Chapter Seven: Hermione Part One

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

It's Friday evening and I'm staring down a white envelope in front of me. I'm sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea after I just wrote back to Malfoy that I would not be able to see him later at the pub, the one near my parents' house. I tell him I'm sick. I hope he gets the letter on time. I really wish he would turn his Floo Network back on, but that one time I brought it up left him in a sour mood. I just know it has something to do with The Incident that happened three or four years ago. Every time I try to subtly ask what happened then he gives me this look, this bowels-evacuating glare and I know better than to engage him further. I can't believe that I know what Malfoy's looks mean. I suppose that's what happens when you clandestinely meet someone every Friday for drinks and the best sandwich ever over the space of about three months.

Has all that time been one big ploy?

I find it hard to believe. Does he really hate the best bone in my body and is secretly thinking up ways to nullify my existence as soon as he gets what he wants? Has he really been using me and my daughter as means to an end?

I really and truly hope not because I will make him regret it. I will make sure that my face will be the first thing he sees in his mind when he wakes up in the morning and goes to sleep at night in whatever will be left of that torture chamber that he calls Malfoy Manor. I will haunt him forever until the day he takes up his wand and begs his son to Avada Kedavra him just to get me out of his head.

My hands are shaking from rage at the thought. I know it's not really because of Malfoy. Rose told me her suspicions since Sunday and I wasn't this upset. As a matter of fact the possibility of Malfoy using me was considered, but discarded after I became…friends, I suppose, with him. I plan on talking to him about it as soon as I can collect my thoughts. I'm looking for the right opportunity and enough time to carefully build my argument. Malfoy's smart. He's not like Ron, whom I can bullshit my way out of an argument. I've been really calm about the whole thing all week as I think of the perfect opportunity to confront him. I suppose the Wizengamot denying Lucius' appeal is the perfect opportunity.

That's what I'm really angry about. Lucius lost the appeal. They denied it based on personal reasons and not the law. They simply don't like Lucius Malfoy and I told them as much, but not in as nice a phrasing. The words 'bigoted', 'obsolete' and 'jackasses' might have been bandied around this afternoon after the appeal was denied. That has me angry; not so much that they rejected the appeal, but the fact that I cared so much about it. I was practically ranting to them after they denied the appeal with a majority vote based solely on the fact that they just don't like Lucius Malfoy. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't like Lucius any more than they do, but I am a member of the Wizengamot and I believe in justice and equality and the fairness of the law. Apparently, they believe in it too, except when it comes to Lucius Malfoy.

What has me really, really angry is that I hope to the heavens that after I poured all my heart and soul into this appeal that Malfoy was not just using me and after he hears this news that he won't simply cast me aside. The thought gives me a heavy feeling in my chest and a sense of guilt. I shouldn't care so much about my friendship with him, but I do. I can't face him yet. I can't handle it if he finds me past my usefulness to him.

He couldn't possibly be lying to me all this time. He would have to be the world's greatest actor. Is it possible for him to fake those smiles? Yes, he has been smiling when in my presence. We've finally admitted to liking and appreciating each other's sense of humour.

Is it possible for him to fake the way he listens? He listens with rapt attention as if I were telling him how to turn lead into gold. He even pays attention when I go over the finer details of my bill that I'm trying to get passed. None of my other friends have been able to keep awake before I finished. Not only does he stay awake, but he asks questions too!

Was it possible for him to fake an interest in Muggle culture? Once we went to the movies. He was enraptured and he talked non-stop about the movies afterward like a child. He keeps bugging me to go out to the cinema again. We talk about books and plays and books and plays that they turned into movies. He's making a long list of movies he has to see with me. I keep putting him off because most of those movies aren't showing in current cinemas and I sure as hell can't bring him to my house to watch it on tape. I can just imagine the disaster that would ensue if Ron or Harry ever came home to find Malfoy snuggling with me on top of the setee and eating popcorn with butter as we watch The Usual Suspects.

He knows me so well now. The other day he surprised me when he met me at my parent's house (I was in for a lot of surprises that night, the first being that my parents were not going to the pub for the Quiz that night, the second being that they really like my new friend, Draco Malfoy – "he's charming," Mum said) and reminded my mother that I didn't like ice-cream with nuts in it. My mother! I shouldn't be surprised. Every now and then my parents have lapses despite the lift of the memory charm. Forgetting the ice-cream is little. Sometimes they forget me…again. It happened once while he was there with them. Just for a few moments they turned to me and looked at me like I was some burglar that had camped out in their kitchen. It hurt. It hurts every time. It only ever lasts a few moments before their brain resets and they go back to looking at me with knowing love in their eyes, but every time it happens it hurts. Malfoy, he gave me such a funny look when it happened, but he did the strangest thing afterward. He held my hand and let me cry on his shoulder afterward when the guilt that I did that to my parents caught up with me, as it does every so often. Not once did he say anything about the tears staining his shirt. He intrigues me.

