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Here's chapter 3. This is going to be another dark one, I'm afraid, so sorry about that. I promise that it will start to get both cheerier and more Harmonious shortly.
On that note, I got a criticism that I'd like to address publicly. This isn't exactly typical Portkey fare, a fluffy, perfect love story. This is Life; life is messy, and we don't always get what we want right away. We make choices, and we suffer the consequences, and maybe we walk out of it with a reward at the end. I debated a long time with myself whether or not to even put this story here, but I decided to partly because it's probably the thing I've written that I'm most proud of, but also because, as I wrote, I realized that is really is a love story, even if it doesn't seem like it now. I only ask for your patience, and hopefully for your reviews.
WARNING: Contains suicidal thoughts, but no actual suicide.
Chapter 3: Betrayals
Thirty-eight years, Hermione Granger thought to herself, Is a long time to be away from the people you love. Sometimes she wondered what it would have been like if she hadn't left, if her infinite patience had been a little more infinite. Would she have been strong enough to survive? Would he have changed her? Was there some secret part of her soul that would have endured, or would she have been crushed under the weight of tyranny? Would she have changed him? Was there still that spark of goodness left in him, and would she have been able to make it burn again?
She didn't know. She would never know. But she did know one thing for certain, and it was the thing that haunted her, dogged her thoughts, tugged at her conscience, and populated her nightmares: she would have seen her children grow up.
She was a great-grandmother, or so they said; even after so many years the Weasley name captured enough interest for their comings, goings, and romancings to make the papers. She would have been seeing her third generation off on their Hogwarts experience this year, standing by proudly as they took their first, trembling steps into the world, and offering wisdom and support to the parents, in whose shoes she had been many times before. Instead, she hadn't been to King's Cross since her son Hugo's second year. So long ago. The last time she had seen her children.
She brushed the tears from her eyes as the approached the door of the handsome house. That had been many years ago, and she had been punished for it, time and time again. But now, with the loudest voice against her Gone, it was time to right that wrong. She knocked, and waited, and knocked again. The door opened, revealing a narrow-faced man with brown hair graying at the edges; he looked so much like his father, though Hermione knew that was by his choice and no cosmic accident. She had been ecstatic to read the news of her daughter's marriage, glad that daughter had chosen better than mother. "I'm here to see my daughter." She announced in words that seemed much too big for even her bravest voice.
He looked at her, unrecognizing, frowning. She couldn't blame him, it had been a long time, and she had changed. "Sorry ma'am, you must have the wrong house." He tried to close the door, but Hermione stopped him.
"No, this is my daughter's house. Her name is Rosalind; yours is Theodore, although you prefer 'Ted.' Your parents were heroes of the War, and very good friends of mine."
Ted's frown deepened, and then all at once his face relaxed into wide-eyed terror as he realized to whom he was speaking. "Aunt Her-" He stopped himself, sparing a glance into the house. Hermione could hear voices.
"Please," She pleaded. "I have to see my daughter."
Ted pinched the bridge of his nose. "Hermione, I have nothing against you." He began in a low voice. "I'm sure you had very good reasons for what you did, but…"
"Honey, who's at the door?" Ted's advice may have been very good indeed, and knowing his heritage it more than likely was, but Hermione would never hear it. There, in the doorway, was her mirror image. Rose may have been twenty years the younger woman, but she had a weathered look about her, a few more lines in her face and brow, that aged her beyond her years. Hermione wondered how many of those lines were her fault, and where the rest came from, and she felt the urge well up inside of her to hug her baby girl close to her chest and tell her than everything would be all right.
But whatever Rose's feelings were upon seeing her mother for the first time since childhood, they were most certainly not compatible with Hermione's. The light, easy smile of a woman content with her life slipped away, replaced by confusion, then recognition, shock, and finally settling on anger. "You are not welcome here. Go away, and don't you ever come back." She spat, attempting to slam the door in the older woman's face.
