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And They Didn\'t Live Happily Ever After	By : ElizabethStump Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 90306 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 31
- 32
- 33
"And They Didn't Live Happily Ever After"

Chapter Thirty-Two
“My Husband the Stranger”

Disclaimer: I promise to only mildly use and abuse JK Rowling's wonderful characters and promise to return them in mostly working order. And no, the last time I returned Snape, I did not leave slobber marks all the way up the back of his thigh. That must have been another author who didn't bother to wash him up before returning him. I always clean my toys before putting them back. Except for courgettes; those get thrown out. Eww.

============

While Ron was in the shower, Hermione pulled out her escape box from the back of her dresser drawer. Her husband had recently developed the habit of taking long showers, obviously moving his masturbation activities to someplace private. That meant she too would have a little privacy for a while.

With one ear listening for signs of her husband, in case his shower was shorter than usual, Hermione opened her escape box. She filed through the bank statements, her Cash Card, a credit card that she noticed would expire next month, her passport and Calleo's letter until she found what she was looking for. Lifting her driver's license from the box, she grimaced at the awful picture on it.

'It would figure that I had to try a new hair taming charm on the day I had my picture taken for my license,' she silently groused, noting the monumentally bushy mass of hair extending beyond the perimeter of the photo. The circles under her eyes and lack of make-up didn't help the matter.

Stuffing her license into her pocket, she put her escape box back into her dresser and replaced the very unobtrusive stay away charm on it, to keep Ron from coming across it and asking questions.

Hermione was thankful she never had to use her escape box during the war. Mrs. Wendy Granger had insisted that her one and only child have a Muggle means to leave England if the tide turned against the Order and things looked bleak. Immediately following Hermione's eighteenth birthday, Mrs. Granger dragged her daughter to several places, including the motor vehicles office for a license and the passport office. She wanted to be sure that her child could escape the country if she could not Apparate or Floo to safety in the event Death Eaters took over the Ministry of Magic. Mrs. Granger insisted that Hermione never tell anyone about her Muggle documents, having been informed from her daughter about Legilimency and the ability to read another's mind. And though the war was over, Hermione wouldn't have been surprised if another dark wizard rose within her long lifetime and she just might need those types of documents to move between the magical and Muggle world, making it possible for her to still escape. Hermione always supposed she got her sense of preparedness from her mother.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hermione and Ron stepped out of the fireplace to find a rather startled Wendy Granger holding a hand to her bosom.

"I'll never get used to that!" Mrs. Granger exclaimed, trying to catch her breath.

Hermione went straight to her mother and gave her a big hug, squeezing her extra tight in her arms. This was always Hermione's way of letting her mother know that everything was not all right.

After Hermione released her mother, Ron gave his mother-in-law a light hug. "It's good to see you again, Wendy."

"You too, Ron. Let's go out into the garden." Wendy directed her daughter and son-in-law towards the back of the house. Hermione wrapped an arm around her mother's waist and dropped her head sideways onto her mother’s shoulder as well, as they walked two abreast with Ron trailing behind. "Your father has a new gas grill he's dying to break in today, so we may eat a little earlier than expected."

It felt wonderful to be back at her parents’ house. Stretching out on the grass under the elm tree, which was lopsided due to a neighbor with a grudge and a pair of loppers, Hermione reveled in the sensation of cool grass on her back and dappled shade. The tiny jewels of sun peeked through the leaves and sparkled as the gentle wind rustled the leaves. Birds twittered in the distance. Just the scent of her mother's roses blooming gloriously and proudly in the sun brought back the memories of carefree summers before Hogwarts and awareness of Voldemort.

As a child, Hermione had always wanted to have her wedding in her parents’ long yet narrow backyard. That dream was changed by the realities of the war, her desire to keep her parents' house unplottable until fear of retaliation had passed, and the fact that all the Weasleys and the Order would not all fit. Instead, her and Ron's wedding was changed to the Burrow. This meant none of Hermione’s relatives could attend, other than her parents.

Before Hermione could get too comfortable and nod off while her father, Wallace, was explaining the finer points of BTUs and the heat conductive capabilities of his new grill to Ron, Wendy came out into the garden and looked for the witch.

"Hermione? I'm heading to the store. Would you care to come with me?" Mrs. Granger called out to her daughter, knowing this was their chance to talk alone.

Hermione practically bounded up the step and to the garage, thankful she remembered to bring her driver's license.

"Care to drive?" Wendy asked, dangling the keys, knowing Hermione's only chance to practice driving was during her infrequent visits to the Granger home.

Snatching the keys from her mother's hands like an anxious teenager, Hermione leapt into the car and, after belting herself in, turned the key in the ignition.