Do I really know anything about him, though? He generally steers clear from any mention of his wife. Even though he has been quite open on his feelings towards Daphne's striking resemblance to his wife when her hair was dyed black, it's as close as he'll get to actually mentioning her. He still moderates exactly how much he'll let me see his true feelings on the things that matter like his parents, Scorpius and his wife. He has never been as drunk as he was on New Years to have an emotional slip like that again. Do I really know anything about him besides the superficial things like the foods he likes and what wine he favours and how he spent his childhood pre-Hogwarts?

To distract myself I open the white envelope on the table. It's from the Wizengamot and I have to read it over three times to make sure I read it correctly.

Dear Mrs. Weasley,

We, the Wizengamot for the Ministry of Magic in the United Kingdom, write to you following the regrettable conclusion of the final Appeal for Lucius Malfoy on this afternoon, May 25, 2018. In your support for Malfoy's case you have made a series of claims against the members of the Wizengamot and the Ministry of Magic that is both untrue and pejorative. Your loyalty and commitment towards the Wizengamot's unwavering support for justice and equality seem questionable in light of recent events and behaviour.

As such, we regret to inform you that your position as a member of the Wizengamot would be suspended without pay with the immediate effect of the posting of this letter.

Further, it should be noted that some members of the Wizengamot are considering their options on the possibility of filing actions against you in defamation, to seek damages and costs and in particular an injunction restraining you from further such false and disparaging statements. We will only refrain from pursuing these remedies if you immediately acknowledge this correspondence with an open letter to us retracting the things you have said and worded in a manner suitable for publication.

Yours respectfully,

Diana Evanovich

Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic

I've been suspended. I sit here staring dead-eyed at the Ministry's latest attempt to get rid of people that do not sufficiently enable their bullshit.

They can't sack me because I've got tenure, but they can get rid of my position entirely, making it non-existent on the Wizengamot. Will that be their next move? I get a flutter in my chest and for a brief moment I wonder if I'm having a heart attack or a stroke. My mind runs on Harry. I haven't gotten any letters or visits or Floo calls from him so I can only suppose that either he was not given a copy of this letter or more than likely he has yet to see it. I suspect that they will wait until the very last moment before they c.c. this letter to him about my job's demise. They know the reaction they will get from him – lots of shouting and lots of bad press. He will not stand for this. As for me, I don't know how to feel about this. I'm numb.

The fireplace lights up and for a brief few moments the entire kitchen is lit green. Strangely, I remember Malfoy telling me that he had found the greenish glow of the Slytherin common room to be quite comforting and the flash of the Floo always reminded him of that. It's the one thing he misses about having his Floo Network open. I turn around, ridiculously and illogically expecting to see Malfoy, but instead it's Ron. I'm quite surprised to see him home this early. It's only minutes to six. I feel oddly disappointed and familiarly guilty.

"You're home early," he tells me and takes a seat opposite me.

"I was about to say the same to you." He gives me a watery smile, but doesn't answer my implied question. Something is wrong. I can tell by the way he's staring at his hands, the table, the walls, at anywhere but me. He sits there quietly for a minute or two. I wait, not bothering to attempt conversation, unable to think up anything anyway that doesn't have to do with my recent suspension. I'm not in the mood to talk about it yet, not when I haven't processed what it all means.

I'm about to open my mouth to ask him if he wants some tea, dinner, anything to break this awkward silence (strange, I remember once when our silences were companionable and not grating) when he decides that he's summed up enough courage to talk.

"I hate my job. I really do. When the war was over and Shacklebolt asked Harry and me to become Aurors, I remember clearly thinking that he's asking me because I was in the same room and he didn't want to seem rude. It's like when you really fancy a girl and you want to invite her over for tea at your house, but her stupid git of a best friend is there so you have to ask him over too."

I take a sip of my tea to hide my what-the-heck-is-he-on-about expression as I rack my brain to remember if any situation like that ever occurred in our friendship with Harry.

"I'm convinced that's how Rose ended up asking Malfoy to our house for Boxing Day. She didn't want to be rude to him. Sometimes I wish we weren't such good parents. We should have brought her up to be a completely rude bitch every now and then. You know, let her channel her inner Pansy Parkinson."