Hermione stopped it again, wincing as the door bounced off her arm. "Rose, please; let me explain." A thousand times had she imagined this moment. It had been the only thing to hold onto some days, the only thing worth holding on for. Hermione Granger had wanted to die, and more than once she'd find herself on a chair staring through a coil of rope, or feeling the gentle press of steel against her skin. But she would always get down again, turn the knife away, find some reason to stay tethered to the world. Those reasons were few and far between, but this moment was one: the hope, hope beyond hope, that one day her daughter would understand; that one day, she would be forgiven.
But Hermione couldn't tell Rose any of this. There aren't words for some things, for the thoughts that come to you in dark places, for the despair that fills you and spills out of you until even stranger on the street look sideways at you, or for the hope that shines in even when it seems to be impossible. Hermione couldn't explain to her daughter the endless torment she had endured - from within just as much as without - or she had paid a hundred times for every grievance Rose had against her. These things can't be expressed, they can only be felt.
But anger can always be expressed, and that was how Rose answered when her mother could not: "Thirty years ago I would have been interested in explanations," She said coldly, her words chilling Hermione's soul. "Maybe even twenty. But I've done without a mother for this long. I don't need one now."
"Please," Tears flowed freely down Hermione's face. She had waited so long, given up so much, and endured so much for this moment, but it was slipping through her fingers even as she struggled to hold onto it. "Please, I have to explain."
"You left us!" Rose choked. She was fighting back tears, Hermione saw, but she was so far away; all the years of non-presence between them, keeping her from comforting her only daughter. "You cheated on dad and left us. There is nothing you can say - NOTHING - to make that right."
Hermione again found herself without words, though this time it was shock that kept her silent. She had heard the rumours, of course; her fame at the time had been great enough, and the status difference between The Brightest Witch of the Age and Ron Weasley noticeable enough, that the separation had caused endless speculation. Even Harry had been a target, something Hermione was sure Ginny had had some words to say about. But the papers could produce no 'other man,' nothing more than idle speculation and vague rumours, or more fantastical claims quickly debunked by happily-married wizards and their happily-married wives. She had expected all of that; it was what tabloids did. What she had not expected, though, was that her daughter - her daughter - would be taken in, that the little girl she had so carefully tried to teach that things weren't always what the papers made them out to be, would have believed these obvious lies.
"Rose…"
"Good bye, Hermione." The door closed, and Hermione sunk to her knees at its foot and wept.
She would never see her daughter again.
***
This was it; she had finally done it. It had been so easy, once she'd set her mind to it: leave sandwiches for lunch, take Rose and Hugo to the train, and then go. He wouldn't even know she was gone until dinner time. The perfect crime, except that she had nothing of her own, no possessions but her wand, the key to her very finitely-stocked vault, a few pounds, and the clothes on her back.
But that was okay, because Harry would help her. Harry would know what to do.
She had never liked Potter Manor. It spooked her. It was old and empty, mausoleum to an era of Pureblood tradition. And it reminded her a great deal of Malfoy Manor. There were things about that house that Hermione would never forget, images that were indelibly burned into her brain, that came to visit when she dared to sleep. The Worst Night of her Life had been spent in a house very much like this one, until the dubious title had been claimed by another. So she was none too pleased to be at the house.
But He was here, and therefore it was where she knew she had to go. She lifted the knocker on the great wooden doors, and waited.
Ginny answered. "Hermione!" She exclaimed, "What a pleasant surprise; what brings you here?"
She didn't look well, Hermione could see. She had covered herself from head-to-toe, unusual in and of itself for a woman who had once loved to exploit her body, but the skin that Hermione could see was stretched taught over the frame, like butter scraped over too much toast. In the redhead's hollowed-out eyes, Hermione knew that the two of them had a base understanding of pain, a bizarre sisterhood that connected them, bonded them in ways that no two people should ever be bonded.
But Hermione felt no kinship with Ginny, her sister-in-law no more. Whatever pain she had experienced was far removed from Hermione's; a world away, so far that there was no modicum of understanding in the younger girl's head. Hermione knew this: ever since Ginny had found her in the Manor that night, months ago now, Harry had told her that she couldn't come back. She knew it was Ginny's influence. She had wanted to hate her, wanted to hate Harry for listening to her, but she couldn't; she didn't have the strength to hate anymore. But neither could she trust this woman, the woman who had caused her so much more pain. "Please," She said, "I need to speak to Harry."
