It was a recipe for disaster, and Hermione had no illusions to the contrary. That first night at the office had been a mistake, and while she knew better than to repeat it, repeat it she did, with a willingness undisturbed by prudence or judgement or common sense. It was the foolishness of a child spinning in place, knowing without caring that sooner or later she was bound to lose her balance.
Her small London flat — cluttered and draughty, and full of kinks — became a place the world could not touch. Neither politics, nor pure-blood witches, nor Ronald Weasley existed past her front door, and that was magic that could not be found in the core of a wand.
They didn't speak, as if words could shatter whatever that was between them, choosing instead to express themselves with hands and lips that touched and parted and teased, until rational thought became a physical impossibility.
It was not a relationship, and Hermione did not allow herself to forget it. It was just an echo — bittersweet and heartbreaking and bound to fade.
There were nights when he stayed away, nights when he still found his way to posh restaurants with women Hermione hated on principle, and she'd swear to herself that it had been the last time. The last time they had kissed. The last time they had touched. The last time she had forgot that he was a prat. Because recent evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, she too had her pride and self-respect, and he didn't get to treat her like that.
But then he'd knock on her door, and pride and self-respect would go the way of common sense, not to be seen again for the rest of the evening.
It was a foolish, misbegotten, misguided thing, but if she could not get what she wanted, she'd take what she could get, for however long she could manage.