The sound of the car humming beneath her feet was an odd sound to miss, but it was a familiar sound. Driving a car was nothing like riding a broom. With a broom, there was the fact you had three-dimensional space to deal with and one was not moving in just two manageable dimensions. Besides, cars had seat belts, roll cages, safety glass, airbags and a half a ton of metal between the driver and a tree or building. Neville Longbottom's first flight on a broomstick and subsequent broken wrist gave Hermione a healthy respect and fear for flying cleaning gadgets. She didn't even want to go near the vacuum cleaner the twins had gotten a hold of during her seventh year.

Once the door to the garage was open, Hermione firmly pressed her foot on the accelerator and the car took off in reverse with a squeal, leaving tire marks on the smooth concrete floor.

As Hermione drove down the residential street barreling at eighty-five kilometers an hour (fifty-three miles an hour), Mrs. Granger held onto her arm rest with a white knuckle grip, her foot desperately pressing a brake pedal that wasn't under her foot, feeling five new gray hairs instantly sprout from her head.

"I'm so glad we could have some time by ourselves to talk, Mum," Hermione said, oblivious to her mother's look of panic plastered across her face. "I really need to talk with you about Ron."

"Uh-huh," Wendy whimpered, half-listening to her daughter while praying no children would dart out in front of the speeding car. "Erm, how long did you say that special braking charm you added to the car lasts?"

"Oh, it'll be fine for another few years. I should check the anti-ding and scratch charms, though, when we get back home," Hermione blithely noted before yanking the steering wheel to veer around a mini that had pulled into the street in front of her. Completely unaware of just how much the Knight Bus had influenced her driving style, Hermione swung around a corner and managed to make the car go up on two wheels for a split second.

Glancing out of the corner of her eye, Hermione said, "You all right, Mum? You look a little pale."

"A LITTLE SLOWER, PLEASE!" Mrs. Granger screeched, finally finding her voice.

Once Hermione was going near the speed limit, Wendy Granger let out a huge sigh of relief and finally released the armrest from her death grip.

"Make a right here, dear," Mrs. Granger noted. "Right, RIGHT, RIGHT!"

Another quick jerk of the wheel and the car defied the laws of physics by turning without rolling over, cutting between two oncoming cars, a hair's breadth from hitting them. The car slowly rolled through the parking lot, and Mrs. Weasley parked her mother's Jaguar between a little red MG and a chartreuse Citroen.

"Mum? You all right?" Hermione asked, examining her mother's shaking hands still clutched to the armrests.

"No, I'm fine," Wendy lied, her voice still shaking. "I think I'll drive home, if that's all right."

Once she caught her breath and her heart had stopped painfully pounding against her rib cage, Wendy Granger said, "Now, dear, you mentioned something about Ron?"

Hermione pulled the keys from the ignition and handed them over to her mother. "Yeah." The dejected, morose look on her face said it all. "We had a really big fight about three weeks ago. He was gone for a week and came back right after the… the attack when he thought I might have been caught in it. When you Flooed, he had been back less than twelve hours." After unbuckling herself, Hermione continued to sit there, looking to her mother for some sort of guidance to deal with the situation.

"What was the fight about?" her mother asked, rubbing Hermione's arm comfortingly.

"It almost seems stupid."

"Come on, now. What was the fight about?" Mrs. Granger coaxed, trying to encourage her daughter who had difficulty meeting her eye.

The tears started falling, and Hermione could feel her nose begin to run. Reaching for the box of tissue on the center console, Hermione grabbed a few and started to dab away the tears that came suddenly. "I wanted to talk, and he wanted to fool around. We hardly talk anymore. Ever since school ended and the war was over, we have nothing in common to talk about." She blew her nose before continuing. "So I told him to talk to me because that might get me in the mood for once, and then it all blew up from there. I told him what a lousy lay he was," she confessed, her cheeks burning hot with embarrassment, "and he called me a frigid ice queen. I stormed out to cool off, and when I got back he was gone."

Wendy Granger pulled her daughter into an awkward hug, twisting her body over the center console, ignoring the gear stick jabbing her in her ribs. "There, there." She rubbed and patted Hermione's back while shushing her. "He's back. Obviously he wants to be with you."

Hermione didn't know if this was the right time to bring up the fact that wizarding marriages are magically bound and unbreakable once children have been produced.

"He's been rather cold to me since returning, Mum. I touched him the other night, and he rejected me. It got so bad after he came back that I gave him the ultimatum of divorce or marriage counseling," Hermione confessed with a fresh wave of tears.

Pulling away from Hermione, Wendy Granger lifted her child's face to look her in the eye. "Be honest with me, Hermione. Has he been physically abusive?"

"No," she replied emphatically.

Mrs. Granger let out a huge breath of relief. "Good," she sighed, embracing her daughter once more for comfort and out of relief. Then she added as an afterthought, "He hasn't been verbally abusive to you either, has he?"

Hermione stilled in her mother's arms. She had to think if the snide words Ron threw at her would be considered abuse or just bad temper. "No, not really." She sounded uncertain.

"Hermione?" Wendy said with warning.

