Firewhiskey, Forty and Not-So-Fabulous (PG-13)
Title: Firewhiskey, Forty and Not-So-Fabulous
Prompt: firewhiskey
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,485
Summary: Hermione doesn't want to face her birthday
A/N: I wrote this the day before my 40th b-day; Written for flashfic_rhr
I know I should be heading home to face whatever Ron has planned for tonight, but for some reason I just can’t; and I don’t have to - it’s my birthday and I can do - or not do -anything I want. Right now I want to sit here in the Leaky Cauldron and drink.
I catch the bartender’s eye and order, “Firewhiskey, neat.”
“Sure thing, Ma’am.”
Ma’am? When did I become a ‘Ma’am’? Wasn’t I just a ‘Miss’ last week? Well, maybe not last week, but very recently. Who does this pimply little kid think he is?
I suppose my funk stems from my birthday - my 40th birthday. I have so much to be happy about but I just can’t make myself feel it. I have a great job that I’m very good at. My family is healthy and happy, I have wonderful friends. I have two beautiful intelligent children who, by some miracle, seem to still enjoy my company. I have an amazing husband who loves me and wants me as much at 40 as he did when I was a bride of 20. So, why am I so sad? Why do I feel so lost? Why is this birthday effecting me so?
The truth is my job bores me, it’s not a challenge anymore. My friends and family have their own lives so I don’t socialize like I used to. My kids are both at school and thriving without me. Even Ron doesn’t need me like he used to - he’s a superstar at the office, he’s learned to drive a Muggle car, he makes more money at WWW then we’ll ever spend. We hardly ever fight for real anymore, it’s mostly petty bickering that’s actually foreplay for us. Yes, I know it’s cliched, but it works - the sex is still spectacular.
I want to feel excited about my life.
I want to feel like myself again.
I want to feel.
I haven’t talked about how I’m feeling with Ron. It’s not that he wouldn’t understand (I was tragically wrong about his emotional range low those many years ago), I simply fear he would feel somehow at fault; nothing could be further from the truth. The most alive I feel these days is when I’m with him. The problem is with not remembering who I am when I’m alone. It’s about losing touch with me as ‘me’ - not as someone’s daughter or mother, not as a friend or co-worker, not as a wife or lover. Not what I do for others but what I do for myself. Just me.
***
One hour and three Firewhiskeys later and I am feeling even more numb, but this time is a good way. It’s more of a pleasant emptiness than a gaping void. I’m sitting quietly at the end of the bar with my back to the door - so much for ‘constant vigilance.’ Paying attention would have prevented my stumble off my stool when I hear a familiar voice.
“Hermione! There you are - I expected you home hours ago!” I find myself quickly engulfed in Ron’s comforting embrace.
“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be home with your guests?” I ask my husband, holding him at arms length.
“Guests?” He squeaks, his ears turning pink. He’s so cute when he tries to appear innocent. After all these years he still can’t lie to me - anyone else no problem, but never to me.
“Yes Ron, my surprise party,” I remind him.
He takes the seat beside mine and blushes furiously, “Dammit Hermione. If you knew about the party why the hell are you here, leaving me with a house full of company - including both our mothers I might add? You’d slay me if I ever tried this shite.”
Ouch, he’s got me there. I would definitely would inflict major bodily harm if he ever pulled such a stunt. All I can say is, “Sorry.”
He lets out a frustrated sigh, I can see he is trying so very hard to not be angry.
“Firewhiskey?” he asks; I nod.
He waves to the pre-pubescent adolescent behind the bar and orders us a round. He slams his in a single gulp and orders another which he sips pensively. He pulls out his wand and conjures his patronus, sending word to our guests that I’ve been found and the party is postponed.
“So,” he begins as he turns his attention to me, “why didn’t you want to come to your party?”
“Because I don’t want to be forty,” I explain. Really, isn’t it obvious?
“Luv, whether you come home or not, you’ll still be forty.”
“No I won’t.” Yes, I am being a petulant child. I’m allowed, like I said - it’s my birthday. “If I don’t go home and eat cake and listen to people sing and open presents then I can sit here and still be thirty-nine.”
He laughs at this. The giant orange prat is actually laughing at me. Maybe it’s not my most reasoned argument, but really, it makes perfect sense to me, especially after four drinks.
His laughter is calming down and he chuckles while he sips his drink, shaking his head in disbelief. I take the chance to observe my husband - he really is a sight to behold. I love his smile. His face is still boyish with just mild laugh lines forming around his bright blue eyes.
“Hey! That’s not fair!” I shout suddenly, causing Ron to spit his drink across the bar.
“What!”
“Why don’t you have wrinkles? You just have a few crinkly things while I have craters on my forehead!” Honestly, first stretch marks, now this - the unfairness of life!
He raises his hand and runs his calloused thumb over the furrow between my eyes, causing me to instantly relax my scowl.
He leans his forehead against mine and looks me in the eye - have I mentioned how gorgeous his eyes are?
“You’re beautiful Hermione.” I melt just a little bit more into him.
