Truly, he was never going to be rid of her. She was too much a part of him. Everything he did, everything he saw, everything he heard—it all rang with some memory with her. This pub was where he had finally gotten her to admit that she still felt bad for hitting him outside of Hagrid's hut during their third year. The street he had taken to reach the bar was the one they had walked through together after she had kissed him for the first time, red-faced and laughing timidly as he smirked at her and twined his fingers with hers. The fountain where Astoria had met him at the start of the night was where he had stopped her when she confessed to doubting his confidence in their relationship, when he'd taken her lovely face gently in his hands and pressed a solid, hopeful kiss to her lips, silently giving himself over to her without inhibition. The midnight-blue jumper he wore was the same one he'd worn on their first date, when he had humiliated himself by revealing that he'd secretly been dreaming of taking her out since she had approached him for the repairs on the castle. And the firewhisky... The firewhisky was the same one he'd drunk the night she left him, when he'd been determined to forget she ever entered his life.