She was gone already, gliding away, down the boulevard in a black car, tinted windows, out of sight. Tom turned his back to the car as it drove away, walking in the opposite direction even though it wasn't the one that would take him home. He'd wander for awhile, in the dusk, sunglasses in the pocket of his jacket, smoking a cigarette as if it kept him alive.

The wind coming in off the Pacific was gathering strength, still warm but brisk enough to lift his hair, tearing the clouds of smoke from his lungs away - tiny breaths, nothing to no one. He swore to himself and crushed the butt of his cigarette into one of the ashtrays the neat, orderly municipality had put up all along the walkway. Bad guy indeed.

The truth was he lost Emma Watson ages ago. He lost her through his own hapless childishness - which was not really anyone's fault. They were literally children, after all. But then he lost her through his own choices. And at last he lost her through her choices - choices she couldn't help but keep making as she became more and more amazing, polished, whole.

So she was going to make herself into a mother now. It had been coming for awhile. She would throw her entire self into it. No more last minute meetups with stragglers from her past. And all her talk tonight like she wouldn't find a man to step in as father in time - it was rubbish. There was a whole family waiting for her, arriving in a matter of a few short years, months, possibly. This visit, this walk on the beach - it was the end for them. Another end, the final one. Unless...

Stop it, Felton, just stop, he told himself.

He'd given her an opening, risked saying out loud that line about choosing a father from among the people she already knew. He'd spat it out of himself and let it hang like a puff of tobacco smoke between them. And she'd done nothing with it - had no answer. That was his shot, and she let it sail past her, off into oblivion.

Where the hell was he? As he'd wound himself up, he'd walked faster and faster, and now he was farther from home than he'd intended to go. He'd worked through to the end of all his confusion and pain and left himself exhausted. Sinking onto the bench behind himself, he reached for his phone.

"Are you at the house?"

"Yeah, Bro. Why aren't you here?"

"Went out for a bit. Last minute thing."

"Woman thing?"

"Not so much. Can you bring me my board?"

"Dude..."

"Help me out. She asked me not to bring it and now I've wandered off and need some wheels to get back."

"Woman asks him to leave board behind, and now he's out roaming around like a lost puppy. It's an Emma thing."

"Dude, are you helping or not?"

Two cigarettes later he was coasting home, his jacket folded and slung over one shoulder, his sleeves rolled over his elbows. Most of the time, skating cleared his head - cleared it of everything but this. That bloody interview over a decade ago where she'd sighed over his infant self's skateboarding prowess. She'd infiltrated this. He pushed hard against the pavement, as if to outrun something.

He tipped his ankles, curving in a wide, gentle arc into the drive in front of the house. It was dark now but he could still see the car sitting there, right where his friend must have left it after dropping off his board. Park it yourself, Felton. Serves you right.

Only this wasn't his car. Fine, one more round. He took a breath and stepped inside.

Emma was perched on a stool, leaning on the counter, laughing as his friend told her stories. She made a high, happy sound, like a chirp at the sound of the door closing behind him.

"There he is," the friend said. "Good timing too. I've got to run. Nice seeing you though."

She was nodding, standing to offer a goodbye so pleasant it was sweet. But she cut it off abruptly when Tom stepped into the room. He was windblown and flushed, smoky, tired and beyond pleasantries.

"You alright, Tom?" she asked.

The friend scoffed. "This is just him post-Emma encounter. Every single time. Didn't you know?"

Tom couldn't even argue. He let out his breath, shaking his head as he stooped to pet the dog who'd come to welcome him. "Yeah, thanks for that."

Emma forced a little laughter. "I hardly think so," she said. "But I can go if you're not feeling well, Tom."

He shook his head, scowling at his friend as he scampered past, making for the door. "No, have a seat. You've come all this way - twice."

The door closed and they were alone. He collapsed to sitting on the sofa. "What's up? Something happen? Something I should know? I haven't been checking my phone. Anything trending? More bold statements like back in the old days?"

She didn't sit with him, but stood on the rug in front of the sofa, as if about to deliver a speech. "Someone I already know," she said. "That's what you said. About the father. On the beach earlier. And that was you, wasn't it?"

He rubbed his palms against his face. "Well, I can't very well deny I'm someone you already know, can I?"

"No, but - but when you said - Tom, I - " She stopped, hugging herself, her eyes darting all around the room, at anything but him.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Look, Em, I know how it might have sounded. And if I was seriously putting myself forward as anyone more important in your life than an old friend - which I wasn't - I understand completely how that would be right out of order."

"Tom - "

"And if I made you feel uncomfortable, it was unintentional and I apologize with all my heart. All the best with your future, and that kind of thing."

"Tom," she said. "Why? That's what I've been asking myself for the past hour - maybe longer. What's the worst that could happen if it was you who - who worked on this next project with me? On my baby. Don't overreact. I'm not asking for anything but for you to think through this question with me."

He sat back, slack-jawed, in shock. "Think through what, exactly?" he asked. "What am I meant to be considering? Disappearing into the bathroom for a moment and coming back with a little jar of Tom Jrs. for you to take away in your handbag to the doctor's office?"

She was shaking her head furiously. "No, I told you. I don't want a medical procedure. And even if I did, I'd need a few weeks to prepare myself with drugs I won't take unless I have no choice."

He stood up. "And do you have a choice?" he asked. "You do realize what the only alternative is if you don't want to go about this medically, don't you? You realize it means that you'd have to hold your nose and - "

"Hold my nose?"

