A/N: Damn you, returning interest in an arbitrary non-HP fandom.

Hermione POV

"Spencer, there's something I've been meaning to tell you."

He smiled across the diner table at me. Spencer looked so happy, and I felt right awful, knowing I was about to ruin everything we'd worked toward. "What is it?"

"I have some things to attend to back in England." The smile faded from his face. "I wouldn't go back unless I knew I absolutely had to, but it's sort of an emergency. A permanent emergency." The look of complete expressionlessness disappeared and was replaced with a frown.

"So you're breaking up with me?" Well, that was pretty blunt.

I bit my lip. "I... I guess so. Yeah." If I wasn't, I should have been. The 'permanent emergency' was my impending marriage to Ron. I'd been a complete fool and, convinced I was in love, had agreed to an Unbreakable Vow that should we both survive the war both mentally and physically, Ron and I would marry within a year. I'd run off to America right after the war and had pushed my self-imposed time limit to an entire year and a half (after I fell in what I believed to be actual love with a young Muggle named Spencer Reid), but I was beginning to feel drained and rather ill, and I knew it had to do with the Vow. I had to marry Ron soon, or I'd die. And I didn't much care for the idea of dying.

"What do you have to do in England? What kind of emergency is it?"

"Well, I have to go to a friend's wedding. Then I have work to do." Both of these things were true- I had to attend Ron's wedding (I was going to be the bride, after all) as well as Harry and Ginny's, and I desperately wanted to get started with my Auror training. The boys were already a year ahead of me with theirs! I always liked justice and a challenge, and being an Auror was a wonderful opportunity that would provide me with both. "Top-secret work. I probably shouldn't even tell you I'm leaving, but I wouldn't be able to stand you thinking I'd just up and left for no good reason."

"That makes a lot of sense, Hermione." Lovely. Spencer was starting to get irritated. "You don't want me to hate you for leaving me for no reason, but you can't give me a straight reason. Yes, you're being incredibly reasonable right now."

"I really, honestly can't. There's a very slim chance that we'll encounter each other again, and an even slimmer chance that I'll be able to tell you what's going on if we do see each other. I really hope I can tell you all about this someday; I don't like keeping secrets from people I love." That was the truth, definitely. It absolutely killed me. "However, it's very unlikely that such a situation will arise."

He made a face, and I knew that he knew that I was upset- Spencer had figured out a long time ago that I started talking even more quickly than usual and began using more complex phrasing than necessary when I was upset. "Hermione, can you please tell me-"

"No, I can't." I had to get out of there before he coerced me into telling him all about the magical world; if I ever told Spencer I could cast magical spells, he'd have me committed to the same institution as his mother. At least I'd get a daily letter.

I slid out of my side of the little booth, laid a few dollars on the table to cover my portion of the bill, and turned on my heel to leave. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to look directly into Spencer's eyes. He leaned forward and kissed me, a hot passionate kiss like none we'd ever shared. I found myself kissing back and had to pull away. I saw the disappointment etched into his features.

"I love you, Spencer, but I have to go." I was on the verge of tears, and I really didn't want to have an emotional breakdown in the middle of a fifties-style diner with some middle-aged waitress with a lazy eye and a stained apron staring over the bar at me. "Please, just let me go in peace. You're not exactly making it easy."

And he let go.

Ten years later

"'Mione!" Harry called, barging into my office. "The DM wants you to help them work a case with the FBI. Serial killer's aiming for Muggle-born witches; all the victims have been around our age. You up for it?"

I smiled. "When am I not up for it?"

"That's my girl," he replied, patting my back a couple times. Some would find it grim or morbid to smile at cases like this, but if you can't grin and think of how you're going to catch the bad guy, you have to focus on the fact there are bad guys, and that just screws you up. It's easier and healthier to be happy. "You all right? You've been acting kind of odd lately. You aren't sick or something, are you?"

"I'm fine." I wasn't fine. "I just didn't get much sleep last night." That was true; I'd finally fallen asleep around three, only to have my alarm blare at six-thirty. At least the coffee maker was working. "I think I just had too much coffee yesterday afternoon." Though I probably had had too much coffee, my excessive caffeine high wasn't the reason I hadn't been able to fall asleep, and I knew it. The night before had been the ten-year anniversary of the night I left Spencer sitting alone in that diner in Las Vegas. This time of year, I always wondered what he was up to.

I'd wiggled through my loophole eight years before- I'd married Ronald, so I could divorce him just as easily- but I could never bring myself to attempt to contact Spencer. He probably hated my guts. He probably never wanted to speak to me again. Not to mention he'd gone completely under the radar. I couldn't find the man's information anywhere. His records had disappeared around the same time Ron and I had divorced, which was incredibly upsetting at the time. It was still upsetting, of course, but over the years I'd learned to fully numb the part of my heart that still belonged to him.

