A/N Big shout out to those who have added this story to their alerts, and massive thanks to all you awesome people who have added me as an author :)

Also, as ever, to my fantabulistic reviewers; Cat130, as always, I'm thrilled you're enjoying it and thanks for letting me know! And bookworm, your threats towards Fleur get more and more creative every time you review! First buses and now butterfly-vomit; you never fail to make me laugh! As for Tom, I've always found his character fascinating, I've got a few ideas for stories involving him bouncing around in my head, so you might be seeing one from me after this fic is done! Finally, though I can't say this chapter is happy or hot, it might make you unimpressed with Ron once more.

Enjoy!

Year 9

Hermione stuck her head into the fireplace, hoping beyond all hope that it was Bill who answered when she frantically called his name, and not his wayward wife. To her relief it was, and after she quickly explained the situation, she stepped through the fire after her eight year old, holding the hand of her younger six year old brother. She emerged to see Rose with her arms wrapped around Bill's waist, laughing happily as he regarded her mother with a concerned look. "Why don't you guys go and get ready for bed?" He asked lightly, smiling as the girl's grin grew wider.
"We're sleeping over?!" Hugo asked happily, grabbing Rose's hand and running out of the room; they both loved staying at Shell Cottage.

"Thanks for this Bill." She murmured appreciatively after a few moments silence.
His eyes bore into hers, sincerity shining through the dual sapphires. "I'm so sorry about Ron."
She shrugged, faking a nonchalance she definitely didn't feel. "I'm hoping it's just a one off."
Bill sighed and ran a hand through his hair, messing up his ponytail as he did. "Do you know why he fell off the carpet?"
Hermione blinked. "Fell off the what?"
"The carpet, you know, as in flying carpet." At her befuddled expression, he elaborated. "It's a wizarding expression; if you've quit something you were addicted to and then fall back into the addiction, you've fallen off the flying carpet."

Whether it was the stress of Ron coming hope swaying and giggling at the pool of vomit he had produced at his feet, empty whiskey bottle in one hand and a half-empty one in the other, or the sheer incredulity of the saying, she felt hysterical laughter bubbling in her throat. But when it erupted from her, it was as a strangled sob that quickly turned to relentless tears streaming down her face. Bill immediately moved over to her, and his t-shirt was quickly soaked as he pulled her into a tight embrace, swaying her softly and murmuring soothing words against her hair, his mere presence doing more to calm her than anything else could.

"Muggles have a similar saying." She told him in a hoarse voice against his chest. "They say 'fallen off the wagon'."
He peered down at her curiously. "That makes no sense. Some wizards still use flying carpets, people haven't used wagons for decades."
She gave a small shrug. "I guess some people somewhere may still use them."
He shook his head slightly, before pressing a light kiss against her hair. "Muggles are weird."
She gave a small hum of agreement. "To answer your question though, I don't have a clue why he decided to drink today. He's been doing so well for years... I just knew I had to get the kids out before they noticed something was wrong, and here was the first place I thought of." Though her eyes were now dry and she felt a quiet contentment, she didn't move from her place in his arms, and after a few seconds she felt him rest his cheek on the top of her head.

They remained holding one another for a few minutes, a comfortable silence enveloping them and her mind blissfully peaceful, her ear pressed against the steady thumping of his heart. But all too soon, memories of her inebriated husband made her shoulders sag and forced her body to step away from his reassuring warmth, leaving her feeling suddenly chilly in the previously pleasant room. "You could stay too, you know." Bill said as his arms dropped back to his sides.
She gave a wry smile. "I doubt Fleur would be too happy about that, and I've already imposed on the pair of you too much."
"She's not here." He stated bluntly, making her raise her eyebrows in an unspoken question. "She took Dominique and Louis to France to see their grandparents. She probably went so she can see her lover too." Hermione couldn't help but wince slightly, but to her slight shock he gave a small smile. "Ginny said she'd told you. Don't worry, I wont risk hurting you or Rose, not for anything."

"Bill, I'm so sorry." She couldn't stop herself from stepping forward and lifting a hand to his face, cupping his cheek and letting her thumb run over one of the scars there.
He tilted his head slightly to press a light kiss onto her palm, closing his eyes in pleasure at her touch, before snapping them open again and gazing at her fiercely. "Don't be." His voice was rough and low, and sent tingles through her body straight to her womanhood. She couldn't help but match his ragged breathing as he moved forwards and rested his fingers lightly on her bare arms, burning her with their touch. "She knows I hate her, and the children are happy with me as their dad, so I really couldn't care less who she's fucking." He was now towering over her, gazing down at her with an intensity that rooted her to the spot and made her heart thump. "She's not you." The last was whispered as he moved to tilt her head up and flicker his eyes between her own and her lips, silently asking for permission.

She was rising on her tiptoes, the hand that had been resting on his cheek moving to behind his neck to pull him down, whilst the other fisted itself in his shirt to keep him close, when a loud banging from upstairs reminded them that Rose and Hugo were just a few rooms away. They settled for touching foreheads and letting their breath fan over each others faces in warm brushes. "We have to stop doing this. We're both married, we both have families. We have to stop finding ourselves in situations like this." Hermione whispered, though despite her words she was still unwilling to move away.
"I know." He replied lowly, though his fingers still trailed small patterns across her skin. "Stay. Don't go back to Ron, it's not your job to look after him. Stay here tonight; I'll make up the guest room." His voice was imploring, clearly wanting to protect her from whatever her husband would say or do, and she was so tempted to accept.

But knowing that he would be in the same house, knowing that Fleur wasn't there, halted her. It shouldn't matter that she wasn't, of course, but it did. Whether he was in a different room, or even a different country, being back here in the house they had redecorated (though Fleur had long since returned it to its original style, including the green bathroom her husband hated) would prove too much for them both, and they would undoubtedly find themselves in one another's arms. So it was with a sad shake of her head that she declined. "It would be wrong. I can't."
"I don't want him to hurt you." Bill replied through gritted teeth.
"He won't."
"Hermione." Her name was a ghost of a breath from his mouth, and before she knew it their lips had touched gently. It was nothing like their last kiss, two years earlier; this was sweet, innocent and infinitely more dangerous. Because in that soft brush was all the pain that they were unable to heal, the longing they were unable to satiate, the forbidden love and repressed tenderness they had felt for over ten years.
They pulled apart and she ran the pad of her thumb over his mouth softly, giving him a small smile as she stepped back. "I have to go. Thank you for looking after the kids, I'll pick them up tomorrow." And with that she turned and flooed back home to her husband, the memory of her love's kiss still tingling against her lips.