She supposed that was why she wore that dress, why she curled her hair and let it fall the way he’d loved, left her freckles on display as she would when he’d kiss each of them in reverence. And it may have spurred something in him after all—the memory of the promise he’d mouthed to her as he left now crept to the forefront of her mind. Hermione Granger was not a betting woman, but if she were, she’d bet that he’d tried to say he still loved her. Logically, she was incredulous; surely his date that night was enough of a signal to dissuade that thought. Emotionally, though, she was blindly hopeful. Perhaps he did miss her, crave her as she did him, want her back as desperately as she longed for him. He had done a number on her, but perhaps she had returned the favor. She had pretended for so long not to notice the shallow hope in his eyes as they crossed in the Ministry hallways, ignored interdepartmental gossip about his sallow appearance and grieving state, been the last to enter and the first to leave any room he might be in. And yet she’d also pulled out all the stops tonight—for him, she now could admit to herself. She’d done herself up as if she was going back to his flat that night, praying to whatever deity above that he’d be there to witness her and come back to her side. So tonight, she locked away the logical side of her brain and chose to believe she’d seen correctly: I still love you, barely a breath, but echoing in the steely glint of his grey eyes.