Wedlocked
Chapter 40: Football Sunday

Soldier on.

She repeated the two words ad nauseam, repeated them so often they were losing their effectiveness. Ginny was trying to make her a new mantra: Talk to him. It was fine advice, words she would have loved to follow, but there was no talking to him.

She had thought that when he saw her again, relatively sober, that he would explain himself, but he didn't. As they stood with Remus and the Weasleys in the entrance hall, waiting for Ginny to grab a particular book Fred had asked for, she cleared her throat.

"Um, Sirius," she said in a quiet but surprisingly steady voice, "I think we need to talk."

"Nothing to talk about," he retorted, neither quiet nor steady. He shoved Remus aside and stalked out of the house alone.

"Can't say I didn't try," she muttered to those staring at her.

Remus moved to follow his friend but stopped. "Arthur, would you?"

"It's fine," the man said and hurried out the door after the man.

"Where's dad gone?" Ginny asked when she came down the stairs, book in hand. After a paused and a hard look at Hermione, adding, "Where's Sirius?"

"I tried to talk to him, like you said," she replied, angry that this was now her fault. Hermione's hard expression was a dare for anyone else to try saying something to her. She was fed up with moods and tantrums, fed up with advice and knowing looks, fed up with the bloody ache in her chest. She had half a mind to check herself in to St Mungo's as they entered, certain there had to be something physically wrong with her, but she followed the Weasley's through the corridors and into a small, private room with two occupied beds.

Hermione studied the patients for a long moment. Were it not for the trademark flaming hair, she would not have known who they were, their faced were so deeply bruised and their generally impish features lost in swollen lumps. If this is how horrid they looked days after being admitted to hospital, she was nothing but supportive of Molly for her reaction.

"Hermione, love!" a cheery voice called to her. "I have so missed you! Look, Hermione's come to visit!"

"You're only ever that cheerful when you're trying to distract me. What are you up to?" she asked.

"Nothing," one protested.

"Perfectly innocent," insisted his brother.

"Never hurt a fly in my life."

"Although I did once step on an ant, poor thing."

"Took him home in a box, and cared for him until he was well enough to rejoin the colony."

"Oh, stop!" she snorted.

"Worth a try," he shrugged and slumped down on his pillow.

One of the twins looked at her, and, as his head tilted to the left, she knew he was Fred. The man still put on that sympathetic head tilt every time he looked at her, as if he were about to apologise for not being her husband.

"Hermione," Fred began, his head tilting even further to the left. "I'm—"

"Oh, shut up about it already!" she snapped. "I didn't want to marry you!"

"Fine way to treat a bloke in hospital," he sniffed and crossed his arms over his chest, flinching at the pain it caused him.

"How is that husband of yours?" George asked. His entire forehead moved in what she suspected was meant to be a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows. "Keeping you up till all hours, is he? Would explain your foul mood today."

"No, he didn't because he isn't anymore," she snapped, holding up her hand to show the lack of wedding and engagement rings.

"Ooh, so I've a chance now?" Fred asked with so much eagerness she nearly believed him. "Oh, but wait. You said you didn't want to marry me. Bugger."

"Well, if all you're going to do is make fun of me, I'm leaving," she glared at them both in what she hoped was a way that might give them nightmares and left to find Tonks.

The way Remus had hesitated at the door that morning, too concerned with making it to the woman's bedside, made Hermione fearful for her condition. But, it seemed the woman had gotten off light. She appeared completely uninjured.

"Hermione! There you are," Tonks cried and hopped from her bed to give the younger woman a hug. "How have you been? You haven't been to see me."

"I'm sorry, I was in Oxford," Hermione said, explaining about her parents and grandmother's birthday and being angry as she had been. "But I'm here now, so how are you feeling?"

"Fine, but they won't let me leave." The woman threw herself onto the bed and groaned. "It is so boring here."

"Why won't they let you leave? Why won't they let her leave?" Hermione turned to Remus, who was smiling down at the woman as her hair flashed through four different colours.

"Head trauma can affect a Metamorphmagus a little differently from the average witch," he explained. "They're keeping her under observation until they're certain there's no lasting damage."

"Head trauma?" Hermione paled.

"I bumped by head diving behind the information kiosk. I've hit it worse before, so I don't see what all the fuss is about," she insisted, flushing with embarrassment when Hermione snorted. "What? You dive to escape a hex and see if you pay attention to what you might hit your head on. Honestly."

"So you really are fine?"

"Yes. Perfectly fine," Tonks assure her. "Now how about you? You're not hurt? And not angry with Sirius anymore? How is he? He hasn't been in to see me either."

It was Hermione's turn to scowl. "I wouldn't know. He refuses to talk to me."

"Remus—"

"No," the man said. "I am not getting in the middle."

"That's just what Ginny said," Hermione practically snarled. "Everyone is so keen to tell me what to do, but not one of you is willing to actually help."

"It's not our fight, Hermione," he insisted.

"It's not a fight!"

"Sounds like one to me," Tonks shrugged. "You'll sort it out."

Hermione scoffed but said no more.