"It's not abuse, really. Just words said in anger while he was still upset at me. It's gotten better this past week. We've been civil to one another. We start counseling this Tuesday, which is something. The wizarding world looks at counselors and therapists like Muggles view Voodoo witch doctors. So it was rather amazing that he agreed."

"Yes, after you threatened to leave him. It's not like you gave him much of a choice, Hermione," her mother gently scolded her. "Promise me that if he so much as hits you or starts becoming verbally abusive that you will leave him in a heartbeat. Your father and I would take you back home anytime if that happened."

"Mother?" Hermione asked, wondering what prompted this line of questioning.

"Your Aunt Christine was married to a man named Mark before she married your Uncle Tim. Mark seemed like a nice quiet type, but in private he became abusive. Now I know Ron doesn't seem the type, but you never know. Mark never hit your Aunt Christina until after they were married a few years. He put her hand through a wall once." Hermione began to protest that Ron would never do such a thing, but her mother stopped her. "I'm just saying that if he ever treats you poorly, you're more than welcome to come home while you sort things out. Now, we better get inside and start shopping. You ready? Better?"

Hermione nodded her head and wiped away the last of the tears, feeling comfort in the fact her parents would be there no matter what happened. She momentarily wondered what her mother might think of her precious child going to visit a gigolo weekly, but never entertained the thought beyond imagining the look of horror upon her mother's face if she found out.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As the two women strolled up and down the aisle of the Sainsbury, Wendy Granger periodically rubbed her daughter's back. It was an unconscious habit still ingrained from comforting her as an infant up through adulthood. The familiar rubbing of the back was a way of imparting security and love.

"Is that the only thing you fight about?" Mrs. Granger spoke, bringing up the topic of Hermione and Ron's fight out of the blue.

"No," Hermione sighed. "We've fought about money recently, but not so much. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention it. Ron is now the starting Keeper for his team. There's more money now, and he's going to renegotiate his contract at the end of the season."

"Oh, that's wonderful." Wendy beamed a bright smile at her daughter, showing her enthusiasm that hopefully things would get better, while reaching for a package of cellophane wrapped steaks. "Ron is probably thrilled."

"Yeah," Hermione replied somberly, her eyes gliding over the endless yards of prepackaged meats available for purchase without having to talk with the butcher. "It took until I asked him about the extra income before he told me about the promotion on the team."

Desperate to find some plausible reason to buck up her daughter's falling spirits, Hermione's mother added, "Well, since you said you've been so busy staying late at work, he just probably didn't have a chance to tell you until you asked." She began pushing the shopping trolley away from the meat department and towards the wine aisle.

"Yeah, that must be it," Hermione said with as much conviction as she could. She was grateful her mother was trying to cheer her up by reasoning away the growing rift between Ron and herself.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dinner was slightly strained, as Hermione and Ron rarely spoke to one another during the course of the meal. Recognizing the lack of communication between the two, Wendy started many of the discussions.

"So, Ron," Mrs. Granger began on another topic, trying to keep conversation flowing, "are you still working at that pub on weeknights?"

"Actually, Wendy, now that I'm starting Keeper for the Chudley Cannons, the owners have started looking for a replacement, as I put my notice in last week," Ron volunteered.

Hermione's head shot up and she quickly masked the look of surprise at the news, but not before her mother caught it. It was another recent instance of Ron not telling his wife anything unless prompted.

"Really. What sort of things did you do at the pub?" Wallace asked, jumping into the conversation. "Is there a brewery on the premises, or do you just serve it?"

Hermione smiled, remembering her father's love of bitters and the subtle art of brewing it. Fond memories of helping her father's temporary hobby of home brewing came to mind. Visions flashed before her of her father siphoning his home-brewed beer from a plastic five-gallon bucket into several bottles she had helped him clean and wash out. She wondered if he still had the levered capping mechanism. Smiling to herself, she remembered walking Calleo through the process of brewing beer as her father had told her years before. In some ways, Potions reminded her of her father's attempts at home brewing.

It seemed an odd Potions discussion she’d had with Calleo; how to have several cauldrons of a particular potion simmering for a few days while freeing up cauldrons for more potions. Calleo's eyes behind the mask seemed to light up as she described the process of boiling the wort in large kettles for brewing beer. She wondered if Calleo had really worked in Potions in the past or was it just a hobby, as he had claimed. Knowing that thinking too much on a good thing would likely ruin it with over-analysis, she banished that line of questions from her mind and concentrated on the conversation between her husband and father.

"No, we just buy and serve it," Ron answered.

"So how long do you think it will be before you have your evenings back and be able to spend more time at home?" Wendy queried, giving a subtle knowing look to her daughter, implying this might be good for improving their relationship.

"Actually, that year of Auror training has come in handy. Not only am I a barkeep behind the bar, but I serve as bouncer when things get a bit rough. You'd be amazed at the number of applicants Rufus and Rogina have had who don't know how to block a common hex, which is pretty common if you get one of those wizards that get abusive when drunk," Ron answered nonchalantly.

