5.

Hermione strode along the corridors of the Ministry to her office bright and early the next morning, coffee in one hand, mind filled to overflowing with the details of the Usbourne case. She had a lot of reviewing to do before the hearing. At least she was feeling positive, despite the row with Ron last night. He'd been gone when she woke up, leaving a note on the fridge that read simply: I'm sorry, 'Mione. Good luck today. Ron. Hermione admitted feeling an odd relief at the fact that he hadn't tried to explain or justify his words, or take them back all together; she didn't want lies between them anymore, not even kind lies. She wanted truth.

And when he'd signed the note, he hadn't said I love you, or I'll miss you, or even signed it with a kiss. Just, Ron. And the relief that had given Hermione – the upsetting rightness of it – was something she would mull over later, after the hearing. Right now she was prepped, caffeinated, dressed in a very nice trouser suit with killer heels, and her hair was behaving beautifully; right now, she felt bloody brilliant. She smiled to herself as she turned the corner to the division entrance, sipping at her coffee.

"Morning, Granger."

"Merlin's pants!" Hermione nearly spilt her coffee all over herself as she jumped out of her skin, spinning around to see Draco Malfoy standing right behind her, staring at her with his hands in his pockets and a faint smirk on his face that blossomed and grew.

"Sorry," he said, only he clearly wasn't at all; failing to stifle the giggles that fizzed out of him, shaping his face with a lopsided grin that he tried to hide by ducking his head. But she could still see it; the twitch of his lips curling up, his shoulders shaking.

"You arse," she said, thwapping at his arm with her handbag without thinking, and he met her eyes, rubbing at his cheek with the heel of his palm and biting his lip as he tried to bottle his amusement enough to talk. It took a moment, then:

"Merlin's pants?" he asked in amused disbelief. "What are you, twelve?"

"Oh shut up, Malfoy," she half-laughed, and then looked at him and remembered who they both were and stopped in surprise. He was looking as suave as always, except that he had the plum-coloured formal robes of the Wizengamot on, hanging open over his suit. He saw her notice, and smiled self-consciously, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in the heavy fabric. He'd taken the position when he'd finally emerged back into wizarding society in his thirties – no one had been very happy about it, but as he'd been fully pardoned of his actions during the War, they couldn't stop him. He was entitled by virtue of his blood.

"Good luck at the hearing today, Granger," he offered knowingly, grey eyes soft and warm like wood smoke as he scruffed his fingers through his short platinum hair. "I hear you're interrogating Caritas Usbourne."

"You're going to be at the hearing?"

"Oh, no. Your case isn't quite in need of a full convening of the Wizengamot. I'm due for a hearing in courtroom seven, actually, as part of the Council," he said, referencing the Council of Magical Law. These days under Shacklebolt, not all the members of the Council were members of the Wizengamot, but all members of the Wizengamot were entitled to be in the jury in a Council trial. "Something along the lines of man bites dog; nothing major. They keep me away from the important cases – I'm not to be trusted, you know." He grinned, tone light and self-deprecating.

"So how do you know about Usbourne then?" Hermione asked, folding her arms across her chest and eyeing him steadily. He shrugged.

"I keep an eye on things. An ear to the ground. It's always good to know what's going on, and your career has been particularly...eye-catching. Your style as Interrogator is...unusual." He'd been following her career? Hermione frowned, feeling suddenly under the microscope, like a bug Malfoy was examining. Only he wasn't looking at her like she was a bug. If she didn't know better, she'd nearly think his interest wasn't entirely professional. "You're fascinating, Granger."

"I've been influenced greatly by the Muggle system of law. To be honest, Malfoy, I'd love to see the Wizengamot abolished altogether and a less easily corruptible legal system brought in, but I doubt that will ever happen," she said smoothly. "Is that why I'm so interesting, is it?"

"Partly...yes," Malfoy allowed, eyes still steady on her, and she tugged at her blazer, feeling acutely conscious all of a sudden that she'd bought it when she'd been a little less generous around the middle, and it didn't quite fit as well as it had used to. She'd put on a few pounds while on holiday in France. She'd hadn't cared before – hadn't even thought about it – but now she found she did, damn him.

"And why else, then?" she demanded very casually. "What else is just so fascinating about me?"

"Usbourne doesn't like his words being repeated back to him," Malfoy said instead. "It irritates him, and that makes him vulnerable to slip ups. He uses smiles and politeness to get under people's skin and make them angry; don't let him succeed or you'll look like a fool. And while it's very well-hidden if one is unaware of it, if you dig you'll find evidence that he has a granddaughter who is sick with a magical malady that as yet has no cure."

