Hermione was sometimes referred to as a feminist. Personally, she preferred the term "modern woman." She kept her last name when she married Ron, dropped her kids off at the daycare on her way to the Ministry Monday through Friday, and occasionally wore slacks out to dinner instead of a little black dress because she didn't feel like shaving her legs. One of her and Ron's biggest fights had been when she was pregnant with Rosie, and he had asked when she planned to put in her notice at work, so they'd have time to a find a replacement for her—as if she would ever quit!
Hermione knew that feminism, along with its heavy emphasis on the superficiality of beauty and the individuality of the woman, also emphasized the empowering nature of sex. She herself had had a few short-term flings in her younger days, and it wasn't as if she and Ron had remained chaste until marriage. Still, the logical part of her brain said this was a little much.
She had broken it off several times over the years, but "over" never seemed to be a permanent aspect of their relationship. The first time was when she had been poking through Ron's bathroom closet after she stepped out of the shower, and found instead the ring he would propose to her with a week later. By the time he had, she had already re-consummated the affair. She had left him again after the birth of Rosie and then the birth of Hugo; but neither separation lasted the month.
She took some small happiness from the fact that he never broke it off with her—and ignored the fact that the few times she had left him, he had merely smirked. She tried not to wonder whether he was thinking "you'll come back, you always do" or "idiot girl, do you really think I care?"
It was morally wrong and socially unacceptable. If anyone found out, it could ruin her career. Ron would hate her. Her friends would turn against her. She wouldn't be able to look her children in the eye. And she would not be able to expect any support from him—he had a wife and family of his own to look out for.
It made no sense. But she kept going back to Draco Malfoy.
It was Friday, and she knew he was in town—she had seen him in the Ministry today, overheard them talking about some generous donation he had given St. Mungo's, and when did he plan on coming in so they could get a portrait of him put up in the Spell Damage corridor? Death Eater or not, Mr. Malfoy was exactly the same as his late father, Hermione had thought to herself, but she couldn't find the venom to stay angry with him, because it was Friday and he was in town.
As she did most Fridays when she was in town, Hermione took off work thirty minutes early to go home and shower and shave. She found her very un-feminist little black dress and put on a pair of strappy black heels. She painted her toes red and put a generous amount of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion onto her bushy brown hair so she could pull it back into a more manageable style. Underneath her clothes, she had on her best lacy push-up bra and matching panties.
When Ron came home from his job in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with Rose and Hugo in tow, she kissed his cheek and told him she was going out with Malfalda, from work, did he mind looking after the kids? And Ron didn't even notice the strangeness of her asking if he minded anything, but kissed her back on the mouth and said he'd order pizza for the three of them, and that he'd see her when she got home.
She waited at the little out-of-the-way and kind of sketchy club for an hour. Malfalda was no where in sight, of course, but neither was Draco, and that was depressing enough that she had ordered herself a shot of Firewhiskey, and was feeling a little worse for the wear because of it. Another hour passed, and she had just decided it was time for her to go home to her husband and her children—why wasn't she there anyways, what kind of awful person was she?—when he showed up. They didn't even waste anymore time at the club, just apparated back to Malfoy Manor because his wife was spending the night at her sister's, and had taken Scorpious with her.
Three hours after that, Hermione was climbing out of his bed and clasping her bra and futilely trying to run her finger through her hair—like Ron would even notice it was messed up—and telling herself that this was it, this was the last time, and it was never going to happen again.
It was a lie, and she knew it. Draco made her feel beautiful and sexy, made her feel like he wanted her. And Hermione didn't know how to be those things by herself anymore. So she apparated home, her hair still a mess and her dress considerably more wrinkled than it had been when she left. She cracked the doors to her children's bedrooms to make sure they were sleeping soundly, as she did every night. Then she went to the bedroom she shared with Ron, who was also asleep and snoring lightly.
Reality made her feel plain again, so she put on her rattiest old tee shirt and a pair of threadbare shorts and crawled into her side of the bed. She knew she ought to shower—she probably smelled like cologne, which Ron hadn't worn since their wedding day—but he wasn't awake to notice, and it would fade away by morning, and she was reluctant to let this last little bit of her secret slip away.
She hugged herself tightly and closed her eyes, trying to imagine that it was Draco—who probably never snored—sleeping next to her. And when she slept that night, she dreamt she was somewhere—someone—else.