The Hanged Man
"Don't forget about me."
The easy words are playful, humorously light with soft, barely there romantic underpinnings, the earnest content in contradiction with the delivery, hiding turbulence beneath casual, practiced charm. The flirtatious tug, the only plea he'll give her, covers the self denigration that is encrypted in his personal history. Neither here nor there, unsure what he means, his goodbye hangs somewhere in between, just like him.
Of course you'll forget about me...
The smooth curving smile that twists up on one side, the smile that lies about his self assurance, fails to reach his eyes. What does is swift and strong and gone with a blink, vanishing before the exhale is complete. It is ancient and weary and...needful.
For the first time Hermione sees and understands...
Creeping cold fingers of emptiness and gnawing, chewing loneliness slam into her violently, his dark spell upon her and she feels what he fears. It is a sore test of her reason to believe that their friendship means more to him than he has shared. The grave chill that preceded the instance of awareness that she has hungered for is chased away by the choice now burning her from within, replacing the cold as it boils hot onto her skin.
And so she chooses...
To his hazy recollection, soft, wet lips against his own had never before reordered the universe, imparting their truth with each moist, eager pass. Her fire burns him through, searing and soldering, welding his soul to hers, whispering to him all the mysteries that will keep the empty, lonely things at bay.