Chapter Seven

February 2006

For the last three weeks, Marcus had been a model client. He followed and adhered to every detail of their plan without a single question beyond clarification. Even prior to his full extraction from his regular nightly activities, he checked in ahead of time. He was quick to offer them his coming whereabouts and who he would be with, ensuring they were ready for anything that could potentially come their way following his evenings out. And if they warned him off a place or a person, he listened and adjusted accordingly. He was wholly dedicated to making their efforts work for him, making things even easier than Blaise had initially predicted.

Hermione's only problem with him had been his insistence on coming by the office to speak with them, speak with her. It didn't matter that she and Blaise were partners and that he was as capable as she. If Marcus had a question, he specifically requested Hermione and made himself available to whatever small slot of time was open in her schedule. If one of the bumps they had anticipated hitting arose, he wanted to plan with her on how to handle it. They had gone from a decade of silence to him being in the space of her office nearly every day. It was maddening.

His scent now clung to the chair across from her desk that he preferred as well as on the cushion on her couch he liked. There were days where it filled her nose long after he had left, baffling her as it followed her home only for her to realize the woodsy smell of his soap and aftershave had attached themselves to her clothes just as it had her furniture. His lingering, memory inducing scent wasn't even the worst part. The worst of it all was the way he so easily fell back into fretting over the state of her appetite as if it had been days, not years, since they had last been together — his anxious nature over her frequently missing meals having stressed him out then and now.

If he was squeezing himself into her schedule near the end of the business day, he came with dinner for her. Nothing basic that was often palatable to most people like a roasted chicken breast. No, Marcus would arrive at her office with a doner wrap, heavy on the spice flakes but without cucumbers, and chips or enough sushi to feed a small army with extra crunch topping on her rolls. If he was there in the morning before they opened, he came with an offering of coffee — somehow managing to charm the baristas into continuing to blend her Christmas in a cup or getting them to play with the flavor mixtures until he was bringing her a coffee that tasted exactly like butterbeer when he had exhausted their remaining supply of peppermint — and a fried egg sandwich with a runny yolk and a heart attack inducing amount of bacon inside. Even when he wasn't meeting her, the lunches she often worked through, pausing only briefly to munch on a few protein balls, stopped happening as he began arranging deliveries for spicy Thai beef salads, grilled salmon fillets, Italian deli sandwiches with kettle cooked crisps, or simply something sweet as a midday pickle-me-up, like a heavily frosted cupcake or a small dish of raspberry panna cotta.

She hated, loathed, his attention on her. The more attentive he was and the more he appeared to care, the more she questioned why things had gone as they had. His behavior brought up a flood of memories and obsessive recounting of their final days together. Memories that began plaguing her as if it were those first few weeks and months following her waking up alone in the cottage again. As it was then, she wanted answers — regardless of what they were — she wanted the truth and she wanted it from his mouth. However, not on her life would she relent and ask him. It was one thing to deal with renewed wondering and heartache when she was alone in her flat. It was another thing entirely — one she refused to give in to — to swallow her pride and ask. Especially after the way he had left her.

She would never admit to it — not that she had too with Lavender having played witness to it until she had to go stay at Grimmauld Place and while there, Harry and the Weasleys siblings seeing it but mistaking it for her eagerly awaiting for word from Viktor — but Hermione had stalked her post slot and the skies for letters from Marcus. Even as she had cried to her mum and confessed what she had done following the early release from school, she had waited and she had hoped. However nothing came and as each day passed, his silence growing longer and longer and her memory becoming more and more tainted by that morning, she felt the crumbling of her heart cease and the freezing of it begin.

Maybe it was silly to have been as affected as she was. After all, young love was born, grown, and savagely killed every day. Theirs hadn't been anything new, nothing the world hadn't already seen, but for her it had been everything. She had never been the type whose head was turned by the boys walking the corridors of Hogwarts. Had never been the type to develop crushes on anyone beyond those who were astronomically unattainable such as a film star, the muggle Prince William whose picture adorned nearly every girl's wall across Britain and the globe, or a professor or two or three. To have given her heart and her body to Marcus, to have prioritized him on par with her friendships, her academics, and her ambitions had meant something to her. She had felt in her bones and in her soul, that he was the one — however trite it now sounded to her ears — and with the cruel way he had left her, he had killed not only that love but her belief that anything like it actually existed in the world.

