The Mistake

Title: The Mistake
Pairing: Remus/Hermione
Dedications: Kaylin, because it\'s for her birthday.
Notes: This really isn\'t the sort of smut I write. But it\'s what came out, so it\'s going to have to work. In my mind, it\'s part of a bigger, sillier story, but neither Remus nor Hermione can be bothered. Also, this is beyond dramatic
Disclaimer: The characters belong to J.K. Rowling and her Harry Potter universe. Any profits made from this are being donating to the Church of Sexology. Only kidding. There is no such church.

Thanks: Candy, the super dork.

The Mistake

These are the days that I won\'t get back
I won\'t hear you cry or hear you laugh
When it\'s quiet and I don\'t hear a thing
-- The Wallflowers, \"Closer To You.\"


She was pressed against the wall, tired, confused, crying. He was pressed against her, holding her tightly, even though his body was tense in response.

He hated her. She didn’t blame him.

She had been so sure that he had betrayed them all. She had thought it over and over, studied the situation, even collected evidence.

But it had been all wrong.

She had called in a favour from a friend. Asked to learn the art of seduction. The stuff you couldn’t get from a book or the porn channel. She learned to look harmless and girlish and—God forbid her—play the innocent school girl.

She was so sure that if she had sex with him she’d be able to get a confession.

And then cry because he was their traitor.

It took time. It took patience she had mastered over the years. Dressed in clothes she wore everyday, talking the way she did every moment, she slowly dropped hints.

She was trying to stay in character for something that would be out of character.

Then it happened. A spontaneous kiss turned passionate, the way her chance came as he fumbled with her shirt. She encouraged him with words of desire, pressing against him, letting him caress her breasts and kiss them until she started to forget what her goal was.

She fumbled with his trousers, unbuckling the belts and undoing the zipper. Telling him that this was what she wanted, trying to look happy and in love when the anger was killing her in the inside.

“He’s betraying you,” was what she repeated to herself. “He’s selling you and Ron and Harry to Voldemort.”

He kissed her, his hand touching her thighs, his hands warm against her cold skin.

And she let go of the rage and confusion and mess of the present. She forgot about the war and the blood and the death. She let herself get caught up into the emotions instead.

His hair made a strong contrast to the white pillow, his eyes staring into hers with care. He let out a moan as she got on top of him.

“Always be in control.”

She went to work. Moving and moaning at all the right times. She kept thinking about the story of that female spy during one of theld Wld Wars who had used her feminine charms to get secrets out of the enemy.

She was taking a hit for her loved ones too.

He muttered something incoherent, touching her cheek, helping her with the task at hand. He was so beautiful that she had to forget about being his student, his friend, and just think of them as opposites.

When he came she caught a glimpse of an owl from the corner of her eye. She ignored it and continued. Only later would she read the letter left behind.

“Hermione,

It’s not Remus. Come find me as soon as you get this. Don’t do anything stupid.

Ron.”

It broke her heart, made her cry, wish herself dead. She had used her body—the one thing you never gave away for free, her mother told her—to gain proof of something that didn’t exist.

She had been wrong.

Once he awoke, smiling in contrast to her happiness, she told him, full of guilt. She confessed her ulterior motives, apologizing over and over for her mistakes and mistrust.

She’d press herself against the wall, tired, confused and still crying. He’d hold her, because he wouldn’t be able to turn her away in that state.

And, then, when he’d be able to kick her out, he would cry too.