Author's Note:

This story is inspired by and loosely follows the narrative arc of Katy Perry's The One That Got Away. I strongly encourage you to listen to the song before reading… it will get you in that proper nostalgic place, filled with longing, regret, and a dash of romantic angst. ;)

It was while writing this fic in an obsessive haze over one weekend that I realized fanfiction can help us work through our own past in ways that so many of the other usual remedies fall short. I'm not sure at what point I realized this story was my own- altered, but mine. And today I am shaking free demons that have haunted me for nearly a decade because I wrote, and I didn't stop writing until it was finished.

This story started as a one shot, but it got a bit too long and will be published in two parts.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Katy Perry... though I'd probably have ultimate cosmic power if I did.

Hermione stared at the empty dance floor with unseeing eyes. She sat primly in her seat, gloved hands folded in her lap. An elegant cream and gold ball gown swished pleasantly around her ankles as she crossed them under her chair.

God, she was bored.

The warm candlelight and blended murmuring of several hundred voices wasn't helping keep her awake, either. How many of these Ministry galas had she attended over the last year? Ever since she'd published her newest textbook supporting the integration of Dark concepts- theory, not application- in Healer training at St. Mungo's, she was a celebrity again. Surprise, controversy generated widespread popularity. But she'd learned that as a child.

The band tuned their instruments delicately to notify guests they were about to begin their after dinner set. The low strain of strings undercut the conversation in the room. There was a stir in the crowd.

Hermione glanced over at Ron, who was slouched down in his chair, his bowtie already loosened and a bottle of Bungbarrel Spiced Mead at his lips. One hand was hooked in his robe pocket casually. He was chatting with Seamus Finnigan, who'd been seated at their table as well.

Forcing a playful smile onto her face, she leaned over and touched his knee lightly. "Ron, it looks like the band is getting ready to start." She ran one finger up his thigh. "What do you say… lady's choice?" She was doing her best. She was flirting with him, for Merlin's sake. Hermione could count the number of times she had flirted on one hand.

But God… it was an effort.

Ron shot her a good-natured smile. "Have I ever danced at these things, Mione?" He returned easily to his conversation with Seamus about Quidditch.

And that was that.

She sat back stiffly, sighing internally. Another gala, another night forcing a look of polite interest as she watched the traditional Old Blood dances. She glanced down at herself, recognizing the time and effort she'd taken with her appearance had been wasted.

At the thought, a faint sense of guilt washed over her. That wasn't fair. She touched her sleek french twist self-consciously. Ron always loved how she styled her hair for these events. "Smart and put together," were his words, as he flashed the boyish grin she'd always adored.

It was just too early in the evening for her to be this bored. And a little restless. And thirsty. She needed another glass of wine.

She'd taken to red wine a bit more than normal lately.

With another look at Ron, she decided it'd be best not to interrupt him. She slid out of her chair and made her way through the crowd of guests beginning to stand and move toward the dance floor. Glancing behind her, she observed that he hadn't noticed her departure. Good. Let him visit with Seamus for awhile longer.

The further she got from the table, the more the tension in her chest eased slightly. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. No reason to be so dour. She'd noticed Parvati Patil-Macmillan earlier, and she knew Neville and Luna were there tonight, as well. She had plenty of opportunity for good conversation with old friends. Harry and Ginny had an excuse to skip out, of course- seeing as they were expecting their second child any day now.

"Thanks," she told the bartender with a smile as he handed her a glass of merlot. Drifting it beneath her nose, she inhaled the rich, earthy scent deeply. Turning around, she searched the crowd for a familiar face.

And that was when she saw him. She froze, her wine glass at her lips. Slowly, her arm lowered as she stared outright.

He was in a small group clustered together on the other side of the dance floor. His platinum blonde hair stood out in the crowd, though he was wearing it differently now. It was cut a little shorter and tousled stylishly. He had one hand tucked in his pocket and held a glass of champagne with the other.

He was chuckling as he listened attentively to the Minister. She instantly remembered the first time she'd prompted that easy, charming grin. That smile had been the tipping domino that would soon after topple everything she had thought she'd known about him. The memory alone seemed to tip another domino deep within her.

