Hermione woke to owls from Harry and Ron confirming they were up for Quidditch so she sent the tickets and portkeys. Their replies were not effusive but she was quietly hopeful that she could at least show them she was not dancing attendance on Marcus like some fangirl. That would go a long way to reassuring Ron.
There was some wardrobe flurry getting ready. She wanted to look nice for the private box but not too nice so no one thought she was dressing up to impress anyone. Hermione settled on dark grey slacks, a white blouse and a red sweater. She thought she looked quite chic. She wished she did not also look quite nervous.
Staring at herself in the mirror, Hermione told herself sternly to calm down. This outing was another step towards putting things back the way they should be. It would be a nice, ordinary excursion. No need to wind herself into a tizzy. She had invited her friends to a Quidditch game. They would all have fun and she would not sneak a book in to read during the boring bits.
Meeting at the private bar at the Quidditch grounds would give them a chance to talk before going up to the box. Hermione used the portkey with plenty of time before the start of the game then ordered a mineral water. The barman gave her an odd look but she insisted she just wanted water. She was drinking so much Butterbeer and coffee during long strategy meetings she thought she should mind her sugar and caffeine intake.
The Kenmare stands were a throng of emerald green and yellow. Several large floating 'K's glittered as fans showed off. The smaller crowd in black and white were summoning magpies to peck at the glowing letters. Looking out the bar windows, Hermione thought everyone seemed to be having fun. The atmosphere was very different to the grim persistence of Chuddley games.
She finished her drink, waited a bit longer then ducked upstairs to the box wondering if Ron and Harry had not seen her in the bar. The steward, jauntily dressed in green velveteen to mimic the team mascot, assured her he had not seen Mr Potter or Mr Weasley. He would certainly have noticed their arrival.
Hermione asked him if he would mind checking at the gates in case there had been a problem with the tickets. He was more than happy to do so. She went back to the bar and tried not to fret. No one had ever accused Ron of being punctual and Harry had a lot to do with the wedding. They were probably just running late. No need to dwell on childhood incidents of being stood up or left behind to add to her worry.
When five minutes before the game started Cormack McLeod strode into the box to glad-hand the celebrities, he found Hermione alone. The steward reported he had alerted the staff at all the gates to send the war heroes straight up as soon as they arrived.
"Could something have happened with the portkeys?" Hermione asked, doing her best not to sound plaintive or paranoid. They should have met at the Burrow or the trainee Aurors' flat. She had suggested meeting at the Quidditch grounds to avoid a repeat of the quarrel she and Ron had had before Christmas over the state of the shared accommodation. Several bachelors together were likely to get slovenly, fair enough, but underpants should not be used as tea towels.
"I will send someone to check." McLeod found a minion and dispatched him to verify the private portkeys were all functioning properly. He had personally arranged for the tickets to go to Madam Flint, to avoid Marcus having any last minute lapses of memory.
Kenmare was leading 60 to 30 when the minion returned. Hermione eavesdropped without apology. There was nothing wrong with the portkeys. According to the registry, both were active and unused. She debated with herself whether she should send a patronus to check. Surely this was not an emergency. Ron and Harry were just late.
By the time Montrose had taken the lead 140 to 110, Hermione had to admit to herself her best friends were more than late. She used the Floo in the Kenmare Manager's office to call their flat. Dean Thomas answered. He was helpful but could not say more than both had left for breakfast at the Burrow. He offered to Apparate there to check. Wanting to play it cool, Hermione thanked him and refused the offer. Whatever the delay was, it clearly was not urgent.
So she sat and watched the game and made conversation with Cormack McLeod. Several more of the Montrose staff joined them as did quite a few from Kenmare. Hermione put on her best heroine face to shake hands, smile, and socialise. There were at least twenty people in the box when an owl arrived for her with a bright red letter.
Hermione took herself and the Howler into the toilets. She cast a Muffliato Charm before opening the missive. Ginny Weasley's voice, strident and vengeful, echoed in the stall.
"You miserable, heartless, selfish bitch! You gold-digging filthy whore! How dare you! If I ever see you again, you po-faced slag, you'll beg for a Crucio! I hate you! I hope you die like your bloody parents! If you ever, ever speak to Harry again, you'll think Bellatrix was a fucking lark compared to what I'll do to you! Lying, cheating, two-faced cunt!"
The Howler exploded in a shower of confetti leaving Hermione sitting shocked. Her scar throbbed. She dragged her sleeve up frantic with the fear it had opened. She stared at the livid word carved into her arm and shook.
Montrose won 520 to 430.
Cormack McLeod asked the Kenmare assistant Manager to go into the women's facilities to coax out Madam Flint. Bridie Leheney spoke to the sobbing witch through the stall door and returned to the gathered team management with Hermione's request for Marcus. Chaser Flint, nose still bleeding from a cobbing foul, took his wife home and put her to bed with a dose of Dreamless sleep.
Exhausted by emotion, Hermione slept through the evening and night. She woke slowly becoming aware of details in a muffled, drifting away. Crookshanks was purring under her chin, half under the blankets like a furry hot water bottle. Someone else was lying behind her, one arm curled over her. Moving the arm and the cat, Hermione got out of bed.
Padding to the bathroom, she confirmed she looked a fright in yesterday's clothes. Marcus had taken off her shoes but nothing else. Hermione felt centred by that detail. She had been upset, he had helped, he had not done anything else and now it was morning.
After a shower and punitive tooth-brushing, Hermione put on pyjamas and got back into bed. She could deal with morning later. There was a glass of water on the bedside table beside a stack of letters. The witch rolled over, turning her back on the correspondence.
"Do not read the newspaper. We are on the front page. Above and below the fold." Marcus murmured as his wife tentatively settled against his chest. He had gone for a fly in the grey light pre-dawn then picked up the Prophet from the Manor. The daily rag had not been worth the trip.
"After we finish the Marriage Law, I am going to get some libel legislation passed." Hermione vowed to Marcus's singlet. He rubbed her back and she missed Ron, who smelled of home cooking and sunshine. Marcus smelled of fresh air, bruise salve and something. She sniffed. "Spearmint toothpaste?"
"Broke my nose in the game. Cannot use a cleansing charm after an Episkey on the face." He always remembered that prohibition after their Keeper Brun started bleeding from the eyes. The Healing Charm mended all the fine blood vessels but left them sensitive.
"I missed most of the game." She admitted. Marcus shrugged, aware she was not a Quidditch fan. "Did those letters come here? I really don't want Ginny to know where I am."
"To the Manor. The elves said owls had been arriving all night." He was not surprised when she rolled over again and retrieved the stack. The Flint heir smirked when he thought what his forefathers would have said if any of their wives had been reading letters from old lovers in their bed. He got up to give her some privacy.
When she had not emerged after he had made and finished a mug of coffee, Marcus made one for her and took it into the bedroom. Hermione was sitting up staring at the opposite wall. The envelopes were open on the bedspread though some of the letters had been torn into tiny pieces. She accepted the cup with murmured thanks then spoke quietly.
"Harry cancelled the wedding. It is all my fault."