? Toulouse

Chapter 5: À Toulouse

The offices of Les Torpilles were located on the Rue de Saint Hippolyte in Toulouse. Although the sign read La Ministère des Égoutes, Hermione had no trouble seeing that it was a Muggle-misdirecting ruse; as soon as she stepped close to the door, the letters shimmered and changed. Instead of announcing the Ministry of Sewers, the sign now clearly advertised Les Torpilles de Toulouse: Les Vainqueurs du Quidditch. She opened the door and went inside.

"Oui?"

The room was dim compared to the brilliant afternoon sunshine outside, and it took a moment for Hermione's eyes to adjust. She found herself facing a young woman sitting behind a large wooden desk. The woman had long hair – black, clearly from a bottle – and was clad in a bright pink robe.

"Bonjour," Hermione began, smiling and extending her hand. Pink Robe stared at her as though she had two heads. When it became obvious that the girl wasn't going to take her hand, she hastily withdrew it. "Je voudrais – ah – voir Monsieur Weasley."

"Vous avez un rencard, madame?"

"Pardon?" Her primary school French was failing her fast. Hermione was tempted to ask what a rencard was, but the explanation was likely to plunge her further into ignorance. "Je suis Madame Hermione Granger-Weasley."

The woman blinked in uncertainty. Hermione added helpfully, "Monsieur Weasley est mon mari."

"Monsieur Weasley n'est pas ici. Il est au stade de Quidditch."

"Où est le stade de Quidditch?"

Pink Robe sighed as though she'd expected this. Instead of answering, she rifled through a desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of blank paper. Picking up a pen, she began sketching a map. Thirty seconds later, she was finished. "Vous êtes là," she said, pointing to an X on the map. Moving the pen to another spot that looked to be a fair distance away, she repeated, "Monsieur Weasley est au stade de Quidditch."

"Oh." The map might as well have been a drawing of the canals on Mars, Hermione thought. "How – comment - ?"

As if dealing with a child, Pink Robe pointed bluntly to the fireplace in the corner. "Par chiminette," she said with a marked absence of patience.

"Merci." Hermione crossed to the fireplace and climbed in, frankly glad to get out of the office. She seized a handful of Floo powder, cast it down, and said, "Le stade de Quidditch!"

There was the usual spinning, the blurring, the strange grates. Then there was bright sunlight and a blast of summer heat. Hermione stepped out of the fireplace, looking around to catch her bearings. Ron's voice, full of incredulity, was the first thing she heard.

"Hermione?"

She turned to see her husband striding toward her down a long, stone corridor, his jaw hanging in amazement.

"Ron!" Hermione flung her arms around his neck as Ron clutched her to him in a bear hug.

"What in the world are you doing here?" he demanded in bewilderment.

"I came to see you," she said. "Fred and George told me that your team's doing well, and since it had been a while since I've heard from you –"

"Oh, yeah, sorry about that. You know what a bad writer I am." Ron held her at arm's length. "You look great."

"Thanks. You, too." Hermione felt suddenly awkward. This was her husband, yet the display of affection was no more than he would have given another member of his family.

"So – how long are you staying?" Ron wanted to know.

"I don't know. It's the weekend, so I could stay until Sunday night, I suppose."

"Great. You can see us play this evening."

It was typical Ron. Hermione's first reaction was to become indignant; she hadn't come to France just to see a Quidditch game. Her second reaction was that this was Ron Weasley, so naturally Quidditch would be involved. There would be plenty of time to catch up after the game.

"Harry and Ginny and the kids send their love," she told him.

"Ginny Floo'd me last week. Doesn't Samantha have a birthday coming up soon?" Ron took her arm and steered her down the corridor. "Here, let's head for my office."

"I would have sent you an owl to let you know that I was coming," Hermione said, "but it was sort of a spur of the moment decision."

"No problem."

The corridor was lined with wide archways; through these, Hermione could see the green of the Quidditch pitch beyond.