And to have him back in her life, with a clock ticking down until the day came when she would have to stake her career on making it believable that they were foolishly and hopelessly infatuated with each other, was the worst sort of hell. It was worse than him having left her. At least that had been real, however shattering and view altering it was. What existed between them now was all an illusion. A practice run for when they had to do it in front of an audience and under a microscope. It was fake and she knew it, and yet it tempted her. Every look and word, every lingering touch and act of service, it was pretend, an act meant to deceive. Yet she would catch herself wanting to believe in it. Those fleeting moments making her angry with him all over again for playing her and more so with herself for believing it.

Thankfully she had been given a reprieve from his presence for the last two days and was getting another today. She had been visiting her mum in London over the weekend and while out had contracted a muggle flu. With magical remedies ineffective on muggle alignments and with Lavender being pregnant and severely limited in what potions and over the counter medicines she could ingest, she was left to suffer and recover in relative peace having quarantined herself inside her flat. Thus, her tedious check-ins with Marcus were on hold and the meeting they had to arrange the particulars of their staged introduction fell to Blaise's care. Never in her life had she been more thankful for being hindered from her work than she was currently.

Hermione did however regret finally accepting Adrian's offer of company as he tried to hand her a bowl of chicken noodle soup, a classic comfort and remedy to all but her. One look at the chunks of chicken and floating carrot bits and she was off her couch like a rocket, sprinting to her bathroom.

Throwing up as she tried to banish the smell and the visual from her mind, she heard a knock at her door and between, gags, she croaked out, "If that's Blaise, do not let him in here. Don't even step out to talk to him. He could carry this crud back to Lavender and the baby."

With her hair falling out of her lopsided ponytail as her mouth began to flood with saliva, she aggressively tried to brush it back not wanting to have to wash puke from her hair. Unable to fight back the second round of throwing up though, she gave up only to feel large, calloused hands sweep along her hair line and gather everything back for her. After another round of tear stained gagging, she rested her head on the seat of the toilet and closed her eyes, coughing as she tried to relax under the gentle rubbing of her back.

"How's she doing?" Adrian asked from the doorway.

Realizing that if he was using words like, she, and not, you, meant that the body that was crowded around hers and soothing her wasn't his, Hermione opened her eyes and groaned as she saw Marcus's watch on his left wrist.

"Merlin's beard, I can't even be sick without you subjecting me to your presence."

"Good for it too," Marcus softly replied, redoing her hair tie. "Otherwise, you'd be stuck with Ades's idea of taking care of you, which means there's currently an entire Dutch oven of his elf's chicken noodle soup keeping warm on your hob."

"Oh God, get it out of here," she pleaded. "This flu is bad enough, I don't need to add vomiting to my list of symptoms."

"I don't get it," Adrian said, bringing over a cool washcloth that Marcus placed on the back of her neck. "What's the deal with the soup? Everyone loves chicken noodle."

Answering for her as he effortlessly helped her to stand and brought her over to the sink to rinse her mouth, Marcus explained, "She hates chicken noodle soup. It brings about visceral memories of when she had the stomach flu as a child. If she's going to have soup while sick, she prefers her mother's Italian wedding recipe. Otherwise, she just likes bland foods like rice and toast with the occasional grapefruit for the Vitamin C. Check her freezer, her mum always kept batches on hand in the winter.

"As for you," he said, effortlessly sweeping her off the floor to be cradled in his arms. "Do you have a telly in your bedroom or is it the couch for us?"

"Just because I'm sick, doesn't mean I'm incapable of walking," she grumbled.

"No, but you're burning up and if I had to guess, I would say you'll be catching a bit of a dizzy spell here in a bit because of it. Better safe than sorry. Now where are we setting up?"

"There is no, we, Marcus."

"I beg to differ. In just a few days, we're supposed to be getting reintroduced to one another whereupon you'll run away with my heart all over again. Given that, you and I are definitely a we."

Not deeming the argument worthwhile when they both knew he was correct — at least in regards to her having fever induced dizziness — she relented, "The couch," adding on a, "please," as he made his way back down the short hallway.

Setting her on the robin's egg-colored cushions and tucking her in with a white, fuzzy blanket while creating a lap tray out of one of her toss pillows, he handed her two gift bags stuffed with tissue before leaving to help himself to her kitchen. Huffing out a breath with how at home he felt in her flat, she glared at the bags willing them to burn up.

Constantly being in her space and plying her with food over the last several weeks had been more than enough. Showing up on her doorstep, remembering her tendencies and peculiarities when sick, and bringing presents was too much. It was as if he was trying to rile her up into attacking him for his familiarity and each time she rebuffed his attempts, he doubled down and upped the ante.

