Dwindling Pieces

Lassitude

Part 1

She feels her abdomen constrict, the muscles of her stomach clenching like a fist taut with anger, and then release in a painful, swift motion. She closes her eyes to prevent herself from seeing the contents that spew from her open mouth, and she cries out in pain and disgust. Against her protesting muscles, she forces herself onto the floor, wishing there were strong arms around her as she curls up on her side. In the back of her mind she vaguely wonders why she lays flush against the cold and tries to retain body heat at the same time, but the rhythmic beating against her head and ribs is more vivid than such thoughts.

"Ron..." she chokes out. There is no answer.

Her whole body shakes, the tremors vibrating to the tips of her fingers. A loud, piercing ring echoes in her ears and a sob escapes her lips as she shakes her head, trying in vain to rid herself of the noise.

But there's another sound, and it is more thunderous than her thoughts and the ringing. It's high and low in pitch at the same time, and it quiets everything.

She looks around in groggy wonder, opening her eyes to small slits. There's a blinding white light in the foreground of pastel green tiles, and her vision is only clear enough to make out the shapes of the toilet and tall, pristine white sink. She lifts her head a fraction, trying to remember what direction the sound came from.

She hears it again and looks up toward the sink. She envisions the faucet and the small drop that must have fallen.

Drop.

She knows Draco will have a tantrum when he finds out that the plumbing in his house is not perfect. A small smile forms on her face and she closes her eyes as she slowly lets her head fall to the floor.

She wonders how Draco is doing. He seemed reluctant to take Harry up to his room. She'd wanted to follow him, but Ron had decided to walk in at that moment. It wasn't the first time that she hadn't been happy to see him, and she had reluctantly told him what happened. She had wanted to race up to see how Harry was doing, but Ron kept her downstairs, not moving from his place. She knew he didn't want to go anywhere near Draco, and all she could think was that he was being a child again. He was being her insensitive best friend, and not her husband. She had growled in her frustration, and decided that she would treat him that way in return.

Drop.

"Why do you even trust him, Hermione?" he had asked.

"Because he's my friend, Ron. Trusting is what friends generally do. But you seem to fail at it when I'm around him!"

Ron ignored her comment. "And does he trust you?"

It was then that her stomach had felt like it had been infected with lead - the poisonous kind that pipes had once been made of. She doesn't know why it happened, but she had suddenly needed to be violently ill. She had told Ron that now was not the time, and asked that he check on them while she ran to the nearest lavatory.

Drop.

Here she is now, lying on the tiles after an extreme emptying of her bowels. She wonders why she had felt ill at the moment of his question. Hermione has been feeling ill for the past several weeks, starting around the time they found Harry. She doesn't think she was sick because of Ron's question; it was simply bad timing.

Drop.

Poor Harry. She remembers how Draco had said weeks after Harry's appearance that he would help personally with Harry's recovery. Draco wouldn't just provide for him, but also teach him. She thinks it was during a moment of weakness, being strained between his demanding work and his conflicting emotions. Draco's frailty has not escaped Hermione's attention; he would never admit to it, but she knows that he does not eat and does not sleep; he is so consumed by his thoughts during the day that he does not consider his physical needs anymore.

Drop.

Harry has been a blow to Draco's system, and Hermione knows the consequences. It has happened before, even though she was not friends with Draco when it first happened. Harry had approached her late at night years ago, and told her simply to watch Draco. His meaning implied that he wanted Draco safe, and it scared Hermione. She had noticed his late night disappearances during their Hogwarts days, the glances and the intensified desire the boys had had to start fights. She had wondered if they had fought during that time simply to touch each other.

And when she realized that Harry had left the next morning, she had run to find Draco out on the lawn near the lake. Some how he had known too, and when he had looked up at her there had been such a hollow pit that had buried itself in Draco's eyes. Hermione remembers the urge she had had to scream, for Draco hadn't been expressionless, he had simply been a void.

Drop.

"He's gone."

Silence.

"He's never left me without saying good-bye."

"So it's true?"

"That we were together?"

Silence.

"Every moment that we spend apart is testament to the fact that we no longer are."

Drop.

There had been weakness there, dancing around the boy like the dust motes that were visible in the vivid sunlight. Draco had never been one to admit his feelings, but in such dire moments... Apparently he did. Hermione hadn't known what to do, and she had been afraid that she couldn't help Draco, let alone watch him like she had promised Harry.

