76A/N: First, my deepest apologies for the incredible delay in updates since the last chapter. Between going on holiday, returning to real life (which has suddenly gone into a state of flux for me), and trying to finish 'Closer' while re-editing the entire fic, 'Apart' has suffered greatly. So thanks to everyone who has stuck it out and waited patiently (or impatiently) for an update. Because here it is, at long last. Please note that it hasn't been beta'd yet, so there might be some changes coming in the next week or so.
Chapter 4: Monday (Hermione)
She wakes up to the sight of his armpit. He smells of sweat and sex and man, with just a hint of cinnamon. It's always there, that little bit of flavor, of Ron, whether he's just stepped off the pitch or out of the shower.
She watches him sleeping peacefully for a moment, her thin fingers playing with his chest hair, sliding her palm across his stomach to touch his morning erection. She'd hoped for one last bout of love-making last night, but Ron had passed out the moment his head hit the pillow, exhausted.
But he seems to have recovered. She starts touching him, playfully, running the back of her nails along his length before slipping down to fondle the weight of his bollocks. She smirks wickedly when he twitches, wondering if she can get him off without waking him
She's pumps him slowly, languidly, feeling her own arousal increase the more she touches him.
"Couldn't even wait for me to wake up?" Hermione jumps at the sound of Ron's voice, her hand instinctively clenching around his cock. Ron yelps. "Merlin's sweaty arse! Don't break the bloody thing!"
"Sorry," she mutters, loosening her grip without letting go, looking anywhere but his face.
"If my mum knew how much we you wanted me, she'd definitely think you were after a baby," he jokes, lifting her chin to kiss her lips softly. "Or that you're a sex addict," he adds, smirking. The memory of Harry's question from the day before does get her to let go of Ron, frowning. "What is it?" he asks.
She shakes her head. "It's nothing. And don't you dare call me a sex addict. I'm just a…Ron Weasley addict," she says, climbing on top of him so their bodies are flush, trapping their heat between them, before kissing him again.
He breaks off after several moments. "Merlin, is that the time?" She turns to look at the clock and feels Ron unceremoniously shove her to the side before jumping off the bed and running to the loo.
She lets out a 'hmph' and sits up to pull her messy hair back, tying it into a knot while she hears him turn on the shower.
"Don't suppose you'd care to join me?" he calls out over the sound of running water.
"No thank you. I wouldn't want to make you late. You'll just have to scrub your own back," Hermione calls back smugly, a little bothered at his rejection. She reaches for a pad and quill she keeps on the bedside table and starts scribbling a note, her annoyance melting into love until a smile returns to her face. She sets it down and gets up, pulling on a dressing gown.
She walks to the kitchen and does her best to fix him something to eat, laying the eggs and toast out on the counter before heading to the bedroom to help him finish packing.
When he leaves the room, she rips the note from the pad and slides it into the breast pocket of one of his shirts before stowing it into his bag.
She walks back inside their home long after Ron has disappeared, shutting the door behind her. Her arms wrap tightly around herself as she walks through the flat, surveying they life they share together. She stops as her eyes settle on the door to her office for a moment before shaking her head and heading to the bedroom. She walks to the bed and looks down at the present Ron has left for her, wrapped so neatly she wonders if he had his mother do it for him. She smiles and gently picks it up, as if the unknown contents were already precious to her and sets it on a chair in the corner. She takes one last tempting look at it before walking to the closet. She hangs up the dressing gown and strips out of her knickers to throw on a running bra and shorts.
Ten minutes later she's jogging toward the park, half-cursing her decision. It's cold and windy and the sky looks set to start raining at any moment. Her legs are sore and her whole body aches from Ron's treatment the last few nights—not that blames him.
She started running about a few years ago, right after Ron signed with the Cannons. It had finally struck her that the life of a bookworm writer wasn't very conducive to one's figure…unless that figure had a nice wide arse and a big potbelly. She wasn't sixteen anymore, always chasing after Ron and Harry on some adventure or running from Death Eaters. Now the boys just chased each other, rarely inviting her along.
And Harry teaching Ron how to cook hadn't helped things either; with run of the kitchen, he usually made the sort of foods he enjoyed, which meant loads of fats and sugars. Not to mention he always made enough to feed every Gryffindor in their year. It was fine for him to eat enough to feed an entire family of four, but he got to work it all off with Quidditch, while she just sat around with a full belly, like she was preparing to hibernate.
But she'd noticed she was running more frequently since Ron had signed the transfer to the Tornados: instead of just once or twice a week she was running nearly every day.