I close my eyes and sigh, wanting to drown in the moment.
He reaches up and strokes my hair, comforting me in the way he has since Dumbledore’s funeral.
“You seem so lost, luv. Please talk to me.” I didn’t think he noticed, but he has. My beautiful giant orange prat of a knight noticed. “I love you so much, please let me in.”
I’m crying now. I’m letting it go and finally, truly crying.
“I miss me,” I whisper once I stop.
“So, go find you.”
I’m confused. It must show because he says, “It’s not that complicated Hermione. Take some time and figure out where you went.” His face suddenly takes a look of horror, “It- it’s not us is it? It’s not me that’s the problem, is it?”
See, I knew he’d take the blame on himself. “No, Ron! The problem definitely isn’t you, you’re wonderful, we’re wonderful. I just want to feel wonderful about me - the me I am when I’m not with you. I want to do something for me - that’s about me and what I have to offer the world. Maybe I sound selfish, but this birthday has made me think about these things.”
He’s nodding. Does he understand? I’m not even sure I do.
“Remember how excited you used to get back in Hogwarts when you would discover a new spell, or research some big problem?”
“Yes.” He’s confusing me (the Firewhiskey’s helping too).
“Remember when they published your ‘Beedle the Bard’ translation? Remember how excited you were?”
“Yes, I do.” Where is he going with this?
“Don’t you see? That might be what you need - a project!”
“A project?”
“Yeah! But not something for House Elves or to help Harry, or for me and the kids. A project for you, like a ... like a ... book. Yes, of course - a book!”
“You think I should write a book?”
“Sure, why not? Take some leave, figure out what you want to write about, do some research and see where it leads.”
“What kind of book?”
“I don’t know, whatever interests you - a history of powerful witches, the origins of Elder Flower Wine. The topic doesn’t matter as long as you enjoy it.” He pauses before inspiration strikes, “Oh, I know, you could write one of those mushy romancey-type stories you’re always pretending not to read.” With a waggle of his eyebrow he adds, “I’ll even help you research all the smutty parts.”
I can’t help but laugh - he’s pretty sexy when does that goofy mock sexy look of his. Before I can answer he leans forward to whisper to the barkeep, who nods in understanding and gestures toward the upstairs rooms.
Ron grabs the bottle of Firewhiskey and my hand and heads towards the steps.
“Where are we going?”
“To start your research. I figure we can celebrate your fortieth birthday the same way we did your twentieth.”
“With an all night shag fest?”
“Well, maybe not all night - but most of it.” He pulls me into a deep kiss before leading us to our room.
Maybe being forty won’t be so bad after all?
Prompt: firewhiskey
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,485
Summary: Hermione doesn't want to face her birthday
A/N: I wrote this the day before my 40th b-day; Written for flashfic_rhr
I know I should be heading home to face whatever Ron has planned for tonight, but for some reason I just can’t; and I don’t have to - it’s my birthday and I can do - or not do -anything I want. Right now I want to sit here in the Leaky Cauldron and drink.
I catch the bartender’s eye and order, “Firewhiskey, neat.”
“Sure thing, Ma’am.”
Ma’am? When did I become a ‘Ma’am’? Wasn’t I just a ‘Miss’ last week? Well, maybe not last week, but very recently. Who does this pimply little kid think he is?
I suppose my funk stems from my birthday - my 40th birthday. I have so much to be happy about but I just can’t make myself feel it. I have a great job that I’m very good at. My family is healthy and happy, I have wonderful friends. I have two beautiful intelligent children who, by some miracle, seem to still enjoy my company. I have an amazing husband who loves me and wants me as much at 40 as he did when I was a bride of 20. So, why am I so sad? Why do I feel so lost? Why is this birthday effecting me so?
The truth is my job bores me, it’s not a challenge anymore. My friends and family have their own lives so I don’t socialize like I used to. My kids are both at school and thriving without me. Even Ron doesn’t need me like he used to - he’s a superstar at the office, he’s learned to drive a Muggle car, he makes more money at WWW then we’ll ever spend. We hardly ever fight for real anymore, it’s mostly petty bickering that’s actually foreplay for us. Yes, I know it’s cliched, but it works - the sex is still spectacular.
I want to feel excited about my life.
I want to feel like myself again.
I want to feel.
I haven’t talked about how I’m feeling with Ron. It’s not that he wouldn’t understand (I was tragically wrong about his emotional range low those many years ago), I simply fear he would feel somehow at fault; nothing could be further from the truth. The most alive I feel these days is when I’m with him. The problem is with not remembering who I am when I’m alone. It’s about losing touch with me as ‘me’ - not as someone’s daughter or mother, not as a friend or co-worker, not as a wife or lover. Not what I do for others but what I do for myself. Just me.
***
One hour and three Firewhiskeys later and I am feeling even more numb, but this time is a good way. It’s more of a pleasant emptiness than a gaping void. I’m sitting quietly at the end of the bar with my back to the door - so much for ‘constant vigilance.’ Paying attention would have prevented my stumble off my stool when I hear a familiar voice.