I chuckle knowingly because Malfoy has told me that while Pansy is still a bitch, her devotion to her daughters is unrivalled. "Okay, Father of the Year, bring it back to the point."

"Right. You and Harry love your jobs and you have every right to. Great and memorable, satisfying moments happen in your careers. You single-handedly stopped elf slavery. You're amazing. You are an amazing person. You could be lying to the Wizengamot or robbing old witches or kicking baby owls in the face and you'd still be awesome because I know that you'd be doing it for the good of someone else, for the greater good."

I slowly put down my teacup. Does he know what happened? He continues, oblivious to my look of discomfort and anxiety understandably since he's still looking at the skillet on the stove as if he's talking to it instead. Also, should I question the fact that he thinks I'm amazing enough to rob old witches and get away with it?

"And well, Harry is Harry. Nuff said. I don't need to say how amazing he is. It's in the history books. Me? I don't have memorable, satisfying career highs. For instance, today I got called out on a case and there was an exploding toilet. Let's not go into the details, but I couldn't hear for shit after. Sorry about the pun. I get back to the Ministry and do you know who I run into? I literally ran into them because the explosion damaged my inner ear so walking was more like a series of barely-missed falls –"

"Oh my God, Ron! Are you alright?"

"I'm fine now, but at the time, no. Anyway, coming out of the lift I run into Mimi. You know Mimi, the Veela actress who did that play – I can't remember the name – but she has no last name?"

I nod. I dislike that woman. She and this chair I'm sitting on have similar acting styles – wooden, that is.

"She's a great actress. She recognized me. She stopped and said something. I couldn't hear her properly, so I responded appropriately. I said, 'WHAT?' And that was it. That was my career highlight."

"Ron, I'm sure –"

He barrels over me. "I think she said that she enjoyed my column last week. I read her lips and that's what it looked like. She didn't say 'thanks for nabbing those kids who're on with that exploding toilets shit again.' Sorry about the pun. But no, she talked about my column. And that was my career highlight, 'Mione. What I'm good at is writing funny stories about Quidditch. I suck as an Auror."

"Ron –"

"I quit my job, Hermione. I'm still part-time at the paper, but it's what I want."

He finally looks me in the eye and I feel like I just got punched in the gut. That's because I take care of the bills around here and at any moment I can bring up mentally our financial position. We're only now building back up our savings because we recently bought and refurbished this house. The mortgage is obscene because we don't live in a magical community, but slightly apart from a Muggle village. Everything will now fall on me. Ron's pathetic pittance from that job will never be enough. My hands start to shake on the scrubbed granite kitchen table. Why on earth would we need a granite kitchen table?

"I know that you're mad."

"I'm not mad."

"Really, because you have a sort of pissy half-smile that's worse than if you were frowning and shouting."

"I'm not angry. It's just that…" I glance down at the imposing letter of professional doom, heavy on the table.

"Look, I'm finally doing something for myself."

I stare at him in disbelief. I'm mercifully saved from tears by a rush of anger. "You're finally doing something for yourself? You could never be serious."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"For almost a year you've checked out of our marriage. You don't even kiss me anymore. I barely see you. You say you're searching for clarity. You have me making two dinners – one for me and the kids and a vegetarian one for you. You've given up drinking. You've given up meat. You've given up sex it seems. You've given up conversing with me. You tell me that you're searching for something, some kind of meaning to your life, you say. You're having a mid-life crisis, Ron and it leaves me with no way to approach you. You're blameless in all this. I'm supposed to be the supportive wife. If I don't, I'll be the shrew wife that won't stand by her man."

"I'm not having a mid-life crisis. You've been having a crisis, clearly what with you suddenly taking up Lucius Malfoy's case. Do you know what I've been through because of you? The Minister asked Harry, not me because of conflict of interest or some shit like that, to investigate you to see if you've had Death Eater dealings, if you've been supporting Death Eater ideology."

I stare at him in open-mouthed shock. Harry's been investigating me? My face flushes as my mind races to all those Friday evenings I've been spending with Malfoy. I wait for Ron to say something about it.

"You show more interest in Lucius Malfoy than your own husband. Harry and I have to defend you to Ginny and Mum. I have to constantly say that no, my wife has not lost her mind. I have to stand by you as you do shit like this. You don't even talk this over with me."