He looked good. She could tell even at a distance that he'd filled out a bit, but he looked solid, not soft. His shoulders were broader, and his upper arms nearly strained against the fabric of his tailored dress robes.

Her mouth was dry. Was this the first time she'd seen him in all these years…? Surely not. What should she do? Should she approach him- say hello? There was a foreign fluttering somewhere beneath her ribcage at the thought.

And then she noticed her. Tucked near his side was a willowy, raven-haired beauty who looked vaguely familiar. Hermione's stomach hardened into a knot as she stared at the woman in shock. His companion was stunning and perfectly made up, with satiny, straight black hair that fell past her shoulders in piles. Hermione swallowed some long buried pang of inappropriate jealousy. She hadn't heard…

She watched in dismay as Malfoy's free hand absently grazed the nape of the woman's neck above her backless gown. It trailed downward slowly, almost sensually, finally resting in the small of her back. She watched with morbid fascination as his fingertips curled slightly, grazing the woman's creamy, alabaster skin.

It had been ten years, but in that moment, it was as though no time at all had passed. Hermione remembered every sensation his hands on her skin provoked. She could feel his long fingers ghosting over her bare back; her stomach clenched tight like it hadn't in years, and the wave of longing that followed was so intense she nearly doubled over. Thank Godric he was occupied in conversation. She wore her longing all over her face, and even after ten years, she knew he would be able to read her like a book from across the room.

As she stood alone in the middle of a bustling ballroom, she wanted nothing more than to roll back the clock all those years so she might be able to change one moment. She knew the exact one. Just a single moment in the history of time- one she had not known would set the course of her future. That moment was all that she lacked and all that she yearned for.

To have that night back. To change the outcome of their last argument. To say just one more, vitally important thing before he left, slamming the door behind him. That harsh sound resonated through the chambers of her memory, and she blinked away a sudden blurriness.

Her longing crawled through her stomach and up into her lungs as she watched his hand turn a slow circle on the young woman's lower back. While the pain was practically debilitating, there was something achingly sweet about the memory sweeping through her of his hands on her bare skin. It seared her even still, across the gaping distance these long years had driven between them.

Was it so grandiose, to alter just one, solitary moment in all of history?

Ten years before.

It was the summer after Hogwarts when they first met.

Or rather, when they met again.

Hermione was working part time at Flourish and Blotts while attempting to sort herself out after the war. It had been five months and she still had no idea what came next. She knew she wanted to take her NEWTs, and so she was completing her seventh year coursework by owl, but she didn't have a clue what came after.

For over a year, she hadn't trusted herself to think about or hope for an "after."

Harry and Ron had both dismissed the idea of sitting for their exams with a laugh. For Harry, it was the thought of returning to a place that had been home for so long but now held countless memories of death and destruction. He wouldn't say it, but she knew he still blamed himself for the War. Ron on the other hand had never cared one bit for school and had jumped at Kingsley's offer to join a small cohort of old DA members training to be junior aurors.

And really, neither of the boys had the discipline for self-directed learning.

Hermione pushed herself to her feet as the bell above the door dinged. It was a Tuesday in November and the store had been nearly empty all day. Dust motes floated lazily in the warm, mid-afternoon light as she turned.

Him. He stood just inside the doorway, a defensive sneer on his face as he eyed her through narrowed lids. His sudden reappearance in her life startled her momentarily. It had been at least three months since she'd last seen him, and that at a distance in the large courtroom. August, was it, or July?

"Granger. What a surprise," his voice dripped with disdain. "That Hogwarts education is going to good use, I see. Saving the universe one book at a time?"

His words had no effect on her anymore.

"Still as pleasant as always." She arched her eyebrows at him. "As your saleswoman, I am obligated to ask how I can help you." She held no remaining traces of disgust or anger toward him- her testimony at his trial had been the turning point for that- but she had no reason to be nice.

Malfoy hesitated, his sneer deepening. She had always hated the way that ugly look marred his otherwise handsome face.

And then suddenly it fell away, replaced briefly by a flash of uncertainty, and finally, an impenetrable mask. "I don't need your help."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course you don't. You can show yourself around then." Not sparing a moment, she turned back to the new box of books she was shelving.

