A.N: For Week Four of the Lottery Competition, with the prompts - 3: Sauna, 13: "It really isn't a big deal. Honest.", 41: Secret, 43: Hogsmeade, 48: Anniversary

(This whole damn scenario is a joke. We're all full of secrets and lies. As goddamn celebrities, we're made to look like the perfect family; the perfect golden trio.

Don't let anyone tell you it's not bullshit.)

"Good morning, Ronald," Hermione greeted her husband as he shuffled down the stairs, stifling a yawn. He was wearing sweatpants and a wrinkled Chudley Cannons t-shirt. She forced a smile at the bedraggled sight of him.

"Morning, 'Mione," he muttered, holding out his hand. She thrust the Daily Prophet into his outstretched palm, and then turned back to the stove.

She wasn't meant for this housewife lark. She had to work in approximately forty-five minutes, but yet here she was, cooking pancakes for her so called husband. She flourished her wand at the pan, and the slightly burnt pancakes soared onto a clean plate, which she shoved on the table, where Ron was now seated.

Honestly. He should be cooking pancakes for her. What was it he did now? Oh yes. He quit his fantastic job as an Auror, in order to pursue a career in retail. Of course, Hermione appreciated Ron's reasons for working with George at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, but honestly. Did he not realise that they had two children to support?

Ronald didn't have to go into the shop until ten 'o' clock, and he often was home long before Hermione was; she worked whole-day shifts of nine-to-five, sometimes even six or seven. She was always exhausted.

She pursed her lips at her husband as she leaned against the sideboard, watching him lazily shovel pancakes into his mouth, whilst also reading the newspaper. After a few bites, his face contorted, and he flung his fork down on the plate ungratefully, finally turning his attention to Hermione. "What on earth is wrong with your cooking, Hermione?" He muttered, pushing the plate away and rolling up the newspaper.

Hermione flushed, and folded her arms over her chest. "Well I am sorry Ron, but you know, I'm usually a little bit too busy to be taking cookery classes!"

"You don't need a bloody cooking class, you could just try…I don't know, you're a woman aren't you?"

"You sexist pig," Hermione snarled, grabbing the frying pan that had cooked the pancakes, and raising it above her head. Ron ducked automatically, but Hermione only threw the pan into the sink. Trying to hide his fearful flinch, Ron pretended to be leaning back in his chair.

"What I wouldn't give for some of Mum's cooking right now," he muttered, looking at a spot above the window opposite him, in a dreamy manner. "She made the best pancakes."

Hermione growled angrily, and kicked the leg of the chair that he was leaning back on. The chair splintered, and Ron suddenly plummeted to the ground, landing roughly on his bottom. Hermione snickered quietly, and then seized the plate with his unfinished pancakes, tossing them into the sink along with the pan. "Why don't you just run back off to Mummy's house, then?" She hissed down at him. "I'm sure she will make you a lovely celebratory meal."

Ron had stood up, and was rubbing his behind, looking disgruntled. His facial expression changed suddenly, however, and he looked at his wife, brow furrowed. "Celebratory? Celebrate what?"

"You prat!" Hermione yelled, and stormed towards the back door. She flung it open. "Happy Anniversary, Ronald!" With that, she stormed out of the kitchen, and apparated in the back garden with a loud pop!

(I knew he was doing it too. That's why I didn't care anymore. I did at first, I guess. The guilt was overwhelming, I was desperate to confess.

But as time went on, I figured neither of us really had the energy for each other, anymore.)

Three hours after Hermione had stormed out of their marital home, Ron was lying back in bed, with his arms above his head.

The female figure besides him stirred, and rolled onto her back, tickling his arm and cheek with her long hair. He looked down at her.

Lavender always came back. It wasn't great of him, Ron supposed, but she was easy. And during the aftermath of enormous fights with Hermione, all he needed was a quick fix. Lavender made him feel like he was young and desirable again; like he wasn't really the loser he had turned out to be.

She sat up, stretching her arms lazily, and then clambered out of bed, stalking towards the en-suite in nothing but her underwear. Age and Lycanthropy hadn't changed Lavender a bit. Despite being bit by Greyback during the War, and growing up about fifteen years, she was still every bit the woman she used to be - all long hair and long legs, blue eyes and a really, really useful mouth.

After she was done in the bathroom, she emerged dressed, her hair piled on top of her head, and her make-up redone. She waggled her fingers at Ron and pouted her lips as she blew a kiss, and then she left.

That was the best thing about his affair with Lavender. She didn't want him like she did back in school. She too, just wanted a quick shag, and she was gone almost immediately afterwards. No awkwardness, no emotions, no drama.

Not like his wife, who came with all the baggage he would rather avoid.

(I don't know. I thought it would be someone ridiculous like Ernie MacMillan or Zacharias Smith. Someone clever, not like me.

I would even have preferred it to be Krum. At least his skull was a few planks thicker than mine.

I never, ever thought she would stoop as low as to get with that prat.)

Hermione didn't go to work. She was so angry when she apparated away from her home, that she needed to release her frustration, somehow.

After leaving Hogwarts, Hermione had done her best to try and be more active and sporty. During her schooling, she detested broomsticks and wizard sports, but since she had finished that part of her life, she was enrolled in a wizarding gym, that was located a few miles south of Hogsmeade.

It was good to vent her anger by working out.

There was a plus. He spent a lot of time there, too.

The first time Hermione saw Cormac at the gym, she was immediately shocked. He had repulsed her during her education, and she did almost everything she could to avoid him. Even in her adulthood, she was initially a bit turned off.

But of course, they couldn't just ignore each other. Working out together had become routine, and they spent time in the sauna together afterwards.

Each duration in the sauna got longer and longer. They talked and talked, and Hermione eventually realised how little she had truly gotten to know Cormac while they were at school. Yeah, he was chauvinistic, and his ego was bigger than his head. But now she was in her thirties, and Ron did little to satisfy her anymore. Cormac's defined muscles and exceptional physique definitely enticed her, making her roll her eyes every time she was forced to see Ron in his underpants, with his beer belly.

The affair started quicker than Hermione anticipated. She was the first one to make a move on Cormac while they were in the sauna, straddling him in her swimming costume and kissing him, heavily.

That episode definitely became something of a routine.

And it was just the kind of episode that Hermione needed right now.

When she turned up in the gym, and headed over to the swimming pool, she spotted Cormac sitting in the Jacuzzi. His arms were above his head, baring his wide shoulders and broad chest. Her stomach sank down to her nether regions at the sight of him, and she sauntered over to the poolside, dropping in beside him.

He noticed the still-present anger in her eyes. "What's up, girl?"

Hermione smiled – a real smile, this time. "It really isn't a big deal. Honestly," she assured him. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself."

"Fancy a go in the sauna?" she challenged him, murmuring under her breath. Cormac looked down at her with his ocean-like eyes.

"You're on."

oOo

(You could say we took an eye for an eye. But that's just more crap for us to try and justify our actions.

Truth was, we didn't want to be together anymore. We were brought together by unconventional circumstances; almost dragged together by the events that took place.

But we couldn't well leave each other now.

The bloody tabloids would love it.)