Coming back a few minutes later and laughing at something that had occurred in the kitchen with Adrian, the shorter of the two handed her a wide mug filled with the soup that Marcus correctly guessed was stashed in her freezer. Brushing away her thanks and apology over her lack of interest in the soup he had brought her, he retook his seat in the armchair closest to her, closing up a contract he had been reviewing for his client.

Grabbing her own notes and directing her to eat as Marcus came around the couch and bypassed her other armchair in favor of taking up what space she didn't occupy on the couch, Adrian reviewed, "Okay so it looks like we've made it as far as having Marcus withdrawn from the club scene with minimal digging as to why from the press."

Sipping at the broth before taking a bite, Hermione nodded her head and said, "Yes, he's also getting into the habit now of giving us advanced notice of who he will be with socially so we can vet them."

"And what about the charity thing? Did you two reach an agreement on that?"

Looking around her living room with a pinched brow, Marcus asked, "Where's Crookshanks?" instead of answering.

"Mate, focus. This is important."

Turning to Hermione, he asked again, "Where's your little ginger terror?" Opening up one of the gift bags he started pulling stuff out and said, "I brought him those little dehydrated salmon strips he likes and one of the sardine stuffed mouse toys from Magical Menagerie. I figured you, or I guess Ades since he's here, could charm it so it taunts Crooks until he gives chase like you used to do since we all know I'm pants at anything but the basic charms from school."

Looking around her living room again and leaning back to see into her kitchen, he added, "And his things… his tower and bowls… his toys…" trailing off as he started inspecting her couch and the blanket, even checking the black joggers he wore.

Silently circling her spoon around the soup, she mumbled, "He was already about twenty years old when I got him in my third year. Only being half kneazel I was warned that he probably wasn't going to have as long of a life as a purebred, so really I was fortunate to have gotten as many years with him as I did.

"And he passed without any illnesses, which I'm very grateful for. I don't know how I would have managed having to watch as he turned feeble and his health decline."

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," he murmured, removing the bags from her lap and the soup from her hands before pulling her the rest of the way into his side and curling over her.

Sniffling as she relaxed under him — an action she would later come to claim was born of her fever having impaired her judgment — she tried to dismiss, "It's okay, he was just a cat."

"No he wasn't, don't even try that shit with me. You loved that overweight menace. Crooks was a member of your family."

"He really was," she whispered, slipping further into his hold. "You were one of the few people who not only understand that but actually liked him."

"Bloody well had to didn't I? He wouldn't let anyone get near you unless they won him over first. Sure made my job infinitely more easy when it came to keeping other blokes from sniffing around your skirt. The only other person he liked aside from Lav, was Vik, and I really didn't have to worry about losing you to him."

"More like I should have been worried about losing you to him," she laughed, the clutch around her heart and her throat that settled in as she remembered how she found Crooks the morning following his passing — hidden in her closet, having made a nest in the box of things from Marcus that she had held on to over the years — easing.

Whipping her runny nose on her sleeve, she sat up with a cleansing breath and looked to Adrian who she had forgotten was watching them and answered, "He donates to A Hero's Legacy. We'll work in him attending a gala or an event with the kids into our public outings. That way he's seen as caring and as trying to be a role model for the kids who have his posters on their walls but he doesn't have to sacrifice his desire to remain anonymous about the time and money he gives to the underprivileged quidditch league."

"Perfect," Adrian smiled. "See Marcus? I told you she would be worth swallowing your pride for." Looking at her notes again and catching her yawning, he promised, "Two more things and then we'll be out of your hair so you can sleep."

"I'm fine really," she tried to say only to yawn again, making both wizards laugh.

"What did you and Blaise settle on for the introducing?"

Taking the question for her as she ate a bit more of her soup, Marcus answered, "Flu pending, she's already had plans to be at Sunday's match on the invitation of a client. After the game, Blaise wants you to be the one to introduce us since it's a widely known fact that the two of you have become good friends over the years.

"So you'll introduce us. She and I will chat and flirt before someone invites me out to join your group for dinner. Lavender will have tipped off several photographers and writers who are friendly to Hermione's firm, and with them set up and waiting for us, they'll get hours of photos of us sitting closely together, laughing together, whispering in each other's ear, basically doing everything that'll really set off the rumor mill. And by the time the night ends they'll have rushed back to make their deadlines for the Monday morning editions thinking we were none the wiser to them."