"Whatever you say," Harry muttered, not quite believing me. Harry was the only person I'd told about Spencer, and I wouldn't be surprised if he- Harry, I mean- had made the connection. "Pack your bags. Your flight leaves at six."

"Ugh, do I have to fly?" I loathed airports. Still do. They're a major pain in the arse- always crowded and loud. Why fly when I could Apparate?

"Yes, you do. The FBI was kind enough to buy you a ticket; the least you could do is take the flight."

"We should really make some rule about asking for preferred method of transportation before assigning cases," I grumbled, and Harry snorted.

"You didn't seem too angry about the policy when Ron had to fly out to Chile last week to interview Luciano. By the way, do you know if he ever turned his paperwork for that back in? I need it."

I smiled overly-sweetly. "That's because it was Ron. And no, I haven't a clue whether or not he's brought back his paperwork. I'd guess that he hasn't."

"What makes you say that?"

"When does Ron ever bring his papers in on time?"

"Point taken."

Spencer POV

"We're bringing in a liaison from the British government to help us out with this case, guys." I raised an eyebrow. Why did Hotch think we needed some British guy to help us solve a down-south murder streak? "She's been working with the Department of Magic for quite some-"

"Wait, the Department of what?" I interrupted. I glanced around at the others to see if they were as confused as I was; they were.

"You heard me right. The Department of Magic."

"I swear, Hotch, your sense of humor's... that wasn't funny, that was just stupid," Morgan threw in. "I know you're not the funniest guy in the world, but that was awful even for you, man."

Hotch seemed unprepared for that reaction. I began to wonder how much trauma he'd suffered over the years and tried to figure out who would pay for it if he were placed in a mental institution. His insurance? But what if he stopped paying for insurance?

"What would it take to prove to you that this isn't a joke?"

"I dunno, levitate someone," Emily said, grinning a little. "As long as nobody else here is in on it, I'm pretty sure it'd be hard to fake that. But really, Hotch, what'd you call us in here for? You find something good?"

Hotch coughed, then pulled a slender, carefully engraved stick out of his inner jacket pocket. He pointed it at Rossi, muttered a phrase in what sounded like Latin, and smiled as Rossi started to rise into the air, up out of his seat. "This prove anything?"

"Wh- what the hell are you doing? How are you doing this? Put me down!"

"I'm levitating you. With magic. I'm not putting you down until everyone's on the same page about magic."

"Put me down, Hotch, or I'll shoot you!" Hotch's eyes widened a little, but he relaxed quickly. "Hotch, put me the hell down!"

As the stick was lowered, so was Rossi. As soon as he was within reach of his chair, Rossi grabbed for the arms and gripped them tightly, attempting to pull himself. Hotch must have stopped whatever it was he doing, because Rossi dropped immediately after he got a hold on the chair.

"Believe me now?"

I nodded without a word.

Hermione POV

"Call me if you need any back-up. This guy is clearly dangerous, even if it turns out to not be Greyback; I don't want you going in without other Aurors if you don't feel safe doing it." Harry still hadn't let me out of his embrace, and I was beginning to wonder if he was reluctant to send me back out into the field. My last mission hadn't gone well; I'd been Crucio'd several times throughout the course of the investigation, something that had brought me back to the war days. Harry had put me through actual therapy after that little mishap.

"I will, but I doubt I'll need it. I'll have the BAU behind me the entire time."

He stepped back, finally separating himself from me. "Hermione, guns are no use against wizards. You know that." He was frowning. "Don't be reckless like last time. I don't want you to start having flashbacks. Do you remember what it was like after the battles were through? You were crying. Every night. Don't try and bullshit me, 'Mione, Ginny told me." I closed my mouth. He'd just rendered my entire defense useless. "And then you just ran off after you graduated. We thought you'd died for a long time. We had no clue what had happened to you. I don't want to lose you. I don't even want to think I could possibly have misplaced you. Promise me you'll be safe, Hermione."

I bit my lip. "That's a promise I don't think I can make, Harry."

"Please? For me?"

"I really can't. You know as well as I do that cases are unpredictable."

He sighed dramatically. "I tried," he murmured, more to himself than to me. "Don't get hurt too bad. Call for back-up whenever you think I'd want you to. Patronus or cell, either's fine. And for Merlin's sake, try and relax. You work too much."

"Harry James Potter, I am attempting to catch a serial killer, and not just any old serial killer- it may well be Fenrir Greyback. I don't see anything even remotely fun or relaxing about this situation, besides maybe killing the bastard."

