Inspiration for this story was taken from the film Leap Year, though it doesn't follow the plot line exactly. I have taken some creative liberties where the relationship development is concerned (because: magic). Note that as in the movie, there will be a wee bit of infidelity, so if this is not your thing I will not fault you for giving this story a pass :)

My unending gratitude for the alphas and beta who encouraged this story and made it so much better with their suggestions and edits. mcal, LadyKenz347, and In_Dreams are wonderful, amazing, talented friends, and I'm so happy to have their eyes on this piece.

As always, I am not profiting from this work in any way.

I think I felt my heart skip a beat,
I'm standing here and I can hardly breathe,
You got me, yeah,
You got me.
You Got Me, Colbie Caillat

Hermione Granger stared at her bedroom ceiling, breathless and satisfied. A strapping, charismatic Quidditch star lay next to her, not even bothering to hide his naked bits under her twisted, white sheets. Sporting a massive grin on his face, he choked back deep breaths as he ran a hand through his soft, voluminous dirty blond hair. Sex with Cormac McLaggen was always good. Steamy, routine, vanilla sex was exactly what she loved. It wasn't like they were trying too hard; none of that over-the-top foreplay, or competing for who could climax first, or the most, and whether or not it was at the same time. Every time they settled next to one another after a hot go, it took them several moments to come back down— that was the mark of satisfactory intercourse, despite what the magazines might say.

Hermione turned onto her side and yanked the sheets around her body, holding them in place at her chest as she smiled. "Sure you have to leave so early?"

Pushing a chunk of curls behind her ear, Cormac booped her nose. The morning sun cast a glow about his head. "Coach's orders. We're training all week leading up to the cup and—"

Leaning forward, Hermione placed a kiss on his lips for no other reason than to stop him talking about Quidditch. They had a good rule in place: she didn't talk about creature rights and he didn't talk sports. It kept their relationship free from tension and there was no unnecessary pretending to enjoy things she didn't give a toss about.

Despite that he tried to deepen the kiss, she pulled away from his lips. "Have a safe trip then. I'll see you in a week or so?"

Cormac's blue eyes sparkled as he made a noise of assent in the back of his throat. "Officially roommates when I get back—can't wait to have you full time."

"The flat's officially sold, all I have to do is move." Excitement coursed through her; they'd planned her moving in meticulously around the Quidditch World Cup. The fates aligned and her flat above Flourish & Blotts had sold in record time. "Are you sure you have to go?"

"No one wishes I could stay in bed with you all day more than I do."

He pushed himself off the bed and Hermione watched him swipe his clothes from various places around the room. Quidditch had been good to him; all that sunlight and the long days of physical training had formed ridges and valleys along his body in all the right places. Abs she could wash her laundry on, sharp collarbones jutting from the broad planes of his pecs, and a defined vee at his hips that led down to the endowment that had kept Hermione sated for three years. He was a dashing bloke, and she was lucky enough to have a chance to get to know him after—well, after everything.

As she watched him meander around, hopping into his shorts and yanking his plain cotton tee over his head, Hermione couldn't help but think how bloody grateful she was to have him in her life.

"I love you," she said with a smile, sitting up against the headboard as Cormac wandered over to her. He ran a hand through her hair and plopped a sweet kiss on her lips.

He didn't say it back; he never did. It didn't bother her; they all had their scars from the war, and Cormac's were deep. They'd all lost someone, he'd told her once when he'd consoled her after a vicious panic attack. It was okay to be affected. So, she'd always afforded him the same sentiment.

"I'll help you move your stuff into mine when I get back," he said, making his way to the door. "See you in a week."

She heard his Disapparation and sighed with a happy smile etched onto her lips.

Everything was perfect.

The bustle of Diagon Alley had become routine. As Hermione stepped out of her flat's pale blue door next to the entrance of Flourish & Blotts, she paused out of necessity. The little main street was rarely quiet and she'd come to find that if she didn't take a moment to check both ways before stepping off her stoop, she'd get bowled over by harried consumers. When the coast was clear, she continued about her day.

There was something enchanting about living in the midst of so much magic. The things she learned were nearly invaluable—normal magic, not just the big things like transfiguration or defense, but little spells to fix popped buttons or cushioning charms on her heels. Hogwarts should have taught the things she learned from living in Diagon for three years; pedestrian magic.

"Morning, Hermione!"

"Good morning, Mr. Eeylops." Hermione waved at the white-haired man as she passed by his shop front. "I hope Mrs. Eeylops is feeling better today."

"Just fine, dear, just fine." The man swept his broom across his stoop. "She'd like to thank you for the soup you dropped off yesterday afternoon. How about owl treats for your sweet Phoebe?"

"That'd be lovely, sir, thank you!"