It is not the first time that she wonders why she had been more afraid for Draco than for Harry. She knew at the time that Harry would keep himself safe, but she is amazed at how she had been so at peace with his disappearance. Hermione hadn't thought he would come back, because she knew that her friend needed something else; something lesser and far away from what he had. Harry hadn't needed publicity or praise or glory. Neither had he needed the blood of a thousand deaths on his hands. With that knowledge, Hermione had been willing to move on from her life with him.

She only wishes Ron and Draco had been as well.

Drop.

She wishes she had not witnessed Draco's reaction those first few days, nor those first few years. There had been the empty shell of Draco Malfoy, the once cold being ripped to nothing by the disappearance of his rival. She had avoided him after their first encounter, but she hadn't been as successful with Ron. He was much like Draco; acting as if his life had ended with Harry's leaving. He didn't have faith that Harry was alright, or that Harry wanted to be gone. Ron was selfish and wanted Harry back.

But she had been selfish as well; both boys were pieces of fragile framework that she hadn't wanted to carry, and avoided at all times. She may have been at peace with Harry leaving, but the remains of what he had left behind were over-whelming. People needed help and comfort, and the wizarding world had to recover from the back lash of the war. On top of that, people wanted to know where their Hero was, and she had had no answers to give them.

Drop.

But it had all seemed irrelevant within a matter of weeks. Hermione had always liked to think she was a respectable being, and she had kept her promise to Harry. She watched Draco daily, but she found after he had overcome his initial shock, Draco could not remain rational in any way. His life after Hogwarts soon constituted of constant searching. He pulled every string he could to find Harry, and when his resources were used up, Hermione had watched him go through law school and learn more, creating new connections, learning new ways of manipulating people, and demand that a more thorough search be done for Harry.

His passion has been non-existent. Draco Malfoy had been known to be vibrant in his anger, but it had been wiped from him. His determination had become dull, though it was as stubborn as ever. Hermione had hoped with a strange, strangled sort of hope that that one remaining characteristic would revive him; that his hatred would kick in and drive at full speed instead of being stuck in neutral.

She has watched him daily, her job in the research department at the firm being her only success in the whole mess. Quite frankly, she thinks, the job is as dull as a spoon, no matter if it involves books. She has never wanted to be there, and still doesn't, but every day she reminds herself of the promise she has made and endures the tedium.

Drop.

But there were days, and always are days, where she wishes she could escape to her home, to the home that she shares with Ron. She believes that home is a release, or at least that it is supposed to be. However, during their first years of marriage, Hermione had never wanted to go home. Home had never been a release. It was simply another job; marriage was another career. She would come home to a dark, empty house, and she would spend many of her nights searching for her husband.

It was to her horror that she found him at a pub the first time. She hadn't even known what had made her think to go there, but once she found him there, she eventually realized that she wouldn't find him anywhere else.

The expression 'drowning your sorrows' had very literal meaning to Ron. He started off buying drinks with the money he made playing for the Chudley Cannons, burning holes in his pockets within a matter of moments. The success and pride he might have felt in knowing that he had made it to play for his favorite team was lacking. Hermione soon found Ron not playing for his love of Quidditch, but playing for his love of nights spent at pubs.

Drop.

Hermione had tried to keep Ron from returning to the pubs at night. He eventually developed a habit of going to a different pub every night, and it took her weeks to decide that there was no pattern to his night activities. She had given up stopping him, and even after Ron was kicked off the Cannons for not playing up to par she didn't stop him from finding new jobs to provide him with a substantial income. She had asked herself on many occasions what could she do, but there had been no answer, except to leave him be.
It had made her feel so useless, knowing she couldn't look to the library to solve her problems like she had when she was at Hogwarts. So late at night, earlier on in their marriage, Hermione would return to the empty house and cry herself to sleep. She could never bring herself to wait up for her husband.

Drop.

She doesn't have that problem now. Though Ron may not spend all his nights at the pubs anymore, on the nights when she can't face home Hermione still on occasion stays at Draco's flat in the city. Now that Harry is here at the Manor; she may not even return home for many days and nights at a time. She'll even stay here longer than previously intended, she decides, now that Wilone is gone. She knows Draco will need her help.

Drop.

The faucet will serve to drive her insane if she doesn't leave now. Hermione pushes herself off the floor. The world is tossed back and forth as she stands, and for a second she closes her eyes and puts a hand on her stomach. She momentarily wonders why her world seems topsy-turvy, why things seem to whirl and spin. Hermione has been to see a medi-witch, but she has only been told that she's in perfect condition. When Hermione feels that she has control of her senses, she slowly makes her way to the hall and up the grand staircase.

