Anti-litigation charm: I own nothing. These are JKR's toys, and after several years, I thought I'd take them out to play once again.

Chapter One

The first time she thought she saw him was, improbably, at a musical on the West End.

She had been with her mother, enjoying a performance of Les Misérables at the Palace Theatre. They had seen the show many times before; it was a favorite of theirs. "Musical comfort food," her mother liked to call it.

It had taken Hermione the better part of two years following the Battle of Hogwarts to figure out and perfect the counter spell to the myriad of memory charms she had placed on her parents. Once she had it, she hastened to the home of Wendell and Monica Wilkins on Bondi Beach in Sydney, Australia. A month later, following a grand tour of the country, Walter and Miranda Granger returned to the United Kingdom with their only child, Hermione. They had forgiven her for removing their memories immediately, understanding it had been for her safety. It had taken them longer – particularly her father – to forgive her putting herself in danger. "Parents always put their children first," her father had informed her. They had shockingly little regard for their wellbeing, as long as she was safe.

Her penance was simple and fair; her parents wanted to spend more time with her. Now that she had completed her schooling, they requested to see her at least once a week. She began by joining them every Friday night for dinner. Soon, she was regularly accompanying one or both of her parents to the cinema, the theatre, the opera, and museums. All the cultural activities she had enjoyed in her childhood and had sorely missed during her time in the wizarding world.

"One more dawn…one more day… one day more!" Hermione jumped to her feet, joining the rest of the audience in a thunderous standing ovation as the curtain came down on the stage, closing the First Act.

"I'm for the loo," her mother said, slipping past Hermione just before the house lights came up. "Get us a drink?"

"Of course." Hermione reached for her shawl, securing it around her shoulders before stepping into the aisle. Carefully, she picked her way through the crowd toward doors leading to the atrium.

That was when she thought she saw him, sitting in the last row of the orchestra section in one of the seats closest to the atrium doors. A programme was folded on his lap, and his eyes closed.

She stopped dead in her tracks. "Professor?" she whispered.

"Mind you!" the man behind her chided loudly. The eyes of the man in the seat flew open, and he looked directly at her.

If it was not him, then the man certainly had his patented glare down to an exact science. Hermione watched, frozen in place, as the man cursed under his breath and stood, before hopping over his seat as easily as a fare-jumper taking a turnstile. He was gone in seconds. Hermione felt as if all the air in the room had gone with him.

He could not be alive… could he? She had seen him die.

Dr. Monica Granger reappeared in the doorway to the atrium. "Hermione!" her mother called, snapping her daughter out of her thoughts. "I thought you were getting drinks."

"Coming Mum," she managed. She spared the empty seat one last glance and followed her mother out of the theatre.

The next time she thought she saw him was two weeks later, at the Royal Opera House. Die Zauberflöte was playing.

Her mother made her usual escape to the loo before the house lights came up. Her father, a tremendous lover of Mozart, had accompanied them this time.

"Let's get drinks," he said, placing a protective arm around his daughter and leading her to the atrium bar. "G&T? Glass of wine?"

"G&T," she requested. "Preferably with Bombay Sapphire if they've got it." Her father nodded and queued up. She moved toward an empty cocktail table and laid her purse down to claim it.

That was when she thought she saw him. Again.

He was half a dozen meters away, standing alone at another table. A glass of dark amber liquid sat at his elbow. He had not noticed her – yet – and so she made a study of him.

If it was not him… well, the man certainly looked like him. Tall, thin, sallow… his appearance had not changed much over the past six years. His hair was shorter, perhaps, and maybe he had put on a little weight, though probably not more than a stone. His clothes were different, too; he was still dressed all in black, but instead of flowing robes with a cacophony of silver buttons, he had on a cable knit sweater over a collared shirt paired with dress trousers. For a moment, she was surprised that he knew how to properly dress among Muggles until she recalled that he was a half-blood, and had grown up around them. He would know that robes would have stuck out like a sore thumb among the fashionable opera crowd.

"Here you are," her father said, handed her glass with a lime on the rim. She thanked him and pushed the citron into her drink, mashing it with her straw. By the time she looked back up, the man was gone, the glass empty.

She did not see the man at her next outing; to be fair, she and her mother had gone to see Mamma Mia at the Prince Edward Theatre. While she had enjoyed it tremendously and even got up to dance with her mother in the aisle during Waterloo, she did not think the lives and loves of Donna and Sophie Sheridan was quite his cuppa.

Was that him, at the Van Gogh exhibit in the National Gallery? Surely, it could not be he sitting three rows ahead of her at the ballet. Or seven rows behind and two seats to the left at Chekhov's The Seagull.

