An hour later in Devon, the silence grew. It ran deep, ran dark, became almost a living thing no one at the kitchen table dared touch. Percy, whose words had birthed the monstrous silence, broke first and cleared his throat.

"Any questions?" His voice seemed unnaturally loud and querulous. He shuffled the papers he had brought home then protested when Ginny took them out of his hands to read herself.

"She did. She really truly did." The witch spat after a few moments, slapping the embossed parchment onto the table. "She fucked him."

"Language, Ginny!" Arthur and Molly scolded simultaneously though their hearts were not in it. Mrs Weasley looked furious. Mr Weasley looked ill. Both of them looked to Harry.

"If we can't appeal the marriage due to consummation then we can't." He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. Why was he in charge again? When did the Chosen One get to shrug and walk away from a problem? Not today evidently, with six redheads looking to him for guidance. Glasses back on. "I'll talk to Hermione myself."

"Not sorry about knocking that toe-rag into the wall." George grumbled to his tea. His father patted him on the shoulder. There would be an investigation but they had weathered far, far worse.

"Next time don't do it in front of a witness." Ginny hissed. Hermione was her bridesmaid! The tart had been so involved in planning the wedding that the redhead couldn't look at the unsent invitations without swearing.

"Ginny!" The collective protest from her brothers and parents was more firm this time. The young witch shoved her chair back from the table but she was cut off from her rant by the arrival of an owl. It landed on the table, dropped the ragged scroll it carried in front of Harry, hopped around, knocked over the teapot then bit Percy.

"Definitely Errol's son." Bill gently picked up the disorientated bird and took him into the kitchen for an owl treat. Harry shook the letter dry as Molly mopped up the tea.

"It's from Hagrid." He told them then read his big friend's sprawling script with an increasing frown. "Hermione and Flint were at Hogwarts." His blushing bride muttered an obscenity. "He says they looked friendly but Hermione was upset about fighting with me and Ron."

"If she hasn't been cursed, I'll not have her back in this house." Molly wrung out the tea towel vengefully. "After all the three of you've been through, Ron deserves more than this. That Flint boy is no better than his father, and he went to Azkaban."

"I'll talk to her." Harry tried to reassure but was muted by a glare from Ginny. "I know you're angry but Hermione is one of my best friends. I'm not going to leave it like this. Ron and I deserve an explanation."

"It doesn't matter, mate." The weary voice came from the stairs. Ron's eyes were almost as red as his hair. He had washed his face and mopped up and had changed into a crisp shirt. "I don't want to think about it. It's Saturday night. Let's go out."

"Sure, Ron, sure." George rallied quickly to jolly his brother along. "The Leaky's got an all-you-can-swill unknown beer week going. Bound to be a bit of a laugh, right?"

"You don't care what she's doing?" The question was diffident. Harry wanted confirmation Ron was giving up on his relationship with their friend.

"Probably shacked up at that wanker's mansion eating off gold plate." He jeered. "I need a drink, and my drink needs a lot of friends."

Meanwhile in Knightsbridge, Hermione stood in front of what Marcus had specifically called a terrace house. Being a suburbanite, she had a good idea of what a terrace should look like. They did vary depending on the vintage. Flint's house was rather more vintage than she had expected.

"Marcus." She began in a careful, calm voice. "This is an excellent example of the culture shock Muggle-Born witches and wizards encounter." Hermione gestured at the pillared frontage of the Georgian mansion. The architectural gem sat between sibling buildings converted into luxury flats. "This is not a terrace house. It's a London residence for Regency nobility during the Season a la Georgette Heyer."

"It is in a terrace." Marcus asserted bluntly.

"I can't stay here. It should be a Listed building!" Her voice rose and she hurriedly hushed herself, looking around the posh street. There were a few people strolling self-consciously fashionably but no one was paying them any attention.

"Listed by whom?" He did get her point about culture shock. It was as though they were speaking different languages. Mostly it was her speaking Gobbledegook.

"English Heritage." Hermione answered the question then asked herself one. Was this the argument she wanted to have with him? It was not. "Why were you so rude to Professor McGonagall? As soon as you stepped into her office, you were hostile. That 'Madam Flint' comment got right up my nose."

"She has it in for me. Has for years."

"Because you come across as a violent bully, which you were in school." It struck her as incongruous that she was quarrelling in the street while holding a cat. Where was that normal she craved so much? "Minerva did not say an unkind thing about you when she and I spoke. The worst you got was 'unfortunate'."

"Damning with faint praise." Marcus smirked. The harridan could flay with an acerbic glance. "You are Madam Flint. To refer to you otherwise is a slap in my face. Solely paper or not."

"So you stood on your dignity, looked like an ass, and I will have to apologise for your crassness!" Hermione snapped, suffering deja vu. This was so like a fight she'd had with Ron she had to pause to marvel. "Is this another pure-blood thing?"

"Yes!"

"It's bloody annoying!" But they could use it. The individual, personal insult of a disrespected spouse would be a humanising aspect to their objections. She made a mental note of it as she had an armful of Crookshanks. "Don't do it again. I know who I am. The whole damn magical world knows it."

"Then what is the sodding problem with the house?" Marcus stabbed an angry finger at the white frontage. "It is not that large."

"It doesn't have to be big to be horrendously inappropriate." Hermione jerked her head in the direction of one of the converted neighbouring buildings. "A flat there, a small one, costs thousands of pounds a week to rent. You could buy a home in the suburbs with the property tax on your 'terrace house'. It's so far beyond that is reasonable that it could be on another planet."

"Your Weasel's penury does not mean you need to slum too." He had a vague idea of the exchange rate Galleon to Pound but he did not bother with the mental arithmetic. Only Muggle-borns cared what things cost. Real wizards got the best and kept it.

"This isn't about Ron!" She shouted loudly enough for whatever obscuration charms on the Flint building to shiver. A man across the street looked in their direction for a moment before walking on.

"Where will you stay?" He demanded, irritated that she had snubbed his house. Weasleys might allow themselves to live in a hovel. Flints did not.

"I'm going to find a nice impersonal Muggle hotel that takes pets." Hermione was bone weary but she refused to back down. When Marcus protested, she simply Disapparated. End of discussion.