Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

castles

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PART ONE: DAFFODILS

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i. out of sand (baby girl)

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May, that year, is a blur. A blur of funerals and tears at The Burrow, of thoughts of Fred and Firewhisky. It lies in a pool of glittering amber at the bottom of carved crystal glasses and burns Harry’s throat when it courses down his body, sits in his stomach filling up space like a cushion - a nice, comforting buzz in his head. By day, the alcohol loosens tongues and eases smiles, drunken stories and games under the dimming sun. By night, it worsens the nightmares and so he stays awake, watches the ceiling move, the room spinning around him like in the eye of a tornado. 

In ‘98, they don’t get the luxury of hindsight. Hermione doesn’t yet know she will eventually get her parents back - a version of them, at least - and Ron doesn’t yet understand that the pain of losing Fred will abate with time but always remain and simmer under the surface, ready to boil back up at the first whiff of spring. The way that Harry will have to explain all of this to his children someday, the way they will ask him questions about the war that he’ll have to answer, ten or fifteen years from now, doesn’t occur to him. May, that year, is a blur that starts with the battle and ends with it. The world around them is engulfed into a whirlwind of emotions, a tumultuous mixture of frenzy and grief, sometimes devoid of any sort of boundaries.

On the day that follows Tom’s demise, the picture of Harry that the Daily Prophet uses to fill its front page is the same as the one they had for the Undesirable No. 1 posters. There isn’t time for anything, let alone new headshots. Four words make the headline: The Boy Who Lived. More copies are sold than ever before in the history of the paper (they do a reprint in the afternoon, and one in the evening), and it’s as though the entire wizarding community wants a physical piece of this moment in their lives (a physical piece of him). It doesn’t matter that most of what’s in print is pure conjecture, or that Harry has been locked away in Gryffindor Tower for over twelve hours, unavailable for interviews. People are happy. The reckless euphoria is real, even for those who’ve lost friends or family. No one seems to know what to think, both wanting and not wanting to believe that it all happened, that they made it through, that they lived.

That May, he is asked for input on a cluster of inextricable details. From the schedule of the funerals to the fate of Azkaban, to what he wants to see from the award ceremony. Most of the time, it isn’t clear what he should say. For someone who used to have an opinion on nearly everything, Harry Potter now surprisingly finds that he is tired, exhausted, and can’t really think. The fresh coat of paint that dries against the walls around him suddenly becomes fascinating in the way that it doesn’t require his brain to function. By the end of the month, his voice sounds hoarse, either from over or underuse. He finds it hard to explain, a lifetime of memories whispered dead, hard to make the decisions they expect him to make.

Sometimes, Ron and Hermione answer for him. The frenzy absorbs them both, too; Harry makes sure of that. Makes sure that everyone - bloody everyone – knows that he would never have got here if it weren’t for them. As far as he’s concerned, they deserve the praise more than he does. They had a choice in the matter of risking their lives and still, they chose this. They could have eloped out of the country but they stayed, and became the real heroes of the wizarding world.

Sometimes, Ginny answers. When she does, she searches for Harry’s gaze as she speaks and he anchors his look onto hers, studies the features of her face and gives her a weak smile, her words like encased behind a bubblehead charm. 

The Weasley clan and its gravitating satellites keeps itself safe, that spring. A victory in a battle isn’t the flick of a switch and the habits they’ve honed throughout the years remain in the face of struggles that only change in their shapes. There is: Hermione’s hand in Harry’s when they put Lupin to the ground. There are: Percy’s angry shouts when he ensures the wards are still in place around The Burrow, every morning at the crack of dawn. He shields them not from Voldemort’s wrath, anymore, but from crowds and crowds of hungry reporters. ‘We need space!’ he bellows from behind the gate but Kingsley’s silencing charms seem to hold - Harry’s not sure anybody on the other side hears him. ‘Unbelievable,’ Percy says, almost to himself, walking back into the house, and without meaning to, makes everyone smile.

It’s all they have, for now. Short and discreet utterings at the corners of their mouths, rather than large grins, full of teeth. After the euphoria and the adrenaline of the first few days, comes the grief. No one ever writes stories about the aftermath of an armistice, because no one wants to hear about it. The epilogue to their children’s fairytale filled with dragons and unicorns and magic spells glosses over the half-empty jars left on worktops. It tells people that all’s well that ends well, that they are happy, celebrating. Or, maybe: devastated. Downtrodden and digging holes further than rock bottom, overwhelmed with the stench of death. Harry’s not sure which version is correct, and perhaps, the uncomfortable reality lies somewhere in between.

George sticks to his room. His father fills his time talking at him through a closed door. Ginny flies. Mrs Weasley channels her pain into household chores, whooshes away anyone who tries to give her a hand. She puts food on the table that they politely push about their plates. After the battle, Harry hoped to avoid going back to The Burrow. Because of the regret. Of the aimlessness. But: the Ministry was asking how many cars they’d need for their escort and Ron’s mother counted her remaining children on the tips of her fingers. ‘Well, and Harry and Hermione, of course,’ she said and smiled, teary but kind. 

Harry tried to open his mouth. Hermione’s hand on his forearm stopped him. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she hissed in a low breath. ‘She wants you there.’

So, he went. Supposes that at least, it’s one decision he didn’t have to make.

Sometimes, that year, it feels like they’ve just watched the end credits of a film. There is no grand gesture. They just get up and put the dishes in the sink and go to bed and carry on.

Kingsley is the first visitor to the house, just a couple of days after they leave Hogwarts; Charlie and Percy have worked hard to put their living quarters to rights. Mrs Weasley can’t actually believe they have the Minister of Magic around the table. She fusses about and forces Ginny to put on a dress; it gives them all something to do. Tea’s served after lunch and: ‘I guess I’ll leave you to it,’ Molly says before departing the room. Harry, Hermione and Ron line up on the couch with Kingsley on the other side of the coffee table. It’s a rematch of Scrimgeour’s visit. Fewer suspicions. More numbness.

‘I promise we won’t be long,’ Kingsley says. He gives her a few seconds to leave, then glances back at the three of them. ‘How are you?’ he asks. ‘And I mean, really -’

Harry isn’t sure what to say. How the fuck are they? Really?

Ron settles: ‘We're fine.’ Fills the silence that the other two have decided to let stew. ‘All good.’

A moment passes. Kingsley’s gaze over their tired faces, one after the other. The Minister laughs. Something exhausted and drained but still, it feels authentic and, Harry muses later, it’s one of those rare instances of genuine laughter, that spring. Hermione looks at him and shakes her head to herself, chuckles. Harry and Ron join in. ‘Stupid question,’ Kingsley acknowledges with a smile when their laughter dies down, nodding to himself. ‘Sorry.’

That day, they talk shop for a bit. Kingsley tells them about his new role, about the ongoing efforts to catch Death Eaters on the loose. ‘In some circles, there’s still a price on your head, Harry,’ he indicates in a tone that Harry knows is meant as a warning, one that he promptly chooses to ignore.

The issue, currently, is that in the afternoons, Harry’s taken up to visiting Devon. He doesn’t want to Apparate too far, doesn’t want to give the Prophet another excuse to write about him (Potter Apparates Without A Licence), but at this point, he’s been to Exeter, Branscombe Beach, the Seaton Wetlands. It’s been beautiful and glorious, full of coastlines and forest hikes; he’s even hired a bike, once or twice. On certain walks, there’s a silence around him that almost feels dreamlike, seeing places he’d only ever heard of in Muggle school when the Dursleys would go on holidays and leave him behind to rot at Mrs Figg’s.

He vaguely wonders how she’s doing.

At the house, the others don’t like it much, though to varying degrees. Ron and Hermione know better than to interfere. Ginny shrugs with a frown but a couple of times, she rolls her eyes and comes with him. When Mrs Weasley cautions: ‘Oh, Harry, dear, I don’t think it’s wise,’ he reassures: ‘I’ll take the Cloak.’ He’s not lying, in the strictest sense of the word, he does take the Cloak, just never wears it. There is something about standing there unrecognised in the middle of Muggle towns, watching Muggles be Muggles while his skin prickles under the sun that feels like it’s taken out of somebody else’s life. The spring of 1998 is oddly warm and cheerful in that sense (even the Muggles seem to have felt the Dementors’ burden lift), and when Harry buys ice cream cones with the fivers stuffed in his pockets, they almost taste different, sweeter, like small doses of freedom have been gently infused into them. Since he died in that forest, everything that happens from now on is a bonus, a reprieve won upon fate, and he might as well enjoy it. Do something fun with his life - at last. Sometimes, as much as he loves the others, the attention and care of The Burrow can feel suffocating.  

In May, Kingsley informs them that Bill has lost his job with the bank, and is now working directly for the Minister’s office. This because, amongst other things, he helped Harry and the family cash out of Gringotts and into Muggle banks, the day after the battle. ‘You’ll thank me later, trust me,’ he simply told them, carrying a hefty bunch of papers under his arm, his eyes tired and red. They complied, mostly because it seemed to give him a sense of purpose, prevent his gaze from drifting back towards Fred.

Sure enough, Kingsley now has the whiffs of a goblin uprising on his hands.

‘You kids really weren’t trying to make my life easy, were you?’ he jokes. Hermione looks apologetic, Harry honestly could not care less, and Ron, frankly, seems amused.

‘Merlin, with everything, I almost forgot we broke into Gringotts and escaped on a dragon,’ he quips. ‘Story to tell the kids one day, Hermione, innit?’

She shoots him a glare.

For what it’s worth: they’re still the same, the two of them. Bickering constantly (sometimes, Harry can’t help but roll his eyes), though they seem to have reached an adult understanding that they love each other, somehow. It leaves him both content and sad, like on top of everything else, he also has to grieve the end of their awkward teenage years. He looks at his best friends and wonders what comes next. Will they buy a house? Have kids? Get married? Move to the country? He wonders if they have a plan for themselves and is faced with the glaring obviousness of the fact that he doesn’t. Never quite thought about what would come, in case he did survive. Now, the future is a rather scary blank slate in front of him and time, the mere concept of it, feels almost uncomfortable in his hands.

The hours, that spring, he fills without any sense of strategy. Just things he wants to do. Simple stuff like: play Quidditch in the garden or kiss every inch of Ginny’s skin. Sometimes, he finds himself erring on the side of harmless mischief, the kind of thing that he thinks his teenage self would have done, hadn’t he been plagued with the prospect of a war. He imagines doing the things that would truly have driven Aunt Petunia up the wall or made Uncle Vernon throw dishes in his face. With all the time on his hands and close to no consequences attached, Harry figures what he wants to spend his time on, on a day-to-day basis, and just rolls with it.

For reasons that he can’t quite explain, most of the stuff he wants to do, most of the rules he wants to break, are Muggle ones. This helps, because Hermione’s really the only person in the house who understands what he’s doing and gets to express any sort of true discontent. One afternoon, she glares daggers at him as he walks in, returning from a quaint little Devon village by the coast, and serves himself a cup of tea. Percy, Ginny and Ron are around the table, discussing George. ‘Harry, come here,’ Hermione says as she rises to her feet, the look on her face both outraged and disbelieving. Ron shrugs when Harry looks to him for help.

The moment he stands next to her, Hermione takes a sniff at his jumper and immediately goes into a rant. Harry braces for it and fakes contrition, hears a jumble of words like: ‘I can’t believe it,’ and ‘after everything,’ and ‘cancer,’ and ‘it smells disgusting!’ She wrestles the pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his jeans and vanishes it before he can voice any objections. Ginny and Percy laugh and Ron interjects: ‘What’s cancer?’

The next day, it’s a bit of a joke but he owls Luna and asks her to draw a Hungarian Horntail for him. He doesn’t specify the purpose but feels like she knows anyway (she’s both clever and talented, Luna) and she owls him back that same afternoon with a gorgeous black and white animal drawn over a sheet of paper that seems to have been stolen from her father’s printing press. The texture is light and thin between Harry’s fingers. The details of the drawing are intricate and elegant, the spikes on the dragon’s back so life-like that Harry feels like he can almost touch them. Knowing that he’d never hear the end of it if the press got wind of a Diagon Alley visit, he decides it’s easier to cope with the physical pain than the emotional one (would Hermione claim that there is a pattern, here?) and takes the drawing to a Muggle tattoo parlour in Exeter. He tells the artist that the scars on his chest are the result of the car accident that also killed his parents and swears rather loudly as the needle pierces into the skin at his right side, just above the hem of his trousers. The dragon stretches up to the bottom of his ribcage and Ginny bursts out a laugh when she sees it, whispers something about it being ‘very macho indeed,’ and asks: ‘Don’t Muggles ask you to be eighteen for that?’

Harry shrugs, guesses that she is correct but the bloke didn’t even think of asking for his ID in the shop. It seems that he must just look older.

When Kingsley visits The Burrow, he also offers them jobs. Ron, Hermione and Harry, three spots with the Aurors, starting training in September. It’s a political move, sure (wouldn’t it look good for the Ministry to have Harry-Potter-and-his-friends join their ranks?), but it doesn’t feel like one. It’s more of a suggestion, a recognition of sorts. In response, Hermione chokes on her tea (‘Oh Kingsley, I don’t know what to say, we haven’t even taken our N.E.W.T.s!’), Ron swears excitedly under his breath and Harry - as usual, these days - says nothing.

‘I think I want to finish my education,’ Hermione settles. The look on Kingsley’s face is impressed but not surprised.

‘I wouldn’t expect any less of you,’ he tells her. She beams, looking expectantly at the other two.

They’ve not talked about it. The only dates Harry can keep up with are those of the funerals. September and school are so far. ‘I don’t know, mate, what do you reckon?’ Ron quickly follows. ‘Would be pretty sick, no?’ Hermione’s glare is quick. Ron looks sheepish. She eyes Harry, hopeful that he will be the voice of reason.

For a while, he picks at the calluses at the base of his fingers. ‘I think –’ he starts. ‘I think I need to think.’

Kingsley leaves empty-handed, that day.

Logically, over the next few weeks, Hermione begins what the rest of them jokingly refer to as the ‘Hogwarts Campaign.’ It gives her a purpose, a project to focus on and something in common with Mrs Weasley: trying to convince them all to go back to school. Eventually, Ron gently but firmly shakes his head and owls in with his decision to accept the offer. It’s a good job, one he wants to do, and he needs the money. The Weasleys have sorted the house but out of all of them, Arthur and Bill are the only ones working, and their cost of living is ever skyrocketing. In ‘98, the wizarding world is out of everything: potions, wands, cash. Goblins have gone on strike, refusing to create coins - shops in Diagon Alley have had to start accepting Muggle currency, albeit charging a premium - unheard of since the implementation of the Statute of Secrecy. ‘If I work, I can help Mum and Dad,’ Ron says. And George. And the shop. ‘And, Ginny still has to finish school.’

Hermione looks to her feet but says nothing. In the forest, after Ron was gone, she admitted to having drained her university fund before sending her parents to Australia. There was £6,000 in there, which she doesn't offer now. Just like Harry himself doesn’t mention his millions. They both know any attempt at helping the Weasleys financially wouldn’t go down very well. So: ‘Harry?’ she just asks, again. 

He’s still not sure. As a result, she redirects the Hogwarts Campaign onto him in the hopes that if he decides to go back, it might ultimately also change Ron’s mind.

‘What else would you like to do, though? Play Quidditch?’ Ginny asks, one afternoon. He lies on the grass as her broom intermittently races from one end of the garden to the other (he’s tasked with staying put and timing her with his watch). Harry shrugs when she looks at him (as he so often does, these days), thinks that yes, he’d like that, just before it occurs to him that it would attract even more attention to himself. That, obviously, wouldn’t be ideal.

A moment passes during which his gaze catches hers and: ‘Is that what you want to do?’ he enquires. She bursts out a laugh and shakes her head at him. There is a glitter in her eye, one that he hasn’t seen in a while. 

‘You’d think that was pretty obvious, Potter,’ she observes, lands and sits down facing him, starts to pull at bits of grass from the ground. ‘Did you not notice I’ve been training, like, ten hours a day?’

And come to think of it, yes, he has. He’s noticed how, since the end of the war, the muscles of her calves have grown more toned than they ever were before, how her hands effortlessly wrap around the Quaffle, how her petite body appears even leaner to him. He closes his eyes, imagines that the moment he got close, she’d fit into his arms effortlessly, like she was made to rest there and his sole purpose on this Earth was to hold her. She’s everything he’s ever wanted, Ginny, and every time he sees her, he can’t think of anything else.

That spring, Hermione tries a number of persuasion techniques. She uses big words like ‘career’ and ‘education,’ and sometimes lures Ron into extensive snogging sessions that he’ll be sure to miss once September comes around. At one point, she even enlists McGonagall into giving Harry a stern look that makes him stare down at his feet. ‘Mr Potter, I shall think you will consider this decision very carefully,’ she tells him and Harry’s suddenly reminded of the howl that escaped her mouth when she thought he was dead. McGonagall shows none of that, now, but even tries to dangle the prospect of a Quidditch Captain badge in front of him. ‘Who will lead my team if you don’t come back?’ she asks.

Harry shrugs and recognises the argument to be flawed. ‘Ginny?’

For all the hard work that she’s put in, he thinks she should get it even if he did decide to come back to Hogwarts.

May, that year, is also the first time they hear of the Commission. Established a mere few days after the battle – the key, the new and improved Ministry seems to think, is to start when the events of the war are still fresh in people’s minds. A number of Order members are discussing it around the dinner table at The Burrow, casual bits of conversation that Harry, Hermione and Ron are prompt to pick up on. ‘Not here, Arthur,’ Mrs Weasley warns but by the time she does, it’s already too late.

‘What Commission?’ Hermione asks.

The Ministry, it turns out, has decided to investigate its own collaboration with Voldemort’s regime. A bold move on Kingsley’s part, Harry must admit, although having seen Dumbledore’s memories of Barty Crouch Junior’s trial, he can’t help but wonder if legal hearings are the best way to go about this. ‘It won’t be a witch-hunt,’ the Minister assures them before Ron can even open his mouth to protest, as if reading Harry’s mind. ‘I promise you that. But we also need to look into it, don’t we? Learn from our mistakes where we can. The Commission has nothing to do with putting people on trial, it's more about -’ Kingsley pauses, seems to choose his words. ‘It’s a public inquiry. Trying to understand how we ended up here, and why, so that it doesn’t happen again. It’ll produce a report and, on the basis of that - and of the Auror investigations - yes, we might criminally charge certain people. But that’s not the primary purpose. You all probably will have to testify.’

Kingsley’s voice is matter-of-fact, that day, like the most obvious thing he could have said. Harry freezes. The glass of water in his hand stays suspended mid-air; he glances at Hermione, then Ron. They’ve not talked about what happened last year to anyone outside their little bubble. Mr Weasley asked a few questions, mostly prompted by his wife. ‘Where were you?’ (‘Camping in your tent,’ said Ron) and ‘What were you doing?’

The answer to that became clear just a few days after the battle, when the Ministry’s press release explained everything (without, really, explaining anything). Harry came down to breakfast that day and overheard Ron talking to his parents over tea and juice. ‘I would have preferred to find this out from you three rather than learning about in the papers, Ron,’ he heard Mr Weasley say, a tone of slight reproach in his voice.

‘It’s kind of hard to chat about over tea and biscuits,’ Ron pointed out in return. ‘And, with Fred -’

The funeral is something that Harry never wants to remember or think about ever again. In his mind, he refers to them as the ‘black days.’ The ones during which they buried Colin, and Fred, and Tonks, and Lupin, and Snape. The ones during which he stood, in black robes, graveyard after graveyard, empty speech after empty speech, and the sun was so hot in the sky it almost made him sick. Later, when Ron dared utter his brother’s name again, Harry heard nothing but silence in the room until Mrs Weasley’s voice cracked and although he couldn’t see them, he was sure she was hugging Ron. ‘Oh, my poor boy, I’m sorry,’ she said.

So: when it comes to the events of the war, Kingsley’s the only one who Harry’s really talked to. The circumstances were strange, the day after the battle. The new Minister had his wand trained on his back in the dark. ‘Drop your wand and show yourself, nice and easy -’ he warned.

Harry hadn’t heard him come in, almost in a trance, and the space around them was gloomy and empty; Kingsley’s steps echoed in the room. Harry looked around him, couldn’t really explain how he’d ended up here. He’d woken up from a four-poster bed up in Gryffindor Tower and just walked the corridors of the castle under the Cloak, pushed a door open and found a moonlit room, adjacent to the Great Hall. Kingsley repeated his order, cautiously approaching, and Harry shrugged, declared: ‘My wand’s in my pocket but I’m not dropping it. Not here.’

That day, there was a body on the ground, lying in front of them. Harry had sat next to it, within arm’s reach, his heart thumping in his chest. He’d used his wand to poke at it, first, almost childlike, then the tip of his finger. The corpse against his skin felt like a corpse, like any other corpse, a normal corpse, cold and dead. Harry had lit a candle, then, wand tickling the wick, watched it slowly consume at his side. The door shut behind Kingsley; he did not lower his weapon. ‘Identify yourself,’ he instructed, instead.

‘It is I, Harry Potter,’ Harry started. Back then, there was a weary sense of paranoia still lingering in the air. He tried to think of something, anything, a single identifier he’d share with Kingsley that would confirm his identity but his mind went blank, unable to take his stare off the floor. ‘I, er,’ he paused, nodded at the corpse on the floor. ‘I killed him.’

Looking back, it was the first time he said it. Far from the last. Every time he does, Ron always insists that it’s not strictly true. ‘You didn’t kill him, mate,’ he repeats. ‘The curse rebounded. He killed himself.’

Harry’s not sure if there even is a distinction. And if so, why the distinction’s important, or who it’s important to. It’s always felt irrelevant. Like Dumbledore would have done, he guessed. Cast a charm meant to disarm but knew, deep down, that there was a strong enough chance that the curse would indeed rebound. The possibility, he has to admit, didn’t quite bother him as much as it should have. He killed Voldemort to defend himself, but also because he meant to. It feels important, the way it all was always going to end. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord –

Hours later, he sat in the dark and lit a candle for Tom Riddle. Some things, in his brain, they don’t always make perfect sense.

Kingsley hesitated, shuffled his feet. When Harry glanced back, the older man’s wand wasn’t pointing at him anymore. Perhaps the identifier had been found satisfactory or perhaps, it was the broken, tired tone of the words that had betrayed him to be the real thing. Voldemort’s body lay on the floor within arm’s reach and at first, Harry had almost expected him to stir, expected to feel something when he poked it with his fingers, a reminder of the excruciating pain that the man’s mere presence used to send up his scar. None of that happened, though. Voldemort was just dead, and –

‘Sorry, we set up wards on the door just in case -’ Kingsley felt the need to explain. He trailed off. Harry reckoned they didn’t want to run the risk of Death Eaters coming in, stealing the body.

That day, Kingsley asked about the Elder Wand. ‘It’s a myth. Voldemort believed it so I played into that. It never existed,’ Harry said. On the forest, he explained: ‘I dodged the curse at the last minute. No one survives a killing curse, Minister, let alone twice,’ he laughed. The Horcruxes, though - ‘They’re -’

‘I’m an Auror, Harry, I know what they are.’

Harry glanced up, assessing the look on Kingsley’s face. Sighed. ‘Then, I can confirm that they’ve all been destroyed. We spent the last nine months getting rid of them.’

Kingsley raised an eyebrow at him, doubt etched across his face (just like he had done for the other two topics discussed). Harry almost laughed again - an odd place to laugh - caught his look and admitted.

‘For that one, I swear I’m telling the truth.’

Kingsley nodded. Glanced around at the room. There was a look of understanding on his face and suddenly, when Harry glanced back at Voldemort, he couldn’t bear to be close to him anymore. Got up and blew out the candle; the moon quickly became the only thing to cast a low glow on the ground. His heart skipped a beat. He waited with Kingsley, still almost expecting Riddle to rise in the dark. He didn’t. Nothing moved.

‘He’s dead,’ Harry settled, looking up at Kingsley. ‘He’s dead, and I killed him, and that’s that. We all get to move on.’

‘Harry -’ 

But before Kingsley could say anything else, he’d already left the room.

The tale he told that day later ended up in the Ministry’s press release. Harry reckons Kingsley must have found it good enough to quench the wizarding public’s thirst for explanations. It was a comfortable narrative to tell: Voldemort made seven Horcruxes, which Hermione, Ron and Harry spent almost a year hunting for. The Elder Wand was a ploy to get Riddle to show his game and, in the forest, Harry dodged the killing curse at the last minute. Ron, a few days after they came back to The Burrow, sat his family down and came clean about the locket and his stay at Shell Cottage. Harry told them how his best mate saved his life. Before anyone else could say anything, Ginny was the first to speak. ‘You were being possessed, Ron,’ she said. Harry noticed that she looked at her father when she spoke; he wondered if that could have been something that the two of them had talked about. ‘It really wasn’t your fault.’

Tears flowed, that day, and a deluge of hugs was exchanged. Still, after seeing the pain and anguish that the retelling of some of the past nine months inflicted upon the Weasleys, on top of the loss of their own son, Harry decided to keep the rest of the events to himself. He might not be as perceptive as Hermione when it comes to other people’s feelings, but it still didn’t take an empath to know that the fact that he not only did die, but also did so of his own volition, would unnecessarily upset everyone. After the Ministry released their information, the questions around him dried up, most satisfied with a narrative cleverly crafted to make sense, and Harry didn’t see the need to elaborate on something that felt increasingly private. The Horcrux that had lived inside him for years still seemed to uncomfortably cling to his skin like a layer of grime he couldn’t quite wash off; it felt easier to have everyone believe he’d had a plan to outsmart Tom Riddle all along. He wondered if: if he tried hard enough, for long enough, he might even come to believe it himself. Let all of those months and memories fade away.

‘Do you not feel - different?’ Ron asked, though, once. There was this almost hopeful tone about it, like if the Horcurx had also managed to permeate Harry’s brain for all these years, it would somehow explain what the locket had done to him.

Hermione glared. ‘Ron -’ she said.

Harry shrugged. Sometimes, it was like he couldn’t tell who he was anymore. But, he also couldn’t tell if that was the Horcrux, or just the war. The anger and the joy and the sadness always used to race like rollercoasters inside him; now most of it just felt ‘fine.’ Like nothing. And, sometimes, he wondered if he was being paranoid. All he wanted, that spring, was to forget and move on. 

When she read the official version in the papers, the one that didn’t mention any of the above, Hermione took him aside and said: ‘Well, I definitely think you were right to lie about the wand.’ He thought that at least, he’d got that one right. 

As predicted by Kingsley, three Ministry owls land next to the three of them at breakfast, a couple of days after the Commission is officially announced. The contents are identical: an invitation to testify the first week of June (Hermione first, then Ron, then Harry) and a thirty-page document entitled Immunity Agreement. This sends Hermione into a panic. She locks herself up in the bedroom upstairs, surrounded with quills, parchments and half a dozen books on magical law. Ginny, Ron and Harry decide to leave her to it and enlist Charlie into a two-a-side game of Quidditch in the garden. Harry and Charlie race each other to an old Snitch with a broken wing and Harry decides that he might just buy himself a new broom soon, now that he thinks about it.

That evening, when Hermione comes out of her shell, her hair looks even wilder than it usually does. Ron smirks at Harry and rolls his eyes when she drags the both of them out of the house, whispers rapidly so that they are not overheard. A light drizzle falls over them that evening; Harry’s glasses get slightly wet. ‘They’re hearing everyone who might have information about the circumstances surrounding the fall of the Ministry and its consequences. Mr Weasley’s got one, too, as well as McGonagall, some of the Aurors, other Ministry officials,’ she says. 

‘Do we have to go?’ Ron asks. ‘I mean, I get wanting to make the world a better place and all, but what’s in it for us? I don’t particularly fancy making my life harder than it currently is - do you?’

In the dark, Harry hears Hermione let out a short sigh. Using the light from inside the house behind them, she casts a quick look at a notebook filled with her hasty, handwritten notes before glancing back up at the both of them. ‘Yes, we have to go, Ron, it’s not exactly Divination class, is it? It’s the Ministry. If we don’t show we could be held in contempt.’ Her tone is frightening and makes ‘contempt’ sound like a much bigger word than it is. Harry wonders why he should care about the Ministry’s ‘contempt’ towards him. ‘Thing is, while we have to show up, we don’t have to talk, we could just refuse to answer - they won’t force us. Kingsley’s banned Veritaserum from official proceedings. Rightfully, so, in my opinion, I mean, it’s terribly unreliable and -’

Thankfully, Ron interrupts her before they are subjected to another digression. ‘Hermione, the point -?’

She sighs and shakes her head. ‘The point is: whether we actually talk to them is our choice. They’re having people testify under oath, so it’ll all have legal value. From what I understand, anything we do say about crimes that we might have committed last year could later be held against us when they look at possible charges to be pressed. This is why they’re also promising us immunity. If we agree to talk, we can’t be prosecuted. If we don’t, we’re taking our chances, I suppose,’ she announces, the two boys next to her throwing quizzical looks at each other. ‘I can’t guarantee that they won’t get evidence from someone else and choose to prosecute us.’

Ron scoffs. Harry looks back at her, frowns, confused. ‘Prosecute us for what?’

‘Oh, Harry, I don’t know,’ she suggests sarcastically, faking a shrug. ‘Robbing a bank, impersonating Ministry personnel, torturing one of the Carrows in front of a dozen witnesses -’

‘Oh, come on, Hermione, they were -’

‘I know, Harry, that’s not the point,’ she hisses, crosses her arms like she does when she tries to make the other two see sense. ‘Look, I think they’re genuine about it. They just want us to tell them what happened without fear of repercussion and carry out a full investigation. I actually think we should talk to them,’ she adds. Her voice is cautious, Harry notices, like she knows what his reaction will be, how he will roll his eyes, already taking a step back. Hermione sighs. ‘Harry, it’s not like the old Ministry, they’re trying to do things right, here. Whatever this Commission will find out, it’ll be the stuff that’ll be in History books for years to come! Don’t you want to tell them your version of events? I think we should.’

Harry says nothing, face humid with rain. He wipes his glasses off with the sleeve of his jumper, thinks back to a time when having the Ministry of Magic ask him to tell his version of events was the only thing he’d ever wanted. Now, it just feels like the truth is something he wants to shield the world from. He wonders what Mr and Mrs Weasley would think. What McGonagall would think. What Ginny would think. It feels so soon. Grass hasn’t even grown back over freshly upturned grounds.

‘I’m just concerned,’ Hermione says, looking straight at him. ‘Because you told everyone a half-baked lie about what happened in the forest and I’m not sure that will hold up in court. They’ve caught some of the Death Eaters, Harry. They saw you dead. They’ll say what they saw.’

Ron flinches at her words. Harry stares at his feet for a second before he sets his jaw, catching her gaze in the dark. It occurs to him that out of the three of them, Ron’s war is the only one that isn’t a secret anymore. Harry’s kept silent about the forest, sure, but Hermione hasn’t told anyone about Godric’s Hollow either, or Malfoy Manor for that matter.

‘Well, we can all make our own decisions, I suppose,’ she announces, her tone suddenly resolute. ‘It says on there that we’re only responsible for testifying to what we’ve seen or done ourselves, not what we’ve been told,’ she adds, like the most obvious, practical thing to do. ‘But I thought that now that a bit of time’s passed, we might want to talk about what happened, you know, it can be good to -’

‘It does depend who you talk to -’ Ron interjects, then, and the two of them embark on another long, somewhat tedious argument about whether or not they ought to share what they know with the Ministry of Magic and the wizarding community at large, rather than a handful of select few, a conversation in which Harry, oddly, feels quite uninterested. If pushed, he’d probably side with Ron (can’t imagine how telling a bunch of strangers in a courtroom that he was possessed by Voldemort would help him in the slightest) but generally speaking, he finds that he doesn’t have much of an opinion on the matter. For the first time in years, it probably is the first thing they don’t even need to decide as a group and that, somehow, feels more bizarre than anything else. ‘If they knew he survived another killing curse, it would just feed the frenzy,’ he hears Ron say at some point, which is probably true but more than anything, Harry finds that he wants to keep the fact that he walked to his own death to himself. The fact that he asked his mother to stay with him. The fear at the pit of his stomach, the wand that he kept inside his jacket because he was afraid he’d be tempted to pull it out. The moment when he walked past Ginny and silently wished for her to stop him. The fact that she was the last thing he thought of. The fact that he died, too. People would think that he was heroic, sing his praise even more than they already do, when honestly, he was just scared. A panicked, seventeen-year-old kid. He has nightmares about it at night, still.

‘The Elder Wand, though,’ he quickly notes. ‘You’ve seen it, you know it exists - they’ll ask you about it; I don’t want you two to have to lie for me -’

‘Oh, that?’ Hermione asks. She’s matter-of-fact on that one, like it doesn’t even reach the level of being a real issue. ‘Of course, we’ll lie about that, Harry, don’t be daft,’ she shakes her head at him, like he’s (again) being the most ridiculous he’s ever been. ‘It seems that people believed what Kinglsey told the papers and they won’t have any means of verifying it, anyway. Plus, we need to keep this quiet - if they knew it existed, they’d all be trying to murder you. Oh, Harry,’ Quick, he feels her pushing a fingertip against his chest, accusatory. ‘It was so completely stupid and reckless of you to taunt Voldemort with it in front of everyone. Did you not realise -’

‘Yeah, between dying and fighting the most evil wizard of all time, that’s all I had to think about, Hermione: what would happen afterwards.’

It’s snarky and he smirks; as usual, Ron snorts in response while she rolls her eyes. There are moments, still, when the three of them haven’t actually changed all that much. 

That night, Harry dreams of the forest. It haunts most of his nights. Sometimes, Ron and Hermione are there. When they are, they usually die. Sometimes, it’s Ginny and on those occasions, he wakes up with a start and struggles to breathe. And, there is also that recurring nightmare he has, in which he can’t bring himself to give up the fight. Harry reaches for his wand in his pocket at the very last moment, and aims to kill. ‘Avada Kedavra,’ he says and the two jets of green light collide and explode. For a few seconds, Tom Riddle looks dead, lying on forest grounds, but then the snake rises out of nowhere and Harry feels its fangs dig into his skin before he can do anything. Voldemort wins, in his nightmares, and everyone he loves dies.

May, that year, just - passes. Quickly - with visits around Devon and what feels like a thousand funerals to attend - but also somewhat slowly (sometimes excruciatingly so), in a way that Harry can’t always comprehend. The battle was loud and brutal; the quiet shambles of its aftermath are disorientating. Every night, after The Burrow falls silent and everyone has gone to bed, Hermione sneaks into the bedroom that he shares with Ron, her former reverence at Mrs Weasley’s household rules casually thrown to the wind. Harry still sleeps with his wand under his pillow yet the first time she does it, he doesn’t even raise it at her, just recognises the way she moves behind the door, the way she stands, uncertain, at the threshold. He’s lived with her in a tent for months, could draw her form in his sleep.  

She shifts uncomfortably. There are dark circles under her eyes and she looks so thin and fragile in the moonlight: skin and bones, and exhaustion. It was only when they got to The Burrow that he really noticed the toll, the physical toll that the war had taken upon the three of them, once he compared their current looks to the ones from just a year before, the pictures taken at Bill and Fleur’s wedding. In a frame on top of the Weasleys’ mantlepiece, Hermione stands in her dress like frozen in time, laughing, with Ron and Harry at her sides. Now, she catches his gaze and: ‘I can’t sleep,’ she explains, nods at Ron’s bed in the dark. Their friend is fast asleep, the sound of his regular, deep breaths filling the room.

Harry has noticed this disparity in the family already. There are the sleepers, Ron and George, who seem to escape the current situation by sleeping the days and nights away as though the world in their dreams is kinder, softer than reality. Ginny seems to be part of that group, too, but only because she works herself out to a state of complete exhaustion from sunrise to sunset, with dirt on her face, Bludger bruises on her legs and the woody scent of broom polish on her fingers. Then, there’s them: Hermione and Harry, who seem to be awake at all hours of the night, roaming the house like zombies or staying up talking until dawn. ‘Do you mind?’ Hermione asks, that first night when she comes to Ron’s side, and Harry shakes his head.

‘’Course not,’ he mutters.

There is a sense of comfort in the three of them being in the same room again. In the dark, Hermione buries her face in the crook of Ron’s neck and Harry notices how his friend almost automatically pulls her closer to him, fingers gently caressing her arm. In the days that follow, it occurs to Harry that Hermione might just need Ron by her side like he, himself, seems to need the both of them to breathe. That is until one night, he comes back to their room at three in the morning and Hermione hisses at him the moment he walks through the door. ‘Harry James Potter,’ she whispers angrily, trying not to wake Ron. She’s not pointing her wand at him but Harry still feels bound to look down to the floor, shifts uncomfortably in a pair of dirty jeans much too loose for his bony hips. ‘I woke up and you weren’t there. Don’t you ever do that to me again.’

‘I was just –’ he starts but she cuts him off, her glare dark and pointed under the moonlight.

‘I know where you were. Don’t insult my intelligence. Just leave a note or something, will you?’

He almost puffs out a laugh. A note? Sure, if Ron found that by accident, it certainly would fly well. Not wanting to pick a fight in the middle of the night, Harry nods. Fakes another wave of contrition, slips back into bed to stare at the ceiling. At this point, it’s just easier than to argue.

Because, yeah, well - that’s happened, too. Against all odds and without any sense of strategy, in the spring of 1998, The Boy Who Lived falls in love. Completely, wholeheartedly, passionately and, certainly, a bit recklessly. He loses his mind over a girl who used to be nothing but a dot on a map he held close to his heart for the longest nine months of his life. Sometimes, even now, he can’t believe that she is there, within reach of the tip of his fingers, or lying in bed next to him. It almost feels intrusive, in a sense, to lay his eyes on her, like part of him still believes she isn’t real, a figure to be solely worshipped in his head that will disappear the minute he glances away. Dumbledore’s words often come back to him when he catches himself indulging these thoughts, afraid that he could somehow turn her into a figment of his imagination: even if it were happening inside his head, Ginny Weasley could still be real.  

Her name is on his lips every night that month. From the first day - the first time they do it - in the boys’ dormitories of Gryffindor Tower, less than twenty-four hours after the battle. That morning, Harry’s crashed into a random bed on the First Years’ floor and left Ron and Hermione to cuddle on the couch in the Common Room. The moment he wakes up, it’s to the mental image of Fred’s body lying dead on the floor. He runs to the bathroom, door swinging open under his weight and it’s almost ironic how, just a few hours after they win the war, when everyone is out there celebrating, The Boy Who Lived ends up hunched over the toilet, vomiting his guts out. It takes him a moment to emerge and to finally notice her (Ginny – beautiful, fiery, exhausted Ginny), eyes open wide in surprise, cautiously watching him. Her hand hovers at the side of his shoulder without touching it, hesitant, when he begins to puke again. 

In his head, their reunion would have been something sweet, like her lips moving against his, the taste of the raspberry-flavoured lip balm she used to wear the year before. He would have confessed to all of his sins, to almost dying, to Hallows and Horcruxes, to the fear and the nightmares, to leaving her behind. ‘I’m sorry,’ he would have said. ‘I am so, so sorry.’ 

And, he would have tried to explain, like he did last year, that all he ever wanted was to protect her, to keep her safe, and she would have yelled. Shouted at the top of her lungs in a rapid succession of angry jabs about what an arsehole he was. ‘I can take care of myself!’ she would have thrown back. ‘You left me!’ 

He would have looked to his feet. With time, he hopes that they would have fixed it.

In reality, though, Ginny Weasley hands him a toothbrush, that morning, as he sits back on his heels. Her stare digs holes into the side of his face and he wonders if, had he been Hermione or Luna (had he been a friend, still), she would have cajoled him. Handed him a wet towel for his forehead. Instead, she closes the door behind her on her way out. ‘You should shower,’ she says.

His hair is wet when he comes out half an hour later, surprised to find her still standing there by the window. He’s wearing a clean pair of tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt. She turns to look at him, study the features of his face and when he finally crosses her gaze, she pinches her lips. He finds that all the words he wanted to say die at the back of his throat. She’s so beautiful, he thinks. So there. He remembers the scream she let out when she thought he was dead. She’s already lost a brother; he doesn’t want to hurt her. Doesn’t want her to know how damaged he is, doesn’t want to ruin this. 

‘You’re alive,’ she observes.

Her hand over her mouth, next. She holds it there for a few seconds, but doesn’t cry. A shy smile. ‘Yeah,’ he says.

And, in the empty Gryffindor dormitories, that morning, Ginny Weasley steps forward and kisses him. Open-mouthed and so close that he can actually touch her, know for a fact that this is not a dream, that she is real, that all of it was real, from the Horcruxes to the forest again, to this. She traces the line of his jaw, fingers grazed by the stubble at his cheeks and ruffles through the unruly mess of black hair that Hermione bravely attempted to cut before they left Shell Cottage. Harry’s breath catches in his throat when Ginny’s lips ghost over his, slow and out of practice. She tastes like an odd mix of cinnamon and salt, and deepens the kiss herself, doesn’t step away until she feels his hands on her hips, pulling her closer. ‘I -’ he starts as a whisper and stops, stops before he can tell her all the words of the world.

‘I don’t want -’ she says, glance finding his. ‘Let’s just not talk, okay?’ she smiles. ‘I just want to know you’re here.’

Her glance falls in front of him, finds her bare feet against the tiled floor and suddenly, he is the one reaching down to kiss her again. His heart hammers in his chest and: no, don’t get out, he thinks. It’s okay. They don’t talk much, that morning, but he pulls her shirt off and she reaches and digs her nails into his bruised back - they have sex for the first time. His first time and it feels like hers, too, though he wouldn’t dare ask anymore – but it’s there, in the boy’s dormitories after the battle that killed, seemingly everybody but them. ‘Are you sure?’ Harry remembers he asked her, like something he knew but wanted her to voice out loud, an affirmation of sorts, like being alive.

He thought back to the year before, his own fumbling fingers finding the warmth between her thighs in the Room of Requirement, and the way her mouth had wrapped around him in a broom closet for the first time. She had admitted her own ignorance, then: ‘I’m not sure this is what I’m supposed to be doing, so, tell me if I’m doing it wrong,’ she’d said and by the time she’d finished, not only had they discovered that she’d done most things right, actually, but frankly, Harry had also more or less forgotten the sound of his own name.

This was different, though. He felt the sadness in her kisses but also felt like he needed this (needed her) like his heart needed to keep beating. He looked at her; she smiled against his lips, let her hands trail down his bare back, her short nails digging into his skin again as he moved into her. She’d shut the door behind them, muttered a Muffliato charm for good measure. ‘I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, Harry,’ she told him.

So, now, every night, he slips into her bedroom and the both of them explore all the things they couldn’t explore before. There is resolve and method in Ginny’s actions, a newfound sense of purpose in their activities; she throws him looks throughout the days like she wants him to herself every minute of every night because every time they do it, they seem to get better at it. Sometime at the end of May, she even comes with him inside her for the first time, rather than at the touch of his mouth or fingers and frankly, Harry hasn’t felt this proud since they won the Quidditch House Cup. ‘Last year,’ she whispers in the dark one night, naked and sated next to him. His fingers trace loose patterns against the pearly skin of her arm. ‘I kept thinking that if I ever saw you again, we needed to do this. I didn’t want to think that we could have died without actually doing it.’

He smiles. To him, the spring of ‘98 is about sex and funerals.

They still haven’t talked, though. Or, maybe, not about the things he expected they’d talk about. The battle - it sits between them like something they both know and don’t actually want to comment on, like land between two houses, like her brother’s death and her mother’s howls. ‘It’s the smell,’ she sighs against his chest, once, the locks of her hair cascading down her shoulders. ‘Blood. You remember? It’s why I left the Great Hall, helped people out on the grounds. I couldn’t take it anymore.’

Harry nods. He remembers the sound of people’s pleas, groans, the stench of death - tries to find the words for how it feels to both be dead and so, fucking alive at the same time, and thankful and guilty - it feels like there is nothing to say because in truth there is too much; she shifts again to face him. Moves up, on her stomach, chin against the line of his sternum. 

‘Sorry.’ Quickly. A shy and discreet smile. ‘I didn’t mean to ruin the mood.’

He holds her gaze. The details of her brown eyes in the growing darkness of longer evenings. ‘You didn’t,’ he answers. 

Her thumb traces the line of his jaw. ‘Let’s not be sad,’ she tells him. ‘We’re naked and we’re in bed, and I don’t want to be sad - not with you anyway.’

He nods and thinks they can be what they have always been: sunlit days in the middle of a hurricane.

At the end of May, the rain is falling again when Andromeda finally visits. Molly’s sent multiple owls, Harry knows; they went unanswered for a long time. He, himself, wasn’t sure - if he could push, if he should push. Teddy is strapped in a sling down her front when she comes in through the Floo - he can’t help but think she looks so much like Bellatrix, and he is so small. 

Harry stares, silent, for most of the afternoon. The Weasleys seem to know exactly what to say, what to ask; Ron’s father even makes her smile, once or twice. ‘Oh, yes, he’s a very good baby,’ the grandmother beams, an odd sense of pride in her voice already. ‘Barely ever cries - no, really.’

Mrs Weasley offers to hold him while Andromeda uses the loo. Then, she passes him on to Ginny when she goes to the kitchen to make more tea. There is an instinct there in the way she holds his head; Harry can’t look away from it. Ginny smiles. Andromeda is just sitting back down and nods, kind, as Ginny crosses his gaze and speaks. ‘Do you-?’ 

It would be too awkward to say no. Yet, he’s got no fucking clue what to do. Suddenly, there is the weight of his godson in his lap and - Teddy opens his eyes. He looks up, content, while Harry’s heart races in his chest, and his brain goes ‘round in circles about everything that could wrong. What if he moves? What if he cries? What if he falls? The discomfort must be readable on his face because everyone around the sofas kind of laughs (a genuine laugh - they’re more and more frequent, these days) and Ron’s mum shakes her head at him in amusement when she re-enters the room, levitating another tray. ‘You look like Arthur when we first had Bill, Harry,’ she says to him, her eyes kind and smiling.

Andromeda stands alone with Teddy in the back garden, a few hours later. The rain has stopped but the grounds are muddy, clouds heavy in the sky. A very thin mist seems to remain in the air; it frizzes her hair. ‘I had to take him outside,’ she explains and it’s the first time, under the orange light of the late spring evenings, that Harry notices the dark circles under her eyes. ‘He was fussing.’

Next to them, a bird looms in and lands over the roof of the broom shed. Teddy stares at it with interest, trying to catch his nan’s attention as his hair turns bright red. Harry speaks before he can stop himself or let his own fears of inadequacy resurface. ‘I want to be there for him,’ he says, just as Andromeda smiles and nods: ‘It’s a bird, Teddy, yeah!’

At Harry’s words, she immediately looks up from her grandson. Her dark glance seems to pierce into his soul.

‘Anything you need, anything he needs,’ he adds, uttered firmly in the near silence. ‘I think I’m not great with babies,’ he admits. ‘But I want to do for him all the things that Sirius couldn’t do for me.’

His godfather’s name, it seems, is what makes Andromeda smile, in the end. It softens her gaze like an ointment on a wound and she nods after a while, quiet, asks: ‘Would you like to try holding him again?’

And there, without the pressure of the world looking down upon them, Harry gently takes Teddy from her arms and suddenly, it’s there. Love. In his heart, in his chest, there is so much of it, but not suffocating, just - it’s quiet, and safe, and right. Like: the low crackling of a fire in winter. The little one’s head fits against his chest and the world is immediately better for it. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ is all he wants to say. Teddy coos softly as Andromeda retreats back to the house and they both stand in the garden under the soft, evening light.

They loved you, Teddy, Harry thinks, rocking him with a hand to the back of his head. So, bloody much. 

Chapter Text

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ii. out of wood (ashes twirl)

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.

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June rolls around quietly, in 1998. Habitually. With roses that bloom around the church in Ottery St Catchpole and the air that is clear, and blue, and saturated with the scent of freshly cut grass in the mornings. Harry watches the sun rise. 

It used to be the end of school. The looming dread of exams and thoughts of Surrey. Then, it was 1997 in Hogwarts, when their days stretched into nights, the sky dark and indigo but never truly black, and their dusks were endless, tinted soft pinks and oranges. ‘I hate that we have exams in June,’ Ginny said, her breath tickling the skin at the neckline of his shirt, resting against him. ‘It’s usually my favourite month.’

‘Yeah?’

She called it: ‘Hopeful, isn’t it? The start of summer.’ He liked that the summer meant hope, to her. The sun dotted freckles at the bridge of her nose and he thought back to Quidditch pick-up games and afternoons by the river. He could tell from the tone of her voice and the quick look she threw him that she was a bit embarrassed, like her words both wanted and didn’t want to come out. ‘I, er -’ she smiled. ‘I was a bit afraid of the dark when I was, like, five?’ She spoke again, her head settling back against his shoulder, and looked up to the sky. ‘But the days are so long in June -’ Harry could hear the sweetness of childhood memories and pride in her voice. ‘It was my time to shine.’

He smiled. His fingers absentmindedly drew patterns on the skin of her arm. He said: ‘You’re always shining to me,’ and she let out a laugh. 

‘Soppy,’ Ginny teased. Stole a quick peck from his lips and he tried to deepen the kiss, his hands quickly finding their usual resting spot at her hips. There was something in him, even then, that wanted to know her to be close by, all of the time. She pulled away, a hand at the side of his face. ‘But true.’

He kissed her again. Hands sliding up under the rumpled shirt of her school uniform, trailing to the clasp of her bra. It was astonishing to him how, just a few months back, all he’d ever had, had been the prospect of spending his nights dreaming to touch her, like it was surely the only way he could possibly have her. Reality, as far as he was concerned, greatly surpassed fiction.

‘What?’ she asked, pulling away as he smiled against her lips.

‘I don’t know.’ A light shrug. ‘It’s just a bit hard to picture you being afraid of the dark. You don’t seem to be afraid of anything.’

Now, he remembers how: she hesitated. Head tilted to the side, narrowed gaze not leaving his. Harry couldn’t quite read her expression, but could only think about how Ginny Weasley was eleven years old when she single-handedly attempted to fight off the murderer in her brain. She took fifty-metre dives in Quidditch without a care in the world, and yelled at Ron (and at him) whenever she thought they were being pricks. She was always so brave, like she embodied the meaning of the word itself (like before he’d met her, he’d never quite understood what it meant). She smiled again that day, whispered in his ear before kissing him. ‘If you only knew,’ she muttered, so close that he could smell the scent of her shampoo. He breathed in, closed his eyes and thought that: yeah, June’s the best month of them all. 

‘I’m afraid of everything,’ she told him.

A year later, roses bloom once again in the gardens of Ottery St Catchpole and Harry’s still holding her. Some things in life never change, he muses, although, of course, everything else has changed. They’ve both fought in a war that should never have been theirs and one of her brothers has died, leaving the start of the summer to mend itself without them, trapped in a combative attempt to shovel the little hope it has left down their throats. When Harry caresses Ginny’s skin, the summer of ‘98, she’s naked next to him, the both of them tucked in her small, twin bed at The Burrow. They try to be quiet (always, despite the silencing charms they cast) but they each have a side, now, an oddly domestic habit, and after they have sex, Harry often lies with her body wrapped around him, so close that he’s never quite sure where her limbs start and where his end. Her bed’s pushed up against her window - along the skin of his left arm, he feels the morning dew build as the night chill leaves the air; it trickles down the single-glazed glass. They watch the sun rise together - early mornings and milky skies.

‘Do you think someone can be both brave and scared?’ he dares ask, then.

Ginny shifts against him. This is the last night they have together before Ron, Hermione and he leave for London. A week of depositions in front of a Commission that Harry’s still not sure he feels entirely comfortable with. Ron and Hermione have both signed their immunity agreements but he’s yet to decide what to do about his. She tilts her head to the side, a little bit like she did last year – there’s something in her look that Harry can’t quite identify. He wonders if he’s overstepped some sort of line, the pact they’ve made to protect whatever they have from all the hardships and pressures of the outside world, to not be ‘sad.’ He is relieved when she smiles. 

‘I think -’ she pauses. Her lips are so close to his, fingers soft and reassuring against his cheek. ‘I think this is just you having a case of the jitters about tomorrow, isn’t it?’ 

Something between a groan and a chuckle escapes his mouth. Ginny’s not - wrong. He just sometimes wishes she weren’t so blunt. But then: he also feels conflicted about that wish, because it’s one of the things he likes most about her. ‘Yeah, probably,’ he hates to admit. She reads him like an open book, doesn’t she?

Still, he doesn’t want to bore her. Doesn’t want to tell her about how Hermione claims he is stuck in his old ways, refusing to trust the Ministry. It’s just hard - leaning into the rightfulness of procedures and hearings, when all he can think about is how they put him on trial in Fifth Year. How they convicted Sirius, let Lucius Malfoy roam free. He hasn’t even told the truth about what happened last year to anyone other than Ron and Hermione, but now they’re asking him to tell everybody? He trusts Kingsley, as an individual, but - 

The issue is that there is no guidebook on what the law should look like, in a state like this. Harry remembers the things he’d overhear in the TV programmes the Dursleys used to watch, the bizarre colour schemes and flashy documentaries. Petunia and Vernon would tut and nod whenever the filmmakers wanted them to, throwing each other looks of solemn affliction as the coppers brought to trial ‘all these criminals,’ rampant on the streets of Britain. Harry remembers peeking at the TV instead of doing the dishes and seeing how the suspect refused to answer questions at the police station. ‘No comment,’ he said.

On screen, the coppers continued to go through the motions, complaining to the camera. ‘Well, that is something these people do. The solicitors tell them it’s in their interest, but -’

At the time, Harry thought that considering ‘they’ didn’t get charged in the end, the technique appeared quite effective. So: the next time Vernon smirked, asked him if he’d enjoyed his time with Mrs Figg – ‘No comment,’ he just said.

A big, fat, hand wrapped around his neck and threw him into the wall. That day, he learnt two things: 1) that ‘no comment’ isn’t always the best response and 2), that the rules that seemed to keep the policemen in check did not apply in his household.

Against Ginny’s neck, years later, he sighs. Strangely pleased at how sensitive her skin still seems to be after the orgasm he’s just given her, sees goosebumps and feels her shiver next to him. Slowly, quietly, her fingers trace soft shapes over the bruise at his chest. The one that appeared a few hours after the battle, black and a bit sore but not painful, a spider’s web of white scars spreading above his heart. Hermione dropped litres of Dittany over it, but it didn’t do anything. She seemed at a loss but he just shook his head, smiled. ‘You know what it is,’ he told her, then. ‘It’s an exit wound. It’s not going away.’ 

That feels okay. The Horcrux, leaving a mark. Harry looks at it in the mornings when he steps out of the shower to remind himself that Tom’s gone for good. 

Ginny - well, she likes to place her hand over it, he’s noticed. Sometimes, during sex. One night, he looked at her and raised an eyebrow; she was on top of him as they kissed, and, ‘I like to feel your heartbeat,’ she explained, her gaze locked onto his. Her other hand made its way down between them, slow and teasing, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat when her fingers wrapped around him. A sharp intake of air; he closed his eyes and opened them again, still finding her right there – she moved so tantalisingly slow it drove him almost mad – even he noticed his own pulse quickening with every stroke that she gave. Her mouth and teeth trailed down his neck and: ‘Yeah, like that,’ she said, dropping kisses at his pulse point. ‘Now, I know I’m doing something right.’

She also does it now, when he wakes up screaming, unable to breathe in the middle of the night. This is new. June-new. The first time, he thought he was dying. Suffocating - not on his list of favourites. She sat on her knees on the mattress next to him, placed her hand over his heart and said, ‘Harry, Harry, listen to me. It’s in your head.’ He didn’t think so, not then. ‘Just breathe, yeah? In, and out. In, and out,’ she breathed herself, slow, showing him how, like he’d forgotten. It was nice to just listen to her voice saying sweet nothings for a while. ‘Yeah,’ she smiled. ‘Just like that.’

Later, ‘You should go to a Healer,’ she told him. Her tone was worried. He didn’t want her to sound worried, but he couldn’t imagine going to a Healer, either. ‘I’m not a Healer, Harry.’

He looks at her now. In the quiet of birds singing the dawn outside her bedroom window, and smiles. Every time it’s happened again since then, on the second floor of The Burrow or in the toilets outside Kinglsey’s office, he’s thought back to her and it helped. ‘I just -’ he sighs. Thinking of the Commission again. The idea of speaking in front of so many people, being around so many people - that also makes him stop breathing. He never used to be nervous, speaking in front of an audience. ‘I just don’t think I wanna talk to them all.’ 

‘I don’t think I would either,’ she admits. Sometimes, that summer, it feels like she is the only person who truly gets it. ‘I used to think everyone owed me an explanation, you know?’ she smiles, a bit shy and somewhat nostalgic, this time around. ‘I wanted you to tell me where you were going, with Ron and Hermione. I wanted my parents to tell me everything about the Order, I wanted -’ she trails off. Her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Now, I think maybe, no one is entitled to a story someone else doesn’t want to tell.’ Her mouth at the line of his jaw again. ‘Not even me.’

He pulls her close. Kisses her still. 

The next day, in London, he, Ron and Hermione are up early. The three of them sit, drink what feels like litres of coffee and tea in the empty breakfast room of a nondescript, Muggle hotel, waiting until it's time for them to head to the Ministry. They’re staying there for the length of their depositions and it’s odd to be by themselves again, after weeks spent in the overcrowded Burrow. Harry spots a tired-looking Auror in Muggle clothing guarding the entrance at reception, pretending to read a magazine.

These days, he’s jumpy. Like: the simple act of existing in this world makes noises that he can’t really cope with. It’s the kind of thing that no one paid attention to, back in May (perhaps when people’s minds were overrun with their own struggles and worries), but which they seem to notice more, now. When the three of them select a table at the hotel, Harry chooses the one where he can have a direct view of the entrance - even then, he can’t help but turn around to check the emergency exit. Hermione’s look is kind when she lays a hand on his arm. ‘Stop it,’ she mutters. ‘You’re setting my teeth on edge.’

They barely swallow any food. For the other two’s sakes, Harry tries to hide the knot in his stomach, can tell that Hermione is anxious enough for the three of them - she keeps tapping an annoying rhythm against the table with the tips of her fingers, doesn’t even seem to realise she’s doing it. Her make-up is minimal, the varnish on her nails a plain but shiny transparent. His mind drifts back to Ginny again, how she always painted her nails in bright colours in school, reds and oranges, and golds, performed complicated charm work on them so that it would stick. ‘If I don’t, it always chips with Quidditch.’ 

The moment the receptionist leaves them alone, Hermione quickly Scourgifies a couple of breadcrumbs from Ron’s lap, straightens her own collar. Her suit is impeccably ironed, black pencil skirt hanging a bit loose from her hips, falling just below her knee. She’s lost weight again, Harry notices. A shirt is tucked under her dark jacket, the two top buttons conservatively undone, revealing a thin, discreet and elegant, golden chain. Ron raised an eyebrow when she came out of her room this morning, eyeing her up and down. She let the door close behind her with a dull thud.

‘I want them to see I’m Muggle-born.’

When the cleaning lady threw a questioning look at Ron and Harry’s robes, she let out a mock-excited gasp.

‘We’re going to a convention!’

Her voice was childish and out of place, and if Harry hadn’t seen her lips move, he would have sworn the words were uttered by someone else. The cleaning lady shrugged, indifferent, and Harry suddenly had a bizarre flashback of that summer when Dudley got obsessed with Star Wars. 

He sits in his chair, now, watching his two friends interact in silence. None of them can legally Apparate - Harry never passed his licence and the Ministry executively revoked theirs last year due to their ‘association with an undesirable wizard’ - so the plan is for the three of them to take the Tube, first, then Floo into the Ministry from one of the Auror safehouses, a couple streets out from Covent Garden.

‘It’s almost eight,’ Hermione declares, collecting her purse from the floor. It’s the infamous beaded bag; Harry wonders if she’s still ready for them to take off and run at any moment. He takes one look at her outfit again and grabs his old Gryffindor scarf from the back of his chair, slides it to her before she stands. Hermione’s hand instinctively settles on it, feels the wool beneath her fingers. She throws Harry a curious look.

‘You’re gonna want this,’ he shrugs.

She raises an eyebrow, gaze studying his scarf suspiciously. It’s bright red and, Harry guesses, does not fit in at all with the rest of her rather conservative attire. He sighs, drains the last drops of his third mug of tea.

‘When we get there, it’ll be like the craziest circus you’ve ever been to,’ he speaks, quick, before he runs out of words. There is an urgency to the things that he needs to tell them both, ones that they don’t necessarily want to hear. ‘It’ll be dozens and dozens of people standing in a crowd, clapping and screaming, and wanting a piece of you. They’ll want to thank you, insult you, ask you questions, tell you personal stuff about themselves. They don’t mean anything bad by it, they just don’t realise you’re a person. The press will be there, too, and they will be flashing their cameras just about five inches from your face to try and get a good shot,’ he adds, raising his hand close to his own cheek, showing them the distance. ‘They’ll want to touch you, have you sign stuff, and they’ll keep talking at you from the moment you step out of that fireplace to the moment you get into the lift. We’ll have an escort of Aurors to try and hold them back but I honestly doubt that they’ll be able to do much. It’ll feel like you’re in the longest tunnel you’ve ever been through and you can’t see the exit. At least, wear that scarf over your head, it’ll hide your face and your eyes from the cameras, protect you a bit. Ron, you can use the hood at the back of your robes.’

Both of Harry’s hands lay flat in front of him. The other two stare, blank, for a few seconds, like there’s a magnitude to the words that he’s just said that he’s not sure he really comprehends. Hermione finally picks up the scarf from the table and ties it around her neck. She looks at him. ‘You?’ she asks, her glance finding his robes. There’s no hood at the back of them so she must realise that he’d packed the scarf for himself. 

‘I’ll be fine,’ he says, breathing in deep as he pushes himself up from his seat. ‘I’m used to it. Let’s go.’

Her deposition lasts two full days. By the end of it, she looks washed out, exhausted, but oddly relieved. She tells them everything . From their decision to go to Godric’s Hollow to the specific curses Bellatrix performed on her at Malfoy Manor. Harry somehow wishes the woman was still alive so that they could put her behind bars. Mrs May Kelly, the President of the Commission, thanks Hermione for her service to the wizarding community. ‘You’re a very brave witch, Miss Granger,’ she tells her in closing remarks. ‘We’ll recommend you for an Order of Merlin, First Class.’

Later, Hermione whispers to Harry and Ron that Mrs Kelly used to be the UK’s Wizarding Ambassador to Australia, before the war. ‘She said she might be able to help.’ There’s a glimmer of hope in her voice, for the first time in so long. ‘I could maybe go in a few weeks, once they’re located. Can you imagine?’

Harry smiles. It feels like the first real piece of good news they’ve had in an eternity.

Ron deposes next, for a day and a half. They thank him, too, with similar recommendations, offer condolences for Fred. ‘It wasn’t that bad, actually,’ he tells Harry after they leave the Ministry at around three that afternoon. ‘Kind of cool to sit in front of all these important people and have something to say.’

That night, he goes out to celebrate over a pint with his brothers. They invite Hermione and Harry, of course, but although he’d never admit it, the mere idea of being out in public at the Leaky Cauldron buries The Boy Who Lived in crippling anxiety. That, and Fred’s glaring absence, that feeling of guilt and shame, could-have-s and should-have-s that haunt all his interactions with the Weasleys. Hermione claims: ‘I’m exhausted, Ron,’ and the three of them graciously pretend that she’s not only just saying that because she would never, ever, leave Harry alone on the eve of his deposition. Ron himself seems hesitant (this regardless of how many times Harry insists that: ‘It’s all right, truly,’) but Bill’s in London on a mission for Kingsley and George has decided to go in and sort out the shop, so it’s just one of those occasions that can’t be missed.

A few days before they left for London, George pulled a prank on Ron with an enchanted spider, made everyone laugh around the dinner table. Later, he bluntly announced that Weasley Wizard Wheezes would be reopening on the 1st of July. Mr and Mrs Weasley looked up at their son with a mixture of pride and apprehension in their eyes.

‘Are you sure, dear?’ Mrs Weasley asked in a voice that seemed caught up in her throat. George just shrugged.

‘People need a laugh, Mum.’

Harry sometimes wonders if he’s the only one not moving on.

So, after Ron’s deposition, as soon as they’re dismissed, Harry and Hermione make their way back to the hotel on their own. They agree to walk rather than take the Tube; the silence is comfortable between them, only ever interrupted by the random hoots of cars stuck in traffic, or quiet chatter about directions. Hermione switches her short, conservative heels for a pair of old, dirty trainers and Harry changes into jeans and a t-shirt. They both effortlessly blend into the Muggle world. As busy as London can be, it feels like a reprieve, a place where they can get lost without the madness that encircles them at the Ministry. The contrast is almost unbelievable, at times. In Muggle London, they’re just a couple of nobodies.

They stop at a café on their way up to Islington. Harry sits at a table by the window, gets tea and a KitKat. Hermione smiles down at her cappuccino as she watches him eat, says: ‘Sorry, I always forget you grew up with Muggles, too.’ She points to the snack in his hand. ‘I kind of miss M&Ms, you know?’

Harry grins before he nods, almost laughs at the memory that suddenly pops into his brain. ‘Dudley used to eat about three packs a day,’ he recalls with a smile, leans against the back of his chair. ‘That was before they put him on a diet, obviously.’

Hermione genuinely laughs at this. He sees it in her eyes, the little lines at the corners - and suddenly Harry’s not quite sure when they grew up. He also can’t remember a time when they didn’t act well beyond their years. Hermione and Ron used to send him food to Privet Drive, pieces of cake hidden under the floorboards.

Hermione will always be eleven, to him. The bushy-haired girl with large front teeth who cried in the loo and faced a troll. He wonders, sometimes, if she still sees him as the lost and skinny boy he used to be, the one who knew nothing about magic, least of all the reason why everybody always seemed to be staring at him all the time. He also wonders if he’s even changed at all. By all standards, Harry’s still rather lost, and definitely skinny.

Hermione’s also the girl who loved her parents so much she made them forget she existed. Sometimes, the two are impossible to reconcile. Harry remembers Lupin and Sirius a few years ago, how they justified his father’s actions in the Pensieve. ‘He was fifteen,’ they said. It occurs to Harry, now, that he can’t remember ever just being ‘fifteen.’

On the other side of the table, Hermione studies his face. Harry knows she’s thinking about how, in his memories, it was Dudley who ate the three packs of M&Ms a day, not him. She shifts, her knee bumping into his; he feels the fabric of her tights against that of his jeans. ‘Why were we never kids?’ he suddenly asks, both an attempt at distracting her from her own thoughts and a genuine question; it tumbles from his lips before it can be stopped. They were kids, Harry thinks, once upon a time, but also, not.  

Hermione looks up, catches his gaze and almost instantly, he sees the tears prickling at the corner of her eyes. ‘Oh, Harry.’

They leave the café at about six in the evening, walk the next thirty minutes back to their hotel. Hermione explains the Ministry’s plans, to help with her parents. Ron has already agreed to come to Australia, she adds, once the Grangers are located. Harry gives her a smile, knows what she’ll ask before she even speaks, like a testament to how well he knows her. ‘I’d love for you to come, too,’ she says as they cross a street up towards the British Museum.

Harry smiles, shakes his head. It’s time they all spent some time apart, he thinks. He needs time to think about Kingsley’s offer for the Auror job, really, and Ginny, and –

Harry catches Hermione’s look, playfully bites his lip. ‘I think it better be just you and Ron,’ he teases with a tell-tale if-you-know-what-I-mean rise of his eyebrow. ‘Thousands of miles away from his parents…’

Hermione turns bright pink. Chuckles and looks to the ground at the same time, the colour in her cheeks mirroring the red of Harry’s scarf around her neck. She never gave it back to him, after that first day, but he finds that he quite likes the look of it on her, it reminds him of those afternoons she’d spend huddled in the cold, pretending to study on the terraces as she watched Ron and he try to win Quidditch matches. ‘Actually, I don’t know,’ she sighs, seconds later, refusing to cross Harry’s gaze. ‘We haven’t,’ she stumbles over her words, almost trips into a pothole. Her face is scarlet. ‘I mean –’

Harry bursts out a laugh, then. Loud, in the middle of the street. She shoots him a glare that only makes him laugh harder, lips stretching into a large grin. That’s a lot more information than he’s ever wanted to know about Ron and Hermione’s private business, to say the least, and yet the embarrassment on her face is what makes him laugh, more than anything else - how very Hermione. She shoots him another look as they walk on, pass a Tesco Express at the corner. ‘Well, I don’t know, I just assumed,’ he explains, shrugging, hands thrown up in the air like it’s not his fault. ‘I mean, I hate to ask but what have you two been doing every night when I’m not there?’

‘We sleep!’ Hermione tells him, indignant. Her glare forces him to stifle another round of giggles.

That evening, the both of them eat Pad Thai takeaway and sit on the floor in front of the muted hotel telly. They laugh at funny Hogwarts stories of Romilda Vane and crazy things that Harry remembers Luna saying. They drain a few cans of bitter and wait for Ron to come home.

‘So, you and Ginny, then?’ Hermione eventually asks, that night. She is curious, and maybe a bit tipsy. He kind of rolls his eyes in amusement but also sighs, smiling, and loosely wonders if they’ve been drinking too much, lately, if it’s made them bolder or if he even cares. Between the funerals and the celebrations, Harry can’t quite remember the last time he went to bed without feeling slightly lightheaded. Right now, it’s hard to decide whether the alcohol is good or bad: it helps him sleep but makes the dreams worse. He thinks of it like he thinks of the cigarettes. Like: maybe he’ll care, someday.

‘Yup,’ he grins, now, joking and faux-enigmatic. Hermione shakes her head at him in disbelief. ‘Me and Ginny.’

‘Ah, come on, don’t be like that,’ she groans. He chuckles again. ‘I promise I won’t tell. Who else are you going to talk to, anyway?’ she suggests. ‘ Ron? ’ Harry lets out a snort in response. ‘He suspects, you know?’ she adds. ‘Bill, too…’

Well, at least, that explains the number of not-so-subtle glares Harry’s received, lately, from the eldest Weasley. To tell the truth, his relationship with Ginny is currently the worst-kept secret of The Burrow. One that is sort of harmless and that no one really ever talks about because there always seem to be bigger fish to fry. As a result, Harry has been living in a constant state of alert, lately, wondering when the penny will drop, waiting for the day when Mrs Weasley (or, Merlin forbid, Mr Weasley) will finally wake up to the fact that he’s been shagging their only daughter under their own fucking roof every night since they got back from Hogwarts, and promptly decide to – probably rightfully – kick him out of their house. For now, they haven’t, though, so Harry remains in an endless state of nervous apprehension which, bizarrely, seems to suit him just fine. He’s not sure what Ginny thinks about it beyond the fact that she still seems to welcome him into her bed so he’d be a pretty stupid git to say anything and jeopardise the fragile equilibrium they’ve found.

Hermione seems to read all of these emotions on his face because she smirks in response, and pointedly adds: ‘Perhaps, your life would be easier if you just talked to people - ’

He snorts out another laugh. Good sport. And, maybe, it would. 

He’s been thinking about it, at least. Especially with Ginny. Has opened his mouth, once or twice - this voice in his head that suggests he should say something, but what? That he died? That it sucked? He remembers how after the battle, he thought he would just - unload. Everything onto her. But she is right, she isn’t a Healer, and how selfish would that be? He remembers the day she read the Ministry’s press release and said: ‘So, he made pieces of his soul?’ He nodded.

‘The diary was one,’ he told her. She looked away, bit her lip. He watched her swallow and smile, tense and fake, and wanted to hit his head against the wall. Why did he even fucking bring that up? Idiot. He didn’t add that one was lodged right there, in his brain, in his heart. He didn’t want to scare her away and his scar isn’t hurting anymore. He’s recently tried and failed to tell Ron to fuck off in Parselmouth. If that’s the extent of the aftereffects, then he can probably live with them. 

‘Well, I’m glad you didn’t die,’ Ginny said. 

Hermione doesn’t believe him - of course. Claims that letting him get away with secrets and vague press releases doesn’t sound like Ginny. Harry’s not even sure how to explain that they’re not secrets - not exactly. That there’s a level of understanding between them that runs deeper than Hermione could ever imagine, but that he also doesn't know who their characters are even supposed to be, anymore. What he has seen is that when he mentioned Tom a few times since, apropos of not much, and he immediately saw Ginny tense, almost physically felt her try and change the subject. And, some nights, he’s dropped flutters of kisses along a nasty scar that runs down her stomach and looks older than the battle and she’s just pulled him back up, smiled. ‘Hey,’ she whispered. ‘I’m here.’ 

Maybe, he hasn’t asked for details about her war either, because he’s a coward. The guilt of Fred is suffocating, and he’d almost rather not know if she also got injured because of him. And, maybe, she hasn’t asked him for details about the forest or the tent, because she understands that right now, rehashing it is the last thing he needs. And maybe, it is June of ‘98 and they still have all the time in the world to talk, when and if they want to. He thinks Hermione should mind her own business, to tell the truth. Because that month, when Ginny sleeps with her hand on the bruise at his chest and suggests: ‘Maybe you could cover it up with another tattoo,’ it feels better to laugh, try and think of what animal he should go for, rather than to apply Hermione’s litres of Dittany. Maybe, they will just fix things differently. 

Harry flicks open another can of beer and hears the pressure fizz out like a light sigh. It calms his nerves. ‘You know, Ginny’s, er,’ he starts, looking to explain who he knows Ginny to be, and how wrong Hermione is - he pauses to steal a sip. Bitter bubbles at the back of his throat. ‘She’s funny,’ he acknowledges with a shrug. ‘And, er – well, she’s perfect, really.’

Hermione laughs. ‘No one’s “perfect,” Harry,’ she corrects. Talking about the one thing that kept him going last year, that seems rather inaccurate. Right this minute, Ginny is perfect to him. ‘But you’re happy,’ she concedes, smiling. ‘I can see that. It’s a new look. Kind of suits you. You’re in love, aren’t you?’

And, his mouth twists. Because: fuck. He obviously can’t keep the heat from his cheeks when she says that, can he? 

He finally dares cross Hermione’s gaze again and the look on her face tells him this isn’t news to her, either. He doesn’t speak and instead, bites his lip when she follows up and asks: ‘Have you told her?’

The words roll off his tongue with a shrug. ‘Timing’s not right.’

Her brother’s just died. Sometimes, Harry feels like that was objectively his fault. He’s got a newborn godson to try and look after and he and Ginny have only just started seeing each other again. He still wakes up in the middle of the night screaming half the time. The idea of putting words on anything, right now, sounds clinically insane. 

And, to his surprise, Hermione agrees. Or, at least, she doesn’t fight him. Shrugs as her hand absentmindedly pulls at the carpet of the hotel room. ‘It’s odd,’ she observes. ‘The war. It’s like it’s made you more reckless with the things that don’t matter, and more cautious with the things that do.’

You drink and you smoke cigarettes, but you don’t tell Ginny you love her, Harry, do you?

‘People died.’ It's both an explanation and not . People died and with that, Harry supposes that he learnt to be reckless with his own life but prudent with that of others. 

Hermione nods. Something sad in her smile when she lays her head on his shoulder, closes her eyes. He gets the distinct impression she doesn’t want to look at him. ‘So did you,’ she says. Her voice cracks. ‘I almost lost my brother, too.’

Her tears slowly damp his shirt, that night. Harry’s not quite sure what to do other than to hold her through it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mutters in her hair under the bright, hotel lights. And: ‘I love you.’

Love in its million different forms, the way Dumbledore preached it. Harry loves Hermione the way he loves Ron, like the boy who introduced him to chocolate frogs and the girl who cried in the loo and faced a troll.

She falls asleep. He’s not sure when but her head is on his shoulder and her feet are tucked to the side, by then. Harry can't tell if it’s the exhaustion that plagues them or the alcohol but when he shifts and looks down at her under the soft light of the bedside table, her breathing has tamed like the soft lull of a quiet animal and her tears have stopped. Carefully, he lifts her limp form in his arms, lays her down on the bed and pulls the covers up to her chin. He’s about to retreat to his own room when she hangs on to him, loosely reaching for his shoulder. ‘Stay, please,’ she mumbles in the dark. ‘Until Ron gets here.’

Their best friend does, a couple hours later. Harry’s playing with Dumbledore’s Snitch under the moonlight, the quiet flutter of its wings covering Hermione’s slow, sleeping breaths. Harry catches the Snitch and pockets it as Ron opens the door to Hermione’s room and throws him a questioning look; Harry brings his forefinger to his lips, mouths: ‘She’s asleep,’ and points to the door that connects to his own room. With difficulty, he extricates himself from Hermione’s grasp, follows Ron through the threshold, leaving the door slightly ajar.

In contrast, Harry’s room is brightly lit. Ceiling lights cast an aggressive glow on the general mess of his stuff, quills and parchments and dirty clothes. Ron throws an amused look at their surroundings – Harry guesses Hermione makes him clean up after himself, these days.

In a series of hushed whispers, Harry tells him about their night. The laughs they shared, Hermione’s tears. Ron sighs, sits at the foot of the bed as Harry stands against the wall and kicks off his trainers. ‘She keeps having nightmares,’ Ron speaks. ‘I tried to tell her to talk to a Healer, but I guess if they knew, the press would never leave it alone.’ His best mate’s shoulders slump - Harry hates how it’s probably true. Vultures. ‘I don’t know what to do. Her parents, Bellatrix; she says sometimes she dreams I got killed by Snatchers. Can you imagine? Me getting killed by Snatchers?’ he adds and throws a mock-insulted look at Harry who pretends to laugh, as though that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. ‘I wish they’d just let us live a little, you know? It’s what Fred would have wanted.’

Harry nods. ‘It’ll be fine,’ he says, not quite sure who he’s trying to convince. ‘We’ll all be fine.’

Ron shrugs, silent for a moment. He looks up and, to Harry’s surprise, also chuckles a bit. ‘You know, come to think of it, I don’t know what’s worse: being you and having walked to your own death or being me and knowing your best mate was enough of a git to walk to his.’

And, so: against all odds, they laugh, too, that night. Drink a bit more from Harry’s minibar before they finally go to bed, well after two in the morning. Ron talks about his brothers and his overwhelming sense of worry for George that seems to swallow up his own grief. He doesn’t put it in so many words, of course. Harry doesn’t judge – they all have their own ways of coping with whatever the hell this is.

For the first time in, frankly, as far as he can remember, he and Ron actually talk about the future. Even if they had wanted to, Harry reckons they probably wouldn’t have been able to plan for this - since all their plans always go to shit anyway - but it’s funny to be thinking about what they’ll do, now, and where they’ll live and who they’ll be. Ron speculates that Bill and Percy will stay at the Ministry and George at the shop, Charlie with his dragons, himself with the Aurors.

‘Ginny will play professionally,’ he says and, for the first time ever when it comes to Quidditch, Harry notices that there’s pride in Ron’s voice, rather than envy. ‘I’m sure of it. She’s been training so hard, anyway, I’d say she’ll even have her pick of teams.’ Ron shrugs, throws a look at Harry. ‘Whatever you do, don’t ever die on her again, by the way, or I swear I’ll kill you.’ There is a fire in his best friend’s eyes - for the life of him, Harry doesn’t doubt it. He wonders again if his best mate knows, and exactly how much he knows, but doesn’t ask. As Hermione so graciously pointed out, Ginny isn’t something that he discusses with Ron. ‘When she saw you in Hagrid’s arms, the look on her face,’ Ron notes, a bit later. ‘I thought the ground was going to swallow her.’

That night, after Ron re-joins Hermione in their room, Harry doesn’t sleep. He stares at the walls, plays with Dumbledore’s empty Snitch (if he still had the stone, he’d probably ask for his parents’ advice). Instead, he comes to a decision that he blurts out over breakfast the next day. ‘Do you guys want Grimmauld Place?’

He wants to do something for them. Something gratuitous that has nothing to do with the war, but everything to do with their future. Hermione’s sharp look quickly finds his. Her eyes are still red and puffy; she looks a bit hungover. Ron almost spits out orange juice in surprise. ‘What?’

‘I’m moving to London,’ Harry declares, matter-of-fact. He finds that he likes it here. There are things to do, everywhere, all the time, things that keep his mind busy without overloading it with thoughts of grief. Bright lights, distractions, theatre shows and Muggle shops to explore. A degree of anonymity that makes him feel almost comfortable in his own skin. He doesn’t need to Apparate miles and miles away to random villages across the West of England to be amongst Muggles. The only thing he needs to do is to simply steer clear of Diagon Alley. ‘I’m going to look for a flat, though. I can’t stay in that house.’

The other two nod, and Harry realises that this, right there, is the reason he loves them: he can just say things without the need to explain.

‘I thought you might want to stay there, though,’ he adds, fiddling with the handle of his mug. ‘I can have Kreacher clean up – Hermione,’ he stresses when he catches the look on her face, before she even opens her mouth. ‘He’ll be glad to have something to do, honestly.’ Harry watches as she purses her mouth, rolls her eyes a bit, but doesn’t voice any of her objections. ‘I know the house is,’ he pauses, at a loss for words to describe it. ‘Well, it is what it is but you could probably move in by the time you get back from Australia, at least get yourselves out of The Burrow.’

Ron and Hermione are silent for a while. Ron turns to look at her, an eyebrow raised, trying to figure out what she thinks. Harry surprises himself with his ability to decipher their wordless conversation. Hermione is hesitant, it seems, but Ron thinks it’s a brilliant idea. The two of them, away from the overbearing aura of his parents, what’s there not to like? Harry can tell Hermione isn’t convinced, thinks that it’s Harry’s house, not theirs, and that even if he says he wants nothing to do with it, he might very well change his mind. She doesn’t want to intrude. ‘We can just move in until you’re back at Hogwarts and see,’ Ron suggests, out loud.

Hermione nods, somewhat shyly. ‘I guess we could, yeah.’

‘Brilliant. That’s settled, then,’ Harry announces after another sip of tea. He’ll try to find a flat around Angel or something - they could all be close by.

‘Thanks, mate,’ Ron says.

Harry pretends not to find it cute when his best friend’s hand reaches to touch Hermione’s thigh under the table.

For his deposition, it is without any plan or preparation of any kind that Harry goes no comment, that morning. He always does best under pressure and his mind has been so clogged up with thoughts of Ginny and Ron, and Hermione, lately, that he walks into the courtroom and realises that he still doesn’t know what he’ll do.

He states his name for the record (Harry James Potter – it echoes in the amphitheatre) and he considers: Ginny’s words (No one’s entitled to a story someone else doesn’t want to tell), Hermione’s tears, the sound of Ron’s laugh last night, his plea for them to ‘live a little.’ Harry’s not sure how to end battles other than by making them stop and with the first question the Wizengamot asks, the first no comment flows past his lips. A distant memory creeps back into his head and he just grabs it, holds it tight – surprisingly, the phrase feels natural and right in his mouth.  

Oh, of course, people aren’t happy. After he speaks, it’s another ten minutes before the President of the Commission manages to get the room back to order. When a particularly raucous individual shouts: ‘But you’ve got to tell us the truth about Dumbledore!’ she calmly asks a couple of Aurors to escort him out of the building. He continues to vociferate insults all the way down to the lift.

‘Mr Potter, I understand it is your intention to give a no comment interview,’ Mrs Kelly says. Her quill moves on its own against her desk, taking notes as she speaks. ‘Is that correct?’

Up until this point, he hadn’t considered it. It’s bizarre and remarkable that in the end, she’s the one who gives him an out. ‘I guess, yeah.’

‘All right, then.’ Mrs Kelly speaks again, looks around at the rest of the room before turning back and giving him an apologetic shrug. She doesn’t sound upset. ‘We’ll still have to move ahead with our questions, I’m afraid.’

In retrospect, in the days, months and years that follow, Harry’s never truly sure he did the right thing. For once, he thinks he put his own personal interest and that of those he loved ahead of those of the wizarding world. There is no guilt in that. And, could he even have given the answers people wanted? The truth about Dumbledore, really? The man who gave his life for Voldemort to be defeated but also raised him like a pig for slaughter. These people, Harry realises, the Ministry and the institutions, they want The Boy Who Lived to make their struggles worthwhile but it isn’t something that any human can do. Harry can’t tell them what the solution is, how to rebuild a world that’s so broken you can’t find most of its pieces, where all the wood of the frames has been burnt down to ashes. He can’t tell them how to heal and make peace with events that he’s still trying his hardest to push out of his head. Harry himself barely sleeps, most nights, so how on Earth could he help them?

In his mind, the only thing that he can do, right now, is make sure the people he loves don’t have to suffer anymore. That Hermione and Ron’s words are heard and not forgotten, or swept away like dust under a rug. That what they had to say (were courageous enough to say) isn’t drowned out by the sound of his own words. If he talks, all they’ll ever remember (the media, the Ministry, the History books) is what The Boy Who Lived told them. What a ‘hero’ he is, how shit his life has been. And that shouldn’t matter, not as much. Harry’s just a piece of this puzzle, not its key.

