Summer of emerald silk and black lace

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry potter, for I am not JK Rowling, as much as I would like to be I am not. I own none of the characters, and the only thing I do own is the order that the words are placed in and the story line, but then, who can really claim originality now a days


For a while Hermione still went to the clubs, waving it off to Ron as simply 'a girls night out'. She spent those nights prowling the dance floors and bars. Eyes swimming with the lights and figures, she could feel the tempting pulsating beat luring her in, promising her oblivion. But she ignored it, instead, she scanned the faces of those around her searching for a flash of white blonde and an aristocratic face.

Once or twice she thought she saw him, a glimpse of elegence through the flowing mass of humanity, but it was never him.

Now the only time she saw him was when she was at the ministry for one reason or another. Sometimes their eyes would meet and there would be a flash in those stealy eyes, and for a second his eyes would swim with images of silk and lace and long indian summer nights. But the moment was over before it ever really began just like their summer.

Ron asked sometimes why she went, she would shrug and smile widely, maybe make a joke of re-living her youth. Ron would roll his eyes and dismiss it, leaving her to change into the nice cotton dress that he always liked. It was a cool blue, and it reminded Hermione of tea cups her grandmother used to own.

She never wore silks or lace any more, Ron didnt see the point in wasting money on such things and Hermione didnt push it.

Though late at night when she couldnt sleep, when she sat at the open window and let the cool summer air float around her like a halo, she would caress the slip of silk, let her fingers trace the intricate pattern of the lace as the gentle silk ran across her fingers. And she would close her eyes and ignore Rons snoring, and the sound of the wind blowing through the trees, and instead imaging the sounds of the city late at night far below her.

At night she would dream of long summer nights, a pulsating crowd moving around her like an extension of herself, strong arms around her waist and whiskey soaked breath whispering nonsensical things in her ear. She dreamt of lingering kisses and burning touches across her flesh as she moved over sheets like water, cool to the touch but warmed with their passion.

Ron never understood her feverish dreams, or the nights where she would sit late staring into the distance as though in another world.

She had changed so much since that summer, her body was now frail and old, her skin wrinkled and her hair had lightened to a gentle grey. The only thing that remained of the innocent, exuberant young woman who had spent long nights in bed with her enemy was her warm chocolate eyes.

She dreamt sometimes of their last night together, dreamt that they had run away together and remained to this day, young, beautiful figures moving to a primal beat, hidden away in a haze of warmth and passion.

A/N Done. Its almost like watching a child grow up and leave. This story has been so long in the making (damn writers blocks... more like writers brickwalls, with high security systems and razor wire all around it...) but now that its finished I dont really know what to do. I might work on my idea "My Heroin Girl" but maybe not just yet.

Anyway, thank you so much all of you that have stuck with this story, it means the world to me to know that it is still loved and people find it special.

Please, review. I really want to know what you think of it.