"I'm just saying maybe you could go out for dinner and drinks, or get some good books in. Reading is fun, right?"

I grinned at his efforts. "Yes, reading's fun. Now hurry up and tell me good-bye so I can get on my flight and catch that homicidal maniac."

.-:-. .-:-. .-:-. .-:-. .-:-.

I hate flying. I hate flying. I hate flying. Doesn't matter if it's a broom or a plane or a helicopter. I. Hate. Flying. After a lengthy overnight flight across the Atlantic, a switch to another plane, a three-hour delay, and another plane switch, I was finally in Nashville, Tennessee, home of country music and, apparently, at least one Pureblood supremacist. Harry had said the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit would be waiting for me in downtown Nashville. I hailed a cab and gave him the name of the address of the Nashville police station. It was a very quick drive and I realized with dismay that I could have walked it. Oh, well.

I handed him the money with no small amount of reluctance. "You have a good day, ma'am," the taxi driver said, grinning cheekily as he swung the cab out of the side lane and sped back into the main road, carelessly running a red light in his glee.

"Excuse me," a male voice said behind me, and I jumped about a foot and a half into the air. I turned around to see a stocky man with a deep tan staring me down, a lopsided smile gracing his features. "Hermione Granger?"

"One of few." I stuck my hand out and he easily took it. The man had a firm, confident grip, and I assumed he was a member of the BAU. "And you are?"

"Agent David Rossi." He pulled his badge, quickly showing his identification. "The rest of the team is waiting for us in a conference room."

–

When one enters a room, it is human nature to examine the faces of the other people in said room- it's an action that was hammered into our brains thousands of years ago as a tool for survival. As I am human, I examined the faces of the other agents as I entered the conference room behind Agent Rossi. I was cool, calm, and collected until my eyes met those of a familiar face.

I was shocked- absolutely floored- to see Spencer Reid sitting at the table in that conference room, clutching a few file folders tightly, but I tried not to show it. I felt the skin on my face warm and prayed to God, probably fruitlessly, that I wasn't blushing too horribly. My eyes fell to the floor, as I suddenly found the design on the carpet extremely interesting.

"This is Auror Hermione Granger," said the middle-aged man sitting at the head of the table. I recognized him as Agent Hotchner- we'd spoken briefly in the past. "She's a liaison between magical and Muggle governments. She's also sent around the world to help investigate when foreign agencies believe they may have a British magical terrorist on their hands."

The black man sitting next to Spencer dropped the pen he'd been toying with. "So you think we're dealing with a British magical terrorist."

"Exactly," Hotchner said. "To be specific, I think we're dealing with Fenrir Greyback. Auror Granger, if you'd explain some of his history to them, that would be great."

"I trust Agent Hotchner explained to you about the war against Voldemort?" The agents nodded, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank Merlin. "Fenrir Greyback wasn't a true Death Eater. We believe this was because Voldemort didn't believe him to be pure enough to bear the Dark Mark, the magical tattoo all Death Eaters received on their left forearms. However, he did do a lot of Voldemort's dirty work, particularly when it came to disposing of bodies. Greyback is a werewolf, but even when it isn't his time of the month, he attacks humans with his teeth and fingernails. Well, they're so untrimmed they shouldn't really be called nails; they're more claw-like than anything else." I noticed the woman to Spencer's right fail to repress a shudder. "Anyways, he kills and sometimes eats human beings. He particularly likes to prey upon children. A close of friend of mine was a victim of Greyback's, and he was a werewolf from age seven until the day he died at age forty-eight. Greyback liked to, er, have his way with children before he bit or mauled them. Most of his prepubescent victims, including the males, were found nude. Many of them needed rape kits."

"So, basically, this guy is a major threat to civilized society?" Spencer- rather, Agent Reid- asked. He had to recognize me, he just had to, but if he did, he wasn't showing it.

"Yes. Greyback also may have a serious grudge. He held me hostage during the war and was threatening to do all sorts of things when a few friends rescued me. This isn't in any official case files, and I would appreciate it if it never made it into any. I believe Greyback may be targeting the types of women he is in order to take out his frustrations at not having killed me when he could have."

"You think he would do that?" the black man asked.

"Yeah, I do, or I wouldn't have mentioned it," I said, a bit irritated at the question. Why the hell would I have brought it up if I didn't think it was pertinent to the case? "Greyback is a sick, sadistic bastard. He is a rapist and a pedophile. He gives all werewolves a terrible name. He needs to be imprisoned or killed, one or the other. My boss has forbidden me from telling you to kill him on sight, but as of yet, nobody's forbidden you from doing so. Just mentioning that."

