Unforgiven
Unforgiven
“Where’s your ring?”
Somewhere, beneath frizzled layers of honey brown hair, she grumbled.
“Your ring,” he whispered again, playfully nudging her with the stiffening of his staff. She growled deliciously and managed to land a stinging blow to his arm without looking.
He gave another gentle poke.
She roused her self begrudgingly. He worried his own band with the absent flick of his thumb. He awaited her answer. Anxiously.
Last time, it had been "Somewhere under the couch. Possibly.”
The time before, “I think it went down the drain. I’ll cast a spell to check.”
Now she was unclenching her pillow, glaring blearily at her pale, naked hand. A soft grunt. “The Ministry, maybe.”
She crumpled immediately back into the safety of sleep, rid of him once more. He was quickly forgotten.
Forgiveness was worlds away.
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She had her hair pulled back from her face severely until her scalp tingled.
[I remember how her face turned pink when she promised to love me.]
A faint blush of rose had been dusted gently across her cheeks.
[I’ve traced a thousand invisible maps upon her face with my kisses.]
Her delicate white hands were folded primly in her lap.
[She always used to sweep the hair away from my eyes with her finger tips.]
Her eyes locked straight ahead.
[They sparkle when you’re laughing, go dull when you are somber. Heaven help us when they flash.]
Her body is rigid.
[I know your body, Hermione, even with my eyes shut. In the light and in the dark. Inside and out.]
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They had three last names. Granger, Granger-Weasley and Weasley. He was the lone Weasley. Every post callously reminded him. At breakfast, he started a timid debate. Her mouth remained shut. A thin red line. She blinked. He was obviously tired/cranky/confused. She went on chomping her Muggle cereal, reading Daily Prophet.
“NEO-DEATH EATER NUMBERS ON THE RISE!!” it trumpeted.
No one noticed he’d left the table.
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They press their wet noses eagerly against the window; Peta Granger-Weasley the oldest, and Sarah-Jane, only two. A horn blasts sharply outside and the girls let up great howls of delight and wild squeals as they rush the opening door. She stoops to catch them, herself nearly falling over, and laughs as they hurl themselves at her like Bludgers.
“Moine.”
“Ronald.”
“How are you?”
“Thanks for having the girls ready.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Have you all told your father goodbye, then?”
“Yes. And they’ve given enough Eskimo kisses to last me the weekend through.”
“Well, we’re off.”
“Can Sarah-Jane take her bear?”
“Ron, I’ve told you. They have things of their own at my house.”
“Yes, but this one she sleeps with every night. It keeps away the spiders.”
“Fine. Girls, time to go.”
“--Hermione.”
“What?”
(I love you.)
“What is it, Ron?”
“Take care.”
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The Wizarding way of unbinding oaths required jumping through too many hoops. That had been her logic for sealing their pledges in Muggle fashion. And now it was the very thing that was smoothly unknotting the kinks of their union. Her solicitor looks smug, stealthily unloading sneers and smirks. But she is still somehow beautiful.
Cold.
Untouchable.
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Her head was bobbing quickly between my legs. That’s all I can remember; being fixated by the repeated plunging of her rather smallish head. Her hair was midnight black. It flapped silently like the wings of a raven while she worked. Never mind her eager young mouth or desperate sucking. She had willingly bowed before me and taken me to the hilt. In my home, she crowned me King in the time of the permanent reign of the Queen.
The clap of unexpected footsteps sounded across the kitchen floor and suddenly she was there, standing at the doorway of the lounge. I did two stupid things. First, I looked at the clock, which told me moments too late that she was home early. Then I looked into her eyes. An Unforgivable Curse was brewing in those orbs.
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She was gone. It was 281 days and 14 hours before she returned. Another Fifty-nine days and 22 hours before they shared the same bed.
And always, her ring went missing.