"Do you think that maybe you could train the new barkeep in some of the Auror techniques you know?" Hermione asked, trying to find some way to interact with her husband during dinner.

"It's possible," Ron said with a shrug. "Neville would be a natural, but he has his nursery business. I guess they'll just have to interview until they come across someone they can trust who won’t wind up in St. Mungo's if caught in the crossfire of a wizard's duel."

Turning to his daughter, Wallace Granger asked, "So how's your work going, sweetheart?"

Hermione set down her fork, fixing her eyes on her plate for a moment, while she contemplated if she wanted to go into the aftermath of Marge's death, her churlish shrew of a boss, and the incompetent boob named Mr. Spawn she had been saddled with to train. She had listened to her parents’ own tirades about dealing with the odd office manager who didn't have the slightest clue of how to keep an office in order, or properly invoice clients and order the right supplies in a timely manner. Knowing she could at least get a sympathetic ear from her parents, she realized suddenly she hadn't told Ron a thing about her situation at work.

"We found a replacement for my co-worker. He's not very good, and I'm charged with training him, but I have to deal with it. Other than that, nothing else really is happening at work." Hermione shrugged to signify it was a matter of no importance.

She could have railed all night long about the injustice of being expected to train the likes of Trevor Spawn with as much success as one could train a dog to quote Shakespeare, but with Ron sitting across from her, she had no fire within her to try. It was as if his mere presence was becoming a burden unto her soul, and she wanted to keep the ups and downs of her life private from her husband. There was some satisfaction in keeping information from him, finding twisted reason for resenting him for not knowing who she was or what was happening in her life. Maybe it was becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy that she and Ron had nothing in common by the fact they were no longer sharing in each other's daily joys and sorrows. But it seemed for every bit of information Ron didn't volunteer, unless prompted, Hermione wanted to keep another piece of her life to herself, sharing it with Ginny, Harry or Calleo. It gave Hermione vindictive satisfaction that Ron would learn from his friend or sister, and not from his wife directly, about how she had ranted with passionate fervor over the displeasure of having to work with such a vile nuisance such as Mr. Spawn.

Maybe Ron's reluctance to talk with her was the source of her spite, but the fact was her husband's growing indifference towards her seemed to only fuel Hermione's desire to keep more and more secrets from him that she had shared freely with others.

Leaning sideways, Hermione's father patted her hand. "I have faith you'll do your best, as always."

Hermione could have refuted her father to say it was a fruitless endeavor, but merely smiled and nodded her head, further perpetuating her parents' perception that she was not a quitter and could surmount any obstacle if she merely applied herself.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ron was in the study with his father-in-law, trying to grasp a concise description about the Internet. It was rather hopeless, as Ron was sure to mix up some of the details when telling his own father about it at some future point in time. Hermione kept smiling as her husband kept confusing the idea of electricity with the network connection cables, mixing up the telephone with the modem box and power cords.

She excused herself to go meander around her old room that her parents had converted into a guest bedroom.

As she trudged up the stairs, she noticed the sudden lack of photos of her once she began Hogwarts. It seemed all photos on the wall had frozen in time shortly before turning twelve, right when she got her letter. There were no school photos of her after age eleven, as her parents would have had a terrible time explaining to their Muggle friends and family why their daughter’s photos moved. There was the odd photo during her brief summers home or a Christmas snapshot, but those trips home during the holidays became shorter and shorter, what with her spending more and more time at the Burrow or Number Twelve Grimmauld Place and less time with her parents.

Opening the door to her old room, Hermione stood there and took in the new furnishings and wallpaper.

'I don't live here anymore.' It finally struck her that she was a stranger in her old home, though her parents still lived there. Of course she knew she had her own life with Ron, but the finality of it became clear in that moment.

She sat on the bed and looked about. Her mother had placed a lovely Chippendale reproduction of a writing desk and chair set where her old desk and bookcase combination used to sit. There was an antique Scottish wardrobe and a damask striped Bergère chair in the corner. It was tastefully and artfully arranged with all the right accents and knickknacks in all the right places. The room reminded Hermione of all the lovely rooms that everyone looks at in interior design magazines, but no one lives in.

Her mother did say that if she needed to live with them, she could move back in while she sorted things out with Ron. Would she live in this room like some guest that had come to stay for an indefinite period of time? The spinster aunt that wouldn't go away?

Hermione reached across the bed to the radio on the nightstand, wondering what Muggle music sounded like these days.

As she switched the toggle over to “radio,” a song instantly blared out over the radio at a startlingly loud volume.

“Torn between two lovers, feelin' like a fool...”

Hermione quickly shut off the radio, certain that she had been cursed with radio syndrome.

'Mum must have been listening to that seventies easy rock station again,' she surmised, not wanting to even ponder the meaning behind the lyrics and how they related to her.