“Hermione! There you are - I expected you home hours ago!” I find myself quickly engulfed in Ron’s comforting embrace.
“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be home with your guests?” I ask my husband, holding him at arms length.
“Guests?” He squeaks, his ears turning pink. He’s so cute when he tries to appear innocent. After all these years he still can’t lie to me - anyone else no problem, but never to me.
“Yes Ron, my surprise party,” I remind him.
He takes the seat beside mine and blushes furiously, “Dammit Hermione. If you knew about the party why the hell are you here, leaving me with a house full of company - including both our mothers I might add? You’d slay me if I ever tried this shite.”
Ouch, he’s got me there. I would definitely would inflict major bodily harm if he ever pulled such a stunt. All I can say is, “Sorry.”
He lets out a frustrated sigh, I can see he is trying so very hard to not be angry.
“Firewhiskey?” he asks; I nod.
He waves to the pre-pubescent adolescent behind the bar and orders us a round. He slams his in a single gulp and orders another which he sips pensively. He pulls out his wand and conjures his patronus, sending word to our guests that I’ve been found and the party is postponed.
“So,” he begins as he turns his attention to me, “why didn’t you want to come to your party?”
“Because I don’t want to be forty,” I explain. Really, isn’t it obvious?
“Luv, whether you come home or not, you’ll still be forty.”
“No I won’t.” Yes, I am being a petulant child. I’m allowed, like I said - it’s my birthday. “If I don’t go home and eat cake and listen to people sing and open presents then I can sit here and still be thirty-nine.”
He laughs at this. The giant orange prat is actually laughing at me. Maybe it’s not my most reasoned argument, but really, it makes perfect sense to me, especially after four drinks.
His laughter is calming down and he chuckles while he sips his drink, shaking his head in disbelief. I take the chance to observe my husband - he really is a sight to behold. I love his smile. His face is still boyish with just mild laugh lines forming around his bright blue eyes.
“Hey! That’s not fair!” I shout suddenly, causing Ron to spit his drink across the bar.
“What!”
“Why don’t you have wrinkles? You just have a few crinkly things while I have craters on my forehead!” Honestly, first stretch marks, now this - the unfairness of life!
He raises his hand and runs his calloused thumb over the furrow between my eyes, causing me to instantly relax my scowl.
He leans his forehead against mine and looks me in the eye - have I mentioned how gorgeous his eyes are?
“You’re beautiful Hermione.” I melt just a little bit more into him.
I close my eyes and sigh, wanting to drown in the moment.
He reaches up and strokes my hair, comforting me in the way he has since Dumbledore’s funeral.
“You seem so lost, luv. Please talk to me.” I didn’t think he noticed, but he has. My beautiful giant orange prat of a knight noticed. “I love you so much, please let me in.”
I’m crying now. I’m letting it go and finally, truly crying.
“I miss me,” I whisper once I stop.
“So, go find you.”
I’m confused. It must show because he says, “It’s not that complicated Hermione. Take some time and figure out where you went.” His face suddenly takes a look of horror, “It- it’s not us is it? It’s not me that’s the problem, is it?”
See, I knew he’d take the blame on himself. “No, Ron! The problem definitely isn’t you, you’re wonderful, we’re wonderful. I just want to feel wonderful about me - the me I am when I’m not with you. I want to do something for me - that’s about me and what I have to offer the world. Maybe I sound selfish, but this birthday has made me think about these things.”
He’s nodding. Does he understand? I’m not even sure I do.
“Remember how excited you used to get back in Hogwarts when you would discover a new spell, or research some big problem?”
“Yes.” He’s confusing me (the Firewhiskey’s helping too).
“Remember when they published your ‘Beedle the Bard’ translation? Remember how excited you were?”
“Yes, I do.” Where is he going with this?
“Don’t you see? That might be what you need - a project!”
“A project?”
“Yeah! But not something for House Elves or to help Harry, or for me and the kids. A project for you, like a ... like a ... book. Yes, of course - a book!”
“You think I should write a book?”
“Sure, why not? Take some leave, figure out what you want to write about, do some research and see where it leads.”
“What kind of book?”
“I don’t know, whatever interests you - a history of powerful witches, the origins of Elder Flower Wine. The topic doesn’t matter as long as you enjoy it.” He pauses before inspiration strikes, “Oh, I know, you could write one of those mushy romancey-type stories you’re always pretending not to read.” With a waggle of his eyebrow he adds, “I’ll even help you research all the smutty parts.”
I can’t help but laugh - he’s pretty sexy when does that goofy mock sexy look of his. Before I can answer he leans forward to whisper to the barkeep, who nods in understanding and gestures toward the upstairs rooms.
Ron grabs the bottle of Firewhiskey and my hand and heads towards the steps.
“Where are we going?”
“To start your research. I figure we can celebrate your fortieth birthday the same way we did your twentieth.”
“With an all night shag fest?”
“Well, maybe not all night - but most of it.” He pulls me into a deep kiss before leading us to our room.
Maybe being forty won’t be so bad after all?