I title this,
“Hermione Granger and the Hot Bulgarian Quidditch Player Who Respects Strong Women”
Hermione Granger had been married for eight years. She had two children, one just starting at Hogwarts, a mortgage on a three-bedroom house, and a laundry basket that no matter how much she magicked, never seemed to shrink.
It was an ordinary Friday on what was an extraordinary day. She was late, having stopped at the store to pick up groceries for dinner that night. Arriving at number 13 Pickernet Court, Hermione was greeted by an all too familiar sight.
Ron sat on the couch, eyes on the television, in his underwear, surrounded by bottles of butterbeer. It was obvious he had spent yet another day on the couch planning his “next big invention”. Gritting her teeth, Hermione rushed after the children, settling them at the table to shove a quick meal of toad-in-the-hole under their noses, ushering them into the bathtub, rushing through their story and putting them to bed.
Ron remained on the couch, eyes on the latest soccer game. He’d truly taken to the muggle past-time.
Children finally down, Hermione, frazzled at the lack of time took a shortcut she hadn’t wished to take. She tapped her wand on the carcass twice, whispering, “Assum pullumook.”
The chicken jumped on the bench once before settling onto a platter, skin browning. And like all of her magic food creations, one thing went not quite to plan. The chicken was slightly over as it steamed on the plate. The potatoes were slightly under as they danced into place, and the carrots were…. sprouting.
Hermione sighed looking at the clock in the corner. Seven-thirty. She turned to the entry. calling, “Ron? He’ll be here soon.”
She got a grunt in reply.
A quick wave of her wand tidied her hair and smoothed the wrinkled from her linen dress. Another wave had her perfume float down from upstairs as she set the table. She sprints one then sent it back to the bedroom.
A final glance about the kitchen had her nodding. “That’ll have to do.” At least she’d begged a cake from Molly for dessert. The chocolate and cream triple-layer sponge sat temptingly on the kitchen counter.
At five-to-eight the front door rattled with a tap-tap-tap. Hermione pressed suddenly damp palms to her thighs as she made her way to the door. She paused, taking a breath.
“You going to open it, love?” Ron yelled from the kitchen.
Her breath rushed out with a sigh. She twisted the handle, pulling the door open. Viktor Krum, former Quidditch champion, eight-time MVP, now the successful author of Potions for Performance stood in her doorway. Viktor was looking deliciously, physically perfect.
“Hermy-own-ninny.” He winked as he leaned in, pressing a whiskered kiss to her cheek. “Lovely to see you.”
Her heart stuttered. “And you, Viktor. Do come in.”
His accent was still as think, but his grammar had smoothed out. Years of being on the international stage would do that, Hermione mused as they shared chatter over dinner.
“And vat is when I decided to vite Potions for Performance.” Viktor took a sip of wine and then nodded at Ron. “Of course, it is nothing compared to defeating the Dark Lord.”
Ron’s chest puffed out. “No, I’d say not, Vicky.” Ron shovelled a spoonful of potato into his mouth, sending Hermione a crumbly grin.
She suppressed the urge to shudder, correcting him, “It’s Viktor, Ron, not Vicky.”
She turned back to Viktor. “So what’s next?”
Viktor grinned, “Vell, the book is good, I am thinking. But I feel to be helping people.”
“Want, old boy.” Ron corrected. “That’s the word you’re after.”
Viktor nodded, smiling. “Of course. I want to be helping people.”
“How?” Hermione asked, her dinner forgotten.
Viktor launched into an impassioned discussion about his desire to use his fortune to build opportunities for others. He wanted young witches and wizards who didn’t have the funds to attend the big schools to have the same opportunities as everyone else.
As he wrapped up his outline, Ron began to chuckle. “If it were me, with so much riches, I’d hardly be throwing it away.”
And that was the moment Hermione woke-up. She realised what her heart and her head had been ignoring. Hermione was in a dead-end marriage
As Ron took himself off to see to one of the children, Hermione and Viktor remained at the table, discussing politics and magic, muggles and spells, books and famous wizards and witches. She was reminded of what being in a room with an equal felt like – and a little part of her broke.
“Lovely night.” Ron enthused later, slipping on his flannel pyjamas. “Goodman that, Viktor. Still can’t believe you ever went out with him.”
Hermione bristled. “Why?”
Ron chuckled. “Too high and mighty, really. Thinks too highly of himself.”
“Ron. I’m leaving you.”
“What’s that, love?”
Hermione kept her eyes on the ceiling. “Or you’re leaving. Tomorrow. Since I bought this house and pay for it. I’ll take the kids. You needn’t worry about a thing. Just take what you feel you need and go.”
She rolled over in the bed, looking at him. “I deserve a man who respects me, Ron. I finally realise that’s not you.”
“But the light-”
“We were teenagers, Ronald. We were meant to grow up at some point. I did. You never have. I can’t be a mother to you and our children.”
And so ended the relationship of Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger.
Hermione was pursued by no fewer than seven eligible bachelors in the year following her divorce. Having learnt her lesson, she placed a higher emphasis on her self-worth and sought to date only men of value. These men were successful in their own right, one an Aurora, one a teacher and one owned a publishing house.
But it was a final man that Hermione eventually found love, acceptance and family. He was kind, generous, a philanthropist who strove to improve the lives of everyone he met. He also had the library her heart had always longed for.
“Darling, pass the tea?” Hermione asked from her position on the couch. A hand reached over, pouring the hot brew into her cup. She rubbed her rounded stomach, smiling at the small kick she felt against her palm.
“Iz she playing?” Viktor’s hand moved to cover hers.
“Always. With a famous Quidditch champion for a father, how could he not?” Hermione teased. Viktors eyes crinkled in amusement as he looked at her.
“Are you happy, my Hermy-own-ninny?” He asked.
“Of course, darling. You don’t have any regrets do you?”
“No. It vas you. Always.”