"This is a big place," she commented.

"Yeah. Lots of rabid fans here. We almost always sell out."

"That's great."

Eventually the stone archways vanished. Ron led Hermione to a doorway on the right. Ahead of them was what was clearly a sports locker room. To the left, a door was marked with a sign that read Directeur d'Equipe, Ronald Weasley.

"In here," Ron told her.

"Nice office," Hermione said kindly. In truth, it looked like a great many old offices: a rather battered desk, several chairs, a couple of filing cabinets. A miniature of the Quidditch pitch sat on a table off to the right. There, a handful of miniature players bobbed up and down on brooms in mid-air, evidently waiting to be magically put through their paces.

"We've got the newest Play Planner," Ron pointed out proudly when he saw which way she was looking. "All you have to do is tell the players what to do and you can create all sorts of fantastic new plays. Beats chalk on a board any day. Of course, it is a lot more complicated than it looks..."

"I'm sure."

"Here, take a seat. I can't believe you're here!" He perched on the edge of the battered desk.

Hermione sat in one of the chairs. Immediately, a brief silence fell.

"This is a bit awkward, isn't it?" she said, smiling faintly. "I really should have told you that I was coming."

Ron shrugged, grinning. "Really, it's okay. It's really great to see you."

Really great to see you. Hermione could picture him saying the same words to Harry. Or Fred and George. Or anybody, really... She was spared from replying when the office door opened and a woman burst in. At first glance, the woman looked to be in her thirties, but her sleekly styled blond hair and artistically applied makeup seemed an obvious attempt to camouflage a good ten years, if not more.

"Rhonee, ce soir je voudrais – ah, pardon. Tu as une invitée."

Ron hopped off the desk at once. "Georgette, I'd like you to meet my wife, Hermione. This is Georgette Meneau, the owner of the team," he said to Hermione.

"Bonjour, Hermione. Bienvenue a Toulouse." The woman graciously extended a hand, yet Hermione couldn't help but notice the look of surprise in her eyes.

"Merci," she replied, shaking Georgette's hand. It was bedecked with a number of rings, all of which looked genuine and quite expensive.

"We adore your husband," Georgette continued in heavily accented English. "Rhonee is just what our team 'az needed We are going to – ah – les championnats."

"The Championship Finals," Ron translated.

"That's great," Hermione said, suddenly aware of how many times in her life she'd been required to drum up some enthusiasm for a Quidditch team's success.

"Rhonee is a fabulous manager," Georgette announce, casting an adoring glance at Ron. "Il est magnifique!"

At no time during his association with British Quidditch teams, whether Gryffindor or Chudley Cannons, had Ron Weasley ever been referred to as 'magnificent', Hermione thought. No wonder he liked it here.

"He loves the game," she said lamely.

"Oui – I mean, yes," Ron said, the tips of his ears going pink. "Georgette, did you need something?"

"Ah, oui. Au sujet de la soirée plus tard..."

The woman launched into a spate of French, leaving Hermione's attempts at translation in the dust. And Ron's, too, from the look of it, Hermione thought. He appeared to be catching about every third word, yet he nodded vigorously at regular intervals. Georgette finally switched to a mélange of French and English, and Hermione could tell that the conversation had something to do with the level of play now that a berth in the Championships was already secured. There was something more regarding a wealthy sponsor and an after-game function, and finally, Georgette flashed a brilliant smile, patted Ron's cheek, and departed with a cheery "Au revoir!"

Ron was even redder than before. "Hermione, that pat on the cheek, she does that all the time. That's just Georgette's way. I don't want you to think that she and I –"

"Of course I don't." Hermione wanted to sound reassuring, but it only reinforced the fact that her life and Ron's life were very different now. "So, you have a party or something after the game tonight?"

"Oh," he said blankly. "Yeah. I expect I do. I'm really sorry. We could try to get together after that if you like."

