Devoted

Ron was a wonderful man, a wonderful friend, even a wonderful husband. Hermione loved him, in her own way. There was no denying it.

Sure, that made it all justifiable.

Sometimes, when she tore her eyes away from the man who seemed to always capture her attention when she was in his presence, she saw Ron watching her as she watched him. She wondered if he knew how she felt or if he ignored all of the obvious clues. She would never want to hurt him, yet this would cause him the utmost pain. Really, though, how could he not see? Sometimes she prayed that his observation skills would disintegrate completely so he would never know; other times she would wish him to find out and betray her as she had him.

She was three months pregnant with their first child. At a time when her life should have been filled with joy, usually when she sat down and let herself realize what her life had become she was only filled with an indescribable sadness. She was truly looking forward to the birth of her child (it would no doubt be a rambunctious redhead, hopefully with a liking for her beloved books), but she wondered how she could mother the child of one man while thinking of another.

It was pathetic and clichéd, she realized, to pine away after someone she couldn't have. Some of the very things she adored about him were intricately tied into the way he behaved with the one he loved -- someone, surely, he was meant to be with.

And so she would look at Ron with affection come love and let him love her. He was good and kind, with an adorable sort of devotion and warm arms that made her feel safe. She could be happy with Ron. He would do everything he could to make her happy.

Still, she cursed her heart for betraying her.

* * * * *

"Darling, are you feeling all right?" Ron always sounded so worried about her these days. The first pregnancy is the toughest, he would say, repeating his mother's advice.

"Fine," Hermione replied distantly, leaning back in a chair in their kitchen with her legs propped up onto another chair. To be perfectly honest, she just wanted Ron to leave her alone so she could think freely. When he was nearby, she always felt like her thoughts were a betrayal to him.

They had been married less than two years, and sometimes she couldn't stand the sight of him.

"Harry and Draco are coming for dinner," Ron added mildly. "I thought I'd make pasta."

Hermione shut her eyes briefly, forcing back the impulse to scream. "Sounds delicious. Did you invite Gin?"

"Of course. She had some urgent affair at the company, but she said she'd come by for cocktails later."

"Wonderful." I don't think I could stand being alone with the men in my life for an entire evening.

Ron kissed her on the forehead and moved towards the stove. "I'll get started on the pasta, then."

Dutifully, Hermione asked, "Do you want any help?"

"No, I can handle it. Why don't you go take a nap?" Ron didn't like to let her make the slightest exertion anymore. Hermione longed to snap at him, "I'm pregnant, not crippled!" but had restrained herself thus far.

Instead, she simply nodded and eased herself out of the chair, heading towards the master bedroom -- which really wasn't so masterful, considering the size of their tiny flat. It was a cozy flat, though, and it was home. No matter the size, it would always be special in her memory for the simple fact that it was her first home with her husband.

Slowly, she shut the door behind her and climbed into the bed, pulling the covers around her and breathing in the combined scent of Ron and herself, her lavender bath salts mingling with the fresh smell of a park or forest after a rainstorm that always lingered on him. She loved their combined scent; it was so earthy and natural, as if Mother Earth wanted them together even when parts of her didn't.

Sometimes, particularly when they were curled up together in bed, Ron seemed like the best husband in the world and, better yet, the perfect husband for her. Here, in the sanctity of their bed, they were more in love than they were anywhere else and Hermione could fool herself into believing that it was always like that. Oh-so-rarely did she ever violate that sanctity with thoughts of her someone else, and if she did, she was usually alone in the flat and feeling particularly blue.

Yes, the most confusing thing about her life was that she did love Ron, very much. She didn't just love him as a friend, either; it was more than that. When they made love it was special and brilliant and drove all thoughts of another from her mind. Most of the time, she did not regret her decision to marry him, even as the Christian beliefs of her childhood told her repeatedly that she would burn in hell for deceiving her husband and coveting another.

Quite suddenly, she heard Harry's frustrated voice wafting in from the kitchen. He must have Apparated in -- but where was Draco? She strained her ears for the familiar sardonic voice but could not hear it. Slowly, she tiptoed towards the door and cracked it open so she could listen better.

