9.

The waiting room the floo opened into at the Quidditch grounds was empty today, thankfully. Hermione didn't have the time or the inclination to engage in small talk with any of the WAGs – most of them were lovely, to be fair, but they did tend to be a certain sort of person. Her shoes clacked on the wood floors as she crossed the room to the large mirror on the wall, and took a moment to dispel the soot from her clothes and hair with a charm, and check she was still reasonably presentable. Floo travel wasn't kind on your outfit.

Her reflection was pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, energised despite her nervousness, and Hermione knew perfectly well that lunch with Malfoy was to blame for that. Or thank, perhaps. She looked well in her smart coat and new skirt, hair swept up into a mostly tidy bun. Hermione stared at herself a moment longer, and then sighed and reluctantly did up two of her blouse buttons; neat and prim again. She still felt attractive though – and wasn't naive enough to not know it was because of Malfoy's attentions.

He had kissed her goodbye; not on the hand, but on the cheek – a soft, fleeting press of lips that she wanted to feel again.

But she was supposed to be thinking about Ron, he husband and what in Merlin's name he had done, not her silly, horrendously inappropriate mooning over another man. Hermione put Malfoy firmly out of her mind, and clacked her way briskly out of the waiting room and down the corridor, finding her way through the labyrinthine halls with the ease of long practice. She and the children had spent a good deal of time here in support of Ron – afternoons watching practices, and weekends cheering the team on in games. Hermione still found Quidditch as dull as ever, but up until recent years she had always made sure that she and the children were present for the big moments.

Ron was down on the field, chatting to one of the players as the others swooped through the air with beautiful precision and speed. He looked up at the sound of the doors banging shut behind Hermione, and for a moment his face was blank and shocked – wiped clean of any emotion. And then he smiled uncertainly and raised a hand in greeting. It seemed reluctant, and Hermione couldn't blame him and wasn't surprised, but his reaction still just made her feel even sicker.

She stopped by the crisscross frame of the stands rising up above her, leaning against a post and lifting a hand in greeting herself. It was cold but sunny out on the pitch, but where Hermione stood was in shade, and she wrapped her arms around herself as she waited. Not cold enough to bother getting her wand out for a warming charm, but just enough to make her a little chilly. Ron said a few more words that Hermione couldn't hear, his grin forced as he clapped the player on the back and gestured for him to take to the air. He watched the player ascend smoothly, hand up to shield his eyes from the sun, and then half-jogged over to Hermione.

"'Mione." Her nickname sounded stiff and wrong on his tongue. "What are – what are you doing here?" She raised an eyebrow, still hugging herself tightly, and Ron seemed to realise belatedly how rude that sounded. "I mean, I didn't think – I wasn't expecting you. Not that it's not good to see you!" he added with false brightness. He reached out, curling his hand around her upper arm and squeezing affectionately, and Hermione stepped back. Ron's arm fell back to his side, and he shifted on his feet nervously. "What's up?"

"I heard through the grapevine that you're still at the Burrow," Hermione said sharply and with great emphasis, and Ron's face turned puzzled, expression scrunching up.

"What...? You know I am..." She rolled her eyes. Oh Merlin – sometimes Ron needed to be hit around the head with something before he got it. He didn't fare well with hints.

"As in, the secretarial pool has apparently been chatting about it. And I would like to know how and why they know, Ronald," Hermione said crisply. "Because I know that I didn't tell them."

Ron blanched pale, and Hermione's stomach flipped sickly, and then turned leaden and sank like a stone.

"What did you do, Ronald?" she demanded of him, an edge of frantic panic bleeding into her voice. They were on a break but – but it was supposed to be a break to give them space to re-evaluate their relationship, and see if they missed each other, and decide if they could repair their marriage. Not...

"I – I asked Della Carpenter out for a drink," Ron mumbled shamefacedly, mentioning one of the Ministry secretaries whom Hermione knew of, vaguely. A pretty young woman with pin straight long black hair and a petite figure. Hermione felt as though Ron had punched her in the stomach – a sick pain blossomed in her middle, and she wanted to fold double over her arms. Instead, she stared at him speechlessly, waiting for him to say something to make it right. "I – I just...I didn't mean anything by it, 'Mione, honest. She – she was at one of the team parties the other night, and I'd had too much to drink, and..."

"And you thought you'd try to get your leg over? Is that it, Ronald?" Hermione snapped before he could keep flailing around for an explanation that wouldn't leave her furious and hurt.

"I – I'm sorry, 'Mione, I –"

"Don't you call me that. Don't you dare call me that!" she cried, and with embarrassment and helplessness realised she was screeching – shrill and angry, like a fishwife. Merlin. How must she appear to the team, circling up above and no doubt at least some of them watching with interest. She didn't dare look up to see if the team had noticed, or heard her. Ron looked torn and miserable, reaching out to her again as if he wanted to comfort her, only to remember that he couldn't and pulling his hand back.