The portraits on the Manor walls ignore Hermione as she passes them, and the corridors wrap her in a life size package of eerie, pressurized silence. She's uncomfortable walking down the suffocating hallways alone. It is sometimes hard to forget that this house once belonged to a man who hated people like her. She sometimes anticipates a trap at every corner, believing someone may still be seeking her end. She is relieved to find the door to the west wing bedroom where she knows Harry is staying, and she reaches out to grasp the handle. The silver knob is warm, and she jumps back slightly.

Hermione wonders who could have just entered. She had sent Draco up with Harry what seems forever ago. Someone else must have gone in.

Ron.

Hermione pushes the door open, hoping for some unknown reason that she'll find her husband. She thinks that her illness has caused her to want Ron's company, to relax in some shred of normality that she can find. It takes her a moment to remember that the only person who can provide her that relief is Draco, and not even he is in such a state to do so.

Hermione shakes her head in irritation. How could she want 'normal' at a time like this?

As the irritation begins to swell, she blames Harry. She begins to think that if he had never left, Ron wouldn't be a mess and neither would she. If he had never come back, Draco wouldn't be caught up in it either, and she wouldn't think that things could possibly be normal. The anger grows, being infectious like a foreign disease, and no matter how hard she tries to fight it, it continues to spread like a fever running rampant in her veins. Hermione knows that she shouldn't be angry, but she is. She shouldn't blame Harry, but there's no other scapegoat right now.

But how could she think so ill of her friend? Hermione wonders. He is in no state of mind to take the blame, and had she not been at peace with his choice for the past ten years?

Taking a deep, calming breath, Hermione closes her eyes and wills herself to think rationally. This is not Harry's fault. Harry is her friend, and she is glad that he is back. All she needs right now is the company of someone; Draco, or even her husband. She needs some one to lean onto, because quite suddenly she is feeling dizzy again. She takes a few more deep breaths before opening her eyes.

Hermione looks around the room from across the threshold and finds that it is empty. Harry's bed constitutes a rumpled sheet and she cannot see anything else save for the back of the large armchair. Her previous anger dissipates as Hermione finds herself confused, and she steps into the room. Not a moment later, she knows she should not have entered. A tremor of fear shakes her body as she sees Harry's head over the top of the armchair. Within an instant, he no longer stares down at the chair, but at her, and his gaze is piercing. Hermione begins to tremble violently as Harry continues to stare at her.

Why is she shaking? Had she not just told herself that this is her friend? She should not be terrified of him. Harry isn't even sane enough to see her, she reminds herself. But there is something about the look in his eyes that suggests to Hermione that this is no longer true. He's straightening up, his gaze never shifting.

Hermione's eyes widen as Harry walks around the chair, his whole body now in front of her. She cannot deny her fear anymore as he grows closer. He seems to strengthen with every stride, and Hermione feels her muscles grow tired as he draws nearer. It's as if his presence is draining every ounce of energy in her body, and like water it is evaporating from her system. She can feel herself being sucked dry, and she falls to the floor.

Her head lies at Harry's feet, and Hermione rolls cautiously to look up at her friend. He looks taller than she remembers him being. But she cannot be sure as her eyes are falling closed. Her lids can no longer stay open, and her head rolls to the side. Her awareness seems to drain away as she lies on the floor.

She can, quite vividly despite her fading thoughts, hear Harry's feet tread across the carpeted floor; hear movement in the large armchair a couple meters away.

She can hear the small, familiar voice, speaking, saying a name.

"Harry?"

The last thing Hermione remembers thinking is that she has never heard Draco say his name before.

*

Some people call the sensation fiery. Some can hardly stand the feeling, yet ache in a desperate way to again partake of it. To Ron it is like coming home, consuming the liquid in swift, harsh gulps. There's the adrenaline that rises as it hits the back of his throat, like the anticipation he feels before opening the front door, wondering if anyone will be home to welcome him. Then he relaxes, allowing the familiar fluid to run down his throat and into his stomach, and it's soothing. It's familiar, like being hugged by some one you love, and as the beverage nestles in his abdomen, Ron is reminded of the feeling of hot tea warming his stomach after a long day at work.

But as the glass hits the wooden bar he signals for another round, feeling miserable. He feels like he's swimming in a sea of booze and pain, and he only knows one way to get out of it - to drown himself in it.

He doesn't like to drown himself in the pain, but every where he goes he knows he'll find it. There's pain at work, where he does not have a passion for a career. He seeks out a new job every week, only to be laid off again. They tell him he has commitment issues, and that he needs to develop his perseverance and endurance.

