Harry Potter fic, Longing to be Lost in You
title: Longing to be Lost in You
pairing: Ron/Hermione
rating: M
status: complete
summary: It's Hermione's wedding day, and she's where she's supposed to be...right?
Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me. "Away from Me" belongs to Evanescence.
words: 3523
There was a mild hint of incredulousness in Ron Weasley's voice as he said, "You're not supposed to be here. You know that, right?"
Hermione smiled wanly. "I can't keep myself away."
The darkness of the night covered his face, but she could see the faint red glint of his hair from the suffused moonlight that crept through the slightly shuttered window.
The night was ripe for lovers, his small cottage secluded enough in Hogsmeade. She'd Apparated to his bedroom and he'd heard the crack! of her appearance from the living room. Now he stood by his bedroom door, a half-empty bottle of Ogden's Firewhiskey in his hand.
The reply that came from his lungs sounded between a chuckle and a sigh. Ron thought about the nearing future, the impending tomorrow he hoped to keep at bay with Firewhiskey. But she was here, and there was no forgetting.
Hermione Granger stood straight under the slatted moonlight, uncertainty on the bent of her brows, on her gnawed lips. She called to him with her cinnamon gaze, imploring him to come nearer.
Ron was powerless under the pull of her eyes, found himself setting the bottle on a nearby dresser - there would be time for that tomorrow - and he now stood right in front of her, his bed beside them marking the conclusion to the inevitable.
Hopelessness lay heavy on his heart as he stared at her. "Everything will change," he found himself murmuring, but the words were lost; she hadn't heard. She'd swallowed them in her own mouth, and the tongue that uttered them danced with hers, and he was lost, the sense of doom evanescent as they both fell on the bed.
Their clothing were quickly discarded amid their heated embrace. Ron's face nestled between her breasts, his hands cupping and squeezing the pearly globes, thumbs alternating between gentle and rough strokes on her nipples.
He revelled in her moans and writhes. Hermione's body undulated beneath his as he kissed his way down her soft belly to her dark curls, to the pink flesh hidden between her thighs. He pushed his tongue between her folds, ran them slowly up and down her slit, one hand abandoning a breast to stroke alongside his tongue. Ron pushed two fingers inside her wet lips, spreading the moisture around her pussy. His tongue lapped the wetness as he thrust his fingers in and out of her, her hips bucking uncontrollably against his face, her own fingers clutching tightly to his hair, her nails digging into his scalp.
Hermione's cries were loud and uninhibited. Her whole body shook, the wave of heat and pleasure forceful throughout her body, her muscles clamping rhythmically around his fingers.
She blacked out from the intensity of it. For next she knew, she lay sprawled on top of him, his cock still hard and heavy against her hip. He stroked her hair and held her so tenderly as he had never before, and yet as he had always done in the countless of times she came to him in the night. There was something incomparable to his present embrace and she found herself pouring new tears to add to those that fell moments before.
"Shhh," it barely sounded from him, but Hermione felt the tremors as she lay on his chest, his breath a murmur on her forehead.
She raised her head and pressed her mouth on his, their tears and sweat mingling. The heat was almost unbearable but they couldn't bear not touching, couldn't escape the need to keep their bodies pressed.
Her lips travelled down his neck, her tongue leaving a blazing trail down his chest, following the path of the soft crispy hair that lined down to his navel, the crimson patch thickening as it neared his cock. His shaft stood proud and thick, and her lips enclosed him, throat ready to engulf him as she bobbed her head up and down. One hand encased and massaged his balls, the other stroked his shaft while she sucked the cream issuing from the knobby head. His incoherent groans and grunts encouraged her, but his hands on her hair prevented her from going further, instead drawing her hungry lips away to meet his own, his tongue forceful as it battled with hers, the other's flavours mingling.
The hand still on his shaft drew it closer to her heat, his hands on her hips helping her position herself over him. Slowly Hermione lowered her body, their moans echoing in the night as he filled her, as she impaled herself on his cock in ever-quickening strokes.
Ron's hands rose to her shoulders, her nipples grazing his arms with each gallop. He sat up for a closer union, a pause in their dance as she wrapped her legs around his back before grounding down once more on his cock, his hands lowering to her hips for slower, more sensual thrusts. The kisses that fell from her lips to his were both imploring and imperious. "More..." she cried. "Faster, please... deeper... I need more of you..."
He could do nothing but comply to her entreaties, each plunge laced with desperation.
