Disclaimer: I still don't own Harry Potter. If I did, well, I'd be rich, wouldn't I.
Chapter 2
After closing the door on Draco, Hermione found it impossible to sleep. She also discovered that all the tricks she tried to distract herself from the reason for her insomnia were fruitless. She made tea that boiled over in the kettle, then went cold in her cup. Read the same sentence over and over (and over and over and over…) Stared at in informercial for real-state riches, completely uncomprehending and without once pointing out the obvious flaws in logic to its "fool proof" system or marveling at the gullibility of the people who would buy into it. As the sun began to peek over the horizon, she had only one thought echoing through her head. Well, two, if you want to get technical. One: What was Draco doing showing up at 2am, half drunk. And two: She WOULD NOT GET HER HOPES UP. Riiight. Sure she wouldn't. Try as she might to tell herself otherwise, she still loved that man. Chicken shit little man-boy he may be, but he'd been her chicken shit little man-boy. And she missed him. Merlin how she missed everything about him. The smell of him. Not just his expensive cologne, or his soap, aftershave, laundry detergent etc, but HIM. The sagey undersmell that was just him. The sound of his voice from another room, the way it vibrated through the walls, filling her small apartment with life, which had been so conspicuous in it's absence since the night he freaked out and left her.
She knew what would happen if she ever let slip how she actually felt about him. That she actually felt anything at all, beyond the desire for more orgasms. The night it happened, the night she told him she loved him, she hadn't even realized until she woke up alone that she'd said anything at all. She couldn't be held responsible for post orgasmic, barely awake declarations of love. Not that it wasn't true, it absolutely was. Is still. Will ever be. She just hadn't planned on ever, EVER, telling him. Still, she wasn't about to take it back. Yes, oh yes, she loves him still. One doesn't just fall out of love, not if it's real.
Pouring he cold tea down the drain and washing her cup, she begins to ready herself for the day ahead, all the while foolishly hoping he will owl. Or floo. Or send a smoke signal. She needs help, because this way lies insanity. Scrawling a short noted to her best girl-friend (guys are rubbish when it comes to this sort of stuff, so Harry and Ron are not an option, naturally) she sends her owl Mina off to Godric's Hollow. "GP, need a fresh brain. Come when you can. Love HG"