20.
Hermione set her mug of chamomile and ginger tea down on the coffee table beside her phone and wand, as she sank onto the couch; feet tucked up under her and a towelling robe on, her hair falling in damp waves and curls. She let out a tired sigh, rubbing her hands over her face. It had been a very long day.
She'd lost the Bean case. While she was actually somewhat pleased – because despite the evidence having been weighted toward him, she didn't think John Bean had been responsible for that poor Muggle's death – it was still a loss. And Hermione didn't like losing. And then when she'd gone to Azkaban to interview Virgil Tennant, he'd spat at her; a big gobbet that had landed on her cheek and nose. A scourgify had gotten rid of it, but Hermione hadn't felt properly clean until she'd gotten home and had a shower.
On top of that, she'd had to go to Boots to get the pill, apparating instead of taking the car because the roads were madness. And now, an hour after taking the pill she felt nauseated and headachy. It might just be coincidental, but the list of side effects Hermione had skimmed over had included that. She expected her period would probably arrive during the night too, as it was due in four days anyway. She wasn't looking forward to it.
After years of mostly trouble-free periods, the last several she'd been bothered by cramps that required Muggle analgesics. The wizarding world hadn't yet come up with a pain relief potion or spell that worked for menstruation; as far as Hermione knew, they all 'healed' the endometrial lining, which was supremely unhelpful. So ibuprofen and paracetamol it was.
She groaned, feeling miserable as she rested her chin on her hand, staring blindly at the steam wafting off her mug of chamomile and ginger. Had the sex been worth all this? Yes, Hermione thought without pause, hiding a smile in her hand as her mind thrilled over the glorious hedonism of last night. Definitely worth doing, and damn the consequences. Worth repeating though? Oh, she wanted to, so badly, but as she stared at her phone – Ron's texts and voicemails awaiting her – Hermione wasn't sure whether it was the best idea. Maybe she and Malfoy should slow things down. Take a step back.
But the very idea of slowing down or pressing pause made her want to apparate to Malfoy's right now, turning up on his doorstep and seeing just what reception she got. Hermione hadn't seen him or heard from him all day, save the coffee and flowers in the morning. But the flowers had said everything. She smiled to herself again, imagining that if she did apparate to his house, she'd get a warm welcome. Oh Merlin. It was so tempting.
As if to remind herself of why she shouldn't be over at Malfoy's right now, Hermione leaned forward and snatched up her phone. She was confronted by sixteen texts from Ron, five voicemails, and three texts from Harry. Her stomach sank.
Feeling a sense of dread pooling in the pit of her stomach, Hermione flicked through Ron's texts.
Based on the timing of the first text, it was about two hours after Harry had left her sitting room that he'd gotten hold of Ron and confessed his slip of the tongue, and his subsequent reluctant admission that Ron had cheated.
[Harry's full of dragon shit, Mione. He's got it wrong. I never slept with that girl. You have to believe me. Please. Call me.]
Then over the next hour, he'd sent another four.
[Mione I swear to Merlin, nothing happened. Please answer me. Let's just talk things out. We'll figure it out.]
[We need to talk Mione. You can't ignore me forever. We need to sort it out. You've got it wrong.]
[For fuckssake Hermione, stop ignoring me.]
[What do you want me to do? Just tell me. Please.]
Then the texts changed. Hermione felt numb as she scrolled through the next half dozen, all sent in fairly quick succession. Her palms were sweaty and she felt shaky, her chest tight as she clutched her phone.
[Where are you, Hermione? I'm at home and you're not here. Where the fuck did you go?]
[Are you at his place? I bet you are, you fucking bitch. You were just looking for an excuse to screw him.]
[You were probably already screwing him.]
[You're such a fucking hypocrite. Mad at me for making a mistake, when you've been prancing all around town with Malfoy for weeks. It's so obvious.]
[That's why I slept with Antonia, you know. Because I know you're already screwing that disgusting Death Eater prat.]