"Don't be ridiculous." She cringed as she heard herself say the words: there was the ridiculous business again... "What about tomorrow morning? Breakfast, maybe?"

"Yeah." Ron brightened. "There's a really good café I know. Where are you staying?"

"The Veraduc."

"Oh, good. That's really close by the restaurant. It's called Le Bon Pain."

"I saw it, I think. What time?"

"How about nine o'clock?"

"Great." Ron moved to the rear of the desk and pulled open a drawer. "Look, let me give you a pass for the game tonight. VIP section, and all."

The last thing Hermione wanted to do was to sit alone at a Quidditch game in a foreign country, but she had the feeling that Ron was making a last stab at trying to remain connected to her. Makes sense, she thought: he always assumed that Quidditch was the common ground for everybody, even when it wasn't.

"Great," she heard herself say. Moments later, after a hug and perfunctory kiss on the cheek, she was walking back towards the stadium Floo. There was a gnawing in her stomach that had little to do with food and everything to do with the realization that she and Ron were farther apart than ever.

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Hermione spent the afternoon sightseeing in Toulouse, trying to put her mind off the situation with Ron and onto more pleasant matters. Finally, she ate a solitary dinner at the hotel and returned to the Quidditch stadium.

Ron had been correct about selling out of tickets, Hermione thought as she joined the press of fans finding their seats. The VIP section was not nearly so crowded as the rest of the place, it seemed. She found her solitary seat and tried to concentrate on the game. The opposing team, the Salauds de St. Lô, apparently had a bone to pick from past meetings with Les Torpilles, and play was mean and physical. At least with Ron as manager, Hermione thought, she wasn't required to sit in the stands and watch him getting beaten up any longer. She'd never had much stomach for the brutality that often went with professional Quidditch, and the referees of tonight's game were being sorely tested by deliberate ramming, blocking, and outright attacks. When what seemed like the millionth penalty was called, Hermione finally stood to stretch her legs.

She walked to the refreshment stand and found long lines there. Resigned, Hermione picked what she hoped was the shortest line and waited. She was trying to study the menu when it became obvious that a man in the next line was ogling her with frank admiration.

"Bon soir," he said, finally catching her eye.

"Bon soir." She tried to indicate a polite disinterest.

The lines crept forward. Sleaze Man, Hermione found to her displeasure, kept pace with her.

"Ça va?" He tried again.

"Ça va bien," she muttered, thinking too late that she should have simply pretended not to hear him.

The lines moved a bit once more.

"Vous êtes seule ce soir?" Are you alone this evening?

It struck Hermione then that she was accomplishing absolutely nothing tonight. "Oui," she said. "Tres seule."

Very alone.

She dropped out of line and left the stadium.

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From the volume of people eating at Le Bon Pain, Hermione could see that they must make a fortune if they had crowds like this every day. There was now a line of people waiting to be seated, and she felt guilty for tying up a table. Ron was late – forty-five minutes late, to be precise – and her stomach was growling with hunger. Hermione had put off the waiter as long as she could, ordering a cup of tea and requesting two refills, but her server was looking on the verge of telling her to order or go, that there were customers waiting to spend a lot of Euros if they could only have her table. She was just about to break down and request an omelette when Ron arrived.

"Hello," Hermione said, fixing a smile on her face while the unspoken question of Why are you late? loomed in her eyes. She'd had a lot of practice at it.

"Sorry, love." Ron leaned over to kiss her briefly on the lips before sliding into his seat. "Late night last night."

"Your after-the-game party?" she asked. Now that she had a closer look at her husband, Hermione could see that Ron looked much the worse for wear.

"Yeah. Sponsors..."

"I don't remember you having to deal with all that when you were with the Cannons."

"Well, I wasn't the manager then, was I?" Ron began to scan the menu.

Hermione was silent for a moment. She'd had ample time to read the menu twenty times over, and she took the opportunity to watch Ron scan the bill of fare.

"You seem to be doing quite well speaking and reading French," she observed.