"I know I just said you're the best, but damn, Hermione. I really have to tip my hat to you and Blasie. If I wasn't the one who had approached you on Marcus's behalf, I'd actually believe all this. And I mean just now the two of you one the couch… it's excellent. The media is going to eat this whole thing up.

"I can see it now, 'Qudditch Playboy Falls for Britain's Golden Hero,' or, 'Flint Training for Seeker After Catching the Uncatchable Hermione Granger.'

"The public is going to love you and be planning your lives together before the month's over, I guarantee it. I almost feel guilty for the nationwide mourning we'll be causing them come fall when you two split. But I'll probably be too busy crying over the grave of my dreams for you two right along with the others to really feel it."

Shaking her head at Adrian's dramatic ideas on they'd be received as a couple, Hermione chuckled, "Okay let's not get ahead of ourselves here, Nicholas Sparks."

"Speaking of," Marcus interjected, rooting through the other gift bag. Pulling out a DVD case with, The Notebook, written across the front, he held it out to her and asked, "Have you seen it?"

Lighting up at seeing the movie, she took it from his hands and excitedly said, "Yes! The four of us went to see it at the cinema when it came out. I had no idea it was a book at the time but I absolutely loved it. I rent it all the time, somehow always forgetting to buy an actual copy."

"Perfect! I haven't so I'll put it in. I also brought you, the new Pride and Prejudice with both endings — I guess the Americans got a different one — and Coach Carter, because you always loved those dramatic teenage films, as well as Hitch and something called, In Her Shoes. I know nothing about it but figured you like shoes so there it went into my trolley before coming over."

Grabbing his things as Marcus freed the DVD from the cellophane and got her television set for the player, Adrian leaned over her and kissed her temple, murmuring, "Be careful, sweetheart. I don't want you to fall for the illusion."

Cupping his cheek as he pulled away, she smiled, "You're a good friend, Ades."

"No, I'm a shit friend who thinks only of himself and is just lucky that you forgave me."

"You are not!" she protested. "You just made a stupid decision when caught between two friends. Now stop beating yourself up, I've already forgiven you."

"And it only took a pair of Manolo's and a Prada handbag."

"Even without the shoes and the purse, I would have forgiven you, Ades. If I was able to repeatedly forgive Harry and Ron for all the shit they put me through in school without even apologizing, I can forgive you too since you actually showed contrition for your actions."

Leaning back down to kiss the top of her head, he instructed, "Be sure you eat some more, get plenty of fluids, and don't stay up all afternoon and into the night watching movies. Marcus also brought you some grapefruits and I've put them in your fridge for later. Eat 'em all. They'll be good for you."

"Yes, mum," she smiled, rolling her eyes.

Walking out of her flat, he called, "I'm leaving her in your care. You do anything to fuck with her and I'll fuck you up."

"Not planning on it, Ades, but consider it noted."

"See you both at the match on Sunday," he said, pulling the door closed behind him.

Coming to sit on the far end of the couch with the remotes in hand, Marcus grabbed several of her pillows and propped them against his thigh, patting the spot and directing her to lay down.

Catching her suspicious gaze, he held up his hands and promised, "I'm not trying anything. I just know you'll be more comfortable laying down."

"True," she agreed, giving in much faster than she would ever admit if asked. Getting comfortable as he got them to the menu screen, she asked, "Didn't Ades say he had two more questions? He only asked one. Let me send Blaise a message to write him and then we can start."

"Later. Right now, watch the movie, relax, maybe sleep for a bit, and forget about work and responsibilities so you can recover."

"Fine, but only because I'm really excited for you to watch this. You're going to love it."

"We'll see," he teased, hitting play and hooking his foot around her table to bring it closer to prop his socked feet on.

"You love Ghost and were upset when Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston didn't end up together in The Bodyguard. You'll love this, you sap."

"It's a bloody romance film! How could they not end up together? At least Ghost had a happy, if sad, ending."

Waving her hand in his face, she shushed, "Shh, it's starting," not bothering to pull her hand free when he snatched hers in his and laced his fingers over hers, dropping their arms along her side.

Laying on her couch as the film played and the winter sun moved across her window, Hermione remained with her head pillowed in Marcus's lap, neither of them moving except for when his takeaway arrived, the need of the bathroom called, and eat when he would bring her peeled grapefruits or more soup, silently pleading with her to not fight him on it. And even as the sky darkened hours ahead of true evening, they stayed together with the lights turned out, making their way through her romance films until they fell asleep — him having joined her at some point in stretching out and she cuddled with her face tucked into his chest while he buried his face in her hair, his fingers laced over the sliver of skin her bunched up shirt had exposed.