It's been exactly three months.
Three months since that red-headed, freckle-faced git absolutely broke her. Ripped her to shreds.
Claimed he didn't have time for a serious relationship— what with all of his post-war fame; women fawning all over him at pubs and cameras flashing at his every move. Claimed their relationship was beginning to feel like a waste of time.
She remembers thinking that his realization was a bit too late— a year too late to be exact.
A year wasted of her time— wasted with weekly dinners and mediocre sex; not a single orgasm gifted from that sloppy tongue of his— she's nearly mastered the perfect face for faking climax; is in utter shock the movie industry hadn't come knocking at her door.
Regardless— she took it hard. Cried until there were no more tears left to spill. Ate copious amounts of ice cream— and even went as far as watching soapy drama shows on the old television she has caddied in the corner of her brick-walled flat's living space.
What a waste of tears— and ice cream.
And Harry? He's taken up the side of his best mate— distancing himself from her; awkward waves in passing and occasional quiet lunches at the office that include small talk over steaming cups of tea; breaking apart croissants to busy their hands.
And she's bored— hasn't made any new friends since the departure of her ex-lover. Hasn't ventured out on any dates, and to be quite frank— she's lonely; lonely in every sense of the word. Could even go as far as to say that she's touch starved. Desperate, even. Which is embarrassing. But she's a lady— and a lady has needs. Needs that require companionship.
She's patiently waiting for Harry to come around; misses having someone to talk to about drama at the Ministry— misses simply having a friend.
Is tired of spending nights alone while the bustle of Wizarding London lives on around her apartment building.
To fill the void, she's thrown herself into a new hobby— dance. She's a natural.
And she's discovered ballet and ballroom are her preferred genres of the art— they flow; have interesting histories.
They make her feel pretty— something Ronald Weasley was never able to accomplish successfully, even in his years of pining.
Madam Rosmerta has opened a studio in an old room above The Three Broomsticks; has used expansion charms galore, but nevertheless, it's quite lovely— she's done a marvelous job with renovations.
Oak wooden ballet barres line three of the white paneled walls. The long wall at the front of the studio is covered floor to ceiling in pristine mirroring that the light from the windows bounce off creating a comforting and warm environment.
She's currently studying herself in the reflection of the mirror— she's just finished a strenuous barre class; hair is tied messily into a sweaty bun.
She rips the silk ribbon from around it aggressively, and her hair falls rather delicately over her shoulders in cascades of dark curls. She shakes her head a few times to straighten the kinks the ribbon had made— gives up after a few tries and ties it back into a low ponytail.
Her legs are trembling from the tedious routines, so she turns and leans into one of the barres to attempt to stretch out her calf muscles.
She's alone in the room; it's quiet aside from the hustle and bustle of Hogsmeade below.
Madam Cygness, the ballet instructor, had asked her to stay after class, and she must admit— she's rather nervous.
She can't stand being unsure of things— the element of surprise is not her favorite thing in the world— especially after experiencing the biggest surprise of her life: war.