A dark cloud passed over Ginny's face. When she answered, it was much less pleasantly. "He's not in; he went to take the children to King's Cross. Can I take a message?"
Of course, Hermione kicked herself. She had been so involved with her plan that she had forgotten that Harry would be at the platform as well. But it was too late now. "No, I have to see him in person. Can I come in and wait?" It occurred to Hermione how strange it was that Ginny had stayed behind and Harry had gone alone; that was very atypical, but she decided not to question. She tried to push past Ginny, into the house that seemed safe even to her, when compared with the exposed outside, when Ron could come by any time he felt like it.
But the young woman did not budge. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Ginny, please."
"Why don't you tell me what's going on?"
Hermione hesitated; she didn't want to, didn't trust this girl who had once been her friend. Hermione had never had siblings, but she read a lot about child psychology - read a lot on any subject, really - and she knew the strong bonds that form between siblings of similar ages. Bill and Charlie had been too old, Percy too self-absorbed, the Twins too rambunctious; Ginny and Ron would have had a very special connection growing up, misfits in a family of Misfits. Hermione didn't know how far that loyalty would stretch. She didn't care to find out, either, but she saw no other option. She was desperate, she needed to hide. When he found out she was gone, he would be angry. He would look for her, and she needed to be protected. Fine. She would do it. She had no choice. "I left Ron."
Ginny's eyes widened briefly, then narrowed. "So you're going to divorce my brother?"
You can't get a divorce in Magical England, Hermione thought, and it was true; the world was out-dated in that respect, as in so many others. She thought this, but she only said "Yes."
"And you want to talk to Harry about this?"
Again, "Yes."
"Of course you do."
That caught Hermione off-guard, the matter-of-fact tone in Ginny's voice and the angry look in her eye. "Excuse me?"
"I'm not stupid, Hermione." She answered angrily. "I know what's going on."
"Then could you explain it to me?" Hermione asked with a small, nervous laugh.
"You're trying to steal my husband."
"WHAT?"
Ginny sneered. With her thinly-stretched skin, she looked unsettlingly like a grinning skull. "Don't play coy; I know you're attracted to him, you told me so yourself."
She had, Hermione recalled with a blush and a pang of regret. It had been during a Girl's Night In, before Rose was born and before any of them were even married, when Ginny had introduced Hermione, Luna, and Hannah Abbott to a muggle drinking game called 'I Never.' They had all gotten very drunk by the time somebody - Hermione couldn't remember who - had posed the challenge "I never fantasized about a man who wasn't my fiancé."
Of course, once absolutely everyone had taken a drink they all had to go around the circle and confess their secret desires. Most of them had been quite tame, which made Hermione even more self-conscious when she sheepishly mumbled Harry's name, wishing she wasn't too honest to lie.
"Ginny, I'm begging you; I only need a few days to find an apartment and a new job."
Ginny scoffed. "Sure; and will you have his pants off as soon as I leave for work, or will you not even wait that long?"
"Ginny," Tears flowed freely down Hermione's cheeks as she knelt on the doorstep, humbling herself, clasping her hands as though she were at prayer, anything she could think of to keep this one, last door of hope from closing. "You have to believe me, I would never try to take Harry from you."
"I don't believe you." Was the sharp reply.
Hermione was sobbing openly now. Whatever dignity she had hoped to retain was gone as she continued her pleas through bitter, hopeless tears. "Please, I don't have anywhere else to go."
"How about back to your husband?" Ginny spat. "Remember him? The man you promised to stand beside until death do you part?" She sneered again, and spat directly on Hermione's head. "Goodbye." And she was gone.
Hermione lay at the foot of the door for hours, weeping, not bothering to wipe the remainder of Ginny's last degrading act from her body. She waited, and waited, either for Ginny to change her mind or for Harry to come and deliver her. Morning changed to afternoon, and as her tears finally turned into dry, heaving sobs Hermione left of her own accord, miserable, debased, and utterly alone.