It was funny how easily routines could develop. In the three months since he’d returned to England, his life had taken on a sense of order.
For years, it seemed, Bill had drifted. After Fleur died, there had been nothing to ground him. The loss of an unborn child had been difficult, as he’d always wanted to be a father, but it was something he could deal with and get over. The baby hadn’t been a person to him yet, he guessed. It had been his future son, as he found out after, yet Bill hadn’t really seen it as such. He felt guilty sometimes for not mourning more than he had and wondered if it made him cruel or a monster to not feel consumed with grief at that loss.
Fleur’s death, however, had been devastating. During the months after his attack, she’d been strong enough for both of them. When the nightmares became horrible or he had one of his moods, one of the few side effects of the bite, she’d been there with patience and a gentle hand. At a time when everything had felt artificial and insincere, her light had shown through and she’d saved him from himself. He’d looked at her and realized she really was beautiful, inside and out. Losing her had been such a shock and it had taken him years to stop reaching for her at night and to refrain from expecting her to be there when he got home from work.
He had accepted the promotion with the hope that it would allow him an opportunity to start putting his life back together. It hadn’t fallen apart, he was far too strong to allow that, but he’d barely been living since Fleur died. He went to work, took the most dangerous assignments offered, lived in a small flat in a quiet area of Egypt, and spent most his nights at the local pub because the silence and the emptiness was too overwhelming. That had been his routine in Egypt, though he’d not realized until recently that it had even been a routine. It had always felt as if he were drifting down the Nile with no one trying to bring him safely to shore.
London was different. Bill couldn’t really explain why but he could see the differences in his day to day life. It wasn’t lonely anymore. He had a friend; something so simple and often taken for granted by many, a friend had changed things for him. Hermione Granger, of all people, had come into his life unexpectedly. A mug of cocoa on a cold winter’s night had started it all. Even when he’d tried to retreat, not at all sure he was ready to be around anyone or wanted a friend, she’d stubbornly refused.
His little brother’s best friend; for years, that’s all Hermione had ever been. He’d known her, of course, but he’d honestly never given her much thought. She was smart, relatively pretty enough, and didn’t believe in keeping her opinions to herself. Fleur had called Hermione a dynamo once during a summer’s evening at the Burrow, and Bill thought the term was appropriate. Ron had been infatuated with her and he’d assumed she’d eventually be his sister-in-law if Ron had his way. That was the extent of what he’d ever thought in regards to Hermione.
Ron hadn’t had his way, obviously. Bill wasn’t sure what had happened between them, hadn’t cared before because he’d been dealing with his own problems and loss, but he’d learned in the last few weeks that Ron and Hermione had given it a go. They’d dated for a few months after the war before ending it. It was a mutual agreement and they were still friends so he assumed that was the truth. Since then, she’d not dated anyone. He didn’t question that because he knew you could have a rewarding life without love and companionship. Besides, she was still young, only twenty-six, and had a long time to find someone who might make her happy.
His earlier opinion of Hermione hadn’t changed. She was smart, certainly didn’t believe in keeping her thoughts to herself once she was comfortable around someone, and she was pretty. There wasn’t a heart stopping beauty or even looks that would probably get a second look from most men, but he liked the uniqueness in her face because it was different, just like her. He also thought she went from pretty enough to beautiful when she smiled and laughed, which was becoming more often as time went by.
She was a handful, though. After a tentative and almost shy initial meeting and cup of cocoa, which he thought was probably due to her being caught watching and following him, he’d been surprised to receive an owl from her telling him he was coming for dinner that Tuesday. If he’d refused, it would have been rude and she’d probably have told his mother so he’d gone. Every time he’d tried to pull away, to shove her out of his life when he came to the realization he was getting used to her being around, she ignored him and he decided it was easier to go along with her than protest.
There was nothing artificial about Hermione. She was stubborn to a point of annoyance, outspoken, opinionated, and refused to tolerate his worst moods. She didn’t mind smacking him when he needed it, literally, and it was obvious she’d grown up with two male best friends. There was a gentleness about her, though, that many people seemed to miss. In many ways, she was a complete contradiction, really. Outspoken and forthright but also shy and hesitant, patient about many things but ridiculously impatient about others, surrounded by people who loved her and that she called friend, but solitary and lonely in a way he recognized all too well.
Nightmares still kept him awake often, especially as a full moon drew near, so he had a lot of time to think; probably too much, if he was completely honest. It hadn’t taken him long to realize she was lonely and wanted conversation and companionship. Her flat was warm and homey, very welcoming in a way much like her, but he could sense the emptiness that first night as he’d sat awkwardly on the sofa with a mug of cocoa in his hand. He recognized loneliness in a way that only other sufferers could truly identify. It didn’t really make sense to him why she’d be alone unless it was by choice, but he didn’t think it was necessarily her choice.