A chorus of each other's names filled the air. There was a nostalgic quality to his touch that had her weeping. Would this be our last time? The choice was hers, after all.
Wasn't it?
"Hermione... Hermione..." his breathless voice in her ear sent shivers of pleasure down her spine. "Marry me... I love you..."
She gave her answer in a despairing kiss as she convulsed around his cock. And with great pulsing jerks he spilled his seed inside her, crying out her name over and over.
"Hermione... Hermione..."
I hold my breath as this life starts to take its toll
I hide behind a smile as this perfect plan unfolds
"Hermione? Hermione?" Oddly feminine was the voice. Hermione Granger came back to herself; it was agonizing seconds before she realized it was Annette, a cousin and one of her bridesmaids.
"Oh, f-fine," stuttered Hermione, fumbling with the fabric of her gown, pasting a fake smile on her face. "Just fine." Was it obvious? she wondered. Does Annette know? Had the blonde somehow managed to steal into her thoughts and find that a man was in there, and not the one she was about to meet at the altar?
"I get it. Nerves, eh?"
"Yes. Right. Just nerves."
They fussed around the room like flies - her bridesmaids - their chattering and the rustles of satin and tulle white noise to her. But one remained silent, apart from the bride herself, standing in the corner.
Meticulous ringlets brushed Hermione's neck, and she twisted one around a finger as she gazed at the bouquet of white daisies. She plucked a petal, a teardrop in her fingers, murmured, "He loves me."
She shook her head, closing her eyes. "I'm doing the right thing. I'm doing the right thing. I'm doing the right thing."
Or was she?
But oh, God, I feel I've been lied to
Lost all faith in the things I have achieved
And I
I've woken now to find myself
In the shadows of all I have created
She opened her eyes and looked up; blinked a couple of times.
She cleared her throat. But the flies ignored her. Louder and with the clap of her hands, then, and they turned to her as one.
Expectant faces peered at her, lips stretched and eyebrows raised in anticipation.
"I- " she faltered, cleared her throat again. "I would like to thank you all for being here today."
They "Aww"ed and started buzzing again, and she held out her hands. "If it's all right, I would like a moment by myself."
"Are you sure, dear?" asked her cousin.
"Please."
They filed out, buzzing minimally amongst themselves. Ginny Weasley came to her from her corner, a question on her brows, pain for her brother in her eyes.
"Are you sure you're okay?" came her voice, soft with a hint of something akin to anger and hurt repressed by sadness and dejection. On a day like this, a supposedly happy one, couldn't Ginny Weasley express anything more than melancholy?
"I am," answered Hermione just as softly, the petal, now crinkled, still clutched in her palm. "I just need silence. And myself, for a little bit. Thank you for asking."
Ginny nodded, turned away, but Hermione caught her hand.
"I- " things she wanted to say hurried and blocked her throat. She swallowed them down again, for where would she begin with? An apology? An expression of regret? She settled instead for, "Thank you."
"You do what must be done," said the redhead as she walked out, closing the door gently behind her.
I'm longing to be lost in you
(away from this place I've made)
Won't you take me away from me?
Hermione sat, but couldn't look at herself in the mirror, still holding the petal in one hand, something stiff and uncomfortable aligned with her left thigh.
She picked up the bouquet, stroked a flower, and pulled a petal off. "He loves me not."
Another. "He loves me."
And another. "He loves me not."
"He loves me..."
Ron Weasley knew she was gone when he opened his eyes. He expected it, but still he couldn't
stop the hurt that ate his heart, that gnawed at his belly and chest, constricting his lungs. He couldn't breathe. It hurt to breathe. Pain, acute and agonizing, in itself a poison flowing in his veins.
Crawling through this world
As disease flows through my veins
He rolled from the bed and fell to the floor in a tangle of sheets and her scent. He couldn't stop the tears that burned his eyes, leaving a stinging trail of moisture down his cheeks. Through blurry blue eyes, he spotted the half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey near the door, and he crawled to it, downing the remaining liquid in one gulp. It left a trail of flames down his throat and he hurled the bottle away with all the force of his anger and pain. The sound of it shattering filled him with mild satisfaction.
With a detached calmness he found himself donning his clothes, carefully smoothing out his worn robes. Into the living room he went, to the small cabinet that held his stash of liquor. One after another he pulled all the remaining drinks out and lapped them up, but he couldn't quench his thirst; he couldn't make the pain subside.
