InsaneJournal

Fic: Baggage, Ron/Hermione, R
Title: Baggage
Author: foreword
Topic: Falling out of love.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the world or anything, really. I have a nice feather comforter.
Character or pairing: Ron/Hermione
Rough word count: 562
Warnings: minor HBP spoiler
A/N: A fic for Session 1 of wizard_trauma's challenge.

Thanks to cloudsurfing for the beta. :) LJ-cut text and the second parentheses from It's Cool, We Can Still Be Friends by Bright Eyes.




She remembered what it had been like.

It used to be that when she cried, it would be on his shoulder. It used to be that strong arms would hold her together when she was on the verge of falling apart. It used to be that he hurt when she hurt.

But now silent tears fell onto her pillow (her cheek was wet but her nose was defiant) and he was silent beside her.

*

He remembered how it had been.

Feeling like she needed him for once – feeling important. Feeling loved. He’d hold her and she’d fit, like she was supposed to be there, with none of the awkward frenzy of Lavender or someone else. Someone that wasn’t her. But now she all but ignored him – a stranger spending nights next to him only to wait out the next day (I’m only here so that you’re not alone).

What hurt most was the realisation that he wanted things this way.

*

He hadn’t kissed her in ages, hadn’t touched her in what felt like years. Sometimes, in public, his lips would brush her cheek awkwardly and she’d burn with embarrassment at the lie. She’d taken matters into her own hands, at first (secretly trembling beside him in the dark) but she didn’t even have fantasies anymore.

She’d touched his hand yesterday and his fingers had scurried away in fear.

*

When he’d started pretending she was someone else, he’d stopped fucking her. Fucking. It hadn’t been anything else in too long, and neither was satisfied anymore (the tighter they held on, the more it slipped away).

And sometimes his mind would slip away, to blonde hair and perfect features and he’d come mentally screaming some one else’s name.

He’d been afraid to touch her after that. Afraid of himself, afraid of this, afraid he’d slip.

*

She wrote letters often, but sent them rarely.

Harry never knew how much he was missed, or how much his absence had now become a presence. Harry never knew, because her tears would ruin the words, ink splattering and rolling down the parchment until nothing was left.

But there wasn’t really anyone else to tell. Hermione had never felt so alone as she did lying beside him at night, her best friend in the world (so distant yet so close) oblivious to her pain.

*

He wondered if she was seeing someone else.

He watched her writing quietly in corners while he beat himself at chess, and sometimes he wondered if she’d taken up with Viktor again. Or someone else.

There was a strange feeling in his chest one night, like some last note of surrender (it can’t be saved now), when he realised he was hoping.

*

She shouldn’t be surprised that he is leaving.

She watched him pack his things wordlessly, afraid to ask where he’s going or why. Afraid hearing him say it will make it real.

She can tell he is thinking about kissing her, and she’s relieved when he hugs her instead, his embrace as awkward as the whisper at her ear (she can’t stand to feel him against her).

“Sorry.”

She closes her eyes, her fingers curling slightly against his robes as he pulls away, stepping through the open door and leaving her there (she wonders if there is anything else he forgot to take with him).

“Me too.”