10.

The children were sitting on the bench outside the Headmistress's office when Hermione came down the stairs, the gargoyle having twisted aside to let her pass. Professor McGonagall had kindly allowed her to use the floo in her office, which was also the way they would be leaving for The Three Broomsticks, where Hermione had a private room booked for the three of them. They both looked miserable, and Hermione knew immediately that they'd found out, and her heart ached for them.

"Mum!" Hugo cried, and ran to her like the little boy he still was, really, and always would be to Hermione. But Merlin, he was grown. He'd shot up since leaving for Hogwarts, and Hermione found herself with an armful of gangly, lanky boy, whose dark hair flopped into his eyes as he pulled back from the hug and looked at her with mournful, dark eyes. He was nearly her height, Hermione realised with a shock. God, how had that happened? "Mum, it's not true, is it?"

"Of course it's true," Rose said disdainfully as she got up, anger clouding her face. "Don't be so silly, Hugo."

"Rose! He's not being silly," Hermione snapped automatically, holding out an arm and drawing Rose into a quick, hard hug. The girl relented a little, but she was still stiff and angry when Hermione let her go.

"But yes, the Daily Prophet had it mostly right. Mostly," Hermione hastened to add, because the overall tone had been horribly sordid and tacky, and really it wasn't like that at all. It was sad, and horrible, but not sordid. Except possibly Ron hitting up Della Carpenter, but even that had been made to sound worse than it really was.

Rose's mouth twisted as if she'd been sucking on lemons. "See?" she muttered to Hugo, who elbowed her and prompted a yelp and a punch to his arm, and then Hermione had to snap their names out furiously, and grab Hugo's wrist before he elbowed Rose again.

"Stop it, you two! Behave yourselves! You're acting like toddlers. I know that this is a shock, but it hasn't exactly been easy for me – or your dad either."

"Seems like he's bounced back all right," Rose muttered darkly, while Hugo nodded – in agreement with his sister now. Hermione sighed harshly.

"That part was presented entirely misleadingly, you two," she told them, gritting her teeth at having to defend Ron. She was already furious at him in a number of ways, which had only been compounded by the twenty-five voice messages he'd left on her mobile, and the twelve texts, after his initial call and apology that no, he had work and so he wouldn't be able to make it to lunch with the children.

Hermione had all but begged him to come, only for him to reiterate his awkward refusals over and over again. She'd hung up on him in the end, and hadn't listened to any of the subsequent voice messages, or read the texts – simply texted Harry and told him to tell Ron to leave her alone. Perhaps it wasn't fair to involve Harry, but Hermione couldn't bear the thought of interacting directly with Ron right now. "Yes, your dad asked a woman for a drink, but it was meant in an entirely friendly manner, and not because he was trying to –"

"Mu-um, oh for the Grey Lady's sake, please stop!" Rose begged as Hugo wrinkled up his nose and deliberately made retching sounds.

"Oh my god, you two. All right, I'm not saying anything! Just stop it. You're embarrassing me," Hermione said, although there was no one in the corridor that she could see. "Come on, upstairs into Professor McGonagall's office, and we'll floo to The Three Broomsticks for lunch, and talk there, in private."

Lunch went as well as Hermione could have expected. Which wasn't that well. Hugo cried, and Rose ended up on the verge of tears, as did Hermione. She couldn't tell the children that she would fix everything. She couldn't assure them it would all work out. She realised that she couldn't even tell them that she and Ron loved each other in that way, because did they? Hermione didn't know anymore.

All she could tell them was that she and Ron both loved them very much, and that whatever happened, they would be loved and cared for by both Hermione, their father, and all their extended family. Lashing out in her hurt, Rose yelled at Hermione that she was a terrible wife who couldn't keep Ron happy – that one had stung – and Hugo had gotten angry with Rose for saying that, and tried to defend Hermione. She hated that they seemed to have automatically taken sides – they should be supporting each other through this.

