Chapter Seven: Lucky Day
Muriel bustled down the corridor in front of Hermione. "It's this way," she said impatiently, looking back over her shoulder at the slightly disheveled woman who simply wouldn't keep up. Muriel couldn't quite fathom what the problem was; if she had circles under her eyes like that, she'd want an infusion of caffeine in her straight away. It wasn't seemly to walk around looking like the living dead. "Heeeeere we are," she trilled, stopping at the doors that opened into the tearoom.
Hermione clutched a hand to her side. Muriel felt a metaphorical finger of guilt shake at her, but she threw it off. The girl could stand to lose a bit of weight, Muriel thought nastily before remembering that she herself had little room to talk. She couldn't help it if her stout form was made for speed (or if the authoritative sound of her heels tapping against the floor always prompted her to set a brisk pace).
"Coming." Hermione paused to read the sign outside the tearoom. "Hopkirk Tearoom. I've never been here," she ventured. "Every time I've been to St. Mungo's, something has come along and prevented it."
"Well, then! I'm certain you'll like it." Muriel breezed past a sullen-faced attendant to a table near the windows.
"Hopkirk... Where have I heard that name before?" Hermione muttered as she seated herself on a chintz-covered chair.
"Everywhere, surely," said Muriel. She refolded a napkin so that it was fan-shaped rather than rectangular. "Hopkirk is an old, old wizarding name, and a highly respected one. If we weren't so modest, this would be Hopkirk Hospital instead of St. Mungo's. Anyway, the Hopkirk history has been passed along from generation to generation." She sniffed. "We often send our children to Beauxbatons, since the Hogwarts founders were too simple-minded for our liking. Oh, Slytherin was our class, but why he decided to associate with the rest of them..."
She shook her head. "The Hopkirks educated their own children for hundreds of years, then started sending them to the continent for their education in the nineteenth century. However, it was standard for them to return here to take their place in society--to serve in the Ministry or to do charitable things. We have to preserve the old ways, you know, or the kids will grow up like Muggles. It wasn't until my sister and I went to Hogwarts that things started to change; of course, we don't have a Hopkirk on the board of governors, so the education there has never been what it could be. If you're in the habit of knowing the best people, or merely in the habit of reading bronze plaques anywhere outside that drafty old castle, you'll have heard of the Hopkirks."
Hermione sat back in her chair. Her mouth hung open a little. Muriel suspected that the girl was either very tired or extremely stupid.
Across the nearly empty room, two attendants nudged each other in the ribs. Finally, one managed to step on the other's toes and then push her forward. The second one stumbled and shot a glare at her coworker, but then walked toward Muriel and Hermione at a snail's pace.
"What may I get for you today?" the attendant asked. She looked as if she'd rather be anywhere else in the world.
Muriel picked up her napkin. "First of all, I thought I made it clear the last time I came that the napkins were not, under any circumstances, to be folded into a rectangle. There are so many fascinating and interesting shapes, and I did not furnish the tearoom with linen to have it go unnoticed."
The attendant pressed her lips together. "I see."
"You more than see," Muriel went on, "you will do. Then, I must ask, when were these last dusted?" She picked up the silk flower arrangement from the center of the table and waved it in the air. "It might not look dusty, but I can smell dust. This, young miss, is a hospital. We don't want anything dirty here."
The attendant interrupted, speaking through gritted teeth. "Is there anything I can get you for tea?"
"Well." Muriel looked affronted. "Well, yes. The usual." She waved the woman away.
Once the attendant had disappeared into the kitchen, Muriel rolled her eyes. "Honestly. You'd think they wanted the tearoom to resemble a barn! Just four years ago, we donated a large sum of money and had the tearoom named. Of course, I oversaw the redecorating."
Muriel watched Hermione survey the room, taking in the purple velvet curtains, the flowered armchairs and poufs, the lacy tablecloths, the gold-framed mirrors, and the porcelain cupids that hung from the ceiling.
"It--it..." Hermione seemed nervous. Muriel hoped she wasn't about to vomit on the imported carpet. "It looks like a valentine."
"Quite right. I chose the decorations myself, in honor of the fact that the tearoom was named on February the fourteenth. I've changed a few things over the years. I was thinking that a few marble statues would be nice. What do you think?"
"Oh, I don't know," Hermione waffled. Their attendant wheeled a cart toward them. "Look, here's tea!"
Muriel stood up and maneuvered the cart into position after telling the attendant that if she wasn't careful, she'd knock into something. Then, she moved the flowers to one side, replacing them with a plate of airy ladyfingers and jam. "How do you take your tea?"
"With lemon, please."
Muriel obliged, then poured herself a cup, adding the milk and sugar last. Hermione didn't notice, though, confirming that she was one of the bourgeois. "So," Muriel said, to make conversation, "after all that, it mustn't come as a surprise that I myself am a Hopkirk. You may call me Muriel, if you like."