The edge of Spencer's lips tipped upwards. Good to know he still found me amusing. But did he recognize me? Fuck, that was all I needed to know!

Spencer POV

It couldn't possibly be Hermione Granger. Hermione had disappeared from my life eight years ago- not that I was keeping too close a count- and, as she had said, the chances were slim we would ever encounter each other again.

"This is Auror Hermione Granger." Fuck. Not to mention I had absolutely no clue what an Auror was, or what one did for a living.

I listened carefully to what she had to say, occasionally throwing out a question that seemed appropriate, all the while focusing on being emotionally distanced from the situation at hand. I'd been in the FBI for years- I knew how to keep a poker face. I began to wonder if she remembered me, and if she remembered that last kiss as well as I did. I really hoped she did.

"What do you think, Reid?" Morgan asked, elbowing me in the ribs.

"Could you repeat the question?" I asked, eyebrows high, eyes darting around the room.

Hermione laughed and my eyes flew to her face. "There was no question. Agent Morgan was trying to figure out if you were sleeping with your eyes open or not. Meeting's over."

I glanced around, slowly this time, and noticed that the meeting was indeed over. Apparently I had been concentrating- without success- so much on remaining distant that the entire briefing had gone by without me noticing. I hoped nothing too important had been said.

Hermione POV

I decided to risk it while we were exiting the conference room. Morgan had wandered out much more quickly than Spencer and I, so we were alone.

"Er, Spencer? I mean, Agent Reid?"

He looked up quickly. "Yes?"

I felt my face flush. "I, uh, I don't know if you remember me, but-"

"Hermione Granger," he interrupted. "It's not like I could forget."

"Oh. Well, I suppose not." This was uncomfortable.

"Does this count as a situation in which I can be told what exactly the hell was going on eight years ago, or does it need to get a little weirder first?"

I grinned. "I think this is weird enough. Much more, and I think you'd need therapy. Should I fill you in over dinner?"

Spencer paused before replying, and I was sure he was going to decline. That had been rather bold of me. "Sure. What are you in the mood for?"

Morgan POV

"Where'd Reid scamper off to?" Prentiss asked over the table. We were eating dinner in the dingy, poorly-lit hotel restaurant tucked into the corner of the first story. I was beginning to think the lights were only so low so that you couldn't see how awful the food was. "They don't have a library here, do they? God knows we'll never see him again."

"No, they don't. I actually saw him getting into a cab with Granger earlier. From what I overheard, they're going for dinner."

Her jaw dropped. "You are so full of it."

I raised my hands in defense. "Not this time. Trust me, I was as surprised as you. It sounded like they knew each other a while back, way before this case."

"That makes a little more sense, I guess. I can't picture Reid chasing after some girl he's just met, especially a brand-new coworker. Think they knew each other well?"

I snickered. "You could ask them when they get back. Be sure to imply it's the Biblical sense- I bet Reid would love it."

Hermione POV

"Why did you leave?"

I looked up, startled. "Jesus, Spencer. Let me at least get something to drink first."

Spencer rolled his eyes a little. "Fine." I could hear his feet tapping impatiently under the table as I perused the menu at an exceptionally leisurely pace. I wasn't unsure of what to say to his questions; I'd been contemplating this day for years, afraid of what would happen if- or, it had felt, when- I saw him again. I had long ago come to the conclusion that I would tell him the truth, of course.

After ordering our beverages and taking a moment to gather my thoughts, I told him he had free reign: whatever questions he could think to ask that night, I would answer. "Why did you leave?" he repeated immediately. I was unsurprised by his first choice.

"I was engaged," I replied simply. His jaw dropped. "I didn't want to be, and shortly afterwards, our marriage was annulled. There's a sort of magical promise-" I broke off, trying to remember the earliest explanation I had been given, the simplest version, free of the wisps of green smoke slithering up your arms and all that nonsense. "Do you know how small children will make pinky-promises, as though those are worth more?" Spencer nodded. "An Unbreakable Vow is sort of like one of those- you make a vow, and if you break it, you die. I was a melodramatic teenager," I rushed to explain, "in the middle of a war, convinced that I was- we were- in love and that this was a reasonable way to express that."

"Why didn't you come back?"

"I couldn't find you." Another relatively simple answer. "I suppose that's about when you joined the Burrow and tried to live a bit off the record."

"Yes," he murmured, "I'd hate being harassed by criminals with the ability to search a phone book."

–

Later, after a long night of discussion and reminiscing, he walked me to my hotel room door. "Well," I said, "I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early." He gave an uncomfortable wave, hovering next to me, seemingly unable to leave even if I knew he was simply unwilling; I felt the same. I'd just found him again, just begun to tell him my story and to hear his- why couldn't we have all night?