"Ah, petal, enough with the 'sir'." Mr. Eeylops chuckled and shooed her away. "We'll package them up for you to grab tonight. Off you go, don't want to be late, do you?"

Hermione laughed, offering him a genuine smile and continuing on down the cobbled lane. The same interactions happened at nearly every shop, save for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, where she knew that George was holed up working on some bizarre concoction to try and force her into testing—which she never did, much to his dismay.

When she reached the alley entrance to The Leaky Cauldron, Hermione braced herself. Harry and Ron weren't going to be the most supportive; they never were. Oh, they were brilliant, of course. And bless them for at least trying to take her feelings into consideration far more than they ever had at school. But, sadly, they were still the blokes who would treat her like a sister and say the absolute wrong thing at the wrong time. Telling them her plan wasn't exactly something she was excited about, but they'd also be irate if she surprised them with the news and hadn't given them the chance to have The Talk.

The boys sat shoulder to shoulder at a small table in a corner. Harry's hair, normally sticky-up and chaotic, was flat and hanging over the edge of his glasses while he sipped on, what Hermione guessed by the pale pallor of his face, was a strong, black coffee. Ron, on the other hand, met her gaze with his red-rimmed stare and pushed his messy hair from his forehead before waving her over.

Brilliant sunlight streamed onto the table, pinging off the tea cups and spoons. She tugged off her coat and swung it over the back of the chair across from them before depositing herself into it.

"Morning," she said, taking the steaming tea that they'd ordered and sipping it. Perfect; they truly did know her better than anyone else. "You two look peaky. Tough weekend?"

Harry shoved his round glasses up the bridge of his nose and then stuck his thumb out towards Ron. "Someone decided that a pre-party before a Weird Sisters concert was a great idea." He winced around his hot coffee. "It wasn't, by the way."

"You're just saying that because I went home with the hottest witch of the night." Ron rolled his eyes and stretched back against his chair. "Jealous, he is. Thinks the best looking birds should just fall at his feet because he's Harry Bloody Potter."

"That's not at all what I think, Ron." Harry's cup clanked against the table and knocked a spoon sideways. Hermione caught it as it went careening off the table. "I find it a bit suspect, actually. The hottest witch of the night was nowhere to be found when you left me alone in that mosh pit."

"Ron!" Hermione chastised him, though a smile tugged at her lips. "You didn't leave Harry all alone to fend for himself in a mosh pit, did you?"

"He's The Chosen One and all that. He can handle it."

Harry huffed and Hermione laughed. "So, should I learn this girl's name, or not bother?"

Ron shook his head. "Nah. Didn't click on an intellectual level."

"You're joking, mate." Harry snorted. "On an intellectual level? With you?"

"Oi!"

"Right, so, you both have hangovers. It's a typical Monday then. What else?" Hermione sipped more tea and watched them exchange a glance. Something rolled in her belly; she didn't like the hesitant look they shared. "What is it?"

Harry shoved a magazine towards her, face wincing. "We know you hate these articles, but…"

Witch Weekly Exclusive: Cormac McLaggen Named Sexiest Quidditch Player of the Year

"Oh, bollocks." Hemione's fingers danced along the cover where the vee of his hips were covered by a quaffle. "He told me it was just some silly little photoshoot." A laugh burst through her lips. "Oh Merlin, he made his pecs bounce."

Cormac's photo turned its cheek to the side and flashed a quick wink. He really was a handsome wizard, with the luxury of knowing it and using it for his benefit. Or, as Cormac had called it, 'his brand'. She grinned down at his photo as it cycled through pec bouncing and winking, and then looked up to her two best friends.

She shoved the paper to the side. "He's going to be insufferable when he sees this."

"You don't care?" Ron asked hesitantly, blue eyes watching for any lie she might tell. She shook her head. "He's starkers!"

"Yes, Ronald, I see that quite clearly."

"Er, 'Mione… you don't think he's—you know…" Harry scratched the back of his neck and dropped his gaze to a small knot in the table.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, shoulders tensing. "I don't think he's what , Harry Potter?"

He mumbled his response, and she leaned forward over the table, slapping her palm down. "I said ," he forced out through thin lips, still not looking her in the eyes, "you don't think Cormac is cheating on you, do you?"

Uncontrollable belly laughter burst from her lips. The boys stared at her as if she'd suddenly grown a thestral from her nose, but it didn't deter her in the slightest. She swiped at her eyes where they'd started to water and took several deep breaths before she was finally able to gasp out her words. "Why on earth would you think that?"

They looked at one another again, Ron tipping his chin in her direction and swinging his gaze to hers. Harry sighed and hung his head.