"When the Prophet ran those stories about how I was slowly declining into senility, you patted my shoulder – my shoulder! – said nothing then went to work at the bloody Prophet. We haven't talked things over in quite a while, Ron. And to be honest, I don't think I want to now."

"Why not?"

"Because . . ." I sigh loudly and I feel like it's dragged up from the depths of some far reaching place. I feel tired and I barely mutter, "…because I just don't care anymore."

He stares at me for a while, his expression just as tired as mine.

"Are you with Padma?"

He rolls his eyes and sighs. "I'm not with Padma. I'm not with anyone."

"You're with me." I quietly remind him.

"It doesn't feel that way." He reminds me.

"I know what you mean." I say quietly.

We sit there for a few uncomfortable moments before he gets up and goes upstairs for a while. I rest my head on the table, feeling sick and woozy. I think I called something onto myself from my earlier lie to Malfoy. After a while I hear Ron come downstairs, his heavy footsteps on the hardwood floors – expensive hardwood! – as he enters the kitchen. I don't lift my head.

"I'll be at Mum's for the time being." My head snaps up at this and I see that he has a little duffle bag in his hands. He gives me one last look, probably wondering if I'll ask him to stay. I wait for him to say that he'll stay. We both say nothing and he turns. He stops at the door and says with his back to me,

"I did try to kiss you the other day, but you pushed me away."

I have nothing to say to that. I don't know what to say to that.

I hear the crack when he disapparates and I'm reminded of our year on the run during the war when he left. I don't have the same reaction. I don't run after him crying and broken up over the fact that I might never see him again and that all the time spent together may be over. The sad thing is that he's gone and all I think is, 'well, that's one less thing I have to think about.'

I get up from the table and go upstairs to the bedroom and drop on the bed like a stone. I feel strange like I'm waiting to get up from a dream, like I'd walk downstairs and see that it's really day time and that everything that happened in the last few hours was a horrible dream. I eventually fall asleep, but it's fitful because I keep expecting Harry to come and tell me off about not trying with Ron or about how he feels indignant rage that I was suspended or worse…that he knows about my meetings with Malfoy. Why hasn't he said anything? In my dreams I keep repeating the argument with Ron and the children end up blaming me. The children! What am I going to tell them? I wake up groggily after a couple of hours that leave me more tired than before. I hear a knocking on the door, but I know that Harry will never knock. He has access to my Floo Network. He'd make his presence known by shouting up the stairs for me. I go downstairs still half-asleep and feeling like crap. I open the door and it's Malfoy.

"What are you doing here?"

He eyes me up and down, taking in the dishevelled hair, the oversized grey sweatshirt, the black leggings and the imprint of the pillow across my cheek. "My word, you look really horrible. I can see the sickness all in your face."

Now I know that I'm not actually sick, so his statement slightly stings.

"I'm here to make you feel better." He smiles saucily at me and I narrow my eyes at him in annoyance. With a wave of his wand a small basket appears to float between us and I cannot hide my surprise. "What? You thought that I was going to make you feel better? Oh Granger, I'm not that kind of night nurse…unless, do you want me to tuck you in?"

And we're back. I roll my eyes at him and he laughs. I take the basket and he steps inside without an invitation.

"You can't stay, Malfoy." I say even as I'm closing the door behind him and I peer through what he's brought for me. He stands in the hall and eyes me with the excited look of someone who knows they bought a good gift and is awaiting the inevitable gratitude.

The basket is full of vials of Pepper-Up, fruit, a really expensive-looking golden cashmere shawl and classic books by famous wizards and witches. I hear a slight humming and when I peer further I see that there's a blue Puffskein furball staring up at me with these huge black, deliquescing eyes. I scoop him up into my hand and he hums contentedly.

"Aww. He's soooo cute."

"Oh Granger, you'll make me blush."

"I was talking about the Puffskein."

"Right,"

"You'd be as good-looking as this little Puffskein too if you got rid of that creepy, flesh-coloured beard you've been sporting."

"But then what would I have to keep me warm at night?"

"You're a wizard, cast a warming charm."

"Nothing beats the warmth of a good woman."

I look at him and he gives me an odd expression, almost yearning. It's fleeting, but it makes me blush a bit. We stand there staring at each other with dangerous, unsaid words between us. Finally, he clears his throat and says,

"You're welcome, you know."

"Oh right, thank you." I feel horrible that he went through all this trouble when I'm not even sick. Then the reason that I lied to him in the first place comes back to me and my expression shifts to look shrewder. He notices.

