Chapter 9

Hermione was still at her desk, thoughts purely on business now as she made notes about the bookstores she'd visited and which books she'd purchased at each one, when she heard Ron and Seamus coming in.

"Why are the lights on?" Seamus asked.

"I'm not sure," Ron replied. His voice sounded strange, clear. He called out, "Hello?"

Hermione walked into the living room. "It's just me. Did you forget I was coming home today?"

Ron looked at her and smiled. Hermione strangled a gasp.

Ron's eyes were clear. He hadn't been drinking tonight. Did he only drink when she was around? She went to him and hugged him, and, for the first time in ages, he hugged her back. "Did your trip go well? Where were you again, Turkey?"

"No, I was in Bulgaria, in a town called Izbor on the coast of the Black Sea. My trip went really well; I brought back a trunk and two duffle bags full of books. How have you been?"

"Great!" he answered. "I helped bring down a band of wizards from Romania who were smuggling in illegal potions. I was in The Daily Prophet."

"I'm really proud of you," she told him. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Nope, and I'm starving. You cooking?"

"Yeah, I'll go make something. Anything in particular? Seamus, are you staying?"

Seamus nodded, and Ron told her anything would be fine. She disappeared into the kitchen. What was going on? Ron was being nice to her, acting more like the old Ron. But then, he hadn't remembered she was coming home, either. As she rummaged in a cabinet, she heard Seamus' voice coming from the next room, rather softly, but still understandable.

"It's a damn good thing you came home alone tonight, mate, or you'd be in trouble right about now." He'd been bringing someone home with him? Had this girl slept in his bed? Maybe she should mention his phone call.

"Oh, Ron," she called, "a couple hours ago, you had a phone call, from someone called Karen. She said you had her number to call her back with, but she didn't seem too anxious to get your call."

"Man, you're busted!" Seamus muttered. "Which one was Karen?"

Which one? She'd be lucky not to get an STD. She was beginning to get angry.

"Thanks," Ron called, then added quietly to Seamus, "she was the blonde, from the university."

"With the huge—"

"Yes, that one. Change the subject."

"Where'd Hermione say she's been? Bulgaria? They have a great Quidditch team, or at least they did until last season."

"What happened last season?" Ron asked. "I haven't been keeping up with them."

"They had a new seeker. I'm not sure why, or if the change is permanent. The first game of the new season is coming in a few weeks; Bulgaria is playing the Cannons here. I'd love to go to that game." Hermione was beginning to feel a tiny bit uncomfortable.

"If you really want to go," Ron sighed, "I suppose I could humble myself to my uppity baby sister and get us tickets."

"Wow, I'd forgotten Ginny was on the team." Hermione knew Ron had to be rolling his eyes at that. "Do you think she could get us passes to meet the players?"

"I'll see what I can do," Ron moaned. "I wouldn't do this for just anyone. Fancy a drink?"

She should have known decent Ron wouldn't last. She called them for dinner, then went back to work.

An hour later, after Seamus had gone, Ron stepped into her office. He walked over and stood behind her chair, hands on her shoulders. He sifted her short hair through his fingers.

"I think I'm going to grow it out again," she told him.

"Why? I thought you liked it short."

She sighed, several reasons running through her head. "I suppose I'm just ready for a change."

"Ok. Want to come to bed?"

She knew from the tone of his voice he wasn't asking if she wanted to sleep. He was asking for sex. She thought about it. She didn't want to have sex with Ron, but she wanted sex. Her body felt wound like a spring from the past few days. She leaned her head back against Ron's hands and thought about her desires. She wanted to feel the sand of the Black Sea coast on her bare skin, with a blanket of stars in a midnight sky covering her, and eyes as dark as that sky gazing down into her own, glowing with love, burning with passion. This thought, this vision of Viktor, stabbed through her, igniting both a flame of need and a desperate guilt.

She took Ron's hand, and let him lead her to their room, but it wasn't Ron she made love to. Eyes closed, she was with someone else, and when it was over, she and her dream lover washed the sweat and sand off of their bodies with cool water from the Black Sea.

Afterwards, when her guilty fantasies had fled, Hermione picked up a scent she hadn't noticed before, and she decided it was time to approach the problem. She may have enjoyed Viktor's company during her trip, but she had done nothing more than hug him, and that only happened once. Ron's behavior was entirely different. "Ron," she asked, "why does my pillow smell like perfume?"

She felt her husband stiffen beside her in the dark, but he didn't answer. She waited a few minutes then switched on the bedside lamp. Ron was staring at the ceiling, with tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and one of the salty beads slid down his eyelash to his cheek, then onto the perfume-scented sheets. "It helps. It helps the ache of never being good enough, to be with someone who is less than I am."

Hermione slid out of bed and grabbed her huge, cushy robe, wrapping herself in it, closing herself off. "We need to talk, Ron, really talk, tonight, when you don't have enough alcohol in you to be incomprehensive."

"Then I need more alcohol in me," he snorted. "Hermione, I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to hear about how I've failed yet again. I don't want my wife to make me feel two centimeters tall. I want to be left alone, except for a meal and a fuck once in awhile." He rolled over, facing away from her. She went to the living room, grabbing a pillow and blanket from the hall closet on her way to the couch. She didn't want to sleep beside Ron or on that perfumed pillow.

Somehow, though, his infidelity didn't hurt like it should have, even now that she knew the extent of it. She wasn't hurt, and she wasn't jealous. She was just…annoyed, that her bed had been used. If he'd been in a hotel room, she didn't think she'd be bothered by it. Hermione realized, sitting on the lumpy sofa with her chin on her knees, arms wrapped around her legs, holding herself, that she didn't care about Ron. She cared about the boy Ron who had been her friend, and she felt a kind of reminiscent love for the young man she'd married in the early days of the war, but she felt nothing for the Ron she'd known since the night of final battle. She wept that night, slow, sad, tears for emotions long past that could never be recaptured. When the sun rose, however, she accepted that it was only her promise keeping her married, keeping her from true happiness.

Unfortunately, Hermione didn't break promises.