I look into myself
But my own heart has been changed
I can't go on like this
I loathe all I've become
The rage engulfed him. Mindless, he trashed his cottage, but it wasn't enough. Bottles of Ogden's lay empty and broken on his floor, his antidote razed to the ground. He saw himself in the mirror in his hallway, hardly recognizing himself. He had to get away. He hated what he saw; he hated himself for feeling the helpless despair.
Outside, he flew past Rosmerta's, past the Hog's Head, on to the outskirts of Hogsmeade. His mind still uncleared, his heart, though shattered, still heavy.
Ron didn't know how long nor how far he walked; the anguish and anger provided enough energy to move forward. All he was aware of were the thoughts that plagued him. Last night she came to him for one last shag and then by morning off she went to marry some other bloke. He felt his broken heart splinter apart over and over at the repetitive thoughts that won't leave him.
He didn't know what time it was, but he couldn't care less. But the discontented part of him just wanted to forget, and he couldn't very well perform a Memory Charm on himself in his condition.
He walked on, the pound of his boots on the road the only sound and company. He thought he would never find rest until he saw a place ahead that was more shack than inn. He stopped at its doorway, squinting up at the sign.
"The Buggered Hedgehog."
Faint carousing could be heard from the inn. What sounded like a voice doing its best to sing and entertain but knowing the futility of it issued from the thin walls. Inside it was gloomy, the blazing sunlight outside not enough to penetrate the murkiness of the bar, as though afraid that even the light would be dirtied by the sullen atmosphere.
Dust mottled heavily around. The windows were cracked, and some were boarded and stained. In the corner two wizards quarrelled heatedly. In one glance Ron guessed there were less than a score of patrons hanging about the inn.
On a makeshift stage across from the bar was a band of troubadours, their wizarding robes rather colourful and out-of-place. The lead minstrel, who shook his tambourine rather enthusiastically, sang with his eyes closed.
"A troll can be rocky if down you should fall, the hedgehog can never be buggered at all!"
Ron sat on a barstool and ordered Firewhiskey from the innkeeper, his scowl inviting no remarks from the latter. He downed it and tapped his glass for more, half-listening to the scuffle behind him, to the rumble of chair legs scraping on the floor, to the murmur of conversation, to the increasingly loud bickering of the drunken scruffy wizards in the corner.
The troubadours meanwhile finished their song, tuning their instruments as they made ready for another performance.
Ron heard them address him, and other than the reddening of his ears, showed them no other sign of acknowledgment.
"This," said the minstrel, "is for that yonder redhead fellow with the most lovelorn countenance that ever I did see. Strike, drum!"
"Alas, my love," he sang to his lute, "you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously. For I have loved you for so long..."
Behind Ron came the sound of glass breaking. The two wizards' argument have reached a fevered pitch and erupted. But as they were too inebriated to duel properly, settled instead for fisticuffs. Glass and wooden shrapnel exploded, and the other patrons, drawn to the pandemonium, joined the fight.
Several cracks sounded as the troubadours and the barkeep Disapparated. Ron Weasley, on the other hand, remained.
I've woken now to find myself
In the shadows of all I have created
I'm longing to be lost in you
(away from this place I've made)
Won't you take me away from me?
Her bouquet was a morbid pile of stalks and leaves. Hermione came to herself from the mechanical stupor, having come to the last petal.
"He loves me."
Real petals mingled with the embroidered ones on her gown, Ron's voice louder in her mind. She had never shared her body with anyone else, not even with her fiancé, and she knew with abject certainty that she couldn't go through with the wedding. She couldn't live a lie. How much more could love stand?
She remembered the night before, laying down on her side facing him, watched his eyelashes flutter close, watched his sleeping face revert to the boy she had fallen in love with, red hair made dark by the night. He was led to believe she would stay.
"I love you," she'd mouthed. "And I'm sorry." She lingered there, prolonging their embrace, before she left to face a new life.
Lost in a dying world I reach for something more
I have grown so weary of this lie I live
"I love him," she told the last petal.
Hermione raised her skirt, flowers fell, stroked the wand strapped to the blue garter on her leg. She slid it against her thigh, and summoned parchment, ink, and quill. She wrote what was in her heart, with the deepest regret. She pulled the engagement ring off her finger.
Hermione Disapparated, leaving ruined petals in her wake.
Ron's cottage in Hogsmeade lay empty and damaged. I did this to him, she cried to herself, tears blurring the destruction. She hastily wiped her face, hitched up her voluminous skirts, and walked to Madam Rosmerta's, who, upon seeing her, exclaimed in surprise, "Aren't you supposed to be at the wedding?"