He’d always been surrounded by people who wanted to know him, wanted to be his friend. It had been part of his life since he was first at Hogwarts and it hadn’t stopped as he grew older. He didn’t think it was arrogant to know that he was charming, good-looking, intelligent, and likable. Charlie had often whined about Bill’s popularity and had been quite pleased that he could whip Bill’s arse when it came to Quidditch so that he had something he was brilliant at that Bill couldn’t overshadow him doing. After school, he’d made a successful niche for himself at cursebreaking, utilizing his love for history and charms as well as his sometimes foolish brashness when it came to danger.
The attack at Hogwarts had changed him. He could care less about the scars, most of the time, because he’d never been one to be obnoxious his good looks. It was just part of who he was, after all, just like Charlie was muscular and looked like a giant freckle and Percy had a stick up his arse. He’d changed in other ways after he’d gotten out of St. Mungos. He’d not wanted people to gravitate towards him anymore and could care less about being charming and likable.
Fleur had told him once that he kept putting up ‘keep away’ signs around him and that people could read them even if they were invisible, but Bill didn’t care. His scars from that night went far beyond what anyone could actually see and, all these years later, he still woke with nightmares of growling and teeth and pain. His loneliness was his own fault, really, because he hadn’t wanted friends; he’d wanted to be alone so he’d gone back to Egypt where everyone left him alone except for Charlie, who just didn’t care what he wanted, thankfully.
Brothers didn’t count, though. Bill didn’t want anyone to get close enough again for him to care because losing someone was the worst feeling in the world. Whether it was just a friend or someone who meant more, the loss was something he didn’t want to risk. It probably made no sense to anyone else but it was a good plan and he’d succeeded in being alone for years. Then he came back to London and met a stubborn domineering brunette who didn’t let his growls and glares send her away.
He could vaguely recall hearing his father talk to his mother one night years ago about Hermione and her lost causes. There were some nights when Bill had to wonder if she’d somehow decided he was one and that’s why she wouldn’t let him be. Not that her reasons really mattered, not anymore, but it was an intriguing puzzle and he’d always enjoyed solving riddles. Her loneliness, the reason she had such an empty life outside of work, why she didn’t have men wanting to take her out, and many other questions occupied his thoughts at times. He had come to a few conclusions, but he didn’t think he really wanted to ever completely figure her out. He liked having something complex that he’d probably never be able to solve.
In the three months since he’d returned to England, he’d started to make it home again. His job was interesting with an opportunity for travel, though it was day trips with very few assignments requiring an overnight stay, and he had settled in fairly quickly. He was good at his job and people there didn’t care if he was quiet and reserved as long as he was successful. His flat was very small, but it was all he needed for himself. He and Hermione had painted the sitting room a calming blue and his bedroom a color that reminded him of the sand in Egypt, and they’d been to a few markets in the weeks since to buy things for his flat.
He was again struck by the notion that it was funny how easily routines were set up, even without one realizing it. He went to dinner at Hermione’s on Tuesdays. She came to his flat for take away on Thursdays, though he’d bought a cookbook at the bookstore she ran so he could surprise her with his, hopefully, superior culinary talents one Thursday soon. Fridays were pub night. They shared a table by the window and alternated between comfortable silence and conversation.
Saturday was errand day. The trip to the market for basic goods, a stop at the vegetable market for fresh items, a stop at the bakery, and then anything else that needed done. They’d usually go out to eat Saturday nights, always somewhere casual and enjoyable, and would often go to the Muggle cinema or a museum exhibit or a concert. Sunday mornings would see him buying pastries and going to her flat to read the newspapers, as she had subscriptions to both Muggle and wizarding papers, and then returning home by the afternoon to clean up and give her time to do chores around her own flat.
The weeks had developed into that routine somehow and Bill had to admit that he sometimes felt restless on Mondays and Wednesdays because he was left on his own and it felt even more lonely without Hermione around. Last week, Harry had been in town and stayed the weekend with her, disrupting their routine in a way that had left Bill sullen and annoyed. He’d been invited to dinner on Saturday, and he was somewhat ashamed at the way he’d acted like a spoiled brat that night.
His mood had been awful all day that Saturday, of course, and the full moon had been approaching which always made him act like a bastard. Harry hadn’t even seemed to notice but Hermione hadn’t refrained from smacking the back of his head and telling him to be nice or go home. He’d been nice, but it hadn’t stopped him from glaring about being treated like a child regardless of the fact that he’d possibly been acting like one.
Now it was Friday, Harry was gone, and things were back to normal. It was nice having some sort of routine, even an unspoken one he wasn’t entirely sure Hermione realized they had, and Bill was ready for the weekend. He was relaxed and on his third glass of firewhisky. Hermione was still on her first glass of wine and watching the people walk by outside. Bill liked the silences between them: perfect for thinking without being empty or uncomfortable.
The End