"...I – I know how to do my job, Malfoy," Hermione stammered weakly, staring at him and feeling rather as though she'd been smacked in the face with a bucket of water. Usbourne had a sick grandchild? The motivator behind the beginning of his unsafe practices, perhaps? If true, this was invaluable to the trial. How had none of the investigations uncovered this, and how had Malfoy known? And why was he telling her? "I – how did you know?" Malfoy waited until a harried looking witch had rushed past them before he went on, quietly.

"He's an old family friend. I know several secrets that make him...exposed. I make a point of knowing these things. One never knows when they'll come in useful."

"Still in the habit of deceit and betrayal then, I see." Hermione jabbed before she could jerk her stupid mouth to a halt, and Malfoy arched an eyebrow at her. Merlin, he'd given her an excellent lead and some very good advice – if he wasn't playing her – and in return she'd insulted him. Oh, well done, Hermione.

"Well, it is in the name, isn't it? Bad faith," was all Malfoy said, mildly, as if what she'd said hadn't bothered him in the slightest. But she could see the tightness around his eyes, the way their colour seemed to have darkened; for all that he kept his features well-composed, his eyes were a tell.

"Sorry. That was rude of me," Hermione apologised. "I'm...not quite myself, today. Stress, and – although I realise that doesn't excuse my rudeness."

"No. It's fine. I do – very rarely – dabble in what you might call...treachery, when I think it's needed," he admitted smoothly, eyes clouded. "But never toward anyone who I consider a friend."

"I thought Usbourne..."

"Family friend. My father's friend, to be precise, and I don't generally feel kindly toward the company my father keeps." Malfoy smiled thinly. "I have very few friends, myself."

"And why are you telling me?" she asked him, and sipped at her coffee, eyeing him over the rim of her cup. He huffed a chuckle, moving closer to her as a small group of Ministry staff hurried by, chatting like jaybirds.

"I would have thought it was obvious I wasn't exactly popular, Granger. Hardly a secret to be told," Malfoy answered her with what seemed like a note of teasing, lips twitching up at the corners, and Hermione grinned again, the tension between them suddenly evaporating.

"About Usbourne," she clarified, and Malfoy smirked.

"Because I care about truth and justice, of course. No? Not buying it?" She shook her head, amused and intrigued, and his smirk grew. "All right then. How about because I wanted Usbourne out of the way?"

"No," she said and shook her head, swirling her coffee around in her cup as she leant back on one foot and looked him up and down in blatant assessment, feeling oddly...invigorated, by their back and forth. "Even you wouldn't use me to do that."

"Wouldn't I? Well, maybe I told you because I think you're fascinating, Granger. And maybe I think you deserve the Head of Division position opening up when Higgins retires that I know you must be wanting, and so I'm...being helpful." Hermione leant back against the corridor wall and nibbled at her lower lip, holding back a smile.

"Well, thank you, Malfoy, but I think I can manage to secure a good shot at the position without assistance. And really that answer just creates more questions than it solves," she said, and Malfoy spread out his hands palm up, as if to say what can you do?

"You'd better go get some people onto hunting out evidence of Usbourne's granddaughter, Granger. Only four hours before the hearing. Good luck."

"I don't need luck," Hermione said to Malfoy with a sharp smile, feeling ridiculously energised and good as she pushed off from the wall and walked away without another word, aware of his gaze on her until she turned the corner.

She won the case.

Hermione's heart thrilled and pounded as she went over the events of the hearing again during the walk back to her office, feeling high on adrenaline and excitement. She had taken Caritas Usbourne to pieces during the hearing, using her usual tactics as Interrogator to excellent effect alongside Malfoy's few tips, and invaluable information. She grinned ecstatically at Mariska as she stopped in front of the secretary's desk, beside her office door. "We won! The Wizengamot only took a few minutes to deliberate – guilty! I don't know what the sentence will be yet, they're still deliberating on that, but I'm so happy!"

"I know," Mariska said with a smug smile. "I was already informed. Congratulations, by the way."

"By who? The hearing's only just ended and I've come straight here – you can't tell me the news has already spread?"

"It's only just finished? But Mr Malfoy left this for you twenty minutes ago," Mariska said, brow furrowing with confusion as she reached down behind the desk and lifted something up. "I thought the trial must have already ended, for him to have known."

It was a single full-blown red carnation, leaves still upon the bare stem, which had a thin silvery ribbon tied around it, attaching a small rectangle of card. Hermione reached out slowly and took it from Mariska with a curious frown. She turned the expensive creamy card over, and saw scrawled in bold script, simply: Congratulations, Granger.

A red carnation? And congratulations before the hearing had even ended, as though Malfoy were just that confident in Hermione's abilities to see Usbourne convicted. Well, he'd been right to be so confident, hadn't he?

"I hope Mr Weasley doesn't get wind of this, or you'll have a duel on your hands," Mariska said cheekily, with a giggle. "He'd be furious."