"He's just… Cormac, isn't he? He's a good looking bloke, and he's dead famous, and—"

"Let me get this straight." Hermione sobered and held up her hand. "You think that because Cormac is good looking and famous, I couldn't possibly be enough for him? Is that really what you're saying to me right now?"

It was ridiculous. Of course he was those things, but it hadn't ever interfered with his feelings for her. And no, he'd never explicitly stated that he loved her, but she felt it. There were no signs of infidelity, not even the whiff of some other girl's perfume. Cormac wasn't cheating on her. He wasn't.

"Hermione." Ron's voice was a whisper. "It's just… you've never been that girl, you know?"

"Leave the table right now Ronald Weasley before I withdraw my wand and show you precisely what type of girl I really am." Deadly calm, she watched as he followed her instructions without any hesitation. "Harry. Would you care to expound on your observation or withdraw your claim?"

"Withdraw," he answered quickly, earnest green eyes flashing with gratitude. "Sorry, sorry. You know I don't mean anything against you. It's just… bloke still rubs me the wrong way after all this time."

"Yes, well." Hermione lifted her chin and resumed sipping her tea. "That's hardly any reason to disparage my person. He can rub you wrong and still not choose to cheat on me because I'm not whatever you seem to think I should be for him."

Pink pooled on Harry's cheeks, and Hermione was sufficiently pleased with herself. She settled back into her seat again and offered Harry a kind, forgiving sort of smile.

"I'm going to propose to him this weekend."

Harry choked on his coffee. Thumping his fist into his chest, he violently cleared his throat and stole a greedy breath. "You're what?"

"I'm going to take advantage of Leap Day and propose to Cormac after this whole Quidditch Cup thing is over." Hermione waved her hand vaguely and finished off her lukewarm tea. "It's a thing that happens in Ireland once every four years. Women propose to their significant others. It's meant to be quite fun— romantic."

"That's…" He seemed to search for a word, his jaw gaping, before brightening up and settling on an underwhelming one. "That's really something. If you're sure, of course, we'll support you."

"Good," Hermione said, nodding her chin once. She straightened her shoulders, all business. "Because I need a favor, if you don't mind."

Harry ran a hand through his hair and pursed his lips. She could see the hesitation flicker behind his eyes as he glanced where Ron stood off to the side. "Er…You're not going to ask me to break the law again, are you? Because I know I said I'd do anything for you, and I meant it, but I'm an Auror and—"

"It's not 'breaking the law' to request access to the official house elf registry." Hermione waved him off and sipped her tea. "It's not my fault the registry officially belongs to the Wizengamot and is sealed in a vault in the Department of Mysteries. In order to be effective at my job, Harry, I need to be privy to all facets of creature mortality and—"

"Alright, alright." He groaned, wiping his hands over his face and tossing a glare in her direction when she didn't bother to stifle her victory smile. "What'd you want then?"

"I'm going to need a Portkey to Dublin. I've never been and can't picture it to Apparate, and I don't know any of the Floo networks out that way." Hermione's hand rested on the paper where Cormac still winked and bounced his pecs. She flicked the tip of her finger over his nipple as she stared Harry down. "And since I know you were able to procure one to take Theo to Romania last month…"

"Are you trying to blackmail me?" Harry's eyebrow shot high above his glasses. "Because the thing with Theo is new, and secret , and—"

"Blackmail is against the law," Hermione said, gnawing on the corner of her lip and eying him innocently. "I prefer to think of it as pointing out what you've done wrong and then asking you to consider doing something questionable for me, with the express understanding that I won't say anything about what you've done wrong ever again."

Harry's face fell. "Which, again , is blackmail."

"Semantics." Hermione shrugged. "So, Portkey?"

Hermione held an old Dumbledore's Army galleon in her palm and went through her checklist as she waited for it to whisk her off to Ireland. She had less than a week until the Quidditch World Cup and her plan required precision. No deviations, no asides—get there, get engaged, get home before the Ministry decided to reverse all the work she'd done for centaurs and house elves over the last five years.

She'd make it to Dublin swiftly (thanks to Harry), buy a wedding dress, bribe the commentator to announce her proposal, secretly arrange a romantic display to occur once the snitch was caught, and—bugger it, she'd forgotten about the bonding rings. She curled her fingers around the galleon as it burned bright blue, and rolled her eyes at her own hasty forgetfulness. Of course now that she knew she'd forgotten one thing, Hermione would have to revise her intensive task list once she arrived in Dublin. Triple and quadruple check that nothing else was left forgotten.

Just as a strong hook-like feeling jolted her navel, Hermione remembered the bloody flowers she'd have to arrange, too.

Bollocks .

It was her last thought before she disappeared from her living room.

