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The Politician\'s Wife	By : pir8fancier Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 14170 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 11
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- 13
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for my enjoyment. Thanks to vaysh11 for a superb beta, and, as always, my thanks to ma soeur, zeldaohzelda.

Because my office was temporarily assuming some of his duties while we searched for a suitable replacement, we had to communicate. This was done solely by memo. Which his secretary signed. With a mutual understanding precise as the cut of a sharp knife, I never looked at him in meetings, or chance run-ins at the canteen, or the lift. He followed suit. We talked at each other, not to each other. I did notice he was losing weight. And that when he stepped in the lift, he often smelled of cigarette smoke.

I received two owls from Greece letting me know Ron and the family had arrived safety. One from Harry and one from Molly.

Most of the Ministry takes a portion of their holidays in August and the halls were nearly empty of staff. My 'in' box became a towering mass of parchment. The influx of memos flying in through the open transom was non-stop as people dumped their unfinished work on me. By Thursday, the mountain of memos came up to my shoulder. I'd be chained to my desk until ten o'clock every night, right up to the minute Ron and company came home. I had every intention of slogging my way through the ever-increasing workload, working a slew of twelve-hour days, only stopping when I couldn't see straight because of the exhaustion. Every intention.

My ambitions were, apparently, common knowledge. Draco's promotion itself was gossip-worthy, and then to have the bonus tidbit of that condescending Hermione Granger getting her comeuppance. Could it possibly get any better? I imagine several people were rubbing their hands together in glee. My rise through the ranks had been meteoric; it was natural that I made enemies on the way up. The first week after the announcement that Downs was retiring—which was followed by another announcement that Draco had been appointed interim Assistant to the Minister—was torture. I'd walk into a room and all conversation would stop. By now, the whispering behind hands and the casting of an occasional Silencing Charm had more or less died down. I could walk into the canteen and get a sandwich without a bunch of people staring at me.

As I stood in line, debating whether or not to buy the stale turkey sandwich or the stale ham sandwich, I tried not to think of the Chevaliers' potato leek soup that had quickly become my favorite. Or the pot au feu. Or the tarte au citron. Or the coffee. Or Draco. Deciding that I wasn't hungry after all, I was halfway across the room when I saw Romilda Vane in line, gossiping with another secretary from Ron's office.

Ron talked about her incessantly. What a good sense of humor she had. How hard it had been for her raising two small kids by herself. How it was easier now that they were in Hogwarts. How during the summer Boot had to be strong-armed to take the children for the odd weekend. As she was Ron's secretary I forced myself to be polite to her, but other than the occasional run-in at the Ministry, we tended to steer clear of each other. I certainly didn't want to socialize with her, and when Ron asked me if I'd minded if he invited her and her kids to go along to the summer Quidditch league games, I gave him my blessing and my regrets. I had too much work to do, but by all means. When we'd been students I'd cheered at all those Quidditch matches only because I was terrified that either Ron or Harry would be hurt. As a game, I thought it devoid of strategy, and, therefore, boring. It was only about flying fast and faster. What can you say about a game where winning depended largely on the eyesight of the Seeker? I did find Harry's reputation as a world-class Seeker quite amusing, when he literally couldn't see the castle wall without his glasses.

Despite my sympathy for Romilda's situation with that irritating sod Boot, I didn't find that time had changed her much. She had been the brunette flirt to Lavender Brown's blonde flirt: boy crazy and determined. Thirty years later, she was still loud and boisterous, the sort of woman who tended to wear shirts displaying more cleavage than what I'd call professional and enough make-up for three women. Probably her one indulgence—I can't imagine her salary had room for anything else—she spent a small fortune on magical manicures. Every time I ran into her, her nails were decorated in some different scene, usually in deference to the seasons. Snowfall for winter, flowers waving in the breeze for spring. I suspect she disliked me at Hogwarts and it probably wasn't much different now.

The other woman she was with nudged her and pointed at me watching her. Romilda blushed and instead of the usual wave, she thrust her chin up in a challenge and smirked at me. I wasn't one to leap to conclusions. I also wasn't a fool.

Fortunately, I went numb. Or I might have cast the first and last Unforgiveable in my entire life.

Immediately, I sent Harry an owl that said, "Is Ron having an affair with Romilda?" This was not fair, but I didn't care. Despite his age and the horrible things that have happened to him, Harry retains a basic innocence. He wrote back, "Don't put me in the middle, Hermione. Love, Harry."

