Requiem

Requiem

Chords of Fame

Hermione knocked, politely, knowing that she was both early and unexpected, and Draco Malfoy told her to come in. Hermione pushed open the unlocked door and flinched when it swung hard back and caught on a large fruitcake sent by one of Harry's well-wishers. She had never become comfortable with this lack of security her best friend took for granted. Harry's living room was a tip, as usual, despite clear efforts to clean it up for the party. The edges were blunted by stacks of old newspapers, books, Quidditch equipment; empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays were cemented to every surface, and the rug and couched smelled faintly of beer and more strongly of vanilla air freshener. Someone, probably Malfoy, had made a half-assed attempt to tidy up by polishing around things and taking out the trash.

Malfoy and Ron were on the couch, talking softly about something or someone--at a guess, about Harry. Their heads were so close together they almost touched, pale-gold to red-gold, and Hermione felt a surge of fear. No one sat like that but lovers and best friends and worst enemies, and Ron had no business being any of those with Malfoy. Ron, despite the years and the words they both had said, and meant, was hers and he was Harry's.

Five months later she watched Ron watch Malfoy struggle for breath, while Harry bent over him making small distressed sounds. I did this, she thought, this is my fault. In the dimness of the infirmary he looked like a doll, too pretty to be real. It was hard to imagine that he was a killer, that he was destroying Harry. Easier to remember the man she had gone to bed with, the man whose baby grew within her even now. Easier to remember that he had been kind, and gentle, though he had not had to be. She almost turned and walked away before they saw her, but she had promised herself when she stood for Minister that she would never turn away from any of her people.

When she stepped into the room Ron looked up at her (and she had heard the expression "his heart was in his eyes" but never seen it) there was something about his face, beloved and betrayed, that made her want to cry. "Hermione," he said very softly, and he stared at the awkward bulge of her stomach. Beside him Malfoy turned to look at her but his eyes were unfocused, black against the white of his face. Beside the bed there was a bowl full of bloody water and she made herself turn away.

Ron followed her out into the hall and closed the door firmly behind them. "Hermione," he said again, and she put out a hand to him. They had not been this close to one another in years, not since before she had stood for the Ministry and won. She had asked him, then, why he was not happy for her, and he had said it was because he thought that leadership required gentleness as well as intellect. People thought that Ron was stupid--even she had thought that once--but somehow he saw the things no one else could see.

Ron took her hand and turned it palm up. She thought he meant to kiss it; she set herself to stop it. Then he was on his knees before her. "Marry me," he breathed, and Hermione went still. It was not the first time he had asked her and it would not be the first time she had refused him. They would only tear one another apart because she was not capable of tenderness and he was not capable of viciousness. And yet, every day she was without him it was as if she were being torn apart.

Divorce was rare in the wizarding world, far rarer than it was for Muggles; until twenty years ago it had required an act of parliament to dissolve a marriage. When her own parents had divorced in the middle of the war Hermione had been embarrassed to tell her friends. She did not particularly want to raise this baby alone, but what, exactly, was the alternative? Hope that Ron would suddenly turn into a different person? That Draco Malfoy would decide she should be the mother of his heirs? As well hope for the moon as for that. She might wait her whole life for a prince on a white horse, and die alone.

This baby was her chance to have what other women had, and Hermione thought sometimes that she would like to carry it forever. It would be safe, there; it would be hers and hers alone. But she might not be capable of tenderness, gentleness, any of the feminine virtues, and still she could be capable of generosity. Why not share this with Ron, really? If it didn't work--and it wouldn't--at least they would have had a few moments of happiness. She felt like a war bride when she dropped her eyes to his face and said yes, except that she was the one wearing pants.