"Oh Mariska, don't be silly – it's just a congratulations. Ron isn't that possessive, thank Merlin," Hermione managed to get out, hopefully sounding normal – Mariska was lovely and good-hearted, but she had a tendency to gossip, and Hermione didn't need her marriage issues all over the Ministry yet. Mariska grinned and tapped a perfectly manicured nail on one of the frilly petals, as Hermione turned the thing over in her hands.

"Ah, but it's a red carnation, and I looked that up."

"Looked it up?"

"Oh honestly, Ms Granger-Weasley," Mariska said, as if laughing at Hermione's ignorance. "Everyone who's anyone has been into flower language for months now – it's everywhere. Very retro, very stylish. It's been completely revived – see?" She pulled out an old copy of Witch Weekly from the stacks beneath her desk, flipping through it, to lay it open on the desk to an index of flowers and their meanings. "As soon as I saw it was a single red carnation and not just a plain old store bought bouquet, I looked up what it could mean." The younger woman looked up at Hermione with barely stifled excitement, clearly bursting to educate Hermione on what it meant.

"I'm sure Malfoy doesn't pay attention to – to flower language trends. That's a – a young person thing, not…" And then Mariska tapped the magazine page intently with her long fingernail, and Hermione's eyes zoomed in on where her secretary was indicating. A single red carnation, it began, and then Hermione's eyes widened and she pressed her fingers over her mouth, suppressing the urge to gasp. Fascination.

"See," said Mariska smugly, and Hermione gulped as her stomach lurched, because what on earth was Malfoy trying to do? Flirt? Make her life difficult? Congratulate her without any knowledge of what the carnation meant? No, that would be too large a coincidence; Mariska was right that he would have just sent her a bouquet. But it couldn't be flirtatious – no, it had to be purely friendly – a way to further the civilities they'd made toward each other since Hermione had discovered their children were friends. He was being nice, and teasing her about how he'd said she was fascinating, Hermione decided. That was clearly the only reasonable option, and she would be silly to think otherwise.

"It's just – he was telling me earlier how fascinating he found me in regards to the way I work, Mariska. He was...admiring me professionally, that's all. Don't go getting silly romantic ideas in your head. He and I are both married, I'm not interested in him in the slightest" – was that a lie? She wasn't sure – "and he certainly couldn't have any interest in me whatsoever."

"But he does," said Mariska innocently. "He's always asking after you. He tries to make it subtle by asking different secretaries in the department, but we all, erm, talk – well, all right, we all gossip together, and the past few years or so, he's been asking more and more about what you're doing, and how you are. Not often, but often enough that…well, I can't tell you who because I don't want to get them in trouble, but some of the girls were taking bets on when you and Mister Malfoy" – Mariska dropped her voice to a whisper – "would have an affair."

"You're kidding me."

"Not at all. So while I'm quite sure you have no interest in him, Ms Granger-Weasley," Mariska said with a very small, sly smile that made Hermione both want to laugh, and shake the girl. "Mr Malfoy is very clearly interested in you." But despite Mariska's certainties, Hermione laughed her off, dismissing her gossipy fancies as absolutely ridiculous, and fled into her office with the carnation still in hand, shutting the door very firmly behind her. There was no way in hell that Draco Malfoy would ever be interested in her.

"Hullo?"

"Hullo, Ron." Hermione paused and took a breath, steeling herself. Her hand was clammy on her mobile; she'd broken out in a sweat all over, and her stomach was churning. "Look, we, erm, need to talk. Do you have a minute?"

"Y-yeah. Hang on. I'll just head back to my room." A clatter and muted words, a woman's flirtatious voice – oh, must you go? So soon? – and Ron's unintelligible reply. It was obviously innocent, Hermione told herself as shock balled into a tight fist in her chest. There were loads of rabid fans who hung out around the team, always, and Hermione had no reason to think Ron had ever been unfaithful. He would never. Ron might be thoughtless and unreliable, but he wasn't a liar. Hermione sat at the breakfast bar, mobile in hand, listening as Ron obviously left the room he'd been in and shut the door behind him.

"You there?"

"Yeah."

"Post-match drinks in Jono's suite," Ron explained, as if everything were normal because it still was for him, and Hermione sank her head into her hand, phone pressed too hard to her ear, and thought herself a monster. She could hear he was walking by the sound of his breathing, and a moment later the click of a door closing came down the line. "It was a right good time. Drinks and loads of people, all wanting to hear about the War." Of course; Ron was always telling stories about the War, and Hermione smiled sadly at the image that flashed in her head. An old War hero, clinging to the tales of what he thought had been his life's peak, in a twisted kind of way. It wasn't healthy, to glorify the War like that, in Hermione's opinion. But there was no point in saying anything.

"How'd the match go?" So polite. So ordinary.