"Who, me?" Ron looked up and snorted. "I get by, that's about it. As long as I can make the Quidditch plays clear, I don't care much about the rest."

"Madame? Monsieur? Vous êtes prêts?" The garçon, who had already introduced himself to Hermione as Michel, hovered at Ron's elbow.

Hermione glance at Ron in uncertainty, but he merely nodded.

"Go ahead. I already know what I'm having."

"Je désire une omelette à fromage, s'il vous plaît."

"Très bien, madame. Et vous, monsieur?"

"Same thing. Même chose," Ron replied in a ridiculous accent, handing the menu back to the waiter.

Hermione wanted to correct him, to tell him that he should say 'la même chose', that the French didn't drop articles as English-speakers did, but stopped herself in time. The very reason that she and Ron were sitting here in France, instead of in their flat in London, was partly due to the fact that she tended to point out his shortcomings on a regular basis.

"So," Ron went on, "how are you? Sleep well?"

"Fine, thanks."

"Great morning, huh? We've got practice at eleven, so the weather should be perfect for it. I – what's wrong?"

Hermione felt tears prickling the corners if her eyes. Ron looked, for all the world, completely oblivious to the fact that they, who had been friends and lovers for so many years, were discussing the weather like a pair of strangers.

"We're talking about the weather, Ron. For pity's sake!"

"What?" He was dumbfounded by his wife's reaction.

"Is that all we can manage, to talk about the weather?"

Ron's jaw wobbled a few times as he tried to come up with some sort of appropriate reply. He eyed Hermione suspiciously. "Is it – er – that time of the month, or something?"

She wanted to haul her arm back and smack him in the face as hard as she could. Truth be told, it was that time of the month, but it had nothing to do with the fact that Ron was treating her as he had in their first few years at Hogwarts. Shouldn't he have missed her desperately, if they were still in love? Shouldn't he have offered to skip the post-game party and take her to his flat instead? Shouldn't he have been on time this morning, if he still cared?

Hermione pressed her lips together to stop them from trembling. "We're finished, aren't we?" she managed.

Ron stared at her blankly. "Huh? Finished? What are you talking about?"

"You know very well what I'm talking about, Ronald Weasley! This is not how two people who are supposed to be deeply in love behave!"

She expected him to make a joke. We're not finished, Hermione, we don't even have our food yet... Instead, Ron's face fell, and he swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "I think so."

They both fell silent, as if waiting for someone – anyone – to come bursting into the restaurant and announce that they were both mistaken. Finally, the silence became so thick that it threatened to smother Hermione. She drew in a long, shuddering breath.

"I never thought it would come to this," she gasped.

"Nor did I."

"Look, I do love you, Hermione." Ron reached across the table to grip her hands. "I always have. You know that."

"I know." It was surreal, Hermione thought, ending a marriage in a crowded French restaurant while patrons surrounded them, all sipping their cafés au lait and munching their patisseries.

"Look – I'll tell the family if you want," Ron offered. "They'll go ballistic most likely, you know Mum. You shouldn't have to deal with that."

"I consider them my family, too," she argued, but the air seemed to be gone from her lungs again.

"Doesn't matter. It's not right. You tell your folks, and I'll make a quick trip home to tell mine."

"Don't be ridiculous. There's no point in you coming back to Britain just for that." Hermione meant it kindly, but the pained expression on Ron's face as the word 'ridiculous' left her lips spoke volumes. She'd exhorted her husband not to be ridiculous far too often, she thought, and a wave of panic seized her. "Ron, I'm sorry. You're not ridiculous. I must have been sounding like a harpy for years now. I never meant to hurt you. I didn't!"

"Hermione..." A hint of a pained smile twisted the corner of his mouth. "It doesn't matter, love. And you were never a harpy. You were just...you."

She suspected that he'd meant that to be a comforting statement, yet Hermione could barely see it as such. She'd been herself, and as a result, she was about to become a divorced woman.