In the end, Hermione had needed to threaten their weekly pocket money in order to get them to sit down and be quiet. She told them very bluntly that they had behaved terribly, and that as a family they needed to stick together, and be kind and understanding toward each other, just as she and Ron were trying to be. She wasn't sure if it had sunk in or not. Rose had asked to go back to school shortly after that, and Hugo had agreed that he wanted to go too, albeit in a quiet, apologetic sort of voice that made Hermione want to weep.

"Of course," she had told them as cheerfully as possible. And then when she'd hugged them goodbye in the Headmistress's office, under the quiet, watchful eyes of the portraits, their bodies stiff and resentful in her arms: "I'm so sorry that your dad and I are hurting you like this. It's a situation that's not fair on anyone, but especially unfair for you two. I love you both. Very much."

She had gotten mumbled goodbyes in response, without any expressions of love, and when she'd flooed home to the empty house in Wandsworth, she'd leant her forehead against the mantel and wept, resenting Ron bitterly for not being there. He said she prioritised work over family, but Hermione thought it was the other way around. They had needed him today, all of them, and he hadn't been there. He'd been too busy with a damned league meeting. Christ, if anyone had asked her at that moment, Hermione would have said she never wanted to see Ron again, and meant it.

Even though she'd cancelled her few appointments for the day, Hermione went into work at 2pm – despite still feeling like a shaky mess. Sitting at home with nothing to do except wallow in her misery was worse than trying to distract herself with work. Mariska seemed surprised to see her, but didn't say a word, thank Merlin. She simply brought Hermione a large coffee, a triple chocolate muffin, and all the recent case files Hermione had been working on over the past week, with an empathetic smile.

It was hard to focus, and Hermione didn't get much accomplished – research was slow going when you kept suddenly needing to burst into tears, and having to pinch the bridge of your nose and breath slowly until the urge passed. By the time the end of the day rolled around, Hermione had only accomplished a third of the work she usually would have. But as there was nothing to go home to, Hermione decided it didn't matter – she would simply stay late. She said goodnight to Mariska when the younger woman left, and continued scribbling away in her office with the door open as gradually, one by one, the offices on her floor emptied of people – lights dimming low, and corridors falling silent.

Gradually, Hermione's emotions quieted, and she lost herself in her reading; dry case files, yes, but still distracting. So the knock at her doorframe scared the living daylights out of her. She dropped the file and yelped, jerking her head up to the doorway only to see a ruefully smiling Malfoy standing there, in shirtsleeves and dress trousers, his suit jacket over his arm.

"Sorry," he apologised sincerely, a smile still playing around the edges of his mouth, and Hermione swore, and huffed a weak laugh – he really had scared the shite out of her.

"Jesus, Malfoy. You walk like a cat. Make some noise, next time," she half-scolded, hand pressed over her heart, which was still slamming too hard in her chest.

"I did actually, Granger," he defended himself mildly, wandering in without invitation and slouching down into the seat opposite the desk, stretching out his long legs and settling in with a sigh of comfort. "But you were utterly lost in your work. And at nearly nine pm, I might add. What are you still doing here at this obscene time? Hearing tomorrow?"

"No. I just..." she began, and trailed miserably to a halt. God, it sounded pathetic to say that she couldn't face going home to an empty house tonight, not after the day she'd had. Especially considering she'd be admitting it to Malfoy. But his expression immediately shifted to comprehension as she snapped her mouth shut, embarrassed. He nodded knowingly, his eyes sympathetic.

"I know what you mean, Granger. I don't particularly enjoy the evenings either. They have a tendency to be long and lonely, when you're sitting in by yourself every night," he said lightly, as if it were easy to admit that kind of vulnerability. Hermione swallowed hard, eyes fixing to his stark grey ones.

"Yes," she admitted – a confession for a confession, and now they were even, in an exchange that she didn't even consciously think about. "I often spend nights alone, but today – today the house feels empty and cold and awful, and I'd rather work than go home and sit and wallow in my self-pity."