Malfoy wandered the store for nearly an hour, gliding silently from one aisle to the next. Hermione had actually forgotten he was there when he finally huffed impatiently from a circular display nearby. She jumped.

He smirked. "Startle easily?"

She glared at him. "What are you still doing here, Malfoy? Buy something or get out."

"Now, now. Is that good customer service?"

She glanced pointedly at the small gift item he was gripping tightly in his hands. "Will that be all?"

He wrinkled his nose at the trite book of poetry and set it back down. "Fine. I'm looking for something in particular. Why doesn't anyone else work here?"

She moved briskly toward the register where she would be able to sort through their master catalog for his query. "It's 2:53pm on a Tuesday. The weather is unseasonably lovely. What do you think?"

"It was a rhetorical question," he replied through gritted teeth.

She now stood at the catalog, her back to him. "Title?" she asked, with a backwards glance.

He hesitated again. She recognized the same flash of uncertainty as before. It sparked her curiosity.

And his next words set it aflame.

"Muggle Theory and History."

"What?" she breathed.

Behind her, he closed his eyes, wanting more than anything to melt into the ground, or to apparate, or just to leave. Damn the swotty Gryffindor to hell. "And an application. I need a job application."

Over the next month, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy learned that apart from blood and upbringing and personal preference on most classic literature, they were more alike than they were different.

They were each wickedly sharp and opinionated, for one. His first few weeks had been torture for them both as he grumbled and complained at being forced by the Ministry to take an "utterly useless and insulting job, don't they know who I am" as a requirement for his parole. But soon their bickering moved from schoolyard grievances and the weekend schedule to things like their favorite classes in school and the ethics of studying Dark magic for Healing.

One day, Hermione found herself engaged in a fiery argument over whether Jane Austen or Charlotte Bronte was the better 19th century female novelist. She realized with a start that while Malfoy relied on his feigned boredom and arrogance, and she gave herself entirely to her passions, their banter was rather entertaining. It made her very uncomfortable.

Hermione would analyze this later as she tried to fall asleep. Their personalities should have been like oil and water, but in that day's battle of the wits, it had just worked. She didn't understand it, but as she lay in bed that night staring at the ceiling, she decided she liked arguing with him. It sparked more of her curiosity.

And why had Malfoy of all people read Austen and Bronte anyway?

From that day forward, something shifted between the two rivals.

They began to make casual assumptions about the other in passing conversation. Their arguments were overlaid with knowing glances and subtly playful jests. And oddly enough, their work schedules somehow began to align.

Hermione didn't realize what was happening. All she knew was that this qualified as one of the handful of times she'd kept a secret from her two best friends and not felt guilty.

Draco saw what was happening a mile away. All he knew was that she was unlike any girl he had ever known. And that terrified him.

"Granger, your hair is particularly atrocious today," he complained one day as they leaned over the counter together at the front register. Her thick, fluffy curls seemed to defy gravity. They had somehow drifted toward him and were clinging to his shoulder.

She cocked her head toward him and flashed him an amused grin. "You could move, you know." She nudged him with her elbow. "You don't have a customer at the moment, but I need to get this purchase order finished."

There was a tingling on his arm where she had grazed him.

His grey eyes locked on hers. Her smile faded slightly when he failed to respond.

Truly and honestly against his will, his hand rose to her jawline. He gently tugged on the rogue curl and tucked it behind her ear. As he smoothed it down, his fingertips seemed to linger a beat too long on her earlobe before returning to the counter. "I could move. But I fancy my current spot, thank you."

Hermione blushed and looked back down at her ledger. She couldn't force the small smile from her lips. "I suppose you're stuck then. I think I might fancy my spot, too."

It wasn't long at all before their tentative friendship morphed into something more.

Malfoy took two weeks off at Christmas to vacation with his mother and aunt in southern France. It was somewhere on Day Three that she realized she missed him. She moped around the shop sullenly. She poked at her dinner silently when she visited the Burrow. Even Harry could barely muster a smile from her. Her friends had no idea what was wrong, but they made sure to include her in all their holiday plans to keep her spirits up.