As she took her seat in the Piccadilly Theatre to see Ragtime – there for just a limited run – she started to believe that she was, in fact, seeing things. It was impossible that he was alive. It was even more impossible that he seemed to be following her from one theatrical performance to another.

Yet… this time, in the atrium of the Piccadilly, he did not run, swear or cower when he saw her. This time, when the dark-haired, dark clothed stranger caught her eye during intermission, he merely lifted his glass and inclined his head.

Cheers.

Hermione got her answer during intermission at the Phantom of the Opera at Her Majesty's Theatre.

As usual, Miranda Granger had made for the loo before the lights came up, leaving Hermione to collect their drinks – G&T for her, white wine for her mother. She was searching in her purse for Muggle currency when she felt a presence behind her.

"Whiskey, neat," the man told the barman. He held out a fifty-pound note. "I'll pay for the lady as well."

Hermione froze. She would know that voice anywhere. Wide-eyed, she turned to look at its owner. It was most definitely him.

"Cheers, Miss Granger." He said, lifting his drink. He thanked the barman, and took his change, leaving a generous tip beside the untouched cocktail napkin.

"Professor?" she asked.

He sighed. "Not anymore." He put his arm - well, not quite around her but almost - and somehow managed to slide both her and her drinks toward the end of the bar. "We seem to be past the point of no return."

Was that a joke? Those were lyrics to a song – her favorite – from the show. That would mean he had seen it before. The song was in the second act.

How are you alive? Her mind screamed. Instead, she lifted her glass as if to toast him. "Thank you for the drinks," she said.

He shrugged, instead of the more common "you're welcome."

"Are you here alone?" she asked. He nodded. "I'm with my mother."

He nodded again. "I gathered." He took a generous swig from his glass and took the opportunity to give her the once over. She did the same.

"I like your sweater," she said, stupidly. He was wearing the same clothes she seen him in at opera.

"I try to blend," he replied, shrugging again. "I'm not as adept at it as I fancy myself to be." He indicated her burgundy velvet dress, which was, in truth, a bit much for a matinee. She blushed.

"My mum likes to get dressed up when we go out," she said. "She is, as she says, a middle-aged dentist. Our outings are her 'fancy occasions'." She caught sight of her mother over his shoulder. "She's looking for me."

He nodded again and finished his drink. "Excuse me," he said, placing his glass back on the bar. "Enjoy." He started to move away. She reached out her hand.

"Wait," she said, brushing her fingertips against his sleeve. He paused, seeming to brace himself for what she would say next. "Next week we have tickets to see La Bohème at the opera."

He nodded and melted into the crowd.

That night, Hermione surprised her parents and stayed over in her childhood bedroom.

How was he alive? She had seen him die.

Literally. She saw the light drain from his eyes as he stared into Harry's eyes. She saw his chest fall, saw him struggle to take that final breath.

Clearly, she had been wrong.

He did not show up at La Bohème, or if he did, he chose not to make his presence known to her. Maybe he didn't like Puccini?

More likely, he was avoiding her.

She had not told anyone he was alive. Who would have believed her?

The following week, Hermione opted to skip the Sunday outing. Her dad had gotten some 'really excellent' seats from a client for the Arsenal match. Hermione could barely tolerate having to sit through a Quidditch match, and one of her best friends – Ginny – had gone pro. She was not going to sit through a Muggle football match.

It felt wrong, though, not doing something Muggle. Sunday outings had become as ingrained in her as Friday night dinners. At noon, she gave in and decided to treat herself to a movie.

She half expected him to be waiting outside the theatre. He was not. She picked a romantic Christmas comedy – Love Actually.

Halfway through the movie, she felt someone fill the seat beside her. She did not have to look up to know it was he.

"Popcorn?" she asked, pushing her mostly untouched bucket toward him. She kept her eyes on the screen.

"Thank you," he replied, taking a small handful. They finished the film in silence. At the end, they waited for the lights to come on and everyone else to leave the theatre before regarding one another.

"Did you have to pick such a sappy romantic film?" he asked. Surprisingly, his voice lacked the bite she had expected. He seemed merely curious.

She smiled. "I didn't know to expect company."

He opened his mouth as if to respond, but then, as if thinking better, shut it. She stood. "I'm going to the pub around the corner. Care to join me?"

He did not answer, but stood as well, and followed her out of the theatre. They walked in silence until Hermione found a small, nondescript pub that seemed clean and ducked inside. He followed her.

A hostess handed them menus and led them toward a booth at the back. They removed their overcoats and sat down.

"You're very casual today," he said, indicating her jeans and jumper. He was wearing his usual Muggle outing attire.

"It's just me," she replied. "I'm not a middle-aged dentist living for the weekend." She picked up her menu. He did the same.

A server approached their table. "What do you like?" He asked.

She bit her lip. "How's your Shephard's Pie?"