"Muriel--are you related to Mafalda Hopkirk, who works at the Ministry?" Hermione asked.
"Sister," was the sour, terse reply. "Tell me your name again?"
"I'm Hermione Gr...Krum."
Muriel drew a sharp breath. "Not Hermione Krum, who was Hermione Granger...who was the girlfriend of Harry Potter?"
Hermione sipped her tea warily. "I wasn't Harry's girlfriend. If anything, I was... Harry and I weren't like that."
"Now, dear, you can tell me all about it." Muriel gave Hermione her slyest wink. "I know that when he went into hiding--what a way to keep You-Know-Who busy--that you went with him. Do you mean to tell me that you kept him at arm's length?"
"Yes." Hermione put her saucer down. "Yes, I did."
"Then it came as no surprise when you ran off with Krum."
"What?"
Muriel selected a ladyfinger. "That's what happened, isn't it? It was all over the papers here, at first.... Harry Potter doesn't save the world, then his girlfriend throws him over for a wealthy Bulgarian Quidditch player, who sticks his spoon in the wall under suspicious circumstances.... Of course, if I'm wrong, you could correct me."
"You are wrong," Hermione returned coldly. "Ron and I stayed with Harry because he refused to have a Secret-Keeper, and he did save the world--"
"Ron? Who is this Ron person?" Muriel interrupted.
"Ron Weasley--"
"Weasley? He wouldn't be related to the Minister, would he? We have a Roland Weasley who works here--not such an intelligent one, stupid even, and a nurse, can you believe it?" Muriel laughed.
Muriel's new acquaintance stiffened. "I think he's brilliant," she said, and then she poured the tepid contents of her cup into Muriel's lap.
After she watched the obnoxious child exit, Muriel swabbed angrily at her skirt with her napkin. "That will go on Weasley's next evaluation. Oh, yes."
* * *
Ron rolled over in his bed. His flat above Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes had one thing going for it: It was cheap. He got it for allowing Fred and George to fill the second bedroom with their overstock. After arriving home he'd managed a shower without passing out, but the hint of snail aftertaste had sent him to his room. He'd have given anything to be at home right now, waiting for his mum to bring him some tea.
He wondered if he could send an owl and ask her to come. Just for the day. Just to put a hand on his forehead and make mum-sounds and look up remedies in a Lockhart book. Thinking about it only made things worse. He could swear he smelled something cooking.
Ron clamped a hand over his stomach as it rumbled. He wasn't quite sure if that was a good rumble or a bad rumble. Finally, he kicked off the sheets and sat up, turning up the lamp and picking up the alarm next to his bed. It read: Time you were asleep. He sighed and put his head in his hands. If he couldn't shake this illness he'd have to take time off work, and, if he couldn't stop thinking about Hermione, he'd never get any sleep at all.
Oh, thought, nightmare. He could swear that he was sitting on the edge of his bed and looking at Hermione, who had come in bearing a heavily loaded tray. And, he thought, it was a good thing he was asleep, because he was starkers and who knew what Hermione would do if she walked in on him like that?
"Ron!"
Bugger. Ron whipped his legs back up onto the mattress and snatched the covers up over his head. "Hermione?"
"I," she started, her voice squeaking, "I thought you were sleeping."
"So did I," Ron said into the sheets.
"I, well, I brought you some soup."
"Okay. You can just leave it there and I'll eat it later." Ron squeezed his eyes shut tightly as she deposited the tray on top of his bureau. He wished himself far away, to no avail. He didn't hear anything more from her, though, so after a moment he dared chance a peek around the room.
Still there.
"We have to talk," Hermione whispered.
"I'm glad that you've had time to prepare your defense already, but I've been a bit under the weather," Ron said, aware that his voice had no bite. Hermione just kept looking at him with that look that said he wasn't going to get out of it even though she'd refused to talk about it once already today. He levered himself up against the headboard, careful to keep the sheets tucked around his lap. "All right. Have at me."
To his surprise, Hermione sat down next to him on the bed. "I'm sorry," she began, not meeting his eyes. "I'm sorry for not telling you everything. There are some things you deserve to know, some things about me, and Viktor, and me and Viktor, and why I left, and why I had to--"
Ron put a hand over her mouth. Her words came out muffled, and she continued.
"It wuvvent for da mummy. It wuvvent becuz I diddumt beweev in mysewf. I lieb." She wrenched his hand away. "You've been thinking all the wrong things about us."
Ron made a face at her. "Who says I've been thinking about us?" He knew, though, that he couldn't fool Hermione, especially not when he had this much skin exposed. His cheeks were growing warmer by the second.
Hermione grew very still. "Then I've been thinking all the wrong things about us, and I'm very sorry to have bothered you with it."