"All right. We won, but not by much. Got to do a lot better if we want a shot at the Cup." The sound of a bottle being cracked open, and a pause as Ron took a long swig of whatever he was drinking. He sounded a little more cautious as he went on: "So, what did you want to talk about, then?" He didn't bother asking her about the Usbourne case, if he'd even remembered it – she'd won,

"I – think..." it was best to just say it, she told herself. To rip the plaster off quickly and cleanly, rather than to let fear and uncertainty turn it into a slow, torturous process with the same end result. The words rushed out of her in a babble. "I think we should take a break. Just some – some time apart. Some space." He laughed, short and bitter, and Hermione shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, dropping her head forward and gritting her teeth.

"Some time apart? Hermione, we've spent the past two bloody weeks apart – the problem is that we don't spend enough time together!" He was nearly shouting now; Ron never had been good at keeping his cool – fiery, like his hair.

"Well these days, whenever we spend time together we just fight," Hermione hissed in frustration. "It's not helping. I need time to think. To..."

"Decide whether or not you want to destroy our family?"

"That's not fair. That is not fair," Hermione snapped, standing abruptly and turning away from the breakfast bar, fingertips digging into the edge. "That's not what I mean – not what I want. And besides, if we were – to – to split up, it wouldn't be destroying our family. And it wouldn't be me doing it. Because our relationship issues are ours, and if we don't work then that's not my fault. You don't get to put our failures on me alone."

"Well, that was pretty fucking conclusive wasn't it? From how you're talking, it sounds like you've already made your decision." He was angry and nasty, lashing out in his hurt and Hermione told herself she should able to rise above his understandable anger at having this dropped on him over the phone. She tried, very hard, leaning back against the wall and staring at a magical photograph of the four of them on the fridge, smiling and waving at the camera.

"I haven't, Ron. Honestly I haven't. But I can't take this...this constant fighting anymore. It's just getting worse. I thought during the summer hols things were getting better, but now that the children are off at Hogwarts...we don't text, we don't call, when we do talk we just end up rowing... I just can't, right now." She stayed calm but quietly pleading, begging Ron to understand. She wasn't trying to hurt him. "I know it's dreadful timing with my birthday coming up in nearly three weeks, and I hate to ask you to cancel plans, but right now the last thing I want is a big party."

There was silence down the phone line.

"Your...birthday..." Ron said, slowly. "...Your..."

There was a long, taut silence, as his words and tone sank in.

"You forgot. You forgot. Ronald fucking Weasley, you –" Hermione began to snarl, suffused with hurt and fury – and then made herself stop in her tracks. "No. No, never mind. It's ended up working out for the best anyway, hasn't it?" she went on dully. He'd forgotten her 40th birthday completely. Her fortieth, and it had just slipped his mind.

"...Oh bloody fucking Merlin," Ron sighed down the phone, sounding like he was kicking himself, all apology and desperate hope for forgiveness. "'Mione..." But his pleading didn't move her. She was tired of this – so damned tired, and this felt like the final straw.

"I think once you're back from Turkey, you should go stay at the Burrow for a while," Hermione got out, her throat tight and heart pounding hard against her ribs, as she slid her back down the wall, bum on the floor and knees to her chest. "I want a break. I need space. Time." There was a long pause.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, a break." Ron sounded wearily accepting, when he finally broke the silence. "I s'pose you're right – might be better, right now."

"Ron –"

"How long?" he interrupted, and her eyes drifted to the calendar, mind ticking over.

"Until December 10th. That gives us time to – to think, and also time to talk and figure out whatever – whatever direction we decide to go in" – she was crying now, a silent flood of tears – "Before the children come back for Christmas. So if we decide to – then we can tell them, and show them at Christmas that us being...apart won't make things terrible, and if we decide to work on our relationship then Christmas can be like – like a new start."

"Okay." He said nothing more than that – just one word – and she felt empty, suddenly. Afraid. Afraid of losing what was left of their relationship, afraid of being alone, afraid of hurting the children, of making a mistake that she wouldn't be able to come back from.

"I do love you, Ron. And no matter what, I always will," she said through her tears, small and pathetic, nose running and making her sniff and snuffle.

"I know, Hermione. I – I love you too, really. But...well, things haven't been good for a while, have they?"

"No. No, they haven't." She took a deep, shaking breath through her unceasing tears. "Goodbye, Ron."

It felt like an end. And lying in bed sleepless that night, staring up at the ceiling, it felt like freedom too. And freedom was so big, so unknown, so frightening, that Hermione felt like a child again. Where did she go from here? To sleep, she thought wryly, or she'd be a wreck in the morning – she wasn't young enough to stay up all night and suffer no ill effects anymore, and she had work tomorrow. But still she lay awake, feeling the enormity of her decisions swell inside her chest, like they were splitting her open.