𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 [𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

HERMIONE woke with an aching chest and a coiling abdomen.

She couldn't quite wrap her head around what she had witnessed last night. Ronald Weasley. Her husband of five years, boyfriend for the two previous ones, was having an affair with Merlin knows who. In Hermione's own home, in her bed.

She hated how it made her feel. Of course what he did to her affected her; She loved him—loves him, and he went behind her back and slept with someone else. He betrayed her, and no matter how hard he tried, he could never take it back.

He could march up to her right now and apologize over and over again, but she wouldn't take it; she wouldn't let herself take it. He could be down on his knees in front of her begging for her forgiveness, and she wouldn't let him have it. Not when he had ruined something she had held precious to her.

Maybe it was because she had been working long hours recently, it must've been really hard on him not being able to see his wife, not being able to cuddle up on the couch or even maybe spend the night in bed together.

But it was hard for her too, and she would've never done that to him if was the other way around. Ever. The idea alone had never crossed her mind. She was happy—they were happy, at least she thought they were.

It was all his fault, she knew that. She wouldn't let herself believe that she'd cause such a thing, for him to bring another woman into her bed and make her moan and gasp the way he usually did with her—she shook her head as her mind began to wander. It was all his fault, not hers.

Hermione hadn't realized she had been crying until a droplet landed on the pillow, the fabric slowly absorbing it. Her hand reached up to her face to wipe away any falling tears. It was only then she noticed that her lip was quivering, her hands were trembling, her knees were buckling, and her breathing was very uneven. She was having a panic attack, and she hadn't even realized it. 

A sob wrenched itself from her throat and so she clasped her hands over her mouth as she sat back down. She had to calm down, she had to breathe slowly like Malfoy told her to—Malfoy.

The thought made her head shoot up to look at him; he was sleeping soundly in his bed. She could barely see him through her blurred eyes, but something she did notice was how peaceful he looked. She wanted to thank him for last night—she owed it to him. But he was fast asleep, and she didn't want to disturb him.

She stood up again once she pushed the thought of Ron and some other whore away from her mind. Brushing out the creases of her dress, she turned to fix the sofa she had slept on to make it look presentable. She glanced up at the grey, steel clock hanging on the wall above the sofa, and she realized she had only gotten about two hours of sleep last night.

She was absolutely exhausted, and that was exactly why. Ever since she'd returned home to Ron and his special house guest, she'd fled her apartment. She simply ran down the Muggle streets, passing joggers and a few dog-walkers as she scurried past. She glanced at the church as she wandered, contemplating on whether to go in or not for some shelter and a shred of hope for the best. In the end, she didn't.

It wasn't until about six o'clock in the morning when she showed up in St. Mungo's, fumbling through the corridors and subconsciously heading for Malfoy's room, she wasn't even sure why. Surely it would've made more sense to contact Avery or Aaron, but she knew she couldn't turn up like that at that time; It would be unfair on them and very rude.

Malfoy's sofa was the only option she had.

She brought her hands up to rub her eyes and then found herself approaching the counter with various potions and vials and empty flasks sitting upon it. She searched through them, trying to be as quiet as possible while doing so.

Her lips curled into a satisfied smirk as her eyes landed on exactly what she was looking for. She carefully pulled it out of the pile, twisting off the lid as she brought the potion to her lips. She instantly tasted the cherry she expected, and so she wiped her hand over her mouth and returned the now half-empty vial to its rightful place.

Hermione then grabbed her wand and walked across the room to the bathroom, without sparing Malfoy a glance. She stared at herself in the mirror, her reflection was tired, hair out of place and eyes red from crying. With a wave of her wand, she cured that, and then she stepped out.

She was staring right at him, but his eyes remained shut. She watched as his chest rose and fell consistently, how a few strands of his blonde hair fell over his forehead, how the covers nestled just underneath his slacked jaw and chin. How—after what he went through last week—he was finally relaxed.

She takes another step forward and leans over him. She lets a few breaths gently fan his face as she looks down at him. Then, she whispered a "Thank you." Before turning on her heel and hurrying out of the room, she couldn't be there when he woke up, or when Avery arrived for work. 

Hermione found herself striding down the corridors; she had never been more eager to get to one of the elevators and simply get away from the blonde man. She wondered what he'd think once he woke up, whether he'd expect to see her still there. Surely he wouldn't.

Why would he? They weren't friends. It wasn't as if she'd tell him everything and he'd go off and beat up Ron or some shit like that. He couldn't even walk—he didn't even know Ron. Ron.

Him and some other woman, she didn't care to know who...in her house...in her bed...fucking. She still couldn't believe he would do such a thing. After everything they'd been through—even before they were a couple.

Helping Harry, defeating Voldemort, and all that.

And when she told him she was going back to school in order to become a healer, he was so supportive. He was reluctant at first, but then he came to his senses and trusted her. She trusted him.

They were both struggling immensely last year, and so they leaned on each other, and it helped. It truly did.

But somewhere along the way, he had decided that their relationship wasn't good enough—that she wasn't good enough. He had decided to sacrifice what they'd built over the last number of years for some whore who probably couldn't even remember his name anymore.

If he was so willing to throw her away, then he didn't deserve her. She helped him get back onto his feet after he had fallen, only to be squashed underneath them.

She took in a deep breath as she heard the chime of the elevator doors. She closed her eyes briefly for a moment, but when she reopened them, she was face to face with someone she wasn't expecting to see.

Harry.