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Twenty three months and counting. That’s how long it’s been since his hands caressed her curves. Nearly two years since she’d felt his lips as anything other than a quick peck before she’d apparate off to the ministry. For a long time, it didn’t bother her. But lately, it’s all she can think about.
Nearing forty is hard. She has a mother’s body now, soft and filled out. She’d given up on her hair a long time ago, opting for a short curly mess that rests just below her chin. Much more manageable. Makeup and glamours? She doesn’t bother anymore.
Perhaps this is all her fault. He doesn’t look at her like that anymore because she’s given up trying to catch his eye. There are only so many times a girl can try and try and try before her soul starts to crumble under the weight of rejection.
Hermione stares herself down in the mirror. It’s her first night out in ages. A group of friends, some cocktails, a good time, she’s been promised. The least she can do is try for them, and maybe make herself feel better in the process.
She takes her time applying her makeup. Lines her eyes with black and shimmery beige, and swipes her lips with a light pink color. And then she’s managing her hair, fingers wrapped in it delicately to make the curls into ringlets rather than wavy frizz. She decides on her favorite tight jeans and a sleeveless low cut top.
How she dressed and looked in her twenties. Back when he fell in love with her. Merlin, that was so long ago. She still loves him, of course. But it’s not the same. It hasn’t been in such a long time.
She finds him sitting on the sofa with the telly on. He’s watching intently and doesn’t look up when she stands just to his left. She’s learned that he doesn’t take hints and so instead of trying to make her presence known in subtle ways, she steps in front of the telly.
“I’m headed out now,” she says, as if he’ll actually care at all.
He doesn’t. His eyes finally move to hers, immediate and with no consideration at all to the clothes, the makeup, or the hair that she’d spent ages on. It stings, but she shoves it to the back of her mind because it always stings and she always ignores it.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go?” Hermione’s trying, just a little bit. Maybe if he came out and had a good time, maybe his mood would improve or he’d see her laugh and fall in love again. Something, anything, to let her know that he sees her.
“No,” Ron’s eyes flicker to the telly and back to her again. He smiles, reassuring. “You go ahead, love. Work was rough today and I just want to relax.”
It’s fine. Her chin is raised, her smile is plastered on, she nods her head as if she understands and hasn’t also been working all day. “Okay. Maybe when I get home we can… spend some time together?”
‘Spend time together’ is code for sex and he knows it. He blinks slowly as his lip quirks at the corner. “Right, if I’m still awake, yeah.”
He won’t be. He never is.
“Right then,” she holds it all in, compartmentalizes the rejection that slips through her mind, and leans down to place a kiss on his forehead. “Enjoy your night, Ron.”
“Love you,” he says absently, just as he always does.
It’s a relief when she apparates. Once the world comes back into focus, her shoulders sag for a moment from the weight that’s been lifted off. It shouldn’t be that way, should it? Happy to have space, happy to leave him, happy to experience something other than apathetic, platonic love?
“Hermione!” Familiar, warm hands wrap around her arms and then engulf her in a tight embrace. Padma is a welcomed distraction from the errant thoughts zipping through her mind. “I’m so glad you made it tonight. The others should be along soon. Want to grab a seat?”
It’s the first real smile she’s had all night and Hermione’s glad for it. She nods and gestures for Padma to lead the way to the small muggle bar. So far out of town, secluded so that she doesn’t need to worry about being Minister for the evening. Her friends are the best and she adores them so much.
When they enter the pub, it’s half eight and not yet busy. They have their pick of the room and opt for a table closest to the jukebox and snooker. A server stops by almost immediately and takes their orders — Hermione opts for a vodka cocktail and pulls out her muggle wallet in order to place her drinks for the night on a tab.
“So, Ron couldn’t make it tonight?” Padma asks and there’s this look in her eyes that Hermione assumes is because Ron never makes it, not ever. “Shame. None of the social responsibility, all of the benefits when you get home.”
She lifts her brows playfully and Hermione laughs it off. Right, their marriage is filled with sex as far as anyone else is concerned. No need to embarrass herself by mentioning that next month, it will be two years since anyone has touched her, much less slid inside her.
“There they are, hiding in a corner like usual.”
His voice is velvet, so light and smooth. She turns toward him as if it’s instinct and the massive grin that overtakes her lips is natural. Hermione stands from the table and wraps one arm around his neck. His cologne hits her right in the lower belly and she has to pull away before she says something incredibly stupid.