"Where's Ron?" countered Hermione, glancing about for a sign of red hair and tall frame. But he wasn't there, and she left.
I've woken now to find myself
In the shadows of all I have created
I'm longing to be lost in you
The Hog's Head Inn was no different, and she'd received no curious looks. Outside, she stamped her foot in frustration before remembering a charm for finding love.
With wand in her hand, she did the necessary movements and chanted, "Inveniam Amori."
Hermione felt a compulsion pulling her wand and she let it lead her outside Hogsmeade to a little-used road. Further from the town she walked, her shoes aching her feet all the more.
After what seemed like forever, the force pulling her wand lifted, and before her stood an inn, little more than a shack, barely able to hold itself up. The walls shook as a wizard in torn robes was thrown out of a window. A rusted, rotting sign on the roof swung from the force of his passing.
"The Buggered Hedgehog," Hermione read in disbelief and disgust.
Mixed profanities echoed out as the wizard lunged back into the inn.
"Fuuuccck!!!" yelled another wizard as he was hauled out of the fray, landing with an oof! at her feet.
"Ron?" she gasped, recognizing the mop of red hair and familiar blue eyes.
"Hermione?" he winced up at her, rolling on all fours to try to get himself up. She tried to help him, but he brushed her off with a growl.
He walked over to a trough, pulled out his wand and muttered a cleansing spell on the murky water before dipping his head in. Like a dog he shook the water off, tore his torn robe over his head and wiped his wet face with it.
He eyed her. For someone who wore his heart on his sleeve, now his face was unfathomable. "Shouldn't you be at your wedding?" he asked begrudgingly, betraying his mask.
"I... I called it off," she sputtered, wringing her wand in nervousness.
Ron raised an eyebrow.
"Well, I... I left a note."
His brow lowered, and with a wave of wand, conjured a bench. He sat down with his shoulders slumped, his robe balled up in his hands.
Hermione lowered herself beside him, her eyes flickering from him to the sign of the inn.
"I couldn't go through with it," she filled the suffocating silence. "I don't love him... not the way that I lo- I tried to look at the rest of my life with him, tried to convince myself that it could happen, that I could grow to love him.
"But I couldn't... Because I see you. Instead of him. I see you."
She watched him from under her lashes. His hands had stilled during her speech. Hermione noticed the bruises on his knuckles, and her insides ached at his pain.
"I realize that you're really angry with me, and hurt, enough that you'll start a brawl in a place that's ready to collapse like that, though it's probably had its share of violence or it wouldn't be ready to fall off," she babbled. "Then again, maybe some spells are holding it together for it to last like that."
Her heart constricted at his continued silence. It frightened her to see him so passionless, so unresponsive. She missed his emotional outbursts, but she reckoned the wrecked cottage and the almost-demolished inn were enough indicators of his usual expressive flares.
She sniffled, her nose inflamed from the onslaught of tears, her heart sinking at the thought that she was too late.
"You probably don't love me anymore," murmured Hermione, remembering the last shredded petal. She felt rather childish to let something like that decide what she wanted more in her life.
I've woken now to find myself
I'm lost in the shadows of my own
I'm longing to be lost in you
Away from me
Ron breathed in frustration. He rose from the bench and threw his robe on the ground before hauling her up to his arms and kissing her with all that he had in him.
"Shut up, Hermione. Don't talk like that." He rested his forehead against hers. "I still love you and I'll never stop," whispered Ron against her lips. "No matter whether you push me away or how much you hurt me. I'll always love you."
She felt overcome with relief and clemency, her heart filling and lifting within her breast. "I'm sorry," she choked out, but he shushed her with another engrossing kiss that quickly deepened, engulfing them with sensation and bliss.
After a while, they drew away to come up for air, arms still around each other. The Buggered Hedgehog was finally still, the momentary war within it calmed down. Ron and Hermione looked at each other, aware of nothing else but themselves.
"Ron?"
"Yes?"
A teary, tremulous smile broke from her lips.
"I am exactly where I'm supposed to be."
=le finitissime=
A/N: The "buggered hedgehog" and the hedgehog song inspired by Terry Pratchett.
The Latin charm Inveniam Amori translates to "Let me find [my] love."