So, for what feels like an eternity, he just sits there as the Wizengamot presses on with their questions. Out of spite or protocol, Harry’s not sure. ‘No comment,’ he goes. ‘No comment.’ He feels drained and exhausted when one of the wizards at the back of the room asks: ‘Did you give yourself up in the forest?’ and Harry curses his own voice for breaking as he swallows and responds: ‘No comment.’

(If he spoke, he knows what they’d ask. He’s been wondering the same thing for seven years. Why him? Why twice? Why not Fred, or Lupin, or whoever they loved and lost? Sadly, he doesn’t have the answer to that question.

He’d give anything to have the answer to that question.)

That afternoon, after they dismiss him too early for his deposition to have been what anyone expected it to be, Harry disappears. Outside the courtroom at the Ministry, Ron and Hermione leap out of their seats in the corridor the moment he comes out. ‘Harry, it’s not even noon – what happened?’ Hermione asks. He never answers. Feels kind of guilty for dodging his two best friends, Kingsley, the crowds of reporters, but still makes it to the fire and Disapparates out of sight the moment he’s through.

Deliberation, Determination or whatever the fuck it was. There’s only one place he wants to be, right now.

He Apparates on a side street. One of the ones that border the main square, the monument to his parents. When Hermione and he came last Christmas, it was dark and cold, lights twinkling with the wind, oddly homey and secretive at the same time. Harry hadn’t noticed: the Muggle elementary school down Shepherd's Row, the town hall to his left, the shops on Merchants Road. Despite the overcast skies and the light, intermittent drizzle, there’s life in Godric’s Hollow.

That day, Harry sits at the table of a Muggle pub for a while, with a pint that he doesn’t drink and a pack of cigarettes. Later, he makes his way down to a quaint, little shop that sells record players and CDs, buys a Walkman and whatever the sales guy recommends. ‘Have you been living under a rock?’ the bloke asks when Harry admits to never having heard of Noel Gallagher.

Later, Oasis plays in his ears while he walks around the village (Harry’s not too sure about the band, finds them a bit moany). Once or twice, he walks by a few wizards dressed in Muggle clothing who recognise him. No one’s ever too in his face, though, and later, a couple passes by: she’s walking a pushchair up the road and his arm is wrapped around her waist. Her glance quickly flicks to Harry’s forehead and she gives her husband a nudge. Harry’s hand automatically wraps around his wand and he fucking hates himself for it. He wants to stop them, almost, sit down and ask about their kid’s nursery and time at the playground, and whether he or she gets along with the Muggle children. He wants them to tell him what it would be like, to raise a child here.

His parents’ cottage is the same as it was at Christmas, except that the number of flowers and messages on the outside seems to have doubled. Cards and thank you notes, childish drawings piling up against the little fence.

Harry’s not sure what possesses him to do it but this time, he opens the gate. Slowly, he walks up the stairs and imagines his mother handing him over to his dad while she levitated the buggy up into their house. He imagines Tom Riddle storming in through their door (has actually seen Tom Riddle storming in through their door – it’s not so much his imagination as a recollection, these days) – closes his eyes immediately, trying to shut out the memory. As Harry’s hand rests on the handle, he’s almost surprised to find it both unmarked, and unlocked.

He could go in, he supposes. At least take a look through the window. It would show their sitting room, maybe, a glimpse of their kitchen. Would anything still be in there? An empty container of his mum’s favourite coffee beans, records in a player she’d have saved from her teenage years. Would he have introduced her to Oasis, had she lived? It’s the kind of thing he wishes he knew about them. What they liked: eating, drinking, doing. They were so, bloody young, he thinks.

Yet, he doesn’t - go in, that is. There’s a sense in his heart that if he did, he’d never come back out. It does not do well to dwell on dreams and forget to live, Dumbledore once told him. So, instead, Harry sits on the steps outside the house, almost guarding it, as he sorts through what feels like his parents’ mail. Most of it is addressed to him, though, most of it from children. Clumsy, glittery handwriting. ‘Keep faith, Harry!’ and ‘United, we stand.’

There’s a letter in the lot that makes him laugh. He knows he shouldn’t laugh (not here, not where they died) but shit gets funny that way. It’s the tone of it, the inelegant, yet oddly effective prose. Hermione would have been mortified if she’d been here, but Harry thinks it’d have made his mother laugh (in time, maybe).  

Dear Harry,

You don’t know me but I’m writing to apologise about all the nasty things I ever said about your mum. She never knew it but I used to watch her that summer, just after you were born. You were still so young and she’d manoeuvre your pushchair into town with a discreet flick of her wand like she was shoving her Outstanding Charms N.E.W.T. in everyone’s face. She’d wear those insanely tight, Muggle jean shorts that’d make her bum look fabulous and if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d never have believed she was ever pregnant. Where did all that baby weight go?? She’d always be eating these Cadbury chocolate bars, as well – you know, the Muggle ones? I kept cursing and calling her a bitch behind closed doors because I was jealous of her metabolism. I’m so sorry.

I hope that you are well, wherever you are. I’m sorry they died, that must not have been easy. We’ve cast protective charms on the house, you should be the only one who can get in, in case you ever want to. My husband and four children are all Muggles so I’m trying to protect them the best I can. It was scary when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named came, a couple weeks ago. People weren’t sure why he did it, on Christmas Eve of all days, but I think he was after you. I went to visit my brother’s grave the next morning and I think you left flowers on your parents’. I didn’t tell anyone. He must have been waiting for you – that’s such a shit thing to do. Everyone should have a right to grieve in peace, even if they’re Harry Potter. So, anyway, I’m really rooting for you. I hope he dies.

Oh, Merlin, now you must think I’m a horrible person. Again, I’m sorry.

Kind regards,

Alma Neuruppin

That afternoon, Harry reads the letter over a dozen times. It explains why the house is immaculate, kept intact by the respect the people of this village showed his parents. He wishes there was a way he could thank them. Isn’t sure he’ll ever want to get in but it’s a small comfort to know that no one else can. There is everything in this letter. It’s a slice of life, his mum’s life. The Cadbury chocolates and incredible metabolism. Something that she carried over from her Muggle life, too.

He wonders what brought his parents here, to Godric’s Hollow. Was it just convenience? The place where his dad grew up? Was it the quiet or the good Muggle primary schools? Did his mum care about that? Did she care about (maybe wanted to) be away from her family? Did Harry ever get to meet his grandparents before they died, even when he was just a baby?

Later, he lays lilies on their grave. He does so in silence, isn’t exactly one to speak with dead people if he can avoid it. The only other times when he’s ever talked to his parents were when he was on the brink of death himself. Instead, Harry sits cross-legged on the wet grounds, smokes a cigarette. Lights it up with his wand and wonders if this isn’t the greatest irony of all. The questions that people have for him, Harry can’t answer. The questions that he has for people, no one can answer.

In the evening, before making it back to The Burrow, he raids the local Tesco and buys enough chocolate bars to make up for at least a third of Cadbury’s 1998 profit margins.

Later that night, in Ottery St Catchpole, his return is unfortunately not as peaceful as he would have hoped. Harry’s only just landed at the Apparition spot when noise starts rising all around him. George’s voice shouts back at the house. ‘He’s here, he’s here!’ Harry opens his eyes and his best friend’s brother is glaring at him, arms crossed over his chest, obviously in charge of surveillance. ‘You’re in for an earful,’ he says, the moment his look lands on Harry. ‘Mum’s -’

Ron comes charging at them before George manages to finish his sentence. There is an anger that Harry’s rarely seen burn in his best friend’s eyes and his wand is aimed high while Hermione, Ginny and Mrs Weasley all run after him in various states of disarray. Hermione’s hair is wild and her eyes red. ‘Ron,’ she shouts, but Ron’s quicker, screams at Harry.

‘Alarte Ascendare!’

‘Protego!’

The force of Harry’s shield charm sends Ron flying ten feet back into the grass but the moment he gets back up, Harry sees that his best mate is ready to have another go at him. Both Mrs Weasley and Hermione have to physically restrain him. ‘I’m going to bloody kill you!!’ he shouts and, in the commotion that Harry’s return seems to have generated, Harry figures that Disapparating off to the other side of the country without telling anybody probably wasn’t the idea of the century. It’s a good hour before Ron consents to stop making death threats and while she lets Harry into the house, Mrs Weasley throws him a very stern look as she tells him that Kingsley was about to send Aurors out looking for him. Harry thinks he might actually die of embarrassment. The words ‘disappeared off for hours,’ and: ‘so bloody worried,’ and: ‘you could have died,’ seem to fall from plenty of people’s lips that night. He looks to his feet in contrition until the whole tumult finally abates. Thinks he really needs to move out soon.

At the dinner table, it seems that Ginny’s the only one who’s not glaring at him with more than a mild degree of annoyance on her face. It’s a nice reprieve until she says: ‘I knew you’d turn up eventually,’ and shrugs as she pours herself a cup of tea. ‘It’s just what you do. You run off and don’t think of anyone else.’

It stings, almost physically, and takes the words out of his mouth – for a moment, he stays quiet, unsure what to say. ‘Where were you, anyway?’ Mrs Weasley asks and he looks down to his feet, studies the rust-coloured tiles of The Burrow’s kitchen.

‘Godric’s Hollow,’ he admits, barely above a whisper. Suddenly, all eyes are on him. At least, Mrs Weasley’s tone has softened when she speaks again.

‘Oh, Harry, dear, you should have told us,’ she tells him, pulls him into a warm hug.

That night, Ginny and he each have a shot of Firewhisky in her bedroom. It’s the first night where he just falls asleep next to her without sex being involved. She says she’s too cross with him to ‘just give you what you boys want,’ and he keeps his mouth shut about what he told Hermione, about actually wanting more than sex, about it all being complicated – about everything. It’s been a week since they last saw each other so he still lies in her bed and holds her in the dark, feeling the touch of her skin against his. ‘To your mum,’ she toasts. Takes a bite out of his chocolate bar, chews and shakes her head to herself a bit. ‘Who inexplicably seemed to love these.’

The next morning, on the wireless, some Healer who pretends to be an expert in ‘people who have dealt with that kind of thing’ and tells the world that: ‘Well, if you want my two cents, I’d say Potter’s not talking because he’s traumatised. I mean, who can blame him?’

Ginny makes a dramatic entrance at the breakfast table, slumps down next to Harry and steals a sip from his tea. ‘Ugh, more milk?’ she breathes, quick, before she hears the radio and barks back at it. ‘Merlin, of course, he’s bloody traumatised you fucking idiot! We all are.’

‘Ginny, language!’ Mr Weasley says.

Harry, as per usual these days, doesn’t know what to say, so he chooses to say nothing. 

The weekend passes and the following week, considering the mess that was Harry's deposition, the Ministry decides to hold the rest in a closed forum, without any outsiders or press present. The report they issue is just over twenty pages long. It talks of Imperio-ed personnel and highlights cases like that of Percy Weasley who lost his way, but fought on the right side, in the end. ‘It’s helped us refine our investigations into some of the Death Eaters,’ Kingsley explains. ‘And, we’ve definitely got enough to charge Umbridge.’

‘Well, cheers to that!’ Ron laughs.

The report doesn’t recommend anyone get sacked. Kingsley points out he’s already quietly changed most of the department heads and that, ‘Well, we can’t let go of everybody. Especially in this economy.’ That’s what they will focus on first, actually, he later tells them. The other reforms will hopefully follow.

By the end of June, as predicted, the Commission also recommends that the lot of them be given awards. Everyone who fought in the battle gets an Order of Merlin - Harry, Ron and Hermione get First Class. Throughout the entire ceremony, Harry feels sick to his stomach - ‘I’m not sure what I ate,’ he says – Hermione is smart and eloquent when she speaks at the podium in his place.

‘You all have behaved to an unbelievable standard of bravery,’ Kingsley tells them as he pins the award onto their robes and a few hundred people applaud. ‘And for that, we are grateful.’

Ron keeps his and looks at it from time to time, his wand lit up in the middle of the night, the metal of the medal in its box reflecting a low glow past the large grin on his face. ‘Wicked, isn’t it?’

Harry exchanges a smile with his best friend, nods and pats him on the back. ‘You deserve it,’ he says. ‘A hundred times over, mate.’

Hermione hopes to show it to her parents, someday. She says it might help them understand . ‘I’ll tell them he was kind of like Hitler, I think.’ Harry nods, silent, still.

He throws his own medal in the river that runs through Ottery St Catchpole, one weekend afternoon, before either of them can stop him.

May 1998, to him, is a blur. A blur of Firewhisky and tears at The Burrow. Yet, he thinks Ginny was right about June. It’s a good month, full of long evenings and hope.

Chapter Text

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iii. out of bricks (off the wall)

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When summer reappears, that year, it fits in like a puzzle, pieces neatly organised, shaping angles and corners before slowly closing in on the middle. May was a blur; June felt like hope. July and August are a series of events that can only, possibly lead to one outcome. It’s a shame that Harry doesn’t see it coming, doesn’t figure it all out before it’s too late. He sits on the couch of his brand-new, London apartment after the fact, and Hermione’s weight shifts next to him, her feet flat against the floor.

‘Ginny told me,’ she says.

He could speak. But: he’s grown tired of listening to himself. Someone else ought to tell a story, for once, or show him where he went wrong, where good intentions blew the bricks off the walls. The summer of ’98 is, overall, the one where he fucks up with the drinking, seriously pisses people off, and in which the straw finally (finally) breaks the camel’s back.  

It doesn’t start out badly, actually. In fact, it’s quite the opposite: his summer, that year, starts with Teddy. At the end of June, Andromeda decides to go back to work and Harry jumps at the opportunity to spend more time with his godson. There are pages of instructions left for him, constant vomit stains on his jumpers and the first diaper changes are... well, wet, to say the least. Yet, he feels like he hasn’t laughed this much in years. They find a schedule that works for the both of them; Harry gets to watch the little one grow up while his grandmother is busy saving people in St Mungo’s. Harry finds that he likes the role reversal, the fact that he gets to sit - baby sit - while others take on the wizarding world. He talks to Teddy, feeds him bottled milk and sits on the carpet of his room when he sleeps. The 12-week milestone is an odd one: his godson starts laughing. Like: laugh out loud, belly laughs when his toys make sounds as he moves, or when Harry picks him up from his cot. He begins mimicking facial expressions as well as hair colours and maybe, that’s just the thing that forces them all to smile more.

In early July, the Order of the Phoenix is officially dissolved. Its stated purpose has become moot. As they were never actually members, Harry, Ron and Hermione attend the last meeting as ‘esteemed guests.’ Molly half-heartedly attempts to keep Ginny out due to her age, but even McGonagall shakes her head at the idea. 

That night, Harry sees Hagrid again for the first time since the end of the war. There was work to be done at the castle and with the giants, which kept him away. The moment they see each other, the two of them hug - so, so tightly that Harry fears for his ribs and yet, also cannot stop smiling. Around the dinner table, Hagrid praises him for saving the world, being brave, beating Voldemort at his own game - all the bizarrely heroic things that have made it onto the front pages. There’s a bit of distance in that, and Harry regrets not having talked to Hagrid more, not having told him more of the important things, but then again, he can’t help but think that given the man’s track record for keeping secrets - well. 

Since refusing to engage with the Commission last month, the version of events that he initially gave Kingsley is still the one that stands. No one but Ron and Hermione know about the last Horcrux, about him dying, or about the Hallows, and the more time has passed, the more grateful and relieved Harry’s actually been feeling for it. When it comes to the wider wizarding public, he doesn’t even see it as lying. It’s just: keeping the private details of his private life - private. Ron and Hermione were with him from the start, they were owed an explanation. Shockingly, he doesn’t believe every random schmuck who reads the Prophet is. They need to know that Tom’s dead, that he’s not coming back, and that’s about it. When it comes to people Harry does know - well. Nothing’s changed much. Even the Elder wand wouldn’t be able to make the grief and pain of the summer of ‘98 disappear. He still doesn’t want to answer uncomfortable questions about Tom Riddle in his head and alternatively, he also doesn’t want people’s pity. Poor Harry who had to die. The Weasleys lost a son and a brother. Andromeda lost her entire family. What did or didn’t happen to him should be the last of their problems, frankly.   

That night at the reunion, Dedalus Diggle raises his glass (‘Aye! Aye!’), echoing Hagrid’s praise, and Hestia Jones smiles, politely embarrassed next to him. The man keeps refilling Harry’s drink and making toasts that he feels would be too awkward to turn down; it’s Firewhisky so he already dreads the fucking nightmares that will undoubtedly haunt him later tonight. He can’t help but look around the table and think about the picture he once held in his hands of the people in their ranks, left decimated by the first war. The aftermath of the second does not look much different.

‘So tell us,’ Diggle drunkenly slurs, a twisted smile on his lips. ‘How did you dodge that curse, Potter? Was it like a Bludger, just -’ The man somewhat pathetically tries to mimic the movement, a boorish sort of dance move to the side, and almost falls off his chair. The few people who’ve heard him busy themselves feigning other ongoing conversations, slightly mortified, and Harry suddenly feels Hermione’s gaze on them from the other side of the table, cautiously alarmed. The commotion distracts the table from Diggle’s words, though, and Hestia Jones laboriously pulls him back up.

‘Didn’ see it meself,’ Hagrid suddenly admits, quieter then, and to Harry alone. Like something to be ashamed of. ‘Couldn’ look, Harry. Had me eyes closed.’

There is relief on Hermione’s face. Harry supposes that’s one less person they have to worry about spilling the beans. Diggle’s so drunk he’s already forgot his own words anyway and Hestia Jones’s voice sounds like a warm hug when she adds: ‘Well, we’re all glad you made it. I hope you’re taking some time for yourself, enjoy and relax, now that all of this is behind you.’

She means well, Harry thinks, swallowing the lump in his throat. He knows she does. 

By contrast, thanks to a unanimous vote of those in attendance, the DA decides to remain in action. There is a world to rebuild and kids who want to keep their minds busy. They become the Conspicuous Army for the Support and Help of Children Of War with an acronym that is, indeed, intentional. Their plan is to focus on the orphans, first, and the kids who’ve lost friends, family members, siblings during the war. They need resources - money for housing, books, clothes, tutors for missed schoolwork and shoulders to cry on. And, there are families, too - displaced Muggleborns, refugees who found homes in Australia, America, the continent, and need help relocating. Voldemort’s people didn’t only take their hopes, wands, careers and freedom - they took everything they could find. Burned houses to the ground, robbed vaults, destroyed reputations. They need all the help they can get in rebuilding their lives.

In addition, there is also the matter of those who were imprisoned under Pius Thicknesse’s reign of terror. Initially, Kingsley, motivated by the reckless euphoria of the early days, wanted to close Azkaban and reform the whole justice system before the end of the year. Now, the only thing he’s actually accomplished is to push the Dementors out. Granted, it is already a huge step forward. ‘We’ve trapped about 70% of them at the Ministry,’ he announces. ‘We believe that in a sealed environment with no souls to suck out, they’ll eventually die out. So, now, we’re focusing on catching those on the loose.’

They have been replaced with human guards, employed by the Ministry. ‘But, that doesn’t mean we can just free everyone,’ Kingsley reminds them. ‘It would be too much of a threat to security. So, we’re having to review each case individually. It takes time, and -’

It takes time, yes, too much of it, as far as the DA is concerned. So, their volunteers have been spending hours each day going through the legal fine print on behalf of those who need it. For now, there hasn’t been any talk of financial aid from the government, so gradually, they step in whenever they can. McGonagall sends them books from the Hogwarts library and before she leaves for Australia, Hermione files in the paperwork with the Ministry, turning the group into an official charitable organisation. Luna’s secretary (the minutes are interesting, to say the least), Neville’s the Chair (a born leader) and Ginny, as she puts it, handles funds that seem to come from mysterious sources. Harry snorts and claims that he doesn’t know what she’s talking about but as treasurer, she later reports an anonymous donation of ten thousand Muggle pounds coming into the organisation’s bank account the day after it goes live, and no one is fooled.

For Hogwarts, they round up an army of volunteers to help the new Headmaster and the professionals she’s hired for rebuilding. Harry doesn’t go, can’t imagine facing the castle and the destruction again, so he writes another cheque to ease his conscience. It occurs to him that perhaps, he’s becoming the kind of bloke who throws money at problems. Ginny doesn’t go either – she says she’s too busy with Quidditch – but she does attend every single one of the DA’s weekly meetings, hosted by Hannah Abbott who got a summer job at the Leaky Cauldron. More often than not, she comes back to Harry an odd mix of happy and sad, but mostly flirty.  

Their relationship stays the way it is, for the most part, that summer, and that makes him happy. It proves Hermione’s concerns to be largely unfounded. He and Ginny snog and shag, and don’t let themselves sink too deep into the post-war blues, but also try not to think too much about what will happen when she goes back to Hogwarts in September. Perhaps, they don’t need to. Sometimes, Harry gets mesmerised by the look on her face that feels like she just understands, understands how he doesn’t have the words for most of it, how his life has spiralled into that of someone else, that of a bloke who the papers write about, a wizard called Harry Potter who became a hero when he vanquished the Dark Lord. Whoever that guy is, he’s not Harry – just Harry.

‘Just Harry’ is a kid, that summer. A kid with a war in his head. A kid who has fun, with laughter, and wet, hot kisses, and battles of limbs with the girl he loves. Once, Ginny pins him down on her bed and teases him, her lips and teeth steadily trailing over his skin. When he tries to move his fingers up her hips, she grabs his hands and leaves them joined above his head, tied up by the scrunchie that used to hold her hair. Ginger, golden strands cascade down around them and her mouth slowly (very slowly) moves down his chest. There is a moment, a moment like the ones he sometimes has when he closes his eyes at night, where he thinks about the last time his hands were tied. They’d just uttered a forbidden word and the Snatchers were at their side, took them to Malfoy Manor, and –

‘Hey,’ Ginny’s voice is soft, suddenly, her chocolate-brown eyes boring into his. It’s late; the night is dark. Harry forces the thoughts out of his head. ‘I lost you there for a second,’ she observes. He rises up to kiss her.

‘Not a chance,’ he counters. Thinks the only way she’d ever lose him would be if she wanted to.

Her parents find out, eventually. That is another thing that leaves Harry feeling a bit odd, like this is the end of an era and the start of another. He supposes the constant state of alert that he was in for the past couple of months couldn’t possibly last forever and sure enough, over the first week of July, the penny drops. Between Ginny and her mother, it ends in a shouting match right in the middle of the Weasleys’ kitchen. ‘You’re spending a lot of time with Harry,’ Mrs Weasley observes, diplomatically, except diplomacy is, frankly, neither woman’s strong suit. The matter escalates into a loud row and Ginny decides to go all in, throws everything in her mother’s face. Words like ‘shagging,’ and ‘blowjob,’ and ‘of course, we’re using protection Mum, do you think I’m stupid?’ fall out of her mouth in a loud, shout-the-house-down, teenage, provocative tone; Harry wonders (not for the first time) if it is, indeed, possible to die from embarrassment. The girl he loves eventually runs out into the garden and Mrs Weasley chases after her. ‘Where do you think you’re going, young lady?’

But for the wards, their yells would echo through the entire neighbourhood. 

‘I’m going to Luna’s! At least, she ’ll understand!’

Harry’s not sure what there is to understand, to be honest, but he keeps his mouth shut throughout the afternoon, goes upstairs to pack his bags. His conversation with Mr Weasley, that evening, is much quieter.

‘I’ll move out tonight,’ he says. Has yet to find a flat in London but supposes he can move into a Muggle hotel in the meantime.

‘Harry -’

‘I’m really sorry, Mr Weasley. I’ll be -’

‘Harry, for Merlin’s sake, will you let me speak?’

Strangely enough, it seems that: ‘It’s what kids do,’ Mr Weasley articulates. Molly and he are ‘very angry and disappointed,’ he explains. Harry looks down to his shoes, still wonders if he should just leave now, spare the both of them the embarrassment of having to go through the motions. ‘Ginevra is not of age and regardless, I think we would have expected a bit more honesty from the both of you.’ There is a glass of Firewhisky in his hand; he sets it down on the coffee table. ‘But, we had seven children, you know? To be honest, I always felt that it was more likely that we’d have to deal with issues of underage sex, at some point, rather than have them all fight in a war -’

So, against all odds, Harry does not get kicked out of the house, that evening. Instead, Mr Weasley actually asks him to stay and they chat about other things for a bit, wait for Ginny to tentatively tiptoe back into the house around midnight, desperately trying to go unnoticed. Mr Weasley sits them both down with a stern frown on his face and gives a very severe-sounding lecture about sex, boundaries, consent and honesty. The ‘kids’ remain silent for the most part; Harry’s so uncomfortable that he wishes he could disappear into a hole but even that isn’t as bad as he imagined it would be. The Weasleys seem to love him, still, surprisingly. ‘Obviously, Ginny,’ Mr Weasley says, towards the end of his speech, looking directly at his daughter. ‘We would have preferred for all of this to happen once you were of age and your mother has explicitly asked me to request that you refrain from –’

Before he even finishes his sentence, Ginny opens her mouth to protest.

‘But,’ Mr Weasley interrupts, putting his hand up. ‘I personally remember what it is like to be young and infatuated, let’s say, so I suppose that as long as you promise to be safe and respect each other – both of you – I could turn a blind eye on the things that I don’t see…’

They promise. Swear up and down, and back and forth, cross my heart, promise, thanks Mr Weasley, goodnight, Mr Weasley.

Ginny’s brothers are a different matter. To tell the truth, it’s the first thing that truly annoys Harry, that summer. He gets various pointed glares and thinly veiled threats for days after the incident which wouldn’t be as much of an issue, to be honest, if Ron wasn’t also part of their gang. Harry supposes that he’s learnt to deal with people’s open displays of active dislike, by now, but experiencing it coming from his best mate is an entirely more frustrating experience. Every time the topic is raised between them, Ron lets out outraged exclamations like: ‘She’s my sister!’ and, ‘I knew you’d gotten back together but, ew, everything she said, just thinking about it, it’s disgusting!’

It is Friday night when Harry finally throws the towel in, rolls his eyes and blurts out: ‘Don’t bloody think about it, then!’ When Ron doesn’t respond right away, eyes open wide in shock, Harry takes advantage of the silence to drive his point home. ‘Look, I don’t know why she did that, okay?’ He is honest, arms crossed over his chest. Ginny’s always been rather confident, secure in her dating choices, but it seems that the war’s made her even more blunt, more provocative than she used to be. ‘Do you think I wanted her to shout out intricate details about our sex life in the middle of everything? I didn’t, but I do love her,’ he adds, shrugs. ‘So, that’s that, really.’

Ron just - stares. For a while. Harry realises what he’s said and counts the seconds, tries to find something to focus his gaze on. When his best mate does open his mouth, though, he thinks that he’s in for another string of invasive questions about the fact that he’s just accidentally admitted to being in love with his sister but instead, Ron plops himself down onto his bed and picks up on the one thing that Harry didn’t think of when he spoke. ‘Reckon she just wanted attention,’ he says. Harry gives him a confused look. ‘Ginny, I mean. Reckon she just wanted attention. You know, Mum and Dad, usually, they’d have been all over this the moment we came back from Hogwarts,’ he adds, catches Harry’s gaze. ‘It’s not like you were being very discreet about it, even I had an inkling. But it took them months to bring it up and I reckon maybe that’s why Gin said all these things. Maybe, she just wanted Mum to get angry, to care, like things had gone back to normal.’

Normal is an interesting concept, Harry thinks. There isn’t much else to say to that, so again (again, again) he says nothing.

That being said, Ginny, her parents, and Ron seem to be the only people in the wizarding world not annoyed with him, that summer. The rest of her family is grappling with their relationship with varying degrees pleasantness, Hermione keeps looking at him like he’s about to crash straight into a wall for no reason, and the rest of the wizarding community, frankly, isn’t particularly happy with the Chosen One’s desire not to explain himself in front of their Commission. Alternatively, they call him: traumatised, a hero, a madman, an arrogant prick, a saviour – it’s all a bit schizophrenic. The only good thing is that it refocuses the attention onto him, meaning that Ron and Hermione get to prepare their trip to Australia relatively unbothered. 

Kingsley shows up at The Burrow once or twice at the start of July to talk to them about it. On top of going to fetch her parents, the Ministry is hoping that they will agree to meet with the local government, be the poster people for a healing, post-war Britain. ‘There’s no sugar-coating this, we’re about a billion Galleons into debt,’ he explains, one afternoon. Harry can’t even intellectually comprehend how much money that is. ‘The war’s tanked our economy, destroyed our infrastructure and the Muggle PM won’t lend us a Knut, even though we’re part of his own country,’ he sighs. ‘Without international loans, we’ll go bankrupt before the end of the year.’

Hermione seems to consider the request but doesn’t accept right away. She claims that she needs time to think, that she really intended this trip to be about herself and her parents, isn’t sure how she can help. To Harry, it looks like she’s just stalling. He does the same thing every time Kingsley asks him about the Aurors, so he knows what it looks like.

Her hesitation isn’t like his, though. It’s not born out of doubt. ‘Of course, I’ll do it,’ she tells him, shaking her head to herself. ‘It’s the right thing to do. I’ve just asked for something else in return.’

It turns out that, using their trip to Australia as a bargaining chip, Hermione’s asked Kingsley to make use of his sizable ministerial influence to convince McGonagall to budge on Hogwarts boarding rules. Seemingly unrelated, the two topics have found an odd connection in the Ministry’s need for Hermione’s help with trans-national matters, and her own desire to commute back and forth between London and Scotland next year, whenever she pleases. ‘We’re adults, now,’ she argues, ‘and there’s no reason - academically or otherwise - that seventh-year students be forced to remain in the castle outside of classroom hours.’ Harry reckons that she’s finally accepted the idea that Ron and he will not be heading back to Hogwarts, so she needs to find another solution to keep seeing her ‘boyfriend.’

(They’re together, Harry knows. He’s genuinely happy for them but the concept is still a bit odd.)

Over the last few weeks, Harry’s scoffed and laughed every time she’s brought the idea of a Hogwarts compromise up. He’s convinced that it will never work, can’t imagine McGonagall bending rules on, well, anything. This is why initially, it’s not at all surprising when Kingsley comes back with bad news: ‘Minerva still thinks you ought to board during the week. Both for academic purposes and for the cohesion of the student body. I don’t think she’ll budge on that,’ he says. Hermione lets out a heavy sigh, but then he holds his hand up and adds: ‘I did get you weekends, though.’

Harry’s mouth drops before anybody else can respond. ‘What? ’

A sweet, pink-tinted film materialises before his eyes: Ginny and he moving in together in an apartment in London, spending their days going to museums and cuddling every weekend, going to the Muggle cinema, eating in restaurants, drinking in pubs, living their lives on a wonderful, fluffy cloud of bliss. The film bears the colour of love, smells of treacle tart, broomstick handle and Ginny’s flowery shampoo. For a second, he almost forgets that Ginny will have Quidditch, too. Shit, he thinks. Quidditch. Perhaps they could work it out, compromise on every other weekend? It would still be better than not seeing her for four long, winter months.

Hermione smirks. ‘Well, I see you’re a lot less sceptical about the whole thing now.’

After dinner, Kingsley pulls him aside. They step out into the garden; it’s the only place you can find privacy in the house. ‘You’re going to have to give a press interview at some point, Harry,’ the Minister tells him. ‘You know that, right?’

He shrugs. Ever since his no-comment deposition, faced with his lack of response to their enquiries, the press have gradually been making wilder and wilder assumptions about his mental state. He hasn’t been seen in any formal or public capacity since the award ceremony (and even then, Hermione did most of the talking), so the Daily Prophet has decided that this is because, deeply traumatised and psychologically unstable, The Boy Who Lived has been living like a recluse, refusing to get out of his bedroom at The Burrow, surviving on beans on toast for the last two months. They say that his hair is long and that he hasn’t shaved in months and has (overall) completely lost his mind. This is only partially true: Harry will admit to voluntarily leaving the stubble at his cheeks grow for a few days, which he imagines may be the basis for these rumours but it’s only because Ginny calls it ‘gruff and sexy.’ In her mouth, those words just do weird things to his stomach.

‘Oh, don’t shoot the messenger, Harry. Remus would have told you the same thing,’ Kingsley argues. Harry looks away, at a gnome hanging out in the tall grass at the other end of the property line. He briefly wonders if it’s the same gnome he stared at, that time Scrimgeour came around. ‘You can’t just stay here and run away from the world forever, you know?’

Now that Lupin is being brought into this, it’s only really a half-joke when he responds, laughs: ‘Why not? I’m The Boy Who Lived, I thought I could do anything.’

Kingsley shoots him an irritated look. 

Mid-July, Harry finally (finally) finds a flat. That, at least, is another piece of good news. Objectively, it’s perhaps not the best he’s viewed: it’s small and has paint that’s a bit cracked at the ceiling but after a good three weeks spent illegally Apparating all over London in the hopes of finding someone (anyone) who will let him sign a lease without being eighteen, having a job or anyone to co-sign, he’ll take what he can get.

The place is in Muggle London, which has the added advantage of knowing that the press won’t come here looking for him. More importantly, despite its faults: Harry likes it. It’s a studio with a mezzanine acting as a separate bedroom, top floor of an old Georgian house, a fifteen-minute walk from Grimmauld Place. It’s bright, south-facing, with high, tall windows that make it feel like the city is at his feet, open, just waiting to be explored. The ground floor apartment is rented out to a fashion student in her third year at uni; she’s got chocolate-brown skin and a loud, distinctive laugh that resonates up the walls. She’s put potted heathers out on her windowsill, nods and smiles at Harry every time she sees him.

The other occupants on the middle floor are a couple, wife or girlfriend looking about sixteen months pregnant – Harry supposes that they’ll move out soon for something bigger than their one-bedroom. When he meets the two of them, Ginny, Hermione, Ron and he are in the midst of dragging his stuff up the stairs after a somewhat eventful trip to a blue and yellow Muggle furniture shop that was clearly designed by the same people who created the maze of the TriWizard tournament, and Harry introduces everybody but himself. ‘My best mates, Hermione and Ron,’ he says, the both of them shaking the couple’s hand. ‘And -’ he looks at Ron, quick, then thinks: oh, what the hell. ‘My girlfriend, Ginny.’

She tenses. Thankfully, Ron says nothing.

The lady is kind when she asks: ‘And, you are, sorry?’

He smiles, almost giggles to himself, realises that it’s been years since he’s met anyone who hasn’t read his name spelt out in the scar on his forehead. ‘Oh, I’m Harry. Sorry.’

Later that evening, Ginny stays over after the others have left, sits on his couch with her feet propped up on an empty cardboard box. When Harry goes to make tea, he plugs the kettle in and flicks the switch. She laughs. He could listen to her laugh all day.

‘Are you trying to live like a Muggle, Potter?’ she chuckles.

He smiles in return but frankly wonders if that would be so bad.

For the both of them, London becomes an endless source of entertainment, that summer. She hangs out at his whenever he’s not at Andromeda’s watching Teddy and even Mrs Weasley seems to gush over the fact that Harry sometimes wears nice shirts when he takes her daughter out on proper dates, now. Ron and Hermione finally grab their Portkey to Australia over the third week of July and Harry begins his alone time by touring the city, enjoying the good weather whenever he can. He wears jeans and t-shirts, survives on burgers and chips, and finds that in London, there are pubs and restaurants everywhere, and museums, and plays, and record shops, and gigs, and everything a human could possibly want. He loves being here.

When on his own, he walks around the city, spends hours strolling through Hyde Park, the markets in Camden Town, the government buildings in Westminster, Soho. When Ginny’s there, they visit Muggle landmarks. The British Museum, the new aquarium on the quays, St Paul’s, the Tower of London. He kisses her. Everywhere. On the couch in his new flat, in the middle Trafalgar Square, in the restaurants where they stop on the way. He supposes that yes, they should be more careful. That yes, they could run into Death Eaters at any given time, but freedom is a treat that tastes sweet, now impossible to relinquish.

It is startling how easy life is when he’s with her, especially with the funerals and the immediate grief and the bloody Commission behind them - Harry finally feels more grounded. One afternoon, they sit at the table of a café sharing a scone, and he remembers the painful awkwardness of his first date with Cho, the tears and the grief. Ginny makes him laugh, giggles and throws a few crumbs in his face when she realises he’s not listening to her. It is something of the few weeks they had in Hogwarts during his sixth year, except that their world now extends well beyond castle grounds.

On his birthday, they Apparate to the middle of nowhere and go for a fly, have a picnic dinner on the banks of a lake. ‘You know I want this forever, right?’ she asks. ‘Promise me. You, me – nothing else.’

He kisses her with his response, lets his fingers trail through her silky hair. All that he wants, in that moment, is to say ‘yes,’ to protect this precious and beautiful thing that they’ve built from the rest of the world. This is his vow to her, he thinks. Ginny’s smile is large and so is his, and Harry reckons that maybe this is what the summer of ’98 is about: smiles and promises.

On her birthday, he teaches her to ride a bike. Not something the Dursleys taught him (obviously), but his primary school had a mandatory road safety course so, at least, that’s one Muggle skill Harry did pick up in his early years. Ginny gives a couple of little yelps, laughs as he struggles to run next to her, hanging on to the saddle. ‘You’re terribly out of shape, Potter,’ she giggles (skin and bones, he still is) and tries to charm the bike into compliance because she can do magic, now, she keeps reminding him, she’s seventeen. By the end of the afternoon, they both end up with scraped knees as well as stomachs that hurt from laughing too much and overall, it is quite a success. Ginny soon figures that the faster she goes, the more stable she is, so she decides to deal with the problem by speeding downhill like a madwoman without using the brakes, barely avoids collision with a fifty-something Muggle man who happens to be there, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

‘Wow, wow, young lady, careful there,’ the man laughs as Ginny brakes with the soles of her shoes. She goes a bit red in the cheeks, quickly apologises, explains that she’s learning. The man smiles and adds: ‘Oh, at your age? That’s very brave of you.’

‘I wanted to tell him you’d fought in a war,’ Harry admits, later. She is brave like that, Ginny. They’re sitting on the grass on Primrose Hill with a bottle of wine and a bag of curry chips. She licks a bit of sauce off her fingers before she looks up – Harry’s not sure she knows how mesmerising that is to him.

‘Well, I’m glad you didn’t.’

She is sitting with her arms angled behind her, palms flat against the grass, face tilted up to take in the golden hour sun. Eyes closed. He isn’t sure why he speaks, then, but there is no reproach in his voice - it’s just an observation, or perhaps a confession on his end. He feels like he was a bit dumb, by then, sometimes. ‘I used to think we’d talk,’ he says. ‘I thought -’ he sighs, shakes his head. This sounds stupid, now. He wonders if Hermione would be proud, that at least he’s man enough to admit it. ‘When I saw you in the Great Hall after the battle, I thought you’d want to talk. Then, I thought maybe you’d be cross with me. After I left, you know.’

Slow, Ginny opens her eyes. She looks up to the sky, then at him. Her gaze narrows on his. There’s an expression on her face - he can’t quite tell. She grins. ‘Do you want me to be cross with you?’ He laughs. She catches his gaze again, the chestnut colour of her eyes clearer in the sunlight. ‘Do you think I’ve changed?’ she asks with a frown, then.

‘I don’t know,’ he says.

In the Room of Requirement, she used to nap in the afternoons, peaceful breaths tickling the skin of his neck, and sometimes, he even managed to close his eyes as well. Now, she wakes up in cold sweats in the middle of the night, hands wrapped around her own throat, like someone is choking her in her sleep. Sometimes, he, himself, still can’t fucking breathe. He wonders if they’ve both changed. If they haven’t. He wonders what deep topics they used to talk about, last year, and draws a blank. Actually doesn’t think he’d have had the courage to ask her this, back then. ‘Do you think I have?’

He can’t help but think of Tom sometimes. The Horcrux. And Ron: ‘Do you not feel - different?’ For sure, he feels different. But: it’s not exactly quantifiable, or attributable, and part of him is glad Ginny doesn’t know the whole story, that day; this way, she can be a more neutral observer when her gaze scans his features. ‘Maybe,’ she admits. ‘A bit.’ 

He nods. ‘Do you mind?’ 

Her smile is kind. She shakes her head. ‘No.’ The certainty in her voice appeases him. ‘Do you?’

‘No.’ 

‘I didn’t mean to change,’ she tells him.

He nods again. His fingers over hers in the grass. He thinks the most important thing is that they don’t blame each other for the people they’ve become. And maybe, someday, he’ll stop blaming himself as well.

She grins again. ‘Kiss me, then.’ 

He does. 

Later, he is at the house watching Teddy when Andromeda comes home from work and quickly asks him for a favour. ‘I have a guest coming in on Saturday,’ she says, pours them each a glass of wine. It leaves a slight tint at the corner of her lips and that’s his sleep for tonight sorted. ‘Do you mind watching Teddy as well? I know I said I’d take care of the weekends, but -’

Harry smiles, shakes his head. Of course, he doesn’t mind watching Teddy. Teddy is the most perfect thing to have ever walked this Earth, as far as his godfather is concerned, and this even though the little one has yet to actually take a first step. Even on the rare occasions that he does cry, Harry feels like holding him, loving him, is the one and only thing he was born to do. So, no, he doesn’t mind, even offers Andromeda to take him to London for the weekend except -

‘No.’ Her response is oddly quick. ‘I’d rather you stay here. Just in case -’ she starts, stops, taps her nails against the stem of her glass. ‘In case something happens.’ She pauses. Harry frowns. ‘It’s my sister,’ she explains, after a beat. ‘I’m not sure what she wants but if I try to kill her, I’ll need you to stop me.’

Right.

He tries not to laugh - which is difficult, given the circumstances. ‘I’m not sure I’m the right person for the job,’ he observes. ‘I told her son she looked like she had dung under her nose once.’

For a moment, Andromeda stares, silent. Harry positively wants to take the words back or die, really, but then, she puffs out a laugh. One thing they seem to be able to bond over is hatred for their respective families. ‘Well,’ she smiles. ‘You’re the only one I have, so you’ll have to do.’

Thank Merlin Hermione is still in Australia, Harry thinks, or else she’d definitely have pointed out what a bad idea this was from the start.

The next day, he owls Kingsley for information about the Malfoys. He’s not quite sure what he’s after, exactly; it’s just bizarre how little he’s thought about them since the war ended. There’s just been about a million things on his mind and somehow, this ended up at the very (very) bottom of the priority list.

Through the Minister’s quick response, Harry finds out that Draco and Lucius were arrested and taken straight into Azkaban pending their court dates after the battle, being both branded with the Dark Mark. Narcissa herself is under house arrest, a 24/7 Auror surveillance detail monitoring her every move. The authorisation to visit her sister was granted by Kingsley himself.

From his jail cell, Lucius has apparently been making a lot of noise, arguing that the family was manipulated into having their house become Voldemort’s headquarters. Draco’s been quieter, though Andromeda reveals he’s been writing to her somewhat regularly, and has decided to turn down his father’s offer for joint representation. Selected a different set of lawyers to defend himself in an attempt to put some distance with his parents. Narcissa’s written to Harry a number of times (that he knows), except he’s thrown all of her correspondence in the mountains of fanmail that have been piling up at Grimmauld without opening it, so he doesn’t know what she was after. He gets an inkling that they were littered with yet another round of empty excuses and frankly, he hasn’t had much patience for it.  

When Saturday rolls around, that August, he does make the effort to show up, though. For Teddy’s and Andromeda’s sakes, obviously. He and Andromeda have tea in her kitchen while the baby sleeps upstairs. ‘What time is she coming?’ he asks. It’s the calm before the storm.

‘I’d say quarter past.’ Harry watches as she fiddles with a paper towel, folding it and unfolding it between her fingers. ‘I said three, so she’ll be fashionably late.’

She is. Narcissa knocks on Andromeda’s door at 3:15 on the dot, so if anything, Harry supposes that Andromeda’s sister hasn’t changed much in twenty years. The moment she arrives, he escapes upstairs with the clear intent of hiding out, making no noise and pretending that he doesn’t exist unless he hears spells actually being fired downstairs. With Teddy, he plays peek-a-boo in Tonks’ old room and watches as her baby animatedly points at the different Muggle posters on the walls, smiles as Harry reads out the writings on them. They’re all from the Muggle films that she and Ted used to enjoy. Andromeda once told him that they used to go to the cinema together at least once a month, eat popcorn and vigorously dissect the pictures’ merits until late into the night. The last one they’d seen as a family before Ted had to go into hiding was Men in Black which she says made Tonks laugh to tears.  

Around four Teddy gets hungry, though. And: Narcissa is still there. Harry tries to distract him for as long as he can, but the idea of a child being starved, albeit for a few minutes, is still unbearable enough to him that his resolve really doesn’t hold very long. He sighs loudly but still picks the little one up, trekking to the kitchen for a bottle.

Andromeda’s house is modern, open-plan with bare, soft, black and white, Scandinavian aesthetics. It is everything that Harry imagines the Black house wasn’t: light, spacious and airy. The moment he makes it to the bottom of the stairs, he has a direct, unobstructed view into the kitchen and dining room area, spots Teddy’s grandmother right away, sitting on a chair at the end of a long, glass table, an untouched mug of tea in front of her. The tension is palpable; Narcissa sits at her side, pale, tired, hair pulled back in a low, conservative bun. She looks like she’s aged about ten years (but still looks like it smells of dung, Harry thinks). ‘Annie,’ she begs. ‘Please, listen to me, I need -’

The moment he walks in with Teddy in his arms, though, Narcissa stops talking. Straightens up. Stares, eyes wide and focused. Doesn’t say anything. Andromeda throws him a curious look; he supposes she hadn’t told her sister that Potter was upstairs.  

‘He’s fine,’ Harry shrugs in response, nodding at Teddy in his arms. ‘Just hungry.’

Wordlessly, he takes Andromeda’s nod and tense smile as an invitation to step into the kitchen, sets out to work on Teddy’s meal. With his back to the table, Harry turns, balances Teddy at his hip and makes his way to the other side of Andromeda’s fancy, white marble kitchen island, starts pulling Teddy’s formula out of the top cabinet. Dosing powder for the bottle while facing the tiled wall, Harry can feel Narcissa Malfoy’s stare digging holes into his back but there is an odd sense of pride and determination in him that doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of showing his annoyance. Out of the four of them, Teddy is the only one who really dares make a sound. He’s not crying, per se, just a bit moany and fussy, and: ‘Yeah, it’s coming, Tiger,’ Harry whispers in his ear.

With the help of his wand and a few familiar tricks, Harry fills the bottle with water and mixes it into milk, his other arm safely carrying his godson. The little one’s learnt to support his head on his own about a week ago and that simple, silly milestone has oddly filled both Harry and Andromeda with the purest sense of pride. The first time he did it, ‘I can’t wait to teach him to fly,’ Harry confessed and listened to her laugh, tiny wrinkles at the corner of her eyes.

‘Oh, Dora used to love Quidditch,’ she said.

‘He’s beautiful, Annie,’ Narcissa finally settles, breaking the silence that day. Harry bites back a sarcastic smile and a: ‘Oh, sorry, you meant Teddy?’ Something tells him that Narcissa might not appreciate his particular sense of humour, even though her sister does. ‘How old is he, now?’

‘Four months,’ Andromeda says. Harry can’t help but count in his head. Four months since Teddy was born means three months since their world fell apart. His godson will have no memory of his parents, no memory of the sound of their voices, of Tonks’ hopeless clumsiness and of the kindness in Remus’s smile whenever someone mentioned James. Narcissa speaks again, mentions something about remembering Draco at that age, something about how this is the nice part, isn’t it? ‘Afterwards, they start teething, the poor things,’ she adds. As she talks, Harry almost (almost) physically feels his heart shattering.

There is a pause in her speech that neither Harry nor Andromeda choose to fill. Instead, he stops shaking the bottle and casts a quick warming charm on it. (Teddy prefers his milk heated, they’ve noticed.)

He’s about to leave the room again and go feed him upstairs when: ‘Can I hold him?’ Narcissa asks.

Harry looks up. She’s not asking him, he realises, she’s asking her sister. Andromeda opens her mouth, about to respond - Harry knows he shouldn’t say anything, knows that he shouldn’t get involved, is just here to make Teddy’s food and not exist, but –

‘Not in a million years,’ he just says. For the record, he’d like to claim he said it without thinking but, to be honest, he really (really) means it.

An icy gush of wind seems to blow through the room as the words leave his mouth, and suddenly, everything stops. Harry notices that instinctively, his grip around Teddy has grown stronger, both his hands secured around him and, ‘I won’t hurt him, you know?’ Narcissa smiles, speaks at him rather than to him, like he’s a silly, little, capricious teenager, like I’ve-held-babies-before-and-I-won’t-drop-him, like it even begins to cover the problem. In a blink, Harry sees: Teddy’s grandparents held and tortured for information about him. Ted Tonks, murdered by Snatchers for being Muggle-born. Lupin and Tonks, Teddy’s parents, and their lifeless bodies laid down on the cold, stone floor of the Great Hall. With a loud clink, he sets Teddy’s bottle down on Andromeda’s bare, marble worktop.  

‘You killed his parents.’

‘Well, I didn’t -’

‘Okay, you let your sister torture my best friend inside your bloody house.’ The words come out in a hiss, only because Harry doesn’t want to scare Teddy with a shouting match. At his neck, he feels blood pumping under his jaw, like he’s going to have to close his eyes on her face or else he will have to scream. Something seems to be pulling his insides out and he secures a hand to the back of the little one’s head, as though attempting to shield him. ‘Carved the word “mudblood” into her fucking arm. That specific enough for you?’

That afternoon, Harry holds Teddy tighter than he’s ever held him before. In his head, on the tiles, Hermione lies dead in front of him. His breath catches in his throat; in a rush, he focuses his gaze onto Narcissa’s light, cold smile again. She sets her jaw. ‘Hmm.’ She pauses. ‘I’d choose my words carefully, if I were you.’ The way she is looking at him chills his spine. ‘Now and later, in court. I saved your life in that forest, you know?’

There is silence, for a second. Harry doesn’t move. Studies her face, that look of dung still right there under her nose. His jaw tenses. There’s a threatening tone in her voice that he doesn’t like. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing.’ She shakes her head. ‘Just that I can keep a secret if I get something out of it.’

And: fuck, he thinks. Of course, that was what her visit was about, wasn’t it? Everything suddenly flashes before his eyes. The letters he threw in the pile at Grimmauld, Andromeda’s face (Annie, please listen to me, I need -) and the trials Kingsley has announced would take place in the new year. It all suddenly dawns on him. Hermione cautioned him against this. ‘Some of the Death Eaters were there. They’ll say what they saw.’ This isn’t a courtesy visit, Harry quickly realises, it’s an ambush. She’s trying to fucking blackmail him. Her silence about the things that he didn’t tell the Commission, against his testimony to spare jail time to her family. He wants to laugh. For the life of him, Harry doesn’t know what she was expecting when she cooked that neat little plan up in her brain because he’s a kid with a war in his head, that summer, so instead of giving in, he just flips. That’s how he explains it to Ron and Hermione later, anyway. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I just flipped. In less than a second, I had Teddy in one arm and my wand trained at her face in the other.’

It’s the first time, since the end of the war. The first time he loses it. He doesn’t even really mean to. It’s like his mind just - goes. Even Teddy stops babbling. He must feel it, Harry thinks, nestled against him: the drumming of his heartbeat, the adrenaline in his veins, the way his fingers wrap around his wand and do not shake. Harry (just Harry) plays peek-a-boo in his room and listens to his giggles like music in the night. Harry Potter tortured Amycus Carrow because he’d spat in Minerva McGonagall’s face and thinks he might just murder his godson’s great-aunt. Bizarrely, they now seem to be the same person.

‘If you touch him, I’ll fucking kill you,’ he says, something dead and ruthless in the way that his look falls upon hers. ‘And, I’ve killed someone much more powerful than you before. Perhaps, you should remember that. ’

In the end, Andromeda throws both of them out of the house, that afternoon. Disarms Harry with a simple flick of her wand and throws a glass of water in Narcissa’s face. Harry’s too stunned to do anything when she grabs Teddy from his arms and: ‘That’s enough, both of you,’ she says. ‘You go back to where you came from,’ she glares at her sister and: ‘Harry, for Merlin’s sake, go get some fucking air.’ After she’s thrown him out onto the street and he’s almost broken his foot by shooting into a wall in anger, he realises that he’d never (ever) heard Andromeda swear before.

He half-expects the entire story about how he died in the forest to be splashed on the front page of the Prophet the next morning, but nothing appears. He frantically goes looking for her letters, later that night, and only finds confirmation of what he already suspected. Fuck. Now, if this gets out, not only will the people he loves be hurt by the facts themselves (which is what he was initially trying to prevent), he also can’t help but fear they’ll feel betrayed that he didn’t tell the truth in the first place. He also can’t imagine the whole thing helping with the rumours about his mental state, the whole of the wizarding world thinking he’s gone completely barmy, and - 

He wonders if he should write to Ron and Hermione, but the most urgent problem, right now, seems to be Teddy. So: Harry spends the next two days apologising to Andromeda, pretty soon comes to the conclusion that he’s fucked up, badly, and sends letters, Patronuses - flowers, even – to Teddy’s grandmother’s house. ‘Please, don’t take Teddy away,’ are the first words out of his mouth when she finally (finally) consents to see him again that Monday evening, after she gets home from work. Please, please, please, please, please, plea-

‘Harry, I would never, ’ she tells him. Her lips are tinted with wine again; she swallows heavily and smiles a sad smile, the kind of smile people have when they talk to him about his parents. ‘I don’t know what she knows,’ Andromeda warns, waves him off when he opens his mouth to explain, like she doesn’t want to know, either. ‘But, when I was sixteen, she swore she’d never tell our parents about Ted and me, and yet -’ she trails off with a slight slump of her shoulders. ‘But don’t you dare threaten people with Teddy in your arms ever again,’ she says. Her voice is glacial; he looks down to his feet. ‘You need to get that battleground out of your head, Harry.’

It’s another couple of days before Ron and Hermione finally grab their Portkey home to England. Harry considers (considers) telling them what happened with Narcissa, then, but he doesn’t. The words get stuck at the back of his throat and he thinks: what for? It would just add to whatever the hell happened in Australia. Because, while the good news is that they did secure Kingsley’s loan (‘The Ministry is very grateful,’ he tells them), Hermione’s parents never make it home with her.

The issue isn’t their memories, Harry’s told. They’ve been restored to their full extent and the Grangers have hugged their daughter tightly, said that they loved her, said that they understood, even welcomed Ron with open arms and yet, they still decided to stay in Brisbane. Hermione gets back to London silent and contemplative and they are fine, they say - ‘Absolutely fine, darling,’ and yet, they don’t come home. Perhaps, that’s the worst part.

Hermione says: ‘I get it.’ She insists on it over a pint at the pub, one evening. Vaguely watches the Muggles at the table next to them – they’re all standing outside, in the warmth of the summer night and Ron’s arm hangs loosely at her waist, supportive and protective. ‘Their life is there, now,’ she adds, words slurring a bit. Her tone tells Harry that she doesn’t ‘get it,’ not at all. ‘I’m not really connected to their world, anymore, anyway,’ she shrugs. ‘I’ll see them at Christmas.’ It’s all very rational, very Hermione. ‘They even have mobile telephones, now,’ she adds, quickly glances at Harry. ‘Did you know that?’

No, he shrugs. He didn’t.

And so, at the end of August, Hermione does what she does best: she keeps her mind busy. Attends DA meetings and fundraising events for C.A.S.H.C.O.W., spends her days nagging Ron about revision before his Auror training starts and fusses over Harry to try and force him to do something. ‘Any thing,’ she even argues, one morning. He’s meeting the both of them for breakfast at Grimmauld Place, before Ron and she head into Diagon Alley to pick up her school things.

‘Does Master Harry want another scone?’ Kreacher asks, music to Harry’s ears.

‘Just do something,’ Hermione ploughs on. ‘Honestly, Harry, go and sell goodies at Borgin and Burkes for all I care.’

‘Goodies?’

She lets out an exasperated sigh. ‘You know what I mean. You need something to look forward to. A reason to get out of bed in the morning.’

And, because Ron’s in the shower, Harry deems it safe to give her a mock wink and casually point out: ‘I already have a reason to get out of bed in the morning, Hermione.’

‘Yeah? Spending your days shagging Ginny and playing tourist around town? What else have you been doing while we were gone, eh?’

‘Hey –’

Ron suddenly reappears, running down the stairs to meet them. For a moment, Harry thinks that (thankfully) this might mean the end of the conversation. That is until, however, he (politely, may he add) hands a couple Galleons over to Ron and asks him to pick up an owl for him.

To be honest, as much as it pains Harry to admit, he’s kind of recently come to the unavoidable conclusion that he needs to “replace” Hedwig. Or, if not “replace,” at least, well, fill her vacancy, so to speak. He didn’t want to, at first, but not having an owl of his own makes wizarding communication a real nightmare, especially because he can’t just walk up to the post office in Diagon Alley whenever he needs to, for fear of being attacked by crowds of reporters. So far, he’s managed alright by borrowing Pig from Ron when absolutely necessary, but with Ginny going back to Hogwarts in a couple of weeks, Harry figures that it just isn’t a viable solution, anymore.

Again, he can’t go into Diagon Alley himself, so it seems logical that Ron and Hermione could pick one up for him.

Ron shrugs, reaches for Harry’s money on the table. ‘Yeah, sure,’ he starts. ‘What kind do you -’

But then, Hermione barks.

By which Harry means: she speaks but there’s really no other way to describe her tone. She just turns around, lays her coffee mug down on the kitchen counter (‘Oh, thank you, Kreacher,’) and barks at Harry, pulling an elastic off her wrist and tying her hair up at the same time. ‘Harry James Potter, we are not picking up an owl for you! It’s a pet, not a commodity! So, you go to Diagon Alley, and you face the bloody world, face your own grief over losing Hedwig and choose your own bloody pet! I cannot believe this,’ she finally breathes. ‘You can’t just live like this, Harry!’

And: ‘Like what? ’ he shouts back. His mug moves as he slams a palm against the table and Ron jumps, steps closer to Hermione. ‘Like fucking what?’

For a moment, the room is dead silent around them. Harry looks at Ron, then looks at her, the three of them, and sighs. Lets his forehead fall against the back of his hand in front of him. Fuck, he thinks. Fuck.

‘Sorry,’ he says, quick. That’s new as well, he imagines, how fast he gets angry and how fast he apologises. Runs a hand over his face, straightens his glasses up. ‘I’m sorry,’ he sighs, again. ‘I haven’t slept.’

If he could just sleep, he thinks. If he could just –

Ron lays a hand on his shoulder; Harry closes his eyes. ‘We’re just trying to help, mate.’

But then, Hermione brushes past the both of them. ‘Ron,’ she says. ‘Come on. We’ve got to go.’

She refuses to speak to Harry, after that. Ron says that she needs time, ‘with her parents and everything,’ but there’s a look on her face every time they cross paths like she doesn’t know what to say, anymore, or what to do to help.

The nightmares get worse, later that month. They are more and more frequent, multiple times a night, and more and more vivid - even after he wakes up, there is still that panic in his chest; it weighs him down, like drowning his lungs. Harry tries to hide it, tries to stay awake, so that Ginny won’t feel him thrash around the bed - he doesn’t want her to worry. Doesn’t want to make her sad, not when this relationship with her feels like the one thing that is going well in his life. He tries to drink himself to sleep, quietly gulping down booze whenever she dozes off after sex, hoping that she won’t notice, but even that doesn’t work all that well. 

The worst part is that it’s not just the forest anymore, or the people he loves dying. It’s him doing things that he’d never think himself capable of doing. Amycus Carrow writhes in pain at the flick of his wand and Teddy watches. Wails as his big, open, baby eyes stare. And, that dream he has to tell Ginny about, because when he wakes up, he suffocates again and shakes for over an hour, and even breathing with her barely helps. ‘Wait, you Crucioed Amycus Carrow?’ she asks, frowning, and he can tell her words are carefully chosen, like walking on eggshells. Yet, he can also see the subtle shock and hurt, and confusion on her face. He tries to explain: Neville and Seamus and McGonagall, and -

‘Hey,’ she says. Her palm is so soft against his chest. ‘It’s okay.’

He wishes he could tell her. Tell her that he hates himself over the things he’s done but that’s not entirely accurate. A part of him meant it - still means it, still thinks Carrow deserved it - like he meant his threats against Narcissa. And, for a bloke who stuck to Expelliarmus for so long, Harry can’t help but wonder if perhaps, the war’s just turned him into a torturing, murdering, psychopathic arsehole who should be thrown in jail immediately. She was worried she might have changed a bit at the edges, but who is he? Is that the mark Tom’s Horcrux left on him?

To Ron and Hermione, by the end of the month, Harry isn’t quite sure what to say either, so aside from watching his godson, he spends most of the last two weeks of August with Ginny. She’s the only one who still seems to tolerate him and he enjoys her presence while he can, before the summer ends and they have to part again, if only during the weekdays. He’s not sure how he’s going to cope with that, to tell the truth. They spend their mornings lazing about in bed and their nights in pubs with live music; she drags him onto the dancefloor with gentle teases about his two left feet, does all the things that they wished they could do at Bill and Fleur’s wedding. There is a way in which she fits in his arms, fits in his life, like it could never be anyone else. She’s the one, he’s pretty sure, and he wants her to be everything. Like a new identity, like those couples who only exist with one another. He doesn’t want people to think of Harry Potter, anymore. Just of Harry and Ginny.

One night, he confesses: ‘I really like who I am when I’m with you.’ She’s snuggled in at his side on the couch in his flat and Harry feels like they’re the truest words that have ever come out of his mouth. It’s who he is when he’s not with her, that’s the problem. She’s a lifeline, a floatation device. She smiles.

‘Well,’ she says. ‘I like who you are when you’re with me, too.’

It’s not I love you, he thinks, but he sees it as pretty damn close.  

Unfortunately, it’s a few days later that another penny drops. Not one like when her parents found out about them, a much more serious one, and in hindsight, a much more destructive one. Around nine, that morning, Harry is awoken by the consistent tap of a bird’s beak against his window. He’s slept about two hours and when he finally rolls his eyes, gives in and slowly makes his way down the ladder to his living room, he notices that the owl is a barred one, a Ministry breed, and frowns. At its paw is a simple, folded note, rather than a letter. It reads:

Floo into my office directly, I’ve set up a secure connection. The Prophet is already in the Atrium. Do not talk to anyone.

Kingsley.

Immediately, Harry looks out the window. The first thing that occurs to him is: this is it. Someone’s ratted him out, the press’s figured out where he lives.

They haven’t, though. His street is quiet, eerily so, like it should be. On Sunday mornings, he’s found that people tend to sleep in.

He concludes that whatever it is, it mustn’t be that serious. The owl flies away and for a moment, Harry actually briefly considers going back to bed. That is until, in rapid succession, his fireplace bursts alive and Ron tumbles out into his apartment, followed closely by Hermione. He looks horrified. She looks furious. Strolls the three steps that separate her from Harry and starts hitting him in the face with the Sunday edition of the Daily Prophet. The words that come out of her mouth with each smack as Ron tries to pull her away tell him everything that he needs to know.

‘Why. Did. You. Pick. A. Fight. With. Narcissa. Malfoy?’

Ah, fuck, Harry thinks. She took her sweet time, didn't she?

And, so, on Sunday, the 23rd of August 1998, Harry spends the day at the Ministry instead of blissfully wasting it away snogging Ginny in his apartment. Sits in Kingsley’s office while important officials use words like ‘comms,’ and ‘optics,’ and ‘damage control.’ Narcissa’s done things well; he’s got to give it to her. She didn’t just give the Prophet her version of events (which, admittedly, would have been bad enough), she did so with ridiculous, thinly veiled accusations that add even more flavour to her tales.

For example: she didn’t say that Harry walked to his own death. She said: ‘Well, he did pass us in the forest but I’m not sure where he was going when he got caught. I suppose he could have been running away, for all I know.’ The curse did hit him, that much is certain. She does later admit that he didn’t defend himself but adds: ‘You’d have to be pretty insane to do that, wouldn’t you? I mean, even if he wasn’t running, was he trying to kill himself? Would you want someone with these, er, issues to have a prominent role in our world?’

A prominent role in what? Harry wonders, that day. He’s barely left Muggle London in months. It’s not like he’s actually influencing anything, is it? At length, Narcissa talks about how he threatened her. ‘In my own sister’s kitchen, mind you. Oh, yes, I do worry about Teddy’s safety, I really do.’ She claims that if the Ministry wants to treat all those who fought in the war fairly, conducting equitable trials across the board, they should probably look into the things he ’s done, too. ‘I mean, I don’t like it, but I understand letting Granger and Weasley off the hook. After all, they paid their dues, signed an agreement and engaged with our institutions. Potter didn’t. How can they let him off like this?’

So: in the end, Harry has to tell Kingsley the whole story. The real story. Not only the one about what happened in Andromeda’s kitchen (why Narcissa Malfoy is so irritated with him, it seems) but also: Snape’s memories, the Horcrux inside him, the fear at the pit of his stomach, his parents’ ghosts and the Hallows. A stone-cold tale. Harry doesn’t cry or express any regrets, it just kind of is. He played with fire and lost, he guesses.

‘We’ll put out a statement,’ Kingsley settles. ‘We backed you up when you lied, so it makes us look bad, too. I think it’s best if the Ministry takes this on, puts out the facts and rides out the storm. There’s going to be some very nasty things said about you over the next few weeks, Harry.’ He pauses. ‘You’ll probably have to give an interview, perhaps when things have quieted down a bit. Explain why you lied.’ Kingsley sighs. Harry supposes he never thought he’d owe anyone the truth. These people aren’t his friends, they’re not - ‘These people worship you,’ Kingsley says. ‘Whether you like it or not. They fought for you, wrote to you, told their children about you. Now, they’re finding out you either ran or gave up the fight. How would you feel about that?’

It’s like he can’t fucking breathe again. 

Later, it turns out Kingsley blames himself, too. ‘I knew you weren’t telling the truth, I shouldn’t have -’ he adds. Harry wants to tell him it was his own decision and no one else’s to keep things to himself. It’s not like Kingsley could have legally coerced the truth out of him and there are many reasons why he lied, not all of them noble. It just felt nice to believe in fiction for a little while, think he’d had a plan all along, one to outsmart Tom Riddle, dodge the curse and make him believe in non-existent Hallows. Nicer than the fact that he walked into a forest unarmed and did not expect to come back. ‘Sometimes, I forget how young you are,’ Kingsley adds.

‘I just -’ He tries to breathe - again. Closes his eyes. ‘I didn’t run,’ Harry says. Just wishes she hadn’t said that, that people wouldn’t believe that, just -

Kingsley has that sorry smile on his face again, like he’s just been reminded of the fact that Harry’s parents are dead. ‘I know.’ He lets out a heavy sigh, sits at the edge of his desk. Harry’s always hated these kinds of looks. ‘Me and everyone who knows you,’ the Minister adds. ‘That’s kind of the issue.’

He gets home late, that night, and finds Ginny in his living room. Her gaze is as tired as he feels, dishevelled, dark circles under her eyes and her hair loose over her shoulders. He thinks that this is it: the moment when maybe they’ll talk, and possibly when she’ll decide that he’s a psychopath, that he’s a prick, that she hates him and leave. But instead, when she sees him, Ginny’s mouth crashes against his and he breathes. Relief. And, suddenly, they’re not apart, anymore, and when he bites her lip, she lets out a loud moan – her fingernails dig into his back. They’re rough, that night, rougher than they’ve ever been before; she takes as much as she gives and they fuck against the wall of his flat with the windows open, her head hitting the frame of one of Luna’s paintings when she shouts out his name. ‘Make me forget, Harry,’ she whispers in his ear. ‘Make me forget everything I've read.’

The beauty of it is that she almost makes him forget everything, too.

‘Sex can’t be the answer to all of your problems, Harry,’ Hermione tries to reason with him, later. He’s standing with his back to her, facing the mirror in his living room, applying Dittany on a bruise that Ginny’s lips left at his neck. They’re heading out to another meeting at the Ministry.

He turns around, satisfied with his handiwork (the mark’s disappeared) and breathes: ‘Right.’ It’s stupid, for about a million reasons that he doesn’t have time to get into but he lets the words leave his mouth anyway, simply because he knows that they’ll annoy her. ‘So, sex, freedom or Firewhisky, which one should I give up first, Hermione?’

Wordlessly, like Andromeda did with her sister that day, Hermione throws her glass of orange juice in his face and doesn’t wait for him to Disapparate.

Gruelling back and forth ensues, that last week of August. With Ron and Hermione, first, who do their best to help, still, even when, by all standards, Harry knows that he’s being a complete prick. With Kingsley, next, who, after responding in substance to Narcissa’s accusations in the papers, agrees with the three of them that there’s probably no need to tell the world that the Hallows were real. No one saw Harry’s parents’ ghosts and he, at least, manages to protect The Boy Who Lived’s privacy and mastery of the Elder Wand. For that, Harry is infinitely grateful.

They do have to tell the press about the last Horcrux, though. It’s that or having everyone believe he’s immune to Killing Curses. This, to Harry, actually feels like a better alternative, but Kingsley quickly labels it as a death sentence. ‘Trying to Avada Kedavra Potter will become a national sport, Harry, just to see if it works. There aren’t enough Aurors in the world to protect you from that.’ 

The press has a field day with the information they’re given. Was Potter possessed? Is his soul tainted by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? ‘It’ll stop eventually, Harry,’ Hermione promises, her voice like an overdrawn violin string. He can’t fucking eat, can’t sleep, and at this point, can’t even fucking think. He’s starting to wonder if it would have been easier not to survive this. 

‘I meant it,’ he confesses to Ron, one night. ‘When I threatened Narcissa, I -’ Even without a wand, Harry knows, he’d have murdered her with his bare hands if he had to. ‘I said that with Teddy in my arms, and I still meant it.’ Violence, wars, are the last thing he wants Ted to be aware of and yet –

‘Mum killed Bellatrix,’ Ron just states in response. ‘We all do things we’re not proud of.’ Their looks cross and Harry supposes that there is nothing to say to that, so again, he says nothing.

And, that summer, there are: Mr and Mrs Weasley, also. Harry tries to explain everything to them, with Ron and Hermione at his side, he really does. The forest, the Horcruxes. ‘But, Harry –’ Mrs Weasley starts. She stops when her husband lays a hand on her shoulder.

‘Could you give us a minute, please?’ When at around one in the morning, Harry slowly makes his way back down to their fireplace with the intention of Flooing home, he instead stops dead in his tracks when he hears Ginny’s mother say: ‘I swore on their grave, Arthur.’

‘Molly -’

‘They picked Sirius - Merlin knows why - but when he died, I -’ she breathes out a sob. Harry stands, like petrified, hiding behind the wall at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I wanted them to know that there would still be someone looking out for their son. I promised I’d protect him like my own,’ she cries. ‘I trusted Albus, Arthur. And all the while he was raising that kid to have him die at the right moment? Messing with his head so much that he gave himself up and doesn’t even question it. Arthur, what did we do?’ she asks. ‘How did we allow this to happen? I should have -’

‘Shh,’ he says. ‘Molly, shhh.’

Again, there is nothing to say to that, so Harry says nothing, waits, making no noise and pretending that he doesn’t exist.

On the 31st, Hermione invites the DA over to Grimmauld Place. It’s the last reunion of the summer; she’s decided to turn it into, if not a party, at least a festive gathering of sorts, to say goodbye to those who will be in Hogwarts for the foreseeable future. Ron passes the message on to Harry, says: ‘Well, she did kind of roll her eyes,’ he explains, ‘But she said you could come.’ Harry also kind of rolls his eyes in response, and Ron shrugs. ‘Be there at 7, yeah?’

In truth, it may sound odd but for the most part, he does have a great time, that evening. The press gets wind of the reunion sometime earlier in the day, sets up camp in front of the house (will they ever leave them alone?), but Hermione swiftly arranges for everyone to Floo in instead. They all pile up into the big house’s dining room and drink a bit too much, laugh a bit too loud. Kreacher has been working relentlessly to make the house more habitable all summer – it’s not perfect, but it really shows improvement. The dead house-elf heads are gone from the walls, and so are most of the remnants of the place’s pureblood heyday, safely stored away in the attic. There are still things to be done but at least, the air is breathable. Ron and Hermione have officially moved in (much to Mrs Weasley’s despair) and Harry must say that he strangely finds the place almost homely. 

Kreacher is over the moon with the idea of a party. People to serve, mountains and mountains of canapés and desserts to cater – his idea of a night well spent. The elf gets a bit annoyed that many members of the DA tend to thank him for his work, Harry notices, but overall, the evening goes smoothly. Neville makes him laugh, Ginny lightens the mood by performing impressions of Hermione behind her back; it kind of works. The DA all know him, anyway, know how private he can be, so everyone tactfully avoids the subject of everything that’s been in the press these past few days. It’s funny how, when they were in school, it was often him against the rest of the world - the way people stared when they thought he was the heir of Slytherin, or that he’d made up Voldemort’s return. Now, they’re all adults and that night, they don’t even talk about the war. For the first time in his life, Harry feels like he actually belongs somewhere, regardless of what could or could not be said about him in the outside world.

They’re friends, he realises. Not best friends, not like Ron and Hermione, but friends nonetheless. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come to the reunions,’ he tells Hannah, that night. ‘This spring – this summer,’ he amends. ‘It’s just been -’

Busy is perhaps the word he had in mind. She smiles, pats him on the back. ‘No one expected you to, Harry,’ she reassures him. ‘We all survived a whole year without you, you know?’ she laughs. ‘But you’re always welcome. Whenever you want.’

It’s nice to think that this – the DA – has outgrown him. That they’re all perhaps stronger than he is.

Cho, it turns out (and now, Harry would be lying if he didn’t admit this feels a bit weird) has a new boyfriend. He’s tall, blond, a bit awkward – a Beauxbatons boy she met in St Mungo’s, back in June. She introduces him to all of them. ‘Paul, this is Luna, Angelina, Seamus.’ They all shake hands. When she gets to Harry, she giggles: ‘And, I suppose, this is the only one among us who doesn’t need an introduction.’

Paul seems positively impressed; Harry barely suppresses a cringe. ‘It’s an honour,’ he’s told.

Harry quickly manages to change the subject. ‘This is Ginny,’ he announces, because it seems that Cho has conveniently forgotten to introduce her. ‘My girlfriend.’

Ginny tenses next to him but thankfully, consents to politely chat with Cho and Paul for a few minutes. She then nods at their empty glasses and volunteers to get a refill. Harry smirks, thinks: some things never do change.

To tell the truth, it’s a while before he realises she hasn’t come back. Fifteen minutes, maybe? He listens to Dean tell a joke, watches Angelina try to cheer George up. At first, he thinks that she might be helping Kreacher in the kitchen. ‘Have you seen Ginny?’ he asks the elf, passing by.

Kreacher is all smiles when he answers. ‘Miss Weasley has gone out, Master Harry. Thank you for entrusting me with this gathering, Master Harry. This house used to -’

Harry doesn’t listen to the rest. Probably something about all the elaborate parties the Blacks used to host in their day, torturing a Muggle or two for entertainment. It doesn’t really matter: by the time the elf has stopped talking, he’s rushed out of the house.

Harry lets out a sigh of relief when he sees her still there, on the landing. For a second, he’d imagined: a kidnapping, a murder, her body in a pool of blood. Instead, she’s standing there, facing a dozen journalists at the bottom of the stairs, cameras at the ready. It is bizarre, Harry thinks, watching them, knowing that they can’t see through to their side of the fence because of the Fidelius charm. ‘I wish I was like you,’ Ginny just says when he closes the front door behind him. She’s leaning against the wall to her side, looking down. ‘You’d stand there like a cool kid, observing them in silence, smoking Muggle cigarettes, like some sort of people study.’

He lets out a bit of a chuckle. She’s probably right. There is something sad in her voice, though, and he wants her to smile. ‘I am a cool kid,’ he jokes. She laughs. Closes her eyes right afterwards, stays silent for a while.

‘I can’t do this, anymore, Harry,’ she says, then.

In hindsight, it seems ridiculous, but at first, he thinks this is about Cho again. Ginny refuses to look at him, eyes focused on the floor and they’re standing just where Ron got Splinched that one time, Harry recalls. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologises like he did with Ron and Hermione. ‘I know she’s just -’ he rolls his eyes. ‘I know it’s not ideal, but I’ll speak to her, I’ll -’

Ginny’s crying, though. He realises this as soon as she looks up at him. He hasn’t seen her cry in a long, long time. Not since the funerals, since – Ginny quickly smiles through her tears, though, something sad, and for a moment, he thinks that she does seem pleasantly surprised that he’s picked up on the girls’ old rivalry. Well, I’m not a complete twat, he wants to joke, but – ‘It’s not that,’ she says. ‘I mean, I can’t do us, anymore, Harry.’

Something drops. At the pit of his stomach, and he’s pretty sure his heart stops. For a moment, there are about a million things he wants to say but there also isn’t any air in his lungs to push the words out. In the end, he can’t even speak, like the ground is collapsing under his feet.

‘I’m sorry.’ More tears, on her cheeks. She wipes them off with the sleeve of her jumper and looks down to the floor again. Her red, Converse trainers against the grey stones. ‘You didn’t see that coming, did you?’ she shakes her head, almost chuckles to herself like it’s ripping her soul apart. ‘It’s my fault, I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me, I -’

He sets his jaw. ‘Ah, don’t give me that -’

They’re the first words that are out of his mouth, that night. Her next ones feel like a punch in the gut again. ‘I look at you and I see you dead,’ she tells him, then. His mouth opens, closes. ‘You know, sometimes, I wake up in the night and I put my hand on your chest just to make sure you’re still breathing. I can’t do this anymore, Harry. I’ll go crazy.’

‘Gin -’

‘We don’t talk. You can’t call me your “girlfriend” all the time if we don’t talk. In front of your neighbours, in front of everybody – For Merlin’s sake, Harry, this isn’t a relationship. It’s not -’

He points his finger at her, instinct taking over again. ‘Hey, I’m not the one who didn’t want to fucking talk. You said you wanted to be “happy,” you said -’

‘Because I don’t WANT to fucking talk!’ she shouts, then. He stills. She’s never shouted at him before. A hand runs over her face and the fairy lights that Hermione’s bewitched to decorate the front porch reflect in her eyes. Harry feels like he can’t breathe, like – no, no, no, no, no, please - like he’d give away everything he has for a Time-Turner, right now, everything he has just get back into her arms last night. ‘You don’t get it, I -’ she smiles, disbelieving. ‘The moment I heard about the Horcruxes, I knew what that bruise was, Harry, I’m not stupid! I just thought -’ A sigh. She shakes her head quickly. ‘I thought we could get away from it,’ she struggles to explain. Ginny isn’t someone who typically struggles to explain anything. ‘Carry on as before - you and me, away from the world. No war, no grief, no past, all future,’ she smiles again and he feels her hand, soft against his cheek. She’s stepped forward, close – so fucking close.

‘But you’re you, Harry.’ And, it’s not his fault, she adds, it’s just: ‘ You are this war. And, you did all these heroic things that you’re too shy to even brag about and it’s why we all love you,’ she breathes; he can feel it against his skin. ‘And, I can’t -’ She closes her eyes. Swallows and shakes. ‘You’re wrong. I’m not brave, I’m a fucking coward, Harry. And, all I want is to forget about the war, and I don’t want to have to share, I don’t want to have to talk about last year, and I don’t want -’ She stops. Closes her eyes and bites her lips and breathes. Opens them again. ‘I want to forget that after everything, you still died.’ And, she is sobbing, now, wipes the tears off her face with the back of her sleeve, like annoyed with herself, with grief on public display. ‘And, I can’t do that if all the Narcissa Malfoys of this world keep doing interviews about you. And, you can’t stop them – neither can I - but every time I hear something, it’s like I’m back there, and I’m drowning, I just - I can’t do this anymore.’

He tries to kiss her, that night. It’s impulsive and stupid and the worst part is that she lets him. For a moment, his lips against hers are bittersweet, the taste of salt on her lips. He begs. ‘Please, for fuck’s sake, Ginny, you’re not making sense. I -’ and the end (the end of them), is a mess: she pulls away, he tries to grab her hand, tries to keep her there, to talk. She misses a step, he goes to catch her, accidentally makes it past the Fidelius charm. The press get their pictures – oh that, they do, don’t they, in the end? And the cameras start flashing (‘Harry, over here! Is she leaving, Harry?’) and fuck he thinks to himself, but also wonders if, when the whole world finally knows about them, it’ll mean that at least, she’ll have been officially his, even for a short while.

So, later, it’s a testament to their friendship that when Hermione sits next to him in his apartment, she says: ‘Ginny told me,’ rather than: ‘I told you so,’ and doesn’t insist on what a tosser he’s been to everyone, lately. He kind of wants to thank her, maybe, but instead, he decides to down the Firewhisky that’s left in his glass, first. ‘She said I should check on you, was worried how you’d -’ Hermione continues, looks down at his coffee table. ‘How you’d react. I guess she was right.’

There’s an empty bottle of Firewhisky at his side and a fresh one just opened, a broken glass, cigarettes and ash dropped against the edition of the Daily Prophet that had Narcissa’s face on it. Harry tries to reach for the whisky, tips the bottle, Hermione catches it and: ‘I think you’ve had enough.’

He shakes his head, clumsily tries to grab it from her again – she laughs and vanishes it with her wand. ‘Tough luck,’ she just says.

Fuck, he thinks. Leans back against the cushions, looks up to the ceiling. The world spins around him and that’s exactly what it is, he thinks: tough luck. ‘I fucking love her,’ he says. ‘Dumbledore said it would always be enough, he said -’  

‘Oh, Harry.’

He cries on her shoulder, that night. Like a kid, like she did a couple of months ago in a Muggle hotel room. In the dark, it’s probably pathetic but here they are, he supposes, and she just notes that it’s the first time she’s seen tears on his face since Godric’s Hollow. He didn’t cry at any of the funerals, not the way the others did. All he could hear, he remembers, were Dumbledore’s words in the back of his head after Sirius fell through the veil. You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.

Well, he decides that’s what it feels like, now, too, losing Ginny. But, it’s not just that, it’s - Sirius and bloody Dumbledore, and Tonks and Lupin and Teddy, who’s now undoubtedly traumatised for life, and the way that it feels like they’ve all lost so much, in this war - for what? The press is right - hell, Hermione is right - he’s just bloody useless. Killed Tom just to piss about London with a girl for weeks, to threaten and torture and mean it, while his mates are out there collecting funds and rebuilding castles and actually helping. It’s been months and he still can’t fucking sleep, everything seems to be getting worse, and he can’t fucking figure out what to do with himself, how to fix all that’s still so fucking shit in their world. And now, the one thing that seemed to work in his life didn’t, and he’s fucked that up too. With Ginny, the girl who is getting over it in record time, who does it all (them, Quidditch, the DA), and who used to draw patterns over his chest with her wand whenever he’d get cold, leaving a trail of her warming charms down his skin. 

Harry fiddles with his wand, now, moves it in the dark, mindlessly traces similar lines. Against his forearm, the wood feels oddly soft and soothing and he wonders what it would look like, if he drew blood. What it would feel like, warm and thick against his skin. Maybe, it would put him to sleep better than the booze does. He wouldn’t even have to say the words – just think the spell hard enough. Diffindo. His wand hovers, against his skin, caresses the burn that Vernon once left at his wrist when he “accidentally” held the gaslighter too close. ‘Be careful, boy,’ he said, as Harry screamed out in pain. ‘It could burn you.’

A split second. Hermione grabs his wand from his hand and throws it across the room. Harry’s startled, like jerked awake, realises that he did draw blood, just a bit, a jagged cut by the side of his wrist. It’s magical and deep enough that it’ll leave a mark. ‘Harry, what the fuck? ’ Hermione snaps and he can hear the fear in her voice. I’m sorry, he thinks. I’m sorry, I’m – ‘Don’t you fucking dare.’

I’m sorry, I’m just shite at everything, these days, he wants to say. It’s what it feels like, right now, as he tries to close his eyes because maybe if he’s this drunk, he’ll be able to sleep, dream of Ginny, something sweet and hopeful, like June. Instead, all he sees is still blood spilled on the tiles before his eyelids snap open again. ‘What do you see when you close your eyes, Hermione?’ he kind of slurs, kind of asks. She holds her wand over his wrist and the bleeding stops. Her shoulder touches his; she sinks deep into the couch and sighs relief.

He expects: good things. Ron, her parents, people who love her. He gets: ‘Bellatrix.’

Doesn’t know what to say to that, really. He feels like crying again; he’s not even sure why. ‘We’re all going mad, aren’t we?’ he says, instead.