She moved to get up but Ron grabbed her wrist. "You've--you've been thinking about us?" He pulled her arm across his chest and switched hands so that she couldn't pull away. He, for once, wanted to hear everything she had to say.
Suddenly, the alarm clock went off and they both jumped. Swearing, Ron leaned over, grabbed it with his free hand, and threw it against the opposite wall to shut it off. "Damn night shifts. Don't fuss at me about the swearing," he warned her preemptively. "Answer the other question."
Hermione tipped her chin up in the way that told him she was about to be very, very stubborn.
"Did you know," she said at last, "that I really, really dislike Muriel Hopkirk? But that I have her to thank?"
"Huh?" Ron was well and truly confused and Hermione hadn't even explained anything yet.
"I had tea with her today." Hermione scowled.
"Ah. Unfortunate." Ron put a pillow behind her and she scooted toward him to find a more comfortable position. She looked calmer now, and that had to be a good sign, didn't it?
"Very. She insulted me and she insulted someone I love."
Ron held his breath. He knew, he just knew, that if he said anything, he'd stick his foot right in it.
"Muriel Hopkirk said that I was Harry Potter's girlfriend and that I dumped him for Viktor Krum."
Ron felt like a balloon had popped inside his chest. Maybe he'd been thinking the wrong thing.
"Viktor asked me to come and see him because he was sick. He didn't want anyone else to know about it." She fingered the edge of the sheet absent-mindedly, which made Ron rather nervous. He had to concentrate on what she was saying, and if she wasn't careful, she was going to get an eyeful.
"Go on." He put his free hand over hers to stop her playing with the sheet. Unfortunately, this trapped her hand against the upper portion of his thigh. Changing tactics, he twined his fingers through hers and let their hands drop down to the mattress.
"He had--well, it's a sort of Muggle disease. He thought that there might be something magical that could save him, and that if anyone could help him, it would be me." Her voice wavered. "I tried, Ron. I tried everything. I thought that I'd discover a cure, and I don't think I slept the entire time. His family... His family was awful. They tried to have me deported, so Viktor and I got married. Then, there were endless strings of legal documents and every time that I thought they'd given up and decided to leave us alone, there was something else."
A tear splashed against his hand. "Don't cry," he tried first, wiping at her cheeks. "You did your best."
Hermione didn't answer. Gathering a reserve from Merlin knows where, Ron put his arms around her awkwardly. "I know you did your best."
The tears turned into full-blown sobs, wet and breathy against his bare chest. He patted her head and shoulders. Somehow, it felt natural to run his hand over her hair once, and then again, and then over and over in a lulling, hypnotic cycle. He didn't know when it happened, but eventually they ended up scrunched down against the pillows with Hermione's head resting on his collarbone.
"That's not the worst of it, though. I poured my tea in Muriel's lap."
Ron couldn't help the laugh that escaped from between his lips. "Er, I'm sure it was just an accident."
"No." Hermione raised her head and looked Ron right in the eye. "I poured it in her lap on purpose. She insulted you."
The balloon that had burst only a few minutes earlier swelled to epic proportions inside his ribcage. "Hermione, I think I..." He swallowed hard. That was true loyalty.
It was now or never.
"I think I like you better than the Cannons."
He leaned forward and kissed her. There was something shaky and nerve-wracking about it, something like playing Keeper. He had so many things to think about all at once: how soft her lips were, how her hair was tickling his cheek, how he had to pay attention because kissing her felt so wonderful that he caught himself starting to forget to kiss back and only feel the things she did to him.
He pulled her higher against him, noting that she didn't seem to mind any. Now he could kiss her cheeks and neck and listen to the way her breath got raspy against his ear. He pushed her robe off her shoulder for more.
"Wait," she said, her voice muffled by a kiss.
The balloon deflated. He checked, though...still there. Hanging by a string.
"It's, well," Hermione began.
"You're very pink," he said, watching her turn a brighter hue.
"I haven't been home in two days and I need a shower and I don't want our first time to be like that," she said all in a rush.
"I've got a shower here," Ron said. He instantly realized that he sounded like a complete and utter prat. Way to go.
She smiled softly. "I know. But I need a little time to get used to the idea that I might be able to get what I want. And because I want to wait until the translations of the paperwork are complete."
"Okay--translations?" Hermione always went off on such odd tangents.
"The annulment. My annulment. Viktor and I...it wasn't like that. We managed it in the last days before he died." Hermione gave him a hasty peck on the cheek. "It was never supposed to be like...like that. Like this."
She stood up and brought Ron the tray of soup. After using a Warming Charm on the broth, she got up and readied her wand..
"Hermione," Ron said to stop her. "I meant what I said. About the Cannons."
"I know," she answered. With a wide grin, she Disapparated.