I'm uploading both chapter 15 & 16 today, as 15 is a short one!
16.
"Jesus!" Hermione jerked upright on the recliner as the floo flames leapt up, shock flaring through her, her book falling shut on her lap. The only reason she didn't scrabble for her wand – on the end table beside her – was because the floo was keyed so that only certain family and friends could get through. There was no chance of an intruder, thankfully. Please don't be Ron, she had time to think desperately to herself as the fright of the sudden flames retreated. And then Harry stumbled out of the fireplace, getting soot and ash on the hearth rug.
He brushed at himself ineffectively, smiling at Hermione as he ruffled his ash-dusted hair – strands of silver mixed here and there with the black now.
"Hullo," he said cheerily, expression rueful. "Sorry, I'm a bit–" He was still brushing himself off, getting ash everywhere, and Hermione rolled her eyes and scooped up her wand, neatly cleaning him and the hearth up with a quick charm. So much for her quiet late afternoon reading. She straightened the worn-thin blue button-down of Ron's she was slopping around in, brushing it down over her bum as she put her wand back, glad that she was wearing leggings beneath the mid-thigh length shirt. She often didn't, when it was no one but her at home.
"Honestly, Harry. You should know how to travel tidily through the floo at your age," she told him snippily, and then dropped the stern look and smiled widely, standing and stepping forward to greet him. She was glad to see him, but why couldn't he have called ahead? Visitors that stopped in without warning were so tiring these days. But ignoring that as best she could – Harry was her closest friend after all – Hermione returned his tight hug with enthusiasm.
"What are you doing here, so unexpectedly?" she asked him as she headed through to the kitchen, Harry following obediently in her wake. "Not that I'm not happy to see you," she hurried to add, only slightly untruthfully. Hermione's slippers scuffed on the kitchen floor, and a bar stool creaked as Harry perched atop it, watching her bustle about the kitchen industriously. With two clean mugs fetched out of the cupboard, a tea bag in each, and the milk on the bench, Hermione filled the jug and set it to boiling, not bothering with magic – she'd left her wand in the lounge. She rather preferred to do things the Muggle way at home. She'd wanted the children to have a balanced upbringing.
"Erm, nothing really," Harry said with a shrug, looking entirely disingenuous as Hermione narrowed her eyes on him, forearms resting on the breakfast bar opposite him, her eyebrow arching. "Well, I did bring you a birthday present –" he flourished a small wrapped box that she thanked him for with a smile and a murmur, not opening it yet "– and an invite to ours for dinner tomorrow, as a belated birthday celebration. But really...it's just been a while since we caught up, and with all the rumours –"
"Oh Merlin, what now?" Hermione asked in expectant exasperation as she straightened and dragged Sunday's paper across the benchtop, wondering what rubbish the Prophet had been printing. "I skimmed through today's paper and didn't see anything!" She flipped back through the pages frantically, searching for the page with the gossip column.
"Oh no, nothing today," Harry said apologetically, shaking his head in the negative as the jug began to slowly bubble behind Hermione. "Just – just the past few stories they published. Especially the last one about Ron... They shouldn't have done that, the bloody vultures."
Hermione gave him an odd look as she poured the water into their mugs, feeling a little uncomfortable, and awkward. As if he was in on a secret she wasn't part of. She frowned; that was ridiculous. Harry might have been distant lately, but he wouldn't keep secrets from her.
"Well," she said briskly as she set Harry's mug down in front of him. "It's not like they're doing anything differently. They've always been horrible, gossipy scavengers, making things up, and exaggerating, and – well, really, I'd rather not waste my time thinking about them." She smiled at Harry as she passed him the sugar jar, and then hopped up at the breakfast bar beside Harry, and took a sip of her tea.
"How's work over in MLE?" she asked him brightly, changing the subject without a jot of regard for subtlety. He grinned lopsidedly, shrugging.
"All right. Much the same as always, I guess. There's been a bit of an uptick in minor criminal activity lately, which has kept the hit-wizard squad busy, but mostly it's the same old. Paperwork, more than anything. You?"
