A last-minute decision.

Eleventh-Hour Decision

He kissed her gently, sweetly, in post-orgasmic bliss. He kissed like a god and tasted like sin. Dark, dangerous, and delicious sin.

She hated him for it, hated him for being so irresistible. She had just turned thirty-eight. Her eldest was at Hogwarts. She felt as though she was getting old. The best years of her life were most definitely behind her, and what lay ahead now? Continued infidelity. An unhappy – through her own fault – marriage. Kids who would grow up and hate her when they realised what she had done. Hermione was thirty-eight years old, she'd been married to a wonderful man for sixteen years, and she'd had an on-and-off affair with another man for almost as long (longer). What was wrong with her?

That was what she hated most about this mess. Ron was wonderful. He didn't know for certain, but he must have suspected. Yet when he held her in his arms and kissed her, she still felt like the seventeen-year-old he'd kissed during the climax of a battle they'd thought they might not leave alive. She still felt like the resourceful, loyal friend who had never abandoned him. She still felt like the eleven-year-old girl whom he had saved from a troll. She still felt... she still felt that he loved her. And that was sick, wasn't it? What was there to love?

How had it all gone wrong? She had thought, after the war, that her future was golden. She and Ron had had an early engagement, and they had ignored everyone's advice – Harry's, their families' – to wait. It had been balanced out by the length of the engagement, as Hermione started her work at the Ministry. They had moved in together directly after she had passed her N.E.W.T.s and had lost their virginities to each other. Ron had worked as an Auror for a time, but spent his week-ends at George's joke shop, determined for it not to close despite George's lack of enthusiasm since Fred's death. They had been perfect.

They had entered their married life steadily after more than two years of living together, already knowing everything about each other and loving every bit of it. She had wanted to share her life with Ron, whom she trusted and knew, to latch onto a semblance of reality after the horror of the war. She had been one hundred percent sure of her decision... until Draco, whom she had invited, showed up at the wedding. The flare of jealousy Hermione had felt when she saw Astoria for the first time – beautiful, elegant Astoria –, the smoldering look in his eyes, the kiss they had shared... all that had contributed to shatter the dream. It didn't help that there was an obvious intimacy between Draco and his wife that she recognised as being the same kind she had with Ron. Affection, trust, and the ability to reassure with a single touch. A friendship so deep it could have been love, except it wasn't.

She had still married Ron, of course. She was happy with him. She had had enough time, during their engagement, to make up her mind. She had chosen Ron and given up on Draco, who was a married man (though that hadn't lasted long). But things hadn't gone according to the plan, had they?

She wanted to blame Draco, but she couldn't. She wanted to blame youth and sheer stupidity, but she wasn't so young anymore. She wanted to blame temporary insanity, but there was nothing temporary about it. On her worst days, she wanted to blame Ron, and those days were the ones where she almost up and left Draco once and for all, out of disgust with herself. Ron had done nothing wrong. Ron had always been there when she needed him. Ron was kind, loving, and forgiving. The sex wasn't even bad. He was perfect. He loved her the way you were supposed to love someone: patiently, fiercely, and faithfully all rolled into one. She hated that she couldn't even dislike him. If she left him, she would feel like she was plunging a dagger straight into his heart. She stayed, and it felt as though she was holding a knife against his ribs, the tip digging threateningly into his skin without ever penetrating. Slow torture, or a quick death? She had never been able to decide. And there had been the kids to think of. She didn't want her children to grow up with separated parents. She wanted them to have the strong, loving families she and Ron had had. And she didn't want to lose the Weasleys. She didn't want to hurt Molly, or disappoint Ginny, or lose her intellectual chats with Percy. And then there was the press. She couldn't deal with that kind of intrusion into her private life, especially not now that her career in the Ministry was progressing at high-speed.

Hermione had based her decision, or lack thereof, on a coward's reasons, and she knew it. But even though she felt guilty, she still couldn't bring herself to break it off with Draco (which, she knew deep inside, would have been the right thing to do). And Draco, who really was the wronged one here, maybe as much as Ron, didn't seem to want to end things, either. They were thirty-eight fucking years old, and he still looked at her like she was beautiful and he wanted her more than anything in the world. The heat in his eyes never failed to arouse her, and she thought she would never get bored of having sex with Draco. He had been right, all those years ago. Passion.

The kiss ended, and Draco ran a hand down her leg, caressing her naked thigh, sending a jolt of electricity through her body. They lay on the bed, their faces very close, their bodies pressed together in every possible way.

"Leave him," Draco said, his breath warm over her lips.

She almost laughed it off, but the look in his eyes stopped her. He was serious about this. Had he been able to tell that she hadn't been fully engaged in the kiss, that she had been thinking of something else? He watched her with something like anxiety in his expression, waiting for a reply. She pushed herself up on one elbow and looked at him, really looked at him. He was lying on his side, his eyes almost half-closed, still heady from his orgasm a few minutes previously, sweat glistening on a chest which rose and fell rapidly with his ragged breathing. Strands of slightly too-long hair fell into his grey eyes. She thought she had never seen anything more beautiful.

He must have guessed what was going on inside her head, because he reached out and lightly touched her cheek with the back of his hand. "Leave him," he urged again.

"For what?" she asked.

She had asked him that same question, years and years ago.

"For me," he said quietly, as he had back then.

"For passion," she said, remembering his words and how she had laughed at them.

His gaze drifted over her head to a spot on the wall which he fixed with great interest. "It's worked so far," he said, his voice flat. "It's been years, and – it's worked."

She was silent. His hand was still on her cheek, and she raised her own hand to clutch at it, giving it a light squeeze. He wrapped his free arm around her waist and brought her close to him, joining their hips, sending a jolt of electricity up her spine. Passion. Merlin knew it had worked, so far.

Draco nuzzled her ear, using one hand to gently push her hair back. As he slid into her once more with one long, slow thrust, he whispered something very softly in her ear, just once. Just once, but the words echoed in her head as he took her again, slowly, languidly. There was a time and place for everything, and though Hermione knew first hand that hard and fast sex with Draco was amazing, this gentle love-making was beyond anything she'd ever experienced. His hips rolled against hers slowly as he took his time thrusting, and at one point he captured her lips in a heated, open-mouthed kiss and didn't release them again. And she came like that, gasping her pleasure into his mouth, and wrapped her legs around him when he joined her in her release.

"I love you," he had said.

Passion wasn't enough – would never be enough –, but what if you added love into the mix? Could that work?

"I'll leave him," she said when they were both spent. "And I'll come find you."

He kissed her, bruisingly hard.