“Hello, Hermione.” The way Harry says her name is ridiculous; it sends a pleasant thrill through her every time. “No Ron?”
She shakes her head and a knowing look flickers in his brilliant, green eyes.
“Oi, what are we, chopped liver?” Dean wraps her in a warm hug and then pushes her off to his husband. Seamus laughs in her ear and squeezes her tight.
“I can’t believe we’ve got the Minister of Magic out with us tonight!” Lavender, bless her, squeals like a schoolgirl and jumps as she winds her arms around Hermione. She can’t help but laugh along with her. “We are going to get you so pissed, you’ll pass whatever law Seamus pops onto your desk tomorrow.”
Hermione laughs a full, deep belly laugh and takes her seat. Being with her friends is so easy and natural. She doesn’t lament for her relationship here. Ron is a second thought. Instead, she drinks and talks and grins. It’s everything she’s needed and more. All of her worries about being good enough, pretty enough, anything enough, melt away.
The music pounds through her as Harry leans over. He has to be close, of course, otherwise she can’t hear him over the thumping melody. He doesn’t look at her, instead lets his gaze wander around the table where her friends are all broken off into side conversations. She takes a deep breath, and another whiff of his spicy cologne, and steels herself to hear his raspy, liquored up voice in her ear.
“You look lovely tonight, Minister.”
She blushes, not because it’s Harry and not because the way he calls her Minister sends jolts straight to her core. No, it’s because she hasn’t heard those words in so long that she’s not sure how to react. Is ‘thank you’ still acceptable? She doesn’t know. So, she smiles and blushes and takes another drink because a little liquid confidence goes a long way.
“Want to play snooker?” He tips his chin toward the table that’s empty for the first time that evening.
“I’m not very good,” she warns him with a tight smile. It’s a hard thing for her to admit, but there’s no point pretending otherwise.
“I didn’t ask if you were any good,” he chuckles just next to her ear and it zips straight through her in a most delicious way. He stands and tugs her chair, successfully getting her to rise quickly from it. “I’ll even let you go first.”
Hermione grabs her vodka from the table and takes a long sip through her straw. She’s not sure if alcohol makes her better , but it certainly takes the sting out of not being good.
“Set the table up,” she instructs him as her eyes narrow on a long cue. She doesn’t know the difference. Ron has tried to tell her something about the weight, but they all feel the same to her. “Here — you can have this one.”
Harry takes the cue and rolls it in his hand, and then a cheeky, lopsided smile lights his face. “I need something heavier. How about I set the table and while you break, I’ll find a cue?”
She huffs and places her original cue back in the rack and chooses a different stick. Bugger, but they both feel the same. This game is impossible.
By the time she begrudgingly handles her fourth cue, Harry has all the balls in order and is watching her with a much-too-amused grin on his face.
“Shut up,” she grumbles, trudging to the table and reaching for the white ball.
She moves it to the middle, then rolls it right, then left. As she leans forward, Hermione can feel Harry standing behind her, watching silently. It puts her off as she lines up the tip of the cue, pulls back, and whacks the white ball.
It spins around the table, barely grazing the pink ball at the front of the triangle. That traitorous bastard of a white ball knocks the pink possibly half an inch. The table is static. Harry’s chuckling behind her when she turns on her heel and glares at him.
“That wasn’t bad,” he says placatingly, tilting his head to check out the table. “You’re too tense.”
“I’m not too tense,” she argues, but she knows that’s a lie. He’d be too tense, too, if it’d been twenty four solid months without sex. “I’m just not a brute and don’t enjoy hitting things.”
Harry lets a laugh loose and steps closer. “Grab the white ball, love. I’ll show you how to break.”
“But—” Hermione stomps her foot and Harry shakes his head.
“But nothing,” he says, “snooker isn’t about hitting things. It’s basic geometry. Maths. You like maths.”
She opens her mouth to argue and then snaps it closed. Yes, she does like maths, because she’s cerebral and clever, not a Neanderthal that has to prove her worth by hitting little balls into snooker table holes. Her blood is pumping at the idea of learning something new, at any rate.
Perhaps it’s the alcohol riling her up, but she’s got heat in her cheeks and warmth pooling her belly. She grabs the white ball from the other end of the table and places it in Harry’s waiting hand.
“Fine, Billy Big Biscuits,” Hermione smirks, “show me how it’s done.”
