Two weeks later, he was in their kitchen again. There was fresh stew with chunks of beef and potatoes and carrots. There was hand-made bread, warm and crusty. There was wine. She'd finally run out of excuses, and she was due in five minutes. Unfortunately, her parents had been called away for something or another within moments of his arrival. If he hadn't witnessed their flight from the house himself, he would've thought they'd been set up. (That was inevitable, but the parents had been playing a slow game; it should've been months before they were conveniently left alone together.)

The door opened and shut, letting in a rush of the storm raging outside. He heard her shaking an umbrella, the clack of it against the ceramic umbrella stand.

"Mum? Dad?"

The blood in him froze. He knew that voice. It haunted his dreams, plagued him with guilt.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, off-the-cuff, sounding very young. And happy. She sounded happy. "I just got in from Dovetown. For once, it was pleasure not business, I promise."

Then she was around the corner, and in a blink had her wand in his face. She took half a breath, then flicked her wand and vanished. He felt the tickle of detection charms flickering over him, one after another. She must've been satisfied that he wasn't fraudulent, because she lifted her charm.

Hermione Granger stood before him. Her hair was shorter than he'd seen it, wild curls just brushing the tops of her shoulders.

There was a moment of perfect stillness. He couldn't breathe, and he hated himself for it. It had been years; he'd thought he was over her.

She slapped him. Hard. If he hadn't lived the life he had, he would've stumbled back from her. Instead, he just blinked the reaction tears out of his eyes and continued to look at her.

"You let me think you were dead!"

He remembered her as he'd last seen her. The Death Eaters had almost all been captured; trials were beginning. His had been over for weeks. Her apprenticeship had come to an end merely days before.

She'd been covered in blood; the whites of her eyes had stood out stark in the blood-darkened face. They were in St. Mungo's; he was the one in a bed. She'd destroyed Rabastan Lestrange for putting him in that bed, which was why she was covered in blood. She'd stared at him, wand still clenched in her fist. The Healers had rushed her off to be checked over in that way that they did. The Ministry had faked his death after that, allowing him to slip into anonymity on the condition that he didn't contact anybody, that he lived in safe anonymity.

She threw herself at him, hugging him to her. His hands adjusted of their own volition, scooping her up to kissing-level.