"I saw the article," Malfoy said softly then, as if he was afraid to hurt her by mentioning it too loudly, his face full of an intimate understanding. "About Weasley propositioning the other woman." Hermione flinched at the sound of that – 'the other woman'. But Malfoy was filled with empathy, not cruel mischief. Maybe he had gone through similar things with Astoria, only managed to use his contacts to keep it out of the papers. There was no way to know for sure, save asking him, but the look on his face certainly made it seem like he had.

"I'm sorry, Granger," Malfoy said very kindly, then: "He's a stupid fucking prat."

Hermione huffed a surprised half-laugh, smiling as she answered him – her first genuine smile all day. "Thanks, Malfoy." And she meant it. She felt better just hearing his offhand dismissal of Ron. She was surrounded by people who loved Ron, she realised then – everyone, all of her friends, they all were Ron's friends or family too. Malfoy and Mariska were perhaps the only people she spoke to her weren't friends with Ron. "And I won't disagree with you, on that," she added, meaning Ron, and Malfoy smirked.

"You're welcome, Granger." Then he stopped – paused, the sense that he was going to say something else hanging in the air, filling the dim, quiet offices with frisson. Hermione was very acutely aware that they were entirely alone in the night, without prying eyes or curious ears to eavesdrop on them. She wondered idly – deliriously – what Malfoy would do if she got up, rounded the desk, sat herself on his lap and kissed him. She liked to think he would kiss her back.

"Come around for dinner," Malfoy said then, his tone too-casual; a front, a farce, earnestness beneath and she could see it. It wrenched Hermione out of her fantasies into a reality that perhaps wasn't that much different, and what on earth was happening to her? Malfoy's eyes were nervous on hers. "Nothing fancy. Just...some good company to pass the time, instead of working yourself to exhaustion. Poached eggs on toast, several large glasses of wine, bitching about Weasley – or forgetting about him entirely, if you'd rather..." Hermione didn't think he meant that to sound as filthy as it did, judging by the way he flushed and tried to cover himself by mentioning a few wizarding games they could play, but she was far from offended.

"Thank you, Malfoy. That sounds lovely," she said with simple acceptance once he'd stopped rambling about wizarding chess, smiling across the desk at him. He stared at her a few heartbeats longer, looking rather bewildered; Hermione expected he hadn't thought she'd say yes. Certainly not so easily, without any vacillating. She'd stunned him, she thought with some small pleasure at it. But then his composure returned in the blink of an eye, and he was sitting up straight from his slouch, nodding with satisfaction at her acquiescence.

"Come on then, Granger." Malfoy grinned at her as he got to his feet, collecting his suit jacket from the back of the chair and folding it neatly over his arm again. "The night's not getting any younger." He seemed eager beneath his casual drawl, and Hermione found herself suspecting he would be even happier to have the distraction of company than she was.

"All right – hang on," Hermione said as she flipped the file folder she had been reading shut with a sharp crack, and got up from her desk, brushing out the wrinkles in her skirt. She was glad she'd worn something nice today, at least. A pair of black, wide-leg trousers, and a marbled white and palest mint silk blouse, which had survived the stress of the day quite well.

On the other hand, her hair was coming down from its bun in wisps, her makeup was non-existent, and she probably looked puffy-eyed, blotchy, and every day of her almost forty from crying. Not that it really mattered; she wasn't going on a date, for Merlin's sake. She was just going around to Malfoy's for a casual dinner and wine, because neither of them had any plans, she was miserable, and he sympathised. Nothing more. Nothing untoward.

Hermione eyed Malfoy, standing there lean and handsome, his eyes dark and appreciative on her, and didn't really believe what she was telling herself. It didn't stop her though.

His house wasn't exactly what Hermione had expected, when she emerged from his large fireplace. It was much smaller, for starters; two bedrooms and a study, he said as he brushed a little soot off his shirt, and two bathrooms – the main one, and one off the master bedroom. The living areas – kitchen, dining, and lounge – Hermione could see were all in one long open space, although it seemed as though the lounge could be shut off by sliding screens.

The walls were a rustic plaster, the ceilings exposed blonde wood beams, the floors a matching pale blonde wood, the furniture clearly of quality make, but sleek and simple. There was a minimalist feel to it that was kept from starkness by the rough plaster, the wood, the old-fashioned kitchen range, and the sprinkling of clutter.