On December 31, Draco showed up at the end of her shift in designer jeans and a dark grey button-down shirt. A rough 5 o'clock shadow lined his jaw.

When she saw him standing at the counter in Muggle clothes, she lost her breath.

He asked her if she'd join him for New Year's Eve. She said yes without a moment's hesitation, easily forgetting her plans with Harry, Ron, and Ginny. Pleasantly surprised, he smiled at her for the first time- a charming, crooked grin, utterly disarming in its sweet openness- and said she would have to trust him. The words spilled from his lips casually, teasing, which was startling. More startling was that at his childlike smile, she already did.

They apparated to a trailhead in southern Wiltshire and hiked through the woods to a cliffside overlooking a wide valley. Once there, he took her up on his broom, her trembling hands gripping the thin stick of wood as he rose slowly to help her acclimate to the height. They sat side by side swinging their legs and talking for over an hour about past holidays and their favorite winter memories before the fireworks suddenly came to life around them as the clock struck midnight.

"Oh!" she cried as she jumped slightly. The broom shook.

"Startle easily?" he asked with a grin, placing a steadying hand on the small of her back. She glanced away in embarrassment. When she turned back a second later with a retort on her lips, his hand moved down to her hip and slid her toward him.

She was still facing him, his hand still on her hip. Their gaze searched one another's, their warm breath mingling in the cold air between them. The colorful, popping fireworks reflected on their faces and in their eyes.

His touch was burning through her robe, and she suddenly realized she had known this would happen all along. She had wanted it for weeks, more than anything else, and she hadn't been able to admit it to herself.

"It's my favorite holiday tradition. My mother would bring me here every year when I was a child, before Hogwarts. There's a small Muggle village to the east that has put on this show for the valley every year for over 20 years." They glanced together in the direction he was pointing. He paused. "My father would never come."

There was something meaningful in his tone. He was saying something else, as well- something more. I am not my father.

"It's almost magical. A Wiltshire secret- a gift to the lonely farmers in the valley." He spoke softly, almost reverently. His words hung in the air. "Maybe there's a sort of beauty in hidden things." He gazed down at her carefully, searching her eyes for something she couldn't place.

She didn't think she agreed with him, but it was hard to formulate her thoughts just at that moment. His eyes were steel warmed over a fire. She parted her lips to say something, but he leaned in closer and then his mouth was on hers and she forgot the words.

Kissing him was like lightning sparking in her veins and smooth dark chocolate on her tongue all at once. A low sound in the back of his throat rolled forward into hers and seemed to vibrate through her entire being. He ravaged her mouth in a way she had never been kissed before, sucking her full lower lip between his and biting gently. She felt her blood begin to roil hotly.

Then the delicate strains of a familiar song enveloped them, closer and more intimate than the booming fireworks above. She paused and pulled back to catch the lyrics.

"In a town full of rubber plans

To get rid of itself…"

"Your favorite song," Draco murmured, suddenly self conscious. "You play this in the store at least once a week, and you know all the damn words. It's bloody sad, can't figure out why you like it so much, but what the hell."

A deep hunger for him began to build in her stomach. "It's beautiful because it's so honest and true," she whispered. "Like you. It's perfect."

She lifted a hand to graze his prominent cheekbones with her fingertips. Her thumb outlined his chiseled jaw. "God, you are so beautiful. I love the stubble."

"I'll make you take back your words," he growled lowly, his eyes flashing with a matching hunger. He lowered his mouth to her neck, scratching his jaw and his wet mouth along her collarbone. Her breath was more shallow now as the friction ignited a flame just under her skin.

She was suddenly scrambling to be closer, pressing her body flush against his- the fireworks still playing on his pale skin like colored shadows- the slow, reflective music wrapping around them. The broom tipped slightly, sending her tumbling into his lap. Her hands were on his shoulders, his neck, his cheeks, in his hair. His hands ghosted lightly against her skin under the hem of her shirt. She drew in a sharp breath and arched her back. Everywhere he touched was on fire.

"She looks like the real thing

She tastes like the real thing

My fake plastic love…"

Somewhere on the ground beneath them, Ron's jack terrier patronus ran in circles, yipping at the sky with an angry message from her friend. She'd stood him up and now he was all alone on New Year's Eve with Harry and Ginny, a miserable third wheel.