Which, of course, answered that question.

I packed half the pots and pans, my books, my clothes, my wedding china and crystal (I left the silver as it was an heirloom from Ron's side of the family), and sat in the middle of all these boxes, wondering where to go and what to do next. Aside from a few antiques I'd inherited from my grandmother, the furniture was "ours." Even though I had picked out most of it, I never wanted to see any of it ever again. I made a list of all the things about our house that bothered me, but which I'd put up with because of its proximity to Harry and Ginny: the smoking chimney; the lack of cupboard space in the kitchen; the dark staircase; and the way the wind tore through the attic, emitting a high-pitched whine as it rushed by the poorly caulked windows—the windows Ron had never managed to recaulk despite having lived there for twenty years. This was a pointless exercise, but the act of writing on parchment has always had a soothing affect on me. As the list grew, it wasn't long before I realized how much I had hated this house, but hadn't let myself hate it. Because it was next to Harry and Ginny. So that Ron could play with their children whenever he wanted. To act as surrogates for the children we couldn't have.

He Flooed in as I was finishing up my list. I couldn't help but notice that someone else had managed to cast a Sunblock Charm on him so that he wasn't a sunburned mess. Even my role there had been usurped by another. I immediately Incendio'ed the list.

A quick look around at the boxes and he knew. "You're going then?"

"Brilliant observation, Ron." This was too snide. I swallowed and added in a fairly calm voice, "I'm taking the china, the crystal, my books, my clothes, and a few pots. Not all; I've left you half. I'll be back for my grandmother's furniture. You can have the rest. The house, too."

I reduced it all and began putting the small boxes in a laundry basket. The longer I stayed in this room, the angrier I became. I needed to leave right away.

"Never liked that china."

"I know."

"Where are you going?"

God, he was being sulky and I had to get out of here before I said something I'd regret.

"I don't know. I hadn't gotten that far. I guess my parents for a bit. What does it matter?"

"It matters! We've been married for over twenty years and things have been shit for a while, but it still matters, Hermione."

That sentiment—which was Ron at his best; touching and blunt—was overshadowed by the memory of that smug, triumphant smile on Romilda's face.

"You know what matters, Ron? That I had to find out you're having an affair from the woman you're having an affair with!" I shouted. So much for restraint.

Resentment, guilt, grief, and anger washed over his face, and then he started crying.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

I had said sorry over the years, night after night. I meant every one and now found it didn't matter. Or maybe it mattered but it didn't change anything. It didn't take a genius to figure out that within a month of my leaving him, she'd be pregnant. She might be pregnant now. I should have hugged him. I should have apologized as well. He interpreted my silence as a rebuke.

"You know it's not all my fault," he protested.

I opened my mouth to say No, it's not, but before I could agree with him, he began to lash out. How had I not realized how angry he was at me?

"Fuck you, Hermione." He wiped his cheeks free of tears. "She treats me like I have a brain. She doesn't go all �Ronald' on me because I'm not into museums or books. Spending an evening at the pub watching me play darts doesn't get a two-hour scowl or a look like it's one step above a Cruciatus curse. She doesn't treat me like some glorified house-elf. Like I don't get half of what's going on at the Ministry. Because I do, you arrogant bitch. And she—"

I held up a hand because I really did not want to hear anymore.

"Stop, Ron. Right now. I don't want to listen to a laundry list of how wonderful she is compared to me. I'd like this marriage to end on a civilized tone, and if you keep—"

"Bloody hell," he moaned and kicked the leg of the sofa, with a viciousness that made me wince. "You know, I think that's part of our problem. Fuck civilized. Maybe if we'd had a few real knock-down, drag-out fights, instead of this passive-aggressive thing we do. Like everything's fucking hunky-dory, when we don't have sex in months—"

"That's unfair. That's so bloody unfair. I tried!" I shouted. "I tried, but it was always dinner at your parents' house, or movies with Harry, or—"

"You call that trying?" he said, followed by an ironic laugh. "Sex with a flobberworm would have been more animated. Any less—"

"That is enough. Shut the fuck up, Ron." I stood up, grabbed the laundry basket, and made for the fireplace.

"You gonna fuck him now?" I whipped around; my grip on the laundry basket tightened a hundred-fold.

"What are you talking about?"

"Malfoy."