And that is when Hermione looks at him, that night. That compassion in her gaze like she is watching a child. He wonders if she mothers them, sometimes. A tired, melancholic smile. ‘No, we’re not.’

It’s her certainty that catches his attention. Even with the alcohol, he frowns. Hermione moves, now, slowly, turning sideways on the couch so that her back is against the armrest, feet tucked under her bum. ‘Harry, look at me.’ He doesn’t know what else to do, sits with one foot on the ground, the other flat on the sofa, elbow resting against his folded knee. ‘You’re not going crazy,’ she says. He watches her bite her bottom lip, swallow her apprehension and steel herself against his reaction. She shouldn’t, really, he thinks. He’s too numb and sad and exhausted to do or say anything. ‘Harry,’ she whispers, that night. ‘I think you’ve got PTSD.’

It’s not like: he hasn’t heard the term before. Those Muggle action films that Dudley used to watch. ‘I, er - read about it,’ Hermione admits, then. That almost makes him laugh because: of course, she did. ‘They first diagnosed it in soldiers when they came back from the war. You know, the first World War?’ He vaguely remembers that from Muggle school. ‘They said they were “shell-shocked;” that’s where the phrase comes from.’ She quotes, visibly from memory: ‘“It’s a mental health disorder that develops in people who have experienced a shocking, scary, or dangerous event.”’

That - the sound of that - does make him laugh. ‘Oh, please, don’t laugh,’ she pleads, then. He smiles, but stops.

‘Harry, I’m not -’ she starts, again, then. Pinches her lips together, quickly looks away. His gaze narrows on her - he suddenly feels almost stone-cold sober. ‘I’m not doing well either.’ He opens his mouth - closes it. He didn’t think - ‘I can’t trust anyone,’ she tells him, sighing. ‘It’s like: there’s no one I want to talk to, no one I can relate to, no one who understands, apart from you and Ron. I think that if McGonagall hadn’t given in on boarding, I wouldn’t have gone back to school.’ Harry quickly looks up, surprised. ‘Couldn’t have done it, not without knowing if I’d see the two of you. Half the time, I can’t think straight - I snap, I have no patience, I have -’ she sighs. ‘-Nightmares, flashbacks, what they call intrusive memories. Sometimes a door opens and suddenly, I’m back in Malfoy Manor, and it’s hard to get out of it. You have that, too, I think.’ 

He looks down at his foot on the couch. Doesn’t want to confirm but also, it feels mean to leave her out on her own. He glances up again, just nods. Feels the words in his chest. ‘Sometimes, it’s like I can’t breathe.’ 

Hermione’s eyes grow wider, her hand over her mouth for a second. ‘Oh, Harry.’

He’s not sure what to say. She is trying to make eye contact but he is stubbornly looking away until suddenly, he feels her hand, warm, in his. Her palm pressed close; he leans into it. Squeezes it. Hasn’t felt relief, like this, in what feels like weeks. He swallows.

‘Ron has - ups and downs,’ she sighs. ‘I don’t know - maybe he’s just grieving.’ There is a pause, she crosses his gaze again. ‘Ginny’s –’

‘Pretending it doesn’t exist,’ Harry supplies. The words roll off his tongue. It hits him like a lorry at full speed, but it seems so obvious, now. 

‘The technical term is avoidance,’ Hermione corrects. She can’t help herself, he smirks. ‘But, yeah, maybe. I don’t know, I haven’t spoken to her much, so-’

They stay silent. For a while, after that. His hand in hers and his thumb over her pulse point. The cut at his wrist that she sewed back together is starting to throb. Harry wishes she could give him answers on a silver platter, asks when this whole fucking thing will end, when he will get his brain back, feel like himself again. ‘What do the Muggles do about it?’ he asks, because it feels somewhat comforting to perhaps have a curable illness, but -

Hermione laughs, shakes her head. ‘They go to therapy, Harry,’ she tells him. ‘For, like, fifteen years.’

And so, they also burst out a laugh, that night, the two of them. The kind of if I didn’t laugh, I’d cry laugh that still somehow manages to warm his heart. Hermione shifts on the couch until she’s next to him again, pulls him into a hug. They look at the old article with Narcissa’s face on it - after The Boy Who Lived, following the battle, the new headline reads: The Boy Who Lied. ‘What do you think they’ll go with tomorrow?’ he smirks, nodding at the paper in front of them. ‘The Boy Who Got Dumped?’

Hermione sighs through a smile, pulling his close. She asks if he’ll be okay. ‘About Ginny, I mean. I can’t go back to Hogwarts if you’re -’ she trails off. Her gaze on the booze and the cigarettes on the table, the cut at his wrist, the whole lot of it.

It reminds him of what Andromeda said a few weeks ago, after she threw her sister out of the house and allowed him back in. He tells Hermione about it. Remembers the way Teddy’s grandmother’s smile was sad, twisting at her lips. ‘I should apologise as well,’ she said. ‘I should have known. I should have asked someone else to be there.’ Harry shook his head, thought: no, this is my fault, but – ‘It’s what she does, Cissy,’ Andromeda just went on. ‘Was always clever, the cleverest of the three of us. A lot of times, I’ve actually wondered who was worse, her or Bella. Bella was always the wild card, the one you pointed at people, our mother used to say. But at least, she believed in something. Cissy doesn’t. She was clever and married well because that’s what you did. Stuck around because again, she thought that way, she’d have power and – well, everything she wanted.’

It was a moment, a fleeting moment where Harry wondered what must have been worse. Being born with that kind of family, or no family at all. ‘Which one were you, then?’ he asked, catching her gaze. ‘I mean, if Bellatrix was the wild one and Narcissa, the clever one. Which one were you?’

Andromeda laughed, blushed slightly, and shook her head at him. ‘Oh, the one who fell in love, I suppose.’

Harry used to think that out of the three of them, Ron would be the funny one, Hermione, the clever one, and he – well, he hoped - ‘I need to see who I am without either being with her or dreaming about being with her, I reckon,’ he admits. Two years of his life and this is where they’re at. From his Sixth Year onwards, any future that he dared think about was Ginny’s (theirs) but there was something before that, he remembers, now. ‘I’ll sign up for the Aurors,’ he says.

‘Oh, Harry, you don’t have to -’

‘No, I want to.’ Hermione was right, he thinks, that day when she said he needed a purpose in life. ‘It’s the only thing I’ve ever really wanted to do, actually.’

Save everyone else. 

Chapter Text

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iv. out of straw (bale it all)

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Ginny leaves, in ’98, and it’s not the end of the world.

Harry’s been through wars. Knows that worlds don’t end. Remembers the day when Cedric died, when Sirius died, when Dumbledore died, when Teddy’s parents were murdered. Every time something so dramatic happened that he thought surely, this would mean the end of everything else. The Earth would have to stop its rotation around the sun, the Muggle electronics would have to all quit functioning at once, because if his world shattered, so should everyone else’s. But, that’s not how it is. Regardless of what you throw at it, the universe just shrugs. 

It’s a bit like: Muggles, keeping the noise and the cold out with bales of straw around their houses, packed tight and compact in pseudo, eco-friendliness, memories wrapped and hidden inside layers of concrete. In 1998, autumn wets the pavements and dampens the air, doesn’t afford any of its precious attention to the leaves that fall upon the ground. Harry functions, works. The world seems keen on continuing to exist, so he has to. Spends his nights lying awake, stares at the walls and only then does he allow himself to remember the insulation that sits at the core. Usually, by three in the morning, Ginny’s the only thing he can think about.

Auror training starts on the 7th of September. A week after the girls go back to Hogwarts. The days pass. In preparation, he writes to Kingsley to sign up, orders a new Potions kit and some books from Diagon Alley. Waits.

The day after Ginny leaves, Harry opens all of the storage cabinets around the flat. He lines up cans of beer and bottles of Firewhisky in a neat row against the kitchen worktop, takes one good look at them and pours everything down the drain. Halfway through, it occurs to him that he could have just used his wand to vanish the liquids but there is something oddly satisfying in watching the amber colours mix in with the clearer ones, drops tinting the stainless steel of his sink. The smell makes him feel like retching; he runs the tap to get rid of it.

That morning’s Day Zero, he decides. Wakes up with a hammering headache and throws up in the toilet at eight o’clock in the morning, decides that this is what he will do. No more booze, no more cigarettes (those are actually bloody hard to quit, he finds - only really manages to completely wean himself off by late December and even then, it’s short-lived), no more fucking about. This autumn, he will work, train, and come home. Has come to the conclusion that he doesn’t really want to kill himself, so what else is there? He throws all the glass containers into a bag, the last reminders of the bizarre summer he’s just had, drops them off into the recycling bins, over at the car park of the council estate just down the road. The September sun is still too bright, nicer mornings and chillier nights, and he decides, rather authoritatively, that this is it: the page turns, doesn’t it?

‘You look well,’ Hermione tells him, that first weekend after she comes home from Hogwarts, mountains of homework, tales of house points and of the Fat Lady in tow. It all feels rather anachronic and Harry has a feeling that she hasn’t told Ron about the night he drunkenly considered slashing his own veins open. You look well, to her, probably means congratulations, you haven’t done anything to fuck yourself up further, over the short span of the last five days.

When Harry woke up on Day Zero, there was shame at the back of his throat, the result of a lapse in judgement perhaps, anger at himself for being weak and feeling used. Yet, somewhere, a strange idea that not only could he not keep Ginny, but he also wasn’t even capable of properly hurting himself when he meant to. Hermione says: ‘You look well,’ that day, and Harry just swallows and shrugs, realises that perhaps the person he used to be (Harry, just Harry)’s boarded a train and left the station, now. Everything’s being dealt with by Harry Potter, these days, the bloke whose jaw is always set in the pictures that the papers take, the bloke who shrugs and just ploughs on.

‘Thanks,’ he says.

Hermione comes and goes, that autumn, so he and Ron rebuild their own little unit. A unit that’s always been fun, worked well, but has also always felt like a tricycle that’s missing a wheel, functional but less grounded, just doing its best to carefully trudge along the road until the missing part’s brought back to it. Ron laughs, says: ‘You know, sometimes, it’s the same when we’re on a date,’ and Harry probably looks positively mortified. ‘Like, I’m happy to be with her, don’t get me wrong, but I’m always looking over my shoulder to see where you’re at.’

Harry hopes that this doesn’t happen during all of their activities because God, that is not a vision he needed to have. Ron coughs (probably realising what he’s said) and Harry lets him off with a laugh and a little shove to his shoulder. Secretly, he kind of understands what his friend means. It was the same (albeit more dramatic) when Ron left last year, like they weren’t sure how to be without him. It occurs to Harry that Hermione’s on her own in Scotland, writing letters and packing her bags every weekend to head back south. If what she told Harry is true, that the two of them are the only people she trusts, he imagines perhaps he and Ron are the lucky ones, that her adventure is far lonelier than theirs.

Auror training soon absorbs most of their energy, during those first few weeks. Their intake is made up of twelve people, the largest in years. Ron, Seamus, Dean, Katie, Susan, Terry, Padma, Parvati, Justin, Anthony, Harry and the odd one out. There’s always an odd one out. This time, her name is Opal and she’s a shy, home-schooled girl with wide, grey eyes and golden, brown locks that cascade down each side of her face in perfect symmetry. Harry must admit that he doesn’t pay much attention to her, at first, until they’re all asked why they joined and she’s the only one who has a story to tell that isn’t a variation of: ‘Well, I was in the DA, I fought in the battle, so it felt like the next logical step.’

Harry makes a joke out of his own answer. ‘To take the down the Ministry from the inside and rule the world, I presume,’ he says, because he’s pretty sure that at least one journalist will write that somewhere. He gets a few laughs from the old gang and an annoyed eye-roll from Kingsley who attends their Welcome-To-The-Ministry-Of-Magic party. It’s what is expected. It’s easier than giving his real reason for joining. ‘Well, my brain’s already fucked anyway, might as well do something useful,’ probably wouldn’t sound as inspiring as people want him to be.    

Opal says: ‘With Mum and Dad, we hid Muggleborns,’ and suddenly, Harry’s interested, curious about all the things that happened outside of the tent that he, Ron and Hermione were trapped in. He’s been spending a lot of time trying to piece together other people’s wars, asking about the Order and Hogwarts but it’s been difficult when almost everyone he knows is so desperate to move on. He looks at her: her small frame and her shy voice. ‘We helped about fifty people get out of the country. I know it’s not much, but –’

His words are quick, before he can really think. ‘No, that’s loads,’ he says. She blushes (of course), because Harry Potter’s just spoken to her and unlike the others, she hasn’t decided what she sees in him, yet. Dean takes care of it, flashes her a reassuring smile. 

‘Harry’s right, you know?’ he says. ‘Plus, I’ve heard it’s really rare that they take people in without a Hogwarts education, you must be really good.’

Her skin is pearly white and in contrast, her cheeks stand out like poppies. When Harry catches her gaze, he realises that there’s something of himself in her, something that dates back to when he was eleven and always surprised to be on the receiving end of any actual human decency. He doesn’t think that’s ever truly left him.

‘You’ll see,’ Ron laughs, a few seats away. Fakes a secretive, conspiratorial tone and Harry fakes an exasperated look over his glass of water. ‘At first, you’re impressed ‘cause he’s Harry Potter and all, but then you’ll realise he’s a complete wanker,’ he shrugs, shoving a piece of potato into his mouth. The table chuckles around him. ‘Then, suddenly, it’s seven years later and there’s a price on your head because you’ve followed him into some foolish attempt to save the wizarding world,’ he grins, raising his glass in Harry’s direction. ‘Be careful, he’s really bad news.’

Harry snorts and, ‘Yeah,’ he nods, picking up the joke where his best mate’s expertly left it. One-upping each other is an effortless game between the two of them, almost something from before the war. ‘Reckon I’m still at the wanker stage, right?’

Everyone around them laughs, including Opal. Something discreet but happy and just like that, she becomes part of their little DA family. She’s only twenty, she later admits, and a child of the same, stupid wars, Harry thinks.

They spend most of their days in a classroom on the DMLE floor of the Ministry, running around between duelling exercises, spell firing ranges, the potions lab and the library. The facilities they have are truly impressive; even Ron’s eyes go wide when they’re given a tour of the department. It’s a bit like being eleven again and discovering Hogwarts for the first time, except that everything here is geared towards making them the best Aurors they can be. Portraits of the few Death Eaters who remain at large are displayed in almost every room and Harry feels a sort of bustling energy running through him every time he steps into the office, a buzz that comes from knowing that now, at least, he’s doing something about it. It’s not much, especially since they’re not allowed to go out onto the field until the beginning of October but at least, there is light at the end of the tunnel.

Aside from the Healer who comes in a couple of times to teach them first aid, most of their instructors are experienced Aurors. Robards, the newly reintegrated Head Auror takes on their spell and duelling instruction. ‘We had a trainer,’ he says, providing no further explanation and Harry later learns that the woman’s been locked in Azkaban for months, pending her trial for collaborating with Death Eaters. It becomes quickly apparent that whatever’s left of the department is terribly overworked and understaffed. Yet, the decision to hire Harry (or any of them, for that matter) clearly came from Kingsley rather than the DMLE themselves. Continuously, Robards addresses their group as ‘a merry band of children,’ and on Harry’s first day, the man actually asks him, in front of everyone else, if he knows of any spells that aren’t Expelliarmus.

It clearly annoys Ron far more than it annoys Harry himself. ‘We fought in a war,’ Ron says, one night, over a pint with Dean and Seamus. ‘What on Earth did he do?’

The others seem to agree (‘Fecking right, that is,’ Seamus even says) but surprisingly, part of Harry finds that he kind of gets Robards. He’s not sure how to put it into words, yet, but being an Auror already feels very different from simply fighting for survival. There’s a technique to it - skills to acquire - and Robards’s not like Snape, he’s not downright hostile, he just doesn’t care. It’s something that Harry finds almost refreshing, like the fact that one of his trainees killed the Dark Lord barely registers on the long list of his concerns.

Often, Auror training feels like the first time since Lupin’s defence classes that Harry finds himself being taught things that he actually cares about. Somewhat effortlessly, he throws himself into the work. That autumn, ‘Potter’ is always the first to arrive and the last to leave, putting all his might into catching up with the spells and expertise that the others seem to have learnt in Hogwarts while he was too busy being the Chosen One. For the first time in his life, Harry actually feels like he understands why Hermione always loved studying so much: it helps him focus. Often, he finds himself glaring right back at Robards across the room, determined to make him care.

It’s a strange thing, too: being in a classroom again. Being able to make mistakes that won’t cost anyone else’s life.

At night, Harry can’t drink himself to sleep, anymore, so he takes up running. Comes home late from the Ministry, eats a Mars bar or two, tosses and turns until four o’clock in the morning (he does sleep sometimes, just enough that he doesn’t die, it seems) before getting up and throwing in the towel. He fishes out an old pair of trainers and tracksuit bottoms charmed to fit his size rather than Dudley’s, and takes off into the night. Runs through the streets of London until the sun starts poking its head around the corner, comes home, gets a shower and tea before heading back into work.

Politely, Mia, the girl who lives on the ground floor of his building asks if he could try and be quieter when he heads out – the gate in front of the house squeaks loudly, she explains, and –

‘Oh, sure. Sorry,’ Harry says. He supposes he could just Apparate out onto the street but instead, he rushes down the stairs and simply jumps over the fence. Sometimes, Ginny’s voice finds its way into the back of his head: ‘Are you trying to live like a Muggle, Harry?’

Obviously, the press and the whole Narcissa debacle don’t simply go away because he wishes them to. Kingsley and the Ministry monitor coverage all through September and October, even summon Harry into a special meeting in Kingsley’s office, a couple weeks after he starts Auror training. Harry politely shakes hands with a wizard from the Department of Information who drones on for an hour about things like approval ratings, interviews to be given and opinion polls. Regardless, Harry still refuses to meet with journalists and finds it bizarre that there are charts to be drawn about what people think of him.

‘Your decision to join the Aurors was quite well received,’ the Ministry official says, pointing at an arrow moving up on a chart, like an indisputable fact. Harry kind of wishes Ron was in the room to take the piss out of it. ‘It seems to have swayed a number of people in your favour, though we still have a thirty-five per cent “don’t know” rate amongst British witches and wizards between the ages of 20 and 100, when asked whether they believe Mrs Malfoy’s version of events, or yours.’ The wizard flicks his wand and another chart appears on the board in front of them. ‘Of course, we still have a ten per cent rate of people who “strongly agree” with her version of events, but I doubt we’ll really ever be able to swing those.’

Kingsley nods thoughtfully, like it all means something. To Harry, the only indisputable fact of this matter is that the Malfoys willingly hosted Voldemort in their own home. He’s not feeling particularly forgiving.

‘Still better than we hoped,’ Kingsley finally shrugs, quickly sharing a glance with the other wizard. ‘I suppose the Malfoys did rub a lot of people off the wrong way, didn’t they?’

‘They were Death Eaters,’ Harry interrupts with a frown because suddenly, this whole conversation is beginning to feel really, fucking absurd. Why is he the one under scrutiny, here, while Lucius Malfoy is the one with the Dark Mark branded onto his skin? In response, Kingsley just gives Harry a look, that same look he bore when, a couple weeks ago, he explained that facts don’t matter as much as the way you spin them.

‘I hate to say this,’ Kingsley says, later, once Harry and he are left alone. Harry feels his heart in his throat. ‘But your break-up with Ginny was the best thing that could have happened, media-wise. It’s all everyone is talking about, these days. Made the Malfoys look like old news.’

Harry decides that he has nothing to say to that, now, so he says nothing. Just looks to his feet, studies the wooden flooring of the Minister’s office. Every time he closes his eyes, he still sees Ginny right there, almost within reach. Their relationship was never made public but with the pictures that were taken in front of Grimmauld Place, their break-up definitely was. From what Harry’s seen so far, the press has tried to piece their story together by getting quotes from obscure Hogwarts acquaintances babbling on the events of his sixth year, and harassed Ginny for comment when she went down to Hogsmeade last weekend. Overall, even though he’s been dealing with reporters since he was fourteen years old, this level of attention and scrutiny still doesn’t fail to surprise him. The way that people care, the way that they seem to think there are sides to be taken, like he and everyone he touches suddenly become public property.

From what he’s read in the press, either Ginny is a slut or he’s an arsehole, depending on which news outlet you pick. The Prophet seems to have opted for the latter, unsurprisingly, probably as a result of years of much warranted mutual dislike. For once, though, instead of ignoring what is being said, Harry finds himself kind of drawn to reading their abuse, like somehow, they could give him all the answers he doesn’t have. Their gossip pages run editorials (words, and words, and words of speculation) about all the reasons that could have led her to date him in the first place (she must have really felt sorry for him, someone writes, once) but also to dump him (I mean, have you seen how crazy he’s been acting lately, he was possessed by You-Know-Who, no wonder she couldn’t be bothered). Sometimes, he reads stuff and finds that it strangely makes sense, wonders if perhaps the Prophet might actually be better at figuring out what went wrong than he is, considering he never saw it coming.  

‘She ended it because I’m me,’ he tells Hermione, once, which is technically true (‘You are this war,’ and ‘I can’t, Harry’) but also not the full picture. Hermione claims that doesn’t sound like her, to give up on someone like this, and he just looks and says: ‘The war’s changed all of us.’ Sometimes, when he’s feeling less charitable, he can’t help but think that she was selfish, prioritising her own ability to get over the war by closing the door on it, while being Harry Potter prevents him from ever doing so. He’s got to live with this in a way that she doesn’t, in a way that she can insulate herself from the noise, heal, grieve her brother, and slowly move on.  Sometimes he feels like that’s so, bloody unfair, like if he’s got to suffer through this, why shouldn’t she, but then he remembers that being furious with her doesn’t mean the love behind evaporated. He would have died for her a hundred times over, and so maybe she deserves to be happy. If she couldn’t be happy with him, she was probably right to end it, wasn’t she?

The last thing he’d want is to trap a girl into a relationship she doesn’t want.

Hermione just responds with another one of her, ‘Oh, Harry,’-s and levitates the newspaper from his hands and into the fire.

At the other end of the spectrum, Witch Weekly has bizarrely taken his side. This isn’t a relief, of course, because a) it’s always been a ridiculous publication to begin with and b) they seem to be hell-bent on harassing Ginny the most, which also angers him. They paint her as this cutthroat, ruthless witch (bitch, perhaps) who left the cute, broken and scarred war hero. In front of everyone in the former DA, Luna also declares: ‘Well, he clearly is heartbroken,’ which makes Harry kind of glad that at least, The Quibbler still seems to find Nargles more interesting to cover.  

‘Mate -’ Ron tries, once. They’re having lunch at the Ministry canteen, long Formica tables and food that appears on their plates.

‘She left,’ Harry almost spits out. The words feel like they physically hurt when they make it past his lips. ‘Reckon I’ve got to move on, alright?’ he sighs, pushes food around his plate. ‘I hate everything the press is saying about it but if I respond, it’ll just keep feeding the frenzy.’  

Ron nods, probably remembering how those exact words came out of Hermione’s mouth just a few days before, when Harry threatened to storm into Witch Weekly and the both of them had to Stupefy him for his own good. It’s fucking shite that they both know Hermione’s right, so that’s probably why Ron doesn’t ever bring the topic up again.   

‘I was sorry to hear, dear,’ Mrs Weasley says, once, over Sunday roast at the Burrow. It almost makes Harry feel sick to his stomach. There is a tone of mild concern in Ginny’s mother’s voice, and perhaps regret, as well as something almost quizzical, like her judgement is being reserved until one of them finally caves in and gives her the information she needs. The Weasleys generally know that Ginny was the one to break it off (on top of what the press has reported, the look on Harry’s face was probably enough evidence of that), but no one really knows why. ‘She said neither of you did anything wrong, dear, so I was just wondering -’

No matter the amount of curious looks he gets, Harry never says a word (what could he say, anyway?) and just silently wonders how much credit Mrs Weasley still gives Witch Weekly, now that they’ve decided to turn on her daughter. But also: ‘I swore on their grave,’ Harry suddenly remembers her telling her husband, and: ‘How did we allow this to happen?’

Sometimes, it really baffles him that the family still seem to want to keep him in their lives. Sometimes, the thought that Fred died because of him hits Harry like a truck and he can’t look anyone in the eye for days afterwards.

‘Ah, give him to me,’ Andromeda says, one evening, after she spots Teddy wailing in Harry’s arms, outside, in the garden of the Burrow. The little one’s been crying non-stop for the past twenty minutes and Harry must admit that although he loves his godson to hell and back, he does hand him over to his grandmother somewhat gladly. ‘You’ve got that look on your face. He can tell, you know?’ she smiles.

Harry raises an eyebrow as she secures Teddy in her arms. Andromeda’s been spending a lot of time at the Weasleys’ over the past few weeks, especially since Molly gladly offered to look after Teddy while the both of them are working. He can’t be put into Muggle nursery until he learns to control his hair colour and Harry refuses to hire wizarding childminders who aren’t family, so figuring out his care was a bit of a nightmare. Andromeda repeatedly points out that: ‘You’re going to have to trust somebody, Harry,’ and punctuates her statements by a handful of exasperated sighs but all he can think about is that if anything were to happen to Teddy, on top of everything else, he probably wouldn’t survive it.

As a result, so far, they’ve been managing through an awkward combination of Molly, Ted’s parents, and Andromeda taking random days off here and there.  

‘What look?’ he finally asks her. She coos, softly, and Teddy stops wailing.

‘Like you’re feeling sorry for yourself,’ she shrugs. ‘You might want to think about being a bit less … transparent. Especially with all those cameras following you around.’

She says the word ‘transparent’ like it’s an insult, and it’s in things like these that Harry’s sometimes reminded that there might have been a reason she was sorted into Slytherin. He half-laughs, half-sighs in response, tries to chase the thoughts away. ‘As soon as we’re out of training, I’ll apply for the night shifts. It’ll be easier then, I can watch him during the days,’ he tells her, instead, skilfully changing the subject. That’s scheduled for the 5th of October, as far as he knows, so it’s only a month, really, and –

‘No, you will not,’ Andromeda says. Her tone is curt and definitive. ‘You need to sleep.’

Harry catches her gaze, then, and respects the fact that when she speaks, she clearly isn’t pointing this out of concern for him, but out of concern for his ability to effectively look after Teddy. He’s found, over the past few weeks, that Andromeda is both the person who judges his life choices the most, but also the least, beyond the scope of how these choices could impact her grandson. Harry remembers how surprised he was when, from the get-go, she treated him as an independent adult, an equal, and never like The Boy Who Lived.

‘They trusted you. So, I trust you,’ she said as though in her head, it had always been that simple, almost a mathematical equation. ‘We make decisions together, fifty-fifty.’ 

‘I don’t really sleep, anyway,’ he admits now, shrugging. Maybe, there is still room for her to worry about him, someday. While she was in Slytherin, she was also married to a Hufflepuff for twenty years. ‘Some nights, I run ten miles, come home to do push-ups and abs, and I still can’t sleep.’

Please, just let me do this, he silently begs Andromeda and when she remains silent, just looking at him, all he can do is eventually resort to chatting about more prosaic concerns, like pointing out the fact that Teddy has now started drooling onto her robes.

‘Andromeda, he’s -’ 

She ultimately just smiles, shifts her grandson in her arms and settles: ‘All right.’ And: ‘For the umpteenth time, Harry, please call me “Annie.”’

So, that autumn, Harry mostly splits his time between work, Teddy, and jogging. The few hours he has left in between, he tends to spend at Grimmauld Place. In the summer, he’d kind of deserted the house, leaving it to Kreacher, first, then Ron and Hermione. His place, he supposes, was the one he preferred, the safe haven he’d built with Ginny. Over the past few weeks, though, he’s started popping over to the house more often. At first, it was because Ron was there and Hermione wasn’t, because there was an empty space to be filled. Yet, quickly, as London gets darker and colder, Grimmauld becomes something else.

It starts with Seamus. He can’t find a place to stay within his budget and Ron asks: ‘Do you mind if he stays at the house? There’s, like, six empty bedrooms or something.’

Harry shrugs and says that of course, he doesn’t mind. Then, gradually, it becomes: Seamus, and Dean, and Justin Finch-Fletchley, and Hannah Abbot (who claims that unlike her Leaky Cauldron lodgings, at least this place doesn’t reek of Firewhisky), and Opal. Half of the wizarding world has been destroyed and the Galleon to pound conversion rate has plummeted, making it near-impossible for any of the kids to find decent housing, even with the relative predictability of Ministry salaries. Before Harry knows it, the previously grim and empty house fills up with people. Life and laughter, and spells, and songs, like an extension of the Room of Requirement in its heyday. Every time he pops over, Harry finds that someone new has settled on a couch, drinking tea or playing tunes on the piano, and he can’t even begin to explain the level of contentment that this brings him. Like he’s finally able to do something for them all: provide their merry band of children with a place to call ‘home.’  

Kreacher, thank Merlin, is there to keep the house from turning into complete chaos. He moves back in permanently and continues to periodically frown at the DA’s general company, but even Harry can tell that the elf’s heart isn’t truly in it. Kreacher cooks, cleans, and (much to Hermione’s dismay) seems to take his duty of serving them very seriously. In late ‘98, Grimmauld Place strangely becomes the place to be in their world. The press permanently sets up camp outside the house once they figure out that most of the DA’s former members are staying there - Dean and Seamus make it their personal responsibility to fuck with them as much as possible. While Harry truly praises himself for his decision to get his own flat over the summer (a bit of peace and quiet is often a luxury), he likes that on those evenings when he doesn’t particularly want to be alone, he can randomly pop over and have people to exist with.

At the weekends, thanks to McGonagall’s flexible policy with the seventh years, even more Hogwarts students pour in from the fireplace, alongside Hermione. It is usually then that things get truly crowded (and, honestly, when the most fun is had). Neville and Luna are regulars, sleeping on camp beds next to the fire in the upstairs study; by the end of October, Ginny’s the only member of the former DA who hasn’t set foot inside. Harry takes that thought, throws it into a box and tries to toss out the key.

Within a few weeks, the house hosts a total of ten people full-time, sometimes climbing up to fifteen at the weekends. Hogwarts banners are hung, Quidditch league results discussed at length and – of course - house rules are quickly drawn up by Hermione, before the situation manages to truly get out of hand. She makes everyone sign them before entering the premises and under the cover of complaining about it (‘It’s my house!’ Harry says, to which she responds: ‘Oh, Harry, for goodness’ sake, just sign. It’s like living in student halls in here!’), he actually thinks to ask her if she minds. Even if he finds that he bloody loves the house like this (Sirius would have thought it was brilliant, too), Harry must also admit that he has his own flat to retreat to, and doesn’t have to deal with it all the time. This is not exactly what he had in mind when he offered Grimmauld to Ron and her, last summer, for a bit of calm and time on their own.

Hermione seems to consider her answer for a second, before smiling and admitting: ‘I’ve my own room at Hogwarts if I want quiet.’ The benefits of being Head Girl, she explains. And, ‘I think I actually like it. It’s like being properly young, you know? Mum even laughed when I told her about it.’

Harry nods and in his head, he’s eating a KitKat and she’s drinking a cappuccino, and he’s sitting in a café last June and asking her why they were never kids. Perhaps they get to be kids now, he muses and thinks he understands what she’s saying more than she will ever know.

He signs her list of rules even if he doesn’t believe it when she swears the paper isn’t cursed. Promising not to leave his dirty socks lying around is a small price to pay to claim back their childhood.

At the start of October, the Aurors all finally let them know that they’re about halfway through their training. Meaning they are finally (finally) to be included in the rotas that will pair them up with more experienced Aurors, allowing them to go out on the field with the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol under supervision. The former Gryffindors are brash and excited, Ravenclaws hastily reviewing their notes, while the Hufflepuffs make sure that no one has forgotten any of their belongings in the training rooms. They’re all split into smaller teams and units, then assigned to a senior Auror. Three shifts a week, at first, and two days in class, until the end of November. Then, they are on full-time rotas until they pass probation and get their permanent contracts in March.

Harry looks at Ron, the night before. Remembers life during the days that followed the war, last summer, when his best mate stayed up polishing his Order of Merlin while Harry decided to dump his at the bottom of the river. Remembers the stuff that they’ve both done, too, to deserve these.

‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ Ron states. The fire burns in the fireplace at Grimmauld; they’re the last two left awake. ‘Every day, I keep looking over my shoulder to see where Hermione’s at. Now, they’re splitting us up, too. I mean, who’s going to keep you from getting killed?’ he jokes and Harry laughs, pretends that he doesn’t see that statement for what it really is. In that moment, he can’t help but think about Hermione’s speech on PTSD and wonders if maybe, Ron’s desperation in helping everyone is rooted in the fact that he couldn’t help Fred.

‘You’ve had my back since we were eleven,’ he says, setting his empty mug of tea back down on the table. Ron bursts out a real laugh when he adds: ‘Reckon you deserve a bit of a holiday.’

The rather arduous task of keeping him out of trouble thus falls onto somebody else’s shoulders, that October. Her name, Harry finds out the next day, is Giulia. When he meets her, he notes that his new partner is tall, athletic, and has the discreet kind of accent of someone who moved here at a very young age. On the right side of her thirties, with thick, dark-brown, wavy hair, green eyes and olive skin. She was an Auror for ten years, she tells him, between ’87 and ’97. They re-integrated her just last June. ‘Threatened to give them hell if they didn’t give me my old pay back,’ she tells him. Her former partner, Dermot, was killed the day the Ministry fell. ‘My name was on one of their lists,’ she just shrugs. ‘So, I had to leave.’

On Harry’s first day, she arrives a good ten minutes late. Opens the door to the patrol car and plops herself down onto the passenger seat, barely grunts a ‘hello,’ before immediately going on to complain about people who have the bad taste to put milk in their coffees. Perhaps because of this, perhaps because he doesn’t take milk in his tea, Harry immediately decides that he likes her.

Her first lesson is to teach him how to drive the patrol car. ‘I don’t know why we use them,’ she explains, honest, and Harry vaguely wonders if he should be taking notes. ‘Reckon the Ministry saw them being used by Muggles, had to prove they could do better. They like making noise, the Ministry, don’t they? Lots of sirens and shite.’

Politely, Harry hides a chuckle behind a cough. He clearly doesn’t yet know that he doesn’t need to, that Giulia’s sarcastic sense of humour is one of the things that he’ll come to appreciate the most in this world, over the next few months. That the sound of her voice is one he’ll try to never, ever forget. That in the speech that he’ll give when he makes Head Auror, a couple of decades later, he’ll think of her and say: ‘Okay, let’s try to not just be sirens and shite, all right?’

In the meantime, he just listens to her rambling on, stifles a laugh. ‘Alright, now, driving these -’ she starts, stops, taking a long swig of coffee. The smell of it fills the car. ‘Driving these does not mean you get your Muggle licence, alright? The number of newbies who go off and hire Muggle cars is just ridiculous. Those are two different things. This car can fly and squeeze itself into doorways, and become invisible. That is not possible with Muggle cars, understood?’

Harry nods and, because it’s his first day, doesn’t dare say how familiar he actually is with Muggle life. Bizarrely, he feels nervous, a bit like starting school again. The training room was all fun and games but this feels real, now, and, you’ve killed the darkest wizard of all time, he tries to remind himself, you can do this.

His hands are a bit clammy against the steering wheel.

Giulia finally puts her coffee down in the mug holder sitting between them and turns to her right, looking at him for the first time. Harry stares straight ahead. The moment her glance lands onto his features, though, he hears her burst out a laugh.

‘What in Merlin’s name is that? ’ she asks.

Because she giggles and points at his entire self rather than at something specific, it takes Harry a couple of seconds to understand what she’s referring to.

Now, okay, so. As Tonks mentioned years ago, one of the very first tricks they learnt during in-class training is to change their appearance. Thus far, frankly, Harry’s found this to be the most useful thing he’s ever been taught. In the past few weeks, he’s taken up to changing his hair colour almost daily, sometimes going as far as camouflaging his scar with Muggle make-up (for some reason, nothing magical seems to work on it, not that it’s particularly surprising – he can’t help but think that Dumbledore would surely have an explanation for that). On good days, the combination almost feels like he can take the target off his back, albeit for a short while.

This morning, as he wasn’t sure what they’d be doing or whether they’d be going out in public, it seemed a good idea to turn himself into a scar-less, blue-eyed, blonde, nondescript man, just in case they’d be patrolling out in the open. In hindsight, this apparently was a stupid idea because it’s just made his partner break into a somewhat hysterical fit of laughter. He wonders if his disguise really is that bad.

‘Okay, look at me, because we need to get this out of the way,’ Giulia instructs, instead. Harry sighs, turns to face her. ‘You’re Harry-fucking-Potter,’ she declares. He - can’t tell where this is going. ‘You’re famous. And, not, like, Puddlemere-United-Quidditch-rising-star famous, no, you’re I-killed-the-darkest-wizard-of-all-time-and-the-Prophet-follows-me-around-everywhere famous.’

In response, Harry barely suppresses a groan. She ignores him.

‘What you need to understand, right now, before we even leave this car park – and for the life of me, it is bizarre that you haven’t figured this out yet - is that you will get special treatment, everywhere you go, whatever you do, for the rest of your life,’ she says. Harry draws in a breath, trying to interrupt, but she just talks over him. ‘Even you being here with me is special treatment. You haven’t taken your N.E.W.T.s, ranked fourth in your intake due to abysmal Potions scores – yeah, I’ve seen them – and yet, you end up paired with me, both statistically and in actual fact, the best ranking Auror in the department.’

‘Look, I never asked for –’

‘I know,’ she insists, again, and seems to roll her eyes like she can’t believe how slow he’s being. It’s unnerving and a bit embarrassing. ‘Kingsley trained me. Had a bit of chat about you last week, actually.’ She fakes an enigmatic look, and ugh, Harry thinks, perhaps he should have been nicer to Kingsley about all that media stuff, all things considered. ‘You’re street-smart, hate the attention, have incredible instincts and a huge issue with authority. Now, I didn’t say this to him, obviously, but fair enough, if you ask me. Up until last May, authority was more or less constantly out to kill you, no?’

And, at that, Harry, who’d opened his mouth to defend himself again, closes it, at a loss for what to say. He just looks at her, staring like a fish through the glass of its tank.

‘Look, my point is,’ Giulia adds, pausing: ‘This job is fucking nuts, and we’re all fucking nutters for wanting to do it,’ she tells him. Swears a lot, Harry quickly finds, both in English and in Italian, especially when she’s driving. Always goes onto these long monologues, too, like whatever she thinks about a matter is the most important (if not the only) thing he should ever consider. As he listens to her talk, over the next few months, he finds that he doesn’t necessarily disagree. ‘Just don’t add having to look like someone else every day on top of that, honestly, or you’ll go bonkers within months. My guess is that being you is already pretty fucking bonkers, yeah?’

There is nothing to say to that, Harry figures, so he says nothing.

‘I don’t know,’ she adds after a breath and to tell the truth, he thinks he’s never actually met someone capable of saying this many words per minute. ‘Maybe instead of hiding it, we can find a way to use it. Not sure what that is, yet, but we’ll figure it out,’ she announces as though this is, indeed, not only his problem now, but theirs. ‘Merlin, hiding who you are might be useful in certain specific instances but generally, I refuse to train someone who looks like one of those peroxided tossers from the Muggle telly.’

That finally gets a laugh out of him that he can’t suppress. In the end, he shrugs. Mutters a reluctant, ‘Alright,’ and turns his hair back to black, his eyes back to green, and Scourgifies the make-up off his scar.

‘Right,’ she says. ‘Now. I’m Giulia; you’re Harry. It’s nice to meet you,’ she adds, extending her hand out to him. He chuckles again, shakes her hand above the gear lever. ‘Let’s start this car, shall we?’

In October 1998, the moment he’s out of full-time training, Harry finds that he loves being an Auror. Loves the idea that this is an identity that he chose (Harry, the Auror) rather than one that was forced upon him. Loves that, although the job can be dangerous and does sometimes get his adrenaline pumping, it feels like a way to do what he enjoys – fighting evil – without constantly dealing with an immediate threat to his own life. He loves that every case is different, that he needs to be both tough and understanding, even if it’s not always his forte. He loves Giulia, her no-nonsense chats and her sense of humour. She teaches him everything she knows without a hint of competitiveness or afterthought, just because she seems to think, too, that he could make a good Auror, someday.

In the patrol car, that autumn, they get to know each other. It occurs to Harry that it’s been years since he’s met anyone new, anyone who he didn’t grow up with and is still expected to trust. It’s scary, at first, and although she doesn’t say, he thinks that perhaps Giulia understands that. Understands that it’s hard for him to live in a world where not everyone wants to kill him. She misses Tonks, she confesses, once, and Harry can’t resist showering her with the many pictures of Teddy that his wallet now holds. He loves listening to her talk about her life, finds that there is comfort in her monologues, in the way that she learns to fill his silences, talking about the job, about her flatmates, or about the neverending string of Muggle women that she seems to date.

That autumn, the sun doesn’t always shine in London but when it does, his partner makes it a little brighter. On the days when something good happens, like when he and the other new recruits participate in the big bust that takes down Rodolphus Lestrange, Harry decides that she might be right when she tells him to take whatever satisfaction he can get from the job, and forget about everything else.

Once or twice, of course, he gets told off for not following orders. One afternoon, they’re on a stakeout in front of a building where they think Rita Skeeter is hiding, trying to bring her in for questioning. One of Bathilda Bagshot’s distant relatives has finally filed a complaint alleging that she fiddled with the poor woman’s memory and Harry fights tooth and nail for Giulia and he to take over the case. Yet, that day, Harry gets restless, ends up pulling himself out of the car before anyone can stop him, in an attempt to use himself as bait to get Skeeter out. ‘I swear,’ he tells Giulia. ‘She’ll come out if she sees me-’

‘Harry, no, I told you to stay in the – oh, Merlin, go on then, vaffanculo -’

Skeeter does come out - obviously - brandishing her wand at him like a madwoman but he quickly stuns her into inaction. Giulia crosses her arms over her chest, fakes a stern look and tries not to laugh. ‘That is not what I meant when I said you should use who you are to your advantage, Harry.’

‘What did you mean, then?’ he grins. She just rolls her eyes and shakes her head at him.

There are parts of the job that he doesn’t particularly like, of course. Hermione wisely tells him that this would have happened with any job he chose. ‘It’s just that…’ he starts, tries to find words that tell her what he wants to tell her without telling her what he doesn’t want to tell her. It’s not the risks that they sometimes have to take, or the boring paperwork he was warned about. It’s - ‘There’s things I didn’t anticipate, I suppose.’

Hermione snorts. ‘When you die,’ she says, then insists: ‘In over a hundred years, I’ll get that engraved onto your headstone. Harry Potter,’ she jokes. ‘And all the things I didn’t anticipate.’

Ron chokes out a laugh next to them.

At the end of October, Giulia and he get dispatched to an incident in West Bay: dark night skies, rows and rows of little cottage houses on the waterfront. Giulia warns him in the car as they fly over from London (about how difficult these can be, about the things that he can and cannot say). When they get on-site, Harry decides that this – this - is the part of the job he hates.

He pulls the front door open and lets Giulia come through. They’re the second team of Aurors on the scene - it’s already been secured. In the living room, a man’s body lies on the floor, unmoving. He’s tall, on the heavier side, a knife plunged through his chest. From what Harry can see, he’s still breathing, two Healers already crowding around him, trying to stabilise his condition enough to move him to St Mungo’s.

Giulia turns, chats with the other Aurors. It’s only then, when his gaze drifts, that Harry finally notices her. A woman in her mid-thirties: she’s sitting on the floor, arms around her knees, legs bare under an oversized t-shirt (a Harpies t-shirt, Harry sees and can’t help but think of -). She’s covered in blood (whose, he’s not sure) and it’s close to Hallowe’en, by then, which just makes everything worse.

The other team of Aurors stay at the scene to collect evidence. Harry and Giulia take the witch and her five-month-old baby to St Mungo’s. With the Ministry cars, the trip barely takes a couple of minutes, but she’s quiet throughout. At the hospital, the Healers help her out of her clothes and into a gown, quills expertly reporting the list of bruises and injuries over her skin, the ribs that she broke months ago, it seems, and never got sorted.

When they’re done, Harry stands outside the loo while she washes her hands. ‘She’s already been cleaned,’ one of the mediwitches tells him with a hint of impatience in her voice and he doesn’t bother explaining why he knows that there’s something about blood under your fingernails that just can’t be Scourgified. Instead, he ignores her, escorts the woman in and out of the bathroom, gets her a cup of tea while they wait for the Healers to check on the baby.

‘I should have –’ she starts. Lots of should-have-s and could-have-s. They sit on a bench, about five inches between their legs. ‘The first time, he was drunk,’ she explains. ‘Hit me in the face and I hexed the hell out of him,’ she smiles, almost laughs, something sad and broken in her voice. ‘I thought it was just a mistake.’

A moment passes. She breathes, looks down to her knees. Reaches for Harry’s hand between them, and he wonders if it could transfer the weight of her regrets onto him. He’d take on that burden, gladly.

‘Then, it happened again,’ she adds. ‘And again, and then he took my wand, threw it in the fire. I just –’ She closes her eyes, tears wetting her cheeks; Harry waits. With a few extra, halting sentences, she explains how that night, after a year and a half of fearing being in her own home, he tried to strangle her. Harry notices the bruises at her neck when he turns. ‘I was on the floor and I saw him going towards Aedus’s room and I just -’

She grabbed the knife, she says, didn’t know it was cursed. He launched at her, struggled; it just happened, she swears, her words tumbling again. Harry believes her, he wants to tell her, couldn’t imagine doing anything other than to believe her. 

‘I should have left,’ she says. Could-have-s and should-have-s again. ‘I should have known, I should have left, I shouldn’t have -’

‘Hey -’

‘I was so scared, so, so scared - the Cruciatus curse,’ she stammers. ‘It’s – I don’t know how to explain - You wouldn’t believe -’

The air gets caught up in his throat. For a bloke who’s not known what to say for so long, the words file out of his mouth so very quick, that night.  ‘I know,’ he speaks. Means it. ‘I know.’ And, suddenly, she is sobbing into the crook of his shoulder, hot tears against his Ministry-issued robes, her frail frame shaking with her cries. Harry’s not quite sure what else to do with himself and maybe, there is nothing else to do other than to let her weep against his cloak. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he insists as his eyes find Giulia’s, who’s just reappeared opposite them in the corridor. ‘I know,’ he repeats. ‘I promise.’

Giulia stands, looking at the two of them, and says nothing. 

Later, they bring the woman and the baby back home. As his partner escorts the both of them back into the house, Harry gets out of the car to smoke a cigarette, his back against the door. ‘You should quit these,’ Giulia says the moment she gets back. He doesn’t bother telling her that he’s tried, because ‘trying isn’t the same as doing,’ she once told him. ‘Kind of makes you look like a twat,’ she adds.

He shakes his head, kind of rolls his eyes. Tosses his half-smoked cigarette to the ground. His partner slips into the driver’s seat of the car and drives back to London the Muggle way without another word. Three hours into the night, between little country roads and the M3. Harry doesn’t ask why; she lets his silence stretch and he just stares out the window onto the motorway.

It’s just after five in the morning when they park at the Ministry. Harry goes to open his car door to get out (escape) and only then does she catch his wrist. ‘That,’ Giulia just tells him. ‘That’s how you use it. Not the kind of bollocks you pulled with Skeeter. Because when someone tells you they’ve been Crucioed, you’re probably one of the few people in this world who can hold their hand and say, “Yeah, I know.” Because, you do know.’

He stares at the black plastic of the glove compartment in front of him. The silence between them almost occupies a material space, like you could cut through it in one, firm stroke like in a birthday cake, a slice extracted and studied under a microscope. It has molecules and neutrons and protons, and microorganisms multiplying through its insides, that silence. 

‘How old were you?’ she asks.

Harry looks away. Swallows and focuses his gaze on the streetlights through the windows. The Auror department have their own magical lift, restricted to Ministry personnel. It directly leads them here, just outside of London, floors and floors of underground parking up to this last level, exposed to the elements, where you exit overground. Harry supposes Giulia couldn’t be bothered to go down the ramp. He’s been told that to the Muggles outside, the place looks like a metal scrap yard.

‘Fourteen,’ he shrugs. ‘Something. I don't know.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

She pauses. He crosses her gaze. Bravado - like he isn’t afraid.  

‘Who was it?’

He looks away again. It’s all in the past now. He doesn’t want her pity. Says nothing because from Bellatrix, he knows that the strength of a Cruciatus curse depends on the wizard who casts it. How good they are, how much they mean it. He doesn’t answer Giulia’s question but she reads the answer on his face either way. ‘Fuck, you never had it easy, did you?’ 

In the night, he gazes out again, jaw set and glasses heavy on his nose. Something in his gut almost prevents him from blinking, as though if he closed his eyes for just a second, he’d see all the films that haunt his nightmares: Ginny writhing in pain under the Carrows’ ruthless glares, and Hermione’s screams. His own pain has always felt like it mattered less, somehow.

‘You think it’s wrong? What that woman’s husband did?’ Giulia asks. He frowns.

‘Yeah, of cou-’

‘Then, fucking say it,’ she spits out. Anger suddenly seeps through her voice and her gaze burns holes at his side like she expects him to talk, expects an answer. ‘Say something. Because for better or for worse, people listen to you. We’ll all die and be forgotten,’ she shrugs. ‘But, you won’t. Kingsley says you used to have a voice – why did you let him take that from you?’

Harry freezes. Doesn’t want to blink - blink and see Tom. Not the Tom from last May, just the kid in the orphanage with the dark hair and the wide eyes. At night, he often wonders if that child wasn’t one of the many people who should have been saved, who could have been saved, if he’d been quicker, smarter, had given his life up sooner. It’s stupid, perhaps - time doesn’t work like that - and yet the feeling of guilt is there, coursing through his veins, watching that kid with the burning wardrobe, the same kid who Giulia says robbed him of his own words, on the grounds of all the could-have-s and should-have-s of the world. When I killed him, I killed that kid, too, Harry thinks, swallows, and he feels guilt, but not remorse, and: ‘I’m not sure I’m a good person,’ he admits. ‘Not sure I’m worth listening to.’

As he speaks, the words feel both familiar and foreign in his mouth, like they’ve been at the tip of his tongue for months, just waiting to find their way out. He’s fucked up so much, why should anyone listen to him? Giulia’s mouth opens quick but he’s not sure he wants her to give him another piece of her mind. Instead, he cuts her off and asks: ‘What will happen to him? The husband, I mean.’

She stops mid-breath, seems to consider his question. ‘If he makes it, they’ll put him in jail, I suppose,’ she says, matter-of-fact. ‘Depends what case the MPS can make in front of the Wizengamot.’

‘And, does that help? Azkaban?’

‘I don’t know,’ she admits. There’s a bittersweet, matter-of-fact sad smile on her face when he looks at her again. ‘I don’t think it’s what helped me.’ 

Her voice fills the air of the car, that night, and for once, her sentences are short, punctuated by the way she stops to bite her lips, or stare at the floor. The moment is paused, an in-between; Harry doesn’t ask like it would be redundant of him. ‘I was fifteen when I got arrested,’ she says. ‘I was a minor, so I didn’t do much time. I believed, though,’ she adds. ‘We’d moved over to England just a few years before, because of Dad’s work and I was - angry. At my parents, mostly. I hated Hogwarts, I felt like an outsider, like I didn’t belong. I couldn’t find my words - people laughed. Kids are mean. But then, I was pureblood so, to some, I did belong,’ she sighs. Runs a hand over her face. ‘I acted as the lookout while my mates broke into Muggle houses and tortured these poor people. Stole their stuff, destroyed everything. We got caught. I did two years in Az’ as a juvenile. Got out and - I don’t know. Stopped acting like a shithead and turned my life around, I suppose.’ She looks at him. There is a smile in her words again, tiny. ‘All I’m saying is, most Aurors have stories they don’t wanna talk about. The good ones do, anyway. It’s not just you.’

That night, Harry can’t help but feel like beyond the twisted smiles and the matter-of-fact tone of her words, her voice dares him, really, to hate her for it. And, for a while, Harry reckons that he will. His jaw is clenched as he listens to her, his fingers wrapped around the wand in his pocket because the first thing he thinks of is that she isn’t much younger than his parents. And that, while she was doing that, ‘being young and acting like a shithead,’ they were probably already hiding out in Godric’s Hollow, waiting to be murdered. He wonders if she still hears screams in her head before she goes to sleep, too.

But then, it’s a hard thought to reconcile, isn’t it? It’s been weeks, now, and he’s strangely come to trust her. Giulia’s not Snape, he thinks, who only betrayed Voldemort to save his mother, uncaring for the world around him, or the Malfoys, who turned their coats out of sheer convenience. She may have followed Voldemort at the same age as Harry was being tortured in a graveyard but in light of the events of the last year, Harry’s not so sure he’s allowed to take the moral high ground, anymore. When she tells him she became an Auror so that what happened to her didn’t happen to anyone else, he almost laughs at the irony of it all.

‘You’re not a bad person, Harry,’ she tells him, then, her palms flat against her knees. ‘You’re just a – person. The kid who threatened to kill Narcissa Malfoy and meant it,’ she pauses, crossing his gaze. ‘And the kid who held that woman’s hand tonight. The latter because of the former, maybe.’ Outside of the car, he notices that the dawn is breaking, shades of pink, baby blues and oranges. ‘You’ve done shit things? Own them, do better,’ she smiles, palm finding his forearm. ‘Just steer clear of the sirens and shite, yeah?’

Harry closes his eyes, that morning. It takes him a while, in 1998, but perhaps a little bit thanks to her, he finally starts feeling like himself again.

Chapter Text

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v. out of nails (tyre blows)

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On the 1st of November 1998, Harry stops at Grimmauld Place for breakfast on his way to work. It’s just past six in the morning and the scones Kreacher’s prepared are warm and fluffy between his fingers, just out of the oven. He shakes off the remnants of a light, intermittent drizzle on the doorstep and remembers Seamus joking: ‘Well, here we go. It’s November, now. Roads won’t dry up until March.’

The house is a bit of a mess, these days. They’re renovating. It was all Ron’s idea. Harry’s best mate tiptoed around the topic for a few weeks, pointing out that even after Kreacher’s quick, surface-level clean up last summer, there was still quite a bit to be done to truly make the house habitable. ‘Well, it’s your house, mate,’ Ron said and –

‘Yeah, because I have so much reverence for the aesthetics of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black,’ Harry laughed. Considering Sirius would probably have set the place on fire if he’d been able to, Harry thinks his godfather clearly wouldn’t have minded new furniture and a lick of paint. ‘Don’t touch his bedroom,’ Harry said. If anything, he’d like to take care of that himself. ‘But sure, do whatever you want with the rest.’   

Since then, their resident artists-turned-decorators, Luna and Dean, have been endlessly arguing over colour schemes and house designs, while those who participated in the Hogwarts rebuilding works over the summer tried to cut Mrs Black off the wall without ending up in the neighbours’ sitting room. That morning in November, when he arrives, Harry carefully steps between half-empty buckets of paint on the floor of the entrance hall, powdery-white leftover dust clouding the air when he kicks rubble out of the way. They’re slowly progressing through the rooms, are mostly done with the ground floor, and when Andromeda visited with Teddy a few days ago, she even asked: ‘Merlin, is this really the same house?’

When Harry steps into the kitchen, that morning, the only light to be seen is the one produced by Hermione’s flickering flames. With all the magic in the house, getting smaller electronics to work is already a struggle (Dean’s got his new mobile phone encased in layers of aluminium) but running electricity is certainly out of the question. As usual when Harry finds her, she’s surrounded by a mess of books and parchments, buried deep into the subtleties of N.E.W.T.s-level Arithmancy. She says she likes to wake up early, get things done to have more free time to spend with Ron in the afternoons but Harry gets the very distinct feeling that in truth, she finds it just as hard to sleep through the night as he does.

‘No run this morning?’ she asks, barely glancing up at him. Her tone is slightly sarcastic. ‘God, you’re letting yourself go.’

He gives her a quiet laugh and pretends to roll his eyes, quickly reaches for one of Kreacher’s fresh pastries off a tray. Due to his horrendous sleeping habits (a couple nights ago, he remembers going to bed at eleven and waking up at midnight, then at one, then at two, then at three, then throwing in the towel at half past four), he’s been keeping up with jogging pretty consistently for the past few months, usually clocking in over five miles before the sun’s even up. The other day, Hermione joked that with all the exercising, he was going to make Witch Weekly’s Hottest Wizard Alive year-end list and he almost choked on his tea. ‘Hey, weren’t you the one complaining about the booze and the cigarettes last summer?’ he kind of joked but also kind of didn’t and she clearly didn’t find it funny.

This morning, he’s already wearing a clean set of Auror robes when he stops by, rather than his usual combination of trainers and tracksuit bottoms. ‘Meeting with Kingsley before work.’ As he speaks, he turns and runs the tap, fills the kettle.

‘Decision made, then?’ 

Harry nods. Leans back against the worktop, bum pressing against the edge. He sets the kettle on the stove, quickly lights a fire under it with his wand. Within seconds, the water starts quietly simmering. Hermione smiles.

‘About time,’ she says, sounding like pride and a challenge all at once. ‘All of fifth year, I seem to recall you telling your version of the story, over and over, never giving up until people listened.’

‘Things have changed -’

She raises a curious eyebrow. ‘Have they?’

Right before the kettle whistles, he pulls it off the stove.

Perhaps, they haven’t – not really. They’ve been through a war, made it out alive and yet, Narcissa Malfoy and her people are still spreading lies about him in the press. From Hermione to Ginny, Witch Weekly still seems to believe it’s fair game to call the girls in his life sluts for every finger they move. It’s only really been a few days but the moment Giulia said ‘You used to have a voice, why did you let him take that away from you,’ it was like a switch flicked in his head. Things just can’t go on like this forever, can they? It’s probably time to start fighting back, whatever the hell that means.

For a few minutes that morning, he watches Hermione as she works in silence, rain slowly tapping against the window. Wordlessly, Harry drops tea bags into a couple of mugs and waits for the hot water to infuse before scooping them out. On the table, he lays a cup down for her, careful not to spill anything over her collection of books and parchments. Leans back against the worktop again; it strangely reminds him of their Hogwarts days, of Ron and he leaving her to it, escaping to play Quidditch outside, regardless of the lashing rain.

‘You alright, though?’ she asks him a few minutes later, quietly, in the semi-darkness that encircles them. The dim flame flickers in her eyes. ‘Yesterday…’

He half-shrugs, half-nods. It’s not a lie - not exactly. Maybe, that’s the annoying thing about it: that Hallowe’en’s just a day. A day that comes and goes every year with his parents still dead and buried. Muggles party in the streets and shout drunken songs, dress like wizards and light fireworks that blow their hands off. The shops fill their windows with pumpkins and zombies, and little, dangling skeletons.

Yesterday, he switched his day off with Ron. Apparated out to Godric’s Hollow. The rain fell - endless, all day - skies dark and low like autumn when winter leads the way. Harry walked the streets, grabbed a bite to eat, bought heathers instead of lilies for his parents’ grave. He doesn’t know how to conjure arrangements – not as well as Hermione does, at any rate – and there is something more permanent about potted plants. Perennials, flowers that won’t fade or die with the days that pass, with the time that keeps flying away.

In the graveyard, he promised himself that he’d come by once a year - no more than that. Every time he looks at their headstone, feels the hard ground underneath the soles of his trainers, there is and will probably always be a part of him that believes he could just sit here, lie here, forever, with them, and be content. It’s the part of him that kind of regrets dropping the stone in the forest, the part of him that sometimes still dreams about going to look for it. He pictures himself going insane over it – white, thinning hair and mad-scientist look – combing inch after inch of dirt until Death finally does take pity on him. The fact that he promised Dumbledore he wouldn’t go down that rabbit hole doesn’t mean that he doesn’t think about it, every fucking day, like the shadow of a moment spent wondering why his parents couldn’t belong in this world for just a little while longer. Every time he leaves Godric’s Hollow, noise rings in his ears like his mother’s voice calling him brave.  

‘You must miss them,’ people say and in their mouths, it almost sounds like an injunction, like: you must miss them because anything else would be inconceivable. It makes his breath catch in his throat and he knows that he keeps quiet the fact he doesn’t, that it’s more complicated than that. You can’t really miss something you’ve never had. All he misses is an idea, an ideal, maybe. It doesn’t mean that his chest will ever stop feeling torn apart every time he looks at the dates, neatly scripted on the white marble, knowing that between the day he was born and the day they died, there was a fifteen-month overlap. The only memory he’s ever held from that is a flash of green light.

I wish you were here, is a more accurate statement. I wish you were here and I wish you’d lived. I wish I knew you, and I wish we’d met. I wish we’d talked, I wish we’d hugged, I wish you’d seen the end of the war. I miss you in a weird way, like something that’s all in my head.

He looks at Hermione, that morning, and observes: ‘They’ve been dead a long time.’

She bites her lip. Tomorrow, the Battle of Hogwarts will be six months old. ‘Does that change anything?’

‘Yeah,’ he nods. Everyone wants to know they’ll feel better. He doesn’t tell her about the first time he realised he’d made it to the end of the day without thinking of Sirius once, about the guilt and the shame, like that was yet another betrayal. He’s just not sure what ‘better’ means. Smiles, shrugs. ‘It does.’

Later that morning, at the Ministry, the corridors are deserted. Harry thankfully makes it to Kingsley’s office without running into anyone. It’s a Sunday, before seven; yet, the Minister didn’t bat an eyelid when Harry suggested a meeting. They’ve all been working around the clock these past few months; one very long, endless blur, it sometimes seems. ‘What’s going on, Harry?’ Kingsley asks, quickly. Behind him, the large, enchanted windows of the office reflect the sun rising over London, skies tinted soft blues and pinks.

Harry takes a deep breath, lets the words escape his mouth before he can overthink them. ‘I’ll do the interview,’ he says.

For a second, Kingsley stares. Then, he laughs. ‘Right, better late than never, I suppose.’

Quickly they turn to logistics. It’ll be scheduled this side of Christmas (before the Death Eater trials start in the new year) so as not to ‘blur the message.’ When they get to the question of who, Harry just says: ‘Not the Prophet.’

Kingsley smirks. ‘Well, not the Quibbler either.’

For a moment, they stare again. Knowing that this is a negotiation, Harry doesn’t say that although he understands - water, bridges, and all that – the prospect of spending time with Xenophilius Lovegood also wouldn’t be particularly elating.

‘At this juncture…’ Kingsley chuckles a bit, finally glancing away. ‘Well, there’s always the Standard but honestly, I’m not sure they’d have the backbone or the readership. Plus, with that stuff they’ve been printing about St Mungo’s…’ Someone died on a gurney in A&E due to understaffing. The administration is being blamed for the lack of resources - it’s a whole thing. ‘I’m not feeling particularly charitable,’ the Minister settles. It’s still bizarre, to Harry, how much thought seems to have to go into these things. ‘How would you feel about foreign press, actually?’ Kingsley says, suddenly looking up. ‘Could be a more neutral perspective. We’ve had a few requests. I could send you some names.’

When Harry turns the matter over in his head and honestly can’t think of a reason why not, he nods. Kingsley smiles.

‘Great. That settles it, then.’

It’s a start, he guesses. 

At work, he and Ron are still in training half the time, and working shifts with their respective partners the rest. Following the emergency dispatch at the scene last October, the domestic case that Giulia and Harry were working on has now escalated into a full-blown investigation surrounding cursed magical artefacts illegally imported from South East Asia onto the island. The cursed knife that the husband was stabbed with (he survived, for better or for worse) wasn’t officially registered with the dedicated ministerial office. When they questioned him about it, the man claimed he’d bought it in a Muggle shop not knowing it was cursed (as if). Where? ‘I don’t know, somewhere ’round.’ Harry and Giulia thus spent the next few days going through pages and pages of Wizengamot voting records (starting with Devon and Dorset), trying to find a Muggle retail shop owner who is either a wizard or might have family in the wizarding world, and could possibly fit the generic description given of a ‘short, bald paki’ (yes, because, of course, on top of beating his wife, the bloke’s also a racist – Giulia says ‘being a dick’ often comes as a full package). Overall, more than a needle in a haystack, it’s a needle in a fucking ocean, as far as Harry is concerned, and combing through feet and feet of lined parchment is also not one of the parts of the job he particularly favours.

It’s a couple of days before Kingsley comes through regarding the interview. In the interoffice memo that lands on Harry’s desk, the Minister apologises for the delay (had to consult with the Department of Information, first) and includes a tidy list of names for Harry’s careful consideration. There are: the hosts of an Australian radio show, a solo journalist writing for a German newspaper, and a couple of American freelancers who seem to work for a number of magazines. ‘So, you really are doing it?’ Giulia asks. She’s eyeing him over the mess that their combined desks has become (‘One day, they’ll pair me up with someone who’s actually organised,’ she said, once), over the pictures frames she’s lined up on her side. Her mates, her parents and her brother. ‘Who knew the wizarding world would someday have me to thank for getting the famous Harry Potter to speak up publicly?’ Harry rolls his eyes, but also can’t help but laugh a little. ‘So, how are you going to pick?’ she wonders.

He shrugs. ‘Toss a Knut, I suppose?’

If he asks Hermione or Kingsley, he’s afraid they’ll say it’d better be his decision, which won’t be much help. Giulia laughs and, ‘Wait a few more years,’ she says. ‘And you might even get your face on one of those Knuts if you play the game well.’  

Harry grins. ‘For killing Voldemort? I deserve my face on a Galleon, at the very least.’

He is going to talk - promise. He’s just not sure what he’s going to say yet. Kingsley’s offered him interview prep that he’s declined (after all, he’s always been his best self when acting on the spot) and really, how hard can it be? They’ll ask questions; he’ll answer. Trying to hide from the attention isn’t working and if he’s going to be blamed either way, Harry might as well be blamed for doing something, rather than not. At least, give his version of events. Openly thank Ron and Hermione, talk about Neville, Luna and Ginny’s work with the children’s foundation. It may not be much but if he can cut down on the speculation that currently surrounds him in the press, they might focus on some of the more important stuff. 

As the days pass, that November, he continues to split his time between home, work, and Teddy. On the 5th (the date is now forever carved into his brain), he picks the little one up from the Weasleys’. Molly’s looked after him all morning and threatened to force food down Harry’s throat if he didn’t stay over for a late lunch at the end of his shift. She’s picking his godson off the floor while Harry cleans out the dishes (‘Please, let me at least do this –’) when, while in Molly’s arms, Teddy babbles softly.

‘Ah-eeeee,’ once. Then, again. ‘Ah-eeee.’

Harry’s still washing the dishes, oblivious, when Molly walks over to him. In her arms, Teddy’s hair’s turned black – he smiles, content, and points, again. ‘Ah-eee.’

‘I think he’s calling you,’ Molly says.

(Fifteen years later, on Teddy’s birthday, Ron teases: ‘Mum says Harry was so happy he cried when you first said his name.’

‘I did not.’

Alright, yeah, he totally did.)

Over the next few days, Giulia mercilessly teases him about the smile that seems to permanently reside on his face. Harry doesn’t even care. Hesaidmyname-hesaidmyname-hesaidmyname plays on loop in his head, and Merlin, that little bundle of joy really is capable of making everything in the world go right sometimes, isn’t he? The following nights, once he hands Teddy over to Andromeda, Harry just sits on the stairs in front of his building, smokes cigarettes and grins wide.

It’s just a few days later when, on one of those evenings, the front door suddenly opens behind him. He gives a little start, yet doesn’t reach for his wand. Since last summer, he’s grown accustomed to the noises that his corner of London makes. There are the ones that belong to the streets (burglar alarms, bin trucks, traffic), or the neighbours, creaking stairs and open windows. This is Mia, he knows, the girl who lives on the ground floor. There’s the way she talks (discreet, Northern), the way she moves; Harry’s got it memorised and doesn’t even have to look.

Over the summer, Ginny unfortunately encouraged him (okay, maybe forced him) to get to know his neighbours. ‘It’s what people do!’ she told him, like London and Devon were the same place. This is now an inconvenience that plagues Harry every time he goes in or out of the building and someone passes him in the corridors, stuck chatting to the young couple on the first floor about their new-born baby or to Mia about her fashion studies, even when he, frankly, has other things to do. A few weeks ago, the girl obnoxiously noted that, ‘Ginger’s gone, eh?’ and gave him a slightly pitying smile which didn’t do much to lift his spirits. He nodded, sad, and quickly retreated to his flat.

‘Well, you look happy,’ she tells him, now. Thanks to Teddy, the last few days have actually not been as bad.  

‘Yeah, my godson said my name for the first time,’ he blurts out. It’s a complete overshare apropos of objectively not much but when it comes to Teddy, pride and love just seem to push the silliest confessions out of his mouth.

When she responds, his neighbour has the decency not to laugh. ‘Oh, the little -’ she just says, smiling but not mocking and Harry nods. He’s had the baby over to his a few nights so far, must have passed her in the hall. ‘That is so cute.’

He’s not sure how it happens but they get talking, that night. She asks if she can scrounge a cigarette off him and sits down on the stairs as he slides over a lighter and pack in her direction. She’s early meeting her mates for a pint, she explains, and, ‘My mum’s pregnant,’ she informs him, rather bluntly. He raises a curious eyebrow. ‘She was sixteen when she had me. ’S remarried now, with this lad – I mean, it’s funny, all my friends say “that must be so odd,” which it is - I suppose we’ll have what, a twenty-year age gap? But, then, I don’t know. It’s exciting, isn’t it? Is that strange?’ she smiles.

Harry supposes it could be a bit strange, yes, but then his own life is such a fucking shit show, right now, that he’s not one to judge. A cloud of smoke fills the air between them and it’s bizarre how he actually knows, can identify exactly what is happening and still decidedly lets it happen. Harry feels her arm brush against his as she hands him the pack back, notices that she’s wearing a rather plain, white t-shirt, a bomber jacket and a long, black skirt that flows over the bare skin of her legs. A chunky pair of Doc Martens. Her hair is pulled back in a bun, make-up minimal, and the fact that he notices all these things is certainly worth a mention.

‘You working tonight?’ she asks him, maybe ten, fifteen minutes later. She’s tossed the butt of her cigarette to the floor, gets up to her feet; he notices her skirt rides up and reveals a glimpse of her calf. He shakes his head ‘no’ and loosely wonders what it would feel like to run his fingertips along her skin.

(She asked what he did for a living, a few weeks back, and hastily put out her joint when he said ‘police.’ ‘I mean, what do you tell Muggles?’ he asked Giulia, afterwards, and she puffed out a laugh and said –

‘Well, not that.’)

So, that November, Harry supposes that he finally, properly, notices Mia. She’s been a mention, someone hovering in the background of his life for a few months, now, but that night, he sees her. Notices that her smile is generous and kind, that her skin and eyes are dark, that she wears her hair curly and natural. That she’s tall, thin, small chested. Does not have long, silky hair, or freckles, or a love for Quidditch and very much isn’t his type. That night, a wet, drizzling rain starts to fall over them again and still, when Mia asks: ‘Hey, do you want to come to the pub, actually? We’re not going out-out, I don’t think, just -’

Harry says: ‘Yeah, why not?’

He doesn’t know why it happens. Maybe, because she’s nice. Because she’s a girl. Because she notices him, too, and because she does turn out to have quite a good sense of humour. Because she’s a Muggle and doesn’t know that his parents are dead, or that he fought in a war, or that he doesn’t really have any idea what he’s supposed to do with his life, now. It happens because she’s there, and because Ginny’s gone and yeah, alright, maybe because it’s just been a while since he last spoke to someone without overthinking it. Sue him.

At the pub, she introduces him as her neighbour. It’s probably the most normal thing he’s ever been introduced as. Quickly, he realises that Mia is the kind of person who will be the life of every party she’ll ever attend; there’s something almost fascinating about watching her, the way she manages to both always stick by his side, yet also show interest in everything friends are telling her. When her mates chuckle at her jokes, the sound is loud and genuine, pure, and they haven’t fought in wars either. Harry sees Mia and the way she loves (everyone and everything, without needing a reason to, from the loud music in her ears to the sticky floors under her heels). In his head, he sorts her into Hufflepuff and thinks he kind of likes it.

Students who swear they won’t go ‘out-out’ on a Thursday night never follow through so at around eleven, they all pile into a couple of cabs on their way to a club in East London. Mia dances close; Harry mostly watches, but at around three in the morning, they share another taxi home. The fact that they live in the same building could have been a good excuse except that by that point, they don’t really need one. He’s already kissed her, trailed his fingers up her thighs in the club (loud music, smoke; he managed to just smile and not think) so it’s not exactly a surprise when he follows her down the stairs to her flat instead of going up to his. He kind of hates himself for the thought but to be honest, it’s been over two months since he last got laid and well, she’s offering.

It’s – nice. He settles on the adjective retrospectively and refuses to think about it any further. As though admitting to himself that he properly enjoys it, leans into the feeling of Mia’s fingers against his chest, her short breaths above him, the taste of her skin, would be some sort of sin. She’s dumped you, you idiot, he tries to remind himself. When he comes, he makes sure she does, too, fingers caressing her clit. And, afterwards, he pulls the condom off and throws it in the bin and thinks: right, this is it, then. Move on with your life, mate.

Eventually, she gets up to go to the loo, wears his shirt and pads back with a glass of water in her hand. ‘I’m the first, right?’ she asks. ‘Since her, I mean.’

Harry looks at her in the dark and isn’t sure what to say to that. First, because to tell the truth, she’s not only the first since Ginny, she’s the first who isn’t Ginny, full stop, and he’s pretty sure that’s something he’d rather keep to himself. Second, because, well, he’s still so fucking in love with his ex that he kind of thought of her when he came, and that, frankly, was disturbing enough. He probably stays quiet for too long.

‘’S alright,’ she adds, slipping back into bed. She smiles, empathetic but not sad. ‘When I broke up with my ex, it took me a good six months to get over it.’

Early morning confessions, except neither of them is drunk – he’s just so fucking tired, these days. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get over it,’ he admits.  

‘Yep,’ she chuckles lightly. Before he can respond, Harry feels her lips trailing down his neck, the fabric of the shirt thrown over her shoulders brushing against his skin – her hand reaches under the waistband of his boxers and God, he’s already half-hard again. Lazy, his palm finds the bare skin above her hip. ‘That’s exactly how it felt.’

Months later, it occurs to him that it could have ended there, with her. He doesn’t regret it, not exactly, but it could just have been a one-night-stand that, overall, he doesn’t really think was a mistake, no matter how much time he spends trying to convince himself otherwise over the next few days. That is until, of course, they run into each other again the following week. He’s heading into work and she’s taking the bins out, stops next to him in front of their building, black plastic bag in hand. She’s wearing a pair of flared jeans and a jumper. Harry consciously makes himself look away.

‘Well, this is awkward,’ she says, like maybe one of them should have contemplated this possibility before impulsively fucking the neighbour.

Harry finds himself leaning back against the gate in front of their building. When he looks at her again, he finds her seemingly smiling at the irony of it all. ‘Is it?’ he asks.

He asks because to be honest he’s eighteen and has no experience with this, whatsoever. It may be awkward, it may not be, he can’t tell how he’s supposed to feel, right this minute. Mia herself laughs, hums. ‘Yeah, maybe it isn’t, actually.’

They don’t see each other regularly, that autumn. Just sometimes, when they both want to. She’s a Muggle so to her, he’s just Harry, her cute neighbour, and it’s bizarre how liberating that is. She doesn’t know about magic, or the people he’s lost, or even that he quite literally died, just a few months ago. When she asks about his scars, he says that he got them in a car accident, says that it killed his parents and leaves it at that. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says and he tells her the same thing he told Hermione.

‘It’s fine. They’ve been dead a long time.’

As the days get darker, Mia burns scented candles in her flat, that November. One that allegedly smells like France (like cigarettes, cinnamon and croissants) - and sometimes, the both of them just sit and watch TV together, laughing at old films and fighting over a bowl of crisps. Harry would feel guilty about not being in love with her but, ‘I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here, anyway,’ she reminds him, often. She’s been applying to internships with all of these fashion brands he’s never heard of, in Paris. ‘This is just nice while it lasts, Harry,’ she says.

It may make him sound like a bit of a dick, but he kind of agrees.

The first few weeks of them, that year, he doesn’t tell a soul. The only people he’d ever consider telling are Ron and Hermione and he already knows what their reactions will be. She will give him a lecture about finding a girl who specifically caters to his unwillingness to commit, which will then spiral into an argument about the fact that he was ready to commit to Ginny, and see how that blew up in his face, so – Ron would just stare, say something along the lines of: ‘But, you were dating my sister,’ and Merlin, Harry’s not ready for that either. Also, there’s a quiet kind of relief in having a part of his life be just his. This thing with Mia – whatever it is – it exists for itself, almost in a vacuum. It’s something he can do, someone he can touch without them instantly becoming public property. What he wanted and couldn’t get, for he and Ginny. The hours he spends with her, they’re quiet hours during which he doesn’t have to care about anyone else.

Giulia actually is the first to find out. It could have been worse, he supposes. That day, the both of them are in Sussex, chasing a lead on their Class A trafficking case. They’re checking out a shop in Eastbourne (frankly, with limited hopes of this being the one) but strangely, Harry notices something that makes him change his mind. The place is filled with random Muggle antiques and centuries-old crap but there’s an energy in the air that he can’t quite place. Giulia asks the owner a couple of questions, acting as though she’s considering buying one of the necklaces, but Harry keeps his fingers wrapped around his wand the whole time.

They make their way out and back to the car. ‘I think he recognised me,’ he says.

‘What do you mean? He barely -’

‘Trust me,’ he says. ‘I know when people recognise me -’

‘Ah, The Boy Who Lived - can’t stand people not recognising him, can he?’

He half-laughs, half-rolls his eyes at her but stands his ground. She walks around the car towards the driver’s side. Over the roof, he catches her gaze. ‘I swear, he did the look thing.’

‘The -’

‘This,’ he tells her. For a moment, he just stares into her face, silent, then lets his glance flick up to her forehead.

‘What in Merlin’s name -’

The palm of his glove is flat against the roof of the car. They’re having a dry, cold but sunny morning – closer to winter than it is to autumn. ‘It’s a thing that people do when they’re not sure,’ he explains, can see his breath in the air. ‘Like, they’ve seen my picture in the paper and all, but they’ve never seen me in real life, you know? So, they think: “Oh, this bloke really looks like Harry Potter,” then, they glance up at this,’ he adds and pulls up his hair to point to his scar, before letting it back down. ‘Then, they do this sort of look, like: “Oh, Merlin, it is Harry Potter!”’

For a moment, Giulia stares at him seemingly dumbfounded in the middle of the street. Harry sees a couple of cars pass behind her. Eventually, again, she laughs. ‘Right,’ she declares and pulls the car door open. The Muggle man coming up the road in his own car hoots his horn and lowers his window, shouting at her to ‘bloody look!’. In response, she turns around and throws him an outraged, ‘Oi, cretino! ’ and another string of Italian curse words that Harry hasn’t picked up on, yet. The man drives away honking even louder and Harry finds her back smiling at him a second later like nothing’s happened. ‘So, you reckon he’s full of shit?’ she says.

‘I’d say so, yeah.’

She sighs. ‘Alright. Let’s radio dispatch, see if they can send another unit to tail him. He’s seen our faces,’ she observes. They’ve known each other long enough that Harry doesn’t bother pointing out that they could probably change their appearances because it’s almost noon and he knows why Giulia doesn’t want to do that, now. ‘Anyway,’ she adds, quick, getting into the car. ‘I’m fucking starving.’

They stop at a restaurant and sit at a round, metallic table with their orders on a tray. Giulia – for the past two weeks – has been hell-bent on ordering salads everywhere they go despite the truly foul mood this seems to put her in. Her flatmate’s getting married over New Year’s and from the information Harry’s managed to gather listening to one of her many infamous monologues, dresses have been purchased – dresses that do not currently fit. When he suggested enlarging hers with magic, Giulia looked at him like he was a complete nutter so he never made any further comment.

(In the end, of course, she never goes to that wedding, but that’s kind of beside the point.)

That day, she glares at him as he bites into his sandwich. ‘Why is it that you eat so much and still look like,’ she starts, frowns; he throws her a curious look. ‘Like, I don’t know. All … boy,’ she says. ‘And muscle.’

She says it like men are a completely foreign concept to her and Harry lets out a bit of a laugh. ‘I didn’t eat for a year,’ he reminds her, pauses for another bite. ‘Plus, I run like, I dunno, five or six miles almost every day?’

She glares at him, then at her plate. ‘There is that, I suppose.’

‘Played Quidditch, too,’ he adds. It may be adding insult to injury, here, but hey, she does take the piss out of him plenty. He touches his lips to a paper napkin. She glances up from her salad.

‘Did you? ’ There is a look of genuine surprise on her face. ‘I didn’t know that! Why did I not know that?’ she grins. He likes that she doesn’t seem to read the press much. ‘Chaser?’

Mouth full, he shakes his head. Swallows. ‘Seeker. My dad played chase. Ginny played both,’ he adds, not quite sure why. Since he started seeing Mia, her name’s become easier to mention. ‘Well, mostly Chaser but she replaced me whenever I’d get stuck in detention -’

‘-Which happened quite often, I imagine?’

He rolls his eyes and decides not to dignify that with a response. ‘It’s easier to find Chasers than Seekers, last minute. Or, at least it was for Gryffindor.’

‘You didn’t want to play pro?’ she asks, then bites on another mouthful of rocket. She hides it well but he knows he’s just caught her interest - rarely ever volunteers information about Ginny, or his family. This is nice, though. Harry trusts her.  

‘Considered it,’ he shrugs. ‘But honestly, it was a hobby. I mean, I love Quidditch, don’t get me wrong, but Ginny wants to play pro and I’ve seen how much she trains. Never wanted to put that much effort into it.’ Giulia laughs like: how surprising? True, he’s never been the most dedicated pupil in the world. ‘I don’t know, it was just fun, you know? Once McGonagall mentioned I could become an Auror, that was it, I suppose.’

‘Yeah, I get that,’ she says, nods. Pushes a piece of beetroot about her plate. ‘I think I’d quite have liked to play, maybe, at least try,’ she tells him, shrugs. ‘Slytherin didn’t allow girls onto the team in my time, so that was kind of that.’

He catches her gaze, then, and although he’s had suspicions about what her house might have been, it’s the first time she’s actually acknowledged it out loud. It’s funny how, just a few years ago, it would have been huge, to him, to be friends with a Slytherin. Now, he barely finds it strange, how little he cares.

A war’s come and gone, he supposes.

That is when, out of the blue, though, Giulia finally decides to ask: ‘So, tell me,’ she pauses for a sip of water. ‘What were you doing in a bar in Soho, yesterday, anyway? And, most importantly, who’s the very attractive Muggle girl who had her hand on your arse the whole time?’

Ugh. He cringes. Fuck. Between an embarrassing blush, a coughing fit and the fact that he almost does choke mid-bite, it takes Harry a while to even recover enough to talk, let alone answer her question. While he busies himself chugging down his glass of water, she explains that she was on date when she saw him and is very curious as to who Mia is. For a moment, he rolls his eyes, then sets his glasses down in an attempt to hide his face in his hands.

To be honest, Giulia finding out probably wasn’t his worst-case scenario. She’s clearly not going to go and sell his secrets to the Prophet (or else, she would have done so a long time ago) and out of everyone he knows, she’s probably the person who, beyond a general desire to take the piss, gives the least amount of fucks about who he’s decided to shag. When he concedes defeat and admits that the girl is his Muggle neighbour, though, Giulia disgustingly winks at him and says: ‘Well, now, that’s convenient. Just have to walk down the stairs for a quick -’

She makes a rather obscene gesture, then, and Harry just groans and hides behind his palms again.

‘D’you like her, though?’ Giulia later asks. Harry sighs. ‘Right, let me guess,’ she smirks. ‘Getting a bit of attention feels nice but you’re not in love and she’s not Ginny Weasley, and you’re feeling guilty that you even like it, am I wrong?’ 

Harry says nothing but considers that no, Giulia is not wrong, as a matter of fact, it’s a pretty accurate picture of the current situation. She chuckles again at the look on his face.

‘You don’t have to marry everyone you sleep with, Harry. It’s called being young.’

Eventually, they pay for their meals, make their way back to the car and it’s only then that a thought occurs to Harry. Suddenly, he can’t get it out of his head. Follows Giulia, crossing the road almost on autopilot and trying to run through his memories of last night. He remembers the pub quite clearly, there was a neon sign behind the bar that spelled out the word ‘beer’ but his surroundings are blurred, and –

‘What is it?’ Giulia asks.

They’re in the car, now. ‘I didn’t see you,’ he admits. ‘Last night, I -’

At first, she chuckles. ‘I mean, I’d be offended, but –’

‘No, I -’ he says, quickly cutting her off, the muscles tense in his jaw. He remembers: the month of June, hotel lobbies and Hermione calling him jumpy. ‘You could have been anybody,’ he adds. ‘I didn’t see you.’

