Chapter Text
The crackling fire cast flickering shadows on the walls of the small tent. Hermione sat across from Harry, both lost in the unsettling silence that had filled the air since Ron's departure. The tension was thick, like the air before a storm, and Hermione could feel it settling deep into her bones. Ron was gone. He had left them. Again.
It had been a harsh blow. His words echoed in her mind, each one slicing through her, sharper than the last. "You always choose him," he shouted, his face twisted with anger and betrayal. "You never even gave me a chance, Hermione! You’re always picking Harry over me!"
Hermione’s heart had dropped, but it wasn’t the accusation that stung the most—it was the betrayal in his eyes. The fury had radiated from him, a force that consumed everything in its path. It wasn’t just jealousy—it was hatred.
But then, to add insult to injury, Ron dropped the bombshell. “And you think *he’s* better than me?” he spat, as if daring her to deny it. “You know what, Hermione?” Ron’s voice was a venomous growl now, his face red with anger. “Lavender’s more of a woman than you’ll ever be.”
The words stopped her breath cold in her chest. She blinked at him, unsure if she’d heard correctly. He wasn’t done.
“She knows how to care for someone. How to make them feel wanted. Needed,” Ron continued, his voice rising with every syllable. “She doesn’t spend every second of every day correcting me, or looking at me like I’m some kind of idiot. She actually makes me feel like I matter.”
Hermione’s grip tightened around the edge of the chair, her knuckles white. “You think I don’t care? You think I don’t—”
“Care?” Ron laughed bitterly, cutting her off. “You don’t care about me, Hermione. You’ve never cared about anyone except yourself and Harry. You’re so obsessed with him, it’s pathetic. Lavender—she actually listens to me. She doesn’t treat me like I’m some kind of backup plan.”
“Backup plan?” Hermione’s voice was sharp, her fury breaking through. “Do you even hear yourself? You’ve been sulking and complaining for months while the rest of us—”
“Don’t you dare lecture me!” Ron shouted, stepping closer, his face twisted in rage. “Lavender is better than you in every way! She’s kind, and warm, and soft. She doesn’t look at me like I’m beneath her all the time. She’s not a bossy know-it-all who has to control everything. She’s real, Hermione. She’s not cold and unfeeling like you.”
Cold and unfeeling. The words struck harder than she expected, slicing through her resolve like a knife. But Hermione refused to show it. She refused to let him see how deeply he was cutting her.
“And guess what?” Ron added, his voice dripping with malice. “She’s having my baby. That’s right. Lavender’s pregnant. While you’ve been sitting here playing war games with Harry, I’ve been building a real life with someone who actually wants me.”
Hermione’s stomach twisted, but she kept her face impassive. “Is that supposed to hurt me, Ron?” she asked, her voice icy. “Am I supposed to cry because you’ve decided to ruin two lives instead of just your own?”
Ron flinched, momentarily thrown off by her calm response. But his anger surged back almost immediately. “At least she knows how to love someone!” he shouted. “You—you’re just a bitter little girl who’s never going to be enough for anyone.”
The words had hit her like a slap to the face. Lavender Brown. Pregnant. The person Ron had gone running to after their fallout. It was his final attempt to break her. To make her feel small, insignificant. As if his life had moved on, and hers should too.
But Hermione didn’t cry. Not this time. She didn’t have the tears for him anymore, not after everything he had done. She was disgusted—disgusted with him, with his betrayal, with his cowardice. The way he tried to manipulate her emotions, using Lavender’s pregnancy as some kind of weapon. The same man who had claimed to love her, only to break her heart in the worst way.
She was furious.
Furious at herself for ever believing in him. Furious at Harry for looking at her with those quiet, worried eyes that made it so hard to concentrate on anything. And, mostly, furious at Ron for walking out. Again.
When he stormed off, leaving the tent in a flurry of harsh words and shattered pieces, it wasn’t Hermione’s tears that flowed. It was her anger. She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw something—anything—just to release the hurt and rage building inside her.
Harry remained silent, watching her with a careful expression. He had tried to calm Ron down, but the damage had already been done. All Harry had now was her, and even though the two of them had shared so much together, the rift between them was palpable.
“Hermione…” Harry said softly, his voice full of empathy.
But she shook her head, cutting him off before he could say more. “No. I’m fine.” She stood up abruptly, her hands trembling at her sides. “I don’t need his pity. And I don’t need yours either, Harry.”
Her voice was stronger than she felt, and though she knew Harry was only trying to help, she couldn’t bring herself to break down. Not in front of him. Not yet.
Harry didn’t push. Instead, he stood up and walked over to the fire, reaching for another log to toss in. The flames danced in the dark, but the warmth didn’t reach Hermione. Not right now. She was too cold inside.
As the night wore on, the silence between them became less uncomfortable. It became something else—something deeper. Unspoken.
Hermione couldn’t help but wonder: Would she ever forgive Ron for this? And, even more terrifying, what would it mean for her and Harry, now that the storm had finally hit?