I suppose it was rotten of me not to give him something of a moral pass. I might have done had he not turned vicious. I might have said at some point that, yes, we have wronged each other in equal measure. We still might have salvaged some personal honor out of this. Not now.

"You put a Fidelity Charm on me?"

He blushed and then belied the shame by a snotty, "Yeah."

"How dare you!" If hadn't been clutching the handles of that damn laundry basket I don't know what I would have done.

"When your wife looks like she's creaming in her pants every time that Death Eater motherfucker comes into a room, you dare. When she has a tennis date with him twice a week, at the same club she'd refused to even walk into when you've asked her, you're fucking right you dare. When—"

I dropped the laundry basket, whipped out my wand, and cast a Mute Charm on him.

"I said shut the fuck up. I wanted to sleep with him, but I didn't." I opened my mouth to explain, to say that I was marginally more ethical than he was, and I couldn't. We failed each other. Our hands were equally dirty. But I did need to say one more thing. "You went too far when you cast that charm on me. Everything else is forgivable. Not that."

I picked up the laundry basket and Apparated out of the house that had been my home for twenty years.

My parents' house was dark. I could hear the faint drone of the telly in their bedroom as they watched the late-night news before turning out the lights; something they'd done ever since I could remember. I dropped the basket and called up the stairs.

"Mommy? Daddy? It's me."

Even simple magic is based on a series of complicated rituals, so it stands to reason that marriage in the wizarding world would require a panoply of interlocking, complicated spells. I had thought our wedding was glorious for a number of reasons, but the marriage spell was so beautiful it rendered me almost speechless. Every spell has a character to it. Part of my fascination with magic is how corporeal it is. The marriage spell is the living embodiment of hope, love, and honor. That's why the casting of Unforgivables is so dangerous, because these are corrupt spells and they corrupt the user. A wizard might not have any control over their physical DNA, but their magical DNA is very much of their own making. As Ron and I cast the required oaths over twenty years ago, it seemed as if magic's angels were singing our praises.

Unfortunately, the opposite is also true. Divorce is just as ritualistic, and instead of magical angels singing, there is the overwhelming sense they are weeping: for the sad knowledge that those hopes and dreams never matured or were realized.

The people who had been the witnesses at our marriage had to be the witnesses at our divorce. Harry, Ginny, Arthur, and Molly were all sobbing by the end; even the witch who cast the divorce had tears in her eyes. The only people in the room who were dry-eyed were me and Ron. Being virtually immune to the sorrow emanating from those spells told me that our marriage was indeed over. Magically and emotionally. My rings disappeared at the final incantation. Had I been to Greece that summer my hands would have tanned and there would have been a faint band of pale skin. As it was, there was no mark, no sign to indicate those twenty years.

They must have planned it, because no sooner did the ceremony end than Ginny grabbed Ron's arm and Apparated him to Merlin knows where. Then Harry reached for my wrist. The pull of Apparition nipped my stomach.

We landed in Hogsmeade, at the gates to Hogwarts. He didn't say a word but hiked his head in the direction of the school. We passed through its gates.

Why he thought he thought this place would provide solace was a mystery to me. He led me to the lake. It was in the middle of morning and classes were going on, so the grounds were deserted. Dumbledore's magnificent tomb and Snape's meager headstone were off to our right; we could see the stands of the Quidditch Pitch in front of us. The roses were past their prime, and I could feel autumn in the chill of the ground when we sat down. I had nothing to say. I had no intention of apologizing or justifying myself. The truth was that our respective affairs were only a symptom. Our marriage had ended a long time before either of us knew it. Had we been more honest people, it might have ended with some mutual respect. As it was now, I nearly hated Ron. I hoped that would pass with time.

"I'm not choosing, Hermione."

Lovely, lovely Harry. Of course he'd have to choose. There was no doubt in my mind who, given the choice of either me or Ron. Draco was wrong, actually. I didn't believe there was any latent sexual desire between them. Harry really loved Ron. The reluctant celebrity of the wizarding world singled out a less than presupposing eleven-year-old boy to be his best friend. A boy who no matter how much he struggled was an afterthought in a family populated by people who burned very bright. Ron was a candle to everyone's flame. Harry didn't care. Ron was a flame to him. The brother Voldemort denied him. I suppose I was the sister denied to him, but realistically? He loved Ron best, of that I was certain. And Ron? To know Harry is to love Harry, but aside from that, I suspect Ron was afraid of going through life without being anyone's best friend. And he was Harry Potter's best friend. Harry loved Ron unconditionally, and Ron needed that.

