a/n: Here you go, Lord Vader - hope this will help. Please excuse me if it takes me several days to post all chapters. I wrote this (by hand) several months ago, but never put it on my computer, and quite frankly my keyboarding skills are rather pathetic. Oh yes - I don't own these characters. That would be J.K.R.
Happy Birthday, Hermione Chap. One
Hermione Granger turned the key in the lock of the door to her flat, her senses automatically on the alert for the indicators that the protective wards had been breeched. Thankfully, as usual, everything was intact. She smiled, recalling Harry's insistence on putting in place the multi-layered security measures, stating that if she were going to live alone, she at least needed to take extra precautions. Even though Voldemort was dead, gone nearly five months now, Harry kept reminding her that there was still plenty of danger in the world - both magical and muggle. He'd made the comment while helping her move in that if he was to sleep in relative peace at night, he would need to be extremely certain that she was safe. It was this offhanded comment that made her agree without much of a fuss. After seeing him endure years of nightmares and sleepless nights, the last thing Hermione wanted was to be the cause of Harry's insomnia.
Hermione had chosen to walk home this day instead of apparating straight in as she normally did. It was a lovely day and she needed some "thinking" time. She entered the flat, closing the door behind her, noting the barely detectable sensation that was the wards re-setting. She kicked her shoes off, bending over to pick them up. A ball of ginger fur padded across the room and began winding around her feet.
"Hello, Crookshanks," she crooned, bending once more in order to scratch behind the ears of her hirsute familiar. "At least there's someone here to greet me."
She straightened back up, taking her shoes and her weary body to her bedroom. Crookshanks returned to his perch on the back of Hermione's sofa. She dropped her shoes by her bed, then dropped her body onto it, stretching languorously. Employing relaxation techniques, she tried to clear her mind - tried, unsuccessfully, to push recent events from her consciousness, but they wouldn't budge.
Following the defeat of Voldemort, Hermione could have written her own ticket. Her reputation was impeccable, her brilliant mind in demand, the potential career opportunities almost limitless. Her need to prove herself, as well as her insatiable desire to learn, to uncover new information, led her to accept an internship in the Department of Research and Spell Development at the newly reorganized Ministry of Magic.
She had once upon a time confided to Ron and Harry that she never wanted to be accused of resting on her laurels. Ron had thrown his arm around her, chuckling, and told her that she worried too much. Harry had caught her eye, nodding his understanding, grinning as Hermione rolled her eyes. Ron could be so dense sometimes. At times, Hermione wondered what it was she saw in him.
Having finally acknowledged their attraction to each other, Ron and Hermione had given their relationship a try. Ron. Sweet, funny, affectionate Ron. So unlike Harry, who was so often distant and serious. But Ron was also jealous and possessive. He couldn't let go of his feelings of inferiority. At first, things had been fine. Ron had tried hard to be sensitive and considerate, to please her. At first.
After Voldemort's defeat, Ron seemed to overcompensate, becoming arrogant, boastful. He relished the attention and notoriety he was receiving. He couldn't understand her desire to avoid the spotlight. And to top it all off, he began to take advantage of his newly found fame for personal benefit.
It became his obsession to play professional Quidditch. He tried out for and was handed a position with Puddlemere United - one that a number of people, including Harry and Hermione, felt he had not earned. They had supported him, knowing his fragile ego, and as George had rationalized, if someone was stupid enough to grant him the position because of who he was, whose fault was that? Hermione only hoped that he could live up to the expectations, both for the team's sake and his own.
Quidditch meant travel, and Ron had wanted Hermione with him. He had made the assumption, wrongly so, that she would want the same. He'd been less than supportive of her decision to take the internship. He couldn't, no matter how hard he tried, comprehend her independence, her need to achieve not for notoriety, but for personal satisfaction. He'd become possessive of her, of her attention, her time, as though at any moment she'd be taken from him - or leave him behind. Hermione had tried to be patient and tolerant, tried to reassure and bolster him, until she grew weary of trying - and failing - and finally stopped. Perhaps that had been exactly the issue: they were both having to try so hard to be what the other wanted, needed, that they'd worn themselves down.
Then Ron had begun to drop hints, pressure her. He'd begun making comments about marriage and family - and Hermione had balked. It had only been a few months, she'd reasoned, just a few months that they'd really been a couple, since the fall of Voldemort. They were all just beginning to settle in, to find themselves. For pete's sake, they were only eighteen!
The last straw had been one evening when Ron had made it clear that his wife would not be a career woman,but would take care of home and family as his mother had; that as the man, he would be the bread winner. Hermione's incensed response had been that he couldn't possibly be considering her for that role if those were his expectations. This had led to a huge row, not their first, and the airing of all of their inherent differences. They'd split up a week later. That had been three days ago.
Hermione sighed. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she pulled herself up, stretched and yawned. She quickly shed her work clothes, exchanging them for a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.
"It's not like I have anywhere to go tonight," she mumbled.
Out of habit, she grabbed her wand, tucking it into the waistband of her pants, and proceeded to her small kitchenette. Several minutes later, hot cup of tea in hand, she settled herself on her sofa, legs tucked up to one side. Crookshanks raised his head momentarily, having made himself at home just over her right shoulder.
"Well, Crooks," she stated, twisting her head so that she could see the orange feline. "It looks like it's just you and me tonight." The animal simply yawned disinterestedly.
Hermione chuckled. Picking up the remote and flicking on the telly, she began scrolling through the listings, resigned to another evening alone.