Just as she was about to rise and leave, her mother came into the room. Quietly closing the door, Wendy turned to smile at her daughter.

“I heard you in here. I have some paperwork for you.” Moving to the desk, Mrs. Granger opened a drawer and removed a small stack of mail addressed to Hermione Granger.

“Oh, thanks. I almost forgot,” Hermione said as she looked through the monthly bank statements and found her new credit card to replace the one on the verge of expiring.

Sitting on the bed next to her daughter, Wendy Granger asked, “Does Ron know about your Muggle documents?”

“No,” Hermione breathed.

“Good. Your father doesn't know it, but I still put a little into your account now and then. I just feel safer if you have a little backup Muggle money in case anything happens,” Hermione's mother explained. “Knowing how long you're likely to live, and how you told me dark wizards tend to arise now and again, I just want to make sure you have a backup plan.”

“I know, Mum.”

“I know it's silly of me, but I worry that some wizard will come along with some grudge against you and your friend Harry, and cast one of those curses you told me about,” Mrs. Granger said more to herself than to her daughter. “It terrifies me at times, to think that something so simple as some words and a piece of wood pointed at someone could end their life so easily. It sounds too easy.”

“No easier than someone with a gun shooting at random people, Mum. If I were a Muggle, I could just as easily die in a car crash or be on the wrong train when it derails on the way into work in the morning. Or die of some horrible disease like cancer. I'm fortunate enough to be born with a natural ability to not die in the way a Muggle might, like by falling off a building or another commonly simple way. We witches and wizards are made of stronger stuff,” Hermione assured her mother, hoping to allay fears born out of lack of knowledge. “And if we do get sick, we have potions and charms to cure most anything except old age. I will most probably live a very long life. I just worry about you and Dad. You will age as Muggles do while I seem to defy the years. Ron's parents will be around to see their great-great grandchildren, but you won't.”

Hermione looked at her mother and saw the crow’s feet around her eyes. 'When did Mum start looking older?' The tears came quickly at thoughts of her parents dying someday in the future. A sudden thought came to Hermione. She would never die in a car crash, but her parents might. Once her parents eventually died, all her connections to the Muggle world would be severed. She had no childhood friends she had stayed in contact with, and no longer knew her parents’ neighbors.

Hugging her mother tightly, she began to cry. It scared her that after her parents died, she would be the only one left in her family. There were a few aunts and uncles, but they were so removed from Hermione's inner circle of family, they didn't even enter her mind.

“Shhh.” Wendy rocked Hermione and stroked her hair. “What brought this all on?”

“I don't know,” Hermione said listlessly. “Maybe it was my co-worker's death. Did you know she was born the same year Napoleon died?”

“Really?”

“Yes. There is no way you and Dad will live to be a hundred and eighty-two years old. I just worry that something bad could happen, and I'll lose you both.” Pulling away to look at her mother in earnest, Hermione said somberly, “Promise me if something does happen, anything, you'll contact me immediately. There is no rule with the Ministry that I can't use a potion on a Muggle who is an immediate family member.”

Mrs. Granger smiled warmly at her daughter, understanding her daughter's fear of losing those closest to her. “I promise. Your father and I are not going anywhere for a long, long time, by either Muggle or wizarding standards.”

She gave her daughter one last hug. Then they rose and went to the kitchen for a spot of tea to cheer themselves up, before Hermione and Ron had to head home for the night.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sipping her tea in contemplative silence as she sat across from her mother, Hermione could still hear Ron and her father in the study. Her mind drifted back to the many books upon the shelves in the study, books she had browsed through as a child, when she was still not old enough to understand some of the language and terms.

“Mum?” she prompted, breaking the quiet. “I saw a few books in the study I'd like to borrow for a bit.”

“Really? Which ones, dear?”

“Well,” Hermione said, recalling the list of books and the conversation she had with Calleo during their last meeting, “Your old Gray's Anatomy, Introduction to Biological Psychology, and Guidebook to Mechanisms in Organic Chemistry.”

“You're welcome to keep my old Gray's Anatomy, as that copy in there is from my pre-med days at university,” her mother offered. “You can probably keep my bio-psych text as well, as that is so outdated with all the research that has happened over the past thirty years. It's good for the learning about the function and structure about nerves and neuroreceptors, but they have learned so much about neurotransmitters since then, the book is positively outdated. If you're that interested, I'll buy you the newly edited version. I'm sure I could get a professional discount through my book supplier. Why the interest, planning on going pre-med?” Wendy teased lightly.

“Not exactly,” Hermione admitted. “You've always said that one can never stop learning. I’m just catching up on some of the things I was always interested in.”

Mrs. Granger set down her tea and smiled a secret smile to herself. “Tell me. I've always wondered. If you were just a regular Muggle or we never sent you to Hogwarts, dismissing it all as a hoax, what do you think you would have studied in school? What would you have grown up to be?”