Maybe I didn't love Ron enough. I didn't think Romilda Vane would give him what he needed, but if they had a child or two, then maybe it wouldn't matter.

"People choose, Harry."

"Not me," he said with that characteristic stubborn edge in his voice. I couldn't help but smile. That aspect of Harry's personality had not changed; stubborn to a fault when he believed he was right. A trait we shared. "You and I have lunch. Once a week. And we do a movie every now and then. I'm not playing any sort of game, lying to Ron or you about what I'm up to. You're both my friends and you'll both continue to be my friends."

I reached over and put my hand over his.

"Why Malfoy?"

I didn't think it was possible to be angrier at Ron than I already was. How dare he! And then I remembered that I'd dragged Harry into this mess with that owl demanding he tell me about Ron and Romilda, and, again, my hands were no cleaner.

"Did Ron tell you?"

"Well, yeah, in a really pathetic bid to win my sympathy. Then I pointed out that he was, you know, with Romilda, and he shut it. But even if he hadn't told me? I could tell that something was happening. You two… You look at each other. Anyway, why him?"

Why, indeed.

"There is no Malfoy, but maybe there was. Sort of. I don't know. Why no longer Ron? To me that's the more important question. Why'd you bring me here?" I demanded.

The famous green of his eyes had faded a bit over the years. In some light they looked blue. Today, against the green of the lawn, they were again that astonishing color, so bright and true he might have been fifteen again.

"Because. Because I want you to remember that at one time you two were good."

"That was a long time ago." I began to cry.

I did what millions of divorced women do. I filled my time the best I could. Being at the Ministry was torture, so in the most polite and firm way possible I told everyone to fuck off; I wasn't doing their job. For the first time in my life I worked a forty-hour week. I joined two book clubs hosted at Foyle's that met during the lunch hour on Mondays and Fridays. That was two lunch hours gone. Ginny marched into my office shortly after the divorce and said that she wanted to take yoga classes. A number of Quidditch injuries were coming back to haunt her and she needed to limber up. I accepted the lie with good grace, because obviously she was also trying not to choose, which was so admirable considering it was her brother. She held up a brochure for a yoga studio near the entrance to Diagon Alley. Would tomorrow suit? Twice a week. I nodded and didn't start crying until she left the office. Harry and I ate lunch together on Wednesdays. That took care of my lunch hours. The book clubs meant that I had a ton to read, so after I washed the dinner dishes, I spent my evenings reading, using a Silencing Charm to drown out the volume of the telly.

The weekends were harder to fill. I began taking tennis classes at the local park near my parents' house. That ate up a goodly portion of Saturday morning. Saturday afternoons were spent at Hogwarts helping Neville tend to the greenhouses. He hadn't chosen sides either. Herbology had never interested me, but the act of weeding and pruning and being back at Hogwarts was therapeutic. Neville never asked what went wrong and I never told him the details. I suppose he knew. We talked mostly about the school. The last of the damage from the war was finally being repaired. There was a fair helping of school gossip. The question foremost on everybody's mind was whether McGonagall would retire this year. No one except Hagrid and Madame Hooch were left from the original faculty from our time—Poppy Pomfrey had retired last year—and I think Minerva was lonely. She was looking a little stooped the last time we had tea.

Even with the lunches and the Saturdays with tennis and Neville, I was unbearably lonely. I found myself in a sort of exile from the wizarding world. My life for the last thirty years had orbited around Harry and Ron. I loved my parents deeply, but even after all this time the wizarding world was still a giant mystery to them (and why wouldn't it be?). Arthur and Molly had been my wizarding parents and their loss was nearly as heart-breaking as the disintegration of the marriage itself.

Arthur kept in touch, in a male sort of way, of course. He'd send me owls with newspaper clippings of Muggle inventions or politics that he thought I'd appreciate. He always ended his owls with a firm "Love, Arthur." I responded to every single one, and we became pen pals of a sort.