Pain shrouds itself in the everyday objects of his life. The broomstick against the wall reminds him of flying around the Quidditch pitch with Harry. The chess set on the coffee table was given to him by Harry. The jokes he tells he remembers laughing to with Harry. The pictures on the walls, the news in the Daily Prophet - everything is reminiscent of Harry.

There's pain at home, too, where there's never a wife to greet him, but only the ghost of a child lingering in the walls of a room that it might have grown up in. There are such mass volumes of grief in that room. When Hermione isn't home he walks into it and looks around at the walls. He lies on the floor and wonders what he has done to deserve such a life. He wonders why there isn't a child on the floor with him, jumping up and down and crawling all over him, screaming "Daddy, Daddy, make me fly!"

Has Ron made some sort of choice in the past that prevents his happiness now? He doesn't know and it causes an endless rage to build up inside of him. It's like boiling oil, scathing any surface that it touches. Every now and then it pops, and a torrent of pain and anger floods out after it.

The only way he knows how to calm this current of rage is to give it another of its kind.

Alcohol, Ron reckons, is an angry man's drink. To kill the fury, feed it fury. It is much like the process of cancellation that Ron has seen Hermione practice in Arithmancy problems. If he wants to get rid of a problem, then he needs to match it with a problem that is equal to it.

Ron snatches the glass from the grim bartender and slams it back, downing its contents in one swift motion. He relishes its familiarity as it slides down his throat again.

Sometimes he wonders if he finds enjoyment in drinking simply because it fights the anger inside him. It doesn't make sense to Ron as he turns the thought over in his head. He sits back slightly and puts the glass back on the bar top. He drinks to fight anger, he knows, but isn't Ron angry because his life seems to be going wrong, because wife is angry with him?

And why is Hermione angry with him?

A vague picture forms in Ron's mind, and he pulls at the fringes of his memory to dig it out.

Ron remembers one night, nearly five years ago. He had been at a point in his life where he had tried to devote his life to his work. He had trained countless nights to reach the standard expected to make a Quidditch team. Though Hermione was working at a law firm he had had the urge to contribute to the household income himself, to give him some purpose.

He had eventually made it to play for the Chudley Cannons. But when he had, there had been no joy; there had been no bubbling excitement that rose from his toes and up into his chest like there had been during his Quidditch days at Hogwarts. There had only been dull relief, knowing that he could do something with his life and not feel like he was wasting away.

But on this particular night, five years ago, there had been a small reunion. The students from their year that had survived the war had gathered together to celebrate their five year reunion. Ron had not wanted to go, and Hermione had agreed. Neither one had wanted to face their former peers and be questioned about the man who would not be there with them. Nor had they wanted to receive the condolences regarding their lost child from people they would not recognize.

However, on the night of the reunion, Hermione had returned home early, demanding that Ron put on his dress robes. He had protested, but Hermione had been adamant. Ron never understood why she had suddenly changed her mind.

Ron had spent the whole night at his table while Hermione had watched the crowd like a hawk. Her arms had been crossed and she had glared the entire night, and Ron had no doubt that there had been an invisible, crackling, negative energy surrounding her, warning off their peers, because no one came near them. Ron had sat at the table and amused himself with thoughts of what the energy surrounding them might look like. It would be green, because all energy seemed to be green in his mind. It had been dark, and it was like a lightning storm...

All his thoughts reminded him of someone. They reminded him of eyes, eyes that he would never forget, even though he had not seen them for five years. He dreamt of them at night, sometimes, when he had wished so fiercely that his friend was back.

The thought had been upsetting. He didn't want to remember Harry, because it made him remember what life had been like before the end of the war. Aggrieved, Ron had made his way to the bar at the edge of the dance floor. It was a night of fun amongst his former friends, but he could not share their enjoyment and mirth. He had sat himself down and asked for the strongest drink the bartender had on hand.

Ron doesn't remember how much he drank that night. He does remember that it felt good to have the alcohol slide down his tongue, and he remembers the occasional murmur from friends as they had bid their concern; he shouldn't be drinking that much, they had said. The rest was a blurry haze of lights and amber colored liquid in crystal glasses.

Then there was the screaming as he fell into darkness.

"Ronald Weasley!"

He had opened his eyes and looked up from the ground.

"What do you think you're doing?!"

Ron had coughed and mumbled something.

He remembers people laughing and Hermione sobbing, and he doesn't remember what he had done but it must have been something awful. It must have been something embarrassing. But he doesn't remember.

He does remember that Malfoy had taken Hermione home that night. He recalls seeing Hermione clinging to Malfoy and crying into his shoulder, spoiling his suit. Malfoy hadn't held Hermione in any comforting way, but he had sneered down at Ron.