There wasn't much, but some books and papers were scattered over the coffee table near the fireplace, along with several empty mugs, and a variety of ties were flung haphazardly onto an armchair nearby. In the dining area, Hermione could see a few empty bottles of Knotgrass Mead on the table, a pair of shoes untidy on the floor, and a jersey draped messily over the back of a chair.

It was odd, seeing Malfoy this way. Hermione had thought that he would be compulsively tidy at home; just as perfectly composed as he always seemed to want to be perceived as in public. But instead he was...well, still tidier than the vast majority of men Hermione knew, but nowhere near perfect. He was still Malfoy, but a relaxed Malfoy. And just that was odd enough to feel surreal.

"Sorry about the mess," he said without embarrassment, and waved his wand – sending the books and papers into neat stacks, and the mugs floating toward the kitchen. His loosely knotted tie he tugged off altogether, and tossed over to join the others on the armchair, before turning a charming smile on her. "Shall I crack a bottle of wine?"

"Oh god yes, " Hermione said fervently, stepping out of her low heels and leaving them by the fireplace. Malfoy took her coat like an old world gentleman, and ushered her to sit on the couch in front of the fireplace. She sank into it, sideways with her leg folded up beneath her, so that she could rest an arm over the low back and watch Malfoy as he moved about.

He hung her coat in a foyer off the dining area, and kicked off his shoes, feet in their socks whisper-quiet on the wood flooring. "White or red?" he called, craning his neck to see her.

"Red, I think," Hermione called back, feeling enormously strange sitting there in Malfoy's home, curled up on his couch like they were friends, or incipient lovers. It was, quite frankly, surreal. She knew perfectly well that she was playing a dangerous game, but with the way Ron had been acting lately, she didn't particularly give a fig.

"I have several bottles of a good Elf-made dessert wine?" Malfoy suggested, and Hermione nodded.

"Sounds lovely." She cast her gaze about the room as Malfoy rummaged about, opening the bottle and retrieving two glasses. They sounded like crystal from the way they chimed as he lifted them in one hand by their stems, and they clinked together.

The walls were rather bare; the plaster was quite different to the usual pureblood wizarding aesthetic, and the usual portraits were nowhere to be seen. There was a large, framed wizarding photograph of Malfoy, Astoria, and a much younger Scorpius formally posing on one wall, but no more photos of anyone but Scorpius. And those were everywhere; only a few on the white walls, but half a dozen small framed photographs were on the large bookcase that stood against a wall, several baby photos on the mantelpiece, and others here and there on end tables and other surfaces.

Malfoy clearly cared for Scorpius deeply; the sort of father whose child was the centre of his universe. Hermione smiled up at him, full of warm feelings as he deposited the wine and glasses on the end table, and sank down facing her at the other end of the couch.

"Would you like a fire lit?"

"Why not?" she said agreeably, and Malfoy swished his wand, sending wood piling itself neatly up in the fireplace, before shooting sparks at it to set it alight in a bright blaze. He poured the wine then, as heat bathed her pleasantly and set her cheeks to glowing, and passed her a glassful. It was sweet and faintly fizzy on her tongue, and deliciously strong. Heady stuff.

"So, Granger. Would you like to tell me about your day?" he asked her with a gentle sort of interest, and Hermione realised that yes, she did actually. She told him about the disastrous attempt to explain things to the children, and how Ron hadn't been bothered to come, and how people kept looking at her, and she knew exactly what they were all thinking. She poured it all out in a slew of quiet, emotion-strained words while Malfoy listened sympathetically, and then she gulped down her entire glass of wine and let out a shaky sigh and apologised.

"I'm sorry. I'm a bit of a mess, I'm afraid." Malfoy refilled her glass, shaking his head in dismissal of her apology.

"It's quite all right, Granger. Bitch all you want to. I don't mind. I know all too well what it's like not to have anyone you can talk to when it all starts to turn to shite," he said quite openly, and Hermione raised a brow.