“First of all, I think you’re cut off.” He laughs and sets the white ball on the green felt. “Second of all, you’re going to strike it; I’m going to show you how. Now, hold your stick like this, finger over here.” Harry shows her how to hold her cue using his own and she mimics the movements. “Good. Now, practice sliding the cue along your finger. You want to keep it steady so the aim isn’t wonky.”
She follows along, bending over the table and practicing moving the cue against her finger. It wobbles several times before she gets it right.
“Good.” The praise coils deep in her belly and she has to remember that this is Harry being kind , not kinky . And then a blush rushes to her face. “Now, get over here.”
He grabs her by the hip and swings her around the corner of the table. One hand is on her lower back and one is at her elbow. He’s leaning over her and whispering into her ear and, Merlin, it’s so intimate that she pretends to fix her footing just to squeeze her legs together and tell her traitor of a body to cool it.
“You want to hit the white ball here.” He points to a space on the ball and then places his hand back at her elbow. “And the cue should move straight, like this.” He guides her elbow back and forth. “Perfect.”
His hand drifts from her elbow and wraps around the hand holding the cue. She never realized how big Harry’s hands are or how warm he is. She blinks, trying to clear away his heady proximity, but it doesn’t work.
“Feel this here,” his voice is low and raspy in her ear and she almost groans. His hand tightens and his body moves closer. She swears she can feel something — something — oh, Merlin. She takes a breath and closes her eyes. “You never pull back further than this. You’re not trying to destroy the thing, but you want to hit it hard enough that she knows you’re there.”
“She?” The word tumbles out of her and she stifles her breath by swallowing hard.
“The pink ball,” he clarifies, chuckling so deep she can feel the rumble against her back. “You want to aim for her.”
“Right.” Her voice shakes, mimicking the sudden jelly-like quality of her legs.
The hand on her back moves slightly. His thumb rubs in circles. “Relax, love, just take a breath and have a go.”
She turns her cheek over her shoulder and his face is right there. Intense, dark eyes snap to hers and he watches carefully as her eyes stroll to his lips and back again.
Bugger .
“You’ve got to keep your eye on the ball,” he whispers, lips so close that she can feel the breath of every syllable against her delicate skin.
“The ball,” she repeats almost dreamily and then she snaps out of it. “Right. The ball. Okay.”
Hermione brings the cue back and Harry moves away. She’s instantly relieved of the pressure and the heat and she can breathe , so she sucks down oxygen into her lungs, greedy and desperate.
Heavens. She’d wanted to snog Harry. Harry , her best friend. It has to be because of her home life. And the vodka. And how solid he felt against her. And how sultry his tone was in her ear. And—
“Take your shot, Hermione.”
Indeed, she thinks.
She fires with the cue and watches in slow motion as the white ball connects with the pink, head on. All the balls behind the pink one fly around the table with a resounding crack. Hermione jumps with the cue in her hand, straight into Harry’s chest. He holds her steady at the hip, but she spins around and wraps her arms around his neck, bouncing up and down with unbridled joy.
“I did it!” she squeals. Perhaps it’s the vodka, but she holds onto Harry for longer than she should. Heart thumping against his chest, so hard that she’s sure he can feel it.
“Excellent, Hermione,” he praises her in a tender, low voice. Right by her ear. “Really, really good.”
They stare at one another until Hermione’s gaze dips to the fullness of Harry’s lip. She breathes out, sharp and warm against his neck, and then flicks her eyes to his again. There’s something dark in his eyes, their vibrant green masked by a sinful darkness that floods her with need. A blush creeps onto her neck and her cheeks.
“I should take my shot,” he whispers after another beat. Thumb absently rubbing against her hip, though he’s made no other move to the snooker table.
“You should,” she says, not sure if she’s agreeing with some secret code that only they can interpret, or if she’s agreeing to continue playing snooker.
The faint thump of music catches her attention and her eyes move to Padma at the jukebox with Lavender on her heels. They sway and dance with one another, a jovial and alcohol-fused, dance. Hermione smiles and by the time she brings her gaze back to Harry, he’s moving around her and to the snooker table. The concentration on his face as he bends at the waist to take his shot is intense.
But when his eyes snap to hers just before he hits the white ball, there’s something wild there. Untethered. Sinful, even. She releases a long breath and tries to rein in her desire; it doesn’t belong to Harry. It belongs to her husband, at home, out of sight, and nearly out of mind.