She never saw it. She wouldn't have given it a second thought if she had.

They made out on his broom, to Radiohead.

Their secret affair was a flame that caught fire to a parched forest. They spent every spare moment together and could barely keep their hands off one another at the bookstore.

Twice they were almost caught in the back storeroom in the midst of toppled supplies. In each instance, Draco barely had time to throw a "Colloportus" at the door before their manager rattled the handle. They chuckled breathlessly as they rapidly restacked paper towels and flattened their hair.

Once they were almost caught by a customer in the dim Maladies and Memory Spells section where he had her pressed against a bookshelf they were supposed to be re-sorting. Hermione barely had time to shove him away and straighten the hem of her shirt before an elderly woman came sneezing around the corner. They fiddled wittlessly with the books on opposite sides of the aisle, but Malfoy shot her a stern look behind the woman's back as she passed between them. Granger grinned, deftly correcting the misaligned buttons near the bottom of her blouse.

They argued constantly.

During stolen moments before work taking breakfast in her flat, they argued over politics and public opinion as they browsed their shared copy of the Prophet while she sat in his lap.

At work, they argued over what they were reading. They were now reading the same books, which made that infinitely easier.

After work, they ate takeaway in the dark as they sat cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom and argued in a whisper about what would happen if their families met.

But they also laughed. Draco was sure he had never laughed as much in his life as he had since they'd found one another.

She teased him unceasingly about his pureblood upbringing- the outdated rituals and traditions, the expectations of both cultured restraint and relentless ambition, his overly aristocratic table manners. She teased him about his pompous expressions and the way he held himself ("It's called good posture- you should get some," he retorted each and every time, which dissolved her into laughter for some reason.) She teased him about his custom hair gel and his tailored robes and his dragonskin loafers.

He on the other hand, had not been raised to delight in ridiculous things as she had. So instead he complained, which he had been raised to do.

He complained about her superhuman ability to recall anything she'd read at a moment's notice. He complained about her chicken scratch handwriting and the torn bits of scribbled parchment he found jammed in all of her books. He complained about her sentimental heart. And he complained most ardently about her atrocious hair, as he wound her curls around his fists where they lay on the rug in front of his bedroom hearth.

These were each met with a knowing turn of her lips that always blossomed into a brilliant smile. His complaints were his confessions; the litany of reasons he could not- would not- stay away. She knew this.

Somehow, she brought him back to life.

He'd been bitter and confused after the War, angry at everyone and carrying the weight of his upbringing, his mistakes, and his father's reputation on his shoulders.

He'd been content to wait out his house arrest in London, work the useless damn job, and show up for the Muggle Appreciation night class at the Ministry. Then he was planning to take his wand, go to the summer home in Marseille, and live out his next decade in solitude.

But she was changing that. She was passion and paradox, filled with a fiery tenderness for underappreciated things. The first time she cried in front of him, he'd gotten up and walked straight into her floo. Now her tears twisted something in his chest.

She cried during Muggle movies and Muggle theatre. They spent hours discussing how the shows made her feel. One day he found himself staring at the selection he'd made for their standing movie night- a five-hour version of Pride and Prejudice. He rolled his eyes so hard he got a headache.

She lived with a sense of totally disciplined purpose and that sappy Gryffindor zest for adventure. They could apparate across the United Kingdom as long as he logged it with his Probation Auror, which he had never had one inkling of desire to do. She of course insisted on it. On their days off, they apparated to the cliffs of Dover and Stonehenge ("Wizards," he'd said dismissively and turned away as she stood there gaping at the monolithic stone slabs) and to Sterling Castle and as far north as the Isle of Skye. There she'd had them traipsing about all day, and they had gotten caught in a rainstorm.

Damn it all but she loved to hike. She credited it to her months on the run with the Golden Boys and took him to the Forest of Dean, the Lake District, Cotswold Way. "Apparation might be my favorite form of magic!" she told him happily over her shoulder as he untangled himself from a cobweb on the trail behind her. Malfoy had never owned a pair of trainers in his life, let alone hiking boots.