"Are you alright? Are you feeling ill now? Do you want to throw up?" He takes me by the arm and leads me to my own living room and plants me on the sofa. I'm amazed by his consideration. He takes the shawl out of the basket and wraps it around me while I pet the Puffskein with absent shock at his sincerity.

"Are you going to vomit? Should I conjure a basin?" He asks as he sits next to me and rubs my back – he's rubbing my back! – in soothing circles.

He stops for a second to take in my living room; his eyes resting on all the towers and bookcases of books; artefacts from mine and Ron's careers displayed all over the place.

"I really, really hope that you're a scheming mass murderer to compensate for all this bookishness."

I snap to my senses.

"Malfoy," I turn to face him, so he's forced to stop rubbing my back. I was feeling too comfortable with his touch and that had me feeling uncomfortable. "Why are you really here?"

"You told me that you were ill, so I came here to help you out. It's Friday and I know that Weasley usually works late on a Friday. I didn't want you to be alone. I was trying to be considerate." He's speaking really slowly, but this isn't the slow drawl that he uses when he's joking. No, this is an I'm-giving-you-enough-time-to-change-your-tone-with-me drawl. This however, is not something that I'm going to back down from, not with the mood that I'm in right now.

"My daughter is very close to Scorpius, as you know. I suppose it's because the two of them are similar in some respects and they're similar to you and me – they don't seem to have a high tolerance for nonsense."

"Where are you going with this, Granger?"

"They suspect that we've gotten closer over these last few months."

"There's nothing wrong with that. I'm keeping a low profile with you to save your reputation."

"To save my reputation or to save yours?"

"I beg your pardon,"

"I know that Blaise Zabini told you to take an interest in a friendship with me, so that I'd be willing to work on this appeal for your father."

He narrows his eyes at me and his lips thin into a line of annoyance. I know the look well. He's looked at me that way for seven years at school, but back then the look had more disgust in it. The disgust is gone from him these days, judging by how right now our knees are touching on the sofa and he's making no effort to pull away his leg. Also, he's on my sofa.

"Need I remind you that you're the one that came to me? You offered to do the appeal. You offered to become friends with me! You're the one that's running down a friendship with me, not the other way around!"

His words feel like a slap to the face.

"So you wouldn't leave now if I told you that I lost your father's appeal this morning?" His jaw tightens as he looks down at his shoes; his body is still. "Would you leave now if I told you that I can't even help to pass the bill because I've been suspended? Your father will be executed and I can no longer help you. I have nothing else to offer you, so you can stop trying so hard." He looks up and just sits there staring at me. "I think you should leave." He still sits there waiting for me to change my mind and my thoughts instantly bring up Ron, telling me that he's finally doing something for himself and waiting for me to tell him stay. My anger increases like a sudden surge in electricity, suddenly and strongly. "Get out of my house. Get the hell out of my house!"

He rises suddenly and sneers at me. For the first time since I've begun to see him on a regular basis I get a glimpse of the Malfoy that I used to know. He could burn me to ashes with his gaze right now. He's positively scowling at me.

"I came over here, Granger out of the goodness of my heart. I thought that you were ill and I rushed over here thinking of you only. I even got you that bloody care basket." He walks over to the entryway to the hall where he pauses. "I didn't know that my father lost his appeal. Thank you for being so sensitive on the topic." He turns to face me, so that I can see his face clearly, and says with acid-like spite,

"Fuck you."

He pauses for about a second, possibly wondering if I'll ask him to stay, but more likely allowing his expression of pure disgust to be the last thing I remember before he walks out of the hall.

It's so strange. It's strange because when I was sitting here with him, I was getting angrier and angrier by the second. It's only now that I realize that I was taking out a lot of anger that stemmed from Ron and the Wizengamot on him. When the door slams I'm forcibly reminded of the grave mistake I just made and I bolt from the couch to run after him.

I pull the door open with such force that I'm mildly surprised when it doesn't come off in my hand. I can see his retreating form almost to the edge of the apparition point.

"Malfoy! Draco!"

He doesn't stop. He disappears with a loud crack and a stomach-churning regret grips me. I close back the door and shame descends on me, not just from the way I treated Malfoy just then, but I realize that this is how I should have reacted when my husband walked out on me, not Malfoy. I know why I reacted that way, I'm not stupid. I can't even help it this time and I start to cry.

A/N: So this was originally a very long chapter, but I cut it in half for you guys. See, I'm thinking of you all, yet you guys hardly review (except for my one loyal reader - you know who you are) to let me know if you appreciate anything in these chapters. :( *le sigh* Part two will be up tomorrow regardless.