"Nothing happened, Hermione. She – she turned me down." Oh Merlin, that didn't help. It really didn't. "Not that anything would've happened anyway. I just..." Ron flushed bright red, freckles lost to the tomato hue of his face. "After you went out to lunch with Malfoy, I wanted to –"

"To get me back. I see," Hermione said, suddenly suffused by a deadly calm. And she did see, very clearly. It was understandable, in a way, if still hurtful and awful and utterly infuriating. Ron had been hurt by Hermione going out to lunch with another man – Malfoy no less – so he'd tried to even the score by going out for drinks with an attractive young woman.

The difference was that Hermione hadn't asked, she'd been asked, and that Malfoy had had a reason for asking – the children. A twinge of guilt reminded Hermione that she'd just been kissed on the cheek by Malfoy not twenty minutes ago, and that had nothing to do with politeness or the children. Still – it hurt, to know that Ron had tried to get back at her by propositioning some pretty young secretary, who had probably felt incredibly awkward over it. It hurt an awful lot. But yelling at him out on the Quidditch pitch wouldn't achieve anything, and would only make a scene. She held her anger in.

"I'm sorry, Hermione. I was drunk, and hurting, and stupid, and I never should have done it, but I wasn't going to do anything," Ron pleaded with her, leaning in over her so that she had to tilt her head to look up at him. "I miss you, Hermione. I just want to come home."

"Well I'm not ready for you to come home, Ron. I – I haven't been happy for quite some time, and I don't think you have been either. We've been going through the motions, but...we've drifted apart. You're always putting me down, and forgetting things that are important to me – like my bloody birthday – and never doing anything that I like, and I'm sick of it. And I'm sure there are things I've done that you're not happy about either, like spending too much time on work, and the like." Hermione sighed, her chest aching, feeling exhausted by the emotions roiling in her. "So we are having a break to decide whether we can compromise enough to both be happy, or whether..."

"I – I want to compromise!" Ron insisted, and Hermione shook her head.

"It's not that simple, Ron. I need...time, and so do you. You say you want to compromise, but you never actually go through with it. In the past you've agreed to all sorts of things, but you've never actually stuck to your word. And I'm not having that anymore. You need to make your mind up, really. Think about it. Properly. And so will I." Ron stared at her speechlessly, expression crushed, and Hermione felt terrible – like a monster. But she wasn't going to keep papering over the cracks in their marriage; either they would decide to genuinely change for each other, or Hermione would call it quits. She couldn't handle half-measures anymore, not now they didn't have the children at home to distract them from their issues.

"I'll be in touch by owl if there are any issues regarding the children. Take care, Ron." Hermione stepped forward, and on impulse presented her cheek to him. The one that Malfoy hadn't kissed. Ron looked a little startled, but darted a quick kiss on her cheek anyway, just beside the corner of her mouth. His breath smelt sweetly of butterbeer, and his stubble tickled her skin. It didn't repulse her, but it didn't make her stomach flip-flop either like Malfoy's kiss had – but then was it fair for her to expect that twisting thrill to happen after so many years of marriage? Probably not.

"You too, 'Mione."

She left the way she'd came, tears pricking in her eyes in humiliation, as she thought of a drunken Ron throwing himself at Della Carpenter. Merlin, how was she supposed to get past the fact that he'd deliberately tried to hurt her? Didn't he understand how much harder he'd made everything? Just because he was angry about Malfoy didn't mean that it was okay for him to hit on a secretary in her twenties, and risk the news of their break flooding the media.

Oh Merlin – the media. Hermione needed to find a copy of the Daily Prophet – she walked quicker, trotting for the floo, her heart back in her throat as she dreaded what she might see, and racked her brains trying to remember whether or not anyone had treated her oddly today. She couldn't remember. Oh god.

"And can I have the paper if you're done with it, Mariska?" Hermione asked casually, after her secretary had passed her the messages she'd received while she'd been away from the office, and she'd passed Mariska a coffee she'd bought on the way back to work. She didn't have much time before her appointment with Thornton, but she needed to skim through and check for any articles on her and Ron.

"Oh...you heard, then?" Mariska asked in a tone saturated with awkwardness and sympathy, and Hermione nearly whimpered in despair. She kept her shoulders straight and chin up though, face perfectly smooth – the very picture of composure, she hoped.