Indeed, he was more amazed every day at the influence she was having on him.

And with each day, he grew more convinced that she was much too good for him; that she deserved so much more than a reformed Death Eater haunted by nightmares and uneasy stares and self-pity.

Each day, it was becoming harder to ignore that foreign inclination toward selflessness and sacrifice. It warred with his hunger for more of her; he could never give her up.

In mid-April, they were wandering through Diagon Alley late one night after a closing shift, their shoulders, elbows, and hips occasionally brushing as though they simply couldn't keep from touching one another. They had their alibi- if anyone saw them, they'd say they were making a deposit at Gringotts together for work.

But really, they weren't at all concerned. Rather they were feeling the heady effects of their infatuation with one another. When they were together, they were reckless and invincible. When they were together, they needed nothing more than a bottle of wine and a bed. Hell, a bottle of steaming stout and a dark alley would do.

Hermione glanced at the large clocktower at the end of the street. Its hands had just passed midnight.

"It's my birthday," she announced into the silence suddenly, grinning at him. He glanced past her at the clock.

"I see," he said with a slow smile. "And how would you like to celebrate?"

She looked around the empty street with a glint in her eye. The cherry blossom trees had just come into bloom. A smattering of petals skittered across the ground at her feet in a light breeze.

Suddenly her face lit up. She grabbed his hand boldly and pulled him across the empty street.

They stumbled into the small parlor, tangled in each other's arms. They were drunk on one another, and it emboldened them. He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and dropped a kiss just behind her ear. She shivered and beamed up at him as she reached out to tap the bell on the grimy counter.

And on her nineteenth birthday, they got matching tattoos.

In late June, they both passed their NEWTs with flying colors. Hermione insisted it was because of her rigorous study schedule. Draco reminded her how most of their study sessions had ended.

To celebrate, Draco collected a bottle of his father's best aged firewhiskey from the darkened study after his mother had gone to bed and met her on the roof of Malfoy Manor.

"Not like my father will be drinking this any time soon," he stated drily, uncorking it with his teeth and spitting the cork off the edge of the house.

Hermione glanced at him with a frown. "How long is his sentence?" she asked softly. They had never talked about his dad.

He gave her a long look before glancing away and taking a deep draught from the heavy glass bottle. "Life. No Kiss, though. He gave up enough names to ensure that." He grunted darkly and handed her the bottle. "Turning on friends and family to save his own ass. But that's Lucius for you."

She scooted closer as she took it, gazing down into the amber liquid and swirling it thoughtfully. "But that's a good thing, Draco. Those men and women needed to be brought to justice. And his sentence gives him a lot of time to think, doesn't it? Now that Kingsley only has Dementors doing executions. Maybe he'll reform."

He looked at her again, his expression softening. "I doubt it. But you really do believe the best of everyone, don't you?"

She shrugged, finally taking a sip. The spicy whiskey burned on the way down but left a warm, cinnamon aftertaste. "I didn't always. But that was before you. You've taught me a lot about what it means to find the best in people. To hope for something more."

His expression changed briefly into something unreadable. She had learned his typical look of disinterest was nothing more than self protection. He wore his emotions and responses to her in those brief flashes after she spoke.

"And what do you hope for, Granger? What comes next for you? You'll quit the bookshop, I imagine."

She steadied her racing pulse with another swig and handed the bottle back to him. They had never talked about the future. The past seven months had been for them stolen time; a set-apart world where only they existed.

But it was necessary to talk about the future if they were going to make this work somehow.

"Well," she hesitated. "I'm not sure. The NEWT results said I'd do well as a researcher or Healer. It mentioned a particular aptitude for potions, arithmancy, alchemy, and experimental magic."

He nudged her with his shoulder. "Potions, eh? I wonder where you learned that." They had spent countless hours in late winter experimenting in her tiny kitchen before the weather had turned nicer. She blushed as she remembered how many potions they'd burnt because they'd gotten distracted on her countertop.

He went on. "But what do you want to do? Can you really see yourself Healing, working with patients all day, not having any time for your books or writing?" He knew she'd been working on drafts of several essays. Every time she had an idea, she would obsessively neglect meals and sleep to get her thoughts on paper. He'd taken to carrying a bar of chocolate, a pencil, and a bundle of parchment in the pocket of his robes for when the moment called.