The server scratched the edge of his nose with his pen. "It's serviceable."

"A ringing endorsement," he replied. "And the bangers and mash?"

"The same."

He looked at Hermione, who had closed the menu. "What will it be?"

"Shephard's Pie," she said confidently, not at all put off by the server. He nodded, and took her menu, pairing it with his before handing them to the server.

"Shephard's Pie for the lady. I'll be equally brave and have the bangers and mash." He looked back at her. "Two pints of Guinness?" She nodded. "And two pints."

The server scribbled the order onto his pad and scurried away. Without the cover of their menus, they started openly at one another.

How are you alive? She wanted to ask. Instead, she said, "you weren't at La Bohème. Not a Puccini fan?"

He frowned. "No," he said hesitantly. "I just…" he trailed off, and she could see his mind working, measuring his response. "It was her favorite opera. I'm not…"

"Ready to see it," Hermione finished for him. She wondered who she was. Lily maybe? Did he still hold a torch for her?

Always. That is what Harry told her he had said in the memories.

The server chose that moment to return. He placed their pints on the table. "Food will be ready soon," he said, raising an eyebrow. Hermione nodded dismissively, and he backed away once more.

"So," she tried again, keeping her voice light. "What have you been up to since…?"

He shook his head. "No. What have you been up to?" He raised his pint to his lips. "Aside from taking in all the Muggle pleasures of London with your parents."

It was her turn to shrug. "I finished school."

"So I heard."

From whom? She wanted to shout. Who knew he was alive? Why was he sitting here, making pleasantries with her? She forced herself to continue. "I work for the Ministry now, in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."

"Do you enjoy your work?"

Did she enjoy her work? "It's a means to an end," she heard herself say.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I'm still not entirely sure that wizards deserve to have jurisprudence over other magical beings." She took a hearty sip of her beer. "But, the most effective way to bring about a change to the system is from within."

He raised his left eyebrow. "Still championing house-elves rights?"

She smiled. "Amongst others."

"Are you… do still reside with your parents in Hampstead?"

She furrowed her brow. How did he know her parents lived in Hampstead? "No," she answered, shaking her head. "I have a flat in Knightsbridge. It's close though – just half an hour by car."

"Do you drive?" They both seemed surprised by the question.

"I – no. I mean, I have a driver's license, but I do not use it much. I have my Apparition license."

"Of course."

Their server returned to place their food on the table. "Anything else?" He asked them. They waived him off.

The food looked passable. Edible, even. They dug in.

Was there anything she was allowed to ask him? Everything felt off-limits, but she wanted to know – everything. Instead, she settled for a time-honored classic. "Have you read any good books lately?"

They parted company two hours and two additional lagers later. They had talked about everything – art, literature, history, Muggle politics – and nothing – no mention of the wizarding world, or anyone they knew from it.

She had tried, of course. How could she not? Every time, he rebuffed her with a gentle, but firm, "No."

The following week the Grangers returned to the Royal Opera House for a special holiday performance of Romeo and Juliet. She was not surprised when she spotted him in the crowd; she was amazed, however, when he opted to join her, accompanied this evening by both of her parents, for his intermission drink.

"Good evening, Miss Granger," he greeted her, as he joined their table in the atrium. He had, per usual, a glass of whiskey.

"Professor," she replied, doing her best to hide her shock. She was sure it was not working. She could feel her mouth hanging stupidly open.

"You're enjoying the show, I trust?" he replied.

"It's beautiful," she said. He held her gaze for a moment… two… three..., before he broke it and turned to address her parents.

"Good evening," he said. "You must be Dr. and Dr. Granger?" he extended a hand to her father, who grasped it automatically.

"Yes. And you are?"

"Severus… Prince."

Hermione saw her mother's lip curl in interest. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Prince. And you know our daughter from…?"

He hesitated, catching her eye again. "There," he said. A single word, so full of meaning. She knew that he knew her parents would understand. Hermione was certain they would not press.

They did not.

"Do you come to the opera often, Mr. Prince?" her mother inquired. "Most people Hermione has introduced us to from … there… aren't terribly familiar with our, er, culture."

"I wasn't much familiar with it myself until recently," he said regretfully. "Though I've managed to take in many of the sights of our fair city over the past few months. A bit more opera, some musicals, museums." Her parents nodded approvingly.

"What is it you do, Mr. Prince?" Walter Granger asked. Hermione looked at him, expectantly.

"I've recently changed my line of work," he said, without missing a beat. "Trying my hand at writing."

Writing? He had not, of course, mentioned anything about that when last they met.

The red warning light flashed. The crowd began to thin as people started to return to their seats. Hermione watched as he deftly finished his drink. "It was lovely meeting you, Drs. Granger. Do enjoy the rest of the show." He replaced his glass on the table and caught her eye. "Until next time, Miss Granger."