Hermione had often thought that very same question many times over, but her mother was the first to ever ask. Not even Ron or Harry ever asked her. She wondered briefly if Calleo would ask such a question. Would she ever spend enough time with him so that he could get around to asking her, or would she stop seeing him when the temptation or the guilt grew too great to bear?

“Probably something in the sciences, Mum. I suppose I would be a researcher, discovering or inventing something important. I mean, I know what Chemistry, Physics and Biology are all about, but considering I never really had those Muggle classes, I couldn't say exactly which branch of the sciences I would choose. I had a hard time choosing in the wizarding world, knowing exactly what all those classes for Charms, Transfiguration, Arithmancy and Potions entailed. I just know that I feel happiest when exploring the possibilities of something new, never thought of or approached ever before.”

“You remind me of your father at times,” Wendy mused aloud. “I wanted to go into dentistry because it was a good job and I could put to use all that pre-med I took. Your father looked at it as a way to solve a puzzle, how to do something well and help people. He could have easily become a doctor, but dentistry allowed him to work with his hands more than being a doctor, and relieved him of the emotional strain of being a surgeon.”

Hermione was feeling suddenly melancholy, wondering if she spent more time visiting her parents would she would learn more things about them, like her mother's recollection of her father's reasons behind his choice of his career.

“I'm sorry I don't come over to visit more often, Mum,” Hermione apologized, though there was no call for it.

Wendy placed a hand over her daughter's. “It's all right. I understand. You're busy with work, Ron has his games on the weekend. Ron has a large family and there are all these wizard family gatherings. As long as you pop by for Christmas and the chance for your father to fire up the grill now and again, we're fine with what time you can spare, dear.”

“Oh!” Hermione suddenly remembered Harry's party and barbecue coming up later that week. “Ron's sister, Ginny, is throwing a cowboys-and-Indians birthday party for her husband later this week. Do you have any books you bought in America that she could look through for last-minute ideas?”

“Sure,” she assured her daughter. “Let's go into the study to see what we can find. Besides, I think we'd better stop your father before he tries to teach Ron how to play Minesweeper on the computer. Or we'll never get Ron off the thing, if he's anything like me.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Once Hermione and Ron had stepped out of their fireplace at home, they went their separate ways. Ron went to get ready for bed while Hermione headed for the kitchen, desperately hoping there would be something that needed her attention to keep her there until her husband was asleep and she could slip into bed quietly.

She placed the large stack of her parents’ books on the kitchen table, looking over the titles on the glossy spines. There was a lovely coffee table book with pictures of Monument Valley and other picturesque spots of the Southwest, including majestic and ancient saguaro cactus, wind-eroded arches and snow-capped mesas. The book of cowboy poetry seemed a contradiction unto itself, an idea that seemed out of her place in her mind. Shakespeare, Browning and Yeats wrote poetry, not men with names like Curley, Red and Wylie. It seemed a little silly and might not seem very helpful to Ginny, but she had brought it home for amusement. The Encyclopaedia of Barbecue Across the U.S.A. appeared to be a good book for additional dishes that Ginny might want to add to the menu.

After segregating the medical books from the ones she was going to lend to Ginny, Hermione made herself a nice cup of tea. Meditating on the day as she sipped her hot beverage, she retraced the day in her mind. Noting her mother's pained expression after she drove, Hermione realized just how far she had drifted from her Muggle roots. The differences between her two worlds was further pointed out when she strolled through the produce section, noting the availability of apples that wouldn't arrive in the Diagon Alley farmers' market for at least another couple months, or the grapefruit that wouldn't be available for sale until the winter months. Hermione noticed tonight how her husband was friendly with her parents, like he had always been, but Hermione and Ron's strained relationship seemed to leak into his interaction with them. He didn't seem quite as jovial with them as he had been in the past. She couldn't exactly criticize, as she was not her usual energetic and assured self. Every interaction with her husband led to her second guessing herself for his reaction, whether it was handing him a drink or conversing in front of her parents.

Noticing the time, she figured Ron was probably asleep by now. As she slipped into the bedroom and removed her clothing, she dropped it into the dirty laundry pile in the corner and heard the sound of her clothes hitting the bare floor. Wondering where the dirty clothes had gone, a quick peek in one of her drawers answered that question.

'Dobby.'

Hermione surmised the house-elf must have come over today at Ginny's prompting, and she silently thanked him. It was one less chore she would have to face. She would have to send over a brand new pair of socks for the elf, or at least buy him a new tie to go with the garish purple and orange striped tunic he seemed to favor.

Once in her nightgown, she slipped into bed and hoped she didn't wake Ron. Knowing what a long day she would have tomorrow, between dealing with Mr. Spawn during the day and her dance lessons with Calleo at night, she forced herself to push all thoughts from her mind and go to sleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She heard the scream of Hannah Abbot in the distance. Hermione hoped the Hufflepuff had come across a dead body and not a live Death Eater. Stopping for a moment to lean against the wall and catch her breath, she didn't hear any curses shouted from the direction of Hannah and prayed the other girl was all right.