Sirius wasn't home when they returned from Saint Mungo's that afternoon. Nor was he at dinner that evening. Hermione considered lying in wait, ready to pounce on him when he came to the library to drink that night, but thought it would not give off the impression of maturity that she was trying to maintain. Instead, she had to go on living each day with the hopes that their paths would simply cross naturally and she would get the chance to talk to him, but they never did. He was home; she knew he was because the others talked about him drinking more than ever or being more belligerent than usual.

If the others saw him, she was forced to conclude that he was deliberately avoiding her.

"Hermione, you have got to fix Sirius," Harry groaned and threw himself into an empty chair opposite hers.

"I'm starting to think that's an impossible task," she muttered, but more loudly said, "I've been trying, but he's hiding from me. I think maybe he's angry that I saved him."

"Rubbish," the boy said.

"It's the only explanation, Harry. I pulled him from some blissful afterlife with all the people he loved and he resents me for it."

The boy's eyes narrowed at her as if he were studying her. "Sometimes, you are not that clever."

"Not you, too," she groaned.

"I'm not kidding. You—" He stopped, his eyes growing nearly as round as the frames of his glasses. "You really don't know."

"What? What now?" she demanded, slamming her book down onto the table.

"I—I think I'll just go… do… something else…" His eyes remained round and locked on her as he stood and stumbled his way from the kitchen.

This was becoming more tiresome than it was worth. She was only at Number 12 so that she could talk to Sirius, which was clearly never going to happen. At least at her parents' house she would only have to deal with her mother's 'I told you so's instead of this constant nagging to fix the husband she no long had and everyone's assertions that there was some grand knowledge she was lacking. It was ridiculous, all of it. And, she decided, she would not tolerate it any longer.

She stood and took up her book, stomping out into the hall and directly into someone's chest.

"Sorry," she muttered.

The grunt of a reply told her she had finally run into her estranged husband.

"Sirius, I th—what are you wearing?"

"Clothes," he retorted, curtly.

"I can see that," she said, forcing the ache away; it hurt all the more now that he was standing before her. "Why are you wearing those particular clothes?" She knew there were much more important things she needed to discuss with him, but she could not keep that question from coming out of her mouth. She had seen the contents of his closet, and knew these clothes were not something he had owned; they looked suspiciously like athletic clothes, if athletic clothes had been described to an expert tailor who had never set foot outside his shop and only knew how to make extremely fine suits. As ever, he looked good, if slightly odd.

"Football club," he reminded her harshly, like she was stupid to have forgotten. Or just stupid in general.

"You're actually going through with that?"

"Gentlemen's agreement."

"But we aren't married anymore," she said. "You don't have to try to impress my parents."

"I was never trying to," he replied, pushing past her with more force than was strictly necessary. "I like your dad. And I promised."

'You also promised to love and honour me,' she thought rather bitterly, but nodded and made sure none of her resentment seeped into her voice when she replied. "I promised my dad I'd come for the game. I'll take the Floo Network if you'd rather not travel together."

"Fine," he all but spat.

She watched him stalk from her presence, terrified how this would play out once they reached Oxford. If he wasn't willing to put up a front for her parents, then it would be painfully clear that not only the honeymoon but the entire marriage had ended. Her mother would, naturally, be thrilled, but her father genuinely liked Sirius; she so hated to disappoint him by divorcing after only four months.

The look on her father's face did nothing to ease her concerns; the man looked positively ecstatic that Sirius had kept his word.

"Sirius," Phillip grinned and shook the man's hand. "Don't you just look the part!"

"I do what I can," Sirius said, sounding not only sober but properly pleasant. "So where's the pitch?"

"At University Parks," her father said. "I try to jog there as a bit of a warm up." The invitation was obvious, and Sirius readily took him up on it, jogging off down the pavement while Hermione was left to find her own way there alone. Git.

It was completely immature, but the only thing that kept Hermione walking to that pitch was the promise of watching Sirius make an absolute fool of himself. Her hopes were dashed rather quickly. The man was a quick study and was soon the best football player Phillip Granger's Sunday club had ever seen. She glowered as her father and his friends hoisted Sirius onto their shoulders and paraded him before the losing side.

"Git."

"Now I know what it felt like to be James all those years," Sirius laughed, shaking off the last of the praise. "I like this game."

Phillip slapped the younger man on the back. "I think I might have found another way to make some money off poor David Bradshaw."

"Dad!"

"What? I didn't hear you complaining when my winnings got you your wedding portraits made," he defended. "Well, maybe a little complaining."

"Wedding portraits?" Sirius asked, watching their conversation with interest. "The pictures of my brother, James and Lily?"

Phillip nodded. "I thought that one looked like you," he said. "Our girl said they were lost friends. I'm sorry."

Daring to look his way, Hermione was surprised to find Sirius looking back. The pain and anger on his face made the ache in her chest throb harder. It was like the last time they had been in this park, just a few weeks after their marriage had been arranged; he had looked at her just the same way, and all because of a misunderstanding. They had sorted it out by that evening.

Unlike their previous disagreement, this was permanent.