[Don't you have any self-respect, Hermione? He hated you. Dirty mudblood. That's all you always were to him. Just a dirty, tainted animal. I never thought that. Ever. But I'm not good enough am I? You stupid whore.]
Hermione clapped a hand to her mouth and made a sobbing gasp that sounded too loud in the silent room. It felt like the wind had been punched out of her. She felt sick to her stomach. How could he say things like that? They were unforgiveable. Hermione had already known their relationship was unsalvageable. That they were just going to keep up appearances for the children until Christmas. But then she'd hoped their separation could be dignified and as amicable as possible. Friendly, and respectful. Last night with Malfoy hadn't exactly been respectful, but neither was Ron propositioning one girl, and then screwing another twice. When Hermione had – at that point – done nothing but flirt.
Jesus. Neither of them had behaved that well in the end, but Hermione had still been hoping for a veneer of friendliness and civility, for the children's sake if nothing else. But what Ron was saying now made it clear he didn't care about that. Selfish, she thought bitterly.
It was easy to picture how things had played out, while she'd been at Malfoy's. Ron had turned up to an empty house, probably half-pissed, and jumped to conclusions immediately. Because honestly, where else would Hermione have gone? She didn't have close girl friends she could turn to who weren't also Ron's friends. Merlin's beard, this was a mess.
He obviously hadn't stayed here, though. The house was quite clearly empty, and it didn't look as if anyone had stepped foot in it since she'd left. Hermione looked around slightly wildly, as if she half-expected Ron to lurch out of a doorway. Nothing. Although now she was looking, she noticed a long crack through the TV screen. She tried to turn it on with the remote but it stayed blank. Hermione frowned.
"Reparo," she muttered and flicked her wand, and the TV was mended. It turned on when she tested it and she left it on for the company of the quiet background noise; volume turned low, on the bright, colourful happiness of CBeebies. A suspicion was clear in her mind now about what had happened while she'd been in Malfoy's bed. But she turned her eyes back to the texts. The horrible, sickening texts.
They just kept going, getting angrier, and nastier, and more jumbled.
[After everything we've been through, you'd turn on me for him? At least I didn't fuck one of your worst bloody enemies.]
[So yeah I did screw her. But we were on a break. I thought that meant we were free to do what we wanted. And I knew you were already spreading your legs for him. So I slept with Antonia. So what? It's not like I screwed Bellatrix or Narcissa.]
[Bet he wished he'd had the chance to rape you when his Aunt had you pinned on the Manor floor. Well, he's taking the opportunity to stick his dick in you now, isn't he? Lucky you, Hermione. He's just using you, you know.]
[Why the hell would he actually want you? Some forty year old mudblood workaholic. You're just a challenge to him. A trophy. A way that he can get at me and Harry. He doesn't actually want you. You stupid bitch.]
There was a very long break in between that last one, sent at 3am and the next one, which came through at 10.30am that morning.
[So...maybe I shouldn't have said all of those things, Mione. I was drunk and upset, and you weren't home. It was stupid of me. I understand if you're angry. But I'm angry too. The way you act with Malfoy. I hear the gossip. People laughing behind my back. I'm not stupid. This is hard, Mione. I won't ever do this again, I swear, but you have to cut me a break. You're no saint either.]
Hermione swallowed around the lump in her throat. Her vision was blurry, and her shower had been pointless because sweat had sprung out all over her. The last text from Ron had been sent at midday. It just said: [Will you forgive me, Mione?] She growled under her breath, dashing away tears. He hadn't even apologised. Anger and hurt – and shame – all formed a maelstrom within her. Ron's last two messages hadn't been apologies. He hadn't been sorry for hurting her. He'd acted like he was the victim in the situation. And obviously he'd trashed the house, or the sitting room at least, forcing Harry to restore it to rights with magic.