A bar filled with innocent Muggles – Mia – and someone he knew, someone magical came in, and he didn’t notice. They could have been attacked, could have –

‘Hey,’ Giulia interrupts. ‘I’m a crap Legilimens but even I can hear you thinking.’ For a moment, he sets his jaw, says nothing. ‘Harry -’

‘Fuck, I should have -’

‘No,’ she cuts him off. ‘Stop.’ She closes her eyes, heavy, and sighs, like: here it goes again. ‘Harry, you didn’t see me because you felt safe and you were having fun and you weren’t looking for me.’ She smiles, shakes her head. ‘You can’t blame yourself for not knowing something you’ve never properly been taught, that kind of high-level surveillance stuff, they don’t even teach it to you unless you make one of the high-risk units. Major Crimes, Hit Wizards, trafficking, that kind of thing,’ she pauses. ‘You couldn’t possibly be expected to know this.’ He opens his mouth to object, but - ‘That said, maybe, you’re right, though. You being you, you might want to learn,’ she adds. ‘And, you know some of it already, don’t think I haven’t noticed. I’ve seen the way you watch people, the way in, the way out, but you’re messy, self-taught; that is how you miss things. You noticed that man recognising you, earlier, but you didn’t see me yesterday. You’re right, that is a bit worrying. So, now,’ she smiles, catches his gaze. ‘You can either you sit here and panic or …’

For a moment, he’s not sure what to say and -

‘You ask. Because in case you haven’t noticed, you do happen to be partnered with the highest-ranking Auror in the building who actually knows all that shite. Funny, eh, how these things happen,’ she laughs. ‘I mean, if you want me to teach you, of course.’

She holds his gaze. For a second, he can’t find his words. Then, he can’t say yes fast enough.

About a week later, Kingsley starts harassing him about the interview again. Three different memos land on Harry’s desk between the 23rd and the 29th, urging him to ‘just pick someone or I will.’ In a desperate attempt to get the man off his back, Harry, rather reluctantly, resorts to owling Hermione. In response, she sends him a five-foot-long essay on each of the reporters’ careers and achievements to date, as though that was going help him choose (he’s seriously considering simply tossing a coin, now). Ron, who seems reluctant to be pulled into this debate helpfully states: ‘I don’t know, mate. They all sound fine,’ and Harry kind of rolls his eyes but also thinks: fair. Over lunch on the South Bank that Sunday, he looks at Hermione across the table and says –

‘Alright. Wand to your face, who would you choose?’

Ron immediately looks up, scandalised by the sudden, suggested threat to Hermione’s life but Hermione herself just sighs. ‘Well, again, I think it should be your decision but -’ she says, pushing the bit of lettuce that came with her burger around her plate. ‘Wand to my face, I’d pick the second American, Laura Gellman. She said in her letter she’d negotiated a contract with The Owl for this, and they’re a good magazine. She might be tough. From what I’ve seen, she really does her research.’ She catches Harry’s look. ‘She’ll probably come with Ed Trappoy, her photographer, but he checks out, too. Plus,’ Hermione adds, ‘She’s the only Muggleborn on the list.’

That is an interesting factor to take into consideration, Harry thinks, but one that he kind of agrees with. He looks at Ron. ‘What Hermione said?’

‘Brilliant, then. I’ll tell Kingsley.’

They spend the rest of the afternoon just the three of them, Apparate back to Harry’s flat with a pack of Muggle beer and Harry’s insistence that Ron at least try a sip out of his can of Coke (‘It tastes like dragon pox potion, I swear!’). Hermione then launches into an explanation of Coca-Cola, cocaine, Muggle medicine and Father Christmas and all Harry can really think is that God, does he love the both of them.

The interview is scheduled for the 14th of December. Until then, the only change Harry notices to his daily life is that Giulia’s intensive surveillance training now sets his fucking teeth on edge. He knows he’s asked for it, knows it is necessary, but it doesn’t mean he likes it. She teaches him practically, through hypos, questions, profiling and rooms full of people. ‘Here,’ she says. ‘Who’s most likely to be a threat?’ Who’s really a Muggle, who’s pretending to be? Who comes in, who comes out, how many people around them at any given time? Quickest exit? Quickest response, spell, way to evacuate? Everywhere, every day. Sometimes, they’ll be entering a café for a snack, and she’ll say: ‘Okay, the man sitting at six o’clock, behind you. What does he look like?’

It’s taxing, exhausting and at first, incredibly frustrating. Often, he’s got no fucking clue. Then, slowly, she teaches him to observe. Mirrors, windows, wards, spells. At the Ministry, in the breakroom, even. ‘Say, the woman over there attacks you, right now, what do you do?’ Harry follows her look and –

‘She’s the mail lady,’ he moans. ‘She’s here every day.’

‘Yeah, great cover, no one would ever suspect her,’ Giulia laughs. ‘Now, what do you do? ’

For weeks, she's so relentless with him that he starts running facial recognition spells in his sleep. Strangely, however, for all the paranoia it should entail, the whole process actually calms him. Gradually, he feels more in control of his surroundings, less nervous about the world and the people who occupy it. Knowing what to do, who to trust, how he would act in an emergency steadies the tremors in his hands much more than the empty reassurances he’s sometimes heard. For the first time in his life, he actually feels prepared. Wishes someone had taught him all this before he had to go on the run. Things might have been slightly easier for them all.

Of course, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t snap at Giulia, sometimes. She pushes him like he’s never been pushed before, so he supposes it comes with the territory. One Sunday afternoon, Ron, Seamus and the both of them are grabbing a late lunch at the Ministry, the only ones left in the cafeteria. When Seamus leaves the room, heading for the gents, Ron gets up to refill their water. Giulia throws Harry a look. ‘Go on, now. Who’s the threat?’

His glance finds Ron’s back, best mate oblivious, before finding hers again. ‘No,’ he says.

She smirks. ‘Right, you’re a Gryffindor, you stand up for your mates, appreciate it, thanks. Now, again, who’s the most likely threat?’

Arms crossed over his chest, Harry just shakes his head at her. Ron is heading back towards them, now, so he hisses: ‘No. I trust him with my life. I trust you with my life. No. ’

He refuses to ever think about it again until a couple of nights later. They’re on the rota for the Sussex stakeout (they’ve found two other stores selling magical contraband, fronting as Muggle shops – it’s a whole operation, now) and Giulia keeps eyeing him. She says nothing, of course, knows she’s planted the fucking seed and she bloody well keeps giving him looks about it, and –

‘Fine,’ he almost groans, throws his hands up in surrender. ‘You. You’re the threat in that scenario.’

She giggles, then smiles, delighted. ‘Good answer. Why?’

For something to do, he pulls at the fabric of his jeans. ‘I’ve known Ron longer.’

She hums, nods. ‘That’s a good place to start, you’re right, but there’s more.’

Harry snaps, rolls his eyes. ‘Look, I don’t know, he could have killed me at any given time during the last seven years.’ He doesn’t particularly like this conversation. ‘Don’t think that he will, now,’ he adds, sarcastic. ‘Do you?’

And, ‘No,’ she laughs, but pushes. Always pushes. ‘Your point’s irrelevant, though. We ’ve been alone often enough, over the past few months; I could have killed you any time, too.’

In the dark, Harry finds her gaze. He knows what she wants him to say, what she’s pushing for. It doesn’t mean that he wants to say it. For a moment, he focuses his look on the back of the car in front of them. ‘Your past,’ he concedes. ‘You were associated with Death Eaters. He never was.’

A beat passes; she says nothing. The warming charm that they’ve cast around themselves is starting to build fog on the windows of the car. Harry reaches to wipe it off with his palm. ‘Good,’ she finally smiles. ‘Taught you well.’

It’s another couple of days later before Robards gets hit by a curse while out shopping with his family in Diagon Alley.

The attack’s planned, coordinated, precisely executed. Whatever is left of Voldemort’s followers claim responsibility through a communiqué to the Daily Prophet a couple hours afterwards. The curse itself is cast by a kid barely fourteen years old, probably Imperiused. It’s the only flaw in their plan: his magic is strong enough to send Robards to the hospital, not to the morgue. The next day, the headlines read Are We Truly Safe? and even if Harry tries not to think about it too much, he finds himself purposefully kissing Mia long enough, a couple nights later, that she forgets about going to the restaurant and lets him order in. At Grimmauld, the young Aurors amongst them check and re-check the wards on the house three times a day and Hermione writes that even McGonagall has told people to keep an eye out. Their last training classes with the Head Auror get pushed back to the start of December until he gets discharged and in the meantime, they all have cyclical conversations that ask: ‘Will this ever end?’

Harry spends a lot of time with Mia during those days. She’s studying for exams and preparing to go home for Christmas, jokingly assures him that his presence is excellent stress relief. She is on a sleep schedule that rivals his – they sometimes arrange these odd dates for sex at three o’clock in the morning when they're both too wired to doze off. Harry goes out jogging a bit less, that winter. Whenever he still does, though, the rain now turns into sleet and burns at his cheeks, so he can’t imagine himself complaining.

‘You alright?’ she asks him, once. It’s the night before Robards gets back to work.

Harry nods, the low glow of her bedside lamp casting shadows over her body, skin warm against his. ‘Yeah,’ he mutters.

Their last class gets postponed again the moment the boss is back; the Aurors’ 24/7 Christmas coverage schedule turns into a fucking shit show. Harry’s told this happens every year which doesn't particularly make him feel any better. That week, people in the department – people he respects – suddenly seem to lose all sense of restraint, going completely mental over their allocated annual leave. There are those who want Christmas Day off, those who want New Year’s, those who absolutely have to go to their cousin’s mate’s wedding on the 29th (what are people who get married in winter thinking, for the love of Merlin?) In the end, Harry thinks that he and Ron come out fairly lucky, and remarkably unscathed. Ron’s working the 24th but only in the morning, and gets the 25th off through random allocation. This means that he can spend both the evening of the 24th and the 25th at The Burrow, keeping his mother (and, secretly, he) if not happy, at least content. With that part of the issue sorted, Harry, like most people, decides to just walk up to Robards’ office the moment the man gets back from medical leave.

‘Oh, for the love of - you too?’ Robards asks with an exasperated sigh, shutting the door behind Harry with a wave of his wand. ‘It’s the tenth time I have to change the schedule, Potter, this better be good.’

‘Er,’ Harry starts. He looks down to his feet, then back at Robards. ‘I was just going to say I can work through Christmas and New Year’s, if it’s needed.’

Robards wordlessly gapes, for a moment. ‘Oh -’ Then, he frowns. ‘Are you sure? You haven’t taken time off since you started.’

A shrug. ‘Yeah, I’ll take some in January,’ Harry claims, which he supposes even Robards suspects is an outrageous lie. ‘I mean,’ he adds. ‘Not like I have a family, you know?’

Robards gives him a look like, fair point, and leaves it at that. This is a relief because now, with the new rota that comes out a few minutes later, Harry can go to Ron and say, ‘Yeah, I’m working the entire time. Yeah, I know, it’s shite, isn’t it?’ thus avoiding his best mate’s dreaded invitation to the Burrow.

It’s not that Harry doesn’t want to go, per se. He assumes he’ll pop by at some point if he has a free afternoon, like he’s been doing since September - often when Teddy and Andromeda are there. He loves Ron’s family (of course, he does), but being left alone with Molly and Arthur since his break-up with Ginny and the Narcissa apocalypse has become less than ideal. Christmas dinner will likely be a meal of tiptoeing around everyone and silently mourning Fred while desperately missing Ginny (despite the fact that she’ll be right there at the other end of the bloody table). Hermione, he gathers, is spending the holidays with her parents in the Muggle world, so considering all the Burrow’s got to offer is a Christmas of heartbreak and grief, Harry decides that he’d rather be working.

Giulia, of course, disagrees. ‘Ah, you too?’ she asks when she notices his name now down for the 23rd, 24th, 25th, 26th and so on. She’s working Christmas week but managed to trade her days off in late December for her flatmate’s wedding. ‘I imagine they’ll keep us teamed up, then,’ she sighs. ‘D’you know what? This is just fucking outrageous. Why is it always the people who have kids who get to have a good Christmas, eh? All I always get, every year, is this fucking shite?’

He doesn’t tell her he volunteered. She’d ask why, and it’d become a thing.

In the end, the whole scheduling predicament is (somewhat) resolved over the first week of December, which finally brings the ‘kids’ to their last lesson with Robards on Monday, the 7th.

That day, Harry sits at the back of the class. Ron barely mutters a ‘Hello,’ when he sits next to him. This confirms Harry’s intuition that Hermione also had him look at the curriculum in advance.

The module’s spread over a full day: a theory lecture in the morning, followed by a four-hour practice session at the spell-firing range in the afternoon. Down there, over the past few weeks, Harry’s learnt about all the spells they have to learn to resist (Imperio), the ones they are simply never authorised to cast (Crucio), and those they just can’t practise on each other without running the risk of inflicting serious, bodily harm. This obviously falls into the last category.

Sometimes, it’s silly stuff: setting fire to mountains of crap, controlling and increasing the power of the flames at will. Sometimes, it’s inflicting pretty unfortunate injuries to rats. Once, Parvati boldly asked why they didn’t just fire them at dummies and Robards simply glared at her and snapped back: ‘You really think that would teach you anything?’

Harry almost countered him on principle, but Ron sent a memorable warning look like the fate of lab rats actually wasn’t one particularly worth getting sacked over. Perhaps, it is a sign that he’s grown into an adult, now, that Harry reluctantly let that one slide.

For their last lecture, Robards writes two words on the blackboard with his wand, in capital letters, and Harry stares straight ahead, motionless, because he can tell the man’s gaze is on him. Scratch that: everyone’s gaze is on him. And what honestly feels strange, that morning, above all else, is that there even is a theory to the spell, something to be learnt. It hadn’t even occurred to him. 

‘Think of it like a Patronus charm,’ Robards starts. The comparison makes Harry nauseous. ‘Except, instead of hope and happy memories, you summon fury, or hate. All the anger you can come up with is welcome, here, ladies and gents.’

Of course, they go over very the strict conditions upon which the spell can be cast:

• an immediate risk to your life or the life of others
• other methods of restraining the individual have been materially attempted, to no avail
• fleeing or retreating through Disapparition or other means is either unsafe, or impossible

Harry kind of listens but also kind of doesn’t, like the whole lesson happens behind one, big cloud of smoke.

At the range that afternoon, he finds he can’t take his eyes off the rat. They always use two sets. An enlarged rat to practise the spell itself, first, then a bunch of tiny ones that magically appear out of thin air, running around in an enclosure, to practise their aim. So, this is it, Harry thinks, staring at his assigned rat. It stands there, looks back at him, bound to a table, about eighty feet away. There’s something in its gaze that Harry can’t quite shake off, like it already knows what’s coming to him. He loosely wonders if the rat is actually a thing transfigured into an animal or if the little guy had little rat parents, once upon a time, siblings or – God forbid – rat children. You’re being ridiculous, get a fucking grip, he thinks.

In the silence, the minutes that follow their arrival in the room, Opal turns out to be the bravest of them all. In fairness to her, she’s first to actually say the words. Braving the quiet, there’s almost an apologetic tone to her spell. In the end, her wand produces absolutely nothing.

‘All right!’ Robards suddenly bellows out from behind them, walking up and down the range. Harry jumps. ‘Now, the lady’s shown us all where it’s at, will you lot stop fucking about and get on with it? We don’t have a whole month, here!’

This does seem to swing most of the trainees around Harry into action. Perhaps, it’s easier that way. At least, it’s a hubbub of voices shouting stuff, rather than just one, very distinct spell. In his head, he cuts the noise out, focuses on his rat. It’s nothing like Wormtail, and yet everything like Wormtail, which just makes the whole thing worse. Robards goes around the room, Harry vaguely notes, correcting posture and shouting instructions at people over the tumult. He seems to purposely avoid his booth, going from the person to his right to the person to his left. Harry supposes that since he’s probably the only one who hasn’t uttered a word since they came in (has Ron? he wonders), there’s not much to be said.

The first to actually produce something of substance, that day, is Seamus. His booth is right next to Harry’s and suddenly, there’s a flash of green and a loud, ‘Fecking hell!’ Harry figures that Seamus must have dropped his wand in surprise because his spell adopts an odd upwards curve and hits the ceiling. ‘Oh, fantastic, Finnegan! Great one!’ Robards’ voice echoes from somewhere far in the fog that seems to surround Harry’s brain but all that he knows, right now, is that he needs to get out.

Shoves his wand into his back pocket and practically runs out the door. It’s only then, safe, between the white walls of an empty Ministry corridor that he realises his hands are shaking. That his legs are shaking, knees threatening to give out, breaths coming out staggered and ragged, heart racing and pumping adrenaline through his veins, and fuck, he hasn’t had one of those in a while. Suddenly, he closes his eyes and all he can see is Tom. Not Voldemort, just Tom. Handsome and sixteen, and the moss of the forest underneath his fingertips, and –

Breathe, a voice whispers, in his head. It sounds like wind in the trees and last summer. Breathe. In and out, and in, and out. Slow, Harry, breathe.

It’s a good ten minutes before the panic truly recedes. By then, Ron’s also come out, sat next to him and said nothing. Harry sets his jaw, feels his body tense next to Ron’s. ‘I can’t get it out either,’ Ron says.

‘Yeah?’ It’s a snap. His breaths are still coming out short. ‘Why the fuck not?’

He’s being mean. Should know better, by now, than to slip into another one of those you-don’t-know-what-it’s-like-to-be-me arguments with Ron; and he’s never known what it was like to be Ron, either. Harry makes a ball of his fist to keep his hands from shaking.

‘It’s a spell,’ he adds, then. Wants to get up, leave. A beach and an ocean far away. All Ron has ever needed is confidence. He takes a deep breath, aims for - better. ‘You’ve always been a much more talented wizard than you think,’ Harry stresses. 

A beat passes; Ron says nothing. Then, he looks up to the wall in front of them. ‘Maybe I could do it physically, yeah, but -’

‘No,’ Harry shakes his head again, stronger this time. Shut up, he thinks. And, maybe: fuck you, it’s easier for you. There’s an uncharitable thought again. He pushes it out of his brain. ‘That’s all it is,’ he quickly corrects. ‘It’s physical.’ The words ground him. This is better. ‘Your heart beats, then it stops.’ And so, it is physics – only physics – that he has nightmares about. Could have been as simple as formulas that calculate the speed at which the Earth rotates. ‘They’re right, though,’ he adds. Tries to think rationally, like Hermione. Ron usually lets himself get convinced by Hermione. ‘Being able to get it out, out there, it could save loads of people.’

‘Harry -’

‘I’m fine,’ he says. He is. ‘And, I do think that. Really.’ Because, truth be told, while he did cast Expelliarmus at Voldemort back in May, Harry also knows he’d have done anything, if it’d been needed to save his best mate. Or, for that matter, save anybody else.

He almost laughs when Ron asks: ‘Do you want to go back in?’

‘Maybe “want” is a strong word.’

Harry counts to sixty a couple times before they do. Regulates his breathing. The moment the door opens, the place goes dead quiet - that way people always think they’re being subtle when they’re talking behind your back, pretending not to stare as he walks back up to his booth. Yet, this time, Harry barely notices them. Sometimes, he just needs to do things. Get on with it. He’s signed up for this job because he wanted to save lives. He looks at the rat and breathes. In, out. His hands are steady. He mutters: ‘I’m so sorry.’

Shuts his eyes. Opens them. In his head, Tom Riddle murders the mother who called him brave.

‘Avada Kedavra,’ he just says.

There is a flash of green light. The rat falls dead. The target table automatically turns and three more rats appear, running around it. Harry’s aim has always been on point so really, once he’s mastered the spell, that part’s not a challenge. ‘Avada Kedavra,’ he repeats and this time, his father falls, wandless, at the bottom of the stairs. It’s seconds before the rats all lie dead.

Later, people tell him that he’s the first trainee in History to ever master the spell on first try, to ever kill all four rats in under thirty seconds with a methodology and focus that rivals that of Tom Riddle himself. He’s not sure what to make of that.

Robards materialises behind him, as though he’s actually been there this whole time, waiting. Faded blue eyes set on the dead rats. All the noise around them is muted; Harry hears the Head Auror inhale, exhale, like steps echoing against the marble floors of an empty cathedral. The Head Auror waves his wand; the rats vanish. 

‘Alright, Potter,’ Robards breathes out. ‘I heard you're a good teacher. Go and help the others.’ 

Harry pockets his wand and nods. 

That evening, most of them file out of the changing rooms quickly. They’re exhausted; Ron’s got to help George close up the shop but somehow, Harry can’t imagine going home. He heads back to his desk, pours over the admin of the Sussex case until well after dark.

It’s past eight when Giulia stands next to him in the candlelight. ‘I spoke with Kingsley,’ she states. ‘Who spoke with Robards.’ A pause. ‘Who said good things,’ she adds. ‘He was very impressed.’ She sits at the edge of the desk. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘Nope,’ he shakes his head. There is silence between them - she sits against the edge of his desk. Dark composite wood under cheap, low lights. ‘You know why they tried to take down Robards, right?’ he asks, instead.

She looks down to her black leather Ministry-issued boots. ‘Yeah.’ In the dark, her eyes are almost grey when Harry finds them set on his. It’s a scare tactic, the last bullets of a war fought in dark corners rather than battlefields. Robards is someone who leads by example, and leaders can’t show they’re scared or else, everyone else behind them tips over, a loss of confidence like a series of dominos. ‘He’s fine. He came back,’ she observes.  

The words are choked from the back of his throat. Harry shakes his head. ‘He is scared. He’s just not showing it.’ 

‘Yeah, you would know.’

There is a typewriter in the back of the room, charmed to type up reports on its own. It’s the only sound Harry hears when he crosses her gaze again. His mouth opens to say - to say nothing, effectively. There is her hand, heavy and steady against his shoulder; she doesn’t apologise, doesn’t say ‘sorry’ for all the things that happened to him, isn’t the kind of person to apologise for what isn’t within her control. A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. ‘Come on, get your coat. Let’s go to the pub, tell jokes and get pissed.’

He sort of sighs and sort of laughs at the same time. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Okay.’

In hindsight, it’s probably not one of his best decisions and he pays for it with a violent hangover the next day, but as he’s about to talk to the press and shoulder his responsibility as The Boy Who Lived once more, it’s the last time he can actually let himself be the irresponsible kid that makes it.

The interview finally occurs on the second Monday of December. They decide to have it at Grimmauld Place. The Ministry is too much a gossip mill and Harry prefers to keep his own flat – and its location – private. By then, a thick, freezing fog has taken over London; he has Kreacher light all of the fires in the house in an attempt to keep the damp out.

In a not-so-surprising turn of events, Hermione was right: Laura, the journalist, shows up with her photographer. Harry heads downstairs to open the door for them, curses loudly when he stubs his toe on a bucket of paint on the way, offers the tea and biscuits that Kreacher’s prepared for the occasion. The both of them are warm, polite (American), as they settle in; he notices the way Laura looks at the house as they walk into the study, the magic in the air, like she’s taking everything in. Twenty years after she probably started school, there still seems to be a part of her that thinks all of this might not be real. Harry isn’t Muggleborn but he knows what that looks like, sometimes feels the exact same.

In the name of completeness, it seems that he should also present her version of events. So, once it comes out, this is what the article reads:

Meeting Harry Potter, these days, is already an adventure in and of itself. Since the end of the Second Wizarding War in the United Kingdom, on May 2nd 1998, the eighteen-year-old has been notoriously discreet. To our knowledge, he has turned down all other press interview requests over the past few months – both domestic and international - and his constant presence in the headlines overseas has mostly been due to the work of third parties (see our recap on the Malfoy controversy at page 10). For this interview, we made our inquiry in July and only received a response in November. When I ask Mr. Potter about this, he smiles and concedes, “It’s been a weird few months.”

After going through an extensive security clearance process with the British Ministry of Magic (see also, our interview of Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt at page 30), we meet Mr. Potter at his house on Grimmauld Place, in the No-Maj borough of Islington, London. The address, scribbled on a piece of paper in Mr. Potter’s handwriting, is shown to us by the Minister of Magic himself, before being burned. The day before we are allowed in, we meet some of our British colleagues out on Mr. Potter’s doorstep.

“It’s a Fidelius charm,” Miss Eleanor Fforde explains; she writes for the British magazine Witch Weekly. “Means that unless you’ve been expressly told the location, you can stand out here all you want, you won’t ever be able to see the house,” she adds. “We think Potter’s Secret Keeper, possibly [Ronald] Weasley and [Hermione] Granger, too. They’re all definitely in there, that we know, along with the other Hogwarts kids that Potter’s welcomed in. We get glimpses, sometimes – they’ll Apparate from the top step or something. A few months ago, Potter and his ex sort of tumbled out of there, after a party. Now, that was exciting. Since then, though, nothing.”

When we later ask him about this, Mr. Potter does not hide his smirk. “Well, she’s not wrong,” he tells us, and laughs. I mention the other rumors we’ve heard according to which he, himself, does not live at the house but in another secret, undisclosed location in No-Maj London. He smiles. “I’m not going to tell you where I live. Believe it or not, regardless of what Mrs. Malfoy seems to think, I’ve not gone completely mental, yet.” For what it is worth, per our own impression, he actually seems anything but. “That being said, yeah, they’ve tried to tail me a couple of times. Always manage to lose them, though. Auror training and all. It’s a bit of game, really.” I note that he seems rather relaxed for someone who still has a twenty-million-Dragots price on his head. He quickly ironizes: “Merlin, it’s gone up, hasn’t it?”

Over the afternoon that we spend with him, “Harry,” as he insists we call him, appears much older and more grounded than his years would suggest. He takes us through the house and into a study, telling us about the renovation works we notice around him. “I inherited the place from Sirius. His family was quite keen on the whole pureblood décor.” He is right: above the top shelf of the bookcases that sit behind him, we notice the family’s motto still carved into the wall. “It translates as ‘always pure,’” Harry explains. “We’ve been trying to clean the place up, make it more breathable, but it’s a bit of an ongoing project at the moment. Obviously,” he laughs, pointing at the mess around him.

By “Sirius,” Harry means Sirius Black, his late godfather. Once accused of having betrayed Mr. Potter’s parents, Mr. Black passed away when his godson was only fifteen, after two years spent on the run, following a prison breakout. At the end of the war, Harry insisted that he be posthumously cleared of all charges. “It wasn’t him,” he tells us. “It was another one of my dad’s friends, Peter Pettigrew. He even helped Voldemort* return.” By then, Mr. Potter was fourteen. He was held captive, tortured and almost killed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named before fighting his way out. When he told the world about it, no one believed him. “Though, to tell you the truth,” he quickly adds. “I’m not sure it really matters who betrayed them, in the end. Sirius’s dead, Peter’s dead, Riddle’s dead, and it hasn’t brought them back. Revenge’s never really been what I was after.”  

Through further investigations, we also find that our colleague from Witch Weekly was correct. Since last September, Mr. Potter has indeed opened the house he owns up to a number of his former Hogwarts classmates, free of charge. Most of them were members of a once illegal organization called “Dumbledore’s Army,” started by Harry in his Sophomore year and named after the well-known, but now slightly controversial, former Headmaster of the school, Albus Dumbledore. The students who belonged to this organization have all since been recognized by the British Ministry for their invaluable role in defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named during the 1998 Battle of Hogwarts (for a note on the organization and our editorial on the significant role played by child and teenage soldiers during the UK’s Second Wizarding War, see page 2).

Together, Harry explains that they now have not only begun renovating his house as side-hustle, but also formed C.A.S.H.C.O.W, a charitable organization aimed at providing support to those affected by the war, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s authoritarian regime. They have so far raised funds for a variety of projects, including the housing and care of orphaned children, as well as financing remedial lessons tailored to the No-Maj students who were not able to attend school, last year. Harry’s own eight-month-old godson, Edward Lupin, lost both his parents in the final battle. We understand that Mr. Potter regularly gives large amounts of his significant family inheritance (currently estimated over a hundred million Dragots) to the charity. While he refuses to confirm a specific figure, a source within the Ministry has assured us that he has contributed for over half of the charity’s total expenses for the year of 1998.

Overall, when Harry reads the final product of the four-hour interview, he thinks it’s quite… fair. Laura is careful, she takes her notes by hand (bit peculiar, but why not?) and uses a Muggle tape recorder as a back-up. ‘There are two tapes,’ she explains, early on. ‘One for me, one for you. So, we’re all on the same page.’

At the bottom of the first page of the article, a note even reads: * We note that over the course of our interview, Mr. Potter refers to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named alternatively as “Riddle,” or “Tom Riddle,” (his birthname) or simply as “Voldemort.” While we understand that this might hurt some of our readership’s sensibilities, we have decided not to alter Mr. Potter’s words in our article. Using these names is a conscious decision on Mr. Potter’s part, and a reflection of his beliefs.

It’s a lot more than the The Prophet’s ever done with any of his past declarations and generally, Laura seems, like Hermione had anticipated, to be willing to do the work. Harry doesn’t particularly like a lot of the questions that she asks, but maybe that’s also part of it.

Her photographer takes a number of pictures, throughout the afternoon. Harry’s asked to pose for some of them, sometimes looking straight into the camera and sometimes not. He complies but does momentarily wonder if he maybe should have dressed a little better than jeans and a nondescript, grey t-shirt. Can already anticipate Witch Weekly writing a detailed analysis entitled: Why Does Potter Dress Like a Muggle?

When she talks, Laura’s accent has something of a warm, slow drawl to it; it calms him. She grills Harry about his childhood in the ‘No-Maj’ world, what he thinks it brought him. ‘It might have shielded me a bit,’ he admits. ‘But, overall, it wasn’t great. Not because they were Muggles, I mean, I think it was just the particular circumstances they were in. Petunia – my aunt – she had to grieve my mother three times. First when she lost her to our world, then when she lost her to my father, and lastly when she actually died. As a result, she hated magic. It builds up a lot of … resentment.’

She brings up Dumbledore. ‘I’m not angry,’ Harry says. ‘I’m glad I believed in him. But, yeah, he was complicated.’ And: the Horcruxes, Ron and Hermione.

‘You three seem really close,’ Laura observes.

‘They’re the only reason I’m still alive,’ he responds.

Eventually, they do get to the topic of Narcissa Malfoy. Harry’s honest about it. Admits that he did threaten her, that she used his godson to try and blackmail him and that he overreacted. ‘I understand you didn’t want to talk to the press about what happened in the forest?’ Laura asks. He nods. ‘So, what did happen in the forest?’

As an answer, Mr. Potter points us to the British Ministry of Magic’s most recent press release on the topic. I ask if he’d be willing to tell us more. “Everything that’s in there is the truth, there’s not much else to be said,” he argues. “Even Narcissa’s acknowledged that I wasn’t armed. It was the only way to ensure that Riddle could be killed, that the others would stand a chance to win the war. Then, she says I was running away. And, then, in the next breath, she says I was suicidal. She can’t even make up her own mind, it seems.” I try to ask Harry about what it felt like, going down there, thinking that he was going to die, but he immediately closes off. “All the facts are in the press release,” he says. When I question him about why he doesn’t want to elaborate, he laughs and asks: “I don’t know. Would you want to?”     

‘Allegedly,’ Laura later asks, glancing down at her notes. ‘You were seen casting the Cruciatus Curse on a Death Eater by the name of Amycus Carrow, ahead of the Battle of Hogwarts. Miss Granger and Mr Weasley have also confirmed that a goblin was Imperioed during your Gringotts break-in and have both refused to identify the person who cast the curse in their depositions, simply stating that it wasn’t them. Do you have a comment to make?’

‘I can confirm that it wasn’t them.’

‘Are you confirming it was you?’

‘No,’ he laughs. Again, he thinks, I’ve not gone completely mental. ‘I’m simply confirming that it wasn’t them.’

Laura smiles. ‘There were only three wizards at the scene.’

‘Well, then, like I said: “no comment.”’

She huffs out a bit of a laugh, adds: ‘Okay, let's say,’ he raises an eyebrow, ‘that it was you.’ He smirks. ‘I’m curious what you think of Mrs Malfoy’s argument? That the Ministry should have investigated and possibly charged you for any wrongdoings. Same way that she and her family were? She argues that because you refused to cooperate with the Commission and did not sign your immunity agreement, there is no reason for you to be given special treatment.’

At that, Mr. Potter responds: “I don’t know, honestly. Maybe, she does have a point. I’m not the Ministry. It’s not my job to tell who’s guilty and who’s not. I’ll testify at her trial, say that she and her son, at different points last year, did save my life. That’s the truth. They also allowed Narcissa’s sister, Bellatrix, to torture my best friend under their own roof.  That’s all I can do, really, at this point, tell the truth. I regret not doing it earlier, giving her ammunition, lying about what happened in the forest and all that. But last spring, everyone wanted answers and all we needed - me, Ron and Hermione - was quiet, really.” I ask him if he feels guilty. “About any of the things you’ve listed?” he smiles. “No, not really.” About other things, then? Here, he sighs. “Yeah. I feel guilty for every single person who died before I went and gave myself up, last year. That’s not something I think will ever really go away, or something I can change.”

She asks what he thinks of the Death Eater trials that will start in the new year. ‘As a concept?’ he chuckles. ‘I don’t know. Not a fan of it considering how it turned into witch hunt, last time around. But at the same time, you do have to get people to own up to the things they’ve done. Honestly, I stand with Kingsley on this. I do think that with the popular juries, the accused having a right to their lawyers - they’re really doing their best to make sure it’s as fair as it can be. Azkaban also isn’t what it used to be.’

Before leaving, we ask Mr. Potter one last question – about his love life. We understand that his recent break-up with former classmate, Miss Ginevra Weasley (Ronald’s younger sister), was largely publicized in the British, tabloid press. At first, Mr. Potter seems quite reluctant to talk about it. Then, despite the rumors we’d heard about his notoriously quick temper, it is the first time that day, that we see him genuinely angry. “Look, they can write whatever they want about me,” he tells us. “I’m a public figure, apparently that’s fair game; I’m used to it. But the stuff they wrote about her, especially Witch Weekly, it’s just appalling. Ginny and I were together, then we broke up – well, she broke up with me; everyone knows that – but the fact that it was accidentally caught on camera does not give anyone the right to abuse her the way they have. Some of the things that they’ve written about her, how she was just after me for money or fame, making lists of all the boys she’s dated before, it couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s despicable and insulting, and outrageous.”

I ask why he thinks such comments have been made. “Well, because she’s a girl,” he tells me. “They would never write that kind of stuff about me. You know, Hermione once told me: ‘When a girl dates lots of boys, she’s a slut. When a boy dates lots of girls, he’s “great fun” or “one of the lads.”’ That’s true, and it really shouldn’t be. And, don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t happy we broke up. I love her.” When he reads that line in the article, he rushes to go and play the tape Laura gave him again, cringing at the fact that yes, right, he did say ‘love,’ there, and used present tense - great. “But it was her decision. If I can respect that, so should Witch Weekly.”

I ask Harry if he’s been seeing anyone else, recently. He seems to consider his answer. “Yes,” he concedes. “She’s a [No-Maj] so I suppose that at least, thanks to the Statute of Secrecy, no one can go and stalk her.”

The first thing he asks, after the interview, is when they will go to print. It’s scheduled for the 20th of December, just before Christmas, they say, and promise to send him a couple of courtesy copies. Because of the way mail’s transferred across continents, Harry can expect everyone in England to be able to get a copy by the 21st. He’s off work that day and the next, he remembers, so at least, there is that.

Before then, the one thing he does is write to Ginny. The whole quote about dating someone else kind of escaped him, so did all that stuff about bloody Witch Weekly. He’s trying to prevent another disaster.

Harry writes about fifty drafts. First, he can’t settle on a greeting: Hi? Hey? Dear? Then, it’s: Gin, or Ginny – not Ginevra – maybe no name at all? There are a handful of letters in which he admits that yes, he does love her, still – but he quickly burns those. Sometimes, he finds he almost wants to tell her that things with Mia aren’t serious, that she’d just have to lift a finger and he’d come back in an instant. Then, it occurs to him that Ginny might not think very highly of that, either. He gets a bit bitter towards the end, asks why the reasons she gave for their break-up don’t make any fucking sense. The last draft he tosses out randomly asks if the Quidditch season is going well.

In the end, he settles on:

Hi Gin,

I hope you’re doing well.

I just wanted to let you know that I did an interview with an American magazine (not much, just a few questions they had about the war and all). They asked about us (he strikes that hard and hopes she won’t be able to read). They asked and I told them I was seeing someone new. She’s a Muggle (he considers telling her it’s Mia, the neighbour she encouraged him to befriend, but quickly decides against it). I understand if you don’t want to write back but I expect it’ll be in the article so I just thought it’d be best if you learnt it from me first. It should be out by the 21st.  

Anyway, again, hope all is well.

Yours,

Harry.  

He spends the next fifteen minutes obsessing over his use of the word ‘Yours,’ (he’s not hers, technically, not anymore, although in his head he kind of still is -) but Merlin, fuck this, he finally sighs, throws in the towel and Floos over to Grimmauld Place. He ties the letter around Pig’s paw and watches him fly away, already regretting every word.

Harry finds the bird on his windowsill when he gets home from work the next day. Her response is not even a letter; it’s just a note (he supposes she didn’t agonise over this as much as he did, did she?). He unties it with fumbling fingers.

Cool, thanks for letting me know.

Gin.

He has no fucking response to that.

On the morning of the 21st, a gorgeous, Northern Hawk owl taps at his window, gives him a little bit of a fright, at eight o’clock in the morning. Mia’s gone home for the holidays so he expects to be spending the next two days in his pyjamas, watching something stupid like East Enders on his brand-new TV, and generally avoiding the rest of the world. Granted, he’s changed, grown and learnt since last summer, but not that much.

To complement the interview, Harry sees that the magazine’s decided to run an entire special edition dedicated to the British Wizarding War. Flicking through the pages, Harry sees a number of investigative pieces on Voldemort’s reign, his followers, collaborators and facilitators. A number of their staff also seems to have talked to people on Harry’s side (including Neville as the spokesperson for C.A.S.H.C.O.W), Kingsley, Narcissa Malfoy (nothing new there, Harry sees that she’s still playing the same tune to whoever is willing to listen) and other ministry officials.

His own face is full on the front page (ugh) and it feels a bit weird: the way he recognises himself, but also doesn’t. The picture is a black-and-white portrait. In it, he’s looking straight into the camera, a somewhat neutral but strangely determined expression on his face. It moves, of course, but only, very barely. Just a breath, a few seconds; his gaze subtly goes to his left, then refocuses. The angle accentuates his jaw line, the three days’ worth of stubble at his cheeks. He looks like himself, but also not. Like a kid, but also not.

The other photos are more like the ones he’s used to. They’re coloured - bit of a change from the Prophet – but it’s generally him, at different points of the afternoon in Grimmauld Place. On the couch, by the bookshelf. In one of them, he’s absentmindedly petting Hermione’s cat. In another, he’s talking animatedly about something (he remembers this was the point when they asked him about why he felt so strongly about C.A.S.H.C.O.W.), the soles of his trainers balanced at the edge of the coffee table.

“Please, Call Me ‘Harry,’” the title reads.

He rolls his eyes at that, but does suppose that it must be how these things sell.

Ron thinks it’s ‘Brilliant!’ A bit shyly, he thanks Harry for giving Hermione and him so much credit. Harry didn’t even think that he had – again, he just told the truth, didn’t he? His best mate also says: ‘Good one, making them think you’re dating a Muggle,’ which Harry, all things considered, decides not to correct.

Hermione’s not so easily charmed. She sends him another five-foot detailed critique of his every word, highlighting strengths and weaknesses (‘You do come off a bit arrogant there, Harry’). Overall, though, she seems to conclude the whole thing is well-written, truthful, and generally what she was hoping it to be. I think it was good for you to do this, Harry, she writes. It sets the record straight before the trials and makes you sound a bit more… human. Someone people can get behind. He thinks of that night when he got drunk with Giulia when he reads that, then tries not to think about it. I also liked what you said about Witch Weekly. They’re probably going to come at you for being a feminist, now. Is that what he is? Oh, and objectively, you do look very handsome in that front-page picture, too.

He bursts out a laugh at that, mostly because of her use of the word ‘objectively,’ like there’s a metre to fill or boxes to tick. He certainly wouldn’t call himself ‘ handsome’ by any means but he does have to acknowledge the fact that this particular high-quality, professional photo of him is more flattering than the usual shots the paps manage to get. He’s strangely hotter when he consents.

Hermione has the decency not to mention the ‘Muggle girl’ situation. For that, Harry’s grateful.

Kingsley’s satisfied, too. He’s not quite over the moon about the part where Harry practically dares the Ministry to charge him with multiple counts of Unforgivable Curses (‘We are obviously not going to do that, Harry,’) but overall, the interview seems to have driven both the Ministry’s and Harry’s approval ratings up by ten points. When it’s just the both of them in the room, Kingsley also says Remus would have been proud and Harry decides not to question it, to just take it as it comes and simply believe.

Neville thanks him profusely for drawing so much attention to C.A.S.H.C.O.W., which occupies nearly a page of the article. Harry raves about the good work that they’re doing, encourages people to donate. It’s actually the part of the whole operation that he’s happiest about, and something that he doesn’t really think he needs to be thanked for.

He makes it back to work on the 23rd. Giulia, himself, Ron and his new Christmas-period partner, Thaddeus, get the Ministry cars out at the crack of dawn on a report of a couple of Dementors, allegedly spotted loose in an abandoned factory on the outskirts of Birmingham. Thaddeus grumbles all the way down to the car park about the report being bogus and Ron keeps repeating that he ‘fucking hate[s] those bloody Dementors, anyway.’ Harry thinks it’s way too early to express (or even have) any opinions on the matter and Giulia, it seems, can hardly keep her giggles to herself.  

She sits in the passenger seat of the car and, with her wand lit up, reads the entire interview out loud back to him. Harry believes that he might one day murder her in her sleep, but also has to admit that part of him can’t stop laughing at her sarcastic commentary. ‘“Revenge’s never really been what I was after.” Saint-bloody-Harry, aren’t you? I mean, do you listen to yourself sometimes?’

‘It’s true!’ Harry counters and gives her a half-hearted eye-roll.

She laughs. ‘You know what? The worst part is: it probably is,’ she mocks. ‘Which is why you’re the hero of the wizarding world and I’m, like, your nasty Aunt Peggy.’

He snorts. ‘Petunia,’ he corrects. ‘Her name’s Petunia.’

‘Same thing. Merlin, you should send a copy of that magazine to them, you know? Shove it right up in their face.’

They laugh all the way up to Birmingham but, just as they land outside the factory, she puts her hand on his left arm before he goes to open the door. ‘I’m taking the piss and all but you know it’s a good thing, right? What you did?’ she asks, genuine, like she wants him to know, ensure that someone (anyone) has actually told him. She’s his trainer, his mentor, one of the best Auror he’s ever met and it’s strange, how much this suddenly means to him, coming from her. She’s clearly never had any issues calling him out on his shit in the past so now, he knows she’s telling the truth. ‘This is good stuff,’ she adds. ‘Stepping up. Telling people the truth. Being you. Promoting the charity and all. It’s things to be proud of. Not sirens and shite, yeah?’ she laughs.

He nods, once. They’re going in to capture Dementors and Merlin, he thinks that (right there) might actually be Patronus-worthy. He remembers wanting to tell Hermione he was shite at everything, after Ginny left, but perhaps, he isn’t. He just needed time to figure it out.

‘Thanks,’ he tells her. She smiles, shows a bit of teeth and little lines at the corner of her eyes.

In the grand scheme of things, though, very little of that matters, that day. Not the press, not the trials, not the sarcastic commentary, or even the Dementors. That is because there are no Dementors.

Harry doesn’t know that yet, not at this precise moment, but they’re walking into an ambush, aren’t they? And, because Giulia dies, that day, it’s the last smile she ever gives him.

Chapter Text

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vi. out of glass (crystal rose)

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.

.

Years later, in May 2008, Harry sits in the front row while they uncover the war memorial in Hogsmeade. The event has been months in the making, controversial in the press - a wave of strong opinions from bravely unnamed Ministry officials, complaints about anything from the cost to taxpayers, to the aesthetics of the sculpture. Rain pours and cascades down uneven rooftops, an urgently cast shield protecting the attendees, droplets of water now gliding down a see-through dome, some twenty metres above their heads. 

Harry’s gaze focuses on the lines they form and follows them down to the ground. 

Cutting through solemn silence, Kingsley reads out the names of Voldemort’s victims in alphabetical order. They carve themselves, appear onto the white marble obelisk on the main square. Emrys Steadman’s name follows Eleanor Smith’s and Ginny’s fingers gently wrap around Harry’s forearm. ‘Now’s not the time,’ she mutters as his blood boils - he catches her look and nods. If it weren’t for her, he’d have stayed home with the kids this morning. If it weren’t for Fred’s name coming down that list.

Kingsley said: ‘We’re including all casualties between Voldemort’s return in ‘95 and his death in ‘98.’ The list was published in the Prophet. ‘I know it might not be the full list,’ he conceded. ‘But we have to draw the line somewhere.’

Harry slammed the door on his way out. ‘Giulia Squicciarino.’ There was the wood-panelled office of the Minister’s secretary, and the way it swallowed the sound of his voice. ‘She was your fucking friend.’

At the ceremony, he shows his face because Gin needs him there, and because Giulia would have called him an entitled twat otherwise. ‘You think I care about having my name on a fucking stone?’ she would have smiled, daring and sarcastic, a bit like she did that last morning - showing teeth and the lines at the corner of her eyes. 

‘Well, maybe I care,’ he tells her in his head the next time he visits her grave. ‘It’s not right.’

She would have laughed at that. ‘Well, life’s never fucking right, is it?’

She is the last casualty of a war that desperately seeks to lower its death toll. A curse hits her, that day - simple as that. Harry’s injured, about fifteen stones’ worth of Muggle machinery’s just been blasted in his face, and she’s - trying to get to him. She dies like this.

The factory they’re in is an old lace mill. It is the 23rd of December 1998. Before they enter the building, Thaddeus – Ron’s temporary partner during the Christmas holidays – and Giulia laugh. They play scissors, paper, stone to determine which team will go in first. She wins (‘I don’t know, T. You just always seemed like a paper kind of bloke,’) and Ron gives Harry a little bit of a shove when she adds, teasing: ‘Better you two go in front, anyway. Got the hero of the wizarding world with me, wouldn’t want to damage him before he gives his next interview.’ 

They clear out the ground floor without incident. A handful of empty rooms, no Dementors. From the outside, Harry’s counted four stories, rows and rows of tiny windows lining up the façade for what seemed like miles – he couldn’t help but wonder if they’d be here all day. The four of them climb up a set of stairs, make their way into the main room. Hundreds of yards of brick walls, dirty floors and empty working stations, stretched out upon them. They take two, maybe three steps in, before his foot hits something.

It’s a cable. A cable for an automated appliance that is still plugged into the wall.

Later, in January, when they finally get to sit down and talk about it, Robards says: ‘See, that’s why I need Muggleborns on my team.’ Harry doesn’t correct him, doesn’t explain that he’s not really Muggleborn, strictly speaking. The point is: out of the four of them, he’s the only one who picks up on it. Muggles have to pay for electricity. Muggles wouldn’t have deserted a building leaving things plugged in unless they were in a hurry.

In Harry’s memories, Ron stands maybe ten feet ahead of him. Thaddeus a little behind. Giulia to his left. He crosses Ron’s gaze.

It’s a split second before they both shout: ‘DOWN!’ At the time – he doesn’t even fully know why.

(Later, Ron says: ‘I dunno, mate. It was just the look on your face. Same look you had in fifth year, when you realised You-Know-Who had tricked you into the Ministry.’

The day Sirius died, so, Harry thinks. Good to know.)

That morning, he grabs Giulia’s shoulders. It was her or Ron (sorry, Thaddeus) but, she’s closer. Also,  Ron’s shouted, too, presumably knows he needs to hide. Harry screams ‘DOWN!’ and launches for her, drags the both of them to the ground. There is a desk to their left – he slides underneath. Hopes (hopes to God, to Merlin, to anything and everything) that Ron’s done the same with Thaddeus. He can’t check, can’t do much of anything, really, because about a millisecond after they hit the floor, the world around them explodes. 

The bang is loud enough that Harry wonders if he’ll ever hear again. Under them, the ground, the walls (everything) shakes so hard that he thinks, for a moment, that they might collapse onto the floor below. Instead, it’s the ceiling that opens up above – rubble, electrical cables, more heavy machinery – Harry lies on top of Giulia under the desk, hoping that his body will shield her from the collapse if the worktop comes to break. Something briefly digs through the flesh of his thigh and he draws blood when he bites on his hand to stifle a scream. Under him, Giulia’s still breathing.

(That, ladies and gents, isn’t a curse. It’s a Big Bang.)

The blast takes minutes to recede. The wave of the explosion washes over them like something Harry already knows is magical and wrong - it stops rather suddenly. Leaves his ears ringing, heart pounding in his neck. There isn’t silence, not exactly, he can still hear things breaking, sliding and collapsing around them, electrical cables breaking into little sparks, but the main blow has cleared. Ron, is his first thought. He quickly tries to straighten up, adrenaline pumping, slides off Giulia to see behind the edge of the desk. The room’s gone completely dark - half the world seems to have fallen on top of it – at that point, it’s all smoke and dust; he can’t see anything.

‘Fuck,’ Giulia whispers, then.

At first, Harry feels a rush of panic course through him, wondering if she’s hurt. More than pain, it’s fear that he hears in her voice, though, (raw, icy) - he turns towards it. For now,  something in his gut (feeding on years spent avoiding people who were out to kill him, maybe) seems to beg him to stay quiet. Giulia appears to think the same thing; when she speaks, she mouths and mutters her words, crouched next to him. His ears ring, vision hazy, slightly dizzy.

She’s folded awkwardly between him and the desk. They’re crouched behind a metallic back panel, something that in the past must have been meant to hide the worker’s legs and feet. At least, here, they’re somewhat hidden from view.

Harry tries to cross her gaze, then, glasses askew. ‘Fuck. Harry, don’t move,’ she says.

Obviously, he tries to move. Tries, because when he does, pain sears through his right leg like it’s being cut open and – upon closer inspection – it is. A metallic tube, maybe seven or eight inches long, about the diameter of a pound, is impaled straight through his thigh. Blood is soaking the fabric of his jeans and the moment he looks, Harry feels bile rise at the back of his throat.

Something tells him not to close his eyes. Tells him that if he does, he might not open them again. Gently, he feels Giulia’s hand against his leg. She moves, ever so slightly; he’s pretty sure she’s trying to Apparate them out of there. He’s about to shout, say that wherever they are, they can’t leave Ron and Thaddeus here but then, ‘Fuck, wards,’ she says, shakes her head.

There is that, he supposes.

A loud bang echoes from further up the room. They barely have time to glance at each other again, wonder what the hell that was, before a shower of spells comes cruising above their heads. It is a dense curtain of flashes, yellows, and blues, and greens in a relentless flow; they all crash against the back wall and the stuff around them starts catching fire again, explosions and glass flying in all directions.

‘Death Eaters!’ someone shouts. (Obviously.)

The roar sounds a lot like Thaddeus, from what seems like yards away. Harry’s stomach drops. Though, come to think of it, what on Earth had he hoped for? A Muggle gas explosion? Sounds likely.

A few seconds, perhaps minutes go by. He can’t be sure – it’s a chaos of spells exchanged overhead; he hears a number of unintelligible shouts – Giulia fires over the worktop a couple of times, aiming for a general point of origin without really being able to look. Trapped to the ground, he tries to shift but his leg clearly refuses to cooperate and collapses under his weight.

‘Fuck! I told you not to move!’ Giulia admonishes over the noise but - 

‘I count five!’ someone else shouts. It comes from the same general area as Thaddeus’ voice did, earlier. Then, ‘Giulia?!’ it shouts again. ‘You two still there?’

Ron, Harry thinks. Ron’s alive. That’s Ron’s voice. Ron’s alive, Ron’s alive, Ron’s–

There is a moment, there, Harry thinks. His gaze finds Giulia’s as she casts a silent curse over her shoulder towards their attackers and he sees her hesitate. A second, maybe less. He doesn’t hesitate, though. If the first word out of her mouth after the blast was ‘Fuck,’ his first word is: ‘Go.’

Go for Ron. Go for the others. Maybe you can find a way out, maybe -

‘Fuck you,’ she speaks again, and her glare is darker than he’s ever known it to be, fury currently outweighing fear. Of course, they spend the next few moments arguing. She shouts at the others ‘Cover us! We need time!’ and when Harry opens his mouth again (he’s slow, the blood loss and he’s just so cold - it’s difficult to focus) she says: ‘Fuck you,’ (again) ‘I’m not leaving you here. That is not happening.’

He defaults on the argument because he passes out.

The next time he comes to, she’s pushed him further down under the desk, sat him up against the back. ‘Harry, Harry,’ she’s hitting him in the face. He lets out a groan. ‘Stay with me.’

He wants to point out that he doesn’t particularly fancy staying around someone who’s hitting him in the face but the part of his brain that usually translates thoughts into words isn’t currently cooperating. Later, she speaks to him, he thinks. It’s loud in his head and the world spins around them; he feels her shove a piece of wood in his mouth and even if he can’t speak, he understands pretty quick what she’s about to do. Sadly, doesn’t have the strength to push her off. Now, she looks scared, he thinks. Terrified. ‘Okay, I’ll count to three, yeah?’ she whispers.

She doesn’t.

She counts to one, maybe one and a half, he’s pretty sure, before she pulls the bloody thing out of his leg. Now, that wakes him up. Real fast. For a moment, he wonders if she actually hasn’t chopped it off entirely. Harry closes his eyes, teeth digging holes into the piece of wood in his mouth until quickly, he feels blood, liquid and hot under his hands and his entire limb suddenly feels like it’s burning, burning from the inside, like his skin itself has come alive and – his eyes open but he can’t see, stars clouding his vision and it burns – burns - he vaguely feels her hand hitting his cheek again. ‘Stay with me, Harry. Please, please, please stay with me,’ her voice shakes with tears and don’t faint, he thinks, don’t faint, don’t faint, don’t –

Then, nothing. He blinks a couple of times, eyes finally able to focus on her face. His leg feels numb rather than half-open. He looks down and sees a burnt scar through the rip in his jeans, the size of a coin. The tube is gone, bleeding stopped. Careful, she unfastens her belt from around his leg (he hadn’t even noticed it was there) and sits with her back next to him, head against the drawers at the other end of the desk. ‘Better?’ she asks. He flexes his foot. It’s working. Hesitantly, he lets the muscle in his thigh clench a bit. He winces with the pain, but it’s nothing like it was before. ‘Sorry,’ she tells him, then. ‘I know that spell hurts like a bitch – just had to stop the bleeding.’

He looks at the tube in her hand. It’s half-soaked in blood. Harry can’t help but laugh. Fucking laugh. He shakes his head at her, straightens his glasses and catches her gaze – it’s somewhat funny how he can actually breathe again. His voice is raspy, throat dry, still, dusty when he speaks. ‘So, you what? Set me on fire?’

She playfully shoves the side of his shoulder with hers. ‘Saved your life by the looks of it, you ungrateful prat.’ Something between a chuckle and an exhausted sigh escapes his mouth. ‘Though you did save mine by getting us under here in the first place, so I’d say we’re even. Come on,’ she adds. ‘We need to get to the others.’

Under a cascade of spells, exploding items, and curses thrown across the room, they make it up to Ron and Thaddeus in a few minutes. Hidden behind a pile of rubble fallen from the collapsed ceiling, the other two fill them in. There are – indeed - five Death Eaters, entrenched at the back of the room, a few hundred yards out. The two of them have been under constant fire for the last fifteen minutes, Ron quickly explains, haven’t been able to move an inch. ‘They ’re not moving either,’ he says; Thaddeus fires something over his shoulder. ‘They’ve got these protective spells going on around them – they can fire at us but as long as they stay up there, nothing we cast seems to get through, I -’ he starts, then frowns at Harry, looking down at the blood on his jeans. ‘Whatever happened to you?’

Harry shakes his head like: maybe I’ll explain if we do get out alive someday.

‘Have you tried blasting stuff at them?’ Giulia asks. ‘If spells can’t get through, maybe things can?’

It works – for a while. The four of them start raining a downpour of debris, machinery and anything they can levitate or explode at the other side of the room; it gives them a bit of an edge. ‘We need to get closer,’ Giulia finally says, catching Harry’s gaze. ‘Get a better aim!’

Slowly, covered by Ron and Thaddeus, the both of them manage to move further up the room. Harry’s leg is stiff when he rests his weight on it but it generally functions. This, he supposes, is all he can hope for. The other two follow quickly, hiding behind desks, storage cupboards and everything else they can find.

They make it about halfway up the room when one of the Death Eaters appears to step out of their protective enchantments. It was something Thaddeus threw, Harry thinks, that finally landed close enough to make him slip. Harry’s still too far out, in the dark, to truly make out the man’s face, but the one thing he does know, in that specific moment, is that because of where he finds himself, hunkered down next to Giulia behind an industrial loom, he’s the one, out of the four of them, with the clearest shot.

‘Potter!’ Thaddeus shouts to get his attention. ‘To your right!’

And, this – this, you see - is why Ron called out for Giulia, after that first explosion, not him. Because whatever you do, you don’t call out his name in a place like this. Not with dark, cloaked figures in the vicinity. Giulia knows that. Ron knows that. Even Thaddeus would have known that if he’d worked with Harry before, if he hadn’t just been replacing Ron’s usual partner, because of the bloody Christmas schedule. He would have known, Harry thinks, not to shout ‘Potter!’. That doing so is pretty much a death sentence.

It’s a split-second decision. They’re going to come after him, Harry knows, will blast both Giulia and him out of this world within seconds. So, before she can stop him (oh, he knows she would have stopped him) he stands, gets out from behind the loom and aims to run towards the next working station, about twenty feet away. Giulia tries to reach for his arm but he’s already gone.

He gets the shot. Wordlessly fires a Stupefy straight into the Death Eater’s chest. Before the man falls to the ground, he runs as fast as he can across the room, as far away from anyone else as possible and shouts: ‘Expelliarmus!’

Go on, come after me, he thinks. Come after me, not after them. It works. ‘THAT IS POTTER!’ one of the Death Eaters growls. 

Harry throws himself down to the ground as the world around him explodes. Again. About fifteen stones of heavy, Muggle machinery are blasted in his face and –

(There. There, it’s coming, isn’t it?)

He opens his eyes again. Initially, kind of reckons he’s dead. Then, he remembers: bruises, cuts, a general soreness aren’t what death feels like. This, whatever it is, isn’t King’s Cross, either.

He’s just been thrown back, maybe about thirty feet. Miraculously, both his arms and legs still seem to be attached to his body. He takes a glance to his right and thank Merlin, he thinks: Giulia’s alive. She’s crouching behind a pile of rubble, desperately trying to find an opening to get to him. There is fear and worry stretched across her face. He’s never seen her look so scared. Through her gaze, it suddenly occurs to Harry that he’s lying flat, his back against the cold, hard floor, right in the middle of the room, completely exposed.

For a moment, he tries to move. Pain cuts through his side, keeps him on the ground. (Broken ribs, he’ll find out later). Glancing back, he notices that three of the Death Eaters seem to finally have left their protective bubble, too happy to go and check if Potter is dead. He’s not – not yet - but they’re definitely going to kill him, now, and -

Before he can truly worry about that, though, to his left, someone shouts: ‘BOMBARDA!’

The sheer force of Ron’s spell surprises everyone (including him, it seems). The explosion sends three bodies against the wall behind them at once - hard and heavy thuds colliding with bricks. (Later, they find out that two of them died instantly, skulls splitting open upon impact. The third one is in St Mungo’s for quite some time after that.)  

Boosted by yet another instance of Ron Weasley saving his life (not that he’s counting), a thought suddenly occurs to Harry that with four attackers down, they might now - actually might - get out of here alive. A rush of adrenaline courses through him again and with it, he manages to get up from the floor, run to cover behind a nearby desk. A flash of white misses him by a couple of feet and whatever that spell was sets the storage cupboard behind him on fire.

Sitting up, he spots Giulia again. She’s about fifty feet away, behind him and to his left. She glances to the front of the room, the back, her sides –

It’s sudden. She gets up. Runs towards him.

Fifty feet, it’s not much. Three seconds, maybe. They’re partners, they’re not supposed to stay separated. Ron and Thaddeus cover her with loud, distracting spells, trying to keep the last of the Death Eaters busy with the both of them. By then, Harry’s already trying to think of a plan for what they’ll do next, bring the last one down, but then – she trips. On a piece of debris on the ground, about six feet from where he is. Six fucking feet. A safe distance, they say, one that he used to keep from Vernon to make sure he didn’t get hit. She’s just out of reach.

Giulia trips. She loses her balance. It’s a second, not more. Enough (just enough) for her to get hit.

It’s not Avada. He knows that. The spell’s yellow and there’s blood – everywhere. By the time Harry understands, by the time he moves, his boots are slipping in it. She falls to her knees, half-standing, and coughs it out. On him, on the floor; he watches as large, open gashes spread across her body, at her chest, at her neck – there is blood everywhere – fucking everywhere – and she looks scared, looks –

Then, another curse hits her – this one, right in the chest. That is a flash of green. A part of him (the part of him that has oddly dissociated from this moment – like: it’s not happening, can’t be happening, not here, not to her, not this morning, not -), that part of him thinks: this is literally an overkill. She was dying, definitely dying, he wants to scream, with all that blood – on his hands, on his chest, on the floor – so why hit her again, why –

He moves. Loses track of everything he’s learnt these past few months about keeping his cool, maintaining cover; Harry drags himself across the six feet and kneels by the side of her head. Kneels in a pool of blood; her eyes are wide open, terror still etched over her features - they face the ceiling. He sits there, in the middle of the alley, and ‘Harry, no!’ Ron shouts just before another flash of green cruises past. It grazes Harry’s nose, an inch or two away. They’ve killed her, he thinks. They’ve fucking killed her, they –

He stands. Just fucking stands, in the middle of everything, and looks up.

The Death Eater who fired at him (fired at her) is surprisingly close, now. He’s moved to get a better aim. It’s Greyback. Harry recognises his ragged, animal-like face - their few encounters and the posters more recently stuck all over the walls at the office. He’d managed to run, after the battle, now top of the Aurors’ undesirables. Funny how these things happen, Harry supposes. Perhaps, there is a lot to say to that. There is - also, strangely - not much to say to that. 

‘You missed,’ Harry observes, low, almost to himself. Something falls off the ceiling in the distance – a light – it barely registers. Greyback missed, fired an Avada Kedavra an inch from Harry’s face and missed. In that moment, he remembers the day Giulia pointed out his ‘abysmal’ Potions scores, back in the patrol car. The thing is, though, at the end of their spell instruction training, Harry’s accuracy rate on target, at the firing range, was 99.8%.

In his head, Tom Riddle murders his mother.

There’s a flash of green and Greyback falls to the ground.

He’s not sure where time goes, after that. It’s not like he faints or somehow loses consciousness; it’s just that maybe, he blocks it out. First, it was dark, and he was scared, and Giulia was dying. Now, it’s light, and he feels numb, and she’s dead. That much he knows. It’s glaring him right in the face, kneeling there next to her body. His hands, his jeans, his jumper are all soaked in her blood. It’s gotten thicker, now, and her eyes are glazed over, a golden shade between green and brown, almost faded. It feels like he was in a daze, just woke up.

‘He hasn’t moved?’

Robards. A voice in the distance.

There are people, here, now, too. Not Death Eaters, just - people. From where he is, Harry can see their feet moving around him. Ministry boots. Aurors running protective spells, he reckons, collecting evidence or securing the location, tiptoeing around the both of them, filling the fucking place. Everyone is acting as though they can’t see him – can’t see her. He’s not dead, though, is pretty certain of that, so.

‘I’d say he’s in shock,’ an unidentified male responds.

‘Well, if he’s in shock, I’ll have to get the bloody mediwizards in here,’ Robards sighs. ‘I mean, appreciate we’d rather not, with all the press outside, but -’

Harry doesn’t look away from Giulia’s face. Can’t look away from her face. Part of him still thinks she might wake up and what if he’s not there, watching her when she does? So, ‘I’m not in shock,’ he just says, then. Isn’t quite sure if it’s true.

His cheeks aren’t wet, that much he can tell. When he reaches to wipe a drop of blood off the corner of her mouth (There. Now, she could be sleeping), his hands don’t shake, either. Heartbeat feels oddly calm, like: what would be the point of trying to get out now? He only wishes he could stand, wreck Dumbledore’s office again, just for something to do. It occurs to him that Dumbledore’s dead, too. Seemed indestructible, just like Giulia, seemed –

Suddenly, looking at her becomes unbearable. Harry feels blood thumping against the side of his neck and stands. His entire body screams in protest; he sways a bit, steps away. ‘Potter,’ someone calls. He flinches. 

‘Excuse me.’ Robards, again. He swiftly materialises at Harry’s side, arm catching him before he falls. Harry doesn’t move, isn’t sure that his legs won’t give out under him if he does.

‘Where’s Ron?’ he asks. First question. Always the first question.

‘He’s fine, he’s downstairs with the mediwizards. Livingstone’s in St Mungo’s,’ Robards says. Thaddeus, so. ‘Broken bones. You should go, too.’

‘I’m fine,’ Harry shakes his head. Steps out of Robards’ reach, as if to prove it. Can’t help it - casts a look behind his shoulder. Giulia hasn’t moved.

The boss gives him a sceptical look. ‘You can hardly stand.’

‘What’s going to happen to her?’

It is the first time that he’s actually able to cross Robards’ gaze, that morning. The hard, cold, blue stare that the Head Auror usually sports is gone. There is something kinder, almost filled with regret – the older man sets a hand on his shoulder. Seems to ponder over his choice of words. ‘They’ll take her to St Mungo’s, confirm cause of death.’ He pauses; Harry feels a light squeeze. He feels like he’s going to vomit, too. ‘I’ll go with her,’ Robards says. ‘She won’t be alone. I promise.’

But I know what killed her, Harry thinks. I saw it, I -

‘Potter.’ Robards’ voice is soft, uncharacteristically careful. ‘There’s nothing else you can do here.’ Harry swallows, says nothing. There is a slightly anxious tone next, uttered low ‘Go get yourself checked out. If you’re able, someone’ll take you down to the Ministry afterwards. Internal Affairs will want to speak to you.’ That does get Harry to look up at him again, away from Giulia. Robards frowns. ‘You – do you remember?’ he asks, then, unsure. ‘You -’

Harry speaks quickly, nods. ‘Killed Greyback, yeah, I know.’ His brain is fuzzy but he does remember that. ‘He killed her,’ he adds, matter-of-fact. Robards’s eyes are slightly faded with age; they grow wider at his words. Greyback killed Giulia, killed Lavender, condemned Lupin to a life of hiding and misery, and -

‘Yeah, maybe don’t tell them that -’ the boss says, quick. Harry’s not sure – he might have been speaking out loud. ‘Actually,’ he adds, seems to reconsider. ‘Don’t talk to them at all. Not until I get there. You have a right to have your superior officer present, do you understand?’

Harry’s lost, that morning. He’s lost and he’s grieving, and he’s heartbroken, and angry (so, so angry he could make oceans rise around him) but he’s not stupid. Understands rather well what Robards is saying, what Internal Affairs will likely be saying, too. Nods, once. Robards smiles, tense, and gives his shoulder a light squeeze again.

‘Okay, get yourself cleaned up as much as you can before you head down, yeah? The bloody press’s outside,’ he sighs.

In the loo, there is no soap. Harry runs the tap, clear over his face, his hands, and arms; he avoids the mirror at all costs. When he looks down at the white porcelain of the sink, the water runs red against it.

At the end of the street, the reporters are held back behind a holding charm. The moment Harry steps out, he hears their cameras clicking. Fucking vultures. Ron exits the mediwizards’ tent just as he goes in – they hug. It hurts at Harry’s side, but in a good way, an alive way. They pull back; Harry notices that Ron’s face glistens, like it’s been plunged into an entire bucket of Dittany, greenish smoke still erupting in places. His arm’s held in a sling. ‘Dislocated my shoulder,’ Ron says. Harry winces. ‘Not that it matters, eh?’

Harry’s not sure how to say that it does. That Ron could have died, too. That – ‘Shit, Herm-’

Ron quickly shakes his head. ‘They’re fine. They’re all fine. I spoke to Kingsley. He spoke to Mum, Andromeda, Hermione. They’ve checked all the wards – doesn’t seem like there were any other attacks.’

Harry nods. Runs a hand over his face. There is that, at least. 

His visit to the mediwizards’ probably doesn’t go as Robards had hoped. Harry sits on the examination table, takes his shirt off, keeps tapping his foot against the wall. The mediwizard who tends to him is in his late twenties, rather short, already balding, beard thick. ‘Okay, you’ve three broken ribs, then there’s the wound in your leg. You’re lucky you didn’t puncture a lung,’ he says. Harry doesn’t care. (Doesn’t care, doesn’t care, doesn’t -) The man stares at his chest. ‘You sure you didn’t take a curse?’ he asks.

Harry frowns. Yes, I’d have noticed if I’d – he thinks, before following the man’s look. Ah.

‘That’s older,’ he shakes his head. It’s the Avada from last spring. The bruise is about the size of the back of his hand, now, has settled into a dark kind of colour, slightly faded at the edges. Hasn’t really hurt in months. A scar’s appeared under it - not a lightning bolt but a white outline of something that looks like a web of blood vessels, spreading out over his heart.

‘You sure?’ the mediwizard insists. ‘Has a Healer looked at this? Do you know what kind of -’

The bloke probably means well but Harry’s restless with anger and fear, and adrenaline. Just fix me and shut the fuck up, he thinks, snaps his response before he can think any better. ‘Yeah, a killing curse,’ he says.

That seems to rob the man of his words for a second. He looks at Harry’s face, forehead, opens his mouth, closes it.

‘Yeah, didn’t think you people would have had much experience healing those, do you? I mean, by all means, if you do, maybe you can think of a way to bring my partner back from the dead, while you’re at it?’

He’s being rude. He’s being a dick. But, before the man can think of a response, Harry slides off the table, pulls his t-shirt and jumper back over his head and storms out of the tent.

In front of him, four stretchers are being levitated out onto the street. A wizard in dark robes with a solemn expression on his face is edging them along with his wand; they float down to the other side of the road. White, bleak, covering sheets. Robards follows the procession. Off the side of the third stretcher, a mess of dark curls peeks out. Harry feels bile at the back of his throat and throws up on the ground.

Part of him just wants to kneel and cry. 

Instead, he’s escorted back to the Ministry. They put him in a room. He’s not quite sure how. It’s probably the first time in his life that Harry just obeys. ‘Sit here, Potter,’ someone says. He does. There’s a table, three chairs, blaring lights pouring out from the ceiling. He sits with his right foot resting on his toes, heel in the air and leg bouncing up and down. It hurts the muscle in his thigh in an almost satisfying way. ‘Drink this,’ the Auror who shows him in also says, sliding a plastic cup onto the table. It looks and smells like clear water but Harry syphons it with his wand anyway, refills it with an Aguamenti.

The bloke gives him a funny look but makes no further comment before leaving the room.

He can’t tell how long he sits there, on his own. Sometimes, Harry feels angry. Sometimes, he feels sad. Sometimes, he closes his eyes, opens them less than a second later, hoping that he’s dreamt it all. Often, he feels like retching again, dry heaves above the bin but nothing comes out. He wonders what her King’s Cross looked like. A pub, maybe, a Muggle one. With a cute girl bartending, slipping her slices of lemons and shots of tequila over the counter. Ah, go on, he thinks. Almost hears her say it. It’s all right.

Sometimes, it feels like he can’t breathe.

Robards enters the room eventually. Followed by Kingsley. Another Ministry employee joins them, asks for Harry’s wand. A questioning look. Robards nods. ‘It’s protocol.’ Frankly, it’s not like Harry was going to fight it. He just wants someone to explain, bloody fucking explain how they got here, and why, and –

The unnamed Auror places Harry’s wand in a velvet box, then leaves with it.

They wait. Kingsley stands, studies his feet. Robards sits on one of the chairs that face Harry, keeps looking at his watch. Harry wonders what for. Under the table, he balls his fingers into a fist, then releases. Again. And, again. Grabs a tissue from a box on the table, makes confetti out of it. Rips in half, then again, and again. When Kingsley finally looks up, Harry notices that the Minister’s eyes are bloodshot.

‘Oh, for Merlin’s sake,’ Robards suddenly says. The other two just stare. He stands, looks around, as though startled by where he is. ‘What are those bloody cunts from Internal playing at?’

In a rush of air and frustration, Robards leaves the room. When the door closes, to avoid looking at Kingsley, Harry glances around and again, wishes back to simpler times when Dumbledore was there to sit everyone down and bloody, fucking explain. The minutes stretch between them. Kingsley seems lost in thought; Harry can’t properly think. Keeps imagining the man in front of him as a young Auror, the one who trained Giulia, who still seemed to take time out of his busy schedule to grab pints with her. It’s such a fucking waste.

‘She was seeing this Muggle girl,’ Harry finally finds himself saying. His voice is hoarse, hasn’t made a sound in hours. He sets his glasses to the side, buries his face in his hands. Maybe, he’s just trying to cover up the silence, think of anything other than Giulia’s dead body in his arms. ‘Cynthia? Sylvia? I don’t think they were serious. Someone needs to tell her -’ but, tell her what? he wonders. Tell her what, exactly, because Cynthia, or Sylvia, or Sonia, or whatever the hell her name is, was never told about magic, was she? Was never told about her girlfriend’s savvy spells, or about her time in the Slytherin common room, about wizards who kill other wizards, or – ‘Someone needs to tell her something,’ Harry settles, then. Sighs, puts his glasses back on and starts bouncing his leg up and down again.

He thinks that’s what he would have liked for Mia, if he’d died. For someone to tell her something.

Kingsley nods, curt. ‘I’ll take care of it,’ he says. Not like: I will ask my secretary to draft a letter; like: I’ll take care of it myself. Like out of the mountains of things on his plate, out of everything that being Minister of Magic entails, this is actually what Kingsley Shacklebolt will do today. An achievable goal to focus his energy on, the way Bill spent the day that followed Fred’s death illegally moving his family and Harry’s money out of Gringotts. Harry wishes he had something to do, too.

‘Can I leave the room?’ he asks, then. Kingsley raises an eyebrow.

‘What for?’

‘Does it matter?’

Kingsley shrugs. By the looks of it, it does not. Harry leaves the door ajar - outside, in the corridor, the guard gives him another funny look. Attached to the wall, he quickly spots a light and yanks a candle from it, brings it back inside the room with him.

He sets it down on the table. They took his wand so he fishes inside the pocket of his jacket for the lighter he uses around Mia. It’s like, sometimes, he’s living this sort of double life - like they all are. Secrets they’ve got that keep the world safe.

‘Harry -’ Kingsley says. There is something pleading in his voice, in his look, like please don’t do this or, please don’t make this real.

Harry’s thumb grazes the wheel of the lighter. The flame catches the wick. ‘I lit a candle for him,’ he tells Kingsley. And, as a matter of fact, Harry can’t help but think that the Minister of Magic is the only other person in the world who knows that. Knows that Harry lit a candle for someone whose name he’d rather not say, not because he is afraid, but because it doesn’t deserve to be spoken. Not here, not now. ‘If I did it for him, I’m doing it for her.’

So, together, Harry and Kingsley watch Giulia’s candle burn. 

Later, ‘those bloody cunts from internal,’ finally do come in. It’s the bloke who took Harry’s wand, and an older one with grey hair and rather large ears. Robards claims one of the chairs that face Harry; the younger of the men throws him an irritated look but stands, lets his own boss take the other. He leans back against the wall at the other end of the room, seemingly as far from Kingsley as he possibly can. It reminds Harry of his Hogwarts days, a room full of adults trying to assert their dominance over a situation they can’t control.

It suddenly occurs to him that he’s an adult, now, too.

‘Seeing as we’re all here,’ the older man starts, casting a general glance around the place. Harry notices that he’s not particularly looking at him. There is a quick-notes quill floating by the side of the table, writing as he speaks. ‘For the record, I’m Mr Andreas Veen, I work for the DMLE’s Internal Affairs department.’ His voice is quick but not what Harry expected; a bit like Seamus’ but quicker, ‘ow’-s that sound a lot like ‘oi’-s. ‘The date is the 23rd of December, 1998 and it is – 6:47 pm.’ That late? What feels like just minutes ago, he was still in the patrol car, laughing as Giulia shouted at him to keep his hands on the wheel. ‘I am accompanied by Mr Sorjus Teasdale, also from Internal Affairs. We are here on the basis of §10.8 of the Auror Conduct Code, mandating the interview of any officer involved in an incident resulting in the death of another officer. We are also here on the basis of §10.6 of the Auror Conduct Code, mandating the interview of any officer following the casting of an Unforgivable Curse in the line of duty. Also present in this room are Mr Gawain Robards, Head Auror, and exceptionally -’ Harry sees the man shoot an annoyed look at Kingsley, whose presence is definitely unwarranted. ‘The Minister of Magic, Mr Kingsley Shacklebolt. We are interviewing Mr Harry Potter, trainee Auror.’

They ask him questions. It lasts hours. Harry gets angry, frustrated, tired – his entire body aches and aches, and they won’t leave him alone. Many times, he actually considers simply standing up and walking away, perhaps throwing his chair up in their face for good measure. It reminds him of all those times when he was a teenager and people like Veen refused to believe him or asked him to stand by their side for their own political gain. Harry almost wishes he could give them his memories. Empty all the thoughts that are whirling around on loop in his head into a pensive and be done with it. ‘So, you didn’t check if anyone was inside, before entering the building?’ Veen asks. We were after fucking Dementors. It was routine. You people sent us after Dementors. You didn’t verify the report, you – ‘Alright, and how did you know it was an ambush, then?’ I bloody didn’t. Things were plugged in, I reacted on instinct, I – ‘Oh, a Muggle thing, then -’

They ask him: how did Ron manage to take out three Death Eaters with one spell (‘I don’t know, you ask him,’), why Giulia and he got separated (‘Thaddeus said my name, they figured I was there,’), why they didn’t call for backup (Again: ‘It was routine. There was no time.’)

‘I don’t know,’ Harry says, often. I don’t know, I don’t know. He finds himself repeating the phrase, over and over - because it’s true. He doesn’t know. Doesn’t know how it happened, or why; was so, bloody focused on trying to survive, trying to find a way out, trying, trying, trying (and failing). She’s dead ( dead, dead, dead) and the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders if maybe they’re right, maybe it was all his fault. ‘When you fired at the last of the Death Eaters, did you make note of whether he’d actually stepped out of the protective enchantments?’

The prevailing theory they’ve built, it seems, is that due to the strength of the Dark Magic present in Avada Kedavra, it may have been the only spell that could actually have gotten through the Death Eater's protective enchantments in the first place. The only spell that could have produced enough energy to cruise past their defences. Harry doesn’t care (if this is true, actually wishes he’d cast it before, perhaps could have saved her, and -); he just wants to be left alone, fucking sleep. ‘I don’t know,’ he sighs.

Kingsley immediately shoots him a warning look. ‘Mr Potter,’ Veen asks. ‘Did you know Mr Greyback?’

Mister? Harry laughs. ‘Yeah.’

A sigh comes out of the other man’s mouth, hot and heavy air between them. ‘Mr Potter, if Mr Greyback had indeed stepped out of the protective enchantments, surely there could have been some other -’

It’s too late. Harry’s fist flexes with rage and hammers down onto the metal table between them. The strength of the blow makes his empty plastic cup rattle and fall, Veen’s quick-notes quill drills a hole through the parchment. All four men either jump in surprise or recoil and, ‘Fucking arrest me, then!’ Harry hears himself shouting in response – strangely, he finds he actually means it. Understands what it must have felt like for Sirius, the overwhelming guilt over his parents’ deaths that made him feel like a lifetime in Azkaban might have been deserved. If there is one thing he doesn’t regret, to tell the truth, it’s killing Greyback. If that’s what they want to lock him up for, however, if that’s what this is about, then – Harry lets out a steadying breath before looking up, looking away from his hands that still feel warm and slick with Giulia’s blood. ‘I don’t really give a fuck.’

Veen leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. ‘Mr Potter –’

‘That’s enough.’ 

It’s Robards - again. His low voice and thick accent chill the room. It’s the first time since they came back in that the Head Auror’s actually spoken. ‘If Potter didn’t have the strongest survival instincts out of anyone in this entire bloody department, I’d have four of my people in body bags,’ he says. There is a cold sort of fury to his tone; it makes Harry still in his chair. ‘Now, it’s been three hours. Either you charge him, or you don’t; regardless, you can piss off.’

On Veen’s uncomfortable suggestion, the ‘adults’ agree to ‘take this conversation outside.’ Through the door that they clearly forget to silence, Harry hears Robards and Veen at each other’s throats, arguments half-whispered, half-shouted in the corridor. Kingsley periodically tries to step in to calm the waters.

‘They did everything by the book, how dare you people -’ Robards hisses. Veen responds something that Harry can’t quite make out. ‘Of course, I’m protecting my agents, it’s my fucking job to have their back. He’s already lost his partner; you spent hours badgering Weasley with questions before him, what are you trying to -’

‘Gawain -’

‘Well,’ Veen seems to hesitate, then, lowers his voice slightly, like that will make a difference. ‘I know they’ve gone through training, but we all know how it is, Gawain,’ the man says. ‘There’s rats,’ he pauses again. ‘And, there’s real life. A successful Avada Kedavra, cast on another wizard - even a lot of seasoned Aurors aren’t capable of firing that shot. He ’s not even out of probation, don’t you think it’s a bit odd -’

‘Of course, it’s FUCKING ODD,’ Robards yells back. This time, he’s roaring, even – Harry jumps a little. ‘You know what else is fucking odd? Where the fuck were you people when the Ministry fell last year, eh? When he and his mates were being hunted, tortured, murdered – and after all of that, they still join, the whole lot of them, still agree to give their bloody lives for it! That kid loses someone again and he still bloody sits there, answers your fucking questions and you know what? He hasn’t jumped up or tried to strangle you yet, and to me, that is fucking odd!’

It lasts a while. If you’d told him, just a couple days ago, that he’d ever hear Robards praise him like that, Harry’d have told whoever was saying it (Giulia, most likely) that they were barking mad. Now, though, the flattery barely even registers – he tunes out of it. The shouting makes him shiver and want to block out his ears like a child, knowing that if they did lock him up inside the cupboard, at least there, he’d be safe - alone.

Eventually, out in the corridor, it sounds like Veen and his colleague storm off. Harry vaguely hears Robards and Kingsley whispering. When they reenter, Robards plops himself down on one of the chairs facing Harry again, visibly trying to catch his gaze. Harry focuses on his hands. ‘They’ll clear you,’ the Head Auror says, then. ‘Suspend you for three weeks, for the length of their “investigation,” justify their salary, then they’ll clear you. Not because of anything you did, it’s just what they do. Raise a fuss, pretend to look into it, then close the case, no action needed. Auror misconduct, it gets out in the press, especially if it’s you, and no one wants that, not even them,’ he adds. ‘Now, Potter, look at me.’ Harry sees, rather than feels, the man’s hand on his arm again. His eyes remind him of earlier, when he promised he wouldn’t leave Giulia alone. ‘You, Weasley and Livingstone did everything right. You were outnumbered, out-planned, you stumbled into an ambush and still took down five Death Eaters, saved three lives. You are not responsible for this. It wasn’t even targeted against you, we know that now. They didn’t know you’d be there. Just wanted to take down whoever walked in, take down the Aurors who’d been taking them down, an eye for an eye. It was a bloody coincidence.’

‘No.’ Harry can’t tell what’s worse: for it to be targeted, for it to be all his fault, or this. Wrong place, wrong time. She just died trying to save their lives. ‘She’s dead,’ he says. She’s dead and no, they can’t have done everything right, can’t –

‘Yeah,’ Robards nods. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

Eventually, Kingsley leaves them to it. Robards stays with Harry. It is past midnight by the time he gets his wand back, after he’s read and signed his deposition, been told he’ll be paid for his time off (as though that fucking mattered) and that the final decision from Internal Affairs will be notified to him via owl in the coming weeks.

‘Listen, Potter,’ Robards adds. They’ve walked back into the Patrol open space - Harry’s collecting a couple of things from his desk – the photos of Giulia and her family on the other side are glaring him in the face. ‘I don’t want to pry but I know when someone’s lying to me. If there’s somewhere you were trying to avoid, by working over Christmas, maybe now, that’s a good place to be.’

Later, the fire from the Floo roars and engulfs Harry.

