Hermione had said "I love you" because she truly meant it, or because grief had bound them together by the loss of their loved one. Outside their friendship, of course.
And not really because she loves him. He had never allowed himself to expect that. He certainly should never had.
"You need to get yourself cleaned up," he said quietly, taking her hand and tracing circles across her palm. "Are you hungry? I can cook something for you."
"I'm not hungry, Ron." The words finally left her lips.
She turned her head towards him, her eyes seemed to focus on nothing at all. "But I'm sure you are."
"Do yourself a favour and let me be one of your least worries."
“Could I at least keep you company?” he insisted, his fingers ceasing their movements across her palm as he searched for even the slightest hint of approval. “I'd like to watch my pretty girl, even if she's a bit timid now—”
“Ron, please.” She cut him off, pulling her hand away and brushing the remark aside. “Don't call me that.”
Ron had only meant to lighten the mood by calling her ‘pretty girl’ and joking about how timid she had become. Compared to when they were still students at Hogwarts, she used to ramble on and on about things that neither her two best friends could comprehend.
“I'm sorry,” he muttered, lowering his head to the floor.
He supposed she disliked hearing those words now. Pretty girl. It was what Fred used to call her whenever he wanted her attention. Back when he was courting her, when they would meet in secret during Umbridge's occupation.
Hermione studied him quietly. With his head lowered, her eyes blithe on his copper hair. Only reminding her of Fred; the same auburn shade of his hair she once threaded her fingers through whenever their lips met in desperate longing.
She reached out and gently traced the line of his jaw, lifting his chin. “You can stay here.”
A faint smile tugged at his lips for a second before Hermione turned her attention back to the window.
The two sat in silence. Ron desperately wished for her attention to drift back to him, but he remained quiet. He longed to be seen by her.
Either way, he didn't make a sound. He could only admire how beautiful she remained, just as she had been on the day he realized he was in love with her during their fourth year.
Even if Fred had already been courting her at the time.
His eyes lingered on the thick, bushy, untamable mass of her brown hair. It had grown longer since. He adored how it effortlessly framed her small face.
He reached over and brushed a tangled lock away from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear.
But did he quickly withdrew his hand when Hermione frowned ever so slightly, as though expecting to be pushed away again.
“Did I make you uncomfortable?” he asked, his voice laced with worry and nervousness.
She paused before blinking at him and giving a small shake of her head. “No.”
Relief softened his features. At least he hadn't disturbed the fragile peace she had managed to find.
“What do you want to talk about?” he suddenly asked, following her gaze out the window.
The question didn't sound empty to her. Perhaps is she finally beginning to find the motivation to speak to her best friend again. Or perhaps, if she looked closely enough, her boyfriend.
“Anything,” she replied.
He offered a weak smile.
“I just noticed you haven't taken a single bite of your favorite food. You know, the bouillabaisse. Whenever I make it.”
“Like I said, I don't really have an appetite.” Her lips twitched, as though she were about to say something harsher, but she stopped herself. “I mean... I'll try.”
He smiled softly, but he knew it was a fragile promise.
Deep down, he knew she would never do it unless it had once been Fred's idea. Anything she had first shared with Fred, she could never truly share with Ron.
They simply stared at one another.
Hermione had drawn her legs up against her stomach, her arms wrapped around her knees. For a fleeting second, she almost convinced herself she was looking at Fred.
Ron was aware of it. Yet he refused to look away. Even if he was beginning look like a fool, to be her second choice, he would still lose himself in her eyes. Even if she saw someone else in him entirely.
"I love you,” Ron said too quickly, his voice softening.
She remained unmoved. “I...” She broke eye contact. “I know that.”
“You do too,” he said.
It wasn't a question. It was a desperate attempt to soothe his own suffering, to convince himself that she still loves him, even if it was a bitter lie.
“Of course, Ron.” She lifted a hand and gently cupped his cheek. “What would I have done without you?”
“I just...” He paused, the thought of his brother catching in his throat. “I will never be the one you wholeheartedly love.”
She moved closer to him. Her lips parted, searching for the right words. Gently, she cupped his cheeks with both hands.
“Ron,” she murmured. “It's not like that. I'm grateful for you.”
“It's still him, isn't it?” He locked his eyes onto hers.
“I— what? we're not talking about this.” She stood abruptly, her expression turning guarded at the mention of her dead lover. “Where is your respect?”
“Me?” His face hardened. “No. Where is yours?”
“My respect?”
“You know what I mean, Hermione.” He looked away. “You look at me as if I'm nothing to you anymore.”
“Not everything should be about you or us,” she shot back, her jaw craning. “You just... don't understand.”
“I don't?” he challenged. “You don't understand either. You're not the only one who's suffering.”
The words struck her harder than she expected. She faltered.
For a moment, she forgot that she wasn't the only one mourning the loss of her life. Fred had been Ron's brother before he had ever been her lover.
Perhaps she had buried herself so deeply in her own grief that she had become blind to everyone else's. After everything she had endured during the war, after months of surviving alongside Harry and Ron, she had always put others first.
But when she lost the only one person who had loved her so completely, something inside her had crumbled. And in breaking, she had become selfish.
She swallowed hard, fighting against the storm of thoughts in her head. She wanted to speak and wanted to apologize, but the words refused to come.
“I need to go.” Ron turned before she could respond. As he walked away, guilt settled heavily in her chest.
Maybe he is right.
Maybe she had been so consumed by her own pain that she had forgotten everyone else's.
And no matter what she did, did they only ever seem to notice what was wrong with her, never what was sincere.
Just as she had once overlooked herself for the sake of everyone else.