Pushing herself from the wall, Hermione continued down the corridor toward the Great Hall, where she had been told to go to if the fighting ever reached inside the castle walls.

Rounding a corner, she stifled a scream. Dozens of bodies laid across her path. Slowly stepping over the corpses of Union soldiers and Indians covered in blood, and marred with curse blasts, gunshot wounds and arrows, she looked down to see Remus Lupin stare directly at her, his dead eyes gazing blankly. He was dressed as some sort of Indian shaman with a wolf headdress, leather fringed britches and soft sole moccasins. As she stepped over more bodies in various Old West costumes with the odd Death Eater robe scattered about, a hand came around her mouth and pulled her quickly into a side room.

Hermione was about to scream until she saw Calleo standing there in his usual Bauta mask and long-sleeved shirt. Looking about, she was not in an abandoned classroom, but Calleo's flat. She could see the London skyline outside his window. How she went from Hogwarts to her masked friend's flat made no sense, but she didn't question it, merely accepting it without question, though it was strange.

Calleo asked her if she brought the barley for the beer. Looking down at her feet, a bucket of barley had appeared out of nowhere. Without prompting, Hermione handed Calleo the barley, then reached into her pocket to give him a fistful of herbs. She figured it was for some tea he would brew for her. There was no sense of why things happened.

Once the barley and herbs had been dumped into a cauldron that sat in the middle of Calleo's bathtub, he grabbed Hermione and kissed her fiercely. Hermione didn't fight it, kissing him back with the same passion. How it was that she could kiss him with his mask still on, she didn't know. All she knew it that he tasted like wine, and his tongue felt unbelievably good in her mouth. Never had kissing felt so erotic and intense. Her body felt like it was floating, and somehow they were suddenly standing by his bed. Guiding her down onto the mattress, Calleo ground himself against Hermione, pressing himself against her through his layers of clothes. She could feel the hardness of his cock against her thigh joint. As their kissing continued, her clothes had disappeared without her noticing. Hermione wasn't sure if this was more discontinuity of her dream, or that Calleo had used a spell to remove their clothes. Either way, she loved the feel of his skin pressed against hers.

Feeling his cock near her entrance, Hermione could feel herself panting wildly, a throbbing ache growing between her legs so intense that it almost hurt. Calleo was poised above her body, seeking permission to enter her, rubbing the tip of his cock around and around the rim of her entrance, making the pulsing between her legs intensify. As he was about to thrust into her, a loud rushing noise seemed to invade the room.

Before she could wonder what the noise was, Hermione found herself being shaken awake by her husband. The rushing noise she instantly recognized as her own ragged breath. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and she was still panting. The ache between her legs seemed more intense now that she was awake.

“Hermione, wake up. It's just a bad dream.”

Disoriented, Hermione sat upright in bed. She could still feel the phantom sensation of Calleo's cock pressing between her lips. If she wasn't so unhinged, she would have sobbed over the fact that she had been denied completion in her dream.

Ron, sitting up, rubbed her back tentatively, thinking his wife was still shaken from her nightmare.

It was a nightmare that had turned into the most incredible sex dream. Everything felt so real. Reaching a tentative finger up under her nightgown and between her lips, she was shocked to find herself incredibly wet and her lips engorged.

“You okay, 'Mione?”

Turning her head, Hermione could barely see her husband illuminated by the faint city lights. In the dark, his features were indistinguishable.

A sudden thought came to her. Taking action, she turned over and straddled her husband and kissed him while she snaked one hand down to see if he was erect or at least semi-erect.

Ron gasped and sat there dumbstruck while his wife plundered his mouth. Eventually, his hands snaked around her waist before gliding up her body to squeeze her breasts.

Hermione hastily pushed Ron's pyjama bottoms down just far enough to release his cock, and she hitched up her nightgown. Grabbing her husband's cock, she brought it to her opening and rubbed it around just like Calleo had done in the dream. The ache that was beginning to subside in her lower belly flared back to life. As she continued kissing Ron, she let out a low moan in the back of her throat before she impaled herself on him.

Releasing his mouth, the aroused witch threw her head back and moaned once more. It wasn't big enough to fully satisfy the ache in her, but it was better than her own fingers at the moment. Pushing Ron back down to lie on the bed, she began to ride him as Ron started bucking up from underneath.

“Oh, 'Mione,” he sighed loudly.

“Shhhh.” She urged him to be quiet. As long as they were in almost complete darkness and Ron didn't speak, she could imagine it was Calleo beneath her instead.

Ron started moaning even louder, which began to chip away at the fantasy Hermione was immersed in. She had never been so turned on in all her life. She knew if she could just keep Ron from speaking and climaxing for a few minutes, she would actually have an orgasm with her husband inside of her for once.

“Shhhhh, just be quiet,” she said in between her moans.