"Heard what, Mariska?" she asked in a no-nonsense tone, and the secretary cringed a little, and rather than saying anything, flipped the paper open and thumbed seven pages in. Well, at least it wasn't on the front page, Hermione supposed bitterly, but buried in the gossip at the back, which not everyone bothered flicking through to. Mariska pointed a peach-polished nail to a tiny picture of Hermione and Ron halfway down the page – a blurry one of them outside their home in Wandsworth that looked several years old by Hermione's hairstyle. Ron looked angry, and Hermione upset, and beside the picture read the unimaginative:

TROUBLE IN MUGGLE PARADISE?

"Oh my god," Hermione murmured in mortification and frustration as she skimmed through the piece. War hero couple...Harry Potter's best friends...whirlwind romance...two children...both attending Hogwarts...tensions...arguments...a source tells us the Granger-Weasleys have separated...Ron Weasley, Assistant Coach for the ... is apparently on the prowl again. It was dreadful, and sordid, and terribly humiliating. And in a move that somehow made it all the worse, the picture had been one where they'd simply been bickering about whether or not to put in a fence around the property. Hermione remembered that day very clearly – they'd gotten ridiculously annoyed with each other over the topic, but had gone and had delicious makeup sex afterwards, while the children were at the Burrow.

"How dare they."

"I'm sorry, Ms Granger-Weasley. I was going to tell you when I saw it this morning, but I didn't...well..." Mariska looked dreadfully embarrassed, and Hermione felt bad for the young woman. She overcame her horror long enough to try to reassure the younger woman.

"Merlin, it's not your responsibility, Mariska. I wouldn't have wanted to tell me either. Really, don't worry about it. I just wish it hadn't gotten out. But I suppose that was a rather silly thing to hope for." At least the paper didn't seem to have gotten wind of Hermione's lunches with Malfoy. Now that would be front page material, she was certain, and the thought of how careless she'd been, in retrospect, made her feel tense and ill. She hadn't even done anything untoward with Malfoy, but the press wouldn't play it that way, and Hermione knew which story Ron would choose to believe.

"Do you mind if I take it?"

"Not at all, Ms Granger-Weasley. I – I'm sorry about..." Mariska offered helplessly, and Hermione managed a weak smile, nodding thanks, and then escaping into her office. She sat down at her desk and flung the paper down onto it, checking the clock with half an eye. It was ten to two, and Thornton was usually right on time. So no time to talk to Ron about the issue, although she did schedule a text to go out as soon as her mobile had signal again – between the magic and the Ministry's depth underground, the signal was all but non-existent. Check page seven of today's paper. We'll need to go see the children first thing tomorrow, it read, and nothing else. There was nothing else to say.

And then she sat forward over her desk, shoulders hunched as she glared at the article. And then she folded it up decisively and pulled out the information she would need for Thornton. There was absolutely no point in dwelling on things that she couldn't change, and which only upset her. She had more bloody self-control than that, Hermione told herself, as she tried desperately not to think about the devastation that one little article would wreak on her life.

She would need visit the children asap, and explain what was going on, because there was no way that they wouldn't find out. She would need to contact her lawyer and see if he could badger the Daily Prophet into not printing any more about them. She would need to deal with a flood of owls and firecalls from 'concerned' friends and colleagues. Damn Ron to hell for triggering this. If he'd had to proposition someone, why couldn't it have been someone who'd known how to keep their damned mouth shut?

This was all Ron's fault. Rose and Hugo's inevitable distress, and the teasing they would probably get, the humiliation Hermione would suffer, and the damage to her reputation – the Ministry didn't like scandal, and in the Wizarding world any hint of potential legal separation was scandal. Living separately wasn't such a big deal in the Wizarding world, but Hermione wouldn't be satisfied with anything less than divorce should things not work out, and she had no doubt that the reporters at the Daily Prophet had guessed that – her Muggle tendencies showing through.

Hermione lost herself to negativity despite her best efforts, and when Mariska knocked on the door, she had to blink back tears.

"Your two o'clock is here, Ms Granger-Weasley."

Hermione smiled with brittle composure, sitting up straighter and shoving the newspaper in a desk drawer, wondering despite herself, if Thornton had seen the article. At least the polite, painfully formal accountant would be unlikely to mention it, if he had.

"Thank you, Mariska. Please send him in." She would get through today, she told herself, and then she would go home, drink a bucket of wine, and cry into a cushion.

Professor McGonagall,

I am writing to inform you that I shall need to remove Rose and Hugo from Hogwarts tomorrow lunchtime, to spend the lunch hour with me in Hogsmeade. You may have heard of or read the article Daily Prophet published today, on the separation of their father and I.

Unfortunately, the paper managed to get that particular fact correct, and up until now the children have been unawares, as we saw no need to inform them until matters were decided. It will no doubt be very distressing for the children to have read the article, or to hear about it from school mates. I should like to be able to explain the situation to them myself, in person.

Please owl me as soon as possible, to let me know where to collect them from.

Regards,

Hermione J. Granger-Weasley