The enclosed space makes it easier for his hands to slide over her bare thighs, erecting a conspicuous cluster of goose bumps behind them. She tries to, and she really wants to, but can't find her voice to command him to stop. It pains her to acknowledge the increase in her heart rate, especially when she knows it's not due to anything but the heat ignited in her with his touch. It's the thrill, she tells herself. It's just the thrill she's seeking.
Yet, there's not one part of her that believes this is right. There's nothing right about this scenario and no amount of excuses or bending the rules will change that; it's a fundamental truth. They're inappropriate and reckless – two words with which she has never been described. They're fire and ice; when have those two ever gone together? They don't even love each other. Hermione needs someone who will love her. She needs more.
The problem is, the love she has, the love she's forsaking at this very moment – that love isn't giving her more either. She wishes she hadn't become so utterly disillusioned with life. A lecherous voice in her head asks what things would be like if she were still chasing Voldemort; would she feel more fulfilled in a twisted, empty way?
His hands are on her face now, pulling her gaze to meet his own, "You shouldn't even be here." She can't pinpoint the emotion in his tone, but she has heard it before. It's low, and leaves the words with little room for argument.
Hermione has always been persistent though. "Where?" She says challengingly, "In here with you? No, you're right… I shouldn't be."
She can see the frustration at her answer, even if it's only portrayed by a flicker of his eyes upwards, but he plays along. "Why are you here then? To my memory, the bride should be receiving a flattering and warm toast to celebrate the union..."
"Bride-to-be," She corrects, the words tumbling out of her mouth before Hermione can check herself. As a reflex, she immediately drops his gaze. Hermione knows the gloating look that will be surveying her.
They had always been a secret. It began a night where she was single; feeling free and caged at the same time. He was there; he understood, he felt it, too. From there, they stumbled their way through angry, frustrated trysts with equally emotional words and a deep denial about anything more profound than face value.
Ron came back then. Hermione could never refuse him; her Ron. Sweet, unassuming, loving Ron. He knows who she is, where she comes from and what she's about. Or, at least, he did. Hermione isn't even sure she knows what she's about anymore. She does know that she loves him. Hermione loves Ron more than she ever thought possible, but since the war, a masochistic, self-destructive trait has developed within her. She's going to ruin this. Hermione is going to burn it from the inside out, watch it's castration like a train-wreck coming her way.
The man in front of her does the same thing. In that way, they're kindred spirits. In every other way, they're not. He's not her soul mate, he's not who she's supposed to end up with and he's certainly not worth throwing everything away.
He's engaged, too. They're two people standing on the opposite side of the world, but looking in the same direction – it has to stop being each other. They're only running, refusing to meet the people who can save them from themselves.
He loves Astoria. She loves Ron. What are either of them doing here?
What dignity is there in a dingy cleaners closet, her dress bunched at her thighs, in the hotel where her rehearsal dinner is happening, no less?
"Hermione..." His tone is questioning, for once not attempting to commandeer the direction of the conversation. Not that he ever succeeded in doing that, anyway.
Catching his dark, granite blue eyes that are so unlike the beautiful crystal she's accustomed to, Hermione finds her throat run dry, "What are we doing, Draco?" She whispers, genuinely hoping he'll have an answer for her.
He blinks, stepping back to lean against the shelf of cleaning products. They've never asked that question before. They've never questioned, come to think of it. Draco only stares at her, briefly pushing his short hair back as it begins to fall over his eyes. "I don't think either of us knows."
"You love Astoria." It's not a question. Draco knows this as well as she, and doesn't respond. Hermione shuts her eyes and inhales deeply, collecting her thoughts. "You don't love me."
There's a short pause; "No."
"We have to go back to them. I love Ron. I don't want to humiliate him, leave or hurt him... I want to be with him forever, contrary to what you believe." Hermione draws herself close to him again, resting her hand on his chest. Letting emotion reign, she tells him sincerely, "We found something in each other a few years ago. The war was still fresh while everyone seemed to have moved on… but—but now, we have to be mature. This is the time to stand up. This is the time to be the people we want to be, to grab the happiness with the person we know can give it to us.
"Ron's going to make me happy. I want to do the same for him… No secrets, no lies, no sneaking. It all stops now."
She gets the distinct impression that he doesn't know how to reply. Part of her is glad, because she's not sure what he'll say. Hermione needs him to agree, to validate her thoughts – she's right, can't he see that?
To her surprise, he pushes her back, "It all stops now." Fixing his suit, he meets her eyes squarely for what could be the last time in years, "We haven't seen much of each other since the war."
Hermione's mildly surprised, and to her chagrin, a flash of hurt reverberates through her. She shakes it off easily, eager to return to her doting fiancé and adoring guests.
As she turns to leave, Draco takes her hand, bringing it to his lips lightly. The kiss lingers a second too long, their eyes staring, "Congratulations."
A/N: Hey, so I know this was a weird one. That's all I ever write in terms of one-shots; weird ones. In any case, I'm having difficulty knowing where to place this... Within Ron/Hermione or Hermione/Draco? I went with the latter one for now, but it does, in a twisted way, end as Ron/Hermione? And she's happy about that, too.
I'm not happy with it, and very reluctant to post it, but I'm review-hungry at the moment so I'm going to shame myself and sell myself out and do it anyway. Dark times, I know.
Thank you for reading,
CN.