If Hermione never had to travel by Portkey again for the rest of her life, she'd be the happiest witch in all of Europe. The sharp jerk behind her navel was bad enough, but when coupled with careening through space under intense pressure and spinning wildly like a top, she nearly vomited her dinner at her feet as she appeared suddenly on squishy ground in the pouring rain.

Hermione slipped the little galleon into her pocket and pulled her wand free from its holster. She glanced left and right and took in her surroundings as she flicked a nonverbal charm over her head to stop the pelting, cold rain. Her wand tip sparked, a crackle vibrated the porous wood, and then—nothing. She flicked it again; nothing. Perhaps she was overcome from the stressful Portkey travel; nonverbal magic did take a certain level of concentration after all.

" Desisto Imber ," she whispered, breathless from the sudden onslaught of cold air into her lungs. Still, her magic didn't work. "No, no, no, no…"

In long strides, Hermione stepped through the gritty sand of the beach she had landed on with her overfilled luggage following behind. There was no shelter to be found close by; golden sand for kilometers left and right, and lush green grass in front of her, with what appeared to be the Atlantic ocean behind her. This most definitely wasn't Dublin—couldn't be. Who'd want to live here , on a wet, cold, desolate beach?

Her body shook as the cold seeped into her bones. Not the right day to wear a light jumper, a skirt, and those damn fuck-me heels that Cormac liked so much. As if her traitorous shoes could hear her thoughts, the heel became trapped in a particularly soft bit of sand, and Hermione fell forward onto her knees.

An oath tumbled from her lips, vehement and foggy in front of her face. "What the hell did Harry do?"

She pushed herself up and ripped her foot out of the stupid heel that refused to be pulled from the sand, and nearly fell over as she removed the other and tossed it aside. Fine. No shoes; she could deal with no shoes. Rain? Okay—a little dampness never hurt anyone. She was British, after all. The cold? Hermione pulled her jumper tighter around her frame as if that would make a difference; of course it didn't.

But her magic . Her magic wasn't working and that was terrifying.

Hermione tried again to use her wand, but it was fruitless. She silently threatened to curse Harry as she trudged up an inclined pathway from the beach to a field of green. What she'd hoped to see at the top of the hill was a bustling town with shelter and people, but neither appeared. Instead, there was a dirt road that wound around a curve where she thought, if she squinted, she could see dark smoke from a chimney in the far off distance.

She wasn't just going to curse Harry—she was going to murder him.

Hermione plowed forward through the rain and along the mucky road barefoot and with the sort of simmering rage that served to propel her forward, if only so that she could find a functional Floo, travel right into Grimmauld Place, and throttle her best friend. She didn't realize how wildly unfit she was until she finally—mercifully—arrived at the door of an unassuming inn after an indeterminable amount of time.

Huffing and shaking, she pushed the door open and nearly laughed out loud, so happy to see people and have shelter from the rain. Hermione stepped fully inside, the door crashing behind her, and dragged her bulky luggage to sit next to her dirt-covered legs.

The pub was smaller on the inside than it appeared from the outside. Patrons dotted the few tables between the door and the bar, and it seemed as though the pub attracted a type: ginger, balding, rounding, and jolly. There was a man behind the bar with his head of shaggy hair falling over his face as he scrubbed the dark wood with a grubby cloth. Behind him was a door that led to what looked like a kitchen, and off to his left was a narrow set of stairs.

It was a dimly lit place with a homely feel and the faint smell of grease and beer. Warm, though—the laughter sounded quite nice and welcoming after her mishap on the beach.

"Hello." She swatted at her hair, the ringlets sodden with water, and forced a friendly smile. "You, er, couldn't tell me where I am, could you?"

Out of the clientele, only one, portly older gentleman with reddening cheeks and a head of greying, ginger hair answered. "Ne'er been ta Dingle before, have ya, missy? Could smell the English on ya from outside, I could."

She shook her head; a huffy laugh escaped her throat. "And...how far are we from Dublin?"

A scoff from behind the bar drew her eyes away from the patrons dotted around the pub—inn, or wherever she was. When she met the eyes of the man standing there, arms crossed over his chest, wearing what looked like a ratty, old Sex Pistols tee shirt, Hermione gasped.

His name stuck in her throat, and she blinked several times as if clearing her vision would somehow change the impossible face in front of her. He wasn't the same man that she had known in her years at Hogwarts—he was younger , even. His eyes not quite as haunted, his shoulders not as tense, his skin, while still tattooed, not marred by burns and scars the way they'd been during the Great War.

"Sirius?" she finally managed, just a squeak of a sound that echoed around her.

He—Sirius Black, the same man who she saved from Dementors and fought alongside in the Department of Mysteries—lifted a brow over those dark, skeptical eyes, and his lips twitched.

"Alright, love." An easy grin slid onto his face. "Who're you?"