Her parents were polite enough not to ask any questions about him after the opera. Her mind afforded her no such luxury.

Their paths next crossed four days later, at a chippy on the corner of Whitehall and Bridge she occasionally frequented. She had been having a resplendently terrible day and was desperate to soak her miseries in an oily fish fry. He had been standing at the head of the queue when she entered the tiny shop. They caught one another's eye, and he doubled his order. She nodded and headed back outside to find them a spot to sit.

He joined her a few minutes later. "Miss Granger," he greeted her, setting a brown bag and bottle of club soda in front of her.

"Good afternoon Professor," she replied. She waited until he sat down beside her and opened his bag before digging into hers. "Lucky you were at the front of the queue."

"Indeed." They ate in silence for a minute, two.

"Aren't you afraid someone from the Ministry will see you here?" she asked. "There's an entrance, not two streets down."

He chewed thoughtfully on a chip. After a moment, he said, "No." Seeing her surprise, he continued. "Miss Granger, have you come to this chippy before?"

"Of course."

"And in all the years you've worked at the Ministry, have you ever see any of your colleagues here?"

"Never."

He smiled triumphantly. It softened his entire visage. Not wishing to stare, she forced her eyes toward the ground, studying her loafers.

"Something wrong?" he asked her.

"No," she replied. "Just a tough day. I wonder…" she trailed off. She had been about to say, I wonder how you always find me?

"You wonder?"

Sod it, she thought. In for a penny, in for a pound. If she put him off with her questioning, what would she lose, really? "How do you always find me?"

He slowed his chewing. "How do you mean?"

She raised her brow. "At the opera, at musicals, at the ballet. The cinema. Here," she said, gesturing to the centimeters of ground between them. "How do you always know where I am?"

He seemed amused by her question. "Do you think I'm following you?"

"No," she replied in earnest. "You seemed quite put off to run into me at Les Mis, and scurried off to hide when we passed one another at the Van Gogh exhibit." She smiled slyly. "Though you've seemed to have warmed considerably to my presence, I am still quite sure that we are meeting on happy accident. I'm simply curious as to what is engineering said accidents."

He nodded. "Fair enough." He reached into an interior pocket of his coat and withdrew a small book. He placed it on her outstretched palm. "This seems to keep pointing me in your direction."

She turned the tomb over in her hand. "The Wizards Guide to Muggle London," she read. It appeared to be a travel guide. "Who gave you this?" He met her eye and gave her a meaningful look. She knew straight away. "Professor Dumbledore."

"It was my final Christmas present from him," he said. "With a card that read something along the lines of, 'if you survive this war, let yourself live. Take in the sites.'" He smiled deprecatingly. "Well, it took a few years, but I'm finally letting myself do just that."

"But how does it keep finding me?"

"Apparently, the book believes you to be an arbiter of taste when it comes to Muggle London." He wiped his hands on his napkin. "At present, I'd have to agree. That was the best fry and chips I have had in a long time." He looked at her. "I wonder, Miss Granger, as the book has me following you around this fair city, would you join me for dinner on Friday?" She tried to hide her surprise as he continued. "I'm very much in the mood for Indian, and I fear that if I leave things to fate, you may very well choose Scandinavian fare."

She laughed. "That's very unlikely, Professor," she said. "I'm not particularly partial to herring." She pushed an errant lock of hair behind her ear. "I would like to join you for dinner, but not on Friday. I have a standing date with my parents. Sunday?"

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Isn't Sunday your weekly outing?"

She nodded. "Yes, but while Sunday outings are considered optional in the Granger home, Friday night dinners are non-negotiable." He looked confused, and so she explained, briefly, about the memory charms and the subsequent deal she had made with her parents. "Anyway, Mum and Dad are taking a mini-break in Paris from Saturday, leaving me to my lonesome this week." In truth, her parents had offered to take her with them, and she had declined.

"I see. What are your plans for the day, then?"

"As it's nearly Christmas, I've planned a bit of shopping at one or two of the markets, and maybe pop in at the National Gallery to see the Van Eyck and Pre-Raphaelites exhibit. I heard it's quite good."

He seemed to be weighing her words. "Indian after?"

She laughed again. "I promise, Indian after. Mum likes a very authentic place not far from the Tobacco Dock – we can dine there." She finished the last of her fried cod and crumpled up her brown bag. "Thank you for lunch, Professor. I needed that."

He started to shrug, but then seemed to think better of it. "You're welcome, Miss Granger." He glanced at his watch. "You must be getting back."

"Yes," she said, getting to her feet. She collected their trash and threw it into a nearby receptacle. "See you Sunday, Professor." She strode off. It felt good for her to once – just this once – leave the conversation feeling as if she had the upper hand.