This story is just a little something different from the usual Hermione-gets-married-and-Ron-comes-and-ruins-it-and-they-end-up-together fics. For this one I want the choice to not get married to another guy to be hers.
pairing: Ron/Hermione
rating: M
status: complete
summary: It's Hermione's wedding day, and she's where she's supposed to be...right?
Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me. "Away from Me" belongs to Evanescence.
words: 3523
There was a mild hint of incredulousness in Ron Weasley's voice as he said, "You're not supposed to be here. You know that, right?"
Hermione smiled wanly. "I can't keep myself away."
The darkness of the night covered his face, but she could see the faint red glint of his hair from the suffused moonlight that crept through the slightly shuttered window.
The night was ripe for lovers, his small cottage secluded enough in Hogsmeade. She'd Apparated to his bedroom and he'd heard the crack! of her appearance from the living room. Now he stood by his bedroom door, a half-empty bottle of Ogden's Firewhiskey in his hand.
The reply that came from his lungs sounded between a chuckle and a sigh. Ron thought about the nearing future, the impending tomorrow he hoped to keep at bay with Firewhiskey. But she was here, and there was no forgetting.
Hermione Granger stood straight under the slatted moonlight, uncertainty on the bent of her brows, on her gnawed lips. She called to him with her cinnamon gaze, imploring him to come nearer.
Ron was powerless under the pull of her eyes, found himself setting the bottle on a nearby dresser - there would be time for that tomorrow - and he now stood right in front of her, his bed beside them marking the conclusion to the inevitable.
Hopelessness lay heavy on his heart as he stared at her. "Everything will change," he found himself murmuring, but the words were lost; she hadn't heard. She'd swallowed them in her own mouth, and the tongue that uttered them danced with hers, and he was lost, the sense of doom evanescent as they both fell on the bed.
Their clothing were quickly discarded amid their heated embrace. Ron's face nestled between her breasts, his hands cupping and squeezing the pearly globes, thumbs alternating between gentle and rough strokes on her nipples.
He revelled in her moans and writhes. Hermione's body undulated beneath his as he kissed his way down her soft belly to her dark curls, to the pink flesh hidden between her thighs. He pushed his tongue between her folds, ran them slowly up and down her slit, one hand abandoning a breast to stroke alongside his tongue. Ron pushed two fingers inside her wet lips, spreading the moisture around her pussy. His tongue lapped the wetness as he thrust his fingers in and out of her, her hips bucking uncontrollably against his face, her own fingers clutching tightly to his hair, her nails digging into his scalp.
Hermione's cries were loud and uninhibited. Her whole body shook, the wave of heat and pleasure forceful throughout her body, her muscles clamping rhythmically around his fingers.
She blacked out from the intensity of it. For next she knew, she lay sprawled on top of him, his cock still hard and heavy against her hip. He stroked her hair and held her so tenderly as he had never before, and yet as he had always done in the countless of times she came to him in the night. There was something incomparable to his present embrace and she found herself pouring new tears to add to those that fell moments before.
"Shhh," it barely sounded from him, but Hermione felt the tremors as she lay on his chest, his breath a murmur on her forehead.
She raised her head and pressed her mouth on his, their tears and sweat mingling. The heat was almost unbearable but they couldn't bear not touching, couldn't escape the need to keep their bodies pressed.
Her lips travelled down his neck, her tongue leaving a blazing trail down his chest, following the path of the soft crispy hair that lined down to his navel, the crimson patch thickening as it neared his cock. His shaft stood proud and thick, and her lips enclosed him, throat ready to engulf him as she bobbed her head up and down. One hand encased and massaged his balls, the other stroked his shaft while she sucked the cream issuing from the knobby head. His incoherent groans and grunts encouraged her, but his hands on her hair prevented her from going further, instead drawing her hungry lips away to meet his own, his tongue forceful as it battled with hers, the other's flavours mingling.
The hand still on his shaft drew it closer to her heat, his hands on her hips helping her position herself over him. Slowly Hermione lowered her body, their moans echoing in the night as he filled her, as she impaled herself on his cock in ever-quickening strokes.
Ron's hands rose to her shoulders, her nipples grazing his arms with each gallop. He sat up for a closer union, a pause in their dance as she wrapped her legs around his back before grounding down once more on his cock, his hands lowering to her hips for slower, more sensual thrusts. The kisses that fell from her lips to his were both imploring and imperious. "More..." she cried. "Faster, please... deeper... I need more of you..."
He could do nothing but comply to her entreaties, each plunge laced with desperation.
