Something that has been in my head for quite a while now and finally came out in the way I wanted it to. I hope it ties many of you over until my next story is out in the next few weeks. Life has been anything, but easy for me in the past few weeks, so please forgive my silence. And of course, when I first tried to upload this, I received error messages galore. Please enjoy as I finish up edits of my next one-shot (possibly to be broken up into a 2-3 chapter story) between Rose and Scorpius.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, but the storyline.

Pathetic, absolutely pathetic.

Hermione Granger couldn't think of a more fitting description of herself in this very moment. Even she of all people knew the unspoken rules of a "one-night stand" and yet, here she was, sitting in the exact same spot, at the exact same time, just one month later.

It was the definition of pathetic.

He was gone even before she had stirred with the rising of the sun. His clothes picked up off the floor from where they had fallen: his jacket just inside the front door; his shirt in the living room; his belt, shoes, and socks in the hallway; his pants and boxers inside her room unceremoniously tossed beside her bed. The only evidence that anyone had slept beside her that night was the scent of his cologne on the pillow beside her.

Merlin, what she would have given for him to be beside her, smiling at her as he had the night before as she moaned and writhed beneath the magic of his fingers. She'd even had the audacity to call him by his first name.

Sighing, she took a hearty sip of the Firewhiskey sitting in front of her, ignoring the man who was trying to get her attention from his seat on the other side of the bar. But like all other nights, all other nights but that night, she was not interested.

How had she been so stupid? That night four weeks ago she acted like…like…Hermione couldn't even begin to find the word to describe how she acted. She hadn't seen him since the two of them returned to Hogwarts to finish up their final year. And then, suddenly, there he was sitting next to her, that same smarmy smirk on his face as he commented on the Firewhiskey she was drinking then too.

And suddenly they were talking, laughing as if they had been friends since childhood instead of enemies. At some point during the night she had closed the distance between them, moving her barstool closer to his, after which his hand found place on her knee, his thumb smoothing over the fabric of her jeans, his fingertips sending waves of shock through her system.

He saw it in her eyes and she saw it in his. Their desire for each other was undeniable; even if she had wanted to, it would have been futile for her to resist. One touch and she was at his mercy.

She didn't even wait until last call to ask him back to her place for one final drink, even offering to make them a late night snack—she hadn't meant to imply them snacking on each other, she really did have stuff for pizza in her fridge.

But Merlin Almighty, if she closed her eyes, she could just remember the taste of his lips on her own. The feel of his lips meeting hers as soon as they walked through her front door. He didn't even wait for the door to fully shut before he had her pressed against the wall, her hands gripping him closer.

But isn't that a rule of the one-night-stand: there is no morning after. From sunset to sunrise you are another person, living another life, uttering words and expressing feelings which don't exist while the sun in shining. That night, she, Hermione Granger, has been passionate, self-assured, adventurous, and…and she had been honest.

Every sigh. Every smile. None of it had been forced. And that's what hurt the most.

She'd broken the one, cardinal rule of illicit midnight affairs: she got attached. Hermione didn't even know it was possible to get attached in a handful of hours, but those few hours between midnight and six a.m. had wiped away any spec of prejudice against him. And he had renewed her in return.

So here she was. One month later, waiting, wishing, praying he had felt something too. The same young woman in her faded jeans and grey shirt, curly hair pulled away from her neck, with a tumbler of Firewhiskey in-between her hands, eyes fixed on the door.

"It's last call miss."

The bartender's smooth voice startled her, breaking her concentration on the front door. She glanced at the liquid in her glass and back up to his questioning eyes.

"I'm well thanks."

"Whoever he is love, he's not worth waiting for."

Hermione sighed, her hand running over her face before she rested her arm on the counter, her fingers covering her eyes.

"I know."

Her answer was quiet, possibly just loud enough to convince herself. This time she didn't bother looking up at the charms on the door mantle chimed. She had given him a chance, a chance to appease herself at the possibility of his return.

Back to the door, she smiled at the man behind the bar, raised her glass, and swallowed that last ounce of pity she dared retain, relieved the burn of the alcohol masked the loneliness of which she dared not speak.

One month was long enough.

Stepping out into the cool night air, the words pathetic, absolutely pathetic, drifted through her, coursing through her blood, moving with each breath, and moving, slowly with the tear the was escaping down her check.

Hand hastily moving across her face, Hermione was startled at the jaded laugh that escaped her as she looked at her tear stained sleeve.

Nothing, no one, was worth this. Not even him and the one-night-stand which left her breathless, hopeful, and desperate to learn to live in the light as she had that night.