She was quiet for so long he thought she hadn't heard his question. He was opening his mouth to repeat himself when she finally answered. "No, I don't think so. You're right about the books and the writing. But besides that, Healing keeps me in one place. I've always been interested in traveling. I think it was the World Cup back in fourth year when I first realized just how many magical cultures I hadn't encountered yet. There's just so much to learn, perhaps new potions ingredients that can be harvested." She gave him a long sideways glance. "How about you?"

He didn't take as long to respond as she had. Clearly, he'd given this some thought. "There's an opening on the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. I'm good at fixing broken spells and navigating mismanaged magic. Learned plenty of that the hard way." He rolled his eyes. "Plus my pureblood upbringing has ensured a certain level of diplomacy. All the better for dealing with Muggle law enforcement." He winked at her.

Her head was spinning with questions. "You would willingly work in a field position with direct Muggle interaction? But what about your potioneering?"

He gave her an amused grin. "Did you really think I cared about that blood purity shite anymore? And potions… that's a hobby. I can tinker in my free time, maybe experiment with what you bring back for me." He nudged her again with a smile and took another sip of the whiskey.

Her heart dropped into her stomach. He seemed so fine with her leaving. "There's an open Healer apprenticeship at St. Mungo's…" she said, trailing off uncertainly. "If you're going to be in London… maybe I should apply for that."

He stared at her in the dark. "Hermione, I would never ask you to stay here for me."

She pressed her leg into his. "But I want to be with you," she whispered. "I don't want this to end. I like us. I think I might love us." She was staring hard at the scuffed tips of her trainers.

He turned to face her, balancing the bottle carefully on the shingles beside him. When she wouldn't look at him, he took her face gently in both of his hands and tipped it up in his direction. She worried her bottom lip as her eyes finally met his.

"I love us, too. But more importantly, I love that you are bloody brilliant and driven and a damn lot braver than I am. If you want to travel, and scratch out notes no one else can read, and crawl around in the jungles of Nepal testing the magical properties of Himalayan cannabis, I will only love you more for it. Just promise me you'll remember to eat."

Her eyes widened. "You love me?"

His heart pounded. "I do." Once again, he suppressed that niggling feeling in his stomach that told him he would have to make a decision soon- a decision that would be for her greater good. A decision that would at last reconcile the months she had spent hiding from and lying to her friends, her parents. A decision she would hate him for.

But tonight, he was too selfish. Tonight, he would tell the truth and damn them to misery later.

"I love you more every single day. I love your insane hair. I love how distracted and negligent about personal hygiene you are when you have an idea." She punched him lightly on the shoulder, but held his gaze, captivated.

He laughed and stroked her nose with one finger. The hand still holding her chin massaged her softly. "I love the way your eyes flash when you're cross at me. I love that our minds seem to work in perfect sync with one another. But most of all, I love that you have brought more passion and heat into my life over the last six months than I've ever experienced before. And I will never stop loving you, not when you beg me to because I'm insufferable and I've lost all my Slytherin mystique to sheer romantic folly."

He leaned down to drop a soft kiss on her lips. Before he could, she held up her finger and blocked his mouth. "Wait," she breathed. "Let me just… seal this moment in my memory. This is a perfect moment." She closed her eyes for a second, and he counted the faint freckles on her eyelids.

"You're a perfect moment," he murmured.

One eye peeked open. "You have no idea what you do to me." She wrapped her arms around his waist and nestled herself closer. "I love you, and I could shout it from the rooftops. I will one day. I'll shout it from this rooftop. Everyone will know how much I adore you, and they can go screw themselves."

Laughing lightly, he dropped a kiss on top of her head.

But inside, his stomach was gnawing at itself with that darkness. He knew what would have to happen. But for tonight, he would be selfish. Selfish. Selfish. Tonight, he would have her for his own and put off the inevitable for another day.

Used to steal your parents' liquor and climb to the roof.

Talk about our future like we had a clue.

Never planned that one day I'd be losing you...