Disclaimer: I don't own the character, just the thoughts running through her head.
She just felt cold. So very cold, but burning hot at the same time. It was a pretty strange sensation. Nine shots of firewhisky in about two hours had to have some effect on her, but she still didn't feel anything except that peculiar drowning sensation that overtook her when she thought about him too much. She tasted the alcohol on her breath. She wondered vaguely if she was dying of alcohol poisoning. She tried to calculate her blood alcohol level, but the effort nearly made her black out. He would have thought it was funny. Brilliant Hermione Granger, unable to come up with an answer for once. She stared into her empty shot glass and considered ordering another, but she doubted that Madame Rosmerta would give her another at this point. She was obviously intoxicated. She sighed quietly.
For the moment she held onto one thought. She'd loved him, but she'd been too stupid to realize it. Despite her impeccable grades and her extensive book learning, she was really quite dense when it came to interpreting her own emotions. She'd thought that she noticed him all the time only because he kept making her life difficult. He had refused to acknowledge her authority in her fifth year, even though she was a prefect. He just kept selling those stupid Puking Pastilles with George. That had really caught her attention. Nobody had tried to defy her before. She was a prefect and she was only trying to live up to the badge. Why did he have to challenge her? She'd been so angry at the time, or so she had thought. Her blood boiled every time he looked at her defiantly and broke the rules. Like that time he slipped an unsuspecting first-year a Fainting Fancy. Or that time he gave Michael Corner a bit of Nosebleed Nougat and watched blood spurt out of his nose while laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.
She thought that she would knock him out the first chance she got and show him who was in charge.
But as the years wore on and she stopped being so uptight, she still found herself drawn to him. She would watch him eat his breakfast across the table from her when they were both at Grimmauld Place or when she visited the Burrow. She wondered if he ever noticed the way she kept staring at him. She wanted him to pay attention to her like he used to, in his little rebellious way. She wanted him to challenge her again. She wanted him.
She wished she could summon that kind of passion for his poor youngest brother. She'd accepted Ron's advances thinking that it would be okay, that she was only upset over his death because he'd been the brother of one of her best friends, that it was okay, normal, even, to be this upset over his death. But months went by and his family and friends slowly moved on, keeping him in their memories, but pushing forward with their lives. She hadn't been able to do it.
She was very good at keeping up appearances, though. She smiled when it was called for, and even laughed along with others when jokes were told. But even she was bound to slip up sometime. She recalled what had happened earlier that night with Ron. In the dark he looked so much like his dead brother. The brother she wished were on top of her right now, fucking her and calling out her name in pleasure. She'd closed her eyes are pretended it was him. She slowly came to life under Ron and grabbed him around the waist, thrusting violently and panting with the effort. She couldn't see his expression but she could tell from the way that he tensed for a moment that he'd been surprised by her response. She'd never reacted with that kind of enthusiasm before. She was finally starting to feel something, a wild pleasure in his arms, when she suddenly screamed his name in a moment of passion, "FRED!"
Her eyes had snapped open in fear, fear that Ron had heard her and fear of what he would say. What he would tell others. He'd definitely heard her. He let her go quickly and pulled out of her, pushing her away as if she'd had spattergroit or something. It was still dark in the room, but she got dressed hurriedly. She prayed that he wouldn't turn the lights on. She didn't want to see the look of disgust on his face. She shut the door behind her and ran down the stairs, dashing past Mrs. Weasley, who hadn't even known that she'd been upstairs with her son. She only had time to see Mrs. Weasley's mouth open before she was out the door of The Burrow and disapparating into Hogsmeade.
So here she sat, in the Three Broomsticks, trying to forget her slip-up and wondering what to do next.
This was born out of an extremely realistic nightmare and a desire to write something Fremione. Any thoughts?