I wrote this for the Pi Day Challenge on HPFC. These characters belong to J.K. Rowling. Coldplay owns the song "The Scientist" which inspired the title. Enjoy!

[Challenge #3: Write a fic about an unwanted breakup or fight between friends or lovers. Alternatively, write about eternal, true love.]

I was 13 when I learned about pi. I may not have been attending muggle school, but I still wanted to keep up with my peers in case I was deemed unfit for the wizarding world. In my nightmares, it was always a stern ministry official, coldly proclaiming, You do not belong in this world, Hermione Granger! Your wand, please. The anti-muggle sentiment in the wizarding world had shaken me more than I let on.

While perusing textbooks in the muggle library while home on summer break, I learned that pi neither ends nor settles into a permanent repeating pattern. Mathematicians consider it to be a constant. They call it transcendental. I reveled in its ubiquity: suddenly, I saw circles everywhere.

I was 13 when I also learned the pangs of love. And suddenly, all I saw was Ron.

His Devonshire accent rising above the rest of the voices in the dining hall. The whiff of his hair in the courtyard on the way to class. The feel of his clumsy hands when he passed me his parchment, an essay to look over. The red of the common room fire. And all I could think of was Ron.

Now that we've been married for ten years, after having dated for four, I have become accustomed to him. I wake up to his snores, his body giving off heat, making me irritable and sweaty in the night. His shoes in the foyer that I trip over when I come home exhausted from work. His belches after eating that make me want to roll my eyes. His empty liquor bottles. His "cool dad" routine that always undermined my attempts to use consistent rules with the children. He is everywhere, and I cannot escape him. His ubiquity consumes me, and it is breaking my heart.

"Ron? I'm going out!" I yell, pulling on my shoes. I don't bother to wait for a response. Our kids are at the Burrow. They adore their grandparents. They love hearing their grandfather explain old muggle objects to them and helping their grandmother around the house. They don't mind having our children there. "It keeps us young!" Arthur had said to us once.

I disapparate to muggle London. I walk to the nearest park bench, and I pull out a cigarette. I started smoking after Hugo was done nursing. Ron actually was the one to start me on them. Molly had offered to watch them for our anniversary night. Looking back, I can see that she was trying to do us a favor by nudging us back together, if only for a night. It was actually a great time; and after nearly a bottle of wine to myself at dinner, I was more than tipsy.

"Ron Weasley! Are you smoking?" I had shrieked. We were standing outside of some nightclub. It was my idea to go dancing after dinner.

Ron froze on the spot. "Right. Hermione, look, I only do it when—"

Before he could say any more, I had plucked it from his fingers and begun smoking.

"Hermione!" His voice had been filled with the same reverence as when I had slapped Malfoy back in our third year. We made love for the first time in months that night.

Now, I smoke maybe two, three times a week. And always in secret. I don't know when or why I started keeping secrets from Ron. I don't know when we became this way. Maybe it was when we had children. We love them, yes. But it's almost as if we lost who we are, swept up in the daily role of parenthood. But instead of being partners, we have become co-workers of sorts. Bitter. Competitive. I rub my eyes and light another cigarette.

I walk around muggle London for another hour. I stop into a bar to absentmindedly drink whiskey for a bit. The whiskey thing started when I began my little excursions. I suppose I felt like I was doing something elicit, and my usual glass of merlot or butterbeer didn't fit the mood. I swallow the whiskey down, thinking of Ron's increasing drinking. I remember Rose's last birthday party.

"Ron, can you help me set the food out?" I had asked, calling out for him over my shoulder as I tried to brush my daughter's red curly hair. Ron hadn't answered.

"Brush your hair, sweetheart," I had instructed my daughter, as I ventured downstairs to our kitchen. Ron had just set an empty glass on the countertop. Wiping his hand, he had said, dully, "What?"

"Ron! The food!" I had snapped, pointing from the food to the picnic table outside.

"Right. Right, yeah, I'll do it." He dismissively cracked open a bottle of butterbeer.

"Don't let it over-cook, yeah? Un-do the cooking charm in 15!" I had wondered if I should trust him with the responsibility, but I had had no choice. I still had to get my kids ready and dressed, and guests were set to arrive in less than an hour.

I feel my anger bubble up as I think about the remainder of that day. After 45 minutes, I had found Ron sleeping on the sofa. Ron had forgotten to watch the food, and it had burnt. Luckily, Molly had thought to bring sandwiches, and Ginny had baked a cake. Nobody quite knew how to handle Ron's drunkenness. Sure, it wasn't anyone's first time seeing Ron drunk, but on our daughter's 5th birthday! It had hurt the worst when I realized how fake my happiness was that day. Who are you, and what have you done with my Ron?, I had thought.

"I'll have another one!" I say to the bartender, sliding my empty glass over. If he can do it, then so can I! I think bitterly. After I down it, I pay and go. As if on instinct, I make sure to buy some groceries to justify my absence before heading home. I don't know when I became good at lying to him.

I find Ron sitting at the kitchen table. He's smoking a cigarette. I drop the bags on the countertop. "Really, Ron. In the house."

"Hermione…" he mumbles, looking down at his drink. Whiskey.