She felt like texting back just a plain, blunt 'no' but refrained. She would send Ron nothing. And she wasn't going to bother listening to the voicemails. Hermione couldn't stand hearing Ron say those horrible things aloud, and so she would shield herself from it. Instead she looked at Harry's texts.
[I'm sorry, Hermione.]
[He's pissed and angry. If you're at Malfoy's, stay there. Or wherever you are. He's apparated to your place and he's in a right state. I'll take care of it. It's my fault. Just don't come home. It'll only make things worse.]
Then at 10.35am:
[Don't be too hard on him, Hermione. He just made a stupid mistake and drank a bottle of firewhiskey on an empty stomach, and flipped out. Things have been a mess for him lately. He feels like an idiot. Honestly. He regrets it all. Mrs Weasley and Ginny just finished yelling at him and now he's sitting here looking like he wants to sink into the floor. If you can please just try to let it go...he's really truly sorry.]
Hermione sighed. She felt bad for Harry; stuck in the middle between his two friends. Except he was more on Ron's side than the middle. Apologising for Ron. Merlin's sake. A thread of disgust pulled at Hermione, making her bridle. Harry couldn't just apologise for him, when Ron hadn't even said sorry. That wasn't how things worked. The pair of them were still absolute and utter idiots. Hermione stared at her phone for a long time, drinking her tea as the CBeebies played in the background, making her think of when Hugo was younger.
The worst thing was that Ron's words had gotten under her skin. Like festering seeds, they'd taken root in her mind. The idea that she was just some challenge to Malfoy. The reminder that he had despised her, and seen her as less than nothing. He'd taunted her. He'd stood by and watched her be tortured. Ron wasn't wrong.
It had been decades ago, Hermione told herself. But doubt had been planted now. And a niggle of discomfort made her feel unsettled; usually the War felt like a long healed wound. An old familiar scar that she rarely thought about. And when she did, the trauma and the memories were dulled and bearable. No longer raw and bloody. For the past decade at least she'd been able to talk about the things that had happened and the people they'd lost without more than a shaky voice and damp eyes, and a feeling of deep sadness.
Now though, Hermione remembered moments of that time in the Manor with a shocking clarity, and it shook her. She felt wobbly and caught off guard. She remembered the terror, and the sick feeling in her belly. The indignity. The humiliation. Malfoy's face, a pale, ashen blur in the background. The pain itself was indistinct, faded, but the rest Hermione remembered well.
She rubbed her left arm absently. The scars were almost gone – thanks to the application of prompt healing she'd been left with faint pink scars initially, which over several years had faded to be nearly invisible. Now they were the faintest imprints, only really noticeable if she pointed them out – which she didn't – or if she got some sun and tanned, because the scar tissue stayed silvery white.
Still, Hermione acknowledged that she tended toward long sleeves at work and when out in public, just in case. It wasn't something she'd particularly dwelled on before – it had just become habit, when she'd first acquired the scars. It was safer, to avoid any questions if someone should notice the scarring, and to stop from getting a tan that would highlight it. But now...
Ugh. She didn't know how to feel now. Should she be ashamed for sleeping with Malfoy, because of who he'd been two decades ago? What he'd been witness to? Perhaps even party to? Hermione honestly didn't know. She did know that as unsettled and awful as Ron's words made her feel about what she'd done and how she felt for Malfoy, she still felt that way toward him. She still wanted him; terribly and desperately, and far more than she probably should.
For a while she just sat on the couch ruminating as she sipped her tea, her head still aching a little but her stomach settled by the tea; turning things over and over in her mind, and mostly just going in circles. Eventually she gave in to her irritation toward Harry and Ron, and texted them both, trying her very best to be diplomatic, especially toward Harry.
[Thank you for taking care of Ron, and the house. But you can't apologise for him, Harry. He has to do that himself. Not that it really matters. I don't particularly care what he's done. I just want him to keep things civil between us and be discreet with his 'hook ups' so they aren't plastered in the papers. Just until after Christmas, so that we can give the children the holiday we promised them – all of us together at the Burrow. Then he can go bang all the groupies he wants.]