"Yes," he said. "And this brings us back to the reason at the very bottom of why you and me have never happened - "

She gave loud bitter laugh. "Oh, finally someone is going to tell me. What is it then?"

"It's the fact that you're not sexually attracted to me."

She laughed again, almost a shriek this time. "After I sat down on television and confessed my one-sided crush on you, this is what you think - "

He twisted his neck to look away from her. "That was not a sexual attraction. Yes, you admired me, but like I was a cute puppy, or a bouquet of tulips. I wasn't a man and you quite rightly didn't see me as one. You never have."

"Well, you're a man now, aren't you?" she raved. "This Peter Pan man-child act of yours isn't fooling me. And frankly, it's dangerous. It attracts the wrong kind of attention, and you should set it aside before it does you lasting damage."

He stepped around his coffee table, coming nearer to her, his eyes wide and flaming. "Ah, yes. Attracting attention. Yes, I've seen them online. Trolls marveling at the age and the ugliness of the long lost pretty boy from Harry Potter. Too many cigarettes, not nearly enough sunscreen. All the clickbait about how they won't believe the sight of me now."

She threw her hands up. "We are not talking about what a bunch of mad, hateful idiots have said on the Internet, Tom. We're talking about us. And when you stand here and try to tell me I'm not attracted to you, what you really mean is that you're not attracted to me."

He staggered backward, sputtering. "What?"

"Yes, obviously. You're deflecting. 'Little sister' is for life between me and you, apparently. If it wasn't - well, things would have been different," she said, crossing her arms over stomach, as if she was suddenly slightly ill.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You knew," she said, pointing one finger in his face. "You knew the entire time we were shooting the movies that with one word from you I'd have - "

"You are still talking about childish feelings you had twenty years ago," he said. "It hardly matters anymore. Now, you'd rather tell an interviewer about some ridiculous notion you've invented about being self-partnered than admit to anything but sterilized nostalgic friendship between us. And if that's really all you want from me, Emma, I'll take it and be happy to have anything."

He was close enough to hold each of her arms in his hands, just below her elbows. "I know I haven't lived up to you," he said. "I don't expect to be the one to make you a mother, to make that dream come true for you. All your dreams are out of my reach. I don't expect you to have any desire left for me - "

"Tom - "

"And maybe I act like I'm not grownup because that was how you liked me best, Emma. You loved me when I was a boy on a skateboard. It was pure and sweet and I didn't value it as I should have." His grip on her arms was loosening. "But I also don't delude myself that it's anything like the kind of feelings you'd need to have for the father of your children now. I shouldn't have said anything that could have been misunderstood like this. Forgive me."

She stepped closer, her chin tilted upward to bring them face to face. Her voice wasn't loud and angry anymore. It was low and tortured. "I will not forgive you," she said. "How dare you stand in front of me like this, Tom Felton, and tell me what my desires are - what I felt, and feel, and what it means to me?"

He looked at her, from her hairline to her shoeless feet on his rug. His mouth curved into a slow smirk. "I think the argument ends here, Em. Here we are, neck deep in a row over whether you're attracted to me, inches apart. I can smell you skin, and still you've made no move to touch me. That's all I need to - "

She had flung her arms around his neck, boosted herself onto her toes, and kissed him on the mouth. The rest of his words were muffled, left unspoken in his throat. His eyes were open at first, wide and shocked again, the edge of her face a blur. But she was tugging him closer, undermining his balance until his hands rose to her waist, to the band of skin beneath the edge of her cropped top.

Upon contact with her warm, smooth skin, his mind was blank, reeling. No more arguments. His self-consciousness about her tasting cigarettes on him vanished and he was kissing her in return, deeply, eyes clenched closed, feeling like the force of his mouth against hers was powered by a massive engine in his chest, his driving, thudding heart.

Gone was the worry that this might all be acting, like a television love scene. It felt nothing like it. He heard her voice, a tiny moan as his fingers trailed across her skin. Her hands were twisting through the hair at the nape of his neck, where it was too long but still as thick as it had ever been.

This was Emma, his Emma, soft and pliant in his arms, better than a fantasy, years of longing made real. No one was watching. It was just for them, and it was good - so good. Why had this taken so long?

She tipped away, breathless but laughing as he leaned after her, chasing the kiss, not ready to end it. "Can you stop your nonsense now? Stop telling me I'm not attracted to you?"

"You said your twelve-year-old self wanted to kiss me, but you didn't," he said, bending to kiss her long, perfect neck.

She tipped her head back, baring her throat to him. "No, I said my twenty-one-year-old self didn't want to kiss you in front of your girlfriend. I stand by that. But you no longer have a girlfriend, I am no longer my twenty-one-year-old self, and my thirty-five-year-old self - well, she's still wondering whether she should ask you to have a baby with her."

He straightened up, dragging his mouth away from her skin, resting his forehead against hers. "Emma..."

"It's a lot, I know," she said. "So I'll leave it with you. We've made a lot of progress here. I think we've established we're quite capable of stomaching having sex - "

"Bloody hell, woman - "

"And that's plenty for one night. I'll leave you to think about the rest, and we'll talk tomorrow. How's that?" she said.

Tom sighed, blowing her disheveled hair back from her face. "Alright," he said. "This is your project, on your timetable. If you're saying you're leaving me like this..."

"I am." She grinned up at him. "I will see you tomorrow."