The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leave no steps had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
-Robert Frost
She'd bumped into him in Diagon Alley. He'd managed, infuriatingly, to be both polite and scathing. Somehow, despite their mutual disdain, she found herself between silken sheets in Malfoy Manor, caught in a tangle of glacial eyes and platinum hair.
Later, she couldn't fathom her reasoning. It was well known that Hermione Granger hated not knowing everything. Perhaps that was why she'd done it. She'd never experienced the darker side of passion, the fire that seared rather than warmed. With Ron, everything was tender and magical. She needed, she rationalized, a healthy dose of reality. Anyway, it only happened once.