"You and Astoria...?" she ventured, uncertain of how to phrase her question. Malfoy seemed to understand what she was getting at, though.

"Unfortunately. The marriage was unfortunate, I mean, not the separation. That was a relief," he added dryly, smirking at Hermione over his glass of wine.

"Tell me," she said with an edge of wickedness. "Make me feel better about the wreck I'm making of my marriage, by sharing yours." He laughed.

"All right then, Granger. Astoria and I have been married since I was nineteen and she was seventeen – just after the War ended, basically. An arranged marriage, of course. Neither of us had much say in the matter. We were never well-matched, but it wasn't terrible to begin with. We never got along, but we managed to negotiate a...well, a truce. By the time Scorpius was finally born though, the years of trying and failing to produce an heir had worn away at the friendliness between us. Astoria's disinterest in Scorpius only compounded things." Malfoy sighed, swirling his wine in the glass.

"I don't blame her, honestly. She went through four pregnancies – all of which went to term – before having Scorpius." His mouth tightened, shadows of grief in his eyes. "All of them were stillborn, or died shortly after birth. By the time Scorpius was born, I don't think she was capable of risking loving a child again. She went through the motions until he was weaned at one, and then she started going holidaying." Malfoy said the word with careful emphasis.

"It started off with weekends to the country, and then snowballed. Half her time is spent overseas somewhere now, dallying with god knows who – discreetly, of course. Never even a rumour reaches us here. She's good like that, at least." Malfoy took a sip of his wine, shrugging. "I don't mind that. It's her disinterest in Scorpius that I can't stand. He deserves a mother who cares about him more than she does about bedding some oiled up fuckboy in Spain."

"Malfoy..." The word came out full of sympathy, Hermione's mind still fixated on the revelation that Malfoy had four children who were stillborn, or had died at birth – in his arms? Had he held his child in his arms while it had taken its last breaths? "God, Malfoy." Her hand found its way onto his knee as she shuffled closer. "I am so sorry. I – I had a miscarriage between Rose and Hugo, and I can't imagine..."

"Thanks. But...it was a long time ago. I – I still think 'what if', you know? But the grief...it does get less, eventually. Especially after Scorpius was born. That made it easier. Memories fade. For me, at least. I'm not sure they ever did for Astoria." He looked up, meeting her gaze as his hand curled around hers, squeezing. "And I'm sorry for your loss too."

"Thanks." She squeezed his hand back, before by mutual unspoken agreement, they released each other's fingers. "But I was never that devastated, to be honest. Ron took it harder than I did, I think. Nearly as badly as he did when I said I didn't want any more children after Hugo." She grimaced, but kept her tone light, sipping at the wine, slowly but steadily draining the second glass. Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her comment.

"Let me guess – Weasley wanted at least half a dozen children?"

"Correct. And I most emphatically did not. I saw how difficult things were for Molly, with all the boys and Ginny – I wasn't about to saddle myself with that burden. Not when I wanted a career." Hermione sighed, gloom settling over her – and then shook it off, smiling brightly at Malfoy, determined to enjoy this strange, surreal evening to the fullest. She was curled up on Malfoy's sofa – Malfoy, of all people – enjoying wine in front of a blazing fire, and that had to be the strangest thing to have happened to her in the past decade. "But that's ancient history now, anyway. Let's talk about something other than our infuriating partners."

Malfoy acquiesced quite happily, as he topped up Hermione's glass. And that was how they ended up spending the rest of the evening getting more and more intoxicated, and talking about everything from Muggle technology, to Hermione's ideas for reform in the wizarding legal system, to Malfoy's work in the school in Ilkley – once Hermione pinned him down as indeed being the benefactor of said school. It was fun – they didn't always agree on the issues they discussed, but their debate was lively and teasing, and Hermione realised just how much she loved being able to have intelligent discussions. She never got to have that kind of conversation with Ron.

Time flew. It was just past midnight and they'd polished off two and a half bottles of wine between them, before Hermione finally realised how late it was. She tried to blink away the dizzy, heady glow of the wine and failed; pleasantly tipsy but not quite properly drunk.