"No woman, muggleborn or pureblood, deserves to be humiliated by her husband."

Malfoy's words, the ones spoken as he had left, had stuck with Ron. And when Ron had gone home when he was sober enough to walk, he had intended on apologizing to Hermione.

But she hadn't been home. She had been with Malfoy.

He remembers now that that was what had caused the initial frustration and irritation that fueled Hermione and Ron's marriage. She had been embarrassed, and had been swept away by the Ferret. Ron doesn't understand what sort of obligation Malfoy had felt toward Hermione at the time, but they did work together, and he must have felt some amount of pity for her.

Ron had been upset that his wife hadn't wanted to face him. So he had gone to drink his frustration away. But when she caught him drinking again, some nights later, she had gotten angry and he went out again to forget the issues he had.

He decides that life is all a vicious cycle of frustration and anger being bidden, then forgotten, only to be reiterated again.

That's why he drinks now, even though he knows it causes contention between him and his wife; because it helps him forget.

But he knows that tomorrow will only bring more fury.

"You planning on having another?"

Ron looks to the bartender. He decides that he is too sober to forget anything at this point, since he can still tell the difference between the man's nose hair and chest hair poking out of his robes. He grimaces and nods.

As he watches the amber liquid being poured into his glass, Ron is reminded of something. Someone's eyes, he thinks; Hermione?

With this thought, he wonders what Hermione is doing. When Ron had been at the Manor earlier, she had run off after telling him to check on Malfoy and Harry. It disgusts him, knowing she cares more for them than for her own husband. It annoys him when he goes home at night and realizes that Hermione is again at the Manor, or Malfoy's flat, and not where she belongs. Do Malfoy and Harry not already get enough attention? With Harry back, Hermione seems to be gone even more than before, spending even less time with Ron.

Ron had wanted to tell them. Ron wants to tell them, make them notice him and remember that he is there. He wants to tell them that he knows, that he overheard them talking about Harry a few years ago. He knows Malfoy and Harry had been together before Harry's disappearance. He had been sober one night and had wanted to bring Hermione home. He had wanted to prove to her that he could be a man, and that he wanted to be with her. He had gone to Malfoy's flat in the city and had heard them fighting. Hermione had been trying to convince Malfoy to stop looking for Harry. Malfoy had refused to listen to her and had been about to leave when Ron had hear Hermione scream "But if you love him you'll let him be, Draco!"

Ron had been frozen in terror. He had also been lucky that Malfoy had stopped and had not exited the flat, because he would have been found. He had heard Malfoy mumble something about not loving "Potter", and Hermione had mentioned Malfoy and Harry being together at Hogwarts.

He has never told them that he heard them, and Ron has been living with the knowledge of Malfoy and Harry's secret relationship for long enough. The truth is revolting to him. He had wanted to tell them that he knew that day at the Ministry when Harry had been found. He had been furious when Malfoy had said that he would take Harry to the Manor, and Ron had risen out of his seat as his blood had begun to boil. He had been so tempted to say what he knew, and it would have been like being sucked of all the happiness in the world by a dementor to not have been allowed to do so.

But Ron knows that they mustn't know that he knows. Long ago, when they had been at Hogwarts, Ron remembers the way Harry had become wistful toward the end of the war. He would disappear at night and when he got back Ron was there waiting for him. But when Ron asked Harry what was going on, Harry had not answered. Harry had looked at Ron with such power that it had danced in his eyes, like green flames. Ron had been afraid of that power, and let Harry pass without answering.

But one night, the night before Harry disappeared, Ron remembers Harry telling him that, "I trust him, Ron, and I trust you to not let him know that."

He hadn't known what Harry had meant then, but he does now. He decides that he will not tell Malfoy what he knows, because in some twisted, strange way, he had silently sworn to Harry that he would not do so.

Ron remembers now how much he misses Harry as he pushes his drink away. The alcohol is failing to help him forget, and he is only more aware of all the time he misses flying with his friend, playing cards and chess. He misses seeing Harry be a leader, misses Harry being shy and nervous, and misses having some one to joke around with. Ron misses the simple things of his childhood, and he wants them back.

Ron blinks blearily from where he stands, having shoved himself from his seat. The world is unsteady and he gropes for balance. It's humorous how his mind seems so clear but the world around him does not. He wills away the mist that seems to be clouding his sight, and as he steps out of the bar, Ron hopes that he can make it to the Manor. He wants to start anew, with Harry, with Hermione.

He wants to fix life now.