A Kiss Is Not A Contract
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
***
After four years, she'd finally had enough. No, she had finally realised she'd had enough. At least they weren't married; the romantic in her would have found it much harder to break such a stone clad ritual.
They'd tried, and hard, Hermione acknowledged as she dried her hair with a flick of her wand. But if she was stuck with Ron for another month, when they both knew that they'd been far better off as friends, they would lose even that. Whoever said that opposites attract had obviously never been in a serious relationship.
He'd tried to adapt, at least at first, but cheesecake stuck to the ceiling was not her idea of an ideal compromise. Nor was the fact that they argued more than they talked these days, even if they were stupid, petty quarrels. But she didn't want to lose him completely. No, she had to get the words just right. Hermione stood before the mirror and examined her reflection, briefly wondering if she looked too formal wearing robes. Discarding the thought and smoothing down her skirt for the umpteenth time, she ran the speech through in her head.
I can't face it any longer, Ron. You know this isn't working out like we thought it would. No, too harsh. We were better off as friends to begin with. But that sounds so cliché. It's not me, it's you. Ha! Hermione absentmindedly gnawed on her bottom lip, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. She was so deep in thought that she almost jumped a mile when the clock chimed, indicating that Ron should be on his way.
You must have noticed that we're not getting anywhere with this, Ron. I really think we need some time apart before we end up hating each other. Perfect.
Hermione quickly changed her robes in favour of a cardigan (yes, much better) and with one last glance at the reflection, left her worried image behind. The squashy sofas in the living room had never looked so uninviting, nor had her heart ever beat so violently against her ribs. In comparison, watching Harry face Voldemort for the final time had been as easy as beating a flobberworm in a sprint.
***
It was almost an hour later when Ron appeared across the room with a loud crack. Hermione's worried expression (of which Ron was completely oblivious) was replaced by fury as he greeted her offhandedly, sheepishly avoiding her gaze. To top if off, he wandered into the kitchen without a backwards glance, apparently far more interested in what was for dinner.
Suffice to say, once Hermione followed him in with a scowl to give him a piece of her mind, said piece of mind was peppered with several more adjectives than that which she had just prepared.
As a result, half an hour later found Hermione storming furiously down the London street with only one aim in mind: To get as far away as wizardly possible. Granted, if she could get roaringly drunk and forget, that would be a huge bonus. Whilst she wouldn't admit it to herself, proving that she was not, as Ron had so kindly dubbed her, a 'high-strung, self-important, fun-spoiling prude' was another strong motive.
Tears of frustration blinded Hermione as her footsteps traced the familiar pavements. It was perhaps lucky that these streets were deserted; nobody to witness the broken sob that wrenched its way from her throat, the sudden sound shattering the otherwise silent night.
Conflicting emotions battered her from within; a gut deep despair jostled against the fiery urge to turn right back around and pummel the despicable slug within an inch of his life. Worst, however, was the fury at herself for allowing his words to have such a strong effect, the capability to cause so much pain while he sat at home, his only worry no doubt a grumbling stomach.
It was unfamiliar to her, this overwhelming feeling of weakness, and Hermione hated herself for it.
Because she was so distracted by her own anger and hurt, Hermione was taken utterly by surprise when an arm came out from nowhere and wrapped itself almost lovingly around her neck. "Didn't mummy ever tell you not to walk alone after dark?" a rasping voice hissed into her ear.
Startled and disorientated, it took a moment for the panic to sink in. Once it did, however, it rushed through her body and mind, piercing every cell, excruciatingly sharp. But before Hermione could suck in enough breath to scream, a clammy hand closed tightly over her mouth.
A harsh, mocking laugh floated through the night. "No, no. We won't be having any of that."
All Hermione could do was picture her wand, sitting safely in the pocket of her robes, slung over the end of her bed.
***
Motion from behind brought her to her senses, and her brain finally kicked into action, fighting against the continuing surges of panic. Hermione didn't recognise the voice of the burly figure that was now trying to drag her even further into the shadows. Not a Death Eater. And both of his hands were occupied.
Her own were, mercifully, free. The jubilation was soon extinguished, however, when the elbow she dug into his side was met by a mere grunt of irritation. When Hermione began to thrash in desperation, the forearm's painful grip against her windpipe tightened, her squeal of pain muffled.
Defeated, she frantically searched her pockets. Old parchment and the house key. Fantastic. Her hand closed around the key, nonetheless. But just as she began to withdraw it, she was shoved hard against a rough wall, hands now trapped by her own body.
Distraction, Hermione thought wildly, I need a distraction! Adrenaline took over, as she simultaneously stomped down on his foot and sunk her teeth into his palm. Startled, his grip loosened for a fraction of a second, but that was enough.
Hermione managed to rip herself free, before a strong hand seized her wrist. As if acting of its own accord, the fist clutching the key flew upwards. It must have been sharper than she thought, as he recoiled with a hiss of pain.
She didn't have to think twice before breaking into a run.