The Weasleys’ kitchen is silent when he steps in. Not sure what else he was expecting. A house full of life, maybe, loud bangs and fireworks to take his mind off things. Ron’s chess games, Bill’s gruff, half-hearted admonitions, George’s laughter and Fred’s wicked grin. That’s where the fantasy ends, obviously. It's too late. Harry lets his jacket drop against the back of one of the chairs, walks on towards the stairs. Doesn’t know if Ron will have set up the camp bed in his room. At this stage, he’d sleep out on the floor anyway. 

At the bottom of the steps, though, something catches his gaze. A flickering light in the sitting room, a girl curled up in an armchair, face buried in a book. Harry focuses on the cover - moving pictures: a blonde-haired woman, smiling and winking at him. A Witch’s Dream: a story of love and mischief, Harry reads.

He stands, unmoving, doesn’t know how long. She must feel the weight of his stare tracing her features because she looks up, alert, like a horse reacting to a gunshot. Her gaze settles on him. ‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ she comments. Dog-ears her page and sets the book down by her side; she’s already standing, then, takes a step forward but stops. He stills. Wants to look down to the floor, wants to move, but can’t.

‘I’ll go up to Ron’s room,’ he says.

She nods. Doesn’t take her eyes off him. ‘Hermione’s here, too,’ she tells him. ‘I think they’re asleep.’

Her hair looks a darker shade of red in the candlelight, skin paler than it usually is. Harry loosely wonders (remembers) what it would be like for his fingers to trail over it. His gaze drifts out to the cover of her book again, left abandoned against the side of the armchair and he recalls how he used to make fun of her somewhat scandalous reading tastes. ‘It’s not just porn, Harry,’ she laughed at him. ‘There’s feelings and knights, and unicorns - things that make me feel good,’ she added. ‘Like you.’

He should move, probably. Doesn’t. Just stands there in front of her like (because) there is nowhere else to go, feeling her gaze travel from his face down the rest of his body, to his shoes and his jeans and his jumper – her eyes widen, ever so slightly.

He speaks in a rush. ‘It’s not mine,’ he tells her. The blood isn’t his, for the most part, it’s hers and -

‘I know,’ Ginny agrees. (Ginny, Ginny, Ginny.) ‘Ron said.’

He’s not sure what to respond. Doesn’t speak. Lets his fingers run through his hair instead, slightly straightens his dirty, broken glasses. He lowers his arm, follows Ginny’s look – his hand is shaking, he notices. Slow, he flexes his fingers, balls them up in a fist. Releases. They continue to shake. He’s not sure why, doesn’t want her to worry, doesn’t want her to think he’s weak, and - ‘It’s just the -’ he starts, glance finding hers.

It’s the rush of adrenaline coming down, is all. He’s fine, he wants to insist, wants to climb up the stairs to find Ron and move, again but Ginny - Ginny just looks at him, then, and stands. There’s something in her gaze, something that he doesn’t really have words for. He’s never really had words for the both of them.

‘I know,’ she says. ‘Come here.’

And, the truth is: he doesn’t shatter in front of Giulia’s body, that day. Doesn’t shatter, either, when they put him in a room to hound him with questions about things he wishes he could control. He sits there and watches as the remnants of Giulia’s life break like glass, like sharp edges, hard, glottalised t-s and exhausted breaths, and death doesn’t hit him on a schedule.

Instead, he looks at Ginny, that night, and almost falls, then, knees buckling and legs giving out under his weight - she is the one to catch him. Harry shatters like it’s finally safe to do so, like Giulia’s life and the way it slipped through his fingers, that day, like the cuts of smashed, crystal roses. He shakes. With the adrenaline, with heavy sobs, with fear and pleas for it to end. For him to stop – selfishly – losing the people he loves, for the reasons why the only two lives he’s ever known are this and the Dursleys’ cupboard.

That night, he tells Ginny how intoxicating Giulia’s laugh was, how annoying he found her, sometimes, how she pushed his buttons and taught him to survive, how she seemed to fill empty rooms. He tells Ginny that it feels like he can’t breathe, like he’s trapped in a cage, tells her that he saw Giulia draw her last breath, less than six feet away and still couldn’t save her. He asks her why he survives when no one else does and she curls up around him. Holds, steady, heartbeat loud and clear against his back – she lays behind him on the sofa, runs her fingers through his hair until he falls asleep. She tells him she’s sorry. She tells him that she knows how much it hurts and that it’ll get better, even if that’s not something he wants to hear. She whispers in his ear and kisses the side of his head, holds him tight through gut-wrenching sobs and doesn’t let him push her away. Years later, when he goes into a rage over Giulia’s name not being on the memorial, she remembers why.

‘It’s okay,’ she says, then. ‘You’re safe. I’m here. It’s okay.’

That night in ‘98, Ginny Weasley slips his glasses off and dries his tears. She’s on her side, her chest pressed against his back, fingers dancing over the skin of his arm and ensures that he makes it through to the next day.

Chapter Text

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vii. out of ice (quiet times)

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.

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On Christmas Eve at the Dursleys’, Harry would always go to bed early. Dishes done, kitchen cleaned - it was a family night and Petunia never particularly wanted to see him. He would wait, pretending to sleep until they all left for Mass. Dudley grumbling loudly and Vernon, who’d probably never believed in anything remotely religious, would say: ‘Do you want to turn into the Devil? Like your cousin?’ 

In their rush to be on time, they would forget to lock the door of the cupboard and after they left, Harry would tiptoe back into the kitchen to steal a bit of pudding. That was Christmas to him.

In 1998, he wakes on the 24th of December and the world is blurry. There is: a fumble for his glasses, another person’s hand placing them in his. A wish that he could talk of a short, sweet moment of oblivion, one during which he would slowly come to, not remembering what happened or where he is, but that’s already too far removed from reality. His body aches with yesterday and the image of Giulia’s lifeless form is still right there, like carved into the back of his eyelids. He feels Ginny breathing softly next to him and in the darkness of the Burrow’s sitting room, his eyes focus on the vague shape of the woman in front of him. He takes his glasses from her hand and sighs. Unlike yesterday, the lenses are clear, immaculate.

He’s not scared. He’d still recognise Hermione’s vague shape anywhere.

‘Sorry,’ she mutters. ‘They’ll all come down in a bit.’ A quick glance thrown at the stairs behind her. ‘Thought it best to wake you.’

Harry shifts, brain still hazy with sleep, finds Ginny’s limbs interlocked with his on the couch. He nods. The last thing he needs, right now, is an angry pack of Weasley brothers trying to hex him out of this world because he fell asleep in their sister’s arms.

‘Tea?’ Hermione mouths. He nods, again. Stirs.

She disappears from view as he struggles up, a laborious attempt at heaving himself off the sofa without waking Ginny. His body protests the move, sore and painful in places he didn’t know existed, legs unsteady – she purrs awake gently. When he manages to stand, Harry leans in and pulls a mohair throw over her shoulders. ‘I’ll be with Hermione,’ he whispers. ‘Stay here, get some sleep.’

He doesn’t know what is going on, there, between them. Doesn’t have the brain space to think about it.

In the kitchen, Hermione’s put the kettle on. Her back faces him; she fiddles with the tea bags and the cups over the worktop. They’ve both become experts at pulling the water off the stove right before the whistle blows. She throws an old, ratty blanket over her shoulders and silently cocks her head towards the door. Harry nods, grabs his jacket from the chair and pulls it over himself, follows her out into the garden. The air is clear, crisp and cold, somewhere between night and dawn. In his pocket, he finds a pack of cigarettes, lights one and puffs out smoke. For once, she doesn’t frown, just hands him a steaming mug of tea. 

‘What time is it?’ he asks.

‘’Bout seven.’

Her voice is tired. He nods his ‘thanks,’ sips his tea. They stand outside, against the makeshift, brick-and-stone façade of the Weasleys’ home. Hermione’s wearing slippers and his socks are wet with morning dew. ‘It snowed yesterday,’ she observes as he eyes the garden. Tiny patches of white in the shade of the trees. ‘Didn’t stick.’ Obviously.

He wonders if it’s been twenty-four hours, yet. Wonders what time it was when Giulia died yesterday.

They drink. Hot breaths colliding with the winter air and Hermione’s silences that always remind him of owls and foxes, and the sounds of the forest. Sometimes, when the two of them are quiet, it’s because there isn’t much to say. Harry breathes in a couple of drags from his cigarette, watches the sky gradually fade into lighter shades of whites and baby blues. Can’t help but think of steady flames and lighting candles for the dead.

When he turns his face towards her, he feels Hermione reach out. Her palm gently cups his jaw, thumb running over a space just under his cheekbone. He winces, a short jab of pain as she touches his skin; she retreats, shakes her head at him. ‘I’ve Dittany in my bag, remind me to bring it down,’ she says before leaning back against the wall. ‘Teddy’ll get scared if he sees you like this.’ 

Harry sighs, looks away. With a quick flick of her wand, she cleans the blood and dirt from his clothes. Slow, he takes his hand to his chin, feels a large bump and a split lip. ‘That bad?’ he asks. There is an attempt at a smile. Even that hurts a little.

‘Like you’ve been stampeded on by a herd of Thestrals, yeah,’ she tells him. There is the look she throws, too, a sigh that sounds a bit like: boys and a smirk she is trying to hide. ‘Even Ron went to the mediwizards, you know?’ she pauses. ‘May I ask why you thought it best not to bother?’

He snorts. Low and hoarse, feels it in his ribs and stops. Yet, he’s pretty sure that if Hermione turns away and glances out onto Mrs Weasley’s garden, then, it’s because she doesn’t want him to know that she is smiling, too.

At the far edge of the orchard, the sun is steadily coming up the horizon. There are the trees and the light fog, glistening drops of frozen snow. ‘You’ll need to speak to Ron,’ she adds, matter-of-fact. The same tone she had when she begged him not to ever let her give him a haircut again. ‘Couldn’t sleep last night, kept replaying the whole thing in his head. I think Internal Affairs didn’t help.’ For a second, their gazes cross; Harry sighs. ‘He’ll be out for a while, now; I dosed him with Sleeping Draught. He’ll be furious the moment he wakes up, but -’ she shrugs. ‘Molly’ll be fussing over the two of you,’ she states again, a quick afterthought. ‘Let her. At least then, she won’t be thinking about Fred.’

Harry nods, silent. Her instructions like a list of tasks, like milk and bread and loo roll off a shopping list. They were never kids, but he looks at her now and wonders when she became such an adult. The cigarette in his mouth again and he wonders as well when it was that he became the one who talks to people, has conversations, out of the three of them. It feels better to change the subject. ‘You going back to your parents?’ They were flying across the world to see her and her plans for the three of them probably didn’t include being at The Burrow at seven in the morning on Christmas Eve. 

Hermione’s smile is hesitant, she is shaking her head at the same time. ‘No, they’re coming over,’ she supplies. Harry raises an amused eyebrow. ‘Put them in a hotel, over in the village. Mum’s a bit annoyed, we had theatre tickets for tonight. Dad’s happy to come along, I think. Finally, properly meet everyone,’ she adds. ‘Molly and Arthur are beside themselves, of course, having Muggles over. I think it might lift the spirits up a bit.’

In the faraway trees, they hear a bird sing. When they were kids, Dudley used to try and kick pigeons in the street like footballs. Hermione speaks again, sets her mug down on the windowsill.

‘You know?’ Her tea is dark, half-empty. ‘I never knew what it was like: waiting.’ She pauses again; his look is sharp but she’s avoiding his gaze. ‘Got Kingsley’s Patronus. We were at Grimmauld. Mum, Dad, McGonagall. Talking about school, believe it or not,’ she shakes her head, seemingly at the ridiculousness of it all. ‘They want me to go to uni. McGonagall volunteered to help, try and explain… That bloody lynx never comes with good news, does it?’ Hermione breathes. ‘“Ron and Harry were caught in an ambush. Check your wards,” it said. “Do not move.” I sat there.’

Harry watches. The way she quickly runs a hand over her face, her mouth, as though washing it. Her words are quick, like she is talking to herself, like all the details and explanations and thoughts aren’t necessary. 

‘I sat there, Harry. Thinking I could have been there,’ she says. ‘Thinking I should have been there.’ Her voice breaks; she swallows. Gaze moving out into the distance again, towards the edge of the trees and the horizon. ‘Thinking that if one of you was dead, it was because I wasn’t there.’ 

Harry opens his mouth without words to say. ‘But that’s just how it’s going to be, now, isn’t it?’ she asks, then. ‘The two of you out there, and me sitting here? Waiting.’

They’ve all made decisions, these past few months. The finality of them has never felt so real. Harry isn’t sure what to say, where to look; Hermione heavily blinks, once, then turns to glare at him. She is crying. He is suddenly reminded of last year, the way she would cry herself to sleep every night and get up and carry on every morning. 

‘You fucking arsehole,’ she spits out at him. There’s fury in her gaze; she hits his chest. It upsets the bruises from yesterday. Harry steps back, winces; she hits him again. ‘You promised.’ Heavy sobs, now; her palm weak and shaking, hammering against his shoulder. ‘You promised you wouldn’t die again, you said -’

‘Hey -’

He’s not even sure why he does it, then. Puts his mug down next to hers; his cigarette drops to the ground, and he lets her. Lets her hit him, her fear and rage washing over him until he grabs her wrists and pulls her close. ‘Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay -’ he says and she is half-fighting, half-hugging him back, now, sobbing hot tears against his shirt. Maybe, it’s because he’s seen Ron do it countless times before, whenever she cries. Maybe, it’s because her name was on his lips yesterday, too, the moment he got out of the factory, ‘Herm-’ She was missing. She was missing from his side, the place she’s always been whenever he almost dies and, now, he pulls her towards him. Almost instinctively, the way he fell into Ginny’s arms, last night, the way he imagines Ron fell into hers. 

‘I’m not dead,’ he repeats. Steady. ‘I’m not dead. We’re fine, we’re both fine. I’m sorry. I’m not dead. I’m not dead, I promise.’

They stay out there for a while, that morning. In the chill of the dawn, Hermione settles in his arms and when she pulls away from his chest, Harry notices that the sun’s come halfway up above the horizon; it warms his face against the cold. He leans back against the façade of the house - in the morning light, Hermione’s cheeks glisten; he smiles, reaches out to wipe tears off. ‘Come on, now,’ he whispers in a tone that begs: please stop, and she lets out something between a snort and a sob.

‘Why? People crying makes you uncomfortable, Potter?’ she mock-asks and dries her skin with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. He laughs. She’s not exactly wrong. 

Later, he nudges a small stone with his foot. ‘The Dursleys didn’t like me crying very much,’ he admits. Lonely Christmases and micro-tragedies. Her mouth twists.

‘I suppose not,’ she tells him. 

Harry lights another cigarette. The smoke is hot, itching against his throat. He loosely wonders if they’ll kill him, one day. Wonders, too, why nothing ever seems to kill him. He’s read speculation in the press about it, about the Horcrux story being yet another cover-up, people thinking that he could somehow really be immortal. Luna’s father seems pretty big on it. The whole thing made Giulia cackle. ‘Immortal, you say? No chance I could strangle you in your sleep, then?’

He wants to laugh and cry at the same time, now. 

Next to him, Hermione reaches for her mug on the windowsill. She brings it to her lips and swallows, leans back against the wall. Her face turns to cross his gaze. ‘I meant to ask,’ she adds, then. ‘Who’s the Muggle girl?’

It takes him a moment to even understand what she’s talking about. Then, he tries to hide the awkward embarrassment on his face and looks out to the trees. She nudges his shoulder. He toys with the cigarette between his fingers. Brings it to his lips, inhales. She laughs. It feels like years since he last heard someone laugh. He wonders if he could pretend not to understand, but -

‘Come on,’ Hermione says. ‘I’m not Ron.’

This time, he can’t help but smile. Hermione certainly knows when he’s telling the truth, even when it’s just an interview in a newspaper. 

‘What's her name?’

‘Mia.’

She grins like a win. Then, she looks at him again, pointedly. ‘So...? Who is she?’

‘Can we please go back to being grim and talking about death?’ he quips. 

So, yeah, anyway: they talk about Mia, too, that morning. Harry supposes it is something to talk about that doesn’t involve Dark Magic or dead bodies. He specifically tells Hermione the very bare minimum. Like: ‘My neighbour.’ A raised eyebrow. ‘You ask me who she is, well, that’s who she is.’ He’s pretty sure, by then, that Hermione’s enjoying this, the moment he looks back at her – he feels a burn in his cheeks and he wonders if this is payback for that time he teased her about her and Ron not having had sex yet. She pushes, keeps pushing with questions until he finally caves and admits: ‘I don’t know, Hermione, we shag, that’s what we do.’

A glare. ‘Class,’ she states. He looks down to his shoes. Does feel a bit shit. A response coiled in fake bravado. 

‘Hey, you asked.’ 

She smiles. Turns and seems to inspect the features of his face, her gaze focused on his eyes, then trailing over his cheekbones, his mouth. Harry feels strangely exposed, unable to move. ‘No,’ Hermione shakes her head. ‘You’re not like that. Don’t be a dick to her,’ she warns. ‘I taught you better.’

Her glance drifts back towards the house. Past the kitchen and into the sitting room. ‘And, Ginny?’ she asks.

He looks, too. Can’t help it, through the window. Makes out the shape of her form on the sofa. The red of her hair peeking out from under the throw. When she sleeps, Ginny burrows. Knees pulled up to her chest, arms hugging herself. He wants: answers. For everything. About anything. ‘I don’t know. I miss her,’ he admits. 

‘You should talk to her,’ Hermione says. ‘These days, I don’t think there are many people she trusts either.’ She pauses. He stays quiet, says nothing, doesn't know what to say. Later, she smiles at him, again: ‘And you should stop that,’ she adds. He follows her look - the pack of cigarettes on the windowsill. He groans, rolls his eyes. ‘Harry, seriously.’

He grins, though. Almost laughs. Supposes that Giulia did say they made him look like a twat. And, yeah: he’s going to be grieving and feeling like shit anyway, so why not, eh? ‘Alright,’ he shrugs. ‘Yeah.’

Satisfied, she vanishes the pack and this time, pulls him into a hug. A shorter one, a tearless one. ‘I’m sorry about Giulia,’ she says. He swallows the tears at the back of his throat and it doesn’t fill the hole in his chest (not at all). It’s warm, though, and that’s something, still.  

Later, Christmas comes and goes, that year. A year they spent at war with Voldemort, first, then with the ruins of all the castles that he wounded, but failed to destroy. They’re not dead, Harry thinks. It’s perhaps a low bar, but it is the one they have. So, that Christmas, he tries to laugh with George, chat with Mr Weasley about life in London and how to get on the Tube, tries to listen to Percy talk about his job at the Ministry with relative interest. When Kingsley visits on Boxing Day, the both of them stand in the garden and watch the snow fall. They exchange gifts, talk about politics and Quidditch, about previous Christmases, and knitted jumpers, sweets and full stockings.

As instructed by Hermione, Harry speaks to Ron. They are both fine. They both kind of feel like shit. Strangely, Ron’s main emotion is anger (at the Ministry, at the Death Eaters, at Thaddeus, at the world). Harry feels more apathetic. She’s dead like an inevitable fact, so they might as well live.

Mr and Mrs Weasley try their best. Hermione was right: her parents are a much welcome distraction. She and Harry act as the family’s official Muggle-to-Wizard translators and Harry sometimes wonders if, had fate decided differently, had it been Hermione and him (once upon a time, princesses and knights and all of that), rather than she and Ron, whether the both of them would have eased back into Muggle life, after the war. He doesn’t mean it badly, doesn’t have anything against magic, but if the Weasleys didn’t drag them back into their world all the time, with loud bangs and tight hugs, and an overflow of love, maybe neither of them would have stayed. Hermione would have gone to Oxford, or Cambridge, or whatever the Australian equivalent is. Harry would have done something. Stayed away from drill manufacturing and done something. 

On the 24th, that first morning, Molly’s in the kitchen by the time he and Hermione make it back inside. Harry’s gaze quickly finds Ginny’s. She’s standing in the doorway with a mug of hot liquid in her hand and smiles at him, something tight but warm. The more he thinks about it, the more he starts feeling embarrassed at his outburst of emotions last night, feels like he ought to explain. ‘I just -’ But before they can get time on their own, she quietly slips away. Molly pulls him close. ‘Oh, my darling boy,’ she says with a hint of possessiveness that reminds him of the vow she made over his parents’ grave. She looks at him, all bruises and broken bones, and grief, and asks: ‘Have you eaten?’

Andromeda arrives a few minutes later; Teddy takes one look at Harry and starts bawling (shit, he thinks, they forgot the Dittany), hiding in the crook of Molly’s neck. ‘Oh, it’s alright, Tiger, it’s alright, I promise,’ Harry says, tracing a finger against his cheek. At least he knows that Teddy’s upsets are still of the kind that abate quickly. ‘I just got a bit hurt yesterday.’

Andromeda sends him a glare that asks: a bit? and Teddy frowns, shyly pokes at Harry’s face. His godfather hides a wince. ‘Ouch?’ the little one asks.

Harry laughs, kisses the top of his head. ‘Yeah. Very ouch,’ he confirms. 

Andromeda Floos back home. Lands just outside the wards less than five minutes later with her St Mungo’s Healer’s kit in hand and threatens Harry with her wand until he agrees to lie back against Charlie’s bed. She has him strip down to his boxers to look at his leg and that is embarrassing, though he does have to admit she seems more interested in the wounds she’s treating, rather than in his person. She (obviously) doesn’t ask about the bruise on his chest.

Later, she sits Teddy in her lap as Harry puts his clothes back on. ‘Your face should feel better already,’ she says. In fairness, it does. Harry can feel the wounds and bruises starting to fill themselves – it’s a bit of an odd sensation, but not an unpleasant one. ‘For your leg, I’ve done what I could. You’ll have to rebuild some muscle – I know you like jogging, that might actually be a good idea. It’ll scar but overall, I have to say that considering the circumstances, that was some extraordinary emergency Healing she performed. Probably saved your life.’ And, well, there is that. Something seems to build up in his throat - he can’t speak, just nods. ‘For your ribs, they’re fine; I’ve fixed the bones. Just try not to carry any heavy objects over the next few days,’ she adds, this time with a smile. ‘That includes Teddy.’

In her lap, Teddy babbles and points, knows they’re talking about him. Harry gives Andromeda a pleading look. She laughs. 

‘He weighs over a stone, Harry,’ she smiles. ‘Trust me, that’s heavy enough.’

‘Wow, you have grown, haven’t you?’ he says, reaching out to ruffle Teddy’s hair. The little one beams. Harry remembers last spring, their first awkward encounters, how he tiptoed and anxiously stumbled, afraid to even carry him. They’ve come a long way, haven’t they? 

Andromeda laughs. It’s nice to see her laugh. ‘Yeah, believe it or not, that’s what babies do.’

The next day, Christmas goes as expected. Harry feels almost awkward in his grief, mourning too many people at once. The Weasleys put on a brave face for the Grangers. Andromeda distracts herself with the awe on Teddy’s face - they tell him about Father Christmas, reindeers and twinkling lights. George plays tricks – they entertain the little one as much as himself. Hermione’s parents (as evidenced by the daughter they raised) are polite, but not stupid. When Ron’s father engages them into a riveting conversation about dentistry to hide his tears, they indulge him. Harry’s pretty sure Molly’s about to escape to the kitchen to have a cry of her own when Bill snatches up the opportunity to speak. ‘Well, now that everyone’s here,’ he says. He’s sitting between Fleur to his left, and Ron to his right. ‘Fleur and I have an announcement to make …’

Then, Molly bursts into tears for a completely different reason. Ron, George and Ginny later drink to Fred’s memory, and to a new Weasley in the family.

Harry goes to bed ridiculously early. He doesn’t know this yet but it will be his pattern, throughout the holidays. In bed by ten, up in Charlie and Bill’s empty room (Molly refuses the mere thought of letting him go back to London on his own; Bill and Fleur head back to the cottage, and Charlie’s stayed in Romania). Over the holidays, Harry sleeps eight, sometimes nine-hour nights, straight through. If he dreams, most of the time, he doesn’t remember. Actually starts to wonder if Hermione hasn’t been dosing him with Sleeping Draught, too.

The thing is: it continues even after Hermione leaves The Burrow. She and her parents go skiing in La Plagne, taking advantage of the longer-than-usual Hogwarts break. McGonagall’s shut down the school for an extra week, aiming to get the final repair works on the castle out of the way.

By then, Harry is so confused, frankly, that he even asks Andromeda about it. She’s the only Healer he knows. One who is rather competent, too; his wounds are healing nicely. ‘I don’t think you understand,’ he tells her. She just smiles. On the floor between them, Teddy’s steadily trying to push a square peg through the round hole of one of the educational Muggle toys that Hermione’s given him. ‘I’m sleeping all night, now.’ It hasn’t happened to him in years, if he’s totally honest with himself.

‘We all grieve differently, Harry,’ she says. ‘If you’re sleeping, it’s probably a good thing.’

He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he says, shrugs. ‘I’m just… sad.’

It’s odd. Sadness, in its rawest form, not buried in depression, or PTSD, or anger, or resentment, or more self-blame than he can carry. Of course, yes, he blames himself, but whenever he tries to be a little observant, he comes to the conclusion that Ron does, too. And, when they both attend the service for Giulia on the 29th (Harry looks at his black robes from last spring, that morning, and just can’t – attends her funeral in jeans and Muggle clothes; figures she probably wouldn’t have minded), he thinks it looks like Thaddeus blames himself more than them both. So, if they all blame themselves, maybe it really was no one’s fault.

That day, Harry stands with his trainers in the grass next to Ginny and Ron. Wordlessly, they find her at the bottom of the stairs, coming down in the morning, and she goes to the burial of someone she didn’t know, for people she does know. She stands and doesn’t waiver, between him and her brother. They go to the pub, afterwards, and sadness tastes like something quiet and peaceful. Over the holidays, the smiles he gives Teddy are often fake, but he gives them anyway.

‘Sad’s fine, Harry,’ Andromeda tells him. ‘Death is sad.’ She’d know something about that, wouldn’t she? They watch Teddy frown at his peg between them and in the end, instead of getting the round one through the round hole, he ‘accidentally’ magics the square slightly smaller. It fits through; the little one grins triumphally. Harry chuckles to himself; Andromeda smiles. ‘See, he’s adapting. Not the way you’d expect,’ she laughs. ‘But, he is.’

Through all of this, of course, there is Ginny. At first, Harry’s not too sure what to say about it, about them. They spend a lot of time in close proximity, that week, the wireless soft background noise while he and Ron play chess by the fire, and she sits, parchment balanced on a book as she writes long letters to Neville or Luna. Harry feels this strange sense of jealousy, wanting to steal a peek into her thoughts; she is both close and a million miles out. They don’t often get the luxury of time alone; Molly’s so worried (about him, about Ron, about everyone) – that as Hermione had predicted, she’s around constantly. Harry tells himself he’s not avoiding Ginny, not exactly, or romanticising her from afar. It's just that there’s Hermione’s parents to entertain, gifts to wrap and prepare, a party to be attempted. Yet, on Christmas Day, he finds her waiting outside the bathroom, banging on the door for Percy to ‘bloody hurry up!’ Harry comes down the stairs and stills. He feels trapped, standing there a couple of steps up; can’t really back away and pretend that he hadn’t planned to join the queue, what with his towel and a change of clothes in his arms. ‘You know,’ she finally tells him. A voice escapes from the bathroom shouting ‘I’m coming!’ and there is the ghost of a smile on her lips. ‘If someone told me they were embarrassed for breaking down in tears after their friend died,’ she says, loosely inspecting her fingernails. ‘Which, all things considered, is a rather expected thing to do, I would remind them that I once compared their eyes to fresh pickled toad and somehow still lived to tell the tale.’

He snorts. Loud, can’t help it. For a while, that winter, that is that. It’s enough.

On Boxing Day, following Andromeda’s advice, he starts going out jogging in the mornings again. Pops by his place to get his trainers and running clothes, Floos back to The Burrow and starts slow. He runs about three miles before his leg starts protesting, up the fields and past Luna’s house, then over the bridge and the river, and back into the village. It’s eight o’clock by then, the sun’s barely up; he stops at a café for some tea and a snack on a side street, quickly chats with the owner. ‘Trying to work out all that Christmas food away already, eh?’ the man asks. ‘Very brave of you.’

Harry laughs. ‘Something like that, yeah.’

He gets his tea to go and walks back up to The Burrow.

He does it for a few days. Goes to bed so early anyway that even with a full night’s sleep, he’s still up at the crack of dawn. On the morning of the 30th, he’s surprised to find Ginny at the bottom of the stairs. She’s wearing trainers, leggings, warm socks, and an old Gryffindor jumper. Has always told him she hated running. ‘It’s that or being stuck in here listening to Mum nag me about next year the moment I get up,’ she declares, in lieu of an explanation. Smiles, almost pleads. ‘I need to get out of the house.’

He smiles.

She gives him a run for his money, that morning. With the injury to his leg, he’s been much slower than usual and she, on the other hand, is almost a professional athlete. He takes them through his usual route through the fields, past the river, into a nearby park and back down to the café – has to admit he is rather out of breath by the end of it. She – somewhat annoyingly – grins victoriously. It reminds him of their games last summer - he misses those, too. The way he ran next to her on the bike and she laughed, teasing: ‘You’re terribly out of shape, Potter.’

A lifetime ago.

Now, at the café, he pays for her hot chocolates with the Muggle money in his pocket. She chats with the owner with an ease that he’s always admired about her, the way she’s able to start up a conversation with any random stranger in a matter of minutes. He feels almost envious - has been finding it hard to connect with people, lately.

Mr Allen has two grown daughters, he explains, a dog, and a wife. At the weekends, he and his Muggle friends play football. Harry carries their drinks outside to a table set out on the pavement, facing the winter sun. He overhears the Muggle man say: ‘You know what? Your boyfriend never told me he had such a nice girl at home,’ and for a moment, he wonders what made the man say that, wonders if there’s something in the way they move, act around each other that will always betray some sort of intimacy.

Regardless, he notes that Ginny smiles and doesn’t correct him.

They sit outside in comfortable silence for a bit, wrapped in a couple of blankets borrowed from the café. Leftover from their run, there’s a slight flush to Ginny’s cheeks, her hair tied up in a ponytail, almost sparkling in the sun. When she smiles at him behind her mug, he thinks she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

‘How’s Quidditch?’ he asks, then. Safe topic.

She grins, takes a sip of her drink, gives him an amused look. ‘We beat Slytherin,’ she says. He smiles. Always thought she’d make a much better captain than he was (though, considering that one of his players hit him with a bat mid-game, that’s a pretty low standard). ‘Thing is, I don't know,’ she adds with a shrug. ‘It feels like it’s about more than just winning the cup, now, you know? Mum keeps saying I need to keep my options open, in case Quidditch doesn’t work out but it’s like… All I do is train. I go to class, do the bare minimum to get by, and train. I’m home three weeks for Christmas, and the only thing I can think about is that it’s all just wasted time. Not much I can do in here except race myself in straight lines,’ she sighs. ‘I almost stayed up at Hogwarts over the holidays but with Mum and Dad, George, Fred –’ she trails off. ‘Mum says I’m throwing myself into Quidditch and - yeah,’ she nods, lets out a light laugh. ‘It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. It’s stressful but -’ She sets down her cup, looks up at him. ‘What?’ she asks.

She’s caught him staring. He tries to pretend he’s not blushing. Was staring at her, obviously, listening to her, and he can tell that this, her ambition, her drive, is probably one of the things that made him fall in love with her. Ginny, he knows, has these great, big ideas about what she wants to do, who she wants to be, and whatever happens, he knows that she’ll labour through hell and high water to get there. It’s all of the courage and the fieriness that he knows run deep inside her. Harry tends to let things happen, cross whatever bridge presents itself when he gets to it. She’s got a will-power that could take down empires.

‘I don’t know,’ he says with a shrug because obviously, there are no words to tell her all of the above. ‘I just really hope you get what you want. That’s all.’

She nods, smiling. ‘Me too.’

They sit out there for a while longer, that morning, just taking in the rare beams of sunshine. He makes a conscious effort to trade stories about their respective autumns, about things that might not really mean much but are things - regardless. He admits that a few days ago, when he popped over to his place for a change of clothes, he also put the two extra copies of the magazine the Americans sent him into separate envelopes.

With the appropriate stamps, he sent the first one to Surrey. Included the magazine and a note that said: She was your sister. Not, I was your nephew, because that never mattered. The second, he sent to Liverpool. Courtesy of Hestia Jones who’d previously given him the address of Dudley’s university halls. At the time, his only response had been to choke on his drink. ‘Dudley took A-Levels?’

Hestia had smiled. ‘A lot happened last year, Harry.’

‘Bit funny, isn’t it?’ he says, now, watching Ginny smile in the morning light. ‘Dudley passed the Muggle exams and I’m the dropout,’ he laughs. ‘Petunia must be so proud.’

They (obviously) don’t talk about the contents of the interview itself. Not about Witch Weekly, or about Mia, or about the fact that he accidentally admitted he was still in love with his ‘ex’ in front of the whole bloody world. Instead, Ginny asks, curious, rather than judging. ‘Why did you do it? Send it to them?’ 

He shrugs. ‘Giulia said I should. “Shove it right up in their face,”’ he quotes. Ginny chuckles a bit. ‘Not the most honourable thing I’ve ever done, I suppose, but -’

‘Hey,’ she laughs, stops him. Her hand on his forearm. A moment. She takes it back. ‘Honourable’s for people who deserve it. When Hermione set that curse on Marietta Edgecombe, let me tell you it didn’t bother me one bit.’

They walk back up to the house. The weather’s turned a bit, darker clouds in the sky, Ginny pulls the hood of her jumper over her head. ‘Hey, look,’ Harry says. Forces the words out of his mouth before he can stop himself. She’ll probably tell him to fuck off but – ‘If you want to train while you’re here, we could go and play out in the fields by Luna’s house? There’s more space than at The Burrow, and I’ve never seen a single Muggle pass by. I’m not much of a Chaser,’ he adds, quick. ‘But I can throw a ball.’

Ginny stops dead in her tracks, then, turns to look at him. Something seems to pass through her eyes, something that looks a lot like alarm bells. She clearly ignores them. Then: an amused tint to her gaze. ‘It’s three degrees outside,’ she points out. ‘And raining half the time. No one in their right mind would want to play in this weather.’

‘Well, maybe I’m not in my right mind, then.’ Maybe, I’d do literally anything to spend time with you, he thinks. He sort of also thinks she can tell.

And, so: for the next couple weeks, that winter, this is how their routine goes. They get up around seven-thirty, get dressed in the dark and Apparate out to the café in the village. Get breakfast there (either inside or outside depending on the weather), buy sandwiches ahead of lunch and make their way up to the fields. They leave the brooms at Luna’s, pick them up on the way and play Quidditch for three, four hours, maybe, until whatever time they get hungry. Harry’s main purpose is to help her train so he mostly just flies and does what she asks. He times her, throws the ball, tries to nick it from her, they climb high and dive low, and it’s almost odd how easily they fall back into it, like Quidditch is a language both speak. He understands her every move, how she challenges him, how to challenge her. If during those mornings, they don’t talk, it’s truly because they don’t need to. 

On the 1st of January, the sun shines. It’s 1999. They stay at the field for lunch, wrapped tight in warm winter coats. ‘Christmas was grim, last year,’ she confesses to him, between two sips of Coke (he’s converted her). It’s on days like these that he still finds not reaching for a fag quite hard. ‘I mean, it’s grim this year, don’t get me wrong,’ she laughs. ‘But –’ for a moment, she trails off, looking for her words. He waits until she finds them. ‘Last year, Mum was so worried. We all were. Obviously, we didn’t even know Ron was with Bill and Fleur, that bloody git. Now, Fred’s dead, but at least we know, I suppose. Mum was fussing so much over all of us that Charlie said -’ she looks down, holding her sandwich over her lap. ‘He said, “They’re fine. Trust me, if they’d got to them, they’d be chanting ‘We killed Potter!’ from the rooftops.” I bloody hated him for it,’ she sighs. Seems to avoid his gaze for a moment. ‘I reckon Mum did see the logic, though. It calmed her a bit.’

To tell the truth, Harry kind of sees the logic, too. ‘Gin-’

‘No, I,’ she starts, interrupts. She’s struggling for the right words again, looks like she’s slightly annoyed with herself for not being able to phrase her thoughts accurately on first try. He almost never can accurately phrase his thoughts - ever. ‘I don’t blame him, Harry,’ she corrects. ‘He did have a point, it was just -’ she reaches for her drink, doesn’t bring it to her lips. ‘It was like you were a thing, you know? Not a person. I think Lupin felt it too. He came to find me outside, after dinner. He was always great, Lupin,’ she adds, smiling and shaking her head. ‘Really helped with… My second year,’ she adds in a quick breath. ‘He just stood there, next to me in the garden, watching the gnomes. He said that you were seventeen, that you were his best mate’s kid. That you used to burp on his shoulder when you were little,’ she smiles, like the memory’s just materialising before her eyes, right there, almost within reach. ‘I told him what I knew about you. That you rarely ever sleep well,’ she adds before finally crossing his gaze. ‘That you don’t like milk in your tea. That at the time, you liked pumpkin juice, treacle tart, and kissing me.’

A pause. Another sad smile. She looks away.

‘He never told Mum and Dad, you know?’ she adds, a bit later. ‘Could have, I mean, not sure what they would have done but he just smiled and said: “He must really miss you, then.” Wished me good night, walked back inside. It was different. Most people – Demelza, Nev – they all said that I clearly missed you, which I suppose was true, but it wasn’t what I needed to hear.’

She bites her lip. Seconds pass. ‘He was right,’ Harry says. It’s all he can manage without choking on his words. The next day, he blurts out to her the truth about the Hallows and the forest in one long, breathless tale, and tells her about hearing his mother calling him brave. It feels good, being honest, telling her things he never could before. Maybe, it took Giulia’s death for him to realise he didn’t have the energy to keep secrets, anymore. 

In ‘99, they trade Quidditch tricks and stories, maybe in equal amounts. Often, the winter skies are dark and heavy above them, wind blowing – it’s cold and it’s wet - and miserable, and yet, neither of them particularly wants to go home. ‘Master of Death, then?’ she asks, one day.

He kind of shrugs, kind of sighs, too. ‘Not anymore,’ he admits. ‘I lost the stone and the wand… I reckon at first, I thought that if I didn’t get defeated in my lifetime, then it would just die out, you know?’ She nods. ‘But now, with Auror training and all, I’ve been disarmed so many times - honestly, I don’t even know who it belongs to, anymore.’

She bursts out a loud laugh.

(Hermione almost had a heart attack when he told her. ‘You didn’t keep track?’

‘Well, now even I can’t get to it. Isn’t that even better?’)

Instead, ‘Clever,’ Ginny chuckles, bumping her shoulder against his. ‘Same result, though,’ she acknowledges.

They’re walking back down towards the house when he pauses, looks at his feet. ‘You’re the fourth person I’ve told,’ he admits. Notices that her mouth is slightly open, her breath a cloud in the air. He looks at her lips and wants to kiss her, then. ‘Ron and Hermione, I owed it to them,’ he says. She nods again. ‘Kingsley, I had to. After Narcissa,’ he sighs. That still makes him angry. Ginny rolls her eyes. ‘You, I always wanted to tell you. I just -’ He’s not sure how to phrase it. ‘I just couldn’t find the words, I suppose.’

She shakes her head, then, and smiles, somewhat sad. ‘I didn’t want to hear them,’ she admits. He feels her gaze on his face; it makes him look up. 

The following Monday, a week before she gets back to school, she finally tells him. ‘I used to write you letters.’

He frowns. Remembers the poem, but -

As if reading his mind, she laughs, shakes her head. ‘Not then, I mean. Last year,’ she tells him. They’re sitting at the café again; he notices a bit of chocolate at the corner of her lips. ‘Never sent them, obviously,’ she adds. ‘I’d just, I don’t know. Tell you about my days. About how school was. Then, I’d enchant them, lock them up, hide them in the Room of Requirement, away from the Carrows. I took them home, even after, when we were at Muriel’s. It was like writing in a diary,’ she says, quickly. ‘But writing to a real person. Who thankfully didn’t respond.’

She’s smiling, despite her words, so he does, too. ‘Well, now I feel less weird about the map,’ he admits.

‘The map?’

And, so, he confesses to that, too, that winter. She calls him a bit of a creep and he takes it, at first, until –

‘Wait,’ she asks. ‘Do you still have it?’

He goes bright red, then. Bright red, very, very quickly, feels the heat in his cheeks. Fuck, he hasn’t even really admitted that to himself, yet, has he? The way that the sometimes, when he can’t sleep – ‘Ew, Harry!’ she lets out but she’s half-smiling when she does so thank God, he’s maybe not in any real trouble.

‘I don’t know,’ he claims, hopelessly trying to defend himself. ‘Sometimes, it’s nice just to see your dot on there. I’ll see you in the common room with Hermione or something, I wonder what you’re talking about. Or sometimes, I can see you’re just lying in bed. It’s … soothing.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it is “soothing,” Potter!’ she laughs. Scandalised, though maybe a little amused, he’s not sure. ‘Bloody wanking off to me lying in bed -’

‘Hey, that is not -’

She silently sets her cup down, then, and sends him a look. He quickly stares at his hands (fascinating, they are, his hands) and while he’s pretty sure she isn’t much of a legilimens, sometimes, it feels like she can see straight into his brain.

They stop by Luna’s on their way back from training. She makes them hot chocolate, though her father still can’t seem to look Harry in the eye. By the time Ginny and he walk home, that night, it’s already dark outside and the rain has stopped. He can feel, rather than see, the gravel path under the soles of his shoes - the only light cast around them is that of the moon and of the tip of their wands. ‘Do you still have them?’ he asks. ‘The letters.’

She doesn’t respond, not right away. In the dark, it’s hard to see her face. ‘I do.’ 

Her tone is curt enough that he almost doesn’t push. Because for all that they’ve talked, he can tell that this place they’ve reached, it’s fragile. Often, they live fast, but also burn fast. He fights with everything he has against his instincts, against asking questions and needing facts yet somehow, he still can’t hold his words back. There’s no bubble left to burst since the world exploded around them last summer. ‘Can I read them?’

She wrote to him, after all. Must have intended for him to see them at some point, didn’t she? He doesn’t feel entitled to her, but he almost feels entitled to them, in a way, because if they exist, if she thought about him that much, last year, he wants to know. It’s another tiny, little sign that they might have existed, at least then, if not now. Why won’t she give that to him, at the very least?

Ginny doesn’t answer. This time, makes it rather obvious; they walk down the path in tense silence for the next few minutes, until they get through the wards of The Burrow. He knows she’s heard him, has chosen to ignore him, can feel the anger rising between them again. Why did you push? a part of him argues while the other asks: well, why did she bloody tease you with it in the first place?

In the end, she stops, facing the front door. ‘Gin -’ he says.

She shakes her head. ‘I’ll think about it, okay?’

On the 7th of January, he and Ron receive their Ministry letters. To be honest, by that point, while Giulia’s laugh still seems to haunt him every day, Harry’s almost forgotten about the enquiry. Regardless, as Robards predicted, they’re both in the clear. Harry feels his frustration rising again, can’t believe they gave Ron countless sleepless nights to just get here. In the end, it’s much ado for nothing. It’s –

The words suddenly come to him and he races up the stairs, locks himself in the bathroom, dry heaving over the toilet. Sirens and shite, is what it was. Fucking sirens and shite. 

That night, he dreams of Giulia. He dreams of her saving him and in a bizarre turn of events, of her lying dead in his forest. He wakes up confused and hopes that if there is an afterlife, she’s at least getting on well with Lupin, Sirius, Tonks and Fred.

‘You’re quiet,’ Ginny observes, the next day. It sounds like a plea, like: Don’t go quiet on me, Harry. Coming from her, it’s a bit rich. He’s still upset about the letters. ‘It’s like you aren’t happy they cleared you,’ she observes. ‘Harry, if you still feel guilty -’

His voice is sharp when he interrupts her. ‘It’s not that,’ he says. For once, it truly isn’t.

He regularly wonders why he survived and she didn’t, yes, but it’s not that. It’s that all they got is a lousy letter. A letter and an owl that flew off, stating that no charges would be brought. We expect you back at work on Monday, the 11th of January 1999, cheers, thanks for your service. And, because it’s domestic terrorism, Kingsley’s explained, the report will be sealed, classified. Ron and Harry have a conflict, now, so they’ll be taken off the case. Will never get to read it. Will never know what the conclusions were, or whose fault it was, if not their own. They won’t know how Voldemort’s former followers even planned this, or if they’d planned anything else, if Giulia’s death at least helped prevent something. Harry won’t ever know, either, what Internal Affairs really thought of him.

‘Their investigator,’ he admits to Ginny. ‘He said it was odd. That I could cast Avada so easily, less than six months into the job.’

‘Do you care what he thinks?’

They don’t play Quidditch, that day. Instead, they stand in the cold under a light drizzle, in the fields by Luna’s house. He leans next to her, bums resting against the side of a wooden fence and aches for a cigarette. ‘Giulia said Robards speculated, too,’ he adds. ‘After training.’ It’s like they see him as a fucking Guinea pig, isn’t it? Like the Healers and his killing curse. ‘Said that maybe it was because I’d been hit by it. Or because I’d lost so many people in the war.’

In the distance, smoke’s coming out from the chimney of Luna’s house. Harry remembers last summer, the dragon she drew for him. It’s still there, inked into the skin at his side – it got slightly hurt in their last battle together, but Andromeda and her bottle of Dittany dealt with the few cuts and left it as new. 

‘When I cast it, it’s not me casting it.’ He sets his jaw, looks to the ground. ‘That’s why it’s so strong. Why it works.’ Vaguely, he wonders if this might be where he loses her. Where she just comes out of this conversation thinking that he’s an insane, dangerous creep and forever walks away from him. ‘In my head, I see him murdering my parents but the spell that comes out, it’s not me being angry at that. It’s more like a memory. I remember what it felt like, casting it, being in his head. The anger he summoned to kill them. That’s why it’s so easy, getting the curse to come out. I’ve done it before.’

Every time, he sees Tom Riddle murder his mother, doesn’t he?

‘He’s dead, Gin.’ Harry closes his eyes and feels like digging the heels of his palms into them. ‘I know that. I killed him. He’s fucking dead and he’s still in my head.’

She’s standing right in front of him when he opens his eyes again. In the blistering cold he studies the freckles on her nose, her chapped lips, the scarf wrapped tight around her neck. He’s not sure how she does it, but she draws his look back to hers. ‘I know,’ she tells him. ‘Me too.’

He –

He kisses her. Stupid. Like: reckless Gryffindors in the depths of winter, like the boy he thought had disappeared long ago, somewhere between Quidditch wins and common room crowds. He slips his palms under her jacket, turns them around and pushes her back until her bum is pressed against the fence, just loses himself in her. In her lips and the touch of her skin, and the hammering of her heart against his chest. He doesn’t pull away, refuses to let himself pull away, even just to breathe, because a part of him still thinks that if he does, she’ll vanish.

The thing is, though: she doesn’t. Instead, she seems to be pulling him closer, if anything, intoxicating, her fingers trailing through his hair and her mouth warm and open against his, and –

He nudges at the space between her knees, against the fence, balances her against his thigh. Her fingers trail down, from his neck down his back, to his hips; he slips a hand over her bum, feels the heat of her skin, under the gap at the waistband of her jeans. Fuck, he thinks, he’s hard already and they can’t do this out here, and –

‘Harry,’ she says. The alarm bells in her eyes again. She pulls away from his lips. He trails down to her jawline, her neck. She moans, shifts to give him better access but - ‘Harry, stop,’ she tells him.

Suddenly, it’s like someone’s thrown a bucket of ice right on top of his head. He opens his eyes, finds hers, steps back. She must sense the panic in his look, he thinks, feels her hand soft against his cheek. Fucking mixed signals, like -

‘Harry, you’re with someone,’ she says.

And, at first, the main thought that hits his brain then, is: Mia wouldn’t mind. Later (a much less honourable thought): Even if she does, I don’t really care. ‘That’s not -’ he starts trying to explain, meaning to tell her (finally tell her) that it’s not serious, that –

But then, the moment he crosses her gaze, he sees something else in there, too. Takes another step back, almost instinctively, runs a hand over his mouth.

‘Fuck,’ he says. ‘Fuck, sorry,’ he repeats. It’s starting to feel like the Earth is spinning, a bit; he tries to lay his eyes on something that’s not her (but of course, she’s the only fucking thing in this bloody field for miles on end), and – ‘Sorry,’ he says, again. ‘I didn’t know.’

She’s walking back towards him, now, catching up the distance he’s put between them – he feels her hand against his cheek again. ‘Hey,’ she breathes. ‘It’s my fault. I didn’t tell you,’ she says. ‘And, I don’t know, I just got a bit carried away, there.’ A much less charitable part of him, then, can’t help but think: actually, yeah, that’s true. I wrote to you. Told you about Mia. You responded: ‘Cool, thanks for letting me know,’ not ‘Cool, just letting you know I’m shagging someone else, too.’ ‘It’s only been a few weeks,’ she explains, speaks quickly, shaking her head at him. ‘I wanted to tell you, thought I’d do it face to face, but then you almost got killed and we were hanging out again and I -’ she trails off. ‘I didn’t want to lose you.’

He - stills. Looks at her. Then, glares at her. ‘What do you mean?’ he asks. His voice sounds cold, he realises, a lot colder than the boiling anger he is starting to feel, rising in his chest like that old monster. Ginny opens her mouth, closes it. ‘You broke up with me,’ he says.

She sighs. ‘Harry -’

‘- No,’ he insists. ‘I’m trying to be the bigger person, here.’ Has been trying for months, actually. And, it’s been fucking hard. Trying to move on. Trying not to hold any resentment, trying to understand even when he didn’t, defending her in the press, being an ‘adult’ about it because that’s what they’re supposed to be, isn’t it? ‘But don’t tell me you are afraid of losing me,’ he laughs, bitterly. ‘The only way you’d ever lose me is a) if you wanted to, or b) if you were dead. I didn’t walk away. You did.’ 

She is quiet. Lips pressed together again, won’t look at him. 

‘You know why?’ he wonders, pointed. ‘My parents are dead.’ It’s so fucking ridiculous, he almost wants to laugh again. ‘And Sirius is dead, and Lupin and Tonks, and Dumbledore and Fred and Giulia, now. Fucking bled to death in my arms, Gin!’ He hears himself shouting. She cringes. ‘That matters! But, you think - what?’ he shakes his head - another bitter chuckle. ‘That I’m gonna wake up in the middle of the night, paranoid about who you’re sleeping with?’

Her jaw tenses. She swallows. For a moment, he looks at her and she looks at him, and there is six feet of cold ground between them. ‘I thought you’d be jealous, I thought –’

‘Of course, I’m fucking jealous!’ He rolls his eyes, loud again. ‘I’m raging, too. I mean, at this stage, the entire fucking world thinks I’m in love with you.’ He shakes his head. That bloody fucking interview. Making him sound like some lovesick puppy when he’s not even sure how he feels about anything most of the time, Ginny-related or not, and whether it even was love. Whether he won’t wake up in twenty, thirty years from now and tenderly smile the way Dumbledore used to, at the silliness of youthful infatuations. It doesn’t feel like it, but maybe it never does in the moment, does it? ‘It’s embarrassing. But everyone’s fucking dead and it’s like - fuck,’ he snaps again. His voice breaks with exhaustion. A moment. He looks away, up at the grey of the clouds. ‘I imagine you dead too, you know?’ he states, then. ‘All the time. And, not just now, I mean, in years.’ An angry smile twists his mouth. ‘And, we’re just -’ he trails off. Starts again. ‘We’re strangers. Acquaintances at best. And, I’m looking at your casket and I don’t know who you are, anymore.’ He sighs. ‘I’m not going to be responsible for that happening, Gin.’ What it comes down to, in the end, is that he couldn’t live with himself if he was. It’s pathetic perhaps, but he’s learnt to let go of grudges when he can’t bear the alternative. ‘So, you don’t want me in your life? Fine. But that’s on you. Not on me. I’m not gonna be the one who doesn’t even try to be your friend,’ he adds. ‘Certainly not because you’re sleeping with someone else.’

She stares at him. Says nothing. The cold settles around them - Harry’s warm, shouting breaths still clouding the air. Not knowing what to do with his hands, he shoves them back in his pockets. When Ginny shifts, the ends of her ponytail caress the back of her scarf. Her eyes are red, he notices, but she’s not crying - not like he’s used to with Hermione, anyway. They’re not heavy sobs, more like salt water, spilling over from an accidental overflow. Ginny stares, swallows, and wipes her tears off with her sleeve. 

‘Okay,’ she nods. ‘I should have told you. I’m sorry.’

They head home. It’s a bit tense, at first, but then they talk some more, that night. Sit cross-legged at each end of her bed with another round of steaming, hot chocolate. His name’s Matthew, she finally admits to him. He can tell the words are hard to get out, but she utters them, still. A boy, a couple years older than them; he lives in Hogsmeade, works at the bookshop. ‘I’ve been spending my weekends there since September,’ she admits with a sigh. ‘Just to get away from the castle. It’s just been tough, being back. Then, with Witch Weekly tailing me around everywhere.’ Oh, for fuck’s sake, he thinks. ‘Anyway, we met in October and -’ she trails off. Harry’s pretty sure his heart’s been breaking with every word that’s come out of her mouth, so far, but he forces himself to listen anyway. After months of not talking, even if it hurts, he figures it is better than nothing.

‘I’m glad at least you’re not alone up there,’ he says. Doesn’t mean a word of it (or more like: I wish it was me, keeping you company) but at least he says it, doesn’t he? ‘Do you love him?’ he asks, after a beat. She looks like she expected the question.

‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I like him, Harry. But that, I don’t know.’

They talk until late. Not only about that, about good things, too. About Teddy, about her brothers, a little bit about Mia. He’s honest, there, mostly because she was honest with him. He tells her it’s not serious, that they might or might not even be a thing by the time he gets back and, ‘Do what makes you happy, Harry,’ she tells him. ‘Whatever that is. Merlin knows, you deserve it. Believe me.’

He smiles, watches the candlelight reflected in her eyes.

‘Look at us,’ she says. ‘Proper adults.’

He laughs.

‘Promise me you’ll write, yeah?’ she asks. ‘When I’m back up there?’

He nods, smiles. ‘If you’ll write back.’ 

When he gets home, that Sunday, he knows that Mia won’t be back for another week. Unpacks his bags, turns the heat back on, takes a shower before heading out to Tesco to try and restock his very empty fridge. The moment he opens the door, though, he finds himself faced with two large cardboard boxes, filled with papers to the brim – a note in an envelope on top of them.

Harry, she wrote.

I hope you got home okay. I’m sorry for how I reacted when you asked me to read these. I think there are things on there that I wasn’t sure I wanted you to read. The thing is, though, I think a bit like you with the Hallows, I’ve also been trying to find the words to tell you all of this – all of what happened last year – for months, now, and I haven’t found them. So, I reckon they’re all here. All 200,000 of them. I suppose I’m not very good at synthesising.

You told me to trust you, so I'm taking a leap. You’ll see, there’s a letter for each day, bar a couple of instances. They should be in order.

The only thing I’ll ask is: please let’s not talk about this until you’ve read it all. I don’t think I could face a day by day commentary. I’ll write to you about other stuff. You can nag me about Quidditch, Hermione’s already nagging me about homework.

Love,

Gin.

And, so, in January ‘99, he reads.

Chapter Text

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viii. out of clay (brittle lines)

.

.

.

And, look: things happen, in the early days of ‘99. A mix of good things and bad things, and sort of average things. He’s told that’s what life is. The endless flow of the ocean tide.

Over the next few months, the Death Eater trials come and go, Narcissa Malfoy in and out of jail, and Harry and Ginny exchange letters about the weather, about Quidditch, about the tiny details of their days that almost convince them that they really are friends. Harry pines over her, of course (and, later, she swears she was pining over him, too), but gradually, she becomes more of a distraction than a concern. With every letter that makes it out to Scotland, the thought that he might accidentally fuck everything up with a single word like he did when he called her his girlfriend last August slowly fades. It’s more like – wet clay. Like when the pieces fall off, you can still merge them back on. Or simply mould something else.

Mia’s still there - for a few months. She likes The Cranberries, so they go to a gig together. Harry buys tickets for her birthday. There is Linger and there is Zombie, and a couple days later, pints at the pub after Auror training. ‘What?’ Seamus laughs, rolling his eyes a little. ‘You thought ours was the only war there ever was?’

Harry works, too (they all do). Gets reassigned to the Auror Patrol – Ron with his former partner, Pat – and Harry – ‘Sorry, I just don’t have enough people to find you someone else,’ Robards says, looking mildly harassed, his first morning back. The Boy Who Lived shrugs in response, can’t really imagine anyone other than Giulia, anyway. ‘You’ll just have to move around for a couple months, cover people’s sick leaves and holidays, and that.’

‘Yeah,’ Harry nods. Ron stands in the corner of the office with his arms folded over his chest. ‘That’s fine.’

I miss her, he writes to Ginny, once. The large sunglasses that used to hide half her face and the little lines at the corner of her eyes.

Room by room, Grimmauld becomes a home. Not his home – Harry keeps his flat – but a home for the others. It is satisfying to watch, not only as a tribute to Sirius, but also for the way life feels like they’re finally moving forward. The house becomes the official C.A.S.H.C.O.W. headquarters through an amendment to their Ministry filings, which Hannah argues is ‘better than a pub.’ By spring, the ground and first floors are done and when Hogwarts lets out, they open a few bottles of prosecco to celebrate. With a cheap, plastic flute in his hand, it occurs to Harry that it’s been over a year, now, since the war’s end.

For a few more weeks, Ginny continues to see Matthew. When the press gets wind of it and both their faces end up on the cover of every tabloid in the country ( Forgot about Harry, Ginny? is the Witch Weekly headline). Matthew dumps her over a rather (objectively) shitty argument that she tells Harry about. That’s the kind of relationship they have, now, where they tell each other things. She goes out with more people than he can count in the lead up to the spring and while Harry’s very far from ecstatic about it, at least she’s a) being honest with him, and b) for the first time since the war ended, he kind of gets it.

He’s read the letters, you see.

They change everything.

That January, Ginny delivers them on a Sunday night and he finishes them the next Saturday afternoon. Six days and six nights buried in her words – he goes to work that week, watches Teddy, but does nothing else. Somewhere at the back of his mind, there must be a case to be made, someone who could have told him to pace himself, to read a couple letters a day like she didn’t completely overtake his life with 200,000 words scribbled on pieces of parchment, but that’s never been how he functions. Last summer, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the truth, tried to keep them safe, and for what? They exploded anyway. At least, if they fall apart again, he’ll know why. 

It starts like this: that night, he drags the two cardboard boxes she left on his doorstep into his flat, not wanting to levitate them for fear of disturbing her fragile filing system. He sits on the floor, back resting against the side of the couch, opens the lid and takes a quick peek inside. The next time he looks up, it’s four o’clock in the morning. It just happens. He doesn’t know how, or why, has never been much of a reader but this is Ginny, and this is their war. Her war.

He’s not much of an expert but the first thing he notes, is that she writes well. Not like: the Half-Blood Prince’s awkward phrases at the corner of textbooks; like: an entire world created out of thin air. That whole week’s a blur. Somehow, it is hazy like May ’98, but crisp like January ’99 and jittery like the autumn of ’97. When they were kids, he remembers that Dudley used to watch American films on the telly, tribe upon tribe of Lycra-wearing actors transported into different time dimensions. They would shout and shoot at aliens in the background while Harry cleaned the house or did the dishes; he’d never thought he would relate. In Ginny’s letters, there is the present and the past, and sometimes, Harry wakes up with his wand in his hand that week, heart hammering against his chest, calling out Hermione’s name like he did in the tent. The lines are brittle and thin between Ginny’s wars and his.  

Harry, she writes. Always starts with his name, just that. There are never any preambles, or dear-s or hello-s, or I hope this reaches you well. He supposes that she’s never been one to apologise for herself.

Her war is present tense, dark ink on parchment. She writes fast, he can tell, like if she only paused to draw breath, she’d run out of time. Sometimes, she says in one of her letters, it’s like if I stop writing, I’ll never write again. There is an urgency to her words, from the way they loop around each other, slightly slanted to the right; she writes in straight lines, instinctively, and leaves an inch of space on each side of the paper she uses. In his head, it’s her voice that reads out her sentences, the pattern of her breaths and her open, West Country vowels – sometimes, that almost makes it worse. Sometimes, as he listens to her, he’s not sure where he is, or how it all happened – her letters read like fiction until he remembers that they are not, that this is their world and their lives that she’s describing. That all of it is real.

Harry, she writes. It is her first word. I’m hoping mum, or dad, or Lupin – whoever makes it to grimmauld first, I reckon - will be able to give you this. Kingsley said you were followed into muggle London last night, after the wedding. That’s mad. We’re still trying to figure out how they found you. You don’t think you still have the trace on you, do you?

Early on, he’s struck by how ordinary her sentences sound. A wartime version of normalcy, a testament to how humans can adapt to anything. She’s fifteen (almost sixteen) and she still dots her i-s with small circles. The habit is so uniquely hers but also not, like it belongs with the girl he used to know, the one who wrote silly poems at the age of eleven. Now, her words have the power to not let anyone look up from the page.

He cruises through the first couple of months rather easily. Ginny starts writing on the 2nd of August 1997, the day that follows the fall of the Ministry. In retrospect, he can tell that her letters are shorter, then, more utilitarian. She still thinks they’ll get to him.

I just wanted to say, we’re all fine, she writes. They searched the house, broke all of Mum’s stuff, tore up the couch – as though you’d be hiding under the cushions or something. Considering the Slughorn armchair incident of 1996, it doesn’t seem that far fetched, actually. I think they just wanted to scare us.

I’ll try to write more soon. It’s the 4th or the 5th, by then. Whenever I find a way to get these to you. They’re watching us. Please, Harry, just lie low. Trust me, they’re not fucking about.

Don’t go giving yourself up either. You’d just be dead. Wouldn’t help us.

She signs: love, Gin, always. Sometimes, he wonders what she means by it. Or if there’s even anything to be meant by it.

The Weasleys don’t go out of the house much, that August. There is something rather oppressive about it. Tonks is heartbroken over Lupin’s departure (though Ginny herself doesn’t have the full picture). Mum took her into the garden and shut the door on them, she tells him, once. Do you know what’s happening? Have you heard anything? The boys said mum used to cry like that all the time for no reason when she was pregnant but I think there’s more to it than that. I know what it looks like when someone leaves.

The rebels set up camp at Shell Cottage. Quickly, an inevitable brand of in-fighting emerges, fed by fear and violence that grow and never seem to stop. In her letters, Ginny calls her parents’ house ‘depressingly empty.’ People disappear, never to be seen again. Kingsley and Lupin engage in an endless stream of arguments about what to do regarding the kids-in-Grimmauld-Place. The Weasleys debate whether it is safe to keep the shop open (the Death Eaters trashing the place a few days later answers that question rather quickly), Bill working at the bank, their father at the Ministry. Soon, Molly advocates for them all to go into hiding. She doesn’t think the Ministry will buy into the ghoul covering for Ron, doesn’t think Ginny will be safe in Hogwarts. Every day, that month, she busies herself with errands and food, and anxiously waits for her husband to come home. ‘Arthur, it’s only a matter of time before you get caught,’ Ginny quotes her saying in her letters, the conversations between her parents that she overhears, late into the night. Mr Weasley never relents.

Most of the aurors on our side got arrested after the coup, or can’t go back, like Kingsley. Dad’s the only source of information we have left inside the DMLE, so he wants to stay put. Plus, he says we’re safer hiding in plain sight.  

The Tonks break into groups: Ted goes into hiding, works for the rebellion full-time. Andromeda stays, does her best to keep her job at St Mungo’s, tending to the injured and to their pregnant daughter. Tonks only travels to and from different safehouses, doesn’t see an inch of the outside world. ‘I don’t know how long Mum will last,’ she tells Ginny, once. ‘No one likes a traitor.’

Ginny’s a bit lost, then, standing in the middle of all the different forces at play. Snape’s been appointed Headmaster; Hogwarts attendance has become mandatory. On the one hand, she wants to fight. On the other, not going to school means going on the run, which means her whole family will also have to go on the run. It endangers everybody. She has endless rows with her mother about it the same way her dad does, an individual risk versus that of the whole clan. In her family, no one but Ron knew about her relationship with Harry. She obviously never volunteers that information, so it is not an element that is factored in.

‘What do you think I should do?’ Ginny asks Tonks. She says in her letters that of the adults, Tonks is the only one making sense, right now.

She just kind of pouted and told me I should go back to hogwarts, ride it out for another year. Said that probably nothing much would happen. In a war about blood purity, they wouldn’t hurt any of their precious, pureblood kids. I’m not convinced but I obviously kept that to myself. ‘Then, next august, you see,’ she told me. I’ll be seventeen, then, and hopefully things will have changed. See where the order’s at, where my parents are at. She said both mum and dad were right, in a way. That we wouldn’t be able to pass as law-abiding, muggle-haters forever, but why not keep at it while it lasts? Dad’s really valuable to the order in the ministry, and we’ve a house and food on the table.

I told her I wanted to be useful, to go out and fight. She just kind of laughed. ‘You think I don’t want that?’ she asked. ‘But I’m pregnant, Ginny. So, I stay inside the house and fucking knit instead.’ I do feel a bit sorry for her, I have to admit. She said that if I didn’t go back to hogwarts, it would be a lot less safe for everyone. ‘We all need to make sacrifices for the ones we love. It’s a different kind of fighting.’

She’s right, Harry. I’ll go back, whether mum likes it or not. Plus, I hate that word: hiding. I’m not hiding – not from this, not from Tom. Mum says that Snape’s a murderer. That hogwarts won’t be safe. Well, nowhere is fucking safe, is it?

In the end, Kingsley, forever the brilliant politician, finds an appropriate compromise between Molly and her teenage daughter. I got called into the kitchen this morning, Ginny describes. Mum was watching so I couldn’t really ask him if he could get these letters to you. Anyway, they’ve given me all this stupid shit to memorise. Say that if I go back to hogwarts, I’ll probably get asked about the order. When I am, I’m to tell them all of this. He said it like I was a child or something. ‘You’re sixteen, you don’t need to be a hero.’ Ha. Apparently, this stuff is accurate enough that it should get them off my back, but it’s all stuff that the order can afford to lose. Old safehouses, things like that. Can you imagine the irony? I have to learn all this fake info, but I don’t even know the real thing. Mum still won’t let me into the room whenever they have a meeting. We’re in the middle of a war and I’m still operating on fucking extendable ears.

They order her school stuff through the post to avoid showing their faces in Diagon Alley. Harry himself hasn’t been there since the end of the war, so that’s something he can relate to. Anyway, enough of my complaining, she writes, a few nights later and he almost shakes his head at her. He gets her frustration, sort of wishes he’d had someone to complain to. How are you? I’m not sure if you have access to the papers but they’re setting up a commission to round up muggleborns. I’ve used the coins to warn everyone in the DA – Dean’s gone into hiding. Colin’s taken his brother and his parents to America. He says he’ll come back here, though. You and Ron look after Hermione, will you?

Mid-August, they celebrate her birthday. Mum forced us to do something, she says, made a cake. Then, she cried, said her little girl was ‘becoming a young woman.’ I don’t know, Harry, sometimes I feel like a monkey. Fenced in, watching the tourists pass me by. I feel too old, you know?

Slow, that month, the weather takes an autumnal turn. Ginny describes the leaves wilting in the trees, the rain that muddies the garden. Me and Fred had to de-gnome the place this afternoon. It was lashing. How’s things in London, anyway?

A few weeks later (a few hours later, as far as Harry is concerned), there is the 29th of August. The moment he picks up the parchment for that day, he knows something’s happened. There are three pages of script, rather than her usual one. He tries to piece the events of last year together, tries to remember what happened then, in his world at least, that could have elicited this. They hadn’t broken into the Ministry yet, had they? And, she’s not in school so it can’t be anything to do with that. For a moment, he hesitates before curiosity gets the best of him. It’s already almost two in the morning.

Harry, she says.

I feel a bit shit tonight. It’s already dark, the days are getting shorter, and there’s this chill in the rain. Mum says it’s the dementors but it almost feels like it’s inside me. I miss you. I miss last year, I miss the hogwarts grounds, and I miss a time when me and the boys could look up at mum, whatever happened, and she’d know exactly what to do. Now, most nights, she cries and I don’t really know what to say to her.

I miss Lupin. I know it’s stupid but he’s always been nice to me. At least, for a few days after the wedding, he’d come by and bring news. Now, it’s been weeks since we last saw him. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry. That’s why Tonks’ been so upset. Did you two talk about it when he went to Grimmauld? Do you know where he is? Kingsley was furious when he found out he’d visited. They had this row - wands were drawn and all, then Lupin took off. I think he was drunk. Kingsley said he’d put you in danger by going there, put everyone in danger, come to think of it.

I wonder why he went over in the first place. He wouldn’t say. I hear he’s still working for the order, just that he won’t visit the house anymore because of what happened. Mum sided with Kingsley, said some things. It was like a very dramatic scene taken out of these books I read. ‘I didn’t picture you being as reckless as -’ she said and then, she stopped, but I reckon the damage was already done. There was that look on Lupin’s face. I’d never seen him this angry. ‘As reckless as who, Molly?’ he was shouting, kind of slurring. ‘Go on, say it!’ It all just got very silent, I think by that point, we were all hoping he’d go. He said that all mum had ever done for the order was sit on her hands and bake pie, while everyone else went out to fight. That she was a coward for wanting to hide and that she’d been lying to herself, telling everyone she was protecting you. He said Sirius was right. ‘You never told him anything! It’s your fault Harry didn’t trust us.’ He just kind of kept shouting, it was horrible. Telling her you weren’t her son.

Eventually, Kingsley threatened him and told him to get out. I keep thinking, Harry. Is that true? I know he had no right to say that and mum’s been blaming herself ever since. I hate him for it, but part of me can’t help but think he wasn’t completely wrong, either.

In her letter, Ginny apologises for not telling Harry about the incident before. I tried, but then I kept thinking: he doesn’t need to deal with that on top of everything else, does he? Now, I’m telling you and I keep wondering what that means, Harry. What it means for these letters, what it means for us. I’ll be in hogwarts in two days. I’m never going to get these to you, am I? Will I ever see you again? Perhaps, that’s why I’m telling you. It’s funny, isn’t it? Telling someone something they’ll never actually know?  

Once I’m in Scotland, how far will we be from each other, do you think? How long on a broom? One day? Maybe two? Sometimes, I sort of entertain the thought, see where it takes me. Sometimes, I can almost touch you, in my head. I close my eyes and I trace the shape of your lips with my thumb - you sigh and I know you’re alive. Do you dream about me, too? I try to remember the sound of your laugh. When was June, do you think? Three months ago? Why does it feel so distant, like it’s just out of reach?

I have nightmares about finding mum and dad lying dead in the house. Fred and George are coming up with weapons in the attic. Sometimes, I also have this odd dream where you just walk up to King’s Cross and board the train. We stand there, watching each other and you’re all smiles and jokes – you know, you always have that smile on you whenever school’s about to start? I don’t remember much from before the war, but that I remember.

I said that to mum, once. I think it was a few months ago. I told her in passing – she was talking about going into Diagon Alley, picking up the twins’ first school books with me and I said: ‘I don’t know, mum, I don’t remember much from before the war.’ She looked at me like I’d drunk the wrong kind of potion. ‘Dumbledore’s only just died,’ she said. ‘Don’t say things like that.’

Mum’s scared. So’s dad. Fred and George are, too, though they’re not showing it the same. Even Bill and Charlie. Sometimes, it feels like I’m on a different planet. To them, the war is new. For over ten years, they thought they were safe and now, this. I never thought we were safe, Harry. Not since I was eleven, at least. When I say ‘before the war,’ that’s what I mean. ‘Before I was eleven.’ They all tell me the stories and in theory, I know I was there, I listen and I nod and I store them in my brain, and ‘remember when,’ I say, sometimes, but I don’t remember. Not like they do. It’s just things I was told. I’ve never admitted that to anyone. You’ll likely never read this, so I’m not even really admitting it to you, am I? I don’t know why I’m writing these anymore, Harry. Sometimes, it’s like my blood freezes inside me because I think: if not you, who am I writing to?

Sometimes, I want to stop. Maybe it’s just not worth the risk of these letters being found. But, if I stop, Harry, if I stop it’ll be like the forgotten memories from before the war. No one will know what happened to us. We’ll all die and Tom will win, and there won’t be any record of our side. We’ll have been silenced, like animals you put down. We’ll all fall into oblivion. You know, Bill’s helping the order with their cash flow, collecting funds from overseas without going through gringotts. Charlie’s learning what he can from Andromeda, says that caring for dragons and caring for humans isn’t that different. Fred and George are wreaking havoc, Ron is helping you. I play quidditch, Harry. I play quidditch and I’m too young to fight, but I can write. Do you think maybe that’s what I’m here for, Harry?

I know there’s very little chance that these will reach you, but I might reach someone. If you are that someone, decades later, reading this, welcome. I hope you’re safe. I hope you’re still fighting. If you’ve found these, I’m probably dead, but know that these are the letters I’m writing to the boy I love. I never told him. I was a bit of an idiot. I thought there would be more time. I hope that someday, someone loves you as much as I love him.

And Tom, if these letters ever fall into the wrong hands - the first diary I ever kept was for you. I was so happy, you know, going to hogwarts for the first time, I wanted to remember it. It took months for me to write again, until Lupin made a comment on the structure of one of my essays. ‘Well, you’re a good writer. Don’t ever let anyone take anything away from you.’ You see, six years on and it’s still about us, Tom. You, me, Harry. And, I will only stop when one of us is dead. I do hope, from the bottom of my heart, that it will be you.

Love,

Gin.

That night, Harry spends a lot of time staring at the walls.

That’s not when he stops reading, though. To the contrary, by that point, his eyes are glued to the page. He reads on, through the end of August and into September, notices the way her tone changes, becomes more intimate and less restrained. Her letters get longer, more detailed. She’s creating a record now. Of her feelings, of her memories, everything that is going on around her. She describes her war like a hand is gripping at the inside of her stomach, the fear, the patrols, the silence on the train up to Scotland. They came looking for you, she explains, once. Nev stood up, said you weren’t there. He’s angry. Like all the abuse he ever took in his life is coming right back at them in a wave, hundred times worse. I asked if he was worried for his gran. He said he was, but that she wouldn’t want him to stay quiet. We’re opposite sides of the same coin, you see, because all mum wants is for me to stay quiet. Sometimes, I want to be that person, the one Tonks described, the one who makes compromises and sacrifices for the good of everyone else. Sometimes, keeping the anger in almost physically hurts, Harry. I dig my fingernails into the inside of my palms and it feels like the blood that comes out is already boiling.

As his world falls apart, in September ’97, as they lose Grimmauld and move into the tent, in her world, it’s still early stages. A fascinating in-between. The Hogwarts she describes isn’t exactly the place he once knew, but it also isn’t the one people told him about in May. There is tension in the air, between the walls - everyone seems to notice it, but no one Ginny knows dares talk about it. Later, when she reflects, she says: it’s like we were all trying to figure out which way the wind would blow, you know?

The moment she is back in Scotland, she talks about the whispers. The curious questions that girls who go to the bathroom in packs ask themselves; in the middle of war, a bit of gossip takes your mind off things. ‘It’s odd she even came back,’ Ginny overhears a fourth-year Ravenclaw tell a friend as the water runs down the sink. She hides her feet from view to listen in, sitting on the toilet seat with her knees pulled up close to her chest. ‘With her family’s reputation, Potter on the run. I mean, she’s his girlfriend, can you imagine? And, do you really think her brother’s ill?’

Do you know what’s funny, Harry? she asks, that night. No one ever asks me. When I got here I really thought I’d do what you wanted me to do. Tell everyone we’d broken up so that Tom wouldn’t use me to get to you. But they just fucking talk amongst themselves, don’t they? Make assumptions without ever trying to correct them. What am I supposed to do? Go around the place and volunteer our dirty laundry for everyone to hear? That doesn’t sound like me. I wouldn’t even believe myself if I did that.  

Even my friends, you know? The other day, I could tell D. (Demelza, he figures) was wondering about us. They don’t say anything, though, cause they don’t want me to get upset. It’s a bit like you in a way, the way you cooked up that little plan in your head without asking for my opinion. If you’d asked me, I would have said this: I know Tom, Harry. I know him better than anyone. He was in my head for eight months. If he finds out I exist (and he will because everyone in this bloody school knows about us, Harry), girlfriend or not, he won’t care. He’ll take the chance if it means the possibility of getting to you. Worst case scenario, you really don’t come to save me and I’m dead. Big fucking deal to him. Everyone keeps saying he doesn’t want to lose any purebloods. Didn’t ask for my blood status before he tried to kill me, did he? It’s just fucking propaganda.

I promise you, Harry, I’ll do whatever I have to do so that he can’t get to you. Through me, or through anyone else. But I also know you didn’t break up with me because you wanted to. That kiss last summer, I know you wanted it as much as I did. You only broke up with me because of him and frankly, I won’t let Tom have us, on top of everything else. I can’t let him take control of my life like that. Not again.

So, no. I didn’t tell those claws we’d broken up. They can all go fuck themselves.

Right, he thinks. Well, there it is. Fuck. He couldn’t just fall in love with someone who’d follow his instructions, could he?

That September, in Hogwarts, the devil isn’t in the big things yet, it’s in the details. In the slow creep of a regime that later gives way to the matter-of-fact tone Neville had in his voice when they met him in May. In the early weeks of the autumn, there are no scenes of torture, no curses and no chains, just the slow, uneasy feeling of being watched, growing like smoke over their heads. Umbridge’s old brigades are sporting brand new recruits, ‘to guarantee the students’ safety in these difficult times.’ Daily headcounts of pupils are now required, meal attendance is made mandatory, and a daily pledge of loyalty to the Ministry is introduced. Seamus already got in trouble for refusing to say it, she writes. Brought up something about eight hundred years of oppression? Said that the only thing Finnegans have ever pledged allegiance to is the Irish Free State. Had to stifle a giggle or two, I must say.

There are a few new players. They replace Hagrid and Firenze, both booted out of the teaching staff, with people more agreeable to the Ministry’s new line. Hogwarts also receives a couple dozen new students, a mix of pureblood eleven-year-olds and older kids who were home-schooled until the war. Not enough to fill the empty seats, though. You know, it never occurred to me how many muggleborns we had. Or, even people who can’t prove their parentage. There are only four new gryffindors this year, including the older ones. We kept looking around over dinner, wondering what had happened to all the others. McGonagall and Kingsley were working all summer to try to get them to safehouses. I really hope they got everyone.

Then, of course, there are the Carrows. Harry’s blood runs cold at the first mention of their name; he has to remind himself that Amycus is dead, now, and that Alecto is locked in a cell. Quickly, Ginny explains: They’re definitely death eaters. Not even shy about it. That woman’s walking around the place with her sleeves rolled up for everyone to see the mark on her arm. It scares people, makes them behave. Sometimes, I wonder where Tom recruits them. Not the sharpest tools in the shed, if you ask me.

They’re mostly doing surveillance. Watching us, the teachers. They’ve blocked all the secret passages in and out of the castle, it makes it harder for people like Sprout and McGonagall to get intel from the outside. They haven’t hurt anyone but we’re all watching our backs.

Muggle Studies (well, whatever the hell that is) is now mandatory. D.A.D.A.’s the same useless shit as it was under Umbridge. You’d be going bonkers, Harry. I imagine you having a go at them like you did with her, it makes me laugh. Snape’s been staying in his office a lot, barely attends meals. Probably has more important things to do. That cunt.

I’ll tell you this because it’ll make you laugh: Neville’s rounded up all the ‘Potter stinks’ badges from people who still had them. Had Luna enchant them, changed your name for Snape’s. He says that man barely ever finds the shower once a year as it is, so it’s simply stating a fact. He’s playing with fire, obviously, but aren’t we all?

Their worlds never collide, that year, never overlap, but sometimes, they graze each other. When Harry makes the news, she mentions it. On the 3rd of September, she writes: You broke into the Ministry, followed by a number of exclamation marks. The ink is thicker against the parchment in his hand, lit by the cheap, electric, floor lamp that sits next to his couch in his London apartment. Harry shifts slightly, uncomfortable against the wooden floors. You blithering idiot! Or, at least, that’s what McGonagall called you. I would probably have used different words but I must say I support her impressive command of the full range of insults offered by the English language. I would advise the three of you against trying to crash here, if you’re looking for a place to stay, or else you’ll all be in detention until June. Of course, you’d also be dead. Considering how furious McGonagall was, though, I’m honestly not sure which is worse.

What were you after? That’s what I keep wondering. Not the sword, it’s still in Snape’s office. I was thinking of trying to go get it, might speak to Nev and Luna about that. Merlin, Harry, where are you? I’m told they searched Grimmauld but you were gone already. What on earth is going on?

Why am I even asking? It’s not like I’m going to wake up and you’ll have answered by breakfast, is it?

On the page, her words read like sighs and silences and he is reminded with every paragraph he reads that ‘97 has a right and a wrong side - a June and a December, so to speak. It’s been ten days, Harry, Ginny writes. No one’s heard from you. Nev says that’s a good sign. I’m worried about my parents. I’m worried about Bill and Charlie, and Fred, and George. Ron. Wherever we went, he was always the one mum forgot behind. Sometimes, I even worry about Percy. He never meant it, I don’t think. Just got in way over his head. You look after Ron, will you? Please.

Ron almost bled to death, that week.

Just like they did for the three of them in the forest, her days slowly turn into a never-ending blur, for the next few weeks. Harry remembers the tent, the way Hermione’s habits got on his nerves, and Ron’s temper. In a castle full of people, it’s kind of strange to feel so alone, Ginny writes. He shuts his eyes for a second before reading on, thinks he never felt more alone than during those months in an overcrowded tent. All the social stuff has been cancelled, even quidditch. At least for gryff. They’ve found reasons to kick all of us off the team. Even Slughorn’s had to let go of his dinners. They don’t want people roaming around at night. I suppose it is easier to keep everyone in one place, at any given time.

They’ve come up with a couple new classes, too. Said our education was lacking. You should have seen the look on McGonagall’s face. The girls have three hours a week of Witch Studies. They have a wizards’ version too, don’t be jealous. Nev says all they do in theirs is review lists of ‘successful wizards,’ the purer the bloodline, the more ruthless the achievements, the better. They tell them to be strong and assertive, to never take no for an answer. We, on the other hand, are told to follow our future husbands’ wishes, make them proud. All romantic interactions with muggles are against nature. Mum said they’re preventing witches from withdrawing money from gringotts without a permission slip, these days. Today, Alecto Carrow said that all muggles are rapists and murderers. We girls should ‘respect ourselves.’ Stay pure for our husbands, perpetuate our bloodlines. Marriage is an elevation, you know?

Padma went to Flitwick to complain, said the information they were giving us was ‘incorrect.’ I mean, you’ve got to love the ravenclaws, don’t you?

With the Carrows watching their every move, they’re always either in class, at meals, or in their common rooms. Hogwarts isn’t as fun as it used to be, we can’t really do much, she writes. For her letters, Ginny explains that she waits until everyone else has gone to bed to write them. I can’t sleep anyway.

I usually sit at that table you, Ron and Hermione used to squat, in the corner by the fire. It was funny actually, when we got back, no one dared sitting there. Not even the first years. I think one of them tried and Demelza told them to piss off. ‘Out of respect,’ she said. I mean, I love her, D., but she’s not someone you’d want to cross. They got the message. When I sat there one night, some first year came and told me to piss off. Brave boy, if you think about it. D. said: ‘No, not her. Ginny sits there. No one else.’

When the kid asked why, there was this silence in the room, third and fourth years just staring at me… But again, no one says anything, you see? D. explained that I’m clearly on edge these days, I scare people apparently. ‘I mean that in the nicest possible way,’ she said. ‘But you just sit there silently in the corner with your wand on the table, observing everyone. It’s like you’re about to explode.’

I don’t know, Harry, maybe I am. Is that all I get for being whatever I am to you? A seat at the fucking table?

Merlin, Harry, this place is so bloody empty without you.

It’s another couple of days until she sneaks into the changing rooms, by the Quidditch pitch. I found a jumper you’d left there and nicked it. It’s got your name on it, so I only wear it in the tower, I’m not suicidal. When I close my eyes, it still smells like you. 

Merlin, Harry, where are you?

Eventually, she has to tell Neville about the letters. He kept seeing her writing, she says. Seems like he can’t sleep either. He sits on the sofa and stares at the portrait hole all night until morning, like he’s keeping watch or something. Maybe, he is. Sometimes, it feels like we’re all sleepwalking, to tell you the truth.