"Oh Merlin, look at the time! And I have a hearing in the morning. I'm sorry, Malfoy, to drink all your wine and run, but I'm not young enough to stay up all night anymore – not when I have work the next day, at least." She was apologetic as she got up, wobbling a little – feeling stiff from sitting so long, and if she wasn't honest with herself, just a little bit drunk. Malfoy stood as well, setting down his wine glass – a tell-tale flush to his cheeks as well, although he was perfectly steady on his feet.

"Of course. Merlin, I didn't realise it was so late."

"Neither did I." Hermione bit her lip – shameless flirting, she scolded herself, but she hadn't meant to, it had just happened – and then admitted as she turned away to retrieve her shoes: "This was the most enjoyable evening I've had in quite some time."

"The feeling is mutual," Malfoy said, voice a little lower than usual, honey-rich and dark with meaning. Hermione looked up as she slipped her shoes on, one hand at the mantel to balance herself, and he was watching her with a gaze that was blatantly appreciative. Oh god. A thrill ran through her, from the top of her head right to her toes, and she found herself suddenly breathless, lips dry. She resisted the urge to wet them with her tongue, looking away fast as her cheeks flared hot, scooping her handbag up from the floor by the coffee table.

"Are you all right to apparate?" he asked solicitously, and she nodded, not trusting her voice, following in his wake as he ushered her toward the door, hand hovering at her back – the barest touch but she was acutely aware of it. She wanted to stop in her tracks, so that it would press against her. She wanted his hands on her. Oh god.

"I really did enjoy tonight, Hermione," he said earnestly as they stopped in the small foyer by the front door, his gaze meeting hers. The breath slammed out of her again. He was standing so close she could smell the barest hint of his cologne, looking down at her with those grey eyes burning into her, and that full, soft-looking mouth, and Hermione wanted him. Badly. She cleared her throat in an attempt to not sound strangled by lust, voice coming out husky anyway, betraying her.

"So – so did I." Hermione took a sharp breath, admitted without thought, damn her drunkenness: "A little too much, perhaps." He smirked.

"There's no such thing as too much enjoyment."

"That's very hedonistic of you, Malfoy," she teased, caught up in the thrill of the moment, shifting on her feet so that she swayed infinitesimally closer to him – close enough to feel the radiant warmth of his body heat.

"Isn't it just?" he asked rhetorically, and then his hand came up to cup her jaw – a delicate touch that felt like heaven, washing her with delicious dizziness. She stared up at him, waiting – it was his move and she would accept whatever came next, her heart lodged in her throat. He smiled at her then – surprisingly sweet – and bent his head. Her eyes fluttered shut as he kissed her – a soft press, just at the corner of her mouth, that lingered long enough for Hermione's knees to go to jelly. And then she blinked her eyes open, to his smile, his thumb stroking along the edge of her jaw before falling away.

"A little bit of hedonism isn't always a bad thing, Granger," he said, his voice rough and still dark with want. She swallowed hard, eyes pinned to his, and somehow her hand and his found each other, twining together, his thumb tracing circles on the base of hers.

"No," she agreed hoarsely, soft enough to barely be audible even as close as they were standing. "No, perhaps it's not." Christ. She should really go home before she did something she regretted. She slid her hand from his. "Unfortunately, I still have work tomorrow morning, and..."

"Of course." Malfoy reached out and opened the front door, onto a tidy front path lit by magical lanterns, which led out onto a well-lit narrow cobbled street, a neat row of houses opposite. It looked beautiful, with the moon a picture-perfect crescent in the cloud-drifted sky, and smoke trickling up from one of the chimneys opposite. But then everything looked beautiful right now – Hermione was drunk on wine and Malfoy's kiss still, and her heart felt three sizes too big for her chest, and the world was beautiful.

"Good night, Granger," he said, softly, his gaze intent, and she smiled as she pulled her wand out of her handbag.

"Good night." And then she stepped out onto the front doorstep, and disapparated.