Ron continued to moan, which began to ruin the illusion.

“Shhhh, just be quiet this once, Ron. I'm almost there,” she whinged in a rising pitch, feeling the white heat begin to curl in her belly as she picked up the pace.

Ron ignored her request and started his usual keening grunts, signaling that he would soon reach climax.

“Just keep fucking quiet for once, Ron, and let me get there first,” she pleaded with a frustrated wail, as she rode his cock with desperation, her eyes shut tight.

Before she could reach climax, Ron pushed her off.

“What do you mean, 'just keep fucking quiet for once?'” he questioned angrily, now sitting up in the bed.

Hermione curled into a fetal ball on her elbows and knees, and let loose a frustrated feral scream into the bedclothes. The one time she was certain she would finally climax, Ron had to ruin it with the running of his mouth and now shoving her off just before she could orgasm.

Jumping out of bed, her body coursing with hormones, energy, sexual tension and now anger, Hermione spat, “Just what did you not understand?!? I was fucking you, and I wanted you to keep quiet!” She paced the floor frantically, her body shaking, trying to find some way to contain the near orgasm.

“What is wrong with you!” Ron screamed back.

“What's wrong with me? I'm horny!” Hermione hollered back. “You woke me up from a sex dream that was un-fucking-believable, and I mounted you. What? Wives are not supposed to initiate sex? We're supposed to lie on our back and let men do everything to please themselves, but if a witch does anything, there's something wrong with her?”

“No! What I have a problem with is you telling me to shut the fuck up during sex!”

“Just because I don't want to hear 'HEE! HEE! HEE!' like some squeaky wheel that needs some grease does not mean there's anything wrong with me! It's distracting, and it was ruining the mood for me!” Hermione threw back venomously with a growl.

“And what? Telling me to shut up wasn't ruining the mood for me?!” he snarled back sarcastically, his tone equally acidic.

“Would it kill you to let me have an orgasm?!?” she asked, her voice rising in volume once more. “You've had so many orgasms where you've left me unsatisfied, I think it's only fair you don't get to finish for once!”

“You bitch!”

“Selfish bastard!”

Hermione grabbed her wand from the nightstand and stormed off to the kitchen, to keep herself from walking over to her husband and slapping him soundly across the face.

Inside the tiny kitchen, she paced, taking great strides. It was even more frustrating, because she could only take two strides before having to turn around and take two steps in the opposite direction, only to reach another wall. Hermione felt caged. If they lived in Hogsmeade or some nice suburb, she'd throw her cloak on over her nightgown, put on some shoes, and go for a nice long walk.

As it was, she didn't feel like wandering about Diagon Alley in nothing but a nightgown and cloak. Agitated and unnerved, she looked about the kitchen desperately for some idea of what to do. Noticing that the cooker had a few bits of charred, cooked-on food, Hermione went to the cupboard and grabbed a pail, a scrub brush and a bottle of Mrs. Scower's All-Purpose Kitchen & Bathroom Cleaning Solution Magical and Otherwise.

Filling the bucket with water and adding the cleaning solution to the water, Hermione began cleaning the cooker with agitated fervor. Once the top was clean, she started on the oven, getting on her hands and knees, scrubbing away every last fleck of burnt food until the inside was sparkling.

The exhausted witch sat on the floor panting, her muscles aching from the repetitive motion of scrubbing with a brush, like a student who had served an all-night detention with Snape cleaning cauldrons. When the memories of her dream came back – the thrill of Calleo rubbing himself against her, hovering above her and between her legs – energy she didn't know she had returned to her as if she had never cleaned the cooker at all. Desperate to find something else to do to get rid of this pent-up energy, she started washing the walls, overlooking the fact that she had recently spelled the walls and molding clean. When that was complete, Hermione started reorganizing the pots and pans, ignoring the lightening of the sky in the east.
============

A/N: I originally finished this chapter about a week before the terrible bombings in London on July 7th, 2005. I decided to post it without removing the talk between Hermione and her mother, keeping it as I originally wrote it. Do not think I threw in horrific current events in order to add to this story.
This is the last chapter that I post originally in 2005 before HBP came out. Going forward, I chose to ignore most of HBP and DH canon, so that makes this story AU. I am still keeping in this story canon up through OotP as I originally planned it.
“Torn Between Two Lovers”: written by Peter Yarrow and Phillip Jarrell http://www.oldielyrics.com/lyrics/mary_macgregor/torn_between_two_lovers.html
Why Minesweeper and not Solitaire? Because Rowling has admitted she's a big Minesweeper addict and uses it for relaxation when she has writer's block, or is avoiding her obligation to get back to writing the next chapter.
If you would care to explore the world of cowboy poetry, here is an excellent site to start with: http://www.cowboypoetry.com/
I don't know if there is a book called “The Encyclopaedia of Barbecue Across the U.S.A”, but it seemed like a good title.
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And They Didn\'t Live Happily Ever After