"I'm just completely at my wit's end with him, Ron!" Harry was yelling. "It's still so hard to tell if he even cares, even after all the years we've been together and everything we've gone through to get here!"

"It takes awhile for ferret-faced gits to completely reform," Ron replied, half-joking. Hermione bristled even as a small smile broke her face when she remembered Draco Malfoy, the Amazing Bouncing Ferret.

"Sometimes he's just so tender and loving, and then he'll completely change into that bloody git we despised!" Harry sounded absolutely enraged.

"Natural to get frustrated," Ron said. "Want a spot of tea?"

Hermione had heard enough. Without pausing to consider the consequences of her actions, she Disapparated.

When she appeared a moment later, she was standing just outside the front door of Harry and Draco's house. She did not let herself hesitate before raising a hand to knock on the door.

At first, she thought he hadn't heard her, or maybe he had gone on a walk. After several moments of pounding heartbeats, he finally answered the door. As usual, he was immaculate: his hair slicked back, robes neat and probably worth more than a month's rent at her flat. The only sign that he and Harry had just fought was deep in his eyes, behind the aloof exterior.

"I heard you and Harry had a row," she said haltingly. "I thought you might need a -- a friend."

He nodded slowly and let her inside.

Immediately, she bustled into the kitchen and began to make a pot of tea. "Sit down like a good boy," she ordered Draco, letting her bossy, business-like qualities take over for the time being. They were well suited to the occasion, because if she didn't behave this way, there was really no telling what she was liable to do.

Obediently, he sat at the kitchen table and watched as she prepared the tea, occasionally telling her where various items (spoons, sugar, etc.) were kept. Finally, she poured them each a cup and settled across from him at the table.

"Ron never lets me do anything anymore," she confided, knowing he would feel more comfortable if she ran the conversation, as conversations about emotions were not Draco Malfoy's strong suite. "It's nice to be able to make a cup of tea without being yelled at."

Draco smiled thinly. "Driving you crazy, is he?"

"Sometimes," she answered noncommittally.

"It seems to be going around."

"What happened?" she asked quietly.

"You know Harry -- anyone can read his mood in half a second. He wonders why he can't read me as easily, even after all these years."

"And you--"

"Don't want to be read that easily, not by anyone."

"Not even the person you want to share your life with?"

"Not even Harry."

Hermione let silence fall for a long moment. "But you love him," she finally said quietly, desperately.

Draco met her eyes, surprised. "Of course. I . . ." He looked faintly embarrassed but pushed ahead anyway. "I don't think I'll ever stop loving Harry." Some part of her was honored that he would confide such things to her; another part of her wanted to throw the teacup in her hand at the wall.

She mentally counted to five before replying, "He loves you very much."

"I know." Draco nodded. "I'm not sure he knows how much I love him. I don't think he'll ever believe me, no matter how many times I tell him."

"Love is hard for Harry." Love is hard for everyone.

Draco glanced around, as if expecting someone to jump out at him. "Hermione, I don't know what to do."

Hermione was surprised: Draco never said such things, not even to her, and they were relatively close friends. Though she was probably closer with Harry and Ginny, she was almost certain that she was the closest friend he had outside of Harry.

She forced a bright smile onto her face. "Let Auntie 'Mione take care of you then. I'll take you upstairs and tuck you in for a good nap, and then when Harry comes back, you'll be well-rested and the two of you can talk." When had she become the marriage counselor for this relationship she both didn't and did want to continue to exist?

Draco smiled thinly at her and let her lead him upstairs like a child. Mechanically, she took off his shoes ["Oh, you'll be a great mum," he said with a small smile.] and covered him with a blanket. He lay on his back, looking up at her with an expression she couldn't quite read [No wonder Harry's so frustrated.] before closing his eyes. For a moment, she sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his hair gently, trying to soothe him to sleep. His breathing deepened, and she leaned down to kiss him on the cheek before leaving.

He was perfect.

And she walked through the door, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. She cleaned up the mess from the tea and Disapparated.

When Hermione arrived home that night, Harry and Ron were listening to the Wizarding Wireless Network and laughing and joking. She sent Harry home and pulled her husband into their bedroom. Yes, sometimes Ron seemed like the best husband in the world -- and perfect for her.

* * * * *

Fin