Tiny Little Fractures

It may have started with the little things. Little things Ron had begun to neglect. Little things that in reality were truly important, little things like combing her hair after she'd taken a shower or kissing her before going to work. Stupid little things.

Ron always thought that if it didn't work out, Hermione would let him know. She'd sit him down and say: "Look, Ron. We were obviously wrong when we thought we could do this, be together like this."

She'd correct their mistake like she used to correct all of the factual errors in his Potions essays or the way he spoke his incantations in Charms class. At Hogwarts, she'd been his living, breathing homework planner, pressuring him to get some work done. He could count on her to tell him when he'd done something incorrectly or improperly.

Because it was Wingardium Leviosa, not Wingardium Leviosa.

She'd always done that.

It's how Ron thought of their friendship; she'd tell him to stay in line and he'd tell her to loosen up. They were both too stubborn to take each other’s advice; instead they had to make each other listen. Ron would joke and force a smile out of her and Hermione would argue until he'd agree that she had a point and get on with whatever it was he should've been doing. There was a certain balance, a certain way things always went. It had been secure.

This was different. This time she wasn't telling him what to do. The thought was too scary for Ron to think about; that this time, not even Hermione had a solution.

She was scared and worried now. Hermione wasn't in any shape to sit down and have a nice, rational talk with him. Things weren't right. She soon realised that Ron didn't understand this; how everything was heading to the wrong direction, falling apart on the way.

Just like they were falling out of love. It was easy to fall in love, but it was much easier to fall apart.

She'd cry about it during nights, silently, with tears just rolling off her cheeks, and he'd lie awake beside her and listen, but wouldn't touch her, wouldn't hold her. It was probably what she needed the most and something he couldn't make himself do. Sometimes he was too sad to do it, other times simply too angry. Maybe all he needed to do was reach over and close the gap between them. Press closer to her, wrap his arms around hers and mumble silly words into her hair. But he never reached over and the bed stayed cold in the middle.

Whenever things were bad, Ron Weasley had a habit of shutting it out. When a problem was standing in his way, staring at him right in the eye, he chose to ignore it just because dealing with it would be difficult or painful. In this case it was both which was all the more reason for Ron to ignore it. Put it aside.

Another morning and he sat at the breakfast table and stared into his tea cup, some leaves circling slowly near the bottom of it and he thought of Divination - how he could never see this coming. She carried her own cup to the sink and turned around to face him.

"Ron, I--" she began, but words got stuck on her throat. The silence was heavier after that. She burned his toast and apologized, asking herself why magic couldn't fix kitchen blunders. And their routines would stay the same and she'd make him toast again the next day. And the next.

She tried or at least she told herself she had tried but he didn't help. Every little argument about him not saying anything and her not looking away from him tore them apart even more.

Every angry and silent moment mostly just hurt.

He said nothing and she avoided his eyes; they knew it'd upset the other one, but they couldn't help it. Ron didn't know what to say and she couldn't look him in the eye when he was angry. To her it felt like his eyes would burn marks on her; more things magic couldn't fix.

The heated arguments didn't end to become fevered notes on Hermione's diary, the one she kept irregularly. Neither did they end with violent lovemaking, sweat on sheets and lamps fallen over. Instead they ended with broken objects one of them would have to clean up, glasses shattering from slammed doors. There'd just be heartbreak and maybe running tears. And when things were really bad, there wouldn't be any more tears.

Then, a few days later, one of them would say something that loosely fit the definition of an apology and that'd be it. Until the next argument that'd stretch and tear them a little more.

Hermione wanted to turn stonecold, because it was how she felt and how Ron saw her. There was a barrier again. A barrier he had broken at school, when he'd forced that smile out of her; a barrier he no longer had any strength to break.

Ron remembered one argument from two weeks ago. He'd played the last minute of it in his head over and over again, like a song that refused to leave his mind.

"So that's what you think, is it?" He had been so angry. So angry at her avoiding eyes, so angry at everything she had said. "And what do you mean, I don't love you?" he had asked.

Hermione truly had meant what she had said then, but not being able to face him, she had instead gazed at the broken tea cup on the floor.

"I'm still standing here, aren't I?" he had asked. "Maybe if you just thought of it first, maybe if you just..." Ron had trailed off, his eyes fixing on the cup as well.

She had thought of it long ago. And she knew that if he truly didn't care, he wouldn't be here. So much was true, but Ron's effort to stand there wasn't enough. That he should've understood.

Harry was there, of course, but he was unable to help. He occasionally had a pint with Ron and a talk with Hermione, but it wouldn't, couldn't possibly help at this point.

Harry met Hermione in a Muggle coffee shop and Hermione finally let herself go and cried silently, holding her cup of hot chocolate. He had seen her cry before, but Harry never knew exactly how to handle it. He put his hand around her shoulders and held her like that for a while. He sometimes told her it would be all right. And then she cried more because she knew better, knew it wasn't going to be all right.