A chorus of each other's names filled the air. There was a nostalgic quality to his touch that had her weeping. Would this be our last time? The choice was hers, after all.
Wasn't it?
"Hermione... Hermione..." his breathless voice in her ear sent shivers of pleasure down her spine. "Marry me... I love you..."
She gave her answer in a despairing kiss as she convulsed around his cock. And with great pulsing jerks he spilled his seed inside her, crying out her name over and over.
"Hermione... Hermione..."
I hold my breath as this life starts to take its toll
I hide behind a smile as this perfect plan unfolds
"Hermione? Hermione?" Oddly feminine was the voice. Hermione Granger came back to herself; it was agonizing seconds before she realized it was Annette, a cousin and one of her bridesmaids.
"Oh, f-fine," stuttered Hermione, fumbling with the fabric of her gown, pasting a fake smile on her face. "Just fine." Was it obvious? she wondered. Does Annette know? Had the blonde somehow managed to steal into her thoughts and find that a man was in there, and not the one she was about to meet at the altar?
"I get it. Nerves, eh?"
"Yes. Right. Just nerves."
They fussed around the room like flies - her bridesmaids - their chattering and the rustles of satin and tulle white noise to her. But one remained silent, apart from the bride herself, standing in the corner.
Meticulous ringlets brushed Hermione's neck, and she twisted one around a finger as she gazed at the bouquet of white daisies. She plucked a petal, a teardrop in her fingers, murmured, "He loves me."
She shook her head, closing her eyes. "I'm doing the right thing. I'm doing the right thing. I'm doing the right thing."
Or was she?
But oh, God, I feel I've been lied to
Lost all faith in the things I have achieved
And I
I've woken now to find myself
In the shadows of all I have created
She opened her eyes and looked up; blinked a couple of times.
She cleared her throat. But the flies ignored her. Louder and with the clap of her hands, then, and they turned to her as one.
Expectant faces peered at her, lips stretched and eyebrows raised in anticipation.
"I- " she faltered, cleared her throat again. "I would like to thank you all for being here today."
They "Aww"ed and started buzzing again, and she held out her hands. "If it's all right, I would like a moment by myself."
"Are you sure, dear?" asked her cousin.
"Please."
They filed out, buzzing minimally amongst themselves. Ginny Weasley came to her from her corner, a question on her brows, pain for her brother in her eyes.
"Are you sure you're okay?" came her voice, soft with a hint of something akin to anger and hurt repressed by sadness and dejection. On a day like this, a supposedly happy one, couldn't Ginny Weasley express anything more than melancholy?
"I am," answered Hermione just as softly, the petal, now crinkled, still clutched in her palm. "I just need silence. And myself, for a little bit. Thank you for asking."
Ginny nodded, turned away, but Hermione caught her hand.
"I- " things she wanted to say hurried and blocked her throat. She swallowed them down again, for where would she begin with? An apology? An expression of regret? She settled instead for, "Thank you."
"You do what must be done," said the redhead as she walked out, closing the door gently behind her.
I'm longing to be lost in you
(away from this place I've made)
Won't you take me away from me?
Hermione sat, but couldn't look at herself in the mirror, still holding the petal in one hand, something stiff and uncomfortable aligned with her left thigh.
She picked up the bouquet, stroked a flower, and pulled a petal off. "He loves me not."
Another. "He loves me."
And another. "He loves me not."
"He loves me..."
Ron Weasley knew she was gone when he opened his eyes. He expected it, but still he couldn't
stop the hurt that ate his heart, that gnawed at his belly and chest, constricting his lungs. He couldn't breathe. It hurt to breathe. Pain, acute and agonizing, in itself a poison flowing in his veins.
Crawling through this world
As disease flows through my veins
He rolled from the bed and fell to the floor in a tangle of sheets and her scent. He couldn't stop the tears that burned his eyes, leaving a stinging trail of moisture down his cheeks. Through blurry blue eyes, he spotted the half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey near the door, and he crawled to it, downing the remaining liquid in one gulp. It left a trail of flames down his throat and he hurled the bottle away with all the force of his anger and pain. The sound of it shattering filled him with mild satisfaction.
With a detached calmness he found himself donning his clothes, carefully smoothing out his worn robes. Into the living room he went, to the small cabinet that held his stash of liquor. One after another he pulled all the remaining drinks out and lapped them up, but he couldn't quench his thirst; he couldn't make the pain subside.