Nearly.
Godric, what is she doing? Hermione’s hand slides down the cue as the white ball cracks against another. It breaks her spell and she feels the icy splash of reality on her face.
She shouldn’t be here.
Shouldn’t be doing this.
Fancying Harry.
Wanting him.
Hermione watches him smirk at is shot. Harry cants his head to the table. “Your go.”
“I have to leave,” she whispers, furious with herself for her conduct this evening. “I’m sorry — I just — I can’t do this. Goodnight, Harry.”
And she leaves him there, mouth hanging open, arms dead at his sides.
She says a quick goodbye to Padma and Lavender, gives her love to Dean and Seamus, and scurries from the pub without another glance back. She can’t possibly Apparate home in this condition; she’s fairly certain she can walk a straight line, but her mind is buzzing with vodka and it would be downright irresponsible to use her magic.
She’s such an idiot. So stupid. How did she think this evening was going to go? A night out with friends, with Harry , turned into a frenzy of emotion that she simply couldn’t process. She should have known that her heart would betray her the second he got close. But, she can’t convince herself that she’d feel this way if her husband was showing her any bit of notice at all.
It felt nice, being looked at. Being noticed. Slight touches and dark looks. It felt
good
to think that maybe Harry was looking at her as more than Hermione Granger, best friend and Minister of Magic. That maybe those close moments showing her how to play snooker had affected him just as much as it had affected her.
But, she shouldn’t feel this way. She should want those things from her husband. Her husband who was sitting at home and waiting for her to get home. Ron, who loved her dearly and would never hurt her. Ron, who… who’d been spending an awful lot of time at work, and complaining about how long she spends at work and that she wasn’t putting food on the table at night after a long day. Ron, who frequently disregarded her when she told him that she felt lonely.
She doesn’t know. She doesn’t and it hurts.
Nearly a twenty year marriage rotting away under the guise of a platonic housemate relationship. Because that’s all they are, right? They don’t touch, they don’t kiss, they don’t act as though they’re in love. They’re just comfortable. That’s all.
She’s standing on the corner, waiting for the Knight Bus, when Harry appears at her side. He’s breathing hard and his cheeks are pink, his hair sticks up all over his head. He ran here, she thinks, ran after her. When’s the last time Ron came running?
No, she can’t think that. It's not fair.
There’s no comparison. Ron is her husband.
But Harry is here .
He’s here and he cares and those worried green eyes track the way her mouth tugs down and the way her eyes flood with tears. He wraps her up in a tight embrace, holding her close to his chest and smoothing down her riotous hair.
“Hey, hey,” he says quietly over the top of her head. “It’s okay — it’s alright, love, I’ve got you.”
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she’s so glad that they’re in the middle of a Muggle neighborhood with no paparazzi around to snap photos. No doubt, this would be headline news the following morning if Rita Skeeter had her way. Instead, she takes comfort in Harry’s embrace and burrows herself into his warm chest and strong arms.
“Hermione—” he pulls back by an inch and places his finger under her chin to lift her gaze to his. It hurts to see him so earnest staring down at her, because of all the thoughts she’s had tonight, none of them had been as innocent as that look is now. “Things haven’t gotten better, have they?”
She shakes her head. “It’s not his fault. It’s my job and his and nothing is the same anymore, but he can’t help that.”
Harry’s finger dashes a tear off her cheek, and he offers her a small smile. “No one has to be in the wrong for you to be unhappy. You’re allowed to be unhappy just because you’re unhappy.”
She snorts because it sounds hokey. Like she’d say that to one of her children, but would never believe it herself. “I work too much. I’ve let myself go. Believe me, I don’t blame Ron — not entirely. I love him. I do.”
“I know you do, love.” Harry rubs his hands up and down her arms. “But, I also know what love isn’t. And I see how much he hurts you even after you try. Do you know what he was doing tonight after you left?”
She blinks. Uncomprehending, though something in her gut clenches. “Watching telly and going to sleep.”
“He went to see Susan at The Leaky,” Harry says carefully, eyes flitting between hers. She wants to pull away, but his hands tighten on her arms. “Just as he’s been doing for months now, Hermione.”
“He hasn’t been…” she sniffs and tears her arms away. “He promised he isn’t.”
Harry is back in her space. Firmer. “He is . Has been for months. I thought… I thought when we told you, that something would change, but you’re suffering through it because — why ?”