To Ron, she just said: [Don't turn up at the house again. If you need anything from home, send Harry. If you need to know anything regarding the children, text me. Otherwise, just give me some time.]
It was probably lucky Malfoy didn't have a phone or she might've texted him, too. She felt like asking him – do you remember the night your aunt tortured me? What did you think, then, when I was screaming on your hall floor? Did you notice the scars when we slept together last night? She'd certainly noticed his scars, all more obvious than hers; some of them had to be from the sectumsempra Harry had used on him in their sixth year. Others, Hermione could only guess had been acquired during the war. Maybe she would ask him, she thought idly. One day. Because at this point she wasn't sure when she'd next be seeing him naked. They certainly needed to talk before it happened, because she couldn't risk any indiscretion when she'd just told Harry that Ron needed to be discreet.
The bedside alarm clock numbers showed 4:10 when Hermione woke from a muddled bad dream with a jerk, remembering the huge bouquet that had triggered all of this. The orange lilies and cypress branches that she'd thought had been from Malfoy, but hadn't been. She stared at the ceiling for a moment, breathing; the curtains were open, and the streetlight outside threw shifting shadows onto it from the neighbour's wild cherry. She felt sweaty and hot, and needed to pee. Too much tea before bed.
After using the loo she padded down the hallway in the near dark, trotting down the stairs and into the kitchen with her wand in hand. The moon and the streetlight right outside gave Hermione enough light to see by in the kitchen as she dug through her handbag and pulled out the flower book, but she needed a lumos to help her read the tiny print. She flicked through it twice, but there was no mention of orange lilies. There was yellow lily, copper-coloured day lily, lily of the valley – half a dozen different varieties but not orange.
She frowned, and flipped to cypress. Death. Cypress symbolised death. A shudder crawled down Hermione's spine, and she clutched her wand a little tighter. The dark, empty house suddenly felt spooky. She told herself not to be stupid even as she went around the house and checked all the doors and windows, and the wards, and then feeling a little silly, cast a quick homenum revelio. She was alone. She climbed the stairs and crawled back into her and Ron's big, empty bed, staring at the ceiling again, her wand on her bedside table. The shadows the wild cherry branches cast had taken on a distinctly foreboding appearance.
Death.
Had the meaning been intended, or was it just a coincidence? Did the orange lilies mean anything? Maybe Hermione was just reading too much into it and the flowers were randomly chosen, and she was spooked over nothing. Unless someone knew about Malfoy's new habit of sending her flowers, and thought it would be a good way to scare her. It could even be someone using flower language as a veiled threat coincidentally, because it was so trendy they assumed she'd know to look up the flowers' meanings.
Since Malfoy's red carnation had made Hermione aware of it, via Mariska, she'd been seeing references to flower language everywhere. Floriblunders Florist was selling pre-made bouquet messages, Madam Malkin's shop window suggested "PICK A FLORAL PRINT THAT REPRESENTS YOU" while Valerie Valion Perfumers in Hogsmeade advertised "speak volumes with your personal floral scent".
The trend was sweeping the wizarding world this autumn; Hermione had probably only managed to miss it because she did most of her regular shopping and socialising in the Muggle world, only really visiting the wizarding world to visit friends and family at home. The fact that she'd been unaware made her feel a little sad, though. If Ron ever bought her flowers, she might have known.
Hermione pulled her mind back on track as a car whizzed by outside, the road sounding wet beneath the tyres. Either way – whether malicious or not – who had sent the bouquet? Clearly a wizard or witch, given it had come from Floriblunders. But that was the only clue Hermione had. Death. That worried her; a gut feeling telling her something wasn't right. But there was nothing she could do about it right now. She closed her eyes, determined to try to sleep.