Ron spent an evening with Harry in the Leaky Cauldron a few weeks later. He idly listened to Harry's voice but secretly thought about two sides of the same coin. Being perfect for each other, all that rubbish. Ron didn't like Divination and all the pseudo-sciences but he wanted answers, he wanted answers better than "the little things that went wrong". This is why he looked for answers in star signs and compatibility charts.

But they were meant to be. Perfect on paper.

"It shouldn't have happened," he told Harry, staring sadly at the remains of his butterbeer. "I shouldn't have asked her to be with me."

Harry stared at his best friend for a while after that comment. He thought it was probably the best thing that could've happened to the two of them, but it just shouldn't end this way. Secretly he only wanted his two best friends back; to go back in time like that.

"Right," Harry said, attempting to sound as unbiased as possible. Ron didn't really listen and bored with the whole scenario, Harry emptied his glass and helped Ron home. Watching Ron sway while walking up the steps, his hand grasping the rail, Harry felt like saying something he'd been holding in for a long time.

"You want to know what I think?" Harry said awkwardly, staring at the gleaming black asphalt, wet from the rain. Ron stopped and turned around, his hand leaving the rail and slipping into the pocket of his jacket.

"You're my best friend, mate," he said with a desperate expression. "Of course I do."

"I think-- well, neither of you are very happy," Harry mumbled against the collar of his coat, but in the silence of the night, Ron heard him perfectly well.

"We really aren't, are we?" Ron asked sadly. Yet, at the same time, he felt a small feeling of relief. They weren't happy. He would leave her. They could be happy separately. The mere thought of it stung badly, but Ron still thought Harry was right.

Harry. He had just solved Ron's problem.

Harry walked home that evening, thinking how he wasn't one to give anyone advice. Sitting in his apartment, Harry tried not to think about it. But he couldn't shut it out. The night Harry Potter broke his friends up.

In that "last nail on the coffin"-sort of way. It was still bad enough in Harry's mind.

Ron climbed the stairs to the small apartment later that night. Hermione's face was twisted with anger as he walked in. Now she was looking him in the eye and suddenly he didn't like it, it made him feel guilty and stupid.

"You promised to be home early," she stated. Her voice was stern, but her face didn't look angry anymore. It just looked sad.

Ron's stomach turned as he mumbled his apologies and tried to walk past her. She stepped in his way, looking up at him.

"Ron." The despair in her voice told him more than he needed to know about how bad she felt. Words were dust in his mouth and he said nothing, walking pass her and this time she let him. He went to bed quietly that night, feeling the bed shift later as she lay down next to him. He was nervous and felt like moving, rolling around, but he didn't. Ron had made up his mind now.

After the sun had gone up and light had filled the room, Ron woke up. For breakfast, she had made him toast as usual. He sat down to eat it, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. She looked at him in the eye and he saw what was coming before she said it.

She had also made up her mind. "I'm leaving you in a week."

Her arms were crossed protectively over her chest as she leaned back against the kitchen counter and stared at him.

"Why a week?" he asked after clearing his throat. He could imagine his heart being torn out of his chest, lying on the plate in front of him now and he didn't feel like eating, for a change.

"I just need some time to pack and find my own place," she said, matter-of-factly. Her tone irritated him and instead of hurt he was now angry.

"Right." He'd chewed the same bite of his toast for the past three minutes. He swallowed it slowly.

"Well, I must get to work now." She hurried herself to the living-room, appearing again after a few minutes. Clutching her bag, her other hand digging through it, she looked at Ron and the barrier was gone for a moment.

"I.. I'm sorry, Ron."

I know, he thought to himself. She hadn't known how to correct him this time. It wasn't her fault. She just hadn't known, for once in her life.

"I'm sorry too," he said dryly, moving his eyes to his toast. It was slightly black in one corner.

And soon she was gone. Gone in the vague sense. She was still there, living and breathing in the same space he was in, but not there at the same time. He couldn't live there anymore, couldn't live with Hermione who was like a ghost now, so he moved in with Harry until she phoned and told Harry her new address. Ron didn't listen to the conversation, but he did see the note Harry had scribbled. He memorized the address by accident and hated himself for it.

Then she was gone for good. Gone in the proper sense of the word. Out of his life. It hurt more than he told Harry it did and less than he told himself it did. And he moved in the old apartment again and not everything was a memory of her.

The phrase "You don't get over it, but you learn to deal with it" had never seemed more fitting in to any situation Ron had been in before.

Three months later he met Luna Lovegood on Diagon Alley. Luna spoke to him about ice. Tiny fractures, small cracks of ice - Luna said, that when there were enough of small cracks, the ice wouldn't support anyone. It'd collapse completely under your feet. And then you'd fall into the cold water and submerge.

Ron figured this person might sound too sane to be Luna, but he thanked her for the information and they exchanged addresses. Ron hoped Luna wouldn't write to him. She was wrong. When the ice collapses under you, you don't drown fast. It will take ages. Unless you can get yourself up and walking on new, thick ice.

Then Ron knew he hated the little things a lot, but even more did he hate metaphors.