I look into myself
But my own heart has been changed
I can't go on like this
I loathe all I've become
The rage engulfed him. Mindless, he trashed his cottage, but it wasn't enough. Bottles of Ogden's lay empty and broken on his floor, his antidote razed to the ground. He saw himself in the mirror in his hallway, hardly recognizing himself. He had to get away. He hated what he saw; he hated himself for feeling the helpless despair.
Outside, he flew past Rosmerta's, past the Hog's Head, on to the outskirts of Hogsmeade. His mind still uncleared, his heart, though shattered, still heavy.
Ron didn't know how long nor how far he walked; the anguish and anger provided enough energy to move forward. All he was aware of were the thoughts that plagued him. Last night she came to him for one last shag and then by morning off she went to marry some other bloke. He felt his broken heart splinter apart over and over at the repetitive thoughts that won't leave him.
He didn't know what time it was, but he couldn't care less. But the discontented part of him just wanted to forget, and he couldn't very well perform a Memory Charm on himself in his condition.
He walked on, the pound of his boots on the road the only sound and company. He thought he would never find rest until he saw a place ahead that was more shack than inn. He stopped at its doorway, squinting up at the sign.
"The Buggered Hedgehog."
Faint carousing could be heard from the inn. What sounded like a voice doing its best to sing and entertain but knowing the futility of it issued from the thin walls. Inside it was gloomy, the blazing sunlight outside not enough to penetrate the murkiness of the bar, as though afraid that even the light would be dirtied by the sullen atmosphere.
Dust mottled heavily around. The windows were cracked, and some were boarded and stained. In the corner two wizards quarrelled heatedly. In one glance Ron guessed there were less than a score of patrons hanging about the inn.
On a makeshift stage across from the bar was a band of troubadours, their wizarding robes rather colourful and out-of-place. The lead minstrel, who shook his tambourine rather enthusiastically, sang with his eyes closed.
"A troll can be rocky if down you should fall, the hedgehog can never be buggered at all!"
Ron sat on a barstool and ordered Firewhiskey from the innkeeper, his scowl inviting no remarks from the latter. He downed it and tapped his glass for more, half-listening to the scuffle behind him, to the rumble of chair legs scraping on the floor, to the murmur of conversation, to the increasingly loud bickering of the drunken scruffy wizards in the corner.
The troubadours meanwhile finished their song, tuning their instruments as they made ready for another performance.
Ron heard them address him, and other than the reddening of his ears, showed them no other sign of acknowledgment.
"This," said the minstrel, "is for that yonder redhead fellow with the most lovelorn countenance that ever I did see. Strike, drum!"
"Alas, my love," he sang to his lute, "you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously. For I have loved you for so long..."
Behind Ron came the sound of glass breaking. The two wizards' argument have reached a fevered pitch and erupted. But as they were too inebriated to duel properly, settled instead for fisticuffs. Glass and wooden shrapnel exploded, and the other patrons, drawn to the pandemonium, joined the fight.
Several cracks sounded as the troubadours and the barkeep Disapparated. Ron Weasley, on the other hand, remained.
I've woken now to find myself
In the shadows of all I have created
I'm longing to be lost in you
(away from this place I've made)
Won't you take me away from me?
Her bouquet was a morbid pile of stalks and leaves. Hermione came to herself from the mechanical stupor, having come to the last petal.
"He loves me."
Real petals mingled with the embroidered ones on her gown, Ron's voice louder in her mind. She had never shared her body with anyone else, not even with her fiancé, and she knew with abject certainty that she couldn't go through with the wedding. She couldn't live a lie. How much more could love stand?
She remembered the night before, laying down on her side facing him, watched his eyelashes flutter close, watched his sleeping face revert to the boy she had fallen in love with, red hair made dark by the night. He was led to believe she would stay.
"I love you," she'd mouthed. "And I'm sorry." She lingered there, prolonging their embrace, before she left to face a new life.
Lost in a dying world I reach for something more
I have grown so weary of this lie I live
"I love him," she told the last petal.
Hermione raised her skirt, flowers fell, stroked the wand strapped to the blue garter on her leg. She slid it against her thigh, and summoned parchment, ink, and quill. She wrote what was in her heart, with the deepest regret. She pulled the engagement ring off her finger.
Hermione Disapparated, leaving ruined petals in her wake.
Ron's cottage in Hogsmeade lay empty and damaged. I did this to him, she cried to herself, tears blurring the destruction. She hastily wiped her face, hitched up her voluminous skirts, and walked to Madam Rosmerta's, who, upon seeing her, exclaimed in surprise, "Aren't you supposed to be at the wedding?"