Harry had thought to cheer me up by describing the truly horrific scene at the Burrow when Ron announced we were getting a divorce. How Molly had gone ballistic and torn strips off of Ron for over two hours. But really, both of us were to blame and a part of me wished I'd been there to soften the blow. Introducing Romilda into the family fold would happen soon. Molly was never going to choose a daughter-in-law (no matter how beloved) over a son. Beyond a tear-stained owl—a piece of parchment three feet long filled with paragraph after paragraph of how much she loved me and what a tragedy this was—I didn't hear from her again except for my birthday and holiday greetings. It was now all too clear to me why people who get divorced have a shocked expression on their faces. Because they are wrenched bodily from a world they knew into a world where there are no familiar colors, few familiar faces. People have said to me, "I've lost everything." I now know how they feel.

So distraught and at sea, I even forgot my birthday and burst into tears when after dinner one night my mother brought out a sad little birthday cake with one lone candle that she'd picked up at the local Sainsbury.

Did I miss him?

Yes.

Did his words haunt me in that bleak part of the night when it's just your pillow and the dark?

Yes.

I missed the camaraderie and the sharing of books and the love of art and good food and fine wine and tennis twice a week. I missed talking to him. I missed the physicality of him next to me. The scent of his aftershave when he leaned in close. The musky smell of his sweat after a rousing game of tennis.

Did I believe him?

Some days, yes; some days, no. He was like a half-finished puzzle. Bits and pieces were filled in, but the overall picture, the whole, eluded me. Mismatched puzzle pieces were littered on the table but I couldn't seem to make any of them fit. All I was left with was an incomplete mosaic. I had managed to connect all the end pieces but the middle was nothing but a jumble. There were the faint remnants of the bratty aristocrat that had so defined him as a teenager at Hogwarts; traces of the slightly louche twenty-something who with his wife established post-war wizarding chic; sizeable bits and pieces of the thirty-something who, with a Machiavellian blueprint, began simultaneously establishing political alliances and destroying his rivals. The pieces for the man who saw my intelligence as an asset, who rivaled me in my love of books. and who thought I was beautiful and brilliant remained undone.

Did I love him?

Some days I thought yes and some days I thought my passion for him was merely in retaliation for the ennui that had characterized my marriage for so long. At night, however, in the bleak part of the night when it's just your pillow and the dark, I loved him madly. I dreamed of him most nights. We were usually in his flat, still filled with all that awful chrome and leather furniture, but it didn't bother me. I never knew what I was saying, but in these dreams he was listening to me talk or pouring me tea or brushing my hair. They weren't lurid dreams. They were far more pathetic. They were dreams of the every day.

Then there were the lurid dreams. The dreams where I'd wake up touching myself, shuddering in orgasm.

Sex is wasted on the young. You will never capture that bone-deep passion again, but that sex is about colliding because if you don't you will go mad. Sex when you're older is about nuance and building passion, touch by touch, kiss by kiss. It's about the knowledge of putting your hand there, and then there, and please, god, there; stepping it up until that release is so sweet. When you're young pretty much anything will get you off. I would joke that Ron could fuck a Kleenex and get off provided the tissue had been lubed up. With women it's different, a little harder, but that sense of colliding to sate is the same. But I would never trade that frantic need for the sexuality I had now. Now there was a deliberation and knowledge about it and it was much more satisfying. And, as we know, Hermione Granger is all about knowledge.

A few nights of those dreams and I found myself masturbating every night. I would put my pillow over my head to block out the knowledge that I was lying in the bed I'd grown up in, made-up with the horribly loud sheet and comforter set I'd received as a present for my thirteenth birthday. I couldn't touch myself enough. I'd lay there letting the insomnia feast on me until I thought I'd die of exhaustion, and then I'd think of him in that black kimono and how he fit against the length of me. And that full mouth and what it would feel like around the fullness of my nipple. I would reach down and stroke and imagine. I told myself that it was only so that I could fall asleep.

Which became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Looking back, it seems like my marriage was a combination of relief that we survived and camaraderie forged by tribulation, with some decent sex holding it all together. Those years now seem fuzzy to me. Like how I want them to be, rather than how they had been. Maybe they had been real. In the beginning. Maybe then we did have those days when we listened to each other. When I wasn't Ron's glorified babysitter and he wasn't my best friend with benefits. Maybe if we'd had children it would have been different. They would have been the emotional superglue binding us together, and we could have successfully ignored the fact that we had nothing to say to each other by talking about our children and our grandchildren.

Is that how people do it?

To Be Continued
- 11
- 12
- 13
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The Politician\'s Wife