It was either fessing up to him or staying upstairs in the dorms to write and I prefer writing on an actual table. Nev got all excited, so I had to crush his dreams. ‘Wait, you know where Harry is?’ I had to explain. I thought he was going to tell me I was completely off my rocker. Instead, he just suggested I hide the letters in the room of requirement, where no one can find them. He’s pretty good with that room, goes there often. So, that’s what I’ve done. These days, when he sees me writing, he tells me ‘say hi to Harry.’

It’s stupid, but I suppose, there it is. Harry, Nev says ‘hi.’

Then, quickly (too quickly), there’s the 25th of September. He doesn’t notice it, at first. Finishes an unassuming letter from the 24th, one in which she complains about the ridiculous claims made by the Carrows during Muggle Studies and moves on to the next letter. She writes:

Harry,

Sorry I didn’t write yesterday.

His gaze flicks up to the date at the top of the page. It’s true. This one is dated from the 26th. Her script is slightly unsteady, wobbly, like she’s writing on a surface that isn’t entirely flat.

They gave me sleeping draught, was out most of the night. Today too. I only have a couple minutes, McGonagall just won’t leave me alone. She’s gone to the loo now, thank Merlin. Said she was going to tell mum and dad, try to send me home. That I’d be safer there. As if. And for what? So that my whole family can be hunted down? The order needs dad at the ministry. I told her I was gonna restart the DA. She didn’t like that very much.

They’re talking about moving me back into the tower tonight. Carrows have gone to Malfoy manor, so now it’s just Snape. I’ll have more time to explain tomorrow. Or maybe I won’t explain at all. On the off chance that you might actually read these one day, you’d probably storm in and kill someone, and that wouldn’t be wise. I promised I’d keep it under control, and I will. I’ll just kill them myself.

Love,

Gin.

He frowns, heart hammering against his chest. The next letter is dated from the 27th. It is long, too long to be good news. Her lines are crisp and stable again, dark ink on parchment. He’s not sure what is worse: the stuff that’s been feeding all of his nightmares since the war ended, or knowing what really happened.

Harry,

Everyone’s gone to bed, finally. Well, not everyone - Nev’s here, but I can hear him snoring. I think he and Seamus sort of blame themselves. I’m not sure what else they could have done. They ended up in the hospital wing, just like I did. Stunners, they got them with. For the weekend, McGonagall’s set wards on the common room so that no one can get in or out. We’re safe, but trapped like rats. Whatever’s going to happen on Monday, who knows?

I woke up in my bed this morning, must have been out of it when they moved me. Didn’t leave my room all day. Just didn’t want to face the stares, you know? D. brought me food that Dobby snuck in for us, so I ate in bed. Not much. I’m still sore all over and my stomach keeps clenching, it’s kind of an odd sensation. Is that what it felt like when Tom did it to you? I realise I never asked.

(Fuck, he thinks. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -)

Nev said that Thursday night and Friday were just havoc. Kids running, crying everywhere, wanting to get home. It’s funny what people do in a panic. McGonagall finally called an all-house meeting tonight at six, so I had to come down a bit before that. Nev walked me to the table in the corner, helped me sit down, told the others to mind their own bloody business.

When she walked in, I swear she was looking for you. I saw her glancing towards the table and she said: ‘Weasley, Po-’ like a force of habit. My name with yours (well, Ron’s name with yours). Where are you? For Merlin’s sake Harry, where are you?

Disappointingly, as he reads on, Ginny still doesn’t explain what happened. Instead, she describes McGonagall escorting her and Neville to the boy’s dormitories. There is a long, laborious climb up the seven flights of stairs and she casts a silencing charm on the door the moment they get in. Ginny sits on Harry’s bed (‘Miss Weasley, you seem to know your way around,’ McGonagall observes) and Neville stands, the three of them in an awkward, pained triangle.

She said they’d had a meeting. She, Slughorn, Sprout and Flitwick. Agreed the priority was to keep us safe. That means: no uprisings, no fighting back, just low profiles – we keep calm and we carry on. Slughorn said he’d speak to the slytherins, though is there really a need? Flitwick will appeal to the ravenclaws’ inner logic. We’re told a rebellion wouldn’t be clever, you see? Ravenclaws can apparently calculate odds, they know when they’re not good. Not sure that’ll work on Luna, to tell the truth.

Sprout’s going to show the hufflepuffs that others might get hurt. It should slow her people down, but not forever. She reckons McGonagall will have the toughest job, because ‘a lion’s hard to tame.’ Apparently, it needs to be given room to breathe.

I could tell that she was raging when she spoke to us. It shows, like when Umbridge was here, but worse. Everything is fucking worse. She knows we’re not gonna just sit around and wait. I don’t think she even would want us to.

So, this is it, Harry. We’ve talked it out and we’ve negotiated, and compromised, and we’ve got ourselves a licence to restart the D.A. Holy fuck, Harry. McGonagall said we need to teach the kids to defend themselves, because the Carrows clearly can’t be trusted to do so. Same as what you did in fourth year. Her own classes are being watched so she can’t do it herself. She said she’d give us all the resources we need, that she’d even pay for things if we needed them. I think Nev’s got it covered with the room of requirement, though. She’s going to try and get in contact with Lupin as well, see if he can give us some pointers.

She asked that we involve at least one other older student from ravenclaw and hufflepuff, said that we shouldn’t trust ourselves to make all the decisions. We gave Luna and Hannah’s names, I think she liked that. Insisted this was all: ‘For the sole purpose of defence.’ Ha. Nev said she couldn’t control what people over the age of seventeen got up to. I don’t think she ever really answered.

Then, he promised we wouldn’t tell a soul that she was involved. That we’d protect her. Merlin, Harry, you should have seen the look on her face – worse than a basilisk, surprised he didn’t die on the spot. ‘First, Mr Longbottom, you should know by now that when a gryffindor acts, they hold their head up high and face the full consequences of their actions.’ I’ll spare you comments about her tone, I’m sure you already have a pretty good idea. ‘Second, if you do get caught, I expect all and any of you to throw me under the bus with the dedication and zeal of the most cunning of slytherins.’ She said we should save ourselves at all costs. Say that she forced us into it, that we were scared for our lives, imperioused if we had to. ‘Are we clear, Mr Longbottom?’

Obviously, it’ll never happen. We’re not bloody rats, are we? But it was nice to hear.

Ginny signs, quick, at the end of the page, but then forgets something and adds it as a post scriptum. Sorry, I forgot to add: she’s not going to tell mum and dad what happened. It was a bit like pulling teeth but I think on the whole, she reckons I’m better here than outside. They’re going to try and contact Cho as well, just in case. I suppose that’s fair enough.

Anyway, I’ll write more tomorrow.

Love (again),

Gin.

Right. So: Ginny and Cho have three things in common, as far as he can tell. Quidditch, nice hair and –

A Sleekeazy advert gone wrong is what he wants this to be. A mundane, fucking issue about -

Harry, she writes again, the next day.

I’ve been feeling better today. Whatever Pomfrey’s doing, it’s working. Nev and I spent all day chatting, trying to figure out what to do with the D.A. It’s good, keeps our minds busy. I think maybe I didn’t give McGonagall enough credit. She’s given us a bone to chew so that we wouldn’t go completely mental.

I’ve been wondering all day what I was going to write tonight. I need to tell you what happened, put words on it, because all I feel is anger, right now, and even when I close my eyes, I can’t think straight. It’s easier to write. It’s like the entire world’s been turned upside down, lately, and these letters to you are the only thing I can control. And, it’s all I want, really, to have some sort of control.

Thursday was a good day, actually. Seamus had managed to hear from someone who’d heard from Dean. Not the most reliable of sources but with the ever-growing list of deaths these days, you take the good news wherever they come from, you know? We were called in for dinner, same as usual. Dreading it a bit because on Tuesdays and Thursdays, it’s only us and the Carrows. Snape’s instituted these stupid ‘staff meetings’, to ‘show our most tenured staff the new ways of the world’ or something. I think he’s mostly trying to keep McGonagall and Sprout in check.

For the last couple of weeks, they’ve been doing this new thing where they call roll, house by house (start with slytherin and finish with gryffindor, obviously). You stand up when they call your name, say ‘here!’, stand back down. I’m always last in the entire school, no one in Gryffindor has a name that comes after Weasley and by then everyone’s just starving, it’s ridiculous.

Anyway, recently, they started calling people up to the front of the hall, too. Asking them questions. They’ve even put up a little stage for it, a whole fucking performance. They’ll call someone - let’s take Romilda Vane, for instance – ‘Miss Vane, would you come up to the stage? Miss Vane, would you tell us what you learnt today?’ And, you’re supposed to stand up there and say something like, I don’t know, ‘Today I learnt that muggles can’t tie their shoelaces,’ or whatever. It’s just to fuck with people, the ones who are terrified of speaking in front of a crowd. Last week they spent fifteen minutes taunting some poor third-year in Ravenclaw, stuttering so bad he couldn’t speak.

Thing is, you can probably already tell what happened, can’t you? They called me. Last name in the entire bloody student list. I went up. What else was I gonna do? Run? Where to? They had me standing up on their fucking stage, facing everyone. It was the sister who spoke first – she’s vicious that one, I’ll give you that. Said something like: ‘So, will you tell us what you learnt today, Miss Weasley?’

We had Witch Studies, that day. Waste of my precious time. And, look, Harry, I know what you’re going to say. That I shouldn’t have pissed them off. For the record, a) I think all of this would have happened regardless of what I’d said, and b) I would like to point out that in my position you would have done the exact same. Everyone heard about last year, you know, Mr There’s-No-Need-To-Call-Me-Sir-Professor (good one, by the way). So yeah, I kind of took the piss and said: ‘I learnt that if I ever shag a muggle, all my hair will fall out, my magic will stop working and I’ll die.’

There were quite a few sniggers, I have to say. I mean, it was funny, wasn’t it? Bet that made you smile. Everyone needs a laugh, that’s what Fred and George always say. Didn’t amuse Alecto Carrow, though. ‘You think you’re funny?’ she said. I mean, I could have pushed it, said yes, but she didn’t give me enough time. ‘Suppose there’s not much danger of that happening, is there? You shagging a Muggle? You prefer half-bloods, I’m told.’

It all happened so quickly, Harry. One minute, people were laughing and the next, there was this collective sharp intake of breath. Nev got up to his feet, I think he was trying to get to me, but the other one, Amycus, he sent a stunner across the room, straight into his chest. Next thing I know, Seamus’s on the floor, too. ‘Anyone else?’

It was like he was roaring, like they’d won a prize or something. Of course, people were scared. She got my wand before I could even blink. There was this first year kid, hufflepuff, he was right in front of me, first at their table. He was shaking, Harry, I’d never seen anything like it before. Like he knew something was going to happen. I wanted to take him in my arms, say it was just me they were after, that he’d be okay. I remember that Amycus kept shouting: ‘You all thought it was a joke? You thought we was a joke? Well, watch now, watch what happens when you keep something from us, eh?’

She just had her wand in my face. Everything got so quiet, it was like a funeral. Mine, I suppose. ‘I’m going to ask once, nicely,’ she said. ‘Where is he?’

I said: ‘Where’s who?’ (I know, I know. Again, you’d have done the same thing.)

And, it’s odd, isn’t it? You think, because you know it’s coming, maybe it’ll hurt less. Like, they’ve taken the surprise element out of it, so you can brace yourself. You can’t. I think I screamed, when it hit. It was unbearable, Harry. I remember thinking, yeah, I could see how that would have driven Nev’s parents insane. You know, it gets to a point where you kind of hope that your heart will give out, because at least then the pain would stop.

And then, it does stop. I think I must have been crying or choking, lying on the floor cause she said: ‘Well, there goes Potter’s moany little girl, eh? He’s not here to save you, is he? Fucked you and left you here to die?’ Her brother just couldn’t stop laughing, believe it or not, it was like his voice was amplified with how funny he thought this was. She said that she wouldn’t kill me. That she wanted me to cry like that, when they found you dead. ‘I’m going to ask again, now. Where is he?’

I told her to go fuck herself.

It went on for a while. I could hear kids screaming, crying in the background but I think they put up a shield between us and them. They wanted people to watch, make an example. I think a few more people tried to intervene but they got knocked out as well. By the end of it, I couldn’t really see, Harry. She asked again. I spat on her shoes. I said I’d never tell them. That we could be here all night and I wouldn’t tell them. It wasn’t true, of course, I don’t know why I said that. I don’t even know where you are, Harry. And, we couldn’t have been here all night, I think I would have died beforehand. I was worried they’d find the letters. I was worried they’d take me to Tom. I thought of your mum, you know? I don’t have children, but I kind of get it. When you love someone, it’s like – it’s almost easy. I said I just hoped you’d kill them all.

I think she was about to curse me again but then someone told her to stop. I thought it was a teacher, like they’d finally barged in, but it came from the other side. Malfoy, that git. I swear to Merlin, Harry, if I could have crucioed him, I would have. When I think he almost killed Ron last year. But so, he said: ‘Stop, she’s wasting your time on purpose. Potter’s dumped her, or else she wouldn’t be here. She doesn’t know where he is.’

That sneaky, little snake. I swear Harry, the fuck does he know? Bloody loathe him. It did seem to slow them down for a bit though. As I said, they’re not the brightest bunch. Amycus just laughed again and kicked me in the stomach like I was a piece of rubbish, some animal dead on the ground. ‘That true? Ditched you, did he?’ He called me a blood-traitor whore. See how your little plan worked out, Harry? I’m not sure whether this is better or worse.

Anyway, I heard Malfoy say something again, but then the doors to the hall opened up and suddenly everyone was there. McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, the whole crew. I wasn’t really conscious, vaguely remember McGonagall tearing through their enchantments, shouting at the top of her lungs, calling Snape a coward and a traitor, saying that she was going to kill him. Honestly, I do think it’ll come to that, eventually. I don’t see how long she will keep herself in check. Anyone who says she ought to have been a ravenclaw hasn’t seen that woman angry. I think Hagrid must have carried me to the hospital wing. I don’t remember, honestly. You know the rest, I suppose, so that’s the end of my story.

You know, something McGonagall said to me’s been stuck in my head since yesterday. It was after Nev said she couldn’t control what people over the age of seventeen did. She sort of pulled me aside and pointed out that I wasn’t seventeen. Said that as far as she was concerned, I was to help Nev and Hannah teach the kids, nothing more. Then, she said: ‘If what the Malfoy boy said is true, I can only assume Mr Potter did it to protect you. He wouldn’t want to see you risk your life for him.’

Well, fuck you, Harry. I keep looking around, and I can’t see you anywhere close enough to stop me.

Gin.

It is four in the morning, by the time he finishes reading. He puts her letters down and runs ten miles.

Later that day, after he gets home from work, ‘97 unfolds with mountains of her words on the floor of his flat. In October, there are weeks and weeks of scared kids, clandestine trips to Hogsmeade, hours spent trying to find new routes. In the chaos that follows that first night, the Carrows almost press their marks on Ginny a couple of times. Amycus taunts her while she’s lying half-dead on the floor and Harry feels it, physically almost, inside his stomach for every curse they cast. They seem rather undecisive about what to with her, in the early days. They kept asking if we’d really broken up, if you’d come and get me if you knew they had me. I obviously didn’t say anything. I swear, Harry, I won’t let them have us, I fucking won’t.

Snape is the one who stops them from alerting Voldemort. He pulls his seniority as the Dark Lord’s right hand man on the Carrows, claims that regardless of Ginny’s relationship status, she probably knows a lot about the Order. They should first interrogate her, he says, bring their precious leader the whole package. Harry supposes that if they had taken her to Tom, he and Ron probably would have died trying to save her. That wouldn’t have been the ‘right time’ for him to die, according to Dumbledore’s neat little plan.

That autumn, Ginny has detentions with Alecto multiple times a week. More than once, Harry almost stops reading before reminding himself that he’s asked for her letters, owes it to her not to. Gryffindors, we get slammed against the wall so many times but we always come back, Harry. When I think of giving in, I think I’d rather die.

She gets banned from Hogsmeade, amongst other things. She and Luna are caught trying to sneak out, and little by little, their days seem to get shorter and shorter. The Carrows recruit a second batch of Slytherins and some Ravenclaws to ‘restore order,’ giving them a licence to curse, steal, and bully anyone who dares step out of line. They are fed ideals of blood purity, a stronger wizarding race, encouraged to marry their cousins if they have to, exactly like Sirius had said. 

In Gryffindor, the little titbits of information that McGonagall manages to gather from the Order trickle into the castle and spread like petrol on a trail of wildfires. She tries to control it, look after her students, but often fails. The closer the winter season gets, the more people seem to find refuge in the room of requirement after class, for a few hours’ rest. No one is truly living there - not yet - but they listen to the radio, sometimes play games. Ginny teaches the kids useful hexes, and Neville cultivates poisonous plants.

Around mid-October, Luna and the both of them try and fail to steal the sword. There is Snape and there is Hagrid and there are detentions in the forbidden forest, which turn out to be a bloody relief. Sometimes, I see McGonagall looking at me and I can tell she’s just an inch away from pulling me out of school and telling mum and dad. I think she’s counting the weeks ‘till christmas, hoping they won’t send me back.

Harry knows that they did, and sort of wishes they hadn’t.

Everyone’s watching their backs, she writes, one night. I’ve heard that Parkinson and Goyle attacked a couple of first years a few nights ago. No reason, just for something to do. No one goes out on their own anymore. We try to get back at them for everything that they do, but there’s so many of them, and so few of us.

I miss you. We all do.

Sometimes, she says. I’m lying in bed and I can almost feel you watching me. Is that odd? Am I going crazy? I close my eyes, and in my head I can almost see you, feel you lying next to me. There’s your messy black hair again, against the side of my pillow. You touch my cheek and you just say: ‘Hey.’ I feel my breath catch. It’s the sound of your voice, hoarse like you’ve just woken up from a dream. ‘I snuck in,’ you say. I smile. I whisper: ‘Yeah, I can see that.’

We kiss. There’s something rough at the edges about the way you do that, now, in my head, and your palms rest around my hips, and you keep me there. Your lips are wet, warm, we make quiet vows that we’ll never keep. You say you’ll never leave again. I say I forgive you. You breathe hot air against my neck, suck at my pulse point – it’s summer, you see, and our skins are damp - I feel like droplets at the back of your neck when my fingers trail there. You say you love me. Your mouth moves down to behind my ear, my collarbone, the space between my breasts. You remember the first time you took my shirt off last year, Harry? Sometimes, I wondered if we were going too fast. Now, I can’t help but feel like we weren’t fast enough.

The next part’s not that hard, in terms of make-believe. I’m crossing my legs now, under the table in the corner of the common room as I write this, because I can almost feel it again, every time I think of you. Do you remember? That day in spring when I showed you? You fumbled a bit, but you caught on quick. You’ve always performed best under pressure, haven’t you? I touch myself, now, sometimes, and it’s easy, oh so easy to pretend that it’s you.

I keep wondering: what do you think it would have felt like? Sex? You inside me. People say it’s painful for girls the first time, but that’s never scared me. It’s kind of intriguing, actually. And, with everything we did, during those two months, I keep wondering why we never actually did it, you know?

I guess, I kept thinking there would be time. More time, I mean. What an idiot, right? It’s like: now I have to stay alive, we both have to stay alive to find out what sex for us would be like. It’s the things I remember: the feeling of your lips against me – you’d always kiss the inside of my thigh, you remember that? I let my thumb trail there, sometimes, and it’s funny how the mind works, the things you can recreate. I bite the inside of my cheek in the end, so that D. doesn’t hear.

Harry, where are you?

Love,

Gin.

Well. Now, he’s got a bloody boner, on top of everything else.

Sometime at the end of October, Ron leaves. Ginny - ‘97-Ginny - doesn’t know about that, so she doesn’t talk about it. Her world’s not a tent, it’s a castle, and a different kind of claustrophobic. She describes the spies and the kids turned into soldiers, and the relentless rain that beats the windows, the mud it creates against the grounds and the warming charms that she casts on her trainers when her feet get wet. They make us stand outside for hours, she says. It’s like they think we’re stupid enough to let ourselves freeze to death.

Over a cold and rainy weekend, the clocks go back an hour. She describes: long nights keeping watch, new recruits, the informants she begins to run, both inside and outside the castle, the DA classes, the stunts they pull and the way the Carrows inevitably retaliate, and the darkness in the middle of the afternoon. 

She says the siblings and Snape complement each other well. Everyone’s terrified of Snape the most, she explains. We all know he’s there whispering in Voldemort’s ear. When you get to his level, it’s not detentions you end up with, it’s a death sentence. One of Hannah’s friends got called into his office the other day, was never seen again. His presence prevents people from talking amongst themselves, Ginny says. From organising. The use of Polyjuice Potion is now routine amongst Umbridge’s old brigades, trying to infiltrate the rebellion where they can. People have taken to wearing beanies to class, she says, keeping their hair out of reach. She writes about how no one dares have open conversations anymore, not knowing who to trust. I hate having to hide what I think all the time, she tells him. It’s exhausting, pretending, lying. I feel like we’re all in a play, playing the roles we think we should be in, but without having been given the scripts. 

Then: The Carrows are just violent, she adds. Dumb sadists who get people to fall in line. Forget your homework? You’ll get a beating. Talk back, you get cursed. And then, she says. There’s us. They’ve already crucioed Nev, Seamus, Michael even. I was naive to think it would just be me. They use us as examples. Look at what will happen if you really misbehave, you know? We’ve got kids coming to learn with the DA, but they’re so young. We try to impart the importance of defence on them, they need to be a bit scared to be careful, or else they’ll get caught, but then we’re the ones scared for them. The other day, one of them got beaten up by the brigades outside of the room, I couldn’t help but feel responsible. 

Harry closes his eyes. See, he can’t help but think. This is what it feels like when you do all of this for me. 

When it comes to their DA classes, Ginny has become the de facto spell instructor. She teaches the younger ones the ins and outs of the perfect bat-bogey hex, which they then like to practise on Slytherins at the weekends. These give everyone a laugh. They desperately look for someone who can competently teach Potions. Once: the Carrows were in a particularly foul mood over dinner, tonight, Ginny says. Harry sighs, heavy. Hallowe’en celebrations were cancelled. Apparently, someone transfigured a piece of dry wood into a lily, left it in front of your dad’s photo in the trophy room. Made both Slughorn and McGonagall cry.

Can you imagine, Harry? I made Minerva McGonagall cry.

Merlin, I miss you.

Her detentions with the Carrows continue. These aren’t so much punishments (though she does get those, too) as much as lousy attempts at information-gathering. Snape doesn’t stop them - seems to think that as long as it’s not leaving the castle and endangering Dumbledore’s precious plan, whatever they do to Ginny is fair game. Sometimes, they have questions. Sometimes, they just make points. Want her to know that wherever she goes, she won’t escape. The others in the DA are worried; she starts keeping Dittany in her bedroom to heal bruises and cuts before they notice. Hexes, taunts, Amycus slaps her around while his sister asks the questions. Then, one day, she tells her to go fuck herself and gets Crucio-ed again. And, again. 

It hurts so bad, Harry, she writes. So, so bad. 

Sadly, it is not until mid-November that she starts giving them Kingsley’s information about the Order. Harry can’t blame her for caving in, but she sure blames herself. I lasted six weeks, but I just – she writes more but the words are crossed out so hard he can’t read. I felt like they were losing patience, and I keep thinking that if I don’t tell them anything, Snape’s going to turn around one day and decide that it’s time to send me to Tom, let him decide what I’m worth. I promised you I wouldn’t let that happen so I had to do something.

Been trickling the info in since monday. I’ve got to make them work for it a bit, think they’ve earned it, or else they won’t think it’s true. When I talk and they don’t need to hit me anymore, Amycus just watches. He’s got this sick smile about him, it’s frankly disturbing. Everyone says he’s a creep. D.’s the one who pointed it out to me the other day - there’s a way he looks at some of the girls, it’s gross. I think he’s just encouraging the boys to think … creatively, you know? Like, a few days ago, some of the slytherins cornered a third year in the girls’ bathroom, pushed her into one of the stalls and took off her clothes. She’d made fun of one of them for being short, apparently. Hannah’s the one who found her there crying. I can’t imagine. She wanted to tell McGonagall but the girl begged her not to. She didn’t and honestly, I don’t blame her, I don’t know what I would have done, you know? 

Anyway, according to her, they took pictures, said they’d bring them to Carrow as proof, that he’d been the one who suggested it. I asked around, there’s rumours he’s getting head from some of the older slytherin girls, maybe more? But then, you know how it is. Everyone’s scared and making shit up, might all be bollocks. I couldn’t get names and people tend to get paranoid these days. Or maybe it’s just our side trying to come up with shit to make the slytherins look bad. Shame - if we could prove it, I reckon it might be one of the very few things he could get sacked over. Even the slytherins’ parents wouldn’t be happy, you know?

Anyway, at least he and his sister leave me alone on the nights when I give them something.

To be honest, that January, Harry starts to feel a lot less gross about having Crucioed Amycus Carrow. 

Later, almost like a foreign chant, there are happy days, still. They rest on a different kind of blessing, the kind that feeds on hope or on a sense of distant familiarity, like the one Harry felt when he visited his parents’ grave for the first time. There are subtle tones of the girl Ginny used to be. Once, they dye Luna’s hair blue. Merlin, you should have seen it, Ginny says and he can almost hear her laugh. It trickled EVERYWHERE on the floor. I think my fingernails will never be the same colour again.

Sometimes, they’re sixteen-year-old kids.

Sometimes, they’re not.  

With every cold-blooded attack that the Carrows or their Slytherin recruits carry out, that autumn, the level of mutiny within the DA’s ranks grows crescendo. For every graffiti, every attack against Snape’s regime, the other side retaliates in kind. Harry stops counting the number of detentions from which someone in Ginny’s camp emerges more injured than the last. The Carrows seem to be actively pitting the students against one another, giving rewards to anyone who comes forward with information about the DA. In late November, Ginny gets caught in a duelling match with Malfoy after he attempts to threaten her.

That fucking arsehole, she writes. Said I should be more careful, considering the ‘company’ I used to keep. Said I should ‘distance’ myself from you while I still can. Who the fuck does he think he is?

I told him to go fuck himself, like I did the Carrows. He laughed. Said he’s not the one I should be worried about. So, then, we got into some sort of duel until Goyle came back running with Alecto. It didn’t end very well. Now, I’ll be dealing with those fucking cramps all night.

Do you think it’s bad, that we’re all getting used to the pain of it? Crucio never hurts any less, but it’s not shocking anymore. Sometimes, I wonder if I’d be able to cast it back, if I was given the chance. Seamus said it’d be more satisfying to blow up Alecto Carrow’s office and we all laughed.

Around the same time, Harry can tell, the noose starts tightening around Mr Lovegood’s neck. I heard Michael say that it’s like Luna doesn’t realise what’s going on, Ginny explains, one night, and Harry can almost hear her roll her eyes. Got into an argument with him about it. Of course, she knows what’s going on. It’s just hard for her. She’s not like the rest of us, she looks at the world differently. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t see it.

The Order blows up a train full of the Ministry’s war supplies a couple days later and The Quibbler is the only newspaper in the country to report it. ‘Daddy’s had a few visits from some Ministry people,’ Luna says. She’s carving jewellery out of pebbles on the ground. ‘People are scared to share what is going on. Daddy is brave.’

I couldn’t stop thinking about the way she put it, you know? Saying people are scared to share what’s going on. She’s right. Everyone’s gone underground, operating their own little brand of rebellion from the specific corners of their lives - we’re not talking to each other. We won’t be able to bring them down if we’re not talking to each other.

In a few days, in a handful of letters that slip between his fingers, Ginny does something that puts her on top of the Carrows hitlist, and that has absolutely nothing to do with him. Reading her words, Harry understands better, then, what happened in December. What pushed the Ministry over the edge when it came to the Lovegoods. It is the worst thing he’s experienced so far, reading her stories and seeing something before she does, knowing that her actions will have the kind of repercussions that he thinks still haunt her nights. She is brave, Ginny. Headstrong. And, she is trapped inside a castle like a cage surrounded by barbed wire. There is one thing she can do. She’s proved it, now. She can write.

It comes loudly, like a clink and a dent in a piece of china about to explode. Luna’s dad’s agreed! An exclamation mark; she is happy, hasn’t been for a long time. We’re publishing six pieces on what’s going on in hogwarts. I’ve got to write them all this week, he wants to see them, agree on a schedule before we go to press.

Fuck, Harry. (Yes, fuck, indeed.) It’s real. I’m a reporter, now. Who would have thought? (Me?) I mean, I know it’s only the quibbler, but everyone bloody reads the quibbler, these days. I’ve talked to the rest of the DA. I’m going to focus the pieces on the fighting, the actions we’ve taken since september, the things they’re doing to the kids. We won’t talk about us, make it anonymous enough that no one gets into more trouble than they already are. That and a lot of people don’t want their parents to know about what the Carrows are doing to us personally, which honestly, I kind of agree. It’s a bit of a tightrope to walk on, but I think it’s doable. Showing what’s going on, without being too specific. I know that Lupin always told me to use examples, that it makes things more compelling but look, I’ll work with what I’ve got.

She works around the clock up to the Christmas holidays, that year. Between her detentions with Alecto ( I’ve started just giving them the information now. It’s all bollocks anyway, and I don’t have time to end up in the hospital wing every other day. I’ll ask Kingsley for more over Christmas. I can last with what I have until then), classes, the DA’s general brand of rebellion, her letters to him, and her articles for The Quibbler, Harry wonders when she sleeps. The answer seems to be that she doesn’t.

Soon enough, Luna’s father writes in with edits on the first couple of pieces. She agrees, sends them back through an elaborate succession of owls and hand deliveries to avoid the censors. I had to pick a pen name, she adds. He can tell she’s happy, ecstatic, even. Sixteen. I chose Penny Gitrot. Thought it sounded foreign enough, though I’m sure you can figure it out, can’t you? Bit reckless, I know. 

Around mid-December, Mr Lovegood publishes her first article. Then, the second one. They talked about it on Potterwatch! she writes; Harry takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Can you believe it? A whole piece about the propaganda we’re being taught, the impact on future generations! Merlin, Harry, it’s like I’m finally doing something important. The Carrows are furious but they don’t know where it’s coming from. Pity I can’t sign them, actually. I’m proud of these.

Then, obviously, on the 20th of December, she boards the train back home. On the 20th of December, Luna never makes it home.

Harry – 1999-Harry - knows that Luna’s fine. Right this minute, she’s probably drawing portraits in the Ravenclaw Common Room and this weekend, he might even see her at Grimmauld. She’ll be talking to Dean, trying to convince him that painting the entire upstairs corridor the colours of the rainbow is not ‘a bit much.’ In a month’s time, she’ll take questionable notes at C.A.S.H.C.O.W.’s next board meeting and will get on Kreacher’s nerves for calling him ‘Sir.’

Luna’s not dead, of course. 1999-Ginny knows that. 1997-Ginny does not.

She rages, she threatens, and she screams. Accidentally breaks a glass at The Burrow with her magic, which she says hadn’t happened in years. The guilt that she feels over her friend’s kidnapping seems to overtake her, eat at her from within, because there is no one she can talk to about it. No one knows she wrote the articles. When the Order asks, she obviously just shakes her head. Molly is threatening to pull her out of school again, considering the contents of the pieces themselves, which is another thorn in Ginny’s thigh. It’s my fault, it’s my fault, it’s my fault, she writes and that feeling – that feeling, Harry fucking knows. No one can truly hate you as much as you hate yourself. They took her, Harry. They took her, and they’re going to kill her because of me.

That Christmas, as far as the Order is concerned, Luna’s probably dead. It should have been me, not her, Harry. I should just give myself up, I deserve it. I just - the next few words smudged with a mess of water and ink. They want to scare us. All I want, now, is to watch the lot of them burn.

She’s worried. She’s angry. She shouts and she breaks dishes when Tonks says: ‘We know she is your friend, but –’

Mum cries all the time, she writes. It is the 23rd. I don’t know where she finds the energy. Even that seems exhausting to me.

Sometimes, over that one week in January ’99, her fears and her words ( she’s dead, Harry, isn’t she? No one survives Tom), hit hard enough that he has to drop the letters and go out for a run in the dark until his legs almost give out. Kingsley visits the Burrow a couple days before Christmas and asks Ginny point blank about the risks she’s taking. ‘You’ve been feeding them the information we gave you, that’s good,’ he observes. She writes: he followed me to feed the bloody chickens so that mum wouldn’t hear. Asked again if I was the one who wrote the articles in the quibbler. ‘If you are, you’ve got to tell us, Ginny.’ I didn’t say, I just asked why. He said that the last fake safehouse on the list was a trap. That the Order is planning to wait until the Death Eaters come in to blow it up. ‘But if there’s a chance, Ginny, if there’s any chance at all that they might suspect you’ve deliberately been feeding them fake information…’

I don’t know, Harry, I just kind of stared at him. He’s been growing a beard, it doesn’t really suit him. I kept thinking: actually, what would they do? Cancel the whole thing? Pull me out of hogwarts? I can’t let that happen, I can’t leave Nev alone up there. Not without Luna. That’ll be too much on him. And what about mum and dad? And, the boys? How long will we survive if we’ve got to hide. They keep catching people, the reports on potterwatch get longer every day. And what about the kids at school? Someone has got to be teaching them how to protect themselves. Someone’s got to stand up to these people, Harry.

I told Kingsley I’d be fine, that I’d handle it. I saw the relief on his face, how it was exactly what he wanted.   

On the bright side (because yes, there is a bright side), Lupin reappears. Tonks’ hand is locked in his more often than not, from what Ginny observes, and her belly’s grown rather large with Teddy inside. He’s apologised to mum, she explains. Though, it’s still tense, obviously. Tonks’s good at smoothing things out, I suppose that’s her hufflepuff side. She’s back to being a good laugh, too, at least a better laugh than everyone else. And, yeah, they’re probably crazy, having a baby right now, but at the same time, you can tell she’s happy. We’re all a bit crazy.

Ginny tells Harry about the conversation she and Lupin have on Christmas Eve, the one about treacle-tart-and-kissing-me. In hindsight, considering everything, Harry sort of wishes Lupin had told her parents, actually. I don’t know if people can really change, she writes, that night. But I feel like he’s doing better? Even laughed at one of Fred’s jokes. The baby’s a boy but they haven’t picked a name yet. Tonks said they’re thinking about James as a middle one. 

On Boxing Day, unexpectedly, their lives graze each other again. Merlin, Harry, they spotted you in Godric’s Hollow, she writes. Exclamation marks again. What in Merlin’s name? Fuck’s sake, Harry. I just. It’s like I can’t pinpoint what I’m feeling, you know? Relief? You’re alive, at least. Fear? He was close, by all accounts, and truth be told, how many close calls can someone get? By Godric fucking Gryffindor, Harry, where are you? I’m like mum, now, I keep having these nightmares, finding you, Ron and Hermione dead. I thought that maybe Ron would try and come home for Christmas, but he couldn’t have, could he, if the three of you were planning to go to Godric’s Hollow? I’m bloody furious with Bill, by the way. Newlyweds? Spending Christmas together? We’re in the middle of a fucking war, does he not know the pain he’s caused mum? They came over today with presents but it just wasn’t the same.

I do like Fleur, though. Is that odd? I feel like she’s kind of growing on me.

Don’t tell her I said that, obviously.

When the three of them are seen at the Lovegoods’, Ginny doesn’t write for days. She doesn’t wish him a happy new year. When she finally gets back to it, she says: I’m so bloody mad. At you, for being so close and not coming to see us. At Luna’s dad for giving you up. At Tom for taking her. At the fucking world, Harry. But, I can’t stop this. If I stop writing for too long, it’s like I can’t organise my thoughts anymore, then even the tiny things around me don’t make sense. Everything’s gone, but at least I have this. Us.

Love (I suppose – though, I’m furious, Harry, I really am),

Gin.

On the 2nd of January, the Order bombs Kingsley’s fake safehouse. Two nameless Death Eaters are killed.

In the blast, Alecto Carrow is critically injured.

There is a before and an after what comes next.

When Harry reads on, that year, he doesn’t shout, or cry. He stares. At the walls. It’s the middle of the afternoon on Thursday, the 14th of January 1999, and when he is finished, he walks. Finds it rather extraordinary, actually that his legs seem to carry him. He walks until his feet are frozen, until his hair is soaking wet.

He takes the train to Brighton. Doesn’t trust himself to Apparate. Watches the night as it falls out the window, the fields and the houses, and the people going about their lives. He sets his feet at the edge of the opposite seat and an old woman grumbles at the ‘youths who don’t respect anything, these days.’ He’s this far from cursing her. This far from bursting into tears, too. 

In front of Andromeda’s door: ‘Harry?’ she frowns. He’s not quite sure what he’s doing there. There isn’t much he can explain.

‘Can I see Teddy?’

Andromeda doesn’t ask. She just nods. Opens the door and lets him stand over his godson’s crib as the little one finishes his afternoon kip. Later, they play games until dinner. Teddy puts his hands on his head and makes an odd sort of noise which Harry knows to be a request for his Patronus. Ever since he’s found out about them, his godson’s been fascinated with the glow of wild animals in the dark. Andromeda is looking at them from the threshold of Tonks’s old bedroom.

‘I’m sorry, Teddy. I can’t. Not today.’ 

Harry,

I was dragged off the train the moment we got there. Amycus knew everything. That I’d been feeding them false information. That I’d written the articles in the quibbler. Luna’s dad told them. I don’t even blame him. He said that he would kill me. It was after the fourth cruciatus, so I said he might as well. He doesn’t seem to know if his sister will make it. I hope she dies.

Then, he said I was right. That death would be too kind on me. He said he’d call Tom. That they’d get to you. That they’d kill you and make me watch. Then, that they’d get to my entire family, kill them and make me watch. I can’t let anyone else get hurt because of me, Harry. Plus, I promised you it would never come to that. That I would never let them use me to get to you. That I could handle it.

I did handle it. I think at this stage, I could handle anything.

It’s okay, though. It’s okay if you hate me.  

Gin

For the next few days, there isn’t any ‘love,’ ahead of her name. Years later, she tells him: ‘It wasn’t that I didn’t feel it, I couldn’t say it. Not with the things I was doing. Which is ironic, isn’t it?’ she smiles, shakes her head to herself. ‘The things I did in the name of love, and I couldn’t even say it.’ Harry gave his own life to protect those he loved so when Ginny tries to explain, he tries to understand.

I acted teary and vulnerable, she says. I thought he’d like that. Control. It’s what he and his sister have always been about. They could have dosed me with Veritaserum. They didn’t. They don’t just want to win, Harry, they want to break us in the process. They get high thinking their violence can. I said: ‘Please don’t, I’ll do anything.’ 

I was hoping - scratches he can’t read. Fuck, I can’t even say it in a letter to myself, she adds. I was hoping he’d take the bait. It wasn’t much of a leap. I handed it to him on a silver platter. I could see a smirk on his face, like the idea had just occurred to him. Contemplating possibilities. He cocked his head to the side to look at me on the floor. Laughed. ‘Really? Anything?’

He pulled at my hair the entire time. I didn’t try to stop him. It was like a switch flicked in my head. Like I was there, but also not. I kept thinking it was what I needed to do to keep everyone safe. Make him think he owned me. ‘Go on, get up. On your knees,’ he told me. He had that self-satisfied smirk about him when he pulled his trousers down. Said I should show him what ‘anything’ looked like. I gave him a bit more tears, a bit more weeping. He seemed to enjoy that. I knew he would. I knew it would work. He shoved himself into my mouth. I thought I was going to choke, but everything good I learnt with you, I gave him. I kept thinking: please don’t kill them, please don’t kill them. A bit later, he slammed me into the wall. Took my pants off. I didn’t think it was going to go that far, but I bit the inside of my cheek and I let him. I fucking let him, Harry. He kept saying, ‘Potter didn’t do that to you, did he? You dirty fucking whore.’ I let him.

There’s nothing. No sound. No air in his lungs. Just blood - his knuckles bruised against the wall of his apartment and bile in his fucking sink. Her cover letter still on his coffee table: I think there are things on there that I wasn’t sure I wanted you to read.  

Amycus tells her to come back, the next night. She does. It’s okay, she writes. I’m okay. He’s stupid enough to think this was his idea. I’m making it work, like we all are.

Harry wishes he was the kind of person who cried. 

Ginny doesn’t tell anyone in Hogwarts. Of course, she doesn’t. Emerges from her detentions without any visible wounds. When she says: ‘It’s just the Cruciatus. I’m fine, honestly,’ the rest of the DA believe her. She tells Harry the truth, though. Tells him the truth about all of the lies she tells the rest of them.  

I went to Madam Pomfrey for potions, she explains, one day. He won’t do the spell, I think he wants me to get pregnant. I said I was dating Nev, just in case she would want to tell McGonagall. She was kind. Said it was none of her business.

The thing is: against all odds, Alecto Carrow survives. In February, she even comes back to Hogwarts to continue her reign of terror as though nothing happened. It doesn’t stop her brother from carrying on like nothing happened, either.

At least, he’s stopped threatening me with taking me to Tom, Ginny writes. I don’t know what he’s told his sister or Snape, but it seems to have worked. I think he’s genuinely enjoying the power ride. He gets to humiliate me, and you, all at once. A stroke of fucking luck, isn’t it?

To her makeshift diary, she tells everything. Every sordid detail of what Amycus Carrow does to her. Later (much, much later), when they talk about it, sitting on the couch in their apartment. ‘I needed to tell someone,’ she says. ‘Even a hypothetical person. I didn’t want to die and for no one else to know.’

I miss you, Harry, she writes, one night. In the voice that reads her words to him, it’s almost a whisper. The thought of you and me is what keeps me alive. That and so much rage.

When the time’s right, I’ll kill him. Until then, here we are. Sometimes, I close my eyes and I can almost make myself believe it’s you.

(What the fuck could he say? There’s nothing to say to that, is there?)

On a strategic level, he’s not sure what Amycus was hoping for. His actions don’t break her. To the contrary, she only becomes more ruthless, less willing to make compromises. With the others in the DA, she picks arguments, pushes them to go further than they’ve ever gone before in their own brand of rebellion. The operations they put together are rarely entirely her ideas, but she is the one who bears their weight on her shoulders.

That winter, she, Neville and Seamus set fire to the Carrows’ records. Thousands and thousands of pages, lists of students and their parentages reduced to ash in a matter of minutes. As payback, they find Seamus lying half-dead in a pool of his own blood, left in the corridor in front of the room of requirement. No one’s even pretending that’s not where everything happens, anymore. We took him in, Ginny explains. There is a matter-of-fact tone to her words, by then, one he recognises from Neville’s words last May. This is finally where they’ve landed themselves.

Hannah tended to him, got Pomfrey to sneak in. I was shaking so much, Harry, I couldn’t even hold his hand when they patched him up. It’s like, all I feel is anger now, I can’t even tell where it’s coming from. I try not to but sometimes, I just want to let it win.

A couple days later, she writes: It wasn’t the Carrows. It was one Malfoy’s boys. I ambushed him in an empty corridor this morning, set a cruciatus on him. Just like that. Fucking hell, who am I, Harry?

The more she does, the more detentions she gets. It is like a sickening circle of a war that happens behind closed doors. Today, I talked back in class and he didn’t like that, she tells him, once. When he fucked me tonight, he sliced his knife at my side. It cut and it burnt and I tried to hide how much it hurt. He had that smile on his face again. He said that he’d marked me so that I could never forget him. As if. In my head, I saw myself grabbing that knife and slashing his throat.

Sometime mid-February, Michael Corner suggests they break into the dungeons and free a number of students that the Carrows have chained up. For this too, Ginny coordinates the DA. They decide that they will strike when the Carrows are on patrol, far from the former Potions lab. ‘We’ll need to find out their schedule,’ Michael says and looks at her when he speaks. She describes her own nod, her own shrug. ‘Yeah, that’s alright. I’ll get that for you. No problem.’

Because, here’s the thing: they spend time together, that winter - the two of them. Mostly in Amycus’s office, but sometimes in his locked classroom, or even in his bedroom. And, there’s points - moments as he reads on, where Harry’s not sure who’s using who. Often, Amycus hurts. He is violent and vile and almost kills her but sometimes, he just wants sex, she says. Sex or a blowjob and a conversation. Someone to revere him, make him feel important. Look up to him and show him power, show him they want this, show him an abject mixture of impressed and scared.   

And: it’s not hard, Ginny adds in her letters, to Harry alone. He doesn’t realise it, he thinks I’m stupid and worthless, but he talks. He talks big like he’s important, it’s easy to get information out of him after he’s come. Hannah just gave me this look today. Arms crossed, reminded me of mum. ‘Okay, but what about the kids they have watching the place?’ she said. ‘The two third years, the one with the curly hair and the other short one, I can’t remember their names -’

I just asked: ‘Yeah, what about them?’

They free the kids, that year. A couple days later, Michael’s lying unconscious in a hospital bed. Her detentions are almost daily, now.

One night, a few pages down the line, Ginny’s words are unsteady again. He thinks Alecto might have gotten to her but no. Hannah knows, she just writes. There’s a sigh that comes out of his lips, like he’s not yet sure whether this is yet another bit of bad news or a flicker of hope in the distance. I didn’t even tell her. She just came to see me tonight with a bottle of firewhisky. We snuck out and drank, just the two of us, by the greenhouses. I said: ‘You know we can’t go out at night.’ She just sort of laughed and asked: ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

She’s not wrong, I mean.

She was nice actually. Didn’t even really ask. Said I shouldn’t feel like I have to do things I don’t want to do. Said: ‘Ginny, there must be another way.’

I told her I spend my nights trying to find another way. For now, I keep coming up empty. I have nightmares in which I watch everyone I love die. We still don’t know what they’ve done to Luna, and I can’t let that happen to anyone else. The only out would be to cut my veins open but I don’t want to die, not like that, not for him. I want to do everything I have to. To fight this war and win it. The only way I will accept death is if I die trying.

So, for now, when Amycus wants me to suck him off, wants me to take my clothes off and come all over me because it’s gross and degrading, I do what I have to do. I pretend that I like it, that he’s a good lay, because sometimes that’s what he wants, too. And, when he wants more, when he wants to fuck me, and touch me, call me a whore, I give him a run for his money because right now, that’s the only thing I can do.

She said you wouldn’t want me to. That you’d rather give yourself up. And, of course, you would. That’s the issue. Trust me, I won’t let you. 

I think for us girls, it’s just the way wars are fought.

Finally, March rolls around. It is only relevant because Easter is around the corner. Harry’s own war will take a turn for the worst, but she’ll be free. In the meantime, the world strangely keeps on turning. McGonagall and I had a bit of laugh, today, she writes. The ministry’s asked the heads of house to fill out paperwork about us. What we want to do, what department we want to join. If you say something they don’t like, they’ll track you down, make you change your mind. I was in her office and she asked what to write on mine and I just, I don’t know, laughed, I guess? I mean, really, by this point, who cares? I genuinely had the giggles for a good five minutes. I swear, she even smiled. Can you imagine? I made Minerva McGonagall smile and cry this year. Isn’t that a fucking feat?

So, I told her I wanted to marry rich.

I mean that’s still true. I doubt you’ll have me, but I still want to marry you.

At the end of the month, for Hannah’s birthday, they throw a party in the Room of Requirement. Honestly, because we’re young and because we can, she writes, which is as good a reason as any. Ginny describes: loud music, drinks, laughter, chatter, dancing. Seamus had a bit too much firewhisky, hopped on a broom and tried to get Nev on it as well, they crashed into the wall. I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. Nev was screaming like he was going to die, Seamus kept calling him a ‘fecking eejit!’ Ah, what a show they put on, I swear, we should do this more often. We played the Weird Sisters and I danced with a fourth year from Ravenclaw (bit young, I know.) He held my hand, made me twirl, and I smiled and I giggled. Bright and girly, wild hair and whiffs of flowery shampoo, and I kissed him because I wanted to.

It was great, Harry. It made me feel warm and it made me feel wanted, and pretty, and happy. And, I mean, I’ll probably never see him again, let alone do anything else, but it felt good to just kiss someone, do something because I wanted to. Be in control with boys again. Because, I like boys, you know? And I like people, and I don’t want Tom, Amycus or anyone else to take that away from me. I like jokes, laughter and a good party. 

In early April, she goes home for Easter. Promises Seamus and Neville that she’ll be back. She won’t be. They are three and half weeks away from winning the war. Three and a half weeks away from Fred’s death.

(Finally.)

Whatever happens over the holidays doesn’t matter much anymore. Harry knows how the story ends. Mum says I’ve gone quiet, Ginny observes. Asked if I was alright. Sometimes, I look at her and I look at dad and I wish I could just tell them. Everything. I don’t think I ever will. 

A couple of days later, Malfoy Manor happens. She writes in all caps. His heart is heavy, by then, knowing that it’s not really the happy end she thinks it is. HARRY. YOU’RE ALIVE. RON’S ALIVE. HERMIONE’S ALIVE. LUNA AND DEAN ARE ALIVE!! YOU’RE ALL AT BILL’S. WHAT THE FUCK?

In a few, quick paragraphs, she describes their flight to Muriel’s, the home they had to leave in under five minutes. I just grabbed my backpack and ran. Your letters are in there, thank Merlin, I’d shrunk them before heading home. It really was touch and go, wasn’t it? Kingsley told us the house was raided minutes after we left. Honestly, doesn’t matter, they could torch it, I don’t care. I’m so relieved I could cry. You’re alive, I’m alive, everyone’s alive. We’ve still got hearts and they’re still beating.

Mum did cry. Fred, George and I had a little bit of dance at Muriel’s, broke an ancient-heirloom-you-don’t-know-the-value-of-things-you-bloody-little-prats vase. The drama. It’s funny, the things she worries about. I’m worried about us surviving here in the long term, and not only because of the death eaters.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking I might write to you, if I can. Like, a real letter in which I’ll lie and say I’m alright, but a letter nonetheless. Mum says it’s too risky for us to visit, but maybe I could do that? Maybe we could actually talk? Can you imagine? I’m just so glad the three of you are safe. Everyone is safe. It was all worth it. Merlin, I might actually sleep tonight.

She writes quickly, the next day: It’s morning, now. I’ve calmed down. I took my tea upstairs to write to you. I hope you all managed to get some sleep, too.

I heard you lost Dobby. I’m so, so sorry. He helped us loads, such a kind person. It’s not your fault. Don’t think that for a second. And, look after Hermione, will you? I heard Bellatrix got to her. That bloody bitch. I know this is going to sound strange but ask Fleur if she’s got any potions against period cramps. We’ve found that it actually kind of helps for all cramps, and it’s easier to source than potions that are specifically against the cruciatus. Oh, fuck, I forgot I can’t send this. If I tell Bill, he’ll ask how I know. Okay, maybe I’ll tell Fleur when she comes over, she’s better at keeping things to herself, I’ve noticed.

Harry, I’m sorry, I know you’re mourning. But, Merlin, I’m so glad. I didn’t think I’d ever feel happy again.

Okay, I’ve got to go, Mum’s calling me.

Love (love, love, love, love, love – always),

Gin.

She has multiple rows with her mother, later on. The gist of it, from what he reads, is that Ginny wants to find a way to get into Hogsmeade. Neville’s got the word to her that he, Seamus and a few others are now living in the Room of Requirement full-time following the attack on his gran, continuing to help the younger students out. Ginny wants to join them. Her mother refuses. For obvious reasons, Harry agrees.

For a short while, she is sixteen again. A teenager who complains about arbitrary rules. A teenager who asks her boyfriend to reassure her about her looks. Muriel said I had a fat bum this morning, she writes. I pretended I didn’t care but now it’s gotten to my head. I’m just so mad. How fucking stupid is it, after everything, that this still sticks? I keep wondering if you’d think I have a fat bum, too. I mean, I haven’t played quidditch in almost a year and I’ve been stress-eating a bit, I think, like maybe that would have stopped Amycus, but. Oh, Harry, swear to Merlin, if I hex her someday, I cannot possibly be blamed.

Good God, he thinks. There is absolutely nothing wrong with her bum and everything wrong with the entire, fucking world.

She warns him, a few days later: Bill’s worried, she writes. It’s not really a surprise. He knows you’re planning something. You should be more discreet. I heard him tell dad about it this morning. Merlin, I’d give anything to come with you. Whatever you are planning, I’m in.

Lupin drops by. Like he did at Shell Cottage. Tonks had the baby (lots of exclamation marks, again). Did you hear? Oh, my, of course you heard, stupid question, sorry, I heard you’re godfather! Congrats, eh? Proper adult? How does that feel? Guess you and Lupin are better now, that’s good. One day, you’ll have to tell me what happened, won’t you?

Her last letter, that year, is dated the 30th of April. In it, she talks about the twins accidentally letting dung bombs off inside Muriel’s wardrobe. Tonks visits them with Teddy in her arms and Ginny writes: I mean, he’s ugly-cute, you know? Like, a bit wrinkly, but for something that was inside a person for nine months, he’s magnificent, actually. When I saw him, I wondered – fuck, you’d probably think I was stupid.

Actually, you know what, whatever. You’re never going to read these, anyway. I wondered what ours would look like, okay? That’s what I thought when I saw Teddy. Make of that what you will. Now, I’m going to bed.

And, these are her last words, in 1998.

It is not her last letter, though. There’s one more. He picks it up rather automatically, like he’s done time and time again this past week, fishing further down to the bottom of her cardboard boxes. The parchment’s a different brand, the ink fresher. That is her last letter. It’s dated 9th of January, 1999.

Harry,

It’s two in the morning. I’ve read that last one over and over. I just can’t leave it at that.

Merlin, tell me, how do I end this, Harry? How in the world do I end this? I’ve been trying to think of what I would say to you, ever since you asked to read these, but I just can’t figure it out. I might be a bit of a coward, leaving them on your doorstep and running off to Hogwarts. I’ve told you we could talk about it when you finished but it’s not like we really can, is it? I’ll admit, I didn’t really want to see the look on your face when you read these. So, yeah, maybe I am a coward.

You’ve reached the end. I’m not entirely surprised, but I also wasn’t sure you would. I keep wondering if you’ll even read this. I keep wondering where you’ll stop. I’m kind of hoping that you will. At the end of the day, I’ve never read the whole thing, I’m not sure how it reads. I just lived it.

He was I don’t know what he was, Harry. It is inexplicable. Some nights, he’s still in my head. Does this make me make sense, now? I know I was a bit all over the place, last summer, and I think there were times when you were wondering why. Why I both wanted so much, and so little at the same time. Why I never wanted to talk. Does it all click into place, now?

I’ll tell you the truth if it’s the last thing I do, because no matter how shit things got last year, I never lied to you. The moment we won the war, I just decided to forget everything. Shove it all in the past like it never existed. I didn’t want you to know. I still don’t. You think you blame yourself? Try me.

I keep wondering what would have happened, if I’d been more careful. More quiet, less me. If I had followed your plan and kept my head down. Without being unkind, I think the main issue with that was the assumption that I’d be a good girl. That I wouldn’t fight them. Whether I was or wasn’t your girlfriend, in the end, I’m not sure it really changed much.

I want you to know that having sex with you after the battle was something I wanted to do. I’m not going to lie, I think there was an element of control in that, too. I wanted you. You and I, the idea of it, is the one thing that kept me going all these months. I don’t think I would have survived if I didn’t have that to defend and protect from the world. I wanted you (including sex) since before Amycus, and I still wanted you after him. You were my real first time, the one I wanted, and the only boy I’ve ever loved. That’s the truth. I understand if you don’t believe me, I suppose you rightfully feel betrayed, but I swear on Fred’s grave.

I’m sorry about what happened in August. I still think it was the right decision (for me and for you) but I regret the way it happened. I think to me, what we had was never a relationship, it was a lifeline, like the continuation of what I’d held onto all these months, the one thing I thought could keep me afloat. And yet, every time I saw you, I kept seeing you dead. I kept thinking it was my fault. And, the moment Narcissa came back, it’s like all of it, all of the press, all of the things that I wasn’t telling you were just staring at me right in the face. Every time I looked at you, I couldn’t stop thinking about the war. It’s like my war was ruining us, Harry. The one thing I’d always thought would be a good thing, and now I’d fucked it all up for myself. I just needed out, Harry. I’m so sorry. I regret not being able to explain all of this to you, the way I am now. Writing comes easy to me, but sometimes talking is hard.

A good thing happened today. We sat on my bed. You told me about Mia, and I told you about Matt. You asked if I loved him and I said I didn’t know. I don’t know anything right now, Harry. I don’t even know why I date. After everything that happened last year, you’d think I wouldn’t, but it’s not that simple. Matt makes me feel better about myself. He doesn’t know any of this, and he doesn’t need to. It’s not the massive rift that stood between us like a chasm of unsaid things last summer. I could tell that you wanted to be honest with me, even back then, and I couldn’t bear lying to you. I don’t really care about keeping things from him. It doesn’t even feel like I’m lying.

Tonight, we talked about quidditch and about things that don’t really matter. You promised to write. Earlier, you told me that the only way you’d ever walk out of my life was if I wanted you to, or if I was dead. I didn’t want to give you these, because I know what you’ll think. I appreciate that there’s probably a caveat in that, for the girl who fucked Amycus Carrow.

Because, that’s what happened, Harry, isn’t it? I know I hardly ever fought him. I wanted to survive. Sometimes, I think I even managed to make him believe I enjoyed it. That was always nice, because then he’d leave me alone a bit longer. I think he got a kick out of thinking I was ‘cheating’ on you. And since last year, it’s like I can’t take what Hannah said out of my head, you know? Like, there must have been another way, another solution that I didn’t think of? Maybe following your plan would have done that. Maybe I’m a fucking idiot for not listening to you.

Anyway, I just wanted to say: if you hate me, if you don’t want me in your life anymore, that’s fine. I mean, no, it’s not fine, I have nightmares about it, about you not answering, but that’s just something I’ll have to live with. I do hope you’re okay.

Love (always),

Ginny.

There is rain, tip-tapping against his window, when he finishes reading, that Saturday. There is rain and there is the couple who live in the flat underneath his; he can hear them trudge down the stairs, her with the baby in her arms and him carrying the pushchair. They’re still looking for a flat. Their mortgage offer isn’t great, they said, and everything’s so expensive these days.

The rain stops. The drops stay. They don’t slide down, just stick to the glass until they dry, almost shining in the dying sun. Mia complained about how humid the building is to their landlord last December, about the mould at the windows (her flat’s worse, being on the ground floor and all), and the only thing he offered was to paint over it, or buy a dehumidifier. ‘They don’t fucking work,’ Harry remembers her raging to him a few weeks back, the bloody thing kept humming in the corner of her living room. ‘Then he said if I wasn’t happy, I should just move out. Plenty of people wanting to take my lease.’

When she went to the loo, Harry cast warming charms against her windows. Least he could do.

Why is he even thinking about this? It’s like the circuits in his brain have tripped out. He wakes in Diagon Alley. Suddenly, he comes to and out of a daze and he is there. For the first time since the end of the war. It must mean - something. 

Objectively, it’s a disaster. Hermione’s repeatedly pointed out that the rarer his appearances in the wizarding world, the wilder the crowds would get whenever he did appear. ‘Look at me and Ron. They tailed us the first few times but it’s fine now. They got bored of following our boring lives.’

Well, Harry’s still news. In his world, a lot has happened since then, but to the rest of the witches and wizards of Britain, he’s Harry-Potter-the-war-hero. They’d thought he’d gone a bit cray-cray, recently, but then less than a month ago, he gave a ground-breaking interview to an American magazine, one that got everyone talking again.

That afternoon, in the streets, he just walks, keeps his head down and his hood up. The moment he walks into the post office, though, it’s harder to remain incognito. Fuck, he should have thought this through. Should have disguised himself. Should have gotten another bloody owl months ago. Now, he’s here on a Saturday and the place is packed with people and screeching owls, and he has to push his way up to the till to talk to someone. The moment (the very moment) he finally gets there, he hears a witch behind him say: ‘Wait is that -?’ ‘Nah, he’s shorter, isn’t -?’

‘I need to send a letter,’ he quickly tells the woman behind the till. She looks to be about fifty years old, her hair up in some kind of perm that must have gone out of style before she was even born.

‘Alright. What’s the weight?’

He frowns. ‘What? I just need -’

A heavy sigh escapes her lips. She rolls her eyes and ticks a box on a piece of parchment with the quill in her hand. Behind him, the hubbub is getting louder. ‘What’s the weight, for the owl? How am I meant to charge you without it, young man-’

‘Oh,’ he stammers. (‘Oi, come in here, come and look!’ a shout echoes behind him.) ‘I, er, I don’t have it on me, I just -’

With a somewhat exasperated look, Maureen - as her nametag suggests - finally deigns to look up at him. Her gaze travels from his chest to his face and for a second, she just stares. Harry sees her mouth open into a small ‘oh;’ he makes the mistake of sneaking a quick peek at the crowd behind him and shit, he thinks. Aren’t there even more of them than when he came in? Suddenly, someone announces: ‘Merlin, it is him!’

There is raw panic in his eyes, he supposes, when he catches Maureen’s gaze. He’s got about five seconds left before they all swarm in like flies. She seems to be considering her options. ‘Please,’ he just says, anxiously looking behind his shoulder. She sighs again.

‘Alright. Let’s go into the office.’

He writes out his letter to Ginny at the edge of a desk that looks about to collapse under the weight of all the packages the wizarding world needs to send on any given day. Looking around the place is like coming to in that dark room after the battle, staring at Tom’s corpse. He is baffled at the tangibility of it all. The shelves all around them are full to the brim with heavy files and a good dozen cages, three of which are occupied. Through the small window at the back, a foul smell of fish curry seeps in. In a rush, Harry asks for a piece of parchment and ink, which Maureen provides while staring him down and shaking her head the entire time, arms crossed over her chest as she stands with her back to the door. The hubbub behind her grows louder with every minute that passes.

‘Merlin, what were you thinking?’ she asks.

He rolls his eyes. She’s not exactly helping, is she? ‘I just need to send this. I won’t be long.’

Gin, he writes. 

I don’t have much time. I just got to Diagon Alley and I’m in this office with this postwoman who’s glaring at me and there’s a whole crowd outside chances are you’ll read about it in the prophet tmr.

He stares at the rest of the page. What the fuck was he thinking, coming here? Her words - too many of them - are a jumble in his head and he can’t choose his. Thanks for I got I read your letters. That’s four. He looks up. Maureen seems even more impatient, now. I dunno what to say think I don’t hate you. He remembers telling her the only way he’d ever stop talking to her is she wanted him to, or if she was dead. She says there must be caveats and maybe - maybe, there are - all he knows is that he is here, and it must mean something. The adrenaline in his arteries and his gut feeling have rarely ever been wrong before. I dunno why but I don’t. Believe that. Please. I just wanted to tell you that.  

I hope you’re okay.

And, suddenly, he would like to say more. So much more. He’s afraid the press might get hold of this letter, though, which he can neither encrypt nor really hide, so he doesn’t.     

I’ve got to go now but I’ll write more soon. I promise. I just need to get my own owl first.

Whatever happens, I’m glad you told me. 

(He hesitates for a moment, not very long) Love,

H.

He folds it, hands it over to Maureen. She sighs (again) before attaching it to the leg of one of the birds in the corner. She opens the window wider and a heavy rush of curry smell files into the room again.

‘Alright. Let’s try to get you to Apparate out the back. It’s a bloody riot out there.’

Harry glances out the window. At least, the bird’s flown away.

.

END OF PART ONE

Chapter Text

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PART TWO: ROSES

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ix. out of bronze (compasses)

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.

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Harry

A week later, his name underlined in her handwriting at the front of an envelope that slips from Luna’s pale hand to his. He turns it over; the flap isn’t sealed. Ginny trusts her.

He looks up and crosses the girl’s gaze, pulls the piece of parchment out. He is silent, for a while. 

Harry, I’m worried. I’m okay but it’s been days. You don’t have to talk to me. Just tell me you’re okay. 

The truth is: after the post office, it takes him two weeks to write to her. Might not sound like much, in the grand scheme of things, but - ‘I didn’t know what you were thinking,’ she admits, months later, when they finally meet. ‘If you’d changed your mind.’

The only hesitation in her words, that morning, rests on that last syllable, the word ‘mind,’ drawn out somewhere in a non-existent space of punctuation between a full stop and an ellipsis. She explains that she wrote to him every night. That those letters, she didn’t keep, binned them to be later vanished by an army of Hogwarts house-elves. Harry’s gaze traces the outline of the lake in front of them; they are sitting on the grass, the earth humid beneath their bums. ‘I thought it was just me,’ he says. He wrote to her, too, but nothing made it out of London until the end of January. Words never sounded like what was in his head. He also didn’t like the sound of what was in his head. ‘I’m not very good at it. Writing. Not like you, anyway. On top of everything else, it’s a bit intimidating.’

‘On top of everything else’ being the greatest euphemism of all, here; Ginny barely raises an eyebrow at it. This is May. A lifetime has passed. ‘You seemed to manage fine later,’ she observes. There is the slightest hint of reproach in her voice, like her mother when she claims that the ‘boys’ have missed a few too many Sunday roasts. Harry’s jaw tenses; if anything’s changed, over the past few months, it’s that he isn’t scared of a disappearing act anymore. If she leaves, if they fight, it is what it is.

He turns his head to see her face. The bridge of her nose and the outline of her lips. ‘You left all your shit on my doorstep and fucked off to Hogwarts,’ he points out. She takes the hit of his words without a flinch, staring out into the water. They are quiet for a while; the sun high, morning slowly inching into lunchtime. Harry wipes his palms against the fabric of his jeans, rough and thick, listens to the lapping tune of the lake by their side. ‘Most days, I didn’t even know what I was thinking,’ he admits.

Ginny nods. Finally turns to cross his gaze. ‘And, now’' she asks. ‘Do you know what you think, now?’

‘I do.’

It just took him a while to get there, he supposes. 

In January, he told Luna to tell Ginny he was fine and when she claimed he didn’t seem to be, he rolled his eyes and addressed the one thing he suspected she was really worried about: ‘For fuck’s sake, Luna, does it look to you like I’m about to kill myself?’ That ship had sailed long ago, to be frank. 

Luna stared at him for a second, before he saw her large blue eyes open even wider - she strangely looked at the space to his left, deep in thought. ‘Well, there are no Nepamidoes leaving your ears right now, so I would say no.’ He had no idea what on Earth she was talking about. Then, with unmistakable clarity: ‘I know what they look like, I see them circling around Dad sometimes.’ 

He didn’t know what to say. Hoped that Hermione hadn’t told Ginny - anything, really. ‘Well, tell her that, yeah? Then, you’re not lying.’

She nodded. 

The next day, an owl landed on his windowsill. That your standard? Okay.

To tell the truth, that January, Harry’s biggest struggle is a sense of disconnect. Winter starts with foggy and wet mornings, water frozen in a thin layer of ice over hoods and duffle coats, visibility close to nil. There are: moody skies, sleety grounds - grey pavements and dark red bricks. Rain falls over London, chill burning at his skin; once, he heads into work and a woman a few metres ahead of him loudly swears when her heel hits a puddle. It’s nine o’clock; dark and tired, and the sun looks like it hasn’t even risen yet. Out in the streets, he can see his breath, the way it rises in the air like smoke from a chimney; he tries to steady it, lets it escape in drawn-out, continuous streams and longs for a cigarette. 

He remembers how, last winter, Ron was always able to tell North. It used to get on his nerves, watching his best mate look at his watch, at the sun in the sky, outlining shapes of clouds. ‘Well, see, if the sun’s behind those trees and it’s morning, then obviously, East is there and North’s that way -’ Ron would say, arm hovering in the air from one point to the next. Harry would shoot a rock down the wet terrain, bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from screaming.

His best mate had learnt to tell directions from Mum-and-Dad-at-the-Burrow. Envy made it worse. All that Harry had ever mapped out was the layout of Little Whinging – or later, of Hogwarts and the Quidditch pitch; he’d never gone out in the wild like this. When he asked Hermione for help, she said: ‘Just instruct your wand to point.’

It wasn’t the same. Ron’s knowledge was instinctive. This needed: planning, instruments, time. In ‘99, though, he wishes his wand could just point him.

The one thing he decides he won’t do, very early on, is break Ginny’s trust. It’s hard, harder than he could ever have imagined, because that winter, he is concealing: the existence of the Hallows from the world at large (granted, for his own safety, but -), the contents of Ginny’s letters from Ron and Hermione, magic from Mia, Mia from Ron, and later on, some of Ron’s plans from Hermione. In a news article a few years later, a journalist praises his capacity for resilience and he wonders what the fuck that means. The truth is that he just holds, and holds, and holds like his fingers gripping the ledge of a window, trying not to fall.  

(And, what would he say, anyway? None of it makes sense, back then.)

Harry’s never been a good liar, though, and Hermione’s always said she could see things in the features of his face, so logically, he begins to avoid his best mates like the plague. It’s easier to keep secrets when you aren’t confronted with the people you’re keeping them from, easier to convince himself that his best friends don’t need him, since they already have each other. This strategy is a familiar one, one that has failed him time and time again, but it doesn’t make it less of a default. A default which, predictably, leads to a whole other set of problems, with Ron silently letting his resentment stew until it overflows into a wave of anger he can no longer contain, and Hermione setting up camp on Harry’s back 24/7. ‘Nice of you to grace us with your presence,’ she ironically throws at him, once, and he lets it hit and sting but says nothing. Doesn’t trust himself to speak - not to let slip: ‘Mate, Ginny, she -’

He misses his friends. An undeniable, physical kind of longing that compels him to be near, sit in their company - even when they might not suspect it. Under the Cloak, he follows Ron and Hermione to the supermarket, the cinema, on their way out of a restaurant over a weekend. It feels... calming, knowing that they’re safe. It feels wrong, too, like he’s spying, some sort of dark wizard on the hunt, but Ron’s arm is wrapped around her waist and they look… together. In love. Doing much better than he is (doing well without him). Hermione said she was struggling too, months ago, but that seems to have passed. She’s holding a single umbrella between the two of them, hurrying up the road back to Grimmauld Place.

‘We should just Apparate,’ Ron says.

Her voice is half-amused, half-daring. ‘Yeah? In the middle of a Muggle street?’

‘No one would notice.’

Ron pulls her closer, away from the edge of the pavement. He whispers something in her ear, something that Harry can’t hear but which makes her laugh, the back of her head momentarily exposed to the rain. They stop walking; he kisses the side of her neck.

‘Well, if you want that, we’d better hurry,’ she says with a smile on her lips. She tilts her head up for a quick peck. ‘I’ve got to be back in Hogwarts by six.’

It’s like: the way cold - water, ice, rain - burns sometimes. At first, watching them is warm, the flame of a cosy, homey fireplace, until Harry remembers the chasm that exists between them and his blood runs cold, a pointless loop through his limbs. In a castle full of people, it’s kind of strange to feel so alone, Ginny wrote, last year, and while Harry can’t find words for what is going on in his head, that January, she certainly did.

He’s hidden her letters, now, behind shrinking charms and powerful wards, inside the Drona insert at the top of his Kallax unit. He’s learnt their stupid Swedish names on a night when he needed to focus his mind on something; little cubic fabric storage bins that fit nicely into little squares. He couldn’t bear looking at her bloody words anymore. So, now, he stares out the window and randomly thinks: ‘So, what? You were lonely and fucked Amycus Carrow?’ 

It’s what she said, anyway, isn’t it?

There is one person he might have considered discussing this with, at least in abstract terms, but she is dead. That’s the reality of his life as it is: people die around him. And, while Harry doesn’t resent Giulia for her own untimely passing, all that she left him with in this case are: half-answers, unfinished lessons, and a hefty dose of self-blame when he sits at his kitchen table with a refill pad and a Biro pen in his hand, unable to string sentences together. Giulia would never have forgiven him, for not thinking straight. She would have lectured, said: ‘She tells you one thing and you don’t question it? Take it at face value? That’s shit Auror work, is what it is. Look at the evidence maybe? You know this,’ she would have insisted. ‘Deep down. Or else you wouldn’t have gone to the post office and promised to write again in the first place.’ She would probably have had a point. ‘You’re an Auror, she’s a seventeen-year-old kid who needs help. So: you help, simple as that. It’s the right thing to do.’

Giulia speaks in his head like Dumbledore did back at King’s Cross. She speaks questions but not answers, because all Harry wants to do, then, is to look into her eyes and say: ‘Jules, everything in my head is static, right now, alright?’

‘What? Is it the torture you can’t deal with?’

‘Fuck you.’

Of course, it isn’t. It was hard to read, sure, but nothing Alecto Carrow did failed to feature in his nightmares, last summer. Seamus and Neville’s faces spoke for themselves. And yes, he’d hoped Ginny had fallen through the cracks but her publishing the articles didn’t surprise him. That was braver than anything he’s ever done. 

Giulia is glaring at him. ‘You know what I’d think right? I bloody taught you so don’t you fucking dare - ’

This is why he doesn’t talk to dead people. Even when it’s all happening in his head. 

Because, yes: the truth of the matter, the reason he sent that letter, the reason his gut reacted the way it did when he finished reading Ginny’s tale, is that he doesn’t completely come to the issue from nowhere. Sure, he’s not an expert in the field, by any means, but he’s been, like, trained, at the very least. Enough to at least question the narrative a bit. 

The first time he and Giulia talked about it, they were at work. Driving to an address following a radio dispatch. ‘Ah, go on,’ she said, laughing. (He can still feel the heat of her blood on his hands). ‘Your entire sex education was Madam Pomfrey pulling all the boys from your year out of class one day and taking the better part of an hour to teach you how not to get a girl pregnant. She showed you spells and Muggle condoms and you and your mates then spent the next thirty minutes giggling at the back around a banana.’ She raised an amused eyebrow at him. ‘Am I wrong?’

At the time, he laughed, red in the cheeks. Kept to himself the fact that Seamus and Dean had later peeled off the banana and spent the afternoon throwing bits of fruit at the back of Malfoy’s head across the room. Great fun, it was.

‘Right,’ Giulia went on. ‘So: sexual assaults. That’s maybe, what? Ten per cent of the reports you’ll get if you’re on patrol? Of course, they teach you nothing in Hogwarts and close to nothing but legal definitions in training. That’s probably why most Aurors are shit at handling these and why so many reports never even get to us. I read somewhere that Muggles have similar issues so at least, it’s not just us being cunts,’ she shrugged. ‘My point is: you’re a bloke, you’re eighteen, chances are you hardly know what to do with your dick when a girl is willing,’ (he coughed, loud, and opened the window out onto the freezing, autumn air), ‘So you let me handle this, okay? This is when you shut your mouth, you learn, and you listen.’

(He wishes there had been more time to learn and listen.)

That day, Giulia downed the rest of her coffee and slammed her empty tumbler into the mug holder between them. The car took a sharp left; Harry held onto the roof handle for dear life and did not dare open his mouth to complain.

‘Also, by Slytherin, if you make so much as one comment that makes our girl feel uncomfortable, I will cut your balls off, understood?’ She was always the queen of pedagogy, Giulia, wasn’t she? In hindsight, he sometimes wonders if the reason he took so long to write to Ginny, that January, wasn't also because his former partner put the fear of God into him. ‘If you’ve got questions, that’s fine. I want you to ask questions. I want you to be a better Auror than 99% of those pricks out there. But, you ask me. Afterwards. In the car. Understood?’

By then, he was frankly too mortified to do anything other than nod.

So: that night, they went to the pub. Not because they’d scheduled it or because they had something to celebrate but because about five minutes into the drive back to the office to collect their stuff, Giulia said: ‘Alright, Potter, but if you’re going to quiz me like this, I’m going to need a drink.’

And, look: he was just - interested. Not quite sure why, it’s not like he ever could have imagined what was to come but he just wanted to - be a good Auror? Mostly wanted to prove to Giulia that he wasn’t just some useless kid, that he was taking the job seriously. Like: feeling a mix of curiosity and confusion; she’d asked their victim an array of questions that he’d never even have thought of. Things about the woman’s friends, her family - she hadn’t been able to identify her attacker. In the car, Giulia explained that statistically, it was probably someone she knew.

‘Merlin,’ Harry had let out, words escaping his mouth before he paused to think about them (a character trait). ‘How could anyone do that to someone they know?’

Giulia’s foot had hit the break in the middle of the country road so hard the safety spells that prevented them from going head-first into the windscreen activated, pushing Harry back into his seat and making it rather hard to breathe. He looked around in a panic but all he saw in the fields around was a flock of sheep. Pink ears and muddy paws. ‘What the -’

‘Think very carefully before you say anything else, Harry.’

It took him an embarrassing amount of time to understand what she was on about, but he’d like to highlight the fact that they’d almost just died in a car accident of her own making, so that might have slowed down his brain a bit. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘Of course, it’s awful to do that to anyone, you know that’s not what I meant.’

Giulia nodded, silent, once, then restarted the car. ‘See? This is why in cases like these, you never say the first thing that comes into your head.’

Later, at the pub, she gave him a crash course on the definition, enforcement and legal boundaries of sexual crimes. They veered in and out of other, broader topics, too, like the functioning of the wizarding justice system, pleas and trials and burdens of proof. ‘I told them putting you lot on that accelerated course was stupid,’ she sighed, shaking her head to herself. ‘No offence but according to the Ministry, because you all hunted and fought Death Eaters last year, you don’t need to be taught things. It’s infuriating. Like, pureblood shit is the only kind of offence you’ll ever see. Wishful thinking, if you ask me.’  

She wasn’t wrong. Even with the trafficking case they were working on - no one had ever brought up any of the associated offences in training. All that Harry had ever learnt about cursed artefacts and smuggling, he’d learnt from Giulia, not class. And, maybe that suited him fine, given that he’d never been the kind of person to fare particularly well in a school environment, but still. The only topics they had ever really discussed were: the faces on the wanted posters in the office, or how to combine and cast offensive and defensive spells, as well as combat techniques. It was useful, but never felt like the full picture.

That night, Giulia talked about potions, alcohol, power imbalances, and consent. A litany of things he’d give anything to be able to ask more about, now. ‘Right,’ Harry remembers asking, before paying for her second mojito. ‘Okay, but ultimately, it’s just yes or no. It’s not really that complicated, is it?’

They waited for their drinks. He watched her toy with the straw of her empty glass, pressing mint leaves against crushed ice. ‘Right,’ she nodded. ‘So, you’ve never let anyone hurt you because, say, they were in a position of power and you didn’t have a choice. Especially, when they were an adult, and you were a kid?' 

Her gaze travelled to the glass of Coke he was nursing, a couple of ice cubes and a slice of lemon. I must not tell lies - still scripted at the back of his hand. ‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘Point taken but I don’t walk around blaming myself for it. That girl, she kept saying it was her fault it happened because she forgot to lock the door. That’s absurd,’ he frowned. Giulia smiled like she would indulge him just a little further. ‘I mean, whoever he was, he’s the one who did it. It’s his fault, not hers.’

‘Hm,’ Giulia caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow. ‘So, you’re trying to tell me you’ve never blamed yourself for something that - objectively - was not your fault? ‘Cause I’ve known you two months and I can already show you receipts.’

He burst out a laugh.

So: on the one hand, yes, in ‘99, there is that. There are Giulia’s words and the fact that intellectually (a big word that makes him think of Hermione) Harry knows that his gut instincts were right. That he needs to write back to Ginny, not because he wants her back or because he wants to be her friend - those considerations have gone out the window, now - but because he wants to be a good person. And, maybe, if he just saw her again, if she came to London and if he could look at her, reach for her, then all the right words would tumble out of his mouth without him having to think about it. She says it was sex. He sees the knife digging through her skin and curses and threats to everyone she loved. She says it was her choice; he can’t help but wonder what the alternative would have been. That’s not ‘sex’ Gin. That’s a fucking criminal offence. 

But then, on the other hand, whenever he lies in bed staring at the ceiling at three in the morning, he imagines the both of them meeting in a café. They sit at a table and share tea and milk and fucking biscuits, and Harry imagines himself finally being able to cross her gaze, let his look trail down the bridge of her nose, the tint in her cheeks and the outline of her mouth, notices a glossy layer of lip balm covering slits left by hours spent playing Quidditch in the cold. He remembers the sweet flutters in his stomach every time he sees her, and how warm her mouth felt pressed against his until, of course, his brain conjures up the image of it wrapped around Amycus Carrow’s dick. The words I hardly ever fought him resonate in his head and all the Right Things he’d ever meant to say get flushed down the drain. ‘You fucking let him,’ Harry shouts in her face before he can stop himself and that, ladies and gentleman, is the fucking conundrum, in a nutshell.

Those are the bad days.

‘I was such an arsehole,’ he tells her, twenty years later. They are standing, looking at each other her study. She shakes her head, her fingers dancing against the back of his hand. She is warm.

‘No,’ she smiles, speaks quietly. ‘You were listening to me.’

He supposes that yeah, maybe. 

He continues to see Mia, that winter. Not out of spite; she’s just the only person in his life who doesn’t drive him nuts, at that point in time. You’d think that with what happened with Ginny, he would have been put off by sex altogether, but the reality is, as always, slightly more complicated than that.

At first, yeah, sure, it is a disaster. Mia’s unlucky in her timing: she gets back to London on the 17th of January, the day after Harry finishes reading the letters. He only notices her coming home because he’s spent hours just staring blankly out the window, a thin layer of water trickling along the seal of the wooden frames, mouldy paste almost coming alive as his glance follows the glistening stream of droplets down the glass. A taxi drops her off; she exits and walks around to the boot. By then, it is dark outside, and Harry realises he’s not sure where all of the hours before that went.

The cab driver helps carry her stuff out to the front of their building. The lashing rain has morphed into an intermittent drizzle that falls in slanted lines, pencil strokes on a canvas and the yellow glow of streetlights. Two floors below, Mia is surrounded with: packing boxes, IKEA bags filled with clothes and hangers, colours and fabrics. She stands there for a moment, lights herself a cigarette. Looks up. When Harry goes down to help her, it’s only because she’s seen him and smiled, and he likes to think he’s not a complete dick.

‘I had to pack all my things,’ she sighs the moment he walks past the front door, stands on the top step, surveilling the mess. Her jeans are 90s-baggy, boyish and wide-legged, damp halfway up her calves. Harry can’t help but notice that when she stretches, a glimpse of skin shows at her hipbone, and the hem of her underwear. ‘Mum’s turning my bedroom into a nursery for the baby,’ she explains.

Her words ring amidst the ambient noise of the street, amidst the passing cars and a group of chattering uni students. She shrugs like the Hufflepuff she is, like: ‘Well, she’s right it’ll be a lovely room for him.’ Like she isn’t being asked to move out of the only place she’s ever been able to call home and Harry doesn’t really have the brain space to call her out on it.

(A few weeks later, he tells her: ‘You’re allowed to be angry, you know. Doesn’t mean you don’t love them.’

She sighs, shakes her head. ‘I know. It’s not very nice, though.’)

They spend the evening on his sofa. Not with a particular purpose but that day, he is functioning on autopilot and by the time they’re finished bringing her stuff in, her flat is so cluttered with boxes and sketches, yarn and sewing machines (‘Why did I go to fashion school?’) that navigating from her front door to the bathroom is a rather impossible feat. ‘Do you want to grab dinner at yours?’ she suggests. ‘We could get takeaway.’

He nods. It’s not like he’s going to say no, is it?

They do: pizza and a VHS tape from the Blockbuster down the road. Push the tape into Harry’s TV and vaguely gaze at Harrison Ford, a hijacked plane and scary communists for a couple hours. Harry lies down on the couch after they’re done with the food, head over the armrest and knees bent up against the back pillows. His feet lie flat over the fabric of the cushion tops, socked toes tucked under Mia’s right thigh as she faces the screen. He falls asleep.

The film’s still on when he wakes, what looks like the final standoff. Over his tracksuit bottoms, Mia’s hand is wrapped around his calf, thumb moving in small circles, absent-minded and automatic. Her gaze is still focused on the TV; she doesn’t seem to realise she’s doing it.

Harry’s not sure what time it is, by then, but it feels late, like winter when eight in the evening is the middle of the night. The ceiling light casts an aggressive glow over the kitchen; it reflects into the sitting room. His glance traces the outline of Mia's jaw, a beauty spot on the right side of her chin, the curve of her neck and the outline of her collarbone, the distressed hem of a green cotton jumper that spells BRUYERE in bold script. He’s no idea what it means and doesn’t care enough to ask. He shuts his eyes again, breathes in, out.

Over the next few minutes, as the plot slowly inches towards its resolution, Harry starts to notice that her movements are gaining purpose. He wonders if she’s just come to realise what she was doing, noticed he didn’t pull away, and is thinking that maybe, he didn’t want to pull away. Mia’s not pushy, of course, but her fingertips tap along the back of his calf in a rhythm, now, the pressure still casual, but definitely intentional. Steadily, her palm moves to trail over the back of his leg, up and down from his knee to his foot a couple of times. ‘Harry?’ she asks.

He opens his eyes to find hers. Her hand slides again, slow, now reaching up to the back of his knee, the underside of his thigh. He swallows; she bites her bottom lip, shows a hint of her front teeth before she speaks.