"And you're drinking too! I didn't know you were planning to have a party today! At 1 in the afternoon, no less!" My hypocrisy astounds me, but I continue.

"Hermione…"

"Were you going to invite me, at least?"

He is silent as I stand in front of him, my hands on my hips. He looks so sad, and I can't tell if I want to cry or scream at him. And I don't know why I would want to do either; just that I do.

"Are you happy with me, Hermione?" he whispers, his gaze set on a smudge on the table. I see his mouth set into a straight line, and I know he is trying not to cry.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course, I am, Ron, what are you talking—" I attempt.

"Please. Tell the truth," he says, looking up at me. He is crying now, and I am at a loss for words. I walk over to hold him, and any words I try to say are stopped in my throat. I hate making him cry. I hate hurting him. I realize, with a searing ache in my chest, how easy it has become to hurt him, and I hate myself for it.

We have both become so good at hurting each other. Who are we?, I think, as I hold him numbly, my mind flashing back to a particularly bad night a few months ago.

"Will you quit nagging me, Hermione?" Ron had brushed me off. We were in our bedroom. I had just put the kids to bed and had planned on talking to him about the dirty clothes he left on the bathroom floor, only to find him asleep by the time I entered the room.

I had retaliated. "Well, maybe if you weren't such a dolt, I wouldn't have to repeat myself!"

Ron had sat up then, his eyes darkened. " Oh, so now I'm a dolt. All that talk of 'Believe in yourself, Ron,' 'You're so smart, Ron,' what's that about?"

"Oh, please, it's not about that!" I had rolled my eyes at him.

"What is it about, then? What is so fucking important that you had to stomp in here and wake me up to yell at me?"

"I don't know! I don't know!" I had realized a bit too late that I was shouting, my hands pulling at my hair in frustration.

"If you don't know, then just leave me the fuck alone, Hermione," Ron had replied, rubbing his eyes wearily. That had stung. Tears sprang to my eyes. It felt like first and sixth year all over again, and my reaction had been equally childish. I had grabbed my pillow and left, slamming the bedroom door behind me.

Who are we? My head is pounding, and I close my eyes as I pull him closer.

"You smell like cigarettes. And whiskey," he says, plaintively. I look up at the ceiling in shame as I feel him let go of me.

"I was an auror for two years, Hermione. I know you're not just going out for groceries." His voice is a bit colder now, and I think to myself, No, Ron, stay. Stay here with me. "Look," he says, running a hand through his hair. It falls down over his eyes anyway, and I start to reach out to brush it out of the way. He sits up, and he is out of reach.

"We haven't been happy for a while now. And I want to be the one to make you happy. And I want you to want that. But you don't, do you?"

I suddenly feel weak, and I grab the edge of the table.

"I think…"

No. No. You can't. Don't say it.

"I think we should take a break."

He says it quickly, like ripping off a bandage. "Just for a little," he continues. I find myself marveling at his composure during such a difficult moment. 'I was an auror for two years…' his voice echoes in my mind. "The kids," his voice cracks at the mention of them, "The kids can stay with me, if you'd like. At George and Angelina's. Or if you'd rather have them here, I mean, whatever you think is best."

I feel my head nodding and then shaking, as if to say, "Yes. No." I don't know what to say, so my head's movements aren't entirely inappropriate. I open my mouth to speak, but there is so much I want to say. There is so much, and so nothing comes out. I sit down.

"Hermione, please. Talk to me." His voice is quietly pleading, but I can barely hear him above the thoughts in my head. Say something, you stupid fool! You useless girl, say something! I am yelling at myself.

Ron stands up and walks towards the foyer. It is then that I notice a duffle bag. I notice the silence of the house, our children away, as Ron begins to put the bag on his shoulder. The bag bears the Chudley Cannons emblem, and I am reminded of his childhood bedroom, the first time we made love, waking up to see the rising sun reflect in his eyelashes as he slept. When he woke up, he had grinned at me lazily. "Hermione…" he had said tenderly, his eyes half open. And I remember just how much I love this man, and I turn my head to look at him.

He stands in the doorway to the foyer and stares at me. He is waiting for me to say something. And I remember how patiently he waited for me to forgive him during the war, after he returned to us. I remember the cups of tea he had made me that I foolishly left to go cold in spite. I remember his hands gently brushing my hair off my face in Shell Cottage when I was too weak to move. "It's alright, Hermione, I'm here," he had whispered. I remember the love in his eyes after I gave birth to Rose and Hugo, the way he cried when he held our children for the first time. I feel a sort of pain coursing through my chest right now, and all I can think is that this is a whole new type of crucio.

I see his shoulders sag, and he begins to walk towards the door. I open my mouth to say something, and still, silence meets me. He opens the door, but before leaving, he turns to look at me.

"I love you. Still. Always." His voice is shaky as he says these words. I know without looking at him that he is weeping. The door closes as I remain rooted in the chair. Count on me to be lost in my mind during a time like this.

I hope you enjoyed it, at least, as much as you can enjoy angst. :)

I adore reviews. Any constructive criticism is welcome. If you hate it, please let me know why. If you love it, same goes for you! Thanks!