“I’m not suffering!” she demands, all of her buzz from the vodka gone, or perhaps dormant, but definitely hidden underneath a roil of anger. “I’m understanding! He’s allowed to go to The Leaky, he’s allowed to be friendly with Susan—”
“It’s not just friendly.” Harry pulls out a Muggle phone and he thumbs the screen before shoving into her face.
She gasps. Right in front of her face. Shaggy ginger hair that she’d know anywhere. The curves she knew belonged to Susan Bones. Her husband. Pressed close. Lips attached to her neck. It’s staring her right in the face, but she can’t believe it. Ron wouldn’t —
“No.” It whooshes out of her in one breath. “No, he wouldn’t. He… that isn’t him. It’s not him.”
Harry sighs and shoves his phone back into his pocket. “I’ve had him traced for weeks, love. I assure you, it is .” Harry grabs her around the middle just as tears spring to her eyes and a cracked sob rips itself from her throat, because of course it’s true. “I know you want to make this work, Hermione, but it’s… not.”
He doesn’t let her go, even when she half-heartedly struggles away. Harry holds her tighter, closer, and allows her the silence she needs to lose her emotions and gather her thoughts. Because he knows her, knows exactly what it is she needs.
Everything begins to make more sense. The late nights at the office, the frequent trips to The Leaky, the lack of intimacy in their marriage. For months — years even — she’s blamed herself. Lost appeal, working too much, not being the domestic goddess he’d wanted, too crabby, too tired, too over it all.
She cries softly against Harry’s shirt, twisting her fingers into the fabric at his back. He pats her gently, strokes her hair, but doesn’t try to make her stop. She’s able to let it all out and come to the only logical conclusion there is: her marriage is over.
“It’s over.” Barely a whisper and muffled against cotton.
Harry’s hands pause on her shoulders and his heart is hammering against her ear. Hermione sniffs one last time and pulls her head back from his chest. Her lashes are soaked with tears as she gazes up at him.
“My marriage is over, isn’t it?”
There’s something brewing behind his eyes and she’s never wished she could be a Legillemens before, but she’d give anything to know what he’s thinking now.
“I don’t think that’s for me to decide,” he says quietly. Harry lifts his hand to her cheek and cups it. Her breath fogs his glasses. “I can’t stand seeing you in pain like this, but I’ll never tell you to end your marriage.”
Her chin trembles, following suit with her hands and her legs. “Part of me wants to Apparate straight to The Leaky and hex him,” she says, voice raw and hoarse from crying. “But the press would swarm and I’d never find peace again.”
“Come home with me.” It’s quick, hovering there between them in the cool night.
She chews her lip and waits a long moment. “I don’t know, Harry. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
His brow raised curiously. “And why not?”
A blush creeps into her already flushed face and she hopes he doesn’t notice. “It’s not appropriate.”
“No.” She blinks and finds a hard line where his smile used to be. “What’s inappropriate is your husband making you feel like shite every day while he’s off having an affair.” Harry’s grip tightens when she tries to shove away. “And what’s inappropriate is how fucking beautiful you look tonight when I know that Ron barely noticed.” Her heart thunders in her ears. He’s so close. “And what’s inappropriate is that I’ve watched you try to make it work with him for decades and all it’s done is take the joy out of my best friend.”
She hadn’t realized her hand was curled into his chest, not until the silence settles over them and she can feel the beat of his heart and the thrum of his magic. “Harry—”
“And worse than all of that—“ his toes touch hers, hand crushed between them. Harry’s breath fans against her lips. “Is that I’ve wanted you for so, so long. I’ve wanted you so badly that I stepped aside because Ron made you happy.” A hand grazes her cheek. “But that’s not true anymore. And I’m not stepping aside again.”
“What are you saying?” Her eyes dart between his at rapid speed. She can’t breathe. Can’t think.
“And I don’t expect anything tonight, not until it’s appropriate .” Harry’s eyes drop to her lips. “I’m saying that I’m ready to take my shot.”
She swallows. Perhaps there’s some haze still from the vodka. The intimacy of the night, surely, has a part to play. Whatever it is, Hermione lifts onto her toes and closes the small distance between their lips. It’s only a moment, fleeting and hesitant, but it tells her everything she needs to know.
Her life is going to change in the morning.
And she’s ready to take her shot at happiness.