She knew the reason why too. She was just trying to keep up—or rather, trying to help Ron keep up—with his new teammates, most of whom seemed to be dating models and celebrities—the kinds of women featured in Gladrags catalogues wearing the latest fashions from Milan and Athens, not the ones who wrote articles about those fashions. And she resented feeling like she—they—had something to prove to them, to prove that Ron fit with the team, that he belonged in their world.
But the part that bothered her the most is that Ron didn't seem to care. When she'd started running, she'd hoped Ron might join her, that it could be something they could do together. But he seemed perfectly content to put up his feet when they weren't wrapped around a broomstick. He'd told her they could go flying together—something she absolutely refused to do—but said that running "just wasn't for Ron Weasley."
In fact, he rarely wanted to do anything. Ron was perfectly content stay home most nights, spending it in front of the telly or in bed with her. And when he did manage to get his arse out of the house, it was to visit his family or goof off with Harry or because someone had told him about these things Muggles had called water parks which sounded like a total gas to him and made him want to see one for himself.
He rebuffed her offers to visit museums or the theatre or anything that involved culture of any sort. When they went on holiday, he only saw it as an excuse to see how many times he could get laid in one weekend—not that she complained about the results, but they could've just stayed home and done that in their own bed and saved themselves a few hundred galleons and all the trouble of packing and planning. Even when they went out to eat it was always to the Leaky Cauldron or the handful of Muggle restaurants he approved of. Ron was just rather set in his ways, and she'd long given up trying to change his mind.
The rain starts before she even reaches the park and after a pitiful attempt to press on, Hermione turns around and returns to the flat, completely soaked through by the time she reaches the safety of the indoors.
After peeling the wet clothes from her body and a long, hot shower, she stands before the mirror in their bedroom, turning sideways to appraise herself, her hands sliding down the gentle slope of her soft belly, a slight frown marring her countenance. She pads softly to the closet and grabs a pair of sweats and one of Ron's old shirts after a moment's considering, unable to fool herself into thinking she'll have any reason to leave the house again for the rest of the day.
Not bothering to try cooking without Ron around to appreciate her effort, she takes some cantaloupe from the ice box and fixes a plate, taking it with her into the office with a heavy sigh. She picks at her food, nibbling for ages on each piece as she looks over all her notes for the article. She gets up and goes to wash her hands before returning to finally pick up the quill and start writing.
A half-hour later she has her article, detailing the sleek design of the cloaks and the assortment of colors available for the Veela hair trim, hinting that any woman who owned one this season would be as appealing as a real Veela. Utter shite as Ron would call it.
Not that he would ever say so to her face; he's read everything she's ever written, even making a record book full of her clippings covering her entire career, and has never been anything less than absolutely praising about them—including one piece she'd been commissioned to write arguing the merits of using dragon dung in witches' make-up which she herself couldn't read without laughing at how ridiculous it was.
It was sweet, and she knew he meant well by it, but it made her wonder if he meant it when she did write something she was proud of…not that there'd been many such occasions lately. After her book came out, she'd started writing articles protesting the unjust treatment of non-humans like werewolves and house-elves by wizards. Between her status as a war hero and the albeit short burst of popularity she received from having her book published, she'd been a big enough figure in the eyes of the public that people had paid attention to what she said and wrote. She'd known if anything was to be done the first step was changing the minds of those causing the oppression.
There'd been a few murmurs of agreement in the magical world, but without the Ministry to follow up on any of her ideas or proposals, interest had quickly evaporated. So she'd turned to writing articles about magical society, which were much more popular, to help bring in more money while Ron was still a rookie and only making a pittance of a salary. Eventually she'd delved deeper and deeper into what she considered the dregs of culture and now here she sat, writing about the Which Witch? fashion show and Madam Primpernelle's Beautifying Potions and Gladrags and even WonderWitch, now so popular that George had turned it into an its own enterprise entirely separate from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. For a time she'd continued to write about things that actually mattered to her, but it had been over a year since her last S.P.E.W. article; even the Quibbler told her printing that sort of article was wasted parchment.
Hermione rubs her eyes before slipping the article into an envelope and going off in search of Pig, leaving her plate behind for Crookshanks to lick clean of sticky fruit juice.
"Come here, you twittering fuzz ball," she says, snatching at the small owl circling her head, finally catching him and holding him down to attach the letter, hoping Gladrags will be pleased that she finished the piece a day ahead of schedule. Carrying Pig to the window, she tosses him into the wind before turning back to survey the flat once again. Somehow it looks even emptier than it did that morning.