"Where's Ron?" countered Hermione, glancing about for a sign of red hair and tall frame. But he wasn't there, and she left.
I've woken now to find myself
In the shadows of all I have created
I'm longing to be lost in you
The Hog's Head Inn was no different, and she'd received no curious looks. Outside, she stamped her foot in frustration before remembering a charm for finding love.
With wand in her hand, she did the necessary movements and chanted, "Inveniam Amori."
Hermione felt a compulsion pulling her wand and she let it lead her outside Hogsmeade to a little-used road. Further from the town she walked, her shoes aching her feet all the more.
After what seemed like forever, the force pulling her wand lifted, and before her stood an inn, little more than a shack, barely able to hold itself up. The walls shook as a wizard in torn robes was thrown out of a window. A rusted, rotting sign on the roof swung from the force of his passing.
"The Buggered Hedgehog," Hermione read in disbelief and disgust.
Mixed profanities echoed out as the wizard lunged back into the inn.
"Fuuuccck!!!" yelled another wizard as he was hauled out of the fray, landing with an oof! at her feet.
"Ron?" she gasped, recognizing the mop of red hair and familiar blue eyes.
"Hermione?" he winced up at her, rolling on all fours to try to get himself up. She tried to help him, but he brushed her off with a growl.
He walked over to a trough, pulled out his wand and muttered a cleansing spell on the murky water before dipping his head in. Like a dog he shook the water off, tore his torn robe over his head and wiped his wet face with it.
He eyed her. For someone who wore his heart on his sleeve, now his face was unfathomable. "Shouldn't you be at your wedding?" he asked begrudgingly, betraying his mask.
"I... I called it off," she sputtered, wringing her wand in nervousness.
Ron raised an eyebrow.
"Well, I... I left a note."
His brow lowered, and with a wave of wand, conjured a bench. He sat down with his shoulders slumped, his robe balled up in his hands.
Hermione lowered herself beside him, her eyes flickering from him to the sign of the inn.
"I couldn't go through with it," she filled the suffocating silence. "I don't love him... not the way that I lo- I tried to look at the rest of my life with him, tried to convince myself that it could happen, that I could grow to love him.
"But I couldn't... Because I see you. Instead of him. I see you."
She watched him from under her lashes. His hands had stilled during her speech. Hermione noticed the bruises on his knuckles, and her insides ached at his pain.
"I realize that you're really angry with me, and hurt, enough that you'll start a brawl in a place that's ready to collapse like that, though it's probably had its share of violence or it wouldn't be ready to fall off," she babbled. "Then again, maybe some spells are holding it together for it to last like that."
Her heart constricted at his continued silence. It frightened her to see him so passionless, so unresponsive. She missed his emotional outbursts, but she reckoned the wrecked cottage and the almost-demolished inn were enough indicators of his usual expressive flares.
She sniffled, her nose inflamed from the onslaught of tears, her heart sinking at the thought that she was too late.
"You probably don't love me anymore," murmured Hermione, remembering the last shredded petal. She felt rather childish to let something like that decide what she wanted more in her life.
I've woken now to find myself
I'm lost in the shadows of my own
I'm longing to be lost in you
Away from me
Ron breathed in frustration. He rose from the bench and threw his robe on the ground before hauling her up to his arms and kissing her with all that he had in him.
"Shut up, Hermione. Don't talk like that." He rested his forehead against hers. "I still love you and I'll never stop," whispered Ron against her lips. "No matter whether you push me away or how much you hurt me. I'll always love you."
She felt overcome with relief and clemency, her heart filling and lifting within her breast. "I'm sorry," she choked out, but he shushed her with another engrossing kiss that quickly deepened, engulfing them with sensation and bliss.
After a while, they drew away to come up for air, arms still around each other. The Buggered Hedgehog was finally still, the momentary war within it calmed down. Ron and Hermione looked at each other, aware of nothing else but themselves.
"Ron?"
"Yes?"
A teary, tremulous smile broke from her lips.
"I am exactly where I'm supposed to be."
=le finitissime=
A/N: The "buggered hedgehog" and the hedgehog song inspired by Terry Pratchett.
The Latin charm Inveniam Amori translates to "Let me find [my] love."
This story is just a little something different from the usual Hermione-gets-married-and-Ron-comes-and-ruins-it-and-they-end-up-together fics. For this one I want the choice to not get married to another guy to be hers.