‘Do you want to, er -’

Her hand trails up; his breath catches. She smirks.

He doesn’t turn her down. He could, of course - they’ve both certainly done it before (‘I’m tired,’ or ‘Just not feeling it tonight,’) – and, had he said those words, Harry knows Mia would have shrugged and gone home - no harm, no foul, no hard feelings. That’s been the core principle of whatever this is, these past few months, so there’s absolutely no reason that she would have acted any differently.

Which perhaps is why he doesn’t turn her down, that night. Might not really want sex but what he wants even less, is for her to leave. He doesn’t want: the empty flat and the hum of the fridge, and the sound of cars driving past. Grimmauld isn’t an option - Ron and Hermione are there - and while he supposes that he could leave the house and go for a run, it’s pouring rain outside, so maybe sex is just marginally better than any of the alternatives. 

He extends his legs; she moves to rest her calves on either side of him. They’ve got this routine down on the couch, by now, because when they’re at his place, climbing up the ladder to the mezzanine is always a bit of a trek. He prefers hanging out at her flat, not only because she has a proper bedroom but also because he is always afraid he might have left something magical lying around his apartment that she shouldn’t see. Continuously having to hide his wand from her is getting rather tiring, actually.

Mia doesn’t kiss him. Rarely does, he’s noticed, unless she’s a bit drunk and they’re in a pub or in a club with her friends and they escape to snog at the back. Instead, he feels her trail her mouth down the line of his jaw as his hands settle at her sides, leaving a flurry of wet kisses against his skin. He runs his hands under her jumper, the curve of her hip and up her back. She hardly ever wears bras, Mia, and when she does, they’re flimsy, lacey bralettes that seem to serve little function outside of simply existing for his benefit. She laughed when he commented on it, once. ‘I mean, they’re not huge,’ she smiled, shook her head. ‘They kind of support themselves, don’t they?’

She smells like her perfume, like wildflowers and citrus, orange and grapefruit, jasmine tea. It’s subtle, nothing like the roses of Ginny’s shampoo.

She wraps her right hand around him. There are a few quick strokes; his breath catches again and: ‘Can you, er-’ she asks then signals him to move towards his end of the couch.

He mumbles an absent-minded, awkward, sort of apology and scrambles further up the sofa to give her enough space to lower herself down and - fuck, yeah, okay, maybe sex wasn’t such a bad idea, after all, was it? Her lips are hot and wet against him; he bites down on his forefinger, trying to suppress a rather embarrassing moan. Harry focuses his gaze on her, wonders if it’s weird that he really likes to watch this - her bending down as he feels her tongue, warm and slick; it makes the blood pump faster in his arteries. ‘Like that?’ she mutters, pulling away for a second and he can almost hear a smirk in her voice. They’ve done this enough times by now that he knows she’s not actually looking for guidance, teasing.

‘ Yeah, fuck, exactly like that,’ he lets out in a breath.

Snaking his hand through the maze of her hair, he makes a fist and pushes her down, ever so slightly. It’s an odd one, that: he did it involuntarily a few days before they both went home for Christmas, caught in the moment, and apologised profusely afterwards, embarrassed and staring down to his feet. Ginny used to hate it and of course, it’s not like he’s got a lot of experience with these things in general, so he assumed it would apply across the board. Mia flushed, though, and bit her lip. Said: ‘No, don’t apologise, I – er, kind of liked it.’ And, quick: ‘Fuck, you’re making me bold, admitting that,’ she laughed.

That January, she gives him a low moan of approval when he tries it again and it’s maybe a bit stupid but Harry smiles to himself, thinks that at least, he’s doing one thing right. Mia takes him deeper into her mouth and by then, with every movement, he can feel his orgasm building. Vaguely, he reckons he should probably tell her to stop before this all ends much too soon for anyone’s liking, but then, it feels so fucking good, and he catches himself wondering how wet she is, right now, and he tries to focus on the maze of her hair around his fingers, and - 

Ginny used to hate it. Ginny used to hate it. Ginny -

He pulled at my hair the entire time. I thought I was going to -

Oh, fuck. 

The words come out of his mouth in a tumble. ‘Stop. Just fucking stop.’ He panics. Pushes her away from him so quickly that she falls off the sofa. The mood goes from, well, sixty to zero, in a matter of seconds and fuck, he’s going to throw up. Harry turns to face the wall, dry heaves over the coffee table but his legs can’t possibly carry him anywhere, let alone the bathroom. ‘Oh, shit,’ he repeats. ‘Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.’

Mia never - asks. Not that night but also, not ever afterwards. She never pushes, never pries, never tries to get him to admit what happened, that night. It is an incident that only exists between them, that he knows she’ll never tell a soul about but which, also, she doesn’t feel compelled to explain. Hermione would have hounded him with questions. Ginny would have gently whispered ‘Harry, what is it?’ once he’d calmed down. Mia, though, she says nothing. Once she recovers from his sudden manhandling, she climbs back up on the couch and just sits next to him. Her palm is cautiously laid against his shoulder and days later, when he asks her why she isn’t curious, she just shrugs: ‘I’m not that kind of person. I don’t like imposing on people.’ He’s not sure what she means, then, but in the moment, it’s all he needs. When he grits his teeth, it feels like wood and splinters in his mouth, she just says: ‘Hey, you okay? Just breathe, yeah?’

She offers to call 999. He shakes his head. He’s had them before. It’s just that thinking of Ginny telling him to breathe, right now, isn’t really helping. 

‘Do you want me to leave?’ she asks. His next breath comes out even choppier, quick staccato in the low light. He can’t help but think of what he told Hermione, that morning after Giulia died. ‘We shag, that’s what we do.’ He shakes his head again. The thought of being alone in his apartment only makes the panic worse.

There is a reassuring smile in Mia’s voice when she says: ‘Okay. I’ll stay.’

They sleep in his bed, that night. Don’t have sex or even touch but there is the slow rise and fall of her chest, the warmth of her breaths on the pillow next to his. Harry watches. Doses off for a bit. When he wakes, the sky is white, a low glow filtering past the top of his window, behind the buildings on the other side of the street. Her skin is a pale shade of chestnut next to his.

A loose strand of hair escapes the silk scarf she wraps around her head at night. ‘Hey,’ she opens her eyes.

On her arm, he notices an imprint of five, purple bruises, just above her elbow. ‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry,’ he mumbles. Is that the kind of person he is, now? He touches her skin as though his fingers themselves have the power to soothe it (he’s not that good at magic, unfortunately) and – ‘I didn’t mean -’

‘You had a panic attack, Harry,’ she states, surprisingly quick. ‘It happens.’ He frowns. Is that what they’re called? He doesn’t want to pry - especially considering that she isn’t, but -

‘Does it?’ he finally speaks, like that day on the steps of their building when she said: ‘Well, this is awkward,’ and he wondered: ‘Is it?’ like all the things that he’s never had time to learn about what being eighteen and lost is supposed to be like.

Mia smiles, kind: ‘Well, usually not when I’m giving head, but -’

He laughs. The if-I–didn’t-laugh-I’d-cry kind, but still. Her mum used to have them, she says. ‘I mean, she was twenty, raising a kid on her own with no money and no education, that’d give anyone anxiety -’ 

Harry looks at her and wonders: is that what he’s got, then? Anxiety? To be honest, he can’t help but think that life - in his head - doesn’t really make sense right now. Come to think of it, though, maybe that’s why he keeps seeing her, in ‘99. Because of happenstance, warmth, and accepting that the world around him is so fucking chaotic that he might as well not be totally alone in it. ‘Do you want to grab breakfast?’ he asks. 

Months later, he looks to his feet and says ‘I’m so sorry,’ again; they’re on the front steps of their building and she is all packed, waiting for her cab to St Pancras – she says: ‘Don’t be. I just wish I was her, is all.’

He never meant to break her heart, did he?

It’s like he’s living two separate lives, that winter. There is the Muggle bubble he creates with Mia, something quiet and easy, and everything else he can’t tell her about. Ginny, his friends, the whole of the wizarding world. The Death Eater trials that later become omnipresent; Ron, Hermione and he are made to slug through dozens of summons and meetings, attempting to clarify legalese, the beginning of the hearings themselves looming in the distance like Lord Denning’s infamous long-winding cricket digressions. Harry wishes they could just get it all over with but both Kingsley and Hermione insist that there is a thing called ‘due process’ that they need to follow, so.

In total, twenty-six trials are scheduled between February and May of 1999. Some of the Death Eaters are still at large, but the small number of public hearings is mostly the result of numerous guilty pleas. ‘Trials are expensive,’ Kingsley explains. ‘In time, energy, money. For the witnesses, it’s another ordeal. It’s really not in anyone’s interest. The instructions my office gave were to avoid them as much as we could.’

And, that, the Ministry has done quite efficiently. Since September, Harry has been on enough Death-Eater-related ops with the Aurors to know that the DMLE’s interpretation of Kingsley’s directive wouldn’t exactly be to Hermione’s taste, so he keeps quiet about it. Keeps quiet about the fact that on top of the death toll from the battle, many of Voldemort’s former followers have now died resisting arrest. He wouldn’t go as far as to say that they were executed (they weren’t - they resisted arrest) but for example, despite the mess with IA, the death of three of their attackers last December hasn’t been particularly upsetting to anyone at the office. Ron - who killed two and seriously injured a third - is now something of a celebrity. Harry’s also been patted on the back - literally, people have let their hands make contact with his shoulder and he’s tried not to flinch too obviously - and: ‘Good job, Potter. Another one down!’ the Head of Intoxicating Substances (IntoxSubs) even said to him. It was the same day Giulia’s brother came to pick up her picture frames and her coffee mugs, and the blonde wig she’d worn last Hallowe’en, so the comment may or may not have fallen a bit flat, considering.

The desk facing Harry’s is now sickeningly tidy, (which is probably why he avoids it like Spattergroit), but the point is: no one he knows is going to go and lay flowers on Fenrir Greyback’s grave, you know?

As a witness, Harry is called to testify in fifteen of the twenty-six hearings scheduled. Robards, who is still in charge of putting together the Auror 24/7 coverage schedule, is obviously over the moon with this development. ‘I can work nights on those dates,’ Harry suggests in an attempt to keep the peace. Robards asks him if he’s gone completely insane, then instructs him to shut the door on his way out.  

For Ron and Hermione, the situation is different. All those who testified in front of the Commission last summer escape summons; the Ministry has agreed to use transcripts as evidence in the upcoming procedures. When she finds out, Hermione is outraged: ‘That isn’t right. Their defence lawyers ought to be allowed to cross-examine us!’

Ron just stares at her and asks if she’s gone ‘mental.’ Harry can’t help but laugh.

Obviously, this means absolutely nothing to Harry who did not, in his great wisdom and with very little regard as to the consequences of his actions, engage with the Commission in any way, shape or form. The news of his upcoming testimonies thus throws the press into a fresh bout of frenzy, wondering: ‘Will Potter testify?’ Or: ‘Do you think he will go “no comment” again?’ ‘Well, unless the Ministry brings back that immunity deal, I don’t see how he could…’

For the record, they do - bring back the deal, that is. The Ministry offers him the exact same conditions as they did last summer: full immunity for all and any chargeable offence committed between August 1997 and May 1998, in exchange for truthful, complete answers given under oath. To which Harry says ‘thanks but no thanks,’ because while his perspective has changed since last June (he’s talked to the press, for starters), he only wants to contribute to the ongoing debate on his own terms. The Hallows are still a story kept under wraps between a chosen few, and: ‘Narcissa and Draco Malfoy have called you as a defence witness,’ Kingsley announces, which isn’t quite the surprising part. ‘So has Alecto Carrow. I am assuming that she will try to use the allegations that you used the Cruciatus curse on her brother to ask for a more lenient sentence. I can’t advise you, Harry. You might want to talk to a lawyer.’

He doesn’t know where he even would find a lawyer, to tell the truth, and anyway, at the sound of Kingsley’s words, his heart attempts to jump out of his chest, seemingly surprised to find ribs and skin aggressively holding it back in place. He doesn’t want to be bound to tell the truth at Alecto Carrow’s trial for Very Obvious Reasons, so: yeah, no, thanks but no thanks.

On their way out of Kingsley’s office, Hermione rushes to follow him out, calling him an idiot (again) for cursing Amycus Carrow in the first place. ‘I should have killed him,’ Harry matter-of-factly observes in response and Hermione almost falls on her face in shock. She later goes on one of her rants, repeating information he already knows (‘They found him dead in the Slytherin common room. Avada, never could tell who did it,’ she declares), before asking him if his intention, making such bold statements, is to get into ‘real trouble,’ with the Wizengamot. Considering Harry died last year, it seems bizarre that anything else would ever rank to the level of ‘real trouble,’ and the whole lecture barely registers in his brain until Hermione pauses and says: ‘Wait, it wasn’t you, was it?’

It is the tone of her voice that gets him. Like: she’s not actually sure what the answer is. He stops, dead in his tracks. ‘Why would you say that?’ 

For a brief, flickering moment, he wonders if Ginny’s said something to her. If there’s a small chance that Harry won’t have to hide everything from at least one of his best mates, anymore, but then Hermione bites her bottom lip and looks to her feet. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Harry. Your tone when you say these things, it just - sometimes...’

Right. So: Ginny hasn’t said anything - the war’s just made him so ruthless that his own best friend thinks he’s capable of murder. Another one of Ginny’s phrases comes back to him, then, and it’s bizarre how, even when they’re not talking, she’s still there, everywhere. I ambushed him in an empty corridor this morning, set a cruciatus on him. Just like that. Fucking hell, who am I, Harry?

He looks at Hermione and thinks: yeah, who am I? Or: who do you think I am?

In the end, he jokes his way out of it. Annoys Hermione but at least, it’s in character. ‘Yeah,’ he agrees. ‘Sometime between destroying Horcruxes, duelling Tom Riddle, and, oh, also dying, I took a stroll into the Slytherin Common Room and killed Amycus Carrow for absolutely no reason. Sounds likely, doesn’t it?’

Hermione rolls her eyes but that’s about it.

(For the record, he’s had dreams about what he would do if Amycus Carrow was still alive. They involved more blood than Avada could ever draw. He’s seriously considered getting a Time Turner to go and do it, too.

Perhaps, that’s the kind of person that he is, now.)

At work, aside from trial prep, Harry’s mostly been covering people’s sick days and PTOs since Giulia’s death. As a result, his shifts have become wildly unpredictable, either patrolling with random strangers at an hour’s notice (‘Don’t ever call my last name in public, okay?’) or conducting rather mind-numbing tasks like scanning wands and checking people in and out of places. Given that he doesn’t currently feel capable of logical thinking, Harry has to admit he hasn’t minded it much. Dean’s got his Walkman to work inside the Ministry, so Harry’s just spent a lot of afternoons clearing out boring Auror paperwork whilst listening to - alternatively - Nirvana, The Clash or The Cranberries.

(Has he mentioned he’s not in the best of moods?)

By the end of January, their promotion of Aurors is only six weeks shy of passing probation. They’ve been assessed periodically, ranked based on theoretical knowledge tests, in-class training results, as well as feedback from their mentors. Mid-March, they’ll be assigned to the first of their three, half-year rotations, on a first-come, first-served basis. The higher you are on the scoreboard, the more likely you are to have your favourite pick. The system will repeat every six months until they hit the two-year mark and choose their permanent postings. On their first day, Robards explained that this ensures they can acquire a wide range of experiences before making their final decision. Some departments are in high demand, like the Major Crimes investigation unit (Giulia’s when she wasn’t mentoring) or the Hit Wizards - the bottom-ranking new Aurors usually end up on Patrol, where there are a lot of free spots and low demand - everyone finds it boring.

When, last November, Harry spoke to his former partner about this, he shrugged. ‘I like Patrol. It’s not boring. I like being -’ he paused, pushing about his plate a handful of oily penne pasta from the Ministry canteen. ‘Outside. Plus, it changes all the time.’

Giulia looked at him like he’d grown a second head and laughed. ‘I mean, the choice is yours for your rotations and Patrol can be a good option, you’ll see loads,’ she amended with a smile. ‘But I bet you ten Galleons that in the end, you’ll choose the Hit Wizards.’

Harry snorted. At this point, all he’d seen of the Hit Wizards were a bunch of balaclava-wearing cowboys, laying low atop office buildings and taking shots across the street, or busting down doors. ‘You don’t have ten Galleons,’ he joked.

Ron awkwardly looked down at his food but Giulia barked out a laugh: ‘If I gave your address to Death Eaters I would.’

Harry remembers: how uncomfortable everyone looked and how he almost choked on his water - the two of them were maybe the only ones to appreciate their own morbid sense of humour. ‘Yeah, but then I’d be dead,’ he suggested, ‘and you couldn’t gloat in my face.’

‘Shame.’

(God, there are no words for how much he misses her, these days.)

All of this being said, despite the memories of light-hearted banter, as the end of their first six months on the job continues to approach in ‘99, even Harry isn’t able to ignore the fact that the competition between some of the new Aurors has morphed into an increasingly cutthroat battle. At Grimmauld, as early as November, Opal began locking herself up in her bedroom to study for hours before work, eager not only to secure first place but to also be awarded enough points to stay there until the final deadline. This - of course - wasn’t to the taste of Justin Finch-Fletchley who contemptuously noted: ‘She didn’t even go to Hogwarts!’ At which point Harry considered asking him to move out of the house until Hermione argued that: ‘You can’t kick someone out just because you don’t like them, Harry.’

‘It’s my house,’ he countered. (Sirius would certainly have approved.) ‘He’s being a cunt and he’s not even paying rent.’

‘ No one is paying rent.’ (An annoyingly correct statement.) Harry followed Hermione’s gaze until it landed on the wall where her list of house rules still hung. ‘You can’t kick him out,’ she added, unappealable. ‘He hasn’t broken any rules.’

The sickening irony of it all is that the events of last December awarded both Harry and Ron enough points to make them respectively second and fifth on the scoreboard. Justin was bumped down to third place and has been breathing down Harry’s neck ever since, constantly talking behind his back, hinting that perhaps an op’ during which your partner died isn’t the kind of thing one should be praised for, and - ‘I swear, Hermione,’ Harry hisses, one afternoon. ‘If he makes just one comment to my face, keeping his room upstairs will be the last of his problems.’

Hermione opens her mouth, then, likely to lecture him again about his abundant use of threatening language, lately, but then Luna’s dreamy voice interrupts them both, her face dressed in a quizzical frown. ‘But, I thought you also disagreed with Robards awarding you points, Harry,’ she says, an unnecessary reminder of the angry fit he threw when he found out Giulia’s death had come down to a pat on the back and twenty points on a fucking board.

‘Yeah, Harry doesn’t always make sense, Luna,’ Hermione comments. He glares back until he notices Luna frowning again, her thin lips in a slight pout.

‘I don’t understand,’ she says. ‘You make it sound like it is a bad thing.’

Hermione sends him a murderous look but he doesn’t think he’s laughed this much in weeks, actually.

Which - finally - leads them to Saturday, 30th of January. That day, Harry, Ron and Hermione are called in for an early morning meeting with Kingsley; this time, it’s politics he’s requested their help with. ‘The Blair government’s finally agreed to lend us funding,’ the Minister announces once his secretary has left the room, leaving them with a tray of tea and biscuits. There is a genuine smile on Kingsley’s face. ‘It’s going to be part of a larger reform bill.’ Hermione nods, grabs the plate off the coffee table, holds it in front of Kingsley, Ron, then Harry. She and Ron are the only ones who take any food. ‘I hate to ask but I could really use some “Golden Trio” support on this one,’ Kingsley adds, his glance anxiously flicking towards their end of the room. ‘If you’re able, of course.’

The ‘Golden Trio’ phrase is a relatively recent one. As far as Harry knows, the Americans were first to use it when they published his interview in The Owl. They’d asked for a photo of the three of them - which Ron’s mum was more than happy to provide - the one taken in July ‘97 at Bill and Fleur’s wedding. From left to right, the legend read, Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter, otherwise known as “The Golden Trio.” Otherwise known by whom, Harry’s not sure, but in less than a month, the phrase became so popular that it could now be an entry in the wizarding dictionary. The last Harry’s heard, mugs and t-shirts were now being sold in Diagon Alley with their faces printed on them, reading: The Golden Trio, which Ron claimed was ‘kind of cool, but also weird,’ until George decided to search the Weasley’s attic for the worst possible photo of three of them he could find. Fifty t-shirts of Ron looking white as a ghost next to Hermione with her eyes half-closed, Harry snoring open-mouthed next to them, are currently on sale for a couple Galleons at the shop (a limited edition, George said) which Ron argued was enough to threaten to resign. For a laugh, Harry ordered one over Christmas; George gave him a rare smile before saying: ‘You always were our biggest fan.’

At Grimmauld, the office that is stocked with piles of fan mail (which the three of them have stubbornly been ignoring since last May), now has a bunch of letters officially addressed to ‘The Golden Trio.’ On the one hand, Harry is glad that Ron and Hermione are finally getting the attention and recognition they deserve but on the other, he wishes the press bothered to use their actual names, rather than this.

That morning, when Kingsley defends his request, he explains that while the emergency loan from the Australian government did help, last summer, without proper investments and reforms, the funds have already begun to dry out. For years, income tax was waived for all Wizengamot members and their extended families (mostly old, rich, purebloods) and estate tax was non-existent. Meaning, as Kingsley puts it: ‘There is a lot of money going out, but nothing coming in. No offence, Harry,’ he notes, ‘But you didn’t have to pay anything when you inherited from Sirius, did you?’

Frankly, it had never occurred to him that tax could be a thing.

Kingsley’s government is now plagued with catching up on decades of unbalanced finances. ‘The only reason we managed to keep going for so long was that we maintained rather cordial relations with the Goblins who agreed to keep printing money at will. That is no longer an option,’ he adds. The three of them look down to the carpet under their feet. ‘And, all of this isn’t even mentioning the damage done by war. To give you an example, the Ministry can barely pay the salaries of staff at St Mungo’s, but even when we do give them funding, they can’t buy what they need. Before the war, they bought all of their supplies from a wizarding factory near Glasgow, but that place was torched by Death Eaters after the owner agreed to ship goods to the Order. When Mr Sowards tried to borrow money from Gringotts to restart his business, the Goblins offered him an interest rate of 23%. They’re in a complete monopoly, obviously, with no government regulation, so they can charge whatever they want. It’s nothing short of extortion. And, then, you’ve got people like your brother, Ron, who can’t even apply for Gringotts loans because of what Gringotts refers to as “unsavoury associations.” Muggle banks won’t lend money to anyone without guarantees, which is understandable, but hard to provide when you’re a wizard-owned business. We can’t keep going around the place Confunding Muggles as we please, so people are resorting to selling all kinds of things on the black market to make ends meet. Harry and Ron, I’m sure you’ve both seen this through your work.’

Harry nods. The trafficking case he was working on with Giulia now makes a lot more sense.

During the meeting, Kingsley further adds that the Blair government loan is the first in history that will be administered directly by the Ministry, completely away from Goblin hands. The Ministry will hold funds in pounds, the money held by the Bank of England. ‘We’ll encourage businesses to accept both currencies with tax incentives, people will be able to open bank accounts with the Ministry. Many people fear another Goblin uprising,’ Kingsley says. Harry can’t blame them. It’s been like this since the end of the war. ‘And getting this through the Wizengamot will be a real challenge, which is why your support would be much appreciated.’

Harry’s best mates are obviously in favour. For Ron, it means being able to hire more staff at the shop and making their schedules - especially his - a little less hectic. For Hermione, it means potentially more time to spend with her ‘boyfriend,’ but also better Muggle-wizard relations going forward. Indeed, in exchange for financial aid, the deal also promises more cooperation on a wide variety of topics including education, culture, the economy, policing matters and defence. ‘In general terms, we’re promising to help each other through rough patches, ensuring that if we’re ever involved in another crisis, neither side will be left to fend for itself.’

Hermione nods, smiles. ‘Well, I think we’ll be more than happy to support you, Kingsley,’ she says.

To which Harry abruptly responds: ‘Support him? Like he supported us last year?’

He only realises he’s said the words out loud when he notices the look of horror on Ron’s face. Hermione’s mouth is open like a fish out of water but shock on that scale rarely occurs on Harry’s best mate. And, Harry can’t even explain it. Explaining the root cause of his anger would only lead to: YOU KNEW! You fucking knew! Knew she’d written these articles, knew she’d be at risk if she went back, and you did absolutely nothing, you piece of - 

So: in the end, Harry storms out of Kingsley’s office, that morning. It’s that or Sectumsempra. He runs out and into the lift, through the fireplace of the Atrium. He can’t breathe. Doesn’t realise Ron’s followed him until, out in the middle of the Horse Guards Avenue, he hears his best mate shout at his back: ‘What in Merlin’s name was that?’

He stills.

They’re in the middle of a Muggle street. It’s 9AM on a Saturday. This is an area most people only commute to on weekdays so granted, there aren’t many people around, but perhaps, that is why Ron’s voice carries so loud, like they’re standing in the middle of a tunnel, the both of them.

‘Look at me!’ he shouts. Then, calls Harry a coward.

A car passes. The Spanish couple on the other side of the road shoots a panicked look in their direction before hurrying out of sight. Harry spins around to face Ron. ‘What did you just say?’

In the hit parade of their shouting matches, this one probably reaches second place, only topped by their fight in the tent, and solely because of the consequences it had, back then. For the next fifteen minutes they spend roaring at each other for the whole world to hear, Ron says things like: ‘Do you even care about us, anymore?’ and: ‘You hardly ever speak to me! When you talk to Hermione, it’s almost under duress! You’re rude, and you’re careless, and you’re angry about stuff you won’t tell us about. No wonder why you’re so, bloody alone! What the –’ and Harry retorts: ‘You’re so fucking jealous, every time I say something, I never know how you’ll react! This is proving my fucking point!’

‘Jealous?!’ Ron's hands are thrown up in the air. ‘Of what? Of your pathetic little life, keeping everyone at arm’s length? You won’t even help Kingsley? You’ve no idea what that money would mean to George!’

‘Oh please! I could give you the fucking money! You have no idea what it’s like!’ Harry roars back. ‘It's not my fault, I’ve tried –’

‘Of course, it’s your bloody fault! You know where Hermione is right now?’ he asks. Harry glares. ‘She’s in Kingsley’s office, no doubt apologising for your behaviour, as always! She shouldn’t have to, I’m sick of it! Do you have any idea how many times in the past few weeks we’ve tried to talk to you and you just stay silent or make jokes? It’s fucking rich of you to -’

‘Fine!’ Harry shouts. It doesn’t quite sound like a word - almost sounds like a sob or a howl – a strange fact because he doesn’t typically cry in anger, not since Sirius died, anyway. Ron is panting in front of him, his mouth already set to counter whatever Harry says with another scream and: ‘Fine!’ Harry settles, then. ‘You’re right, all of it’s my fucking fault. Everyone I love gets hurt, anyway! I don’t even fucking know why you’re still here!’

They’ve made it to the front of a government building; Harry leans against the stone walls. Ron closes his mouth. A beat passes. He opens it again. ‘So, I don’t know,’ he continues. He’s not screaming anymore. ‘We’ve won the war. Maybe you should go and live your life. You and Hermione, you don’t owe me anything.’

Ron’s feet are planted firm into the ground. He sighs, doesn’t move an inch, crosses Harry’s gaze. ‘I left once and I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. I’m not leaving ever again, mate.’

So: that is when they stop shouting, that morning. Start talking. Overall, that’s maybe the one thing that Ginny’s letters accomplish that year: Harry gets his best friend back. And, not through awkward, passing, non-conversations outside the firing range, or quick chats to make sure that they’re both alive, rather than okay. They talk, seemingly for the first time since the end of the war. Walk down to the river, overlooking the construction site for the London Eye on the South bank and Harry sighs. ‘I almost cut my wrists open last August,’ he admits, starts with it because it’s the first thing he probably hid from Ron. There is a long list, now, and Ron’s look is sharp at the side of his face. ‘I mean, not really. I don’t know. I thought about it,’ he shrugs. ‘Fuck, I just thought killing Tom would solve everything.’ Ron lets out a short laugh at that, something that sounds like: ‘Yeah, same.’ ‘When Ginny and I broke up,’ Harry continues. ‘She said it was because I reminded her of the war, that she wanted to forget about it. Move on, you know?’ he sighs.

‘Shit, that’s harsh.’  

‘I kind of get it, though,’ he shrugs. Especially knowing what he knows now. If that’s what he reminded Ginny of… ‘I’d leave me if I could.’

Ron shrugs. ‘Doesn’t look like it worked, though,’ he observes. ‘She didn’t look much better at Christmas.’ He pauses - a Muggle jogs past them. ‘You know Narcissa tried to off herself last week?’ And, shit, Harry thinks – how long has it actually been since he last talked to Andromeda, rather than just picking Teddy up at Molly’s. With everything else going on, he must have also missed it in the papers. ‘The Aurors guarding her house found her. I heard some people say it’s a ploy, ‘cause they’ve moved her and Draco’s trial dates back now, and they released him on bail, for “emotional support.” Makes you think, though.’

Harry guesses that yeah, it does. There isn’t that much more to be said, though, is there? Floating below their feet, a plastic water bottle slowly moves past the both of them. Harry wishes he could just Accio it into the bin – not that it would make much of a difference in the grand scheme of things, considering the general state of the Thames, but, well, he’s trying to think of the fish. ‘Look, there’s something I’ve been meaning to show you,’ Ron says.

And, whilst Harry does let go of certain secrets that morning, Ron does unload one more onto him. It’s a good one, though, and like Ginny’s story, it’s one that he can keep. Unceremoniously, Harry’s best friend pulls a square, black, velvet box out of the pocket of his jeans, the size of a post-it note. It’s the kind of square, black, velvet box that only means one thing and Harry quickly raises a confused eyebrow at it. Ron hands the box over to him regardless, looks up expectantly. ‘Open it,’ he says.

Harry does. Flicks the lid open, then stares for a second.

‘What do you think?’ Ron asks.

‘I think you might have interpreted this whole relationship the wrong way.’

Ron loudly snorts, then; a startled pigeon takes off next to them. ‘Good one,’ he acknowledges, before launching into an explanation on the what (‘I’ve been to, like, fifteen Muggle shops since we came back to London; I obviously couldn’t get anything from the Goblins, you know?’), and the how (‘I’m thinking we’ll go away on Valentine’s Day. Brighton or something. I’ll ask her there’), as well as the why (‘I mean, it sort of occurred to me after what happened with Giulia. I just thought, well, bit grim but I’d rather be married to her than not, if I have to die, you know?’) Harry nods, even catches himself smiling, against his better judgement. ‘Do you reckon she’ll say yes?’

I fucking hope to God she does, is what Harry thinks, briefly wonders in a panic what would happen otherwise. ‘Why wouldn’t she?’ he asks. ‘I mean, you love each other, so why not?’

Ron shrugs, shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. You know Hermione, she’ll say we’re too young, or that we haven’t been dating long enough… Plus, I haven’t asked her dad.’

‘You’ve known each other half your lives,’ Harry frowns. ‘It’s not like she doesn’t know you. And, why would you ask her dad?’

Ron stares. Then, laughs. ‘Shit, you’ve really no notion of tradition, have you?’

Later, in turn, Harry tells Ron about Mia. It seems a bit ridiculous, hiding it from him now, and Ron’s reaction is exactly that: a frown and, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Harry tries to explain, ‘Well, with Ginny.’ Ron shakes his head again. ‘So, what? Because you dated my sister, you thought I’d think you’d never date anyone else?’

And, it’s funny because Ron, that year, is the first to call it that: ‘dating.’ Just a few weeks ago, Harry would probably have corrected him. Would have said that whatever was going on with Mia was something he didn't have words for but now, well, Mia’s been at his every day for the past two weeks. They’ve hung out and cuddled, and played video games (he got an N64, a glorious fuck you move against Dudley) but haven’t even had sex. They’ve joked and hung out; he thinks she’s been waiting for him to signal where this is going, after last time, and if Harry’s being honest, it’s felt a lot more like dating than anything else they’ve done so far.

Ron asks if ‘she knows. About magic, I mean.’ Harry shakes his head no. That’s the annoying part, to tell the truth. The constant hiding. ‘But the Statute says you can’t tell Muggles unless you’re married, so…’

‘So, what?’ Ron laughs. ‘You’re Harry Potter. What are they going to do?’ (Well -) ‘Plus, I mean, that girl, is she going to tell?’

Harry smiles. Almost to himself. God, he’s missed his best mate.

And: before they go their separate ways, that morning, Ron makes Harry promise to apologise to Hermione. ‘I will,’ he says. It doesn’t cost him as much as he thought it would. And: ‘Will you help with Kingsley?’ Ron also asks. Harry closes his eyes, opens them again. Sighs.  

‘I don’t know.’ His voice is low enough that the sound of a car driving next to them almost covers his words. ‘Don’t you think he’s just acting out of self-interest?’

The Wizengamot is to organise elections, next summer. No date has officially been set but you’d have to be living under a rock not to know about it. Kingsley’s term as interim Minister for Magic will be up for grabs and while awarding struggling businesses extra money isn’t exactly the same as buying votes, considering form, Harry’s grown wearier of the new Minister’s opportunistic tendencies, recently. ‘Maybe?’ Ron shrugs. ‘But his self-interest and everyone else’s sort of the same. I mean, I hate to sound like Hermione, but maybe if our lives were a bit more mixed with Muggles, people wouldn’t hate them so much? And, have you seen all the closed shops in Diagon Alley? Hermione had to order dragon scales for Potions the other day, do you know how much that cost?’ Harry shakes his head. ‘Eight Galleons. For dragon scales. They shed four times a year but you’d think it was unicorn blood or something,’ Ron laughs. ‘That ring I bought, I’ll be in debt for centuries over it. Though, I did Confund the Muggle salesman. Don’t tell Kingsley.’

Harry almost offers to pay for it until he remembers that Ron hardly wanted him to buy the Omnioculars in Fourth Year, let alone his girlfriend’s engagement ring. A beat passes between them; Harry looks ahead at a group of school kids running down the river in front of them. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Just put my name on whatever you and Hermione write to the Prophet. I just can’t deal with it right now,’ he admits.

Ron nods. There is a smile on his face when Harry looks at him again. ‘You know, it’s the first time in eight years I hear you admit you can’t deal with something. I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing, or the sign of an upcoming Armageddon.’

Harry laughs. ‘Yeah, I’m not sure either.’ 

They part in front of the Ministry’s personnel entrance. Ron says he’s ‘going to try and find Hermione, I suppose she’s still down there with Kingsley.’ Harry nods. They hug. He can’t truly say that everything between them has magically slotted back into place, but at the very least, it feels like they’re on the right track. ‘You know,’ Ron says. ‘Sometimes, I have this feeling that we’ll look back on all of this in ten, twenty years and it’ll all make sense.’

‘Hmm. You think?’ 

They laugh before Harry Apparates home. 

When, a couple days later, he does apologise to Hermione, she sighs, hugs him. ‘Promise me one day, you’ll tell me what this whole thing was about,’ she says. ‘If you ever can, I mean.’ He nods and simply holds her tight.

Mia’s sat on the front steps of their building when he gets home, that morning. It’s close to eleven; she is wrapped in a big, black puffer jacket, a cigarette dangling off the end of her fingers. It is cold but bright outside, the sky blue and cloudless, sun casting an orange light onto the red bricks of the building next to theirs. When she sees Harry, she smiles, nods a greeting as he comes up towards her. A man and his pug walk past them (‘Come on, Noodle, please.’) The dog stops, sniffing the base of a lamppost before peeing against it.

Mia extends her hand towards Harry, a pack of cigarettes open in her palm. ‘Want one?’ she asks. Usually scrounges hers off him, not the other way around.

Harry shakes his head, smiles and drops to sit next to her on the steps. This is how they met, back in November and perhaps, the spot has now become theirs. ‘I quit,’ he explains. ‘I shouldn’t.’ In the air, she puffs out a white cloud. She raises an eyebrow. ‘Since when do you do what you should?’

He smiles. Looks out at the street. ‘It’s early.’ Not outrageously early but he’s rarely ever known Mia to be up before noon on a weekend. ‘What are you up to?’

She smiles, tosses ash onto the floor. ‘Thinking about you, actually,’ she tells him. There’s always been something disarmingly candid about her. Harry isn’t sure what to say, but also doesn’t feel the need to run away. ‘Have you ever felt like -’ she starts, turning her face to look at him. In the sun, her eyes aren’t as dark as they usually are. ‘Like you’re driving a car straight into a cliff? And, I mean, you know the cliff is there, and that you’re going to fall, hard, into it, but you don’t stop? You keep going on the off, very naive chance that you might fly?’

Harry only thinks for a second before he laughs: ‘That sounds like my entire life story.’

A soft chuckle escapes her lips; she shakes her head to herself. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

She talks about Paris, that morning. Reminds him that she will probably leave London soon. It feels apropos of nothing until she adds: ‘And, there’s clearly a world of things you’re not telling me.’ A statement of fact, not a question. ‘Which is fine but – well, you’re also still in love with your ex. So, yeah, I should probably stop this car before it’s too late.’

In front of them, a couple of uni-aged girls walk briskly up the street – glittering dresses and inappropriately high heels – remnants of last night. Harry sighs. If this is a breakup, it’s not what he imagined. ‘You said that would take six months,’ he says, tries to joke. Six months to get his ex out of his system. To be fair, it hasn’t been six months, yet. 

Mia’s smile is sad, but it’s there. ‘Yeah, I don’t know,’ she admits. ‘I lied. There is no “ex”. Nothing’s ever held for more than a few weeks.’ Her lips pull at her cigarette again - white smoke out of her lungs. ‘I just didn’t want you to feel like shit that night,’ she smiles. ‘Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.’

He smiles. Chuckles a bit. She joins in like she can’t help it. Harry thinks that’s why he likes her. When she said it, it did make him feel better. ‘Ginny’s just -’ he sighs, shakes his head. Thinks back to what he told Hermione last summer. Ginny’s just perfect. He’s not sure how to explain, doesn’t want to lie to anyone, anymore. It doesn’t feel good. ‘We kissed at Christmas,’ he confesses. Mia stills, her arm in the air and cigarette dangling - she throws him a look. ‘That’s all,’ he promises. ‘Then, she told me something.’ He wants to explain: it’s not that he doesn’t love her anymore, it’s that love and Ginny are like foreign concepts, right now, not lost but estranged. Like: there would be a thousand more pressing concerns to address, before it even got to that. ‘Something really shit. And, I wanna help,’ he sighs again, shrugs. Things of Giulia who said not to say the first thing that occurred to him, but he’s not quite sure what the second is. ‘I just don’t know how,’ he admits.

Mia looks out onto the pavement, the sharp lines of the manhole cover by the lamppost. He is glad - thankful - that she doesn’t walk away, that morning. Doesn’t seem to hate him. ‘Maybe, say that to her then?’ she suggests. It’s ironic: how Mia is the one who hands him the key, there. She’ll later laugh and say she shot herself in the foot. ‘I mean, if she’s been honest with you, maybe just be honest with her? Maybe, she doesn’t even need your help. Maybe, she just wanted to tell you.’

They have sex, afterwards, that morning. Harry offers her to come up once she’s finished her cigarette and they kiss in the morning light, with the sun pouring through the top of his window. He takes his time. Lets go of their usual routine, the way they both always hurry to get what they want, quick orgasms half-dressed on his sofa, or up against the door of her bedroom. That Saturday, he calls in sick to work and she skips her brunch date with friends, and he pulls her t-shirt over her shoulders long before he pulls down her jeans. He kisses her mouth and the skin below her ear, and the sharp edges of her collarbone, her breasts and the line of her sternum. 

Her lips part, soft sighs and hot breaths; her eyes open like she’s making herself look, be there. He feels her fiddle with the hem of his t-shirt, tracing her fingers over his skin, and he lets her, unhurried. It’s not like the scars on his chest are a secret - she even commented on his tattoo that first night - but there is a slow pace to her touch as she outlines each mark, like she is paying attention to them - actually noticing them, for the first time.

Later, his mouth finds its way down to her belly button and he goes down on her even though he’s asked - specifically - for her not to return the favour. Truth is, he’s still not sure what’s going on in his brain, most days, and he’d rather not spoil this. She pants in soft, low moans, her fingers fisting the sheets when she comes and as he buries himself inside her, later still, she digs her fingernails into his back. It is cold outside, humid as always inside his apartment, but her naked skin is so, very warm against his. She comes again in a moan that sounds a lot like his name whispered and out of breath, he swallows it in a kiss and it’s mere seconds before he follows her over the edge.

Maybe, Ron’s right. Maybe, they’re dating, now, and maybe they aren’t. The one thing that has changed, Harry realises, is that he doesn’t feel guilty when he’s with her. Not anymore.

A couple of hours later, he tells her about magic by levitating food up to bed. Her first response is: ‘I haven’t had a joint in, like, two days.’ He bursts out a laugh.

‘You’re not high.’

These are the explanations for that day: Hogwarts, spells, Quidditch, the Aurors. The good parts; it’s a good day. ‘Oh, so you’re a wizard cop,’ Mia says, then. ‘That makes so much more sense.’

‘Does it?’

She catches his gaze, so close to him, laying on their sides in his bed, that he could probably count her eyelashes. ‘Why do I feel like there is a lot more to it than that?’ she eventually asks.

‘There is.’ Voldemort, the war, his parents – the bad parts. ‘I’ll tell you in a bit,’ he promises. She nods, a quick peck against his lips. Later, he thinks, on a bad day.

When Mia goes home, that night, for a shower and a change of clothes, he finally sits down at his coffee table and writes.  

Gin,

I’m sorry for taking so long to write. I still don’t have an owl but it’s a Saturday so I’m hoping I can borrow Pig from Ron before Hermione floos back tomorrow. I’ll get one next week.

I reckon I just didn’t know what to say. I think I don’t want to blame a dead person, but Giulia said some things when she was alive and it made me think a lot, like what you told me was a work case or something. Maybe I just wanted to put some distance with you. with it. But I saw Mia today and (I haven’t told her anything really, don’t worry) but she said that if someone is honest with you, you should be honest with them and so maybe I should have just trusted you with what I was thinking from the start. Maybe there is no right thing to say. 

The words are flowing, now, and once he starts, he can’t stop.

I tried to write to you but I couldn’t. Then I tried to forget about it sleep with Mia and focus on work and politics but none of it is working. Something will happen and all I can think about is what you wrote. I dunno what to do. I wanted to know but now I do and I sort of wish I didn’t. Or more like I wish I had a time turner. I wish I could change everything. 

Sometimes I blame myself for it. And, I don’t just mean Amycus I mean if we hadn’t dated, you know? Would any of it have happened? When they got to you in the great hall and afterwards, they were clearly after me. Because of us. I thought I could protect you but clearly that didn’t happen. And, also, some of the stuff you said when we broke up and things I was thinking. I’d ask but I don’t know what to ask, exactly. I reckon we can probably chat about it later. I’m sorry if none of this makes sense though Luna said something funny about how not everything has to make sense the other day so I’ll take her wisdom on that. She’s your best friend after all.

I do blame Amycus though. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this much hatred in my life Gin. I hate that you felt like you couldn’t tell me. I keep wondering if you didn’t trust me. I know you said you wanted to put it all behind you but that didn’t work did it? I dunno Gin. I blame Tom. I’m so bloody furious. Hermione’s been telling people I’m “irritable” lately. And the thing is I remember that before the war it never felt like it mattered when she said that kind of thing because I was angry and I was ready to shout it from the rooftops you know? But now it’s like. I’m tired you know. And if we stay angry for the rest of our lives maybe that’s how they win? I don’t want to be that person anymore. Are you angry still or have you found a cure?

Now, regarding Amycus, I don’t know Gin. Sometimes you make it sound like he forced you and sometimes you make it sound like you did it off your own accord. Back when she was alive, Giulia said something to me about how that can sometimes be the same thing. All I know is that he threatened your family and whatever you did you did to protect those you love. I can be annoyed at you for other things but it would be pretty rich of me to judge you (or to hate you like you said) for that. I think deep down that’s why I wanted to write to you. I don’t like it but I get it you know? I’m sorry it took so long for me to make sense of that. 

I’ll ask you something but please don’t feel like you have to answer (especially not in writing) but did you happen to visit the place where the snakes sleep during the battle? I’d understand if you had (I’ve kind of thought about it myself) but I’m just curious I suppose. I hope the question makes sense.

Also not sure if it’s been printed yet but I’ve been called a witness for Alecto. I obviously won’t say anything but Kingsley says I’ve got to go see a lawyer now which is probably another can of worms. The thing is I do want to testify for the Malfoys I said I would in that interview anyway I just need to see how to go about it.

I hope you’re well,

Love,

He encrypts it, for obvious reasons. At the back of the envelope, he writes: the password is Snuffles’ other nickname. If you don’t remember Hermione will know.

Chapter Text

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x. out of mould (wet houses)

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.

.

Harry,

Thanks for your letter. Thanks for the honesty. I hate to say it but Mia might be a keeper.

Please, don’t think I didn’t trust you. I just wanted to be somebody else. From now on, let’s agree to tell each other the truth. Whatever it is, I’ll take it. All the things you don’t tell, or can’t tell anyone else. Maybe that’s what we’re really meant to be to each other, what do you think? Not lovers, but secret keepers. I’ll keep your secrets gladly, trust me.

Talking about secrets: no, I didn’t visit the place where the snakes sleep. I also did not kill Amycus, which I believe was your question. I’ve tried to ask around, but it’s not the kind of thing people will admit to. I do wish it was me, but it wasn’t, sorry. I don’t know who did.

Anyway, tell me how you are. I want to know everything.

Love,

Gin.

P.S.: This being said, I was rather OFFENDED that you’d think I wouldn’t remember Snuffles’ other nickname. Ask Hermione? Really? You know, I lived for that summer in grimmauld. They’re my real childhood memories. Chasing after Fred and George, pulling pranks, spying on the grown-ups. Always wanting to be older than I was. I really wanted to impress you. Funny, right? I suppose I haven’t done much of that lately, have I? Impressed you?

The next day, he answers: I don’t know. I wouldn’t say that. 

He can tell she is smiling, writing this. Really, Harry? Poured my heart out to you all of last year and all I get is a one-liner?

Sorry. No. I just. I don’t know. It’s complicated.

He remembers how McGonagall used to underline that word in his essays. Complicated - be more specific. He wonders if the issue is the fact that he can’t be specific. 

You know what? Ginny writes. There is one thing I didn’t like about what you wrote. You tell me you blame yourself, but what about me? Do I get any semblance of agency? If that’s all you think I am, a girl who does things because of you, then I don't think we have anything to say to each other. Like I didn’t fight my own way through. You can hate me all you want for the decisions I made, but don’t tell me I didn’t make them. 

That's not what I said, he observes. It isn’t. I just don’t always think these were decisions you made. (No. Scratch that last part). Again, it’s complicated.

Okay. I suppose I’ll just tell you about my boring and uncomplicated day, then.

The truth, that year, is: they rebuild brick by brick. The walls that exploded around them slowly merging back into place. Like in a diary, like she did last year, Ginny tells him about her days. Harry tries to do the same, though next to the riveting tales she shapes out of the ordinary, his stories often feel lame. I went to work, he declares, or Dean and Luna have started working on the bedrooms at Grimmauld. I like the house now. Sometimes, he looks at the cosy-ness of the new sitting room, the dark green sofa, the plants Neville’s put in and the yellow cushions, the faux-Persian rug under their feet, and he catches himself wondering what words she would use to describe it. Her colours wouldn’t be plain. They would be pine and bumblebee, and the fabrics would be smooth and woven silk. Sometimes, it is as though a layer of her words changes the way the world looks. In her letters, she is the girl he later chooses to marry, not a fantasy or a memory of a couple of months out of someone else’s life. Just her. Ginny. She is funny, and witty, and bright, unapologetic and indelicate and delicate at the same time, and questioning, and certain. When he gets a new owl, a tawny, fluffy thing that, unlike Hedwig, barely goes out unless it absolutely has to, eats all the food that lands in its proximity and seems to have made a best friend out of Mia (every time she comes home from class, it flutters its wings; when she calls it a ‘good boy,’ it extends its leg to ‘shake’), he tells Ginny the story of how he got it as a post scriptum. Went to the shops early to avoid the crowds and there was this kid with his mother there. He started pointing and asked me for an autograph I turned him down but I kind of felt bad you know? So I said I’d name the owl after him. Anyway this is Christopher. Careful he’ll eat anything kind of reminded me of Ron. Like the orange feathers and all. Don’t tell him I said that.

She writes back: Hahaha. You know, here’s a writing tip, free of charge. Put the most important information up first. By the time I got to the end of your letter, that bloody thing had already eaten half my porridge!

So: in her letters, she is her. Funny, witty, bright, unapologetic and indelicate and delicate at the same time, questioning and certain. Hurt. I wish I could see the house. Sometimes, I think I should come to London, you know? So that we could talk to each other. Face to face. But, I keep wondering what you’d think when you saw me. He doesn’t tell her about the vision he had, of her lips, her lips crashing against his, sweet and tasting like her lip balm, and those same lips around – I reckon I’m busy with practice, anyways. This summer maybe? Also, completely off topic, but what’s happening with the trials? I just see shit in the papers.

He smiles. The house isn’t going anywhere Gin. And alright, so -

In February 1999, the Second Wizarding War trials open against the backdrop of Bill Clinton’s impeachment - or lack thereof. On the day the United States Senate refuses to pass a conviction against the American President, the former editor of the Daily Prophet faces charges for: collaborating with Voldemort’s regime, endangering hundreds of lives, and printing almost a year’s worth of propaganda. His defence rests on freedom of expression, freedom of the press, concepts new to most wizarding ears, presumably including his own.

His name is Apollo Burke. He stands trial in front of a jury composed of ten Wizengamot members, and six members of the public. The appointed panel is screened, questioned, and temporarily removed in cases of conflict of interest. When the news is shared with Ron, Harry and Hermione, the latter remarks: ‘I thought it was supposed to be half and half.’ Memories of good intentions from last summer, when a wave of reform and optimism ran through the trenches. Kingsley diplomatically replies: ‘We’ve had to make compromises.’

At this point in History, the Wizengamot is only a partially elected body. Out of the fifty seats available, almost two-thirds are hereditary, traditionally occupied by the oldest living relative of some of the most established wizarding families. ‘They used to just be the richest landowners; you had to justify a certain amount of wealth to get your seat,’ Hermione explains. ‘But then, they exploited the pressure from Grindelwal’s side in the 1930s to only include those who were named in that stupid Sacred Twenty-Eight list. Dominance for the “Greater Good” or something - blood purity started to matter.’ She bit her lip. ‘After the first war, Dumbledore and some of the others managed to secure a temporary fifty-year ban against all those who were involved with Voldemort, like the Malfoys. It’s not permanent, though. For now, their seats are just vacant.’ 

Another twelve seats are awarded for life-long terms on the basis of services rendered to the British wizarding community. That’s the kind of seat Dumbledore himself had. The serving Minister of Magic is given the opportunity to appoint a new witch or wizard whenever the previous occupant pushes up the daisies, as Ginny says.

The remaining ten members are elected per geographical voting circumscriptions: two for London, two for Scotland (the presence of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts has led to a disproportionate concentration of wizards in the area), one for Wales, Ireland, the South East, the South West, North East, and North West. ‘I’d say I’m the most progressive of the bunch,’ Andromeda jokes, once, though Harry wonders if perhaps, Augusta Longbottom would want to dispute the title. Regardless, Teddy’s grandmother is a rather stark departure from the last occupant of the Black seat.

The trials are scheduled to be held in a semi-public forum within the Ministry. A courtroom built for the occasion - for a lot of people, the one that already exists carries too many bad associations. In it, the jury sits close to the main door, facing out onto the rest of the room. Unlike in Muggle proceedings, there is no judge - just a Head Juror. A member of the Wizengamot elected amongst the panel. They are in charge of presiding over the proceedings, sitting at the centre of the first row in formal robes, next to the witness box. The Head Juror calls witnesses in, arbitrates legal disputes. The barristers for the Magical Prosecution Service (the ‘MPS’) and for the defence, sit at benches facing the jury, their staff behind them on raised rows of seats like in an auditorium. The accused stays at the very back, high up on the last row and surrounded by a clear, enchanted bubble. It prevents them from escaping. When people are tried together, the bubble magically expands.

The determination of who should be sitting in that bubble has already been a topic for many debates, by then. There are the remaining Death Eaters, of course, those branded with the Dark Mark. That identification is easy enough - they seem to stand trial regardless of the offences they materially committed. Belonging to the organisation is already a crime under wizarding law, made retroactive by the Wizengamot, as well as the associated life sentence. Beyond that, there is the question of what to make of the hundreds of people (Ministry employees, shop owners, mothers, daughters, sons) who simply went along. Purebloods and half-bloods who refused to be killed, to give their lives up to defend that of others. On trial that spring, Harry is called to testify against a housewife who gave the Ministry the names and addresses of all the Muggleborns who lived in her village. They found her after the war and charged her with nine counts of reckless endangerment of life, and four counts of murder. She was identified thanks to paperwork found in the Auror office. Up until then, she was being put up for a medal - services rendered.

And, when Ginny writes to Harry, that year, she reacts to what the papers are saying about the whole thing. To what she sees in the world outside of courtrooms and silky gowns. To what he tells her, too. She talks about a radio interview she heard: two of the nine Muggleborns who survived the raid themselves, telling stories of hiding, of suffering, of fear. The same stories she and everyone she knows would have to tell if anyone were to listen to them. I don’t know, she explains. I wonder if the goal of all of this is to look for the truth or simply to convict. I wonder if I have a problem with it being the latter.

Yeah, Harry thinks, same.

Back in ‘98, a number of voices within Ministry ranks advocated for an amnesty law to be passed, to no avail. Most people were against it, including - surprisingly - the Muggle government. They too suffered unspeakable losses as a result of the war and in the late nineties, the main assumption is that justice should be served, regardless of what the victims themselves think (or even know about). In its press communiqués, the MPS insists that what the wizarding world needs is a fair, independent process, aimed not at personal redress, but at outlining the very real consequences of crimes committed against society as a whole. Actions have consequences. ‘It’s about the values we, the wizarding people, believe in. They are the ones that have been attacked.’ Harry remembers his conversations with Giulia last autumn, the guilt and disgust at the things he’d done that clung (and still cling) to his shoulders. In the spring of 1999, it feels like those who stand trial are the ones who got caught.

Sometimes, I wonder if they got lucky, Ginny says - an interesting perspective. It almost sounds comforting, the thought of going to jail and be done with all the guilt, you know? You come out absolved, you can rebuild your life, move on. We live with these things in our heads. But then, I remember that we were right, and that they were wrong. I remember that they killed Fred. And, I want them to be punished, I want them to burn. You say that if we stay angry, maybe that’s how they win. But, I’ve never felt as alive as I did when I was furious, fighting for something I believed in. It’s like the petrol that feeds muggle cars and I don’t dislike it. They can spend the rest of their lives crying in jail, I’m not going to go and hold their hand.

It just doesn’t feel like justice, Harry responds. But then again, he’s not sure what justice does feel like. Righting wrongs? In the end, the prospect of ‘just’ putting people behind bars and moving on like nothing happened is almost unsatisfying.

I didn’t say it did.

That winter, in Ministry’s courtrooms, the accused, their lawyers, and the MPS are allowed to watch the trials, as well as members of the press who have been granted a special authorisation from the Department of Information. They sit in and surveil the proceedings from a balcony hovering halfway between floor level and the high ceiling. The restrictions imposed on attendance are aimed at guaranteeing security - that of the audience and of the witnesses, of course, but also that of the accused themselves. ‘I know we like to think we’re on the side of the angels,’ Kingsley says, ‘but I can’t guarantee that someone from our ranks who’s lost someone in the war won’t take a wand to Rabastan Lestrange’s throat, for instance. We all know how it is.’ Hermione’s sigh is audible but she doesn’t object. ‘Obviously, there is also a concern that some might use a public trial as a forum to spread their agenda. Which is why we’re only allowing mainstream press in,’ the Minister says. ‘The Prophet, the Quibbler -’ she raises an eyebrow. ‘People who we know won’t spread their lies,’ Kingsley clarifies.

The accused have lawyers - as many or as few as they want - though according to the Ministry itself, finding people willing to do the job in the first place was a rather difficult task. In the wizarding world, most of the solicitors and barristers who’ve set up shop in Diagon Alley do conveyancing work. When they don’t, they defend the financial interests of their clients, drawing up magical contracts and capitalising on an extensive client list to lobby for less trade regulations and taxes. Until the end of the war, they only rarely ever appeared in court - with most of their clients sitting on the Wizengamot themselves, it was unlikely anyone would ever press charges against them.

‘You didn’t have a lawyer in fifth year,’ Hermione observes, her gaze finding Harry’s across the kitchen table at The Burrow. ‘Neither did Sirius, nor Barty Crouch Jr for that matter. Didn’t you ever think that was odd?’

From her tone, Harry deduces he should have thought that was odd. A noncommittal shrug raises his shoulders. Funny how that never crossed his mind at the time. You’d almost think he had more pressing matters to worry about.

These days, the grounds have shifted. When Lucius Malfoy is tried at the start of March, he shows up with an army of wizards in shiny, silky black robes, sporting shoulder-length, curly white wigs and pointed hats. It would be hilarious, if only Hermione didn’t consistently spoil the fun by reminding everyone of how half of the lower-ranking Voldemort followers who were caught either struck plea deals, or are showing up to trial without anyone to represent them. She says that in their world, there is no cab-rank rule, or legal aid.

(In his next letter to her, Harry makes Ginny detail back to him her entire game plan for the upcoming match against Hufflepuff. She kindly asks him if he wants to talk about the trials and: Honestly, I’d rather go back to Snape’s Potions class than spend another minute talking about these bloody hearings.

Haha. Fair, she says.)

Against the accused, in 1999, the majority of the evidence gathered is the result of Auror investigations, as well as testimonies in front of the Commission last summer. Transcripts of depositions from members of the Order, Ministry officials who signed immunity agreements, people who saw the offenders first hand. There will be no opportunity for cross-examination or any retesting of material evidence found by the Aurors. The defence has been permitted to ask questions, and to present their own case at trial, but they probably will very rarely get answers.

Hermione plays devil’s advocate for most of February, she still had high hopes for what could have been. ‘Think about Sirius,’ she says, once, and a shiver runs down Harry's spine. ‘He never had the opportunity to question the “evidence” they had against him. We’re doing the same thing -’

‘But Sirius was innocent!’ Ron insists. And, ‘The investigation was botched.’ They are in the kitchen at Grimmauld for this particular row, and he throws the Prophet open on the table in front of her. ‘Look at the people on that list, do you actually know any one of them who’s innocent? Kingsley’s done the job well, we -’ he points to himself and Harry, there, because yes, of course, they were on the arrest squad for a lot of these people. ‘We have done the job well! Do you not trust us?’

It’s like the accusation physically hits her. Hermione opens her mouth, closes it. Harry shakes his head. ‘Sirius felt guilty,’ he says. ‘He thought he was responsible. He didn’t want anyone questioning the evidence against him.’

‘That’s beside the point.’ This, in itself, feels beside the point. 

‘Plus, we’ve communicated to them all the evidence we’ve gathered so that they can “prepare themselves” or whatever. It’s not like they’ll be surprised,’ Ron adds. 

In response, Hermione sighs. 

And - Harry just - stands. In the middle of it all, in 1999. Rather reluctantly, if he’s completely honest, because courtroom proceedings have never felt like they truly concerned him. His job was to be ‘The Chosen One’ and to stop Tom. Then, it became to arrest people, prevent them from doing bad things. That’s mostly been achieved. 

Yet, that year, he is the witness everyone wants to hear from. Called to testify in more than half of the trials – sometimes almost on the off chance he might say something interesting. People want entertainment, scandals, a show to distract them from the day-to-day. It seems that last December, he told the press just enough to redeem himself, but not enough to satisfy the public’s curiosity. Perhaps, he never will. These days, thinking that he’d do one interview presenting his version of events and would then be done ‘speaking up,’ like Giulia said, seems particularly naive.

He’s now become the only variable in trials where most of the evidence will be static. The MPS acts as an independent body, and Harry is told that they alone will have a say in what they choose to present against the accused. To them, having ‘Potter’ on the stand isn’t about establishing guilt (they often already have enough material to do that convincingly), it’s about legitimacy. He’s become a star witness regardless of what he actually has to say.

And, while he is called to testify, most people he knows aren’t. Because to call him, the MPS has traded down the talking time of plenty of other, perhaps more relevant witnesses whose words allegedly won’t be needed, not when guilt is already so easily established. And, like with the Commission last summer, all the underage witches and wizards have simply been written off of the list. According to Seamus (who is probably right), it’s an attempt at sweeping whatever happened in Hogwarts under the carpet.

‘No one from the DA has been called to testify against Carrow, even the ones who were of age. And, you know what Professor they chose to call? Flitwick,’ he laughs. ‘It’s like they want to get enough to convict her, but not enough to expose her. And, fair play to them: no one wants to think of the shite these cunts might have done to their children. Merlin’s sake, did you notice they only listed her trial for two days? And then, she calls you to testify for her defence like she intends to make a fuss about her brother? Please. Your man had it coming. I mean, I don’t know who did kill him but I’d send them flowers if I could,’ he grins. Harry blinks and an image flickers before his eyes, Seamus lying bleeding on the ground. Ginny’s words: Hannah tended to him, got Pomfrey to sneak in. I was shaking so much, Harry, I couldn’t even hold his hand when they patched him up. ‘Fuck’s sake, I’ll be there anyway,’ Seamus added. ‘Fecking chain meself to the witness box if they try to throw me out.’

I wish they’d given those who wanted to talk the ability to, Ginny writes, that night. I want her to go to jail like I’d want a silver medal. It’s … fine, I suppose. But, to testify, I – She crosses her next sentence out which is interesting in the way that she almost never does that. No. I’d have too much to say or too little.

‘Too little’ is also an interesting turn of phrase, here. Because: as soon as the official list comes out, Ron also makes a very fair, observational point: ‘Mate,’ he says, ‘do you even know these people?’

And, that is perhaps the hardest of it all, in February, because no: Harry doesn’t. Not for the most part, anyway. The fact is that because of his own reluctance to speak in public since the war ended, the MPS (and the British public at large) seem to entertain a lot of fantasies about the amount of information The Boy Who Lived actually has about the war, considering most of his time last year was spent hiding in a tent with Ron and Hermione. Sure, he knows some of the accused, like Lucius Malfoy or Umbridge (Merlin, how he would like to hammer a nail in her coffin) but in most of the fifteen trials he’s been asked to attend, the only thing he’d have to say is: ‘ten other Aurors and I entered a building and arrested so-and-so.’ He and Ron are Patrol kids, not Major Crimes. And, of course, there’s another handful of people like Rabastan Lestrange whose name he knows, but he’d certainly have more to say if his sister was on trial. It so happens that most of the people he did have a grudge against wound up dead. 

And, of course, there is still the matter of the legal implications of what he could say. Hermione’s tone hovers near a stage of a constant panic, that spring. ‘You could go to jail, Harry!’

From what he understands, the testimony he is expected to give will be under Oath. The Ministry has sworn off magical means of compelling statements but nevertheless, if Harry lies and gets caught, the penalty for perjury is twenty years. He obviously doesn’t know what questions will be asked, but it seems unlikely that he will be able to avoid topics like: the Elder Wand, the Gringotts break-in, or the Amycus Carrow incident (don’tthinkaboutit, don’tthinkaboutit, don’tthinkaboutit). To be honest, it’s not even like the MPS or the defence would have to actively try to trip him up (which, according to Hermione, is also a possibility – ‘Not everybody likes you, Harry,’ - as though he needed a reminder). How could he ever testify against Umbridge without admitting to committing a crime, breaking into the Ministry?

‘But doesn’t everyone know about that?’ he shrugs. To be fair, it’s been months, Hermione and Ron have told the story in front of the Commission - it’s not like anyone would be surprised.

‘Yes, but you’ve never admitted to it, Harry. There is a grey area of plausible deniability,’ Hermione explains, impatient. ‘If you admitted to it and the Ministry didn’t bring charges, that would be a very awkward place for them to be in. Especially with Narcissa Malfoy still breathing down their necks.’

‘And, since when is the Ministry looking awkward my problem?’

Which is when Hermione hisses - again - ‘You could go to jail, Harry!’

As a somewhat unfortunate consequence, she and Kingsley both insist he sees a lawyer to ‘review [his] options.’ A Muggle one (a Squib, to be precise) because, ‘They tell you it’s all confidential but if you go to a wizard, we all know everything you say will end up in the press the next day.’ So, one criminally (no pun intended) early morning in February, Harry reluctantly takes the Tube to Temple station to meet an aging, Muggle barrister. The man’s office is cramped, bookshelves threatening to collapse under the weight of heavy casefiles but outside, the streets are blissfully quiet - an island of calm in the middle of central London.

Both the Muggle lawyer and Kinglsey (though he pretends not to ‘get involved’ due to his role as Minister of Magic) believe Harry should go ‘no comment’ on every question he is asked. ‘The only thing you have going for you is the right not to incriminate yourself, which is surprisingly guaranteed by wizarding law,’ the barrister tells him. ‘If you don’t answer any of the questions, you eliminate the risk of slipping up, saying something that might implicate you in any way.’

When Harry tells Ron and Hermione about the advice, she rages: ‘But that’ll make you look guilty! Remember when you went “no comment” in front of the Commission - the press went insane!’

Ron shrugs, speaks, then shoves a slice of Kreacher’s apple pie into his mouth. ‘Well, Kingsley thinks -’ he starts but Hermione immediatly silences him with a death glare.

Harry smirks, catches her gaze, and raises an eyebrow. ‘Are you, Hermione Granger, questioning the Minister of Magic's motives?’ he teases. She crosses her arms, says nothing.  

That’s the other thing. Since the end of January, Harry’s refused to apologise. On the surface, of course, his relationship with Kingsley has gone back to a functioning state. They interact - cordially. Harry’s signed the press release Hermione wrote about the reform bill and it (albeit narrowly) passed through the Wizengamot. Weasley Wizard’s Wheezes has applied for a government grant and the paperwork is currently being processed, which has lately made for a very happy and hopeful Ron. But under the surface, well. Let’s just say that Harry’s unwillingness to cooperate has rather strained his relationship with the Minister. And, while they’ve been polite to each other, the days of the both of them sitting in a room, lighting a candle and bonding over Giulia’s death are long gone. Harry can’t tell the other two what he has against Kingsley but it doesn’t mean he, himself, can’t hold a grudge. I don’t like that you’re mad at him, Ginny says, which earns her a: Well, I don’t like that you aren’t, and he doesn’t write back to her for two days, after that.

As he talks about it with Ron and Hermione, Harry observes that making ‘The Chosen One’ look guilty might not be in Kinglsey’s best interests either - by association, when Harry is popular, so is the Ministry. But, Hermione retorts: ‘It may be if the alternative is to make the Ministry look stupid. You don’t realise the position they’re in. Either they’re bringing charges against The Boy Who Lived,’ she says. ‘Or they’re not, which means not everyone is treated equal. Regardless, it’s a bad look.’

In the end, the whole thing seems to be an inextricable situation that has been under constant debate for much too long. ‘Okay,’ Harry settles. ‘Umbridge and Lucius Malfoy aren’t scheduled until March, and they’re the first ones on the list I do know. So, I suppose I can testify to the fact that I don’t know any of the others. That shouldn’t be too risky, should it? Plus, I’d be telling the truth and I’m not admitting to any crime, am I?’ Hermione glares in disapproval but seems unable to find a counterpoint. ‘I guess for the rest I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.’

(Ron seems much more supportive of this plan than she is.)

So, the first trial Harry testifies in, that year, is also the first hearing overall - Apollo Burke. He sits in the witness box and: ‘Please, state your name for the record -’

‘Harry James Potter.’

‘Mr Potter, do you know the accused, Mr…’

‘No, I don’t, actually.’

There is a raucous, that first time. A gasp that echoes through the jury up to the press balcony - he sits there and waits until they finally come to the decision to ‘excuse’ him. Robards is rather happy with this turn of events - Harry’s short testimonies mean that he can actually work almost as normal. The Prophet has a field day with the whole incident in its next edition, because while criticising Harry is and has always been one of their favourite pastimes, questioning Kingsley’s government also ranks quite high. These are some of the magical world’s most dangerous criminals, one of their editorials insists which, frankly, sounds rather hyperbolic when you think one of the men Harry is asked to testify against is only being tried for trying to hide his Voldemort-supporter son from law enforcement after the war. A bad move? Certainly. But likely not the most dangerous criminal the wizarding world has ever known either - and this government shows us, once again, that it is not up to the task of calling the appropriate witnesses to the stand. Despite Mr Potter’s undeniable role in the war … Harry lets the wave of press wash over him and stops reading.

I’ll still testify for Narcissa and Draco though, he reiterates to Ginny, apropos of nothing, really. It is the kind of relationship they have, that year, where they tell each other stuff.

Like you said you would. I think that’s honourable. Quick scrolls on the page. Her letters are parchment and dark ink; his are cheap refill pads and Biros. Though, like I told you before, I think ‘honourable’ is for people who deserve it, she adds. It makes him laugh. He thinks the Malfoys deserve it, though he doesn’t think he should be telling her why. He’s not sure what her reaction would be; it’s probably best everyone thinks he owes Narcissa for saving his life – which he does, anyway. But, that’s probably why you’re a war hero and I’m not, Ginny adds. Heroes forgive. Us ruthless commoners just sit and watch by the sidelines.

Thankfully (or perhaps not), later that month, Ron and Hermione are the ones who become main headline news. It amuses Harry more than anything else: for someone who’s been so intent on telling him to ignore the unwanted press attention, Hermione is rather comically annoyed with it. For days, she menacingly flicks her wand at the wireless the moment the gossip shows come on, and sighs at copies of the magazines that find themselves on the news-rack that Dean and Luna have installed in the entrance hall of Grimmauld Place.

The house is now cluttered with even more fanmail than before, as well as bouquets of lilies, roses, different flower arrangements that Kreacher regularly picks out of the bins as though they landed there by mistake. The elf himself appears conflicted between the excitement he feels at organising and catering for a big party, and comments that Harry may or may not have heard him mutter under his breath, alluding to the fact that: ‘Still, what a shame this is, with Mr Weasley’s bloodline…’ Hermione flings the glossy pages of The Magical Bride onto the kitchen table one Saturday afternoon; it makes a loud thunk when it hits the hardwood. ‘This one got my birthday wrong,’ she protests, sitting down on a chair at the end of the table. ‘It’s public record! You’d think it wouldn’t be that hard for them to issue accurate information!’

Harry grins, leaning back against the worktop. Their surroundings have drastically improved since the both of them started having impromptu breakfast dates back in autumn, the ones during which she tries to get some homework done before Ron wakes up and Harry stops over for Kreacher’s pastries and tea after the morning runs that keep him sane. For the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, Dean and Luna have kept the aged, rough wood of the worktops and the large kitchen table as staple, aesthetic pieces (from what they’ve told Harry, anyways, he just vaguely nods when they speak at him about these things and signs the cheques they say they need), but chose to repaint the walls a warm, off-white shade that’s already made the room look barely recognisable. The cabinets stayed in, with their traditional, somewhat vintage look, still sporting golden, intricate handles, though the ‘kids’ have decided to colour them a light, soft shade of green that nicely (Harry has to admit) sets off the quarry tiles beneath their feet. They all have their own fancy glass jars for storage, now, and plates that don’t exhibit a nasty frown when used by Muggleborns. They bought the dishware from John Lewis, you see, like normal fucking people.

‘Hermione,’ he reminds her, ‘last week Worldly Witch claimed I was dating Kate Moss, I think we’re past the point of accuracy, here.’

She glares. ‘That’s not funny.’

He tries to hide a smirk: ‘I know, I’m not joking.’

Given that he had the unfortunate idea to tell the Americans he was dating a Muggle last December, the British wizarding press has shown a striking amount of determination in trying to identify the ‘lucky girl,’ as they put it - this even if the Statute of Secrecy forbids them from actually going anywhere near her. Of course, because he is ‘famous,’ they have all but decided that his girlfriend must also be ‘Muggle famous.’ (Merlin forbid he date anyone who doesn’t make the headlines.) At this point, they’ve speculated through half a dozen Muggle celebrities who unfortunately for them happened to be within the vicinity of Grimmauld Place, from that blonde Spice Girls woman whose name he can’t recall, to that American actress from that sitcom with the song. All of it, frankly, feels like a gross overestimation of his sex-appeal.

Hermione frowns at him, then, arms crossed over her chest. Before she can say anything, though, ‘Who’s Kate Moss?’ Ron asks as he enters the kitchen and makes a beeline for the leftover sandwiches on the worktop. ‘She good looking?’ he articulates through a mouthful and Harry bursts out a laugh when Hermione glares daggers at him in warning. Before he can answer, though, she actually raises an eyebrow at him and challenges: ‘Speaking of which, Harry, when are you going to introduce us?’

‘To Kate Moss? Sorry to disappoint but-’

He never finishes his sentence for fear that she might actually hit him in the face.

All of this is to say: Hermione says ‘yes.’

Harry isn’t present when the proposal happens. Not that he wants to be. To tell the truth, at this point, he’s not sure what his role in Ron and Hermione’s relationship is: there is no rulebook for what to do when the two most important people in your life start dating each other, let alone when one proposes to the other. It’s obviously not like he has a passion for third-wheeling under any circumstance, but at the same time, refusing to do so would mean not seeing his best mates together ever again, which sounds even more unreasonable. So: he’s just had to draw the line somewhere. That ‘somewhere’ happens to be the marriage proposal. (Good. Fucking. Call. Ginny jokes.) And, while he’s been kind enough to help Ron plan the whole Valentine’s Day weekend trip, booking the hotel and the restaurant on the ‘telleephone’ and having the inevitable last-minute, emergency talk with Hermione when she almost cancelled the whole thing to focus on her N.E.W.T.s revisions (‘It’s just a commercial holiday, Harry, I don’t see why it’s so important to Ron that we go!’), he actually didn’t want to go to Bath himself, thank you very much. As the date approached and Ron started almost shaking with nerves (‘Maybe you could come, mate. If she says “no” then you can try and talk to her’), Harry shook his head violently: ‘Absolutely fucking not.’

When Hermione tells the story, later, she sniffles, cheeks crimson and Ron’s hand wrapped tight around hers like he’s still concerned she might take off and leave. Harry gets the sense that the event went mostly according to plan - up to a certain point. They had dinner at the Italian restaurant he booked, candlelight and tablecloths; Hermione calls it ‘delightful’ and ‘marvellous’ - Harry gave Ron the money for it (‘If it works, we’ll call it my wedding gift. If it doesn’t I suppose we’ll have bigger problems.’)

His best mate was initially supposed to propose there, between mains and desserts, ring concealed at the bottom of a flute of champagne. But, ‘I don’t know, I just couldn’t do it with all the posh Muggles watching. I was so convinced she’d say “no,”’ Ron confesses later, Hermione out of earshot. In the end, they walked down the path to the river looking at - the bloody stars, constellations, romantic things or whatever - and Ron was fiddling with the jewellery box in his pocket so much it fell to the ground. ‘I went to pick it up, but then she turned around and noticed so I just, you know, improvised.’

‘Oh, it was perfect, Harry,’ Hermione says. ‘So sweet.’

In the press (and sometimes politely unspoken amongst their friends), the prevailing question is: why, though? Harry feels it around them, sticky like wet dough. To the pureblood purists, the fact that a Weasley would ‘settle’ for a Muggleborn is, while not surprising considering the family’s reputation, still ‘unfortunate.’ To the intellectual elite, it’s the fact that the most brilliant witch of their generation would choose such an ‘unremarkable’ party that is worth gossiping about. And, this is not even taking into consideration people like Ron’s mother who - while well-intentioned and clearly in support of the union - seemingly cannot help but comment on the fact that the both of them are ‘so young to make a decision like this,’ as though she hadn’t herself married at the age of nineteen. ‘But we were in the middle of a war, Ron,’ she reminds them.

‘Yeah, and we’ve just been through one,’ her son counters. ‘How’s it different?’

That is when Ron’s mother starts tearing up before hugging her son, then Hermione, then Percy, then her smiling husband, quickly moving through any and every person within a ten-feet radius. ‘Oh, my children,’ she adds, utensils and pans all laying forgotten on the kitchen table at The Burrow. In an uninterrupted flow of words and teary observations that make everyone in the kitchen laugh, she tells them again that they are young (‘Oh, Merlin, maybe I am old!’), that she ‘always knew,’ that they ought to treat each other ‘right,’ that ‘well, you’ll know this, Hermione, but you’ve always been family,’ (which, to be honest, hasn’t always been obvious) and that they can have the ceremony at The Burrow if they want to save money (‘Oh, it’s very fine for a young couple. It’ll be like Bill and Fleur’s wedding!’ ‘Hopefully not!’ Bill interrupts from across the room). The Weasley matriarch is spinning, that day, in the middle of the kitchen, between tears and hugs, and ‘Oh, let’s toast!’ It takes her a remarkable five minutes before she turns around, eyes finally focusing on Harry who all this time has been careful to hide in the corner. ‘Oh, and Harry,’ she calls, crosses the kitchen to also pull him into a tight hug. ‘Best man! Oh, we’ll have to see for your robes, I think -’

‘Mum! We’re literally just back! I haven’t even asked yet!’ Ron shouts, outraged.

Well, yeah, anyway. Harry’s best man. Says ‘yes,’ too, once Ron actually does ask. And: Congrats, Ginny says.

Overall, Ron’s reasons for proposing are known: the war, Giulia’s death, wanting to spend the rest of his life, however long or short, with the only girl he’s ever truly had eyes for. Hermione - however - never explains. Within their small circle, when she is asked by George - ‘Are you sure? I mean, have you met Ronald?’ he jokes, she just shakes her head and says: ‘I love him,’ or, ‘I can’t imagine life without him.’ For the people who do know and love them, that’s obvious and enough.

The following Saturday morning, though, she Apparates and knocks on Harry’s apartment door. He’s been waiting for her. Lets her in and offers to give her space, go for a run or something, but she shakes her head. On the hardwood floor, Hermione sits by the landline, the one he only got because it came with the TV. Absentmindedly, she tangles the cord between her fingers. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ she asks. ‘I’ll pay you back.’

He shakes his head. Unlike Ron, she doesn’t insist.

She dials the two zeros followed by the 61 country code and closes her eyes while the phone rings. Harry tries to busy himself. He makes the bed, does the dishes the Muggle way, attempts to tune out the fight that inevitably ensues. Jean Granger’s voice rises through the receiver at the other end of the world and in contrast, her daughter’s words are icy and crisp, like they were after Ron left in the forest. ‘He’s a nice boy, darling,’ her mother says. She claims that they raised their only daughter to ‘think.’ ‘You are nineteen. You’re getting married, you refuse to go to university… Your father and I are worried and I just don’t understand -’

‘Well, you never did understand any of it, did you?! Not a bloody thing!’ Hermione snaps. The line goes dead only moments afterwards.

She holds the telephone in front of her like she can physically see the dial tone. Harry stands by the window. He wants to disappear like the awkwardness is a physical bag of coal he has to carry between his hands. ‘Hermione,’ he says in a breath; she places the receiver back onto the base and pushes herself off the floor.

‘Thank you,’ she says. She is crying, or about to cry; her eyes glassy – a thin layer of water reflects the sunlight. She turns, eyeing the door. ‘I’ll just –’ The corners of her mouth twitch like someone had to reach out, size them and pull them up into a smile. She takes a step back.

‘Hermione,’ Harry repeats. There is absolutely nothing else he can think of saying. Not a day has gone by since last year without him thinking the whole situation with her parents is his fault. He wants to apologise (to her, to them) but her father just glared at him all through Christmas dinner and -

Hermione spins on her heel, quick; the words tumble out of her mouth like burning water. ‘Will you walk me down the aisle?’ she asks.

He stares. Very, very still. She looks: like she’s just cried, like she is surprised by her words in the way that they came out, but not by the idea itself. Fuck, he thinks, she’s thought about this. ‘If they don’t come, I mean -’ she adds and in that moment, all he can think about is that her voice sounds like a time from before Ron came back, like the nights she would spend watching the deer and wild boars pass their tent hoping she’d see him appear in the dark and: Harry, please, will you hold my hand if we die here alone? ‘Actually, even if they do come,’ she corrects. Her voice is coated with the resolve of her eleven-year-old self, hiding the fear like it is nothing but water and she can swallow it. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Ron. ‘We’re coming,’ said Hermione. She stares straight into his eyes. ‘I want it to be you. You’re my family. No one else.’ 

He can hardly speak. ‘Jesus, Hermione.’

She chokes out a laugh, then, makes him swear he won’t just say ‘yes’ because he doesn’t want her to cry. He shakes his head and smiles.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I mean: yes, okay, I’ll do it, and not just because of that.’

She pulls him into a hug, then, and cries onto his shoulder. ‘Oh, Harry!’

(And, for the record, the reason he says ‘yes’ is this: when Ron and Hermione set their wedding date for July, Hermione also refuses to pick a maid of honour. ‘I’m getting married in the back garden of The Burrow, it’s not like there’s a lot to plan,’ she declares, though Harry suspects that anything that does need to be planned, she will refuse to delegate. ‘You’re my best friend, anyway. And, Ron’s already picked you.’

‘I think she just doesn’t have that many friends,’ Ron later comments. It is just the two of them, quick words at the pub while his fiancée is in the loo. ‘You know how she is. It’s you, me - that’s kind of it.’

So, that’s why he says ‘yes.’ Without even having to think. Because it is and will always be: he, Ron and Hermione. Harry says ‘yes,’ because it would never occur to him to say ‘no.’)

She never asks him for a reason but she does give him hers. When she’s calmed down, he sits with her on his sofa, a mug of tea and a pack of chocolate digestives between them. She wipes tears from her cheeks with the sleeve of her jumper. ‘It’s just that, he loves me for who I am, you know? He knows me better than anyone and he loves me, the full me, and I just… You get it, don’t you?’

Harry nods, smiles. A fleeting thought suggests that there is one person in this world who knows everything about him and still – writes. He shakes off the idea. Though: ‘Yeah, I do.’ 

Later, February curves into March. Like: the end of a mountain road, the slowing ahead of a steep, hairpin bend, snow melting into dark water at the edge of the grass - the image reminds him of Scotland - Hogwarts. In London, Mia’s skimmia flowers bloom at her windowsill, jardinières that add colour to their miserable courtyard.

Over the first week of March, she and Ron celebrate their respective birthdays in quick succession. Harry’s best mate turns nineteen on a Monday - she turns twenty-one the following Thursday. Harry takes her to see The Cranberries play at Shepherd's Bush - she smiles large and bright and kisses him to the sound of guitar riffs and loud drum beats. She is happy, dizzy with the music, buzzing, like he felt when he was eleven and discovered magic for the first time. 

For Ron’s birthday, they have dinner at Grimmauld, the night of. Hermione talks McGonagall into letting her spend the evening in London after class. As a proper ‘party,’ they organise drinks at the pub the following weekend and invite everyone from the house as well as George, Percy and Bill. Fleur turns the invitation down (‘She’s been very tired with the pregnancy,’ her husband adds which prompts everyone to send love and flowers and chocolates to Shell Cottage the week after). At the house, Dean asks if he can bring the new girl from the Department of International Magical Cooperation he’s been seeing and Ron shrugs: ‘Sure, the more the merrier.’ Next to them, Seamus’s glass crashes against the floor and he pretends he knocked it over like accidental magic has nothing to do with it. 

Hermione sets her fork down by the side of her plate. ‘Speaking of which,’ she starts. ‘Harry, I was thinking -’ (unfortunately, as she keeps talking, he realises he can’t make the same Kate Moss joke twice).

He agonises over it for a couple of days afterwards. Bites his lip and stares down at his food and goes running hoping it will clear his mind. He even writes to Ginny to ask what she thinks. It’s up to you, really, she responds, which Harry finds annoyingly off-handed for someone who usually shapes novels of poetry out of thin air. In the end, he lies in bed next to Mia after her birthday gig, their clothes scattered in a messy path from the door to his bed, and says: ‘You remember my best mate’s birthday’s this weekend?’ She hums, eyes half-closed and her right forefinger tracing lazy patterns over his back. ‘Do you want to, er, come?’

Her gaze narrows on his; there seems to be a question on her lips that she doesn’t ask. He’s no idea what the fuck this is, really, and maybe she is his ‘girlfriend’ and maybe not, but what he does know for certain is that he holds his breath until she answers and genuinely smiles when she says: ‘Yeah, alright, why not? I’m kind of curious.’