"Fine, yeah... How's Ginny? And the kids?" The conversation went on, the pair of them exchanging light pleasantries over their cups of tea. On the surface it might seem like a perfectly normal chat, but for the two old friends it was stilted and awkward in comparison to their norm. Hermione and Ron's break was the elephant in the room, Hermione was well aware, and it filled the room, squashing out everything else.
The conversation faltered, and sputtered, and Hermione wished very hard for a drink and to be alone with the undemanding company of her book. And then the doorbell rang, and Hermione leapt to her feet, grateful to have a reason to flee the room, and the oppressive silence that was growing in the cracks of their conversation. She opened the door to be presented with a rather startling, gigantic arrangement of orange lilies and cypress at face height.
She blinked in startlement, peeking around the giant bouquet to find someone holding them. Clearly a wizard, he was thankfully young enough to be in trousers and jersey instead of robes, and would have looked entirely normal if not for the wand tucked above his ear, like a spare pencil. He had a sparkling badge on the left side of his chest that read 'Floriblunders Florist', and a slightly apologetic look to him.
"Hi, is this the Granger-Weasley house?"
"Hullo. It is – I take it those are for me?" Hermione ventured, both immensely flattered and cringing at once. The bouquet was fantastic – over the top, far too much, really – dominated by the stunning orange lilies that glowed by the light of the lowering sun.
"Are you Hermione Granger-Weasley?" the young man asked, and Hermione nodded assent, holding out her hands to take the flowers from him. Dear god, what had Malfoy been thinking when he'd ordered it, Hermione wondered, mind reeling at the thought of just how much it must have cost. The bouquet had passed beyond ostentatious, and was edging well into ridiculously, laughably, too much. It was both beautiful and positively monstrous at once.
"Thank you," she told the young man helplessly, laden with flowers to the point where she could barely see him – peeking at him with one eye between a full-blown lily and a branch of cypress. He nodded, lips twitching in amusement – no doubt she looked bloody hilarious, drowning bewilderedly in flowers, in her too-big men's shirt and ratty leggings.
"You need to sign for 'em, ma'am," he told her, holding out a quill, and a piece of parchment attached to a modern Muggle clipboard – the juxtaposition between the two elements jarring.
"Oh god," Hermione murmured under her breath, juggling the flowers into one arm like she was manhandling a wriggling toddler and taking the quill, scribbling her signature where he helpfully indicated. She managed to avoid dropping anything, thank Merlin, but she was flustered and pinked by the time the delivery man took his quill back from her.
"Have a nice day, ma'am," he said cheerily with a nod, and trotted away down the front path, job done, leaving Hermione to struggle back through the doorway, shoving the door shut behind her with the sole of one slipper-clad foot. Harry arched one dark brow as she came in, laden with lilies, and Hermione belatedly realised what he would think, and winced, a hint of anger at Malfoy rising up. It didn't exactly look good, to be receiving more flowers than a prima donna after a performance. Her cheeks heated and she bit her bottom lip, avoiding Harry's eyes as she settled the arrangement on the dining table. There was no label, this time; just the flowers alone. Luckily orange lilies were easy to identify, and the sender couldn't be anyone but Malfoy – Ron would never send Hermione flowers, not even as a birthday gift.
"Well..." Harry began disapprovingly, and Hermione heaved a sigh, cutting in before he could go any further.
"Harry," she shot him a pursed-lipped glare. "Don't."
"They are from Malfoy then, are they?" There was an edge of disappointment in Harry's voice that made Hermione want to smack him about the ears. Hard. She fussed with the arrangement, lips pressed together hard as Harry went on, that disappointment joined by faint disgust. "I'd thought the rumours were...overblown, but it seems the gossip columns actually have it right for once."
