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That’s the thing about pain – it demands to be felt.
Oh god it hurt. It hurt so much. It hurt to see him with her, it hurt to not allow the tears to escape and it HURT the way that everyone else looked at her with so much goddamn pity.
He was the one that should be pitied. He had left her for that… fertile idiot. That woman who could give him what her body had categorically refused to do. Month after month, despite everything that she could get her hands on there was the accusing spot in her undies to indicate that this was not the month that she would make Ronald Weasley the happiest of men.
She had really thought that he loved her more than his desire for a family. But she was wrong. And now here she was, at a fucking barbeque on a sweltering hot day looking at her soon-to-be ex-husband parading his pregnant girlfriend like a fucking badge of honour.
The accusations had hurt too. Accusations that she didn’t want to have children. That she was too focused on her career. Those had come not only from Ron but from her mother-in-law, her sister-in-law, co-workers. No one asked her what she wanted. At first it had been a relief to find out what was wrong. She had thought that Ron would correct all the people who accused her.
She thought wrong.
Polycystic ovaries. Malformed uterus. One ovary had actually shut down after Bellatrix nearly Crucio-ed her to death. Ron, descendent of the most fecund branch of wizarding families, had strolled out of the war with nothing more than well-placed scar on his bicep.
Arsehole.
“Granger. Ex-Weasley. Whatever name you’re going use”. A dark shape plonked next to her on the grass where she glared at the festive masses. Hermione debated ignoring the shape but she knew he was someone who was not going to pity her.
“I never changed to Weasley. I thought there was more than enough of them in the world. Seems like it was a fortunate choice.” Hermione sipped her gin and bitter lemon.
“The best. It would’ve been a waste regardless. They don’t deserve the shot of intellect that you would’ve contributed to the gene pool." He plucked at a few of the weeds poking through the grass. " I’m surprised that he didn’t go for muggle methods.”
Hermione snorted.
“Does everyone know about my reproductive woes? Ronald thought it was too barbaric. And he was less than thrilled with the costs… “
“Ah yes. That wonderful Weasley sense of thrift. Does Molly still knit everyone jumpers that cost more in materials than something that actually fits from Marks & Sparks?”
She choked on her drink, and finally turned to the man sitting next to her. Here was another prime candidate for bitterness. Severus sat next to her with his bottle of Speckled Hen. Black was still the theme of the day but the t-shirt spanned tightly across his chest and unapologetically underscored the white scar on his neck.
“What are we doing here Severus? Why do we do this to ourselves? There is nothing here for either of us. “A daisy was decapitated to underscore her point.
“They lured me here with the promise of free booze and potentially interesting company. Instead I have had to Apparate home to get some decent swill and the only worthwhile company is sitting far away from the others, staring daggers at some poor sod and the woman he knocked up. It will be interesting when she learns about some of the more interesting habits that Weasley men have.”
Hermione felt a manic grin creep onto her face.
“I wonder if I should write her a manual. How to get your Weasley to flush the loo and not destroy the kitchen while making a cuppa.”
“Could be a bestseller.” He leaned back onto the grass in supplication to the sun.
An easy silence rested between. Hermione lay on the grass next to him, listening to the Weasleys and hangers-on celebrate Arthur’s sixtieth birthday. She fished a melting ice-cube out of the dregs of her drink and sucked on the melting brick.
“Is it that important to you?”
His question surprises her.
“I’ve never dealt well with failure. You know that. I just… I had this delusion that I was more important than some of my parts.”
Deep breaths. Breath through the pain. Do not cry.
“There is a reason for me asking. And it was something that I was going to approach you with before you went and got yourself shackled to that ginger puff. But I want you to think about it and not give me an answer today.”
“All right. It is important to me Severus. I just … I always thought there would be time, you know?”
She looked at him now and was surprised to see him look at her with a hunger that took her breath away.
“Time, Hermione, is something that we both have in short supply.”
He stops a card into her hand when he gets up.
“Take him to the cleaners. Get everything that you can from him. He is not fit to lick your boots. His family will look after him and any… ankle biters that may come along. Contact the lawyer on that card, he specialises in cases like yours. “
“Like mine?”
“Do you really think you are the first witch to be divorced because of fertility issues? Contact Conrad. He owes me a favour or two. When it’s done, send me an owl.”
The sun was in her eyes now, and it was hard to see his face.
“Why? Why help me?”
“Because, Hermione. The best form of revenge is to live well.”
He turned on his heel and strode off in the direction of the elder Weasleys, made his apologies and left.
Hermione tapped the card against her lips. Ron was laughing with Fertile Cow, and Harry and Ginny were clustered around the happy couple. She wasn’t part of this life, this sphere any more. She was Hermione Granger, should’ve-been-Weasley, childless, possibly infertile witch.
Severus had a point. She could live well, live better than them.