Her thoughts turn to Ron, wondering if he's settled in alright, if she should call to make sure he hasn't forgotten something, but move quickly to Ginny after realizing he probably doesn't have his mobile with him—wherever he is at the moment. She thinks about Floo-ing over to see her friend, but decides against it when she remembers James.
Instead, she goes about picking up the apartment, sweeping the floor and dusting her bookcases—all without magic. It still doesn't take as long as she'd like and soon she finds herself back in the office, Crookshanks on her lap, both of them staring down at the writing before her. It's been so long, she can't even tell if she's almost finished or barely started. The telephone rings and she jumps up, thankful for the interruption.
"Hello? Weasley-Granger residence," she says excitedly into the receiver.
"Hi sweetheart. Not catching you at a bad time am I?"
Hermione smiles. "No, Mum. I was just taking a break from writing actually."
"Not working too hard, I hope? I know how you can get, dear."
Hermione wincs at the sound of her mother's tone, full of pride for her daughter. "No, just trying to keep busy. Ron left this morning."
"Oh that boy and his football."
"Quidditch, Mum. It's played on brooms and there are four balls that fly around and—"
"I didn't mean anything by it sweetheart. You know I'm useless about sports. It's wonderful he has such a talent. How long is he gone for?"
"All week," she says glumly.
"And he's left you all alone?"
"It's his job Mother. He has to go. Besides, I'm not alone; I've got Crookshanks and Pig."
"A cat and a bird? Goodness you sound like an old spinster, or whatever the equivalent is among witches."
Hermione rolls her eyes, not needing the reminder. "We still call them spinsters, Mum."
"Well you'll have to come have dinner with your father and I one night. I'll fix all your favorites. I can't just let you starve now can I?"
She didn't need that reminder either. "Look, Mum, I've got to get back to work. I have this piece to write and the deadline's tomorrow and—"
"Alright, alright, I'll let you go. But you call me tomorrow after your article's finished so you can tell me when you're free."
"I will Mum," Hermione says, eager to end the conversation.
"I love you sweetheart."
"Love you too Mum."
Hermione hung up telephone, finding Crookshanks perched on the counter, staring at her.
"What?" Hermione snaps. "It wasn't a complete lie." Crookshanks twitched his tail disapprovingly. "Oh don't look at me like that," she says, picking him up off the counter. "I suppose I should at least try to get something done." She lets out a despondent, realizing she's talking to a cat. Maybe Mum was right to worry about the spinster-thing.
Cradling the ginger cat in one arm, she takes out a bottle of Bordeaux and an empty glass and returns to the office, locking the door behind her.
Hermione takes a sip of wine, picks up her quill, sets it back down and scratches Crookshanks' ears. She takes another sip, a longer one and looks at her mobile lain on the desk as if daring it to ring. She takes another sip, a small one this time, and leans back in her seat and closes her eyes. Her progress would tell you she's working for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, but the darkened sky outside her window and the near-empty bottle of Bordeaux tell a different story.
Her eyes snap open and in a flurry of activity she jots down fifteen lines her editor would refer to as 'dribble.' But it's something. Enough for now. She polishes off her glass and goes to refill but only finds enough for one, perhaps two mouthfuls. She leans her head back, her sudden break in malaise making her head feel woozy. Ten minutes, she thinks as she shuts her eyes. Just ten minutes. Then I'll clean up and go to bed.
Hermione wakes at quarter past four, her head pounding. Her eyes immediately go to her mobile and see that Ron has called, but left no message. She sighs, stands and scoops up Crookshanks before finishing the last two swallows of Bordeaux in one go and dragging her feet to the bedroom.
A/N: Okay, not the most exciting or engaging of chapters, I know. But it's totally necessary, I promise. This story lives on dialogue and there just wasn't a lot of opportunity for that here. It's one of the reasons why I took so long in posting this chapter because I tried to think of ways to make this one more exciting. But everything I came up with just completely changed the mood of it. Thankfully we'll be back with Ron next chapter and the excitement of the first match of the tournament.
Also, before anyone bites my head off, NO I am not turning Hermione into some superficial bimbo who cares about looks and appearances. But she is twenty-four, almost twenty-five and since most of my friends and I are about that age I've seen firsthand that these things DO matter at times to even the most confident, well-adjusted people. As I mentioned at the beginning of this fic, Ron and Hermione are meant to be exaggerated caricatures of their younger selves and younger Hermione WAS insecure about her looks at times. And I'm not turning her into an alcoholic either for those worried about the last scene.