"Harry, please. The flowers don't actually say who they're from, but yes I would imagine it's Malfoy as Ron has never been one for sending me flowers." A hint of tart anger seeped into Hermione's tone. "Not that there's anything to it – Malfoy and I are honestly just...friendly. He sends flowers to – I don't know, look beneficent? Be complimentary, while also showing off and irritating Ron? Who knows, with Malfoy. He probably has half a dozen different motivations. But to be honest I actually rather appreciate the thought of it regardless – Ron would never think of such a gesture."
"What? A ridiculously showy bunch of flowers? That's not thought, that's having loads of bloody cash, and an eye to seducing you," Harry started, and Hermione wished she could tell him about the fact that every flower Malfoy sent her had thought put into it, except that would completely ruin the fiction she was trying to cling onto, and prove Harry's point besides. "And I know that Ron hasn't exactly been – well, you're on a break, after all... But still, Hermione, it's Malfoy. There'd be no fixing things with Ron if you slept with him." Harry was more earnest and concerned than angry, but Hermione didn't particularly care what was driving him. She was too busy echoing Harry's words in her head over and over, a sharp sense of panic rising in her chest.
"Ron hasn't exactly been what?" Hermione demanded, hands drawing back from the lilies as she stared at Harry with sick dread building in her stomach. She knew what. Her hands twisted together hard. Harry flushed. "What. What has us taking a break got to do with...?"
Harry was silent, avoiding her eyes like a scolded schoolboy.
"Tell me." Hermione's tone was cold and numb and brooked no refusal. Harry tried to refuse anyway, demurring in a mumble, gaze resting everywhere but on her face. "Harry, for Merlin's sake! Tell me!"
There was a long, strained pause, before Harry broke. "He thought you were flirting with Malfoy. Not sleeping with him, just flirting, but still, he got drunk, and angry, and –"
"Who did he sleep with, Harry?" Hermione demanded, her hands curling into fists so that her nails bit at her palms, her vision blurring and shaking as tears welled up hot. "And why the hell didn't you tell me if you knew?"
"I thought you knew," Harry said helplessly, white around the lips as he stared at her across the room, those famous green eyes wide and desperately sorry. Hermione shot him a disgusted look – as if she knew. Hah! Why on earth would she know Ron had cheated on her? "I thought, from what he said, that a break meant...you were free to mess about a bit. You know? Have some...fun...?" He said the last in a tiny voice, as though he realised how foolish his assumptions sounded.
"No, Harry. No, I don't bloody well know. I don't know a thing." She crossed her arms across her chest, weight shifting to one foot as she stared Harry down, gaze fierce and hard. "So tell me. Now."
It had transpired that a few days ago, Ron had engaged in a drunken tumble with one of the Quidditch groupies that followed the team around nearly everywhere they went. The young woman had probably been disappointed to get a coach and not a player, but perhaps the fact that Ron was a War Hero made up for it – even if he was somewhat worse for wear with age. God, it made her feel sick thinking about Ron and some pretty young thing, but Hermione couldn't stop. She sniffled wetly, the sound nearly lost beneath that of the shower, and turned her face into the spray.
Ron had seen the young woman twice according to what Hermione had dragged out of Harry. Twice. Somehow that made it so, so much worse. It wasn't some one-night-stand midlife crisis thing, it was a repeat offence. It was Ron choosing to betray Hermione's trust twice. The first time – that could be excused, to a certain extent, but twice? It could not. Hermione felt sick just thinking about some young woman writhing naked with Ron; how could Hermione ever compete with the high, firm breasts and flat stomach of some groupie? How could her needs and snappy moods and responsibilities compete with the starry-eyed adoration of some young thing who thought of Ron as some famous, War hero idol?
Her tears were lost in the water – swept away like they didn't exist, but her screwed-shut eyes, stuffy nose, and pressed-together lips as she struggled to hold in the sobs, very clearly, frustratingly existed.
After Harry had told her all about Ron's nights of fun, Hermione had very, very calmly asked him to leave. Her calmness had been in direct contrast to the amount of rage she'd felt, locked deep down inside but straining to get out. Harry had done so with only a token protest, disappearing in a puff of flame through the floo, and leaving Hermione alone to pick up the scattered pieces of her heart, and her dignity. She'd fallen into angry, wounded tears nearly immediately, despite hating herself for crying over the bastard. Wet, snotty, unattractive tears, which had left her eyes puffy and red-rimmed, her nose stuffed up, and her throat sore with the effort of choking down her sobs.
She had thought a shower would help. It did, a little bit. The hot water eased away some of the tension of anger and hurt in her muscles, and felt a little like a cleansing, getting all her tears out in that small, private space. Hermione didn't get out until the water started running lukewarm, and her immediate hurt had dulled to a constant background ache. She wrapped a fluffy white towel around her and twisted her hair up in a towel turban, before wiping a hand over the foggy mirror and staring at herself. She looked a fright. A cold flannel pressed to her face soothed the puffiness and redness slightly, but she still looked as though she'd sobbed her eyes out. And she still felt on the verge of falling into exhausted tears again.
It was infuriating, for Hermione's feelings to be so at the mercy of Ron's ridiculous, pathetic whims. God, how were they ever supposed to fix things now, she thought helplessly over and over in a loop, as she pulled on clean yoga leggings and a loose tee shirt, padding down the stairs into the kitchen, her hair hanging wet and straggling around her shoulders. How could they mend things after Ron had gone and stuck his stupid bloody penis in some groupie? She hiccupped wetly as she pushed the kitchen door open. She hadn't been sure before if she'd wanted to save things with Ron – she'd been thinking it over, clearly and practically weighing it all up. But now it felt like the choice had been ripped out from under her, and she was drowning.
The huge bouquet of orange lilies confronted Hermione as she took a bottle of good whiskey down from the cupboard, and crossed to the breakfast bar, flipping the electric jug switch to re-boil on the way past. She stared at the flowers accusingly. If it wasn't for them, Harry would never have mentioned Ron's unfaithfulness, and Hermione could have remained blissfully ignorant. And even though Hermione knew that knowing the truth was for the best, right now she hated it. And she hated that everyone thought that she was the one being unfaithful – that it was the rumours about her and Malfoy that Ron had used as an excuse to cheat. A justification.
And more than anything, as Hermione poured hot water over a tea bag, and added a slug of whiskey to the mug, stirring it all together shakily and angrily, Hermione hated that there was credence to the rumours. That she was not entirely blameless. She leant back against the bench and glared at the flowers with her liquor-laced mug of tea clutched between both hands, sipping carefully, mindful of the heat. She stared at the vivid orange lilies bathed in the afternoon sun, and remembered the brush of Malfoy's fingers against her neck as he'd fastened the necklace around it. The way he'd hinted at wanting to sleep with her in the PS of his last letter. The way he'd placed that deliberate, lingering kiss on the corner of her mouth the evening she'd spent at his home.
All the lunches. All the flowers. All the lingering looks, and the little, stolen touches. All the ways Malfoy had said 'I want you' and Hermione had let him, and worse, responded in kind without thought for wisdom or propriety. And now, not only was he sending her flowers, he was sending them to her marital home. She absently added another slug of whiskey to her tea. Was he trying to make trouble from her? Was everything – all the admiration and affection – fake, and Malfoy had actually been trying to cause trouble from the beginning?
As the ratio of tea to whiskey in Hermione's mug gradually shifted, her spiralling suspicions and anger only increased. Overwrought with emotion and whiskey, she stared at the bloody orange flowers and wanted to fling them in Malfoy's face. She could only think – irrationally and furiously – that she wouldn't be feeling this way, so miserable and wrecked, if he'd never sent her that bouquet. It took another mug of tea mixed with entirely too much whiskey, before Hermione decidedly pushed away from the bench, strode forward and wrenched the flowers out of the vase, and scooped up her wand, marching down to the garage where there were no anti-apparition wards. Thinking hard of Malfoy's doorstep, her bare feet chilled by the cold concrete of the garage and her stomach hot with whiskey, Hermione spun on the spot and popped out of existence.