Mia’s generally taken the news about magic in a rather unexpected way. Granted, Harry’s model for Muggles reacting to the wizarding world has either been: Petunia - a spiteful hatred of everything from his mere person to the word ‘magic’ itself - or he and Hermione - an endless fascination with the glitter and the spells, and cool things. By contrast, Mia is rather indifferent. Not in a disrespectful way but more like: to her, magic isn’t the most interesting or even notable thing about him, as though it is something that he can do but not an all-encompassing identity where the word ‘wizard’ replaces the word ‘person.’ He frowns at her reaction one morning when he summons his jumper from the sofa downstairs and she only looks marginally impressed. ‘Cool,’ she says. ‘You know I can blow rings out of cigarette smoke?’

He bursts out a laugh.

‘I’ll admit, not as useful,’ she grins.

At the beginning of February, he gave her a general rundown of the wizarding world. Hogwarts (‘Right, I never pictured you as the boarding school type. Again, this explains so much,’) his job, the Ministry, the Statute of Secrecy… She isn’t yet familiar with all details and intricacies, but she’s got the basics down. He didn’t give her a sit-down lecture (again, he’s never been good with those), but he fills her in, one question, or one spell at a time. ‘What is the Floo?’ And: ‘What is a Patronus?’ And: ‘How does your money work again?’ On that last one, he shrugs and explains: ‘Well, my money doesn’t work like that ‘cause I’m banned from Gringotts, so I’m using a Muggle bank.’ She raises an eyebrow, jokingly asks if he robbed the bank and he says: ‘Sort of? The Goblins think I did, anyway. It’s complicated.’ It’s her turn to laugh.

‘I bet.’

That year, as they get to know (really get to know) each other, Mia spends most of her free time at his place. He’s got the Aurors, the politics, the trials - she’s got school and a part-time job and intense family drama. They meet in the middle. Hours they choose to spend existing in the same space, laughing, playing video games or attempting to bake chocolate cakes that always finish in a flour and egg fight all over his kitchen floor. They have sex. When they venture out - to the cinema or to the art exhibitions she insists on dragging him to, they hold hands and kiss in public, his palms over her hips and her arms around his neck.

It’s not like she moves in. It’s more like: the days pass and she is there and every night, it feels like there is little point in her leaving. Her flat has been in such a state since her mother sent her on her way that it’s basically been turned into a storage unit. There, she keeps her stuff: her school notes and her sketches and her fabrics - she goes to class and comes back, mostly works downstairs then comes back up to sleep at his. Sometimes, Harry works the night shifts and gets home around 6:30 in the morning; they sit and fool around and have breakfast before she goes to uni. Part of him knows he should feel annoyed at the invasion of his personal space but it doesn’t feel like an invasion as much as her filling an empty space. It’s nice not to come home to a cold bed and echoey walls.

During Ron’s birthday party, Harry can’t say he’s surprised to find that everyone he knows ends up loving her. He’s seen her charm her own friends before; out of the two of them, she is the only one who's nervous. Mia moves effortlessly between groups, cares and listens - even Ron gives Harry a look that means: thumbs up. She makes subtle jokes at Harry’s expense which land perfectly with the audience in front of her and when Percy questions her views on magic, she is candid and straightforward about her relative lack of interest. ‘I care about the things Harry tells me,’ she admits. Despite the couple of people who sit between them, Harry notices the way Hermione’s hand momentarily halts on the way to pick up her drink from the table, an awkward second before she moves again. Percy appears to find Mia’s indifference rather startling until Bill laughs and says: ‘Just because she doesn’t think like you doesn’t mean she’s wrong. Try and marry a foreigner and you’ll see what I mean.’

Mia quickly pivots the conversation by asking where Fleur is from, soon embarking on an excited conversation with Bill about France. He promises to ask Fleur for recommendations and pass them on, wishes Mia good luck with her applications before he calls it a night and goes back to his wife. 

Despite Ron’s positive feedback, Harry is surprised when Hermione doesn’t lecture him. He reckons she knows he writes to Ginny almost every day – she’d see the letters come in at breakfast - and –

‘You like her,’ she just states. So much for: we shag, Hermione, that’s what we do. Shit, now, he’s got no idea what the fuck he’s doing.

He smirks, sarcastic against his mug of tea. ‘I’m glad we’ve established that, yeah,’ he says. ‘I know the Dursleys made it seem like I enjoy living with people I hate, but strangely, I actually don’t.’

Hermione smiles, strained and fake, but says nothing else. Harry brings his mug to his lips, swallows another sip of tea - her eyes are already trained back on her school notes. In the middle of the table lay a handful of newspapers and magazines; Kreacher buys and brings over to the house the day’s press every morning. Harry sighs when his gaze finds the cover of Witch Weekly. He leans back against the worktop, his usual spot in this ritual they’ve built, except that today, it feels like he is sinking into the wood itself, almost willing it to swallow him. Hermione catches his gaze. ‘I know,’ he just says. Now, he understands she probably didn’t lecture him because she didn’t want to add insult to injury.

‘Ron’s this far from launching a full blown intervention,’ she admits. ‘I doubt it’ll do any good.’

‘No,’ he shrugs. That much he knows. ‘It won’t.’

Since mid-February, not one week has passed without Ginny ending up on the cover of half the tabloids in the country. Of course, Harry’s testimonies at the trials were worth a couple dozen articles in the Prophet and equally, Hermione and Ron’s engagement headlined its fair share of glossy pages, but generally, it turns out that gossiping about a happy, loving couple is not as much fun as the vitriol they can spread with regards to Ginny’s dating life. Even Harry’s alleged affair with Naomi Campbell has now been relegated to page 5.

It started in January, when she broke up with Matthew. The reporters had tailed them into Hogsmeade and perhaps understandably, the poor lad flipped. ‘I knew you’d been seeing someone last summer,’ he apparently told her. ‘I didn’t know you’d been seeing Harry Potter!’ Merlin, I thought everyone knew, Ginny tells him in one of her letters. He said I’d hid things from him but I just didn’t think I had to tell him, you know? You and I were all over the papers! I thought he knew! 

She was hurt. Never phrased it that way (it may not exactly be the way she sees it), but: At Christmas, you asked me if I loved him, she says. Now, I know I didn’t. It’s not like heartbreak, it’s more like loneliness. It’s like: maybe he was right, she adds. Maybe, I’m so fucked up I’ll never find anyone. 

Harry reads that once, twice, and the more he turns the words in his head, the more he can’t help but wonder who ‘he,’ in that sentence, is.

So: logically, she went out to test that hypothesis. By March, it’s been six weeks and she’s been on more dates than Harry can physically count. For every one of them, she’s seemed intent on Witch Weekly or some of the other comparable outlet getting pictures. Restaurants, bars, parks, Hogsmeade and Liverpool, and Manchester (never London), sometimes to the point that Harry seriously wonders if she’s not taking the pictures herself and sending them to the press. 

The gossip pages have eaten the stories up regardless, headlines turning gradually more salacious with every article and picture published. It sent Mrs Weasley into a number of crying fits or shouted threats of howlers (sometimes, both at the same time) until Bill finally volunteered to intervene in lieu of Ron and George who wanted to catch the next lad and punch him in the face. The eldest Weasley brother settled on sending Ginny a polite but direct letter to which she replied: Bill, it’s Witch Weekly. They’re tailing me all the time. I’m just fucking with them, alright?  

Harry is told that Mrs Weasley did send her a howler, then, telling her off for using that kind of language and to think about the kind of ‘reputation’ she was building off the stupid game she’s been entertaining with the paparazzi. Harry hasn’t told anyone (and certainly not Ron) that having now grown accustomed to Ginny Weasley’s talent with words, he immediately noticed her choice wasn’t just a provocation. 

It is also one of the things that she tells Harry about, as winter slowly merges into spring - Harry, but no one else. It’s not like it all happens at once, like she just suddenly starts sleeping with all these boys and gloats to him about it - it’s a lot more subtle than that. It seeps in, slow, in a lot more layers than the bright, tacky colours Witch Weekly’s headlines suggest. At the beginning of February, from what she tells Harry, it actually is about getting back at the press, having them chase the stupid leads of her dates - clearly, they don’t have anything better to do. She sends them anonymous tips about meeting boys in three separate places and waits for them to mobilise whole crews to follow her around. She Disapparates from one place to the next, laughs at the scrambles it creates. It’s like being the snitch in a game of quidditch, she jokes. I mean, they harassed me for months, took pictures of my very private break-up, called me a slut, then fucked up my rebound relationship. I’m allowed to send them teasers and get them to follow me into the strangest Muggle places, aren’t I?

And, to be fair, Harry doesn’t necessarily disagree. It’s even kind of funny. When, as a reaction, the press starts speculating about who he is seeing, he also laughs about Kate Moss with Ginny. To be fully honest, he also doesn’t think he gets to be righteous about the ways in which she takes out her anger at the media, not when he spent weeks taking his own out on, you name it: Kingsley, his best mates, or the whole bloody world. She tells him mildly entertaining stories about the horrible dates she does have with these people, one of whom moronically almost sets his own hair on fire with a Muggle lighter. I swear, sometimes I wish I was attracted to girls, she says, once, which not only makes him chuckle but then also gives him some, well, interesting dreams, to say the least. 

But then, a couple weeks later, she writes: This one wasn’t that bad, actually. Kept looking at my tits the whole time we were at the bar, but well, no offence but I do remember a couple of instances of you doing that, too. He cringes. Anyway, I promised I’d be honest with you so here it is: I went home with him. (Well, okay. He supposes that he has a girlfriend, that she even lives with him, so it’s not like he’s got any right to be feeling… whatever he is feeling, right now, has he?) It was… fine, I guess? It’s occurred to me that if they’re going to write all these things about me, I might as well live a little. 

So, on weekdays, she sneaks out of Hogwarts in the evenings, through secret passages like candlelit labyrinths. On weekends, she prefers Apparating to clubs in Edinburgh or Glasgow. Funnily enough, she writes, quick. Matt seems to be the only wizard in the world who’s not interested in shagging Harry Potter’s ex. It is late February, by then, and Harry almost sets the piece of parchment on fire until it occurs to him that this is exactly the reaction she wants. He is getting more and more frustrated with having to show up to testify at the trials when better qualified people (victims) are not being called to the stand and Hermione tells him: ‘They just want to get a rise out of you, Harry,’ - it clicks in his head. If he flips at her, it only proves her theory that she is too ‘fucked up’ for anyone to truly care. She never used to talk about herself like that before –

In the middle of his next letter, he writes back: Mia blew me last night and it was the first time since I read your letters that I didn’t think about you and Amycus, you know? like: ‘You want to be crude, go on, try me.’ Sorry, she scribbles at the end of her next parchment. I was angry. 

That, he understands. Obviously. 

In early March, at Grimmauld, Hermione sighs and observes. ‘Her grades are plummeting. The only thing that she seems to enjoy these days is Quidditch and the hour she spends every night writing to you. I haven’t told Ron but I’m worried.’

He snaps: ‘And, you think I’m not?’

Because, truth be told, while he knows that as Ginny’s ex-boyfriend, the main emotion he should be feeling right now is anger and resentment, perhaps jealousy (and, sure, he is feeling a lot of that) more importantly, these days, there is a persistent knot in Harry’s stomach that he can’t seem to let go of. The more the weeks have passed, the more ashamed he’s grown of that first letter he sent in February. It was all about him, asking her, trying to figure out what his own bloody feelings were about an incident that was – while dramatic - also months in the past, while there was the beginning of a much more current crisis, right here before his eyes.

After a night she spends at one of the boys’ place, she says: I woke up in there at three in the morning, I was naked and couldn’t remember where I was. I mean, I did, but it took me a few seconds, you know? And, I don’t know why, I got scared. I walked back to the castle in the middle of the night, crying for no reason. It’s like I’m turning into my mother or something, haha.

Gin, he responds, quick. Can’t help it. That’s not funny.

No, it isn’t. But, what do you want me to say? That sometimes, still, even though I was the one who broke up with you - I know that - when I close my eyes, I think of you and – she then proceeds to give him a full, very explicit rundown of all the things she does with him in her dreams and he gets hard, reading, then feels guilty when he looks up to his mezzanine to see Mia there, sleeping.

Why are you doing this? he asks and isn’t even sure what he means by ‘this.’ I don’t know, she answers. Sometimes, he would like to get angry, but what for? So, he holds onto his grudge against Kingsley instead and some nights, pulls out the map at three o’clock in the morning, just to make sure she makes it home safe.

It is later that week that he finally tells Mia about the war. It’s a cold, bright, late morning, the kind that’s lined with hope, like the end of winter is nearing. He’s wanted to talk to her for a while, especially since Lucius Malfoy's trial is hovering dangerously close (next week, for Merlin’s sake) and he still doesn’t know what he is going to do about it. Their relationship is mostly based on having fun together and there never seems to be a right time.

That day, though, Harry comes home just before lunch from running an errand for Ron and Hermione’s wedding (namely, he needs to book a place for Ron’s stag-do - ‘I’m not organising a hen,’ he pointedly said once, making sure Hermione was within earshot. ‘You think I want a hen?’ she replied), and finds Mia passed out unconscious on the floor of his kitchen.

Granted, it is a rather dramatic escalation of events.

In the moment, Harry forgets literally everything he’s ever learnt in the past six months of Auror training: checking the place for intruders, recasting the wards. Instead, he rushes to Mia’s side and places a hand on her cheek - thankfully, she’s just coming to as he kneels against the floor. (Not dead, he thinks. Good.)

Words come out of his mouth, he thinks, though he’s not sure which ones. Jesus fucking Christ are you alright? or something along those lines. She looks around (the bottom of his breakfast bar, the chair, his kitchen tiles, him), her eyes roaming and confused. His heart is on the verge of collapse until eventually, she musters a weak smile. ‘God, sorry. I’m fine, I think I just fainted,’ she says.

His stomach appears to be located somewhere inside his throat. ‘You fainted?’ he barely articulates. ‘That’s all?’

The adrenaline washes over him, a rush that leaves his brain blank for a second. It was not what he expected. People die in his world. Or they get tortured, or - ‘Sorry,’ she apologises again. ‘I’m fine,’ she sighs, slowly pulling herself up to sit against the cupboard under his sink. ‘I just haven’t really eaten since yesterday.’

Which then begs the next obvious question: ‘What?’

After the fact, considering the first eighteen years of his life, Harry can’t help but think he should have noticed. The few pounds she’d lost over the past couple of weeks on an already thin form or the way she’d shovelled down food every time they’d gone out, because whenever they did, Harry was the one who picked up the tab. He’s not sure why, in all the time they’ve spent together, it’s never occurred to him to ask her how she could afford to live here. Their building might be dingy and mouldy but she is still a student who grew up in a council estate on the outskirts of Manchester and now lives in her own one-bedroom in the middle of central London, with no flatmates. As far as Harry knows, her only source of income is the clothes she designs and sells to her friends, which can’t be bringing in more than a hundred quid a month. ‘My dad’s paid for all of it,’ she tells him, later that day. They are sitting on his couch; he’s helped her up and made her a cup of tea with three spoonfuls of sugar and laid in front of her all the biscuits Hermione didn’t eat. ‘Then, he stopped.’

It’s a personal bias, perhaps, but considering she never did talk about her father, Harry had always assumed he was dead. All she’d ever said about him was that he and her mum were together when they were teenagers, and that he’d left not long after she was born. ‘To be fair, it was mum who wanted to keep me. After he left, she never asked him for money or anything because she always felt it wasn’t right to force her decision on him, you know?’

Mia was sixteen when she and her father reconnected. ‘It’s not like he’d completely disappeared, I suppose. I’d get Christmas cards, birthday cards - he never forgot my birthday.’ She sighs. ‘Anyway, once I get a note from him that he’ll be in Manchester that week, and he’d like to meet. I was kind of curious, so I went. That’s when I found out, anyway.’

Her father is loaded, it turns out. Not the born-into-it kind - he grew up in the row house next to her mum’s along with four or five siblings - but the kind who sold a piece of software to Microsoft in the middle of the dot-com boom. ‘He used to have this job, he told me, doing inventory at a warehouse. They had a computer there and he just learnt to code during his lunch breaks.’ Later, she fishes out a number of magazines and articles about him from the stuff in her flat downstairs, pages and pages of a glamourous, probably romanticised, rags-to-riches story. Harry skims the papers; it would probably all sound more impressive if a) he had any knowledge of computers and b) he actually trusted what the press wrote about people. ‘He’s married, now,’ Mia adds. ‘Got a house in Kensington and everything. You should see it, it’s a bloody mansion.’

From sounding fortunate, her living situation suddenly starts to look strange. If the man’s that rich, why is his daughter living in a mouldy, cold, ground-floor apartment, then?

Mia explains that before she took her A-levels, her father offered to pay for her university fees and living expenses. ‘I think he felt a bit bad, you know? Leaving Mum and all. And, I was like - well, I couldn’t believe my luck, really.’

From what Harry understands, the only issue was that he wanted her to pursue what she calls a ‘proper degree.’ ‘Business or law, you know? Not fashion. He said he wasn’t going to “fork out all that money” for a passion project that wasn’t necessarily going to pay out.’ To Harry, that seems ridiculous, but it’s not like he’s got any actual clue about how the Muggle economy works. ‘So, we compromised,’ she shrugs. There is a bitter tone to her words. ‘I said I’d do both.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Yeah,’ a tired chuckle escapes her lips. ‘Not the most brilliant idea I’d ever had. Basically worked myself into the ground.’ And, knowing what he knows now, Harry can anticipate where this is going before she even adds: ‘Then, I dropped out of business school in autumn.’

She didn’t tell her father. Thought that if she managed to get her internship in Paris by the time she graduated, it wouldn’t matter, anyway. ‘And, I don’t know, I don’t mean to brag but I’m good at this,’ she says, loosely pointing back to the few sketches she left on the kitchen table. ‘Like, really good.’

‘Anyway, I’m not sure how he found out,’ she adds, then sighs. ‘The moment he did, he called me to say I wouldn’t get one more cent out of him. That was just after Christmas. Happy Holidays, right? So, anyway, I haven’t paid rent this month. Or last,’ she speaks, quick. ‘And, I’ve tried to explain it to him but he won’t budge, says that if I want to choose a dead-end career, I might as well face the reality now. And, I mean, I can’t ask Mum. God, she and Noel have finally bought a house, and with the baby... I never wanted to be a burden on anyone. And, now I’m unloading all this shit on you, I just - I’ve a trial shift at the pub this weekend but even then, I don’t bloody know how I’m going to pay rent, it’s not going to bring in enough money, and -’

Harry glances at his watch. It’s one o’clock in the afternoon. There’s only an hour before his shift and about a million things he needs to tell her. ‘Mia,’ he stops her with the most important one - his fingers against her wrist. It occurs to him how alone she is. How both her parents are alive and well, and young and yet she’s had to bloody faint on his fucking floor for someone to notice. He, of all the blokes living on this fucking planet, should have fucking noticed. ‘Mia, you need to eat.’

She opens her mouth, closes it. Opens it again. ‘Seriously, I’m fine, I -’

He shakes his head. ‘Mia, believe me, I know what that’s like. I’m ordering you pizza.’

While they wait, he showers, gets ready for work. She sits on the sofa, curled up in his Gryffindor jumper and sweats; he can see the embarrassed look on her face, wishes he could just wash it all off. When the delivery knocks on the door, Harry eats a slice of their margherita as a snack and she eats the rest. He hesitates before the next words come out of his mouth, thinks of Ron and the Weasleys, but then, this is actually an area of his life where simply throwing money at the problem will help. ‘I’ll cover your rent,’ he says. 

‘God, Harry, I -’

‘No, you don’t understand,’ he insists. Fuck, she might or might not be his girlfriend but the one thing he knows for certain is that no one deserves to survive on cans of beans alone. ‘I -’ he starts, then shakes his head to himself. This is going to be hard to explain. ‘Look, I’ve got money, okay? Like, loads of it.’ She frowns. ‘I mean, it’s not really mine, but -’

Understandably, after that last sentence, she looks even more confused, but there is a part of him that knows that if he tried to tell her, explain it all to her, he wouldn’t know where to begin and she wouldn’t believe him. It’s not like magic where he can simply wave a wand and show her - the kind of story he has (the Harry Potter one) is a hard sell if you haven’t lived or grown up with it. Harry himself hardly believed Hagrid at the age of eleven - and at the time, it wasn’t even the half of it. So, instead, he motions her to stay where she is, stands. Her puzzled look follows him as he moves across the room and reaches into a storage box at the top of his bookshelf. He taps it three times with his wand, thinking of the password he set.

‘Here,’ he tells her. His last courtesy copy of The Owl between them on the coffee table. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’ve to go to work,’ he adds. It’s true, but he also doesn’t really want to be there when she finds out. Mia opens her mouth, gaze narrowing on his face. ‘I swear this will explain a lot,’ he says.

For the first time, she actually seems to look at the magazine; his face from last December curiously eyeing her. ‘Is that -’

‘Me, yeah,’ he smiles. She looks at him, then at the magazine, then back at him. ‘I know, it’s kind of a flattering picture, but -’ He shakes his head at his own, half-hearted joke. ‘Look, just read it. Please,’ he insists. ‘I’ll explain when I get back.’ And, it’s funny how when it comes to telling her things he doesn’t have words for, he gives her a book to read and fucks off. Just like Ginny did. He guesses it was a bit rich of him to call her out on it.

Harry does come home that night, though - that is perhaps the difference. It’s after ten and the sky is dark and starless again; he Apparates directly in front of his door after picking up food from the chipper. ‘Hey,’ he says, stepping in. Finds her sitting at his kitchen table, surrounded by Canson paper and coloured pencils and pastels, and the open magazine in front of her. She’s brought her music player up from her flat, soft music humming a low tune in the background. One minute there was road beneath us and the next, just sky.

He toes off his shoes, hangs up his cloak on the hook by the door before going to stand next to her. Glancing over her shoulder, Harry can’t help but smile: these are not her usual sketches. ‘I thought I’d, er, overall wizard fashion a bit,’ she explains, her voice shy at the edges. The glossy pages in front of her show people in cloaks and robes; she’s redrawn them in flowey materials, light and colourful, airy. He thinks Madam Malkin should consider hiring her if she doesn’t get the Dior or Chanel internship or whatever else. ‘You don’t dress like that,’ she also observes. He walks around the breakfast bar and into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

‘God, not you too,’ he smiles. These days, he mostly wears his Auror uniform: grey, cargo trousers, a black t-shirt and heavy boots - they wear dark jumpers, jackets and cloaks when it gets colder. The rest of the time, he’s got two pairs of jeans between which he rotates, as well as a few more non-descript tops. He doesn’t think he’s worn a tie since the funerals last summer.

Mia gives him a quick, curious look; the water in the kettle next to him begins to simmer. ‘It’s just, after that came out,’ he explains, smirking, pointing at the magazine. ‘There was an article in the Prophet that read: “Why does Potter dress like a Muggle?”’

She laughs. ‘So, you really are a pretty big deal, then,’ she grins. ‘Setting fashion trends and all?’

They talk, that night. More. With their fifty-page special edition on the UK’s Second Wizarding War, The Owl laid out all the basics about the last few years in his world, not just his interview. Mia says: ‘I’d ask if it’s all true but I reckon it’s not the kind of thing anyone could actually invent.’

He doesn’t tell her everything, that night. Not that he doesn’t want to, it’s just strangely hard to explain all of it at once. Harry talks about what comes up in conversation: the important stuff. The war, his parents, Dumbledore. Tom. ‘Why you?’ she asks. He shrugs.

Eventually, he also tells her about Sirius. And, where all the money comes from. ‘The stuff that’s from my mum and dad, I’ll keep it, you know?’ he’s not sure what he’ll do with it, yet. Maybe just … live. ‘But all of that, Grimmauld, the extra couple mils, I don’t need them. Plus, it feels, I don’t know, wrong, considering all the shit his family did. They got all that cash from exploiting their power. It’s like profiting off…’ he tries to find an analogy. ‘Nazis or something.’ She nods. ‘So, for now, I’ve just been using it to renovate the house, so that it’s liveable for everyone, plus giving to C.A.S.H.C.O.W. when they need it,’ Mia works hard to contain a giggle, a look that’s like laughing with liquid in her mouth, like she’s choosing between choking or spitting it all out. He figures she isn’t used to the acronym the DA chose yet. ‘And, I reckon I could pay your rent with it, you know? And your fees and stuff. If you want to pay me back, fine, just pay back the charity whenever you can. That’s where it’s all going anyways.’

‘So… A loan from a wizarding NGO,’ she raises an eyebrow. ‘That’s what you’re proposing.’

Her glance focuses on the wall and the black screen of the TV in front of them. He sighs. ‘Look, do you need the money or not?’ he asks. ‘Because if you’ve got a better plan in the short term, I’m all ears.’

For a while, she says nothing. ‘I just don’t like the idea of depending on someone, you know?’ she finally admits. ‘After…’

Okay, that he understands. If he was in her position, he’s not sure he’d trust himself either. ‘Then, I’ll give you everything you need to finish the school year. Cash, not instalments. Whatever happens, you’ll have the money.’

‘Harry -’

‘Please,’ he says. ‘Out of all the problems in my life, right now, this is the most solvable one.’

A beat passes between them; he traces one of the cloaks she’s drawn with the tip of his finger on paper. She smiles, gives him a discreet nod. A reluctant one, maybe, but a nod nonetheless. ‘You know,’ she finally says, after a moment. They drink tea in silence. ‘I didn’t think the first time I’d ever be mentioned in a newspaper would be a wizarding one.’

He frowns; she laughs. And -

‘“ I ask Harry if he’s been seeing anyone else, recently,”‘ she quotes, reading off The Owl. Oh, fuck, he thinks, wants to hide his face in his hands and be swallowed up by the ground. ‘“He seems to consider his answer. “Yes,” he finally concedes,”’ by then, he’s pretty sure he’s gone bright red in the cheeks and nothing will ever give him his original colour back. ‘“She’s a [No-Maj]” - is that their word for Muggle? Funny how they always have to do things different, eh?’ she smirks. ‘Now, is that me or do you have another secret Muggle girl under your sleeve you need to tell me about?’

And, so, that night, they also do laugh, the both of them.

It’s well after two in the morning by the time they end up in bed. Mia comes in short gasps under him as he makes love to her, and it’s bizarre that he thinks of it in those exact terms. Spontaneously, without wondering what it means, or what it doesn’t. There is a moment and the moment is this. Her skin is warm and smooth against his, breaths tickling his shoulder. When he rolls off her, he pulls her close and bites his lip with the words he’s been wanting to say to her all night. He discovers that he is scared of what this might mean for them, that he doesn’t want her to leave. ‘You know there’s a risk, right?’ he whispers in her hair. ‘Being with me?’

Mia shifts, her palms crossed over his chest; she tilts her head up to look at him. The only light in his flat is the one from the street outside. Under the covers, he sometimes feels like they are hiding from the rest of the world. ‘I can read.’

‘It’s…’ he sighs, words hushed, like they’re too loud for the night. ‘There’s still a price on my head, you know? There will always be a price on my head.’ Mia’s eyes are black in the dark; he can’t distinguish her pupils. This is as far as he’ll ever go, he thinks. Telling anyone else. ‘Gin, they -’ he swallows, looks away. ‘They did some pretty horrible things to her, during the war.’

‘Because she dated you?’

‘Yeah.’

She holds his gaze in the semi-darkness, and he can’t help but wonder if she knows. If girls just know how wars are fought. ‘That’s not your fault,’ she says. He nods, swallows. 

‘Isn’t it?’

She doesn’t respond. The silence stretches between them. He thinks about it. Hasn’t stopped thinking about it since January. He’s not even sure Ginny thinks about it as much as he does. It's been months since she last mentioned Amycus’s name. 

And, that night, he thinks Mia really considers it: leaving. There, right before the crash of that car she’s been driving, right before anybody gets hurt in the fall, before the moment in that song that explains the world insists that love is like falling and falling is like this. Harry wouldn’t like it, of course, but he wouldn’t begrudge her if she did. Everything about him - it would be a lot for anyone.

Instead: ‘Look,’ she just sighs, turns to rest the back of her head against his chest again, her eyes focused on the ceiling. ‘I smoke weed, I gave up business school, I’m about to accept cash from a literal wizard, who I’m also in a sort-of relationship with for reasons I can’t really explain.’ He frowns, opens his mouth but she interrupts. ‘I’m just saying: I’m not completely risk-averse.’

She tells him she could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Or die from a brain aneurysm. She talks about a girl who she was in school with, who went to bed with a headache one night and never woke up. ‘Are brain aneurysms a thing, in your world?’ she asks - he is too baffled to do anything other than shrug. ‘Look, even if you shut yourself up in your house, you’re not safe. Six thousand people a year die from home accidents. That ladder you have for the mezzanine in here, now that’s a hazard. And, there’s mould in my flat,’ she breathes. ‘So.’

She never finishes her sentence (or perhaps, that is the end of it). Harry reckons she might have a point, all things considered, but there is also a tightness in his chest at the thought of someone he cares about getting hurt because of him that will likely never go away. Especially not after -

Mia’s lips move against his, later, and he lets himself get caught up in the kiss. It feels like the present moment again. She smiles at him and whispers: ‘My mum always said I had a thing for bad boys.’

He huffs out a laugh, then, and her hair moves with the flow of the air that exits his lungs. ‘Is that what I am?’ 

She catches his gaze, brown on green, seems to actually consider it. ‘No,’ she says, and kisses him. 

(Gin, he writes, later. Tell me about Amycus. For real.)

Chapter Text

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xi. out of silk (queen’s counsel)

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On the 29th of March 1999, at 9:37 AM, Harry starts smoking again. Stands outside the Ministry and breathes in his first drag since December, leaning against the bleached, stone walls of Whitehall. Cigarettes aren’t allowed inside the Ministry (or more like: it is not a Thing That Wizards Do), and by now, the bad habit’s become an excuse to get out of the building. They say it takes the average Muggle between five and eleven attempts to quit completely so perhaps, despite what the wizarding world seems to think, he’s not that special, actually. 

London is experiencing its first whiffs of spring, that week. The plane trees alongside roads bear fruits that Hermione sneezes at, and while the thermometer has barely reached seventeen degrees in the afternoons, Harry’s already seen multiple young men running around the place in shorts and t-shirts. Just yesterday, a lady on the tube was aggressively waving a piece of paper in front of her face, trying to create an unnecessary breeze. Whenever he’s managed to escape work (or, alternatively: the wizarding world, the trials, the shite), Mia and he have hung out in parks, or stood around wooden barrels outside pubs. Plastic pint glasses filled to the brim with cheap lager between their palms, the rare rays of sunshine filtering between the surrounding buildings, drawing rectangular shapes of light against red bricks, sharp angles like magazine cutouts. Since last summer, Harry’s committed to staying off the strong stuff so they only have a couple, sit down and laugh, play Muggle card games. She teaches him the rules without question, without asking how one survives an entire childhood in the Muggle world without ever playing Go Fish. 

He likes it.

They relax - or try to. Mia’s anxious, waiting for the results of her job applications, lays on the grass and closes her eyes with her head on his chest, picking at the skin around her fingernails. For the first time since he met her, Harry wonders what will happen if (when) she leaves, and what it will mean for them. Ron tells him they can always do the long-distance thing (‘I mean, it worked for me and Hermione. Hell, we’re getting married,’) but Harry’s not sure it’s a question he should even be asking. 

‘I can teach you poker,’ Mia suggests, once. They walk down the street from their local under fading cracks of daylight in the sky.

‘Don’t you need tokens for that?’

‘You can play with other things.’

He sends her a curious look and she promises to show him once they get home. 

She does.

He pays for their drinks, these days. For their food, their bills - hell, even their TV licences. He’s covered her rent up until the end of June, cash in the hands of their greedy landlord. At regular intervals, Mia insists she’ll pay him back - ‘all of it, with interest, I swear,’ and keeps a close tab of every cent she owes him. Harry’s stopped trying to explain he doesn’t care - it kind of makes him sound like an arsehole, so filthy rich he doesn’t give a fuck where his money goes. He would much rather she do something about her father, confront him about the mess he left her in, because that does infuriate him. Instead, she continues to get lunch with the man once a week, fancy restaurants with white table cloths, like nothing happened. Off the top of his head, he could name half a dozen people who literally gave their lives to protect their children (hell, even Petunia would have for Dudley), yet this cunt was ready to let his own daughter starve, bullying her into doing what he wanted. ‘I just want us to get on,’  Mia explains, shaking her head. Doesn’t want to ‘make a fuss,’ or risk losing him again. ‘I’ll be done with school soon, anyway,’ she shrugs, then drops a kiss at the corner of Harry’s mouth. ‘I’ll pay you back, I swear -’

‘You know, that’s not -’ (again.)

They go round in circles, so he stops bringing it up. 

He ended up telling Ginny about the loan. Didn’t particularly want to, but she is C.A.S.H.C.O.W.’s treasurer, after all, and whenever Mia does pay him back - which he knows she will - that is where the money will go. He gave her just enough details to justify his decision (she was going to be homeless, Gin), wanting to avoid what he anticipated would be a very Ron-like reaction (You’re throwing your money away, Harry!). Surprisingly, though, Gin was actually rather chill about it. I reckon you did the right thing, she wrote back. Would probably have done the same. It was a welcome take - until he began complaining about Mia’s father and he could tell she rolled her eyes. Just leave her be, she told him. No offence, but you don’t know what it’s like to have parents. 

By then, Ginny’s stopped talking to Molly. It’s driven the Weasley brothers up the wall (driven Harry up the wall, frankly, considering all that Mrs Weasley has done for him), but the one time he tried to bring up the matter, call Ginny out on it (gently, but still), she said: Well, I’m sorry but I can only tolerate so many howlers that come inches from calling me a slut. Witch Weekly and half the wizarding world are already doing it, I don’t need my own mother to add to the noise. For Harry, it’s been a difficult position to hold, staying put like Switzerland between both forces whenever Molly worriedly whispers to him: ‘Have you heard from Ginny?’ He says: ‘Yes, Mrs Weasley. She’s okay, Mrs Weasley,’ and escapes through the Floo with Teddy in his buggy as quickly as humanly possible. Maybe stop acting like this, then, he almost writes back, but doesn’t. Keeps his thoughts to himself because he already got into a near-altercation with a couple of blokes at the Auror office the other day, and doesn’t need to get into arguments with her, too. They were walking down a corridor, bent over and laughing coarsely at a magazine held between each other -

‘Well, yeah she’s fit but wouldn’t fuck that you know, don’t know where she’s been -’

From behind them, Harry raised his arm without even thinking about it - Dean was quick, grabbed his wrist and held it down before he could aim. Thank Merlin, Ron was off work, that day.  ‘Leave it,’ Dean said. ‘Not worth your job.’ 

Harry set his jaw and bit his tongue and almost yelled that yes it was worth his bloody job, as a matter of fact, but by the time Dean finally loosened his grip, the two idiots had already turned the corner. 

Harry didn’t ask, but he did wonder, later, what Dean thought of it all. 

I already know what you’re thinking, Ginny wrote, which was perhaps a stretch. You think it’s better to have mum and dad and the boys judge me, than them be dead. And, that’s kind of the issue, Harry. It’s the only spectrum you know, and it’s a rather unbeatable argument. Of course, I’d give anything (anything) for Fred to send me a howler right now but - family’s more complicated than you think. It’s not all black and white. Mia’s just doing what is right for her, I think. 

Everyone is begging him to leave it (leaveitleaveitleaveit), these days - so, he does. 

In a strange turn of events, he’s found refuge in Muggle libraries. It started at the beginning of March, when he and Mia went to see The Cranberries. ‘What? Did you really think ours was the only war there ever was?’ Seamus laughed when Harry brought it up later, and a cluster of vague memories spread like fog in his brain: Vernon praising ‘Maggie’ for ‘getting the Falklands back,’ something about bombs in Wembley, and a place called Yugoslavia? It’s funny how, before Mia came into his life, he used to think of himself as knowledgeable about Muggles. He and Hermione referencing Cinderella was enough to confuse Ron, and his understanding of tube turnstiles had blown Mr Weasley’s mind. Now, it rather feels like being a jack of all trades and a master of none. When Mia mentions her mum’s parents were from Jamaica, he is mortified that she has to point to it on a map. 

‘It’s mad the stuff they don’t teach you in that school of yours,’ she laughs. There is no resentment in her voice, just bafflement. ‘Have you ever heard of the Windrush?’

‘How do they expect us to share a whole world with Muggles when they don’t teach us anything about them?’ He rages at Hermione the next morning. 

‘I think the point is that we don’t really - share their world, you know?’ 

Mia’s already moved on, by then. ‘I mean, I suppose it makes sense, you already have to learn about all that magic stuff,’ she says, suggests they walk to Primrose Hill that afternoon - ‘the weather’s gorgeous.’ Off the worktop, she grabs her backpack and fishes out a water bottle to refill it. Harry sits down at the kitchen table, shakes his head. 

‘No,’ he says. ‘Tell me about the Windrush.’

He’s not sure why, but it sounds important. Like something he should know. 

So: ultimately, in ‘99, in exchange for lending her the money, Mia gives him a very precious gift: her uni library card. To Hermione’s complete astonishment, Harry actually uses it. Borrows some books but generally finds magazine articles easier to digest, as well as audio cassettes and VHS tapes. 

The thing is: at school, he remembers that unless they had a Very Pressing Concern, Hermione liked to squat the library because she was hungry for knowledge. She seemed to feel safe surrounded by books and information, concepts like the nine uses of alihosty or the Theory of Resonant Charms broken down into neat, aesthetically pleasing, bullet-pointed lists. He just wants answers. Like: how could you see shipping people halfway across the world to rebuild a country after a war as a remotely viable plan? (Thankfully, the idea does not seem to have crossed Kingsley’s mind). Or: why does Seamus often sound like he is on the side of the bombers? And: who the hell did the Falklands belong to in the first place? (Let’s face it, whatever side Vernon takes is usually not the right one.) He remembers the first days of his Auror training and the way Giulia told him people always had reasons (motives) for doing the things they do. That spring, that’s what he’s after - motives.

That spring, he listens to the Muggle radio. Or, lets taped documentaries run in the background while he watches Teddy. (Sure, probably not the best material for an eleven-month-old, but what can you do?) To Harry’s surprise, it turns out that between 1990 and 1999 alone, about 100,000 people are estimated to have died on Muggle battlegrounds - and that’s only counting the ones the UK was directly involved in. The numbers are staggering. From the summer of ‘95, he distantly recalls the low drone of the telly, fighting in a place called ‘Srebrenica’ - he can’t believe he was so focused on trying to identify any sign of Tom on the news that he never actually listened to them. There’s still a war going on right now, he later finds out, in a nearby place called Kosovo (he has to look that up on a map, too) and well, at least there is space for it in his brain, now that Tom is dead. 

He likes to talk to Mia about it, because she’s able to fill in the gaps. He likes to talk to Ginny about it because - well, there’s not much else to talk about. She responded politely to his question about Amycus at the start of the month, but he wasn’t quite sure what to make of her words. I don’t know. How I feel changes, you know? Right now, I’m writing to you and I can’t help but think of how much I miss last summer. For all the shit with the Commission, and everything I was hiding from you, and the funerals, I also miss running around London with you. And, the way you’d sneak into my bedroom at the Burrow before you moved out, remember that? Those fucking creaking stairs. And, the way mum and dad reacted when they found out. That awkward talk dad gave us? He can’t help but smile. It feels like a lifetime ago. It felt euphoric. Free, remember? Being alive. Now, my sex life is feeding half the staff at witch weekly, probably allowing them to bathe in fucking caviar, and mum…  I’ll never tell her what I told you. She’d never forgive me.  

He doesn’t know what to respond to that. I miss it too, he confesses. It’s true. 

About Amycus, it’s not that I’m trying to hide anything, I just don’t know what to tell you that I haven’t told you already. Is there anything in particular you want to know? I mean, I can’t remember what I wrote last year, but I know it was a lot. He loved his dogs, I suppose. Maybe that’s a bit strange but there were pictures of them in his office. A golden retriever and a black lab, named Marie and Maisie. He said he’d picked the names because muggle names were good for dogs. I think his aunt was watching them while he was at hogwarts. He’d write to her almost every day, asking about them. He liked talking about them, so I suppose I asked a lot. It made him happy.

Harry’s not sure why the thought occurs to him. Why he even cares. Life’s just weird, that way. What happened to them?

The dogs? she answers. I dunno, hahaha. Are you opening a shelter? 

He bursts out a laugh. Life goes on. 

So do the trials, that March. Hearings, objections, speculations, liabilities and defences - the Law with a capital L, like an academic discipline that lives don’t depend on. Anaesthetised aesthetics, two-steps removed from reality. Harry’s kept testifying to the fact that he doesn’t know 90% of the people he is called to testify against - by now, even the press seems to have grown increasingly disinterested. The trials haven’t been the sensational spectacle they clearly hoped for; instead, they are buried under mountains of procedures, hear from very few witnesses, and the verdicts go: guilty, guilty, guilty. Even the accused haven’t had the grandeur the wizarding public expected. Harry had always thought of Tom’s followers as sadistic masterminds. He’s not quite sure how to explain that most of them just seem to be there. 

They don’t all have excuses. They don’t all have stories of redemption and shame. But even the most vehement hatred looks washed out when yelled out of a locked box. The most gorey details of their crimes are plastered all over the papers and sometimes they’re almost hard to believe, match the sins to the faces in front of him. He wonders how he will feel about Umbridge. How he would feel about Amycus. Would it make a difference, if it were people he knew?

Humanity begs the question of ‘why?’, but there aren’t any answers to that. ‘Because I hate Muggles,’ or ‘Because the Ministry fucked me over,’ are ones that keep coming up, but they’re not the ones Harry wants to hear. He’s not actually sure what he would like to hear. A complete manifesto? It died with Tom, didn’t it?

The nonsense the Ministry has engaged in by calling Harry as a witness in every single trial hasn’t gone unnoticed. By now, even his fellow witches and wizards have become bored with the whole process. According to the many commentators of this Earth, the sentences are too harsh (or not harsh enough). The trials are too public (or not public enough). The witnesses are (or aren’t) the right ones, the MPS communicates too much (or too little), the hearings are too slow (or too quick). In a society where everyone has a stake and an opinion on the matter of punishing those responsible for the crimes they endured, there is not one thing the Ministry seems to be able to do right. One morning before heading into work, Harry even catches a ‘member of the public’ intervening on a show on the wireless: ‘Well, no one’s testifying, and most of the files are sealed - I mean, I don’t know about you but with the inflation, I’ve more pressing concerns than reading legalese in the Prophet. I don’t blame Potter for not giving a fuck. They’re taking up his time for not’ing.’ 

At this point, Harry’s just too confused to say anything and Mia simply raises an eyebrow at him at the mention of his name.

Everything he’s read about the Muggle world hasn’t really helped, either. While he is struck by the similarities between theirs and Every Major War Trial Ever (the disappointed expectations, the lack of examination of the root causes of it all), it’s not provided many answers. He skims over reports from Nuremberg, then the Nazi-hunters, the Klarsfelds and others, and all the arseholes who fled to South America. They caught some (just like the wizarding world caught some), but it never sounded like enough. When Klaus Barbie was finally tried in front of the French courts in ‘85, he denied even being who everyone knew he was. Gave a new name, a new identity, claimed his extradition was illegal, refused to acknowledge the victims and stayed in his cell until the end of the hearings. 

He was convicted, but what good did that do? Harry asks Ginny, then. It’s not like putting these arseholes in jail ever prevented atrocities from being committed ever again. I’d always thought that was the point, you know? Catch the bad guys to prevent further crime? I just don’t get how someone who - he keeps the first thing that comes to mind to himself - who instructed Neville to cast Cruciatus curses on eleven year olds could love his dogs so much.

What is this? Ginny writes back. A mid-life crisis? Gonna resign and buy a new firebolt to fly across the australian desert? What would you do then? Let them all go free, thanks very much, have fun with the rest of your life? (Of course not, he thinks). Hermione’s worried about you, you know? She says you’re been watching gore-y Muggle ‘videos’ about wars? I’m not sure what those are but it doesn’t sound good to me either. 

He rolls his eyes. Hermione should maybe mind her own business. She says that like Giulia didn’t bleed to death right in front of me two months ago, he observes. 

Because, here’s the thing: there are six litres of blood in the human body, and he knows damn well what three or four of those look like, spilled on the floor in a matter of minutes. Sometimes, he closes his eyes and can still feel it (feel her - warm and lifeless) at his fingertips. So, no, there is nothing in terms of evil that he hasn’t seen before, nothing in what he watches that could shock him. It’s the reproduction of it, over and over, that’s incomprehensible. He reads about continental Europe, the way they shaved women’s heads in 1945, punishment for ‘collaborating’ with the enemy. He closes his eyes and can’t help but feel the tightness in his stomach when he wonders what would happen if anyone knew about -

For us girls, she wrote, it is just the way wars are fought. 

He wants to fucking throw up.

Look, I don’t think evil can always be explained or completely prevented, Ginny says. I mean, yeah, Amycus tortured kids, but he wasn’t always like that, you know? When he was with me, he was kind sometimes. Like he just wanted someone to talk to. I remember one time after - a few words are scratched out, there, Harry can’t read them - we had sex, he asked what I liked to do outside school. He said people had told him I liked quidditch. He said: ‘I’d give you your broom for the night, but you’d just fly away, wouldn’t you?’ I promised I wouldn’t. ‘Alright,’ he told me. ‘Anyway, I swear I’ll kill you if you do.’ We went down to the quidditch pitch and tossed the ball between the two of us until the early hours of the morning. It was freezing, but the most fun I’d had in ages. He said he liked it when I laughed. I think he wanted me to like him. Maybe I did. I don’t know, Harry, I was a much better flyer than he was but I didn’t try to leave.

He reads that last sentence and thinks: tried to leave - to go where, exactly?

And, anyway, Amycus Carrow isn’t on trial, that March. He’s dead. His sister will be - but later, after Draco and Narcissa. For now, all they’ve got are: Umbridge, starting on the 22nd, and Lucius Malfoy, a week earlier. Harry is called as a witness against both and on the 29th, when he finally caves and starts smoking again, he does so before taking the stand against his former teacher. By then, his palms are clammy against the fabric of his trousers and he can feel his heartbeat in his neck. ‘I need to get out of here,’ he quickly says, walking past the guards and almost running out of the Ministry’s waiting room. ‘Just come and get me when I’m actually needed.’ 

Out on the street, he lights up a cigarette because, for the life of him, Harry can’t bear to look at the dull, still life, flower pot painting in that place for a minute longer without wanting to scream. The answer is that: it does feel different, when you personally know what they’re capable of. 

He’s spent too much time in that waiting room, as of late. Painfully beige walls and a circle of empty chairs around a cheap, wooden coffee table - the kind of place that reminds him of his visits to the Dursleys’ family GP, Dudley drumming his feet impatiently - Petunia would forbid the ‘dirty and strange’ cousin from touching the toys in the corner, make him stand up and offer his seat every time a new adult stepped in. Harry remembers the confused look a woman threw at his clothes once, after she eyed Petunia and Dudley - Harry must have been five or six. ‘Are you here on your own, lad?’ she asked, concerned, and Petunia seized his skinny arm like a bony piece of meat, said: ‘No, he’s with us, he’s my nephew,’ in a voice that intimated the unfortunate treatment of this poor boy wasn’t of her own doing. 

Years later, for Umbridge, Harry’s look is professional - ready. Dressed in his Auror uniform (Kingsley’s Department of Information insisted on it, claimed it would make his testimonies look more ‘official’); he’s not sure Petunia would even recognise him. Thinks she might glance at the cigarette between his fingers, the dark t-shirt, cargo pants and boots he’s wearing; they all act like a magnet in the sun, making the fabric stick to his skin. She would tut and brisk past this strange, athletic, six-foot-tall boy (kid? man?) who, with all of his Auror training, could now probably take on her husband in a fight in a heartbeat. Sometimes, Harry looks at himself in the mirror and knows he hasn’t changed much, is probably the same person she used to know - just trapped in somebody else’s frame. 

There have been - comments about it. Not from Mia, nor Ron, nor Hermione - not from people who see him every day and wouldn’t necessarily notice incremental changes (or at least, are polite enough leave him be) but from the press. It started with the Americans and has only become harder to ignore these past few weeks, with his more frequent public appearances at trial hearings. Auror training seems to have done Mr Potter some good, he read in an opinion piece in the Prophet, as though the fact that he’s now got muscles in places he didn’t know was possible is a sign of his overall health. ‘You know, you and Ginny are the same,’ Hermione tells him. ‘She flies every hour under the sun. You no longer have a Quidditch pitch at your disposal so you just run and camp out at the Auror gym; it’s the same thing.’ 

Maybe, he thinks. But, he reckons there are worse coping mechanisms.

The both of them aren’t treated the same, though. In the last report that came out about Ginny’s love life, there was a comment about her calves being too big (what? he thought. How is that even a thing?) next to a flashing box with a picture of him on the stand, tired, unshaven (God, he reckons he really should get a haircut), next to a caption that inexplicably read: HOT DAMN, GINNY! Look what you missed! 

Harry wonders if he should feel offended or angry (or flattered) but frankly, it’s just alienating. 

He's probably at least partially responsible for it, though. By then, it is already mid-March and he went 'no comment' at Lucius Malfoy’s hearing. The press has nothing else to write about.

It was stupid - or maybe not. Impulsive, or maybe not. The man’s trial was the first where Harry had to testify against someone he actually knew, couldn’t decently tell the court they’d never met. His testimony took place on the 15th of March, less than two weeks after Mia’s birthday, and suddenly, the date rolled around like a thunderstorm. Harry watched it advance, mile after mile, or day after day, until it finally crashed against his window. He waited in the waiting room (still a good boy, patient for his turn, back then), stated his name for the record with absolutely no idea what to say next. Hermione had warned him, he supposes, about the inherent flaws in his now infamous I’ll-cross-that-bridge-when-I-get-to-it strategy; all safe and good until you actually find yourself right at the edge of the water, about to jump and with no bridge in sight. 

When Lucius Malfoy appeared in court, that morning, he was escorted by a couple of prison guards. Harry had seen pictures in the press but the live, flesh and bone version of Draco’s father was still a shocking sight. Lucius Malfoy, once proper and impeccable, blond hair brushed back and ironed clothes had layers of bags under his eyes. Wore Azkaban robes, grey and torn, in a state worse than Sirius’s had been in those mugshots in Third Year. He’d also lost about three stones. 

The moment he saw Harry walk in, he began shouting abuse. Called ‘the kid’ names and ranted about: wizarding institutions being prejudiced against him; Harry being a lying, petty child - claimed that he and his ‘Auror friends’ had attempted to kill his wife (what?), that the Order had manufactured evidence against him, making it look like his house (his own house!) had been used as Headquarters for the Dark Lord. ‘My wife and I never agreed to this!’ he shouted, indignant; the Head Juror had to call ‘Order!’ about fifteen times until Lucius’s escort was finally instructed to silence him. 

All of these statements could have been true - none of it mattered when shouted with such confused incoherence. His army of lawyers looked embarrassed on his behalf - hell, even the reporters in the room did. Later, their articles even wondered if the new living conditions in Azkaban were the cause of such an evident loss of sanity. Maybe, the Prophet wrote, dementors sucking your soul was actually a better outcome than hours upon hours spent in isolation at a high security wing. And when, finally, the barrister for the MPS walked towards Harry and asked if he knew Lucius Malfoy, he - 

Well, there’s what everyone else thinks about it. The press: while staying silent is, of course, Mr Potter’s right, one does wonder, with his stubborn refusal to testify, time and time again, what he is hiding from the rest of us. The wider public: as previously mentioned, that he doesn’t care, with varying degrees of agreement and sympathy, ranging from: ‘Leave the poor kid alone! He just got caught up in this, it’s not his job to save the world!’ to ‘Well, I just think he’s an ungrateful cunt, is what I think!’  

‘I told you going “no comment,” would make you look guilty!’ says Hermione, unnecessarily. 

Kingsley, as predicted, seemed to believe they’d all dodged an Avada Kedavra. Harry had followed legal advice (for once), and at least, the Ministry wouldn’t be put in the awkward position of having to decide whether or not to charge him, once he admitted to one of his many sins. As a result of this much welcome news, the Minister even followed up Harry’s testimony with an invitation for Ron, Hermione and he to attend and speak at the upcoming memorial ceremony, for the one-year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. It was as though the matter of the trials was already closed. Harry stubbornly refused to RSVP, prompting Hermione to scoff and shake her head at him. ‘Like you would ever not attend,’ she said. He looked away. ‘Why are you still trying to make the man’s life harder, Harry, I don’t get it.’

It’s not like he could explain. 

That March, everyone seemed to agree with Kingsley - even Mr and Mrs Weasley. After the news of his testimony (or lack thereof) hit the press, Ron’s mother smiled and pulled him into a hug the following Sunday. ‘At least you’re protecting yourself, that’s what you need to do.’ And, aside from Hermione’s reservations, Ron himself also seemed to think the same: ‘Mate, it’s your life, not anyone else’s. You don’t owe them shit.’ 

This would all have been great, of course, if Harry actually believed that to be true.   

Because: he might not owe the Ministry shit, fair enough, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t owe anyone anything at all - whether he likes it or not. In retribution for his actions, the first (perhaps inevitable) Howler that came his way hailed from Narcissa Malfoy, before the jury had even come back with a verdict in her husband’s case. A ten-page letter full of insults and threats which scared the shit out of Mia when it exploded in Harry’s living room. The bloody thing screeched so loud it even woke up their downstairs neighbours’ baby at six o’clock in the morning. Harry couldn’t help but fear they would end up calling the cops on what probably sounded like a domestic. For the record, he would like to actually argue that his silence was probably kinder to Lucius than any truth he could have told (a fact that Andromeda herself acknowledged) but clearly, that is not something he and Draco’s mother will ever agree on. 

‘YOU BETTER NOT DO THIS TO ME AND MY SON OR I WILL MAKE SURE YOU DON’T LIVE TO SEE ANOTHER DAY, YOU USELESS -!’

When Ron and Harry recounted the story to Hermione over the weekend, Harry’s best mate said: ‘We’re sitting here, having defeated Lord bloody Voldemort, supposedly having the time of our lives and yet we’re still discussing these twats.’ Hermione admonished that there was no reason to use that type of language. 

‘The Malfoys have lost everything, Ron,’ she said. ‘Can’t be easy for them. It’s -’

‘“Can’t be easy for them?” Have you forgotten about -’

They bickered for another fifteen minutes. It felt to Harry like with its laws and hearings, the wizarding world was trying to apply general principles to a myriad of lame, individual cases. Would he have gone ‘no comment’ if Lucius Malfoy hadn’t already seemed fucking insane? He’s not sure. Would he have felt the same about Umbridge or Draco? He’s not even sure either. He tuned out of the conversation and returned to his porridge. 

He did later regret the Howler’s spectacular self-combustion, though, when he tried to take it to Robards’ office and was left with an unimpressive pile of half burnt parchment. ‘What’s this?’ the Head Auror asked. Then: ‘What’s that got to do with me?’ when Harry explained.

‘I don’t know,’ Harry faux-shrugged. ‘Maybe next time Narcissa Malfoy shouts death threats at me at six o’clock in the morning I’ll send her over to you,’ he suggested which did finally make Robards look up at him, at the very least.

‘Potter, believe me, I’m trying, here, I really am,’ the Head Auror spoke, scribbling his initials on a piece of parchment in front of him. ‘But have you ever heard of something called “insubordination”? Because it looks like you’re toeing a very thin line, here, and I would hate -’

Harry sighed, audibly, then quietened under Robards’ glare. He wondered how long he would keep his job as an Auror before getting sacked. ‘Fine. Look, I just -’ he tried. ‘All I’m saying is: isn’t she supposed to be monitored? I thought -’ he quickly trailed off, unsure how to phrase the following question: How the fuck am I still receiving mail from this crazy bitch? without sounding too… insubordinating. 

Robards paused his inspection of the report in front of him, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest. Harry suddenly felt rather awkward, standing there in the middle of the big boss’s office empty-handed, wiped his clammy hands on the fabric of his trousers. ‘Ah, yeah,’ Robards agreed. That piercing blue stare again. ‘And, with what staff, exactly? You and your mates?’ 

Harry looked to the floor and found that his shoes didn’t hold the answer to that particular question either. 

Because, here’s the thing: in March ‘99, from a situation that was already tense, the Ministry of Magic as an organisation (and specifically the Auror Department), has now reached the verge of total collapse under the pressure exercised by the trials. After two years of war, resignations, deaths, loss of trust, confidence, people just moving on to other things - the last few months have now run the place far into the ground. New hires, like Harry, hardly started to fill the dozens of open positions and even then, half of them have pre-existing conflicts that prevent them from taking part in certain operations - the babysitting Narcissa Malfoy being an obvious example. 

At their last staff meeting, Harry watched as a poor bloke from Payroll asked Robards if there was any way they could invest to brighten up the office with a bit of décor and ended up in tears. ‘I don’t think you people understand,’ Robards shouted, ‘that I have to police an entire nation in the midst of one of the worst economic crises in History with a staff of three hundred, a third of which are currently mobilised to prepare for and give evidence in trials which, frankly, none of us really give a fuck about!’ After that, no one else dared speak. ‘So, please, think about how much you really wish to stay in this department before coming to bother me with your budget request for a new fucking houseplant!’ 

On that note, the Head Auror stormed off, the staff meeting later rescheduled. 

On the bright side, Harry and Ron have finally passed probation. As did almost everyone else from their intake except for Terry Boot - who dropped out of the programme to join his father’s business - and Susan Bones - who transferred as a trainee with the Magical Prosecution Service. On Monday, the 8th of March 1999, their cohort of newbies were all officially called into Robards’ office in ranking order, and asked to choose what their next six-month posting would be. Harry walked in third, just behind Justin Finch-Fletchley who (infuriatingly) turned the situation around a couple of days before the scores were finalised. Expectedly, he was rather action-man-y and grabbed the only available spot with the Hit Wizards, after Opal took one of the two open in Major Crimes. ‘I expect you’ll follow her, Potter?’ Robards said, quill already in hand. 

‘No,’ Harry shook his head. ‘Put me down for Patrol.’

Robards looked up from his files (again : a rare feat) and dropped his quill. 

Harry had arguments prepared. Giulia, first, who had said Patrol would be a good choice for rotations. Also, that he liked the variety. And, that the work felt useful. Plus, he knew what he was walking into: taking people’s depositions, being there when they needed him, arresting the bad guys. Even the drunks and the petty criminals had their funny moments, sometimes. It made sense to him and it was his choice.

Yet, when Robards’ mouth stayed open in confusion for a long while, Harry just waited. ‘Potter, you’re third in your intake,’ the Head Auror finally stressed. ‘I would probably advise against IntoxSubs considering your Potions scores but everything else… They don’t typically recruit new intakes, but I’m pretty sure I could even talk to Section B…’ 

Section B is one of those subdivisions of the Auror Department no one ever speaks openly about. Harry’s only heard the name a handful of times, in hushed whispers in the break room. ‘Yeah, I heard the door to their office is concealed under the floor, right after the Hit Wizards, you know that dead plant by the water cooler? No, I’m not sure what they do… They don’t really socialise, mind you.’

Facing Robards, then, he smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m not James Bond,’ he said. Robards did not get the reference. ‘Look, I was told we could choose our partners if we stayed on Patrol for an extra six months,’ Harry added. ‘That true?’ 

Their looks crossed. Robards said nothing for a moment, his face unreadable. Harry tried as hard as he could to keep his own expression neutral. The boss’s mouth finally curved into the slightest hint of a smile. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So, you’re doing this for Weasley, then?’

And, like, yeah, okay, that is actually the main reason Harry picked Patrol. So, what? Sue him. The fact is that Ron was too far down the scoreboard for them to both get Major Crimes and, ‘I value working with people I trust,’ Harry settled. In consideration of everything else going on in his life, Patrol with Ron sounded loads better than Major Crimes with random strangers. Perhaps, months ago, he might have picked it to continue working with Giulia, but - 

Robards frowned, then sighed. ‘Alright, fair enough,’ he conceded, then scribbled Potter on a piece of parchment. The door flew open behind Harry as the Head Auror waved his wand. ‘Now, get out of my office. Next!’

When they crossed paths in the corridor, Seamus asked: ‘Still in a mood, then?’ and Harry laughed. 

‘Yup,’ he said. 

Everyone in the Ministry has been running around the place like headless chickens, as of late. 

In the press, Kingsley’s new administration has also been facing wave after wave of criticism which, frankly, hasn’t entirely displeased Harry. First, of course, there was all the shit around the trials. Surprisingly, even Molly Weasley (who gave a short testimony in front of the Commission as a member of the Order last summer) once told Harry: ‘Well, I do wish Kingsley had told us it would be the only testimony we would give. I would have given my answers a little more thought, I suppose.’ Then, there’s also been Kingsley’s new deal with the Muggle government. While initially garnering a lot of support, even beyond the most progressive circles - fortunately, this did not lead to a Goblin uprising after the Ministry agreed to pay them off generously compensate their unforeseen loss of earnings for years to come - the question of the allocation of the funds soon came to bite them all in the arse. 

Officially (and, for what it’s worth, even knowing his own feelings towards Kingsley, Harry honestly believes him on that one), most of the recovery grants were distributed to a selection of wizarding businesses deemed to have suffered the largest losses during the war. Applications were submitted in the month that followed the passing of the bill and the list of successful applications was compiled by Ministry staff on the basis of a complex matrix including the difference between pre-war and post-war turnovers, expenses incurred to repair the sometimes extensive damages suffered within the premises, the viability of their recovery plans, etc. It all sounded good - at least on paper. In actual fact, this thorough assessment led to an overwhelming number of grants being awarded to businesses owned by people generally known to have been on Kingsley and the Order’s so-called “side,” during the war. 

The moment the allocation decisions were made public, a wave of disgruntled Knockturn Alley shop owners found their way into the many offices of different press outlets across the country, soon expressing their innumerable grievances, and less-than-favourable opinions of the current government which, according to them, was operating under unconscionable biases. At the Burrow, this strategy enraged George (and, in her correspondence, Ginny, who’d spent hours with he and Ron going over Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes’ accounting and writing their application) who slammed the Prophet against the kitchen table and expressed what sounded like a rather fair point: ‘Their bloody shops weren’t torched, were they?’ 

In response to this latest wave of criticism, the Head of Kingsley’s new Money Matters Department, Bernardus Dee-Poquets, gave a rather unfortunate interview on Radio 5, attempting to ‘give more context’ on the decisions made. Instead of smoothing things over, this position only further enraged the opposition, prompting a spontaneous protest to take place in Knockturn Alley with placards that read: WE DON’T NEED CONTEXT WE NEED GALLEONS! (which, frankly, Harry also couldn’t help but think was a fair point). 

He and the other Aurors were soon called in for ‘crowd control,’ an idea that began sounding terrible as soon as they were asked to put on their riot gear. On the way there, Robards added fuel to the fire by making it abundantly clear to whoever was willing to listen that this ‘peacekeeping’ operation had been forced upon him by the Head of the DMLE and was neither his choice, nor his idea, which in turn meant that no one in the Auror ranks actually wanted to go in. That day, Harry’s afternoon began with their unit chief whispering in his ear to make his hair blond and hide his scar with make-up again, ‘just-in-case,’ and ended with incapacitating shots being fired from all sides, fumigation potions thrown at a mob they’d kettled in on Burke Street, and a spell that sliced Harry’s arm open, landing him in the mediwizards’ tent for the second time in less than six months. Until he regained the full use of his fingers a couple days later, the letters he wrote to Ginny looked like they had been drafted by a six-year-old. 

Since then, most of the office has been reluctant to do - well - anything beyond the bare minimum, doing nothing to help Robards’ staffing problems. Half the Aurors on Harry’s floor have now repeatedly called in sick for a few days at a time with increasingly more outrageous excuses ranging from ‘sleepiness,’ to ‘dragon pox,’ and even once: ‘wandrot’ - a wizarding disease that Harry unfortunately decided to ask about at lunchtime in the middle of the trainees’ table. Katie Bell almost choked on a piece of broccoli and Ron’s whole face turned scarlet. The resulting explanation made Harry feel irrationally protective of the most intimate parts of his body for the rest of the afternoon. 

With the end of their probation, Robards is now no longer their cohort’s direct supervisor. Harry, Ron, Dean and Seamus (the Gryffindor dorms, version 2.0) have landed themselves in the same Patrol unit, answering to their own Lead Auror: Dilip Radic, a balding, middle-aged bloke with the charisma of a crockery cupboard but who Harry finds, overall, nice enough. From what he gathers, Robards is still overseeing reports on their progress until the eleven of them choose their permanent postings in eighteen months, but generally, the man is back to handling his main Ministry duties: allocating headcounts, budgets, discussing enforcement policies with Kingsley and the Head of DMLE, resolving quarrels between departments, cases, etc. a role that was previously dubbed by Giulia as: ‘the gruelling task of arbitrating disputes between entitled idiots.’ Now, including a growing population of disgruntled employees. The constant sick leaves, originally meant as a show of support for their department head, have now backfired on him. 

Which is why, a couple weeks later, when Harry tries to hassle Robards about Narcissa’s letter, the boss just closes his eyes and audibly sighs. ‘Look, Potter.’ His desk is so chaotic that you can hardly see the top of the picture frame around a photo of his children. ‘We have a Trace on her and her son that prevents them from leaving the house. We released him so that he could be with her and frankly, shift the responsibility of her well-being onto someone other than Ministry employees. That’s the most I can do right now. I’m sorry.’ 

That morning, all Harry hears in Robards’ voice are sincerity and exhaustion and for a moment, he’s not sure what else he could say. With his wand, Robards sends the pile of ash from Narcissa’s howler into the bin. ‘Look,’ he adds. ‘Kingsley’s told me you turned down protection last summer; if you want to revisit that, I can see what I can do, but -’

‘No,’ Harry says. This time, he is sure. The last thing he wants is a bunch of his own colleagues tailing him around the place. ‘I’m not scared of Narcissa Malfoy, I just -’ he supposes he just doesn’t like it, to tell the truth, doesn’t like that the woman is clearly unstable, left to her own devices, and -

‘I know you’re trying to help but you can’t save everyone, Potter,’ Robards says. ‘That’s just the way it is.’ Harry’s mouth twists uncomfortably; he doesn’t say anything. Robards finally smiles. ‘Now, go on and get the fuck out of the building,’ he adds. Harry is already rolling his eyes before the boss even finishes his sentence. ‘I know for a fact you’re not scheduled in today and I can’t have you working more than nineteen days in a row or else I’ll have Wizarding Resources on my back, on top of everything else.’

Harry laughs, shaking his head. ‘Well, don’t tell me you’re understaffed, then.’ When he gets to his desk, he doesn’t even hesitate before grabbing the keys to the Patrol car. That, also, is what it is.

As he and Ron work around the clock, in March 1999, Harry’s best mate jokes: ‘At least the overtime will pay for the wedding,’ and they both laugh. It feels like the two of them against the world again, and that’s better than anything else, right now. Harry’s not sure why they even fought, or how he survived without his best mate for that long. Spring is a rebirth, too.

Which, well, lands them the morning before his testimony against Umbridge, he supposes. By then, the days have gotten longer, brighter - daylight savings and better weather. It’s a strange contrast with the approaching trial of a woman who will always remind him of one of the worst years of his life. 

To him, she is a former teacher. That’s all. (He’s tried enough times to convince himself that it is all). To the rest of the wizarding world, she and her Muggleborn Registration Commission were reporting directly into Pius Thicknesse. She was the very intentional right-arm to an Imperiused brain, responsible for the arrest, wrongful imprisonment and deaths of dozens, if not hundreds of people. 

After the lull and overall boredom of the last few weeks, her trial has reawakened a certain interest - her name matters and as far as Harry knows, the hearing has been a security nightmare to organise. Each of the attendees has had to be searched, identified, and every belonging weighed and scanned to account for the dozens of bomb threats Robards’ office has received. Access to the courtroom is as restricted as ever, with only a handful of press outlets allowed in, plus a couple of lawyers for each side. Her defence has already moaned about it in the press, saying her file is too large for just two people to handle but under wizarding law, there is no appeals process, so.

That March, her trial lasts a week. On the first day, the Head Juror reads out the indictment; they arrange scheduling. Harry isn’t present - he finds out about the date and time of his own testimony from the press reports before the official paperwork even reaches him. As per usual, he’s called in last - Monday, the 29th - after the defence’s people and what wizarding procedure refers to as ‘neutral’ witnesses. Aurors who’ve investigated the case, collected evidence against her, or former colleagues who testified as to her methods when she was in charge. In sum: Ministry employees, people the jury can ‘trust,’ and believe. Harry once made the mistake of asking Hermione what she thought about it, and bitterly regretted it when he was subjected to a twenty-minute lecture claiming there is no such thing as a ‘neutral’ witness, but that’s a bit beside the point, he supposes. 

As always, the prosecution goes in last. Harry is their only witness. ‘Legally,’ because, ‘they had to call someone,’ says Hermione. Given his most recent ‘no comment’ strategy, he was probably their safest bet for a minimum amount of fuss. They don’t actually need any witnesses against her; their case is ‘airtight,’ as they say, her sealed Ministry files included in the evidence and discussed privately amongst the jury in chambers. From what Harry understands, the contents were already more than enough to convict her. ‘We don’t want to ask people to relive their pain in a public forum,’ the MPS recently justified their decision not to call any of her victims to the stand. 

That day, Hermione and Ron rehashed their previous disagreements about cross-examinations ad nauseum, which Ron countered by reminding her that Umbridge never sought to dispute any of the facts in her case. ‘She’s admitted to everything,’ he stressed. ‘She’s just saying all the things she did weren’t illegal. Shouldn’t be illegal. She doesn’t need to question anyone for that. It’s like she didn’t get the memo You-Know-Who’s dead or something.’ 

Harry let out an involuntary giggle before swallowing it the moment Hermione glared at him. ‘You’re just agreeing with the MPS ‘cause you don’t want to talk about how she tortured you in Fifth Year!’

‘So?’ Ron flicked a quick look in Harry’s direction as he spoke, surprised but not displeased at his lack of denial. ‘I don’t want to air my dirty laundry in public. I reckon loads of people feel the same way.’ 

And, mid-movement, Hermione paused, about to grab a jar of biscuits from the top cabinet. If she had summoned it with magic, Harry’s pretty sure the glass would have accidentally ended up in his face. She turned around and glared at him with a fury that almost rivalled that of You-Complete-Arse-Ronald-Weasley, wordlessly flew a hefty pile of almost fifteen magazines and newspapers from the newsrack to land in a loud thunk in front of him at the kitchen table. A couple hit his hand rather viciously (‘Ouch!’); she promptly drowned his protestations with her own. ‘You reckon?’ she hissed. ‘You bloody reckon?!’

And, of course, Harry knows what the issue is, there. Because: yes, loads of people do think like him (probably the same who earlier on thought the Ministry was wasting his time), but loads also think - well, differently. There have been people, mostly Umbridge’s victims and their families, who have gradually started to come out in the press in the past couple of weeks, expressing genuine concerns and regrets about not being able to testify, not having ‘their day in court,’ so to speak.  

‘You know what’s happening, right?’ Hermione glared, arms crossed over her chest. ‘Because under the guise of protecting people, with the sealed files and the witness bans, whatever Umbridge did with the full assent and cooperation of the Ministry will stay conveniently buried deep down, where no one can find it. It’s appalling.’

‘Sorry, whose side are you on, Hermione? I’m losing track here,’ Harry countered. He has lost track of how many times she’s questioned Kingsley’s motives, but berated Harry for making his life harder, then blaming the Ministry for burying shit under the carpet. She looked at Ron, who stayed silent in assent, then took her jar of biscuits and stormed out.

‘You two are always so black and white, it’s unnerving!’

All of this being said, it’s not the stuff in the press or even Narcissa’s reactions that are the hardest to handle with the trials - it’s the opinions of people Harry knows. Because that spring, after Lucius Malfoy’s trial, Harry bears the brunt of Grimmauld Place’s frustration at a post-war world that isn’t what any of them dreamt of. The kids were all rebels, and they’ve now hit the brick wall of compromise and adulthood. As the start of Umbridge’s trial draws nearer, Harry feels trapped, unsure what to do with himself, and the whispers he overhears aren’t the most positive. Hushed - Seamus and Dean, like Fifth Year all over again. Their voices drop every time he enters the room.

‘He’s the only one of us,’ Seamus says. There is the sound of his mug, dull against the wood of the kitchen table. ‘The only one of us these feckers have invited to talk, and he does not’ing about it. Says not’ing about it. Fecking shite is what it is. He’s just saving his own arse, saving Kingsley’s arse. And, after everything, everything we’ve been t’rough, it just - You know what? I’d really started believing in ‘im, I t’ought -’

‘Seam-’

‘Ah, don’t you Seamus me like me mam.’

Before Harry can even process what is happening, that day, Hermione is the one who pushes him aside and flings the door of the kitchen open. Storms in, facing a suddenly terrified Dean and a stunned Seamus, lashing out at the both of them and brandishing her finger, pointing at the House Rules she drafted last summer. ‘NUMBER 6,’ Hermione articulates. ‘NO GOSSIPING BEHIND PEOPLE’S BACKS. WE TALK TO EACH OTHER.’ Harry is surprised to find the House Rules weren’t, in fact, cursed, but supposes this reminder doesn’t have the intended result when Seamus rises up from his chair, standing tall facing the three of them, glaring daggers at Harry’s face. 

‘Well, I’ve no problem calling him a coward to his face if that’s your issue!’ 

To which Ron, who followed them into the room behind Harry, responds by drawing his wand and threatening: ‘What did you just say?’

Seamus and Dean retaliate in kind, weapons aimed at Ron’s face and Harry notices Hermione’s fingers wrapped around hers. She aims to the floor. He looks at Ron and makes a decision before it all takes a turn for the worst. ‘Expelliarmus,’ he says. 

The spell is instinctive, not particularly thought-out; Harry only realises what’s happened when his gaze falls onto Ron’s outraged features, mouth wide open, then focuses on the two wands now in his hand. The extra one isn’t Seamus’s. Hermione’s look worriedly darts back and forth between the both of them, the boys all breathing hard with the adrenaline. At least, it seems Harry’s actions were startling enough that the moment’s passed. 

He’s fucking tired, he wants to explain. And, they’re not fifteen anymore. The stunned silence that fills the space between the five of them is seemingly louder than his own breath and he quickly places Ron’s wand back on the kitchen table. His best mate reaches for it, but puts it back in his pocket. 

‘I’m going for a run,’ Harry says.

‘Harry -’

‘Leave him alone, Hermione.’

He just needs to - think.

The flat’s empty when he gets home. It’s the weekend; Mia’s gone to Manchester to see her mother and he misses her like he’d miss the tip of his fingers, like - like, she would sit on the couch and talk to him about things he doesn’t know: Muggle History, and the Peter Principle, Chanel and Vuitton (Gaulthier, is the one she’s said she wants most, says he’s different and makes clothes for people, not supermodels, and Harry has tried to remember that, at the very least), like she allows him to move into a different world, other than the fucked-up one he lives in. 

I mean I know Seamus is your friend, he writes to Ginny, instead. Remembers how over the summer, she mentionned they’d got to know each other last year, being trapped in the castle with the Carrows after them, and when Harry had uncomfortably asked how much, exactly, she’d gotten to know Seamus, Ginny had burst out a laugh, shook her head at him. ‘Seamus isn’t interested in me,’ she grinned. 

‘Everyone’s interested in you.’ He dropped kisses against the side of her neck, probably biassed (to him, she is and will always be the most beautiful girl he’s ever laid eyes on), but -

She giggled. ‘Seamus is not interested in girls, Harry -’

‘Ah,’ he frowned. ‘Oh.’

(Well, he supposes being observant about that sort of thing was never his forte). 

Anyway. But he went too far, he adds, that night. I know Ron will want him out of the house and honestly, I’m not sure how I can say no. I mean, it feels wrong to make someone homeless but … 

It’s another day before Ginny’s answer reaches him and by then, Mia’s thankfully back in London. They order a Chinese - she fills him in on her weekend and he tries to explain who Umbridge is, why it matters - she listens, but sometimes, he feels like he’s moving mountains to just get lost in translation. ‘That’s a very mean thing for Seamus to say, Harry,’ Mia tells him. ‘I’m sure he’s got his reasons but -’

Stop it. You and I both know you won’t kick him out of the house, Ginny, on the other hand, responds. It’s like being stuck between a rock and a hard place: it sometimes annoys him that Mia doesn’t always get it but it also annoys him that Ginny does. He sighs, doesn’t exactly like the fact that she’s right. He’ll just have to deal with Ron, he figures. But, it’s not because you have qualms about him being homeless. You just think he’s right. And, he is. So, stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something about it.  

Well, he thinks, at least Mia was kind enough not to call him out on his bullshit. Annoyed, he doesn’t write back for a while. 

In the end, it is already the 26th of March 1999 when the jury comes back with a verdict in Lucius Malfoy’s case. His lawyers have spent an extra week trying to get him off on grounds of insanity, to no avail; Draco’s father gets life. The man was branded with the Dark Mark; the decision simply reflects the law.

It doesn’t matter. Not really. It’s a Friday evening and the weather is glorious, so the wizarding world just… celebrates. Schadenfreude at its finest, and the Malfoys have finally fallen from grace. 

Harry’s people get drunk - too drunk - that night. Unfortunately, instead of joining in, he and Ron are stuck in work, spending the evening policing their mates, covering a double Patrol shift. They arrest a couple of lads for shooting celebratory spells in the middle of Piccadilly Circus (thankfully, the crowds make the incident go somewhat unnoticed) and prevent a bunch of idiots from breaking into Quality Quidditch Supplies (‘Ah, come on! We just wanted to go for a riiiiiiiiiide!’). By three o’clock in the morning, the night finally comes to an end when they get called in on a bar-fight-turned-drunken-duel at the Leaky; Harry has to fix Hannah’s broken nose himself. She explains she tried to stop both parties from stupidly injuring each other - one of them more or less fell on her face. ‘I’m so sorry for calling you. Tom usually handles these things, but I was alone at the bar tonight, we didn’t plan for -’

‘It’s fine, honest,’ Harry promises, smiling. ‘I mean, it is our job, you know?’ which thankfully makes her laugh. He’s about to summon hand towels from the pub so that she can clean her face when more shouting echoes from further down the alley. ‘I’m alright!’ one of the men they just arrested drunkenly swears as Ron tries to help him off the ground. ‘Don’t touch me, I’m alright!’ before promptly falling back down. They probably shouldn’t, but all three of them let out a few giggles. 

‘Did we save the wizarding world for this?’ Ron quips. 

The commotion ends and the two other guys they called for back-up take both drunkards back to the Ministry’s holding cells. The three of them: Hannah, Harry and Ron, sit on the ground by the Leaky, at the edge of the pavement of a now deserted Diagon Alley. Two shots of Firewhiskey and a can of Coke. It’s past the end of their shift; they should probably have clocked off hours ago - that time of night between the late-nighters and the early workers, and Harry nurses the fizzy drink in his hand, sometimes touching the cold of the aluminium to his forehead. Hannah says she hides the Muggle drinks in the cooler under the bar, kept for a few, select customers. ‘To Lucius Malfoy, I guess,’ she says, and downs her shot, along with Ron. The three of them laugh. 

They sit there for a while, seemingly watching the world move. Another drunk wizard hobbles past on the other side of the street, waves, then bends over to vomit in the gutter. ‘Oi! Move on!’ Ron shouts, startling him with the authority of his uniform; he has to hang on to the bin not to fall. ‘Gross,’ Harry’s best mate adds once the man is out of earshot, word soon turning into a long yawn. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s drive the car back and piss off. I’m knackered.’ 

Harry smiles. Knows where Ron would really rather be. Hermione’s spending the whole weekend at Grimmauld, for once, and not bunking off early on Sunday to study for her N.E.W.T.s. The last time Harry had breakfast with her at the weekend, she barely looked up from her colour-coded notes and schedules. ‘Just go,’ he shrugs at his best mate, then. ‘I’ll drive the car back, don’t worry.’

Ron’s eyes light up like Hogwarts in the night. ‘Really?’

Harry laughs. ‘Yeah, go on.’

Ron swears that he owes him one about five times before he turns on his heel and Disapparates. Harry thinks: well, that is one good thing, at least.

Later, he helps Hannah bring a couple of beer kegs inside. She thanks him, locks the door behind them. ‘If I leave it open, they come back in like flies,’ she smiles. Harry notices it doesn’t reach her eyes. 

He stands in the middle of the pub; she walks towards the bar and behind it, rare golden strands in her brown hair catch the overhead light. From the storage underneath, she pulls out another whiskey glass and places it on the counter as Harry approaches, facing her. He watches as she pours a couple of inches in each, brown liquid kind of evening; he sits on one of the stools, she stays behind the bar. He fiddles with the note she slipped him with his Coke earlier: i need to talk to you. These days, it is hardly the kind of message he wants to read. 

‘I don’t drink Firewhiskey,’ he observes. 

‘I know.’ The smile she wore the whole time Ron was here is completely gone, now. ‘You might after this.’

He wishes he could claim not to know what this is about. Doesn’t dislike Hannah Abbott as a person, but frankly, the only thing they’ve ever really talked about is C.A.S.H.C.O.W. Whenever they do, it’s usually with Neville and Luna at their side. She wouldn’t have asked him to ditch Ron for anything C.A.S.H.C.O.W.-related and he looks up at her, now; she avoids his gaze. He can’t blame her, not when he’s personally avoided being alone in a room with her since January. 

Hannah looks down at her drink. There’s enough sadness in her gaze to fill an ocean. ‘You know, the thing is,’ she begins. Runs a hand over her face; her eyeliner is smudged under her right eye - not like: dirty or unkept but just: tired. Like: late nights. ‘In the autumn, the Carrows split the list of students and went through all of our parentages. I got Alecto Carrow. Lucky me, you know? When I gave her my name, she said: “Well, at least that’s done, we can already cross your mother off the list, can’t we?” She just laughed.’

With the back of her hand, Hannah wipes a couple of tears from her cheeks. Harry sits, silently watching, not because he doesn’t know what to say, but because he knows there is nothing he can say. In the past, people have said a million things to him; they were never the right ones. ‘Sorry,’ Hannah adds, quickly. ‘I had her sixteen years.’ Tears roll down her skin but her voice doesn’t shake. ‘Guess it’s a bit rich of me to complain.’

‘No,’ he says. 

There should be words he could find, he thinks, words that exist to explain he doesn’t know what is worse: knowing, or not knowing what you lost. Words to explain that Sirius and Giulia, and Remus don’t feel the same as his parents, that he can’t begin to imagine what it would have been like to miss his mother like that. ‘It’s not the same,’ he adds. Hannah sniffles, wiping her cheeks again. 

‘I thought I was done crying about it.’

He shrugs. ‘It’s fine.’

It really isn’t, he thinks. None of this fucking is. 

They continue to sit in silence for a while. Hannah’s fingers move against her glass; she doesn’t wear any varnish and her nails are bitten halfway down. She closes her eyes, opens them to catch his gaze when Harry finally dares to speak. ‘I reckon that’s not what you wanted to talk to me about, though. Is it?’

Her mouth twists. He watches her index finger trace a vein in the wood of the bar between them. She looks up, smiles that same sad smile. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about it a long time,’ she starts again. Her fingers move to dance around her glass, liquid twirling. Harry hasn’t touched his. ‘Trying to decide if me telling you would make things better or worse, on balance.’ He watches the glass touch her bottom lip, distorting its shape. She shakes her head, places it back down without drinking. ‘But then, these past few months… You already know, don’t you?’

She looks up. Harry holds her gaze. About what? he asks, in his head. Imagines Hannah biting her lip, glancing away. Perhaps, this is a mistake, she’d say. He studies her face, now, the faded black rimmel and the way she bites her bottom lip. They might not be full adults yet, but they’re too old to play games. ‘Yeah,’ he nods. ‘She told me.’

‘Oh.’ Her mouth opens, a look of genuine surprise. ‘That’s good. I didn’t think she would.’ A pause. She quickly shakes her head. ‘Not that she doesn’t trust you.’ Again. She swallows. ‘Or love you. I just - well, even in the thick of it, she didn’t tell any of us.’ He’s pretty sure he’s forgotten how to breathe. ‘Not that - it excuses anything. I mean, looking back, I - I should have known. It just never occurred to me, you know? Before I found out. That he could -’

Hannah sets her jaw, trails off. Never finishes her sentence. It isn’t one anyone would ever want to finish. She grabs her drink and downs it. Here it goes, Harry thinks. The thing he’s been dreading for weeks without even wanting to put words on it. 

‘I only found out because I overheard them talking about it,’ she adds. ‘Alecto and him, I mean. I was -’ her voice cracks; she looks away. ‘I had detention with her. Got there early, wanted to get it over with. He was there and she said -’ Again, she doesn’t finish. Harry’s stomach is at the edge of a cliff. ‘Actually, I don’t think you need to know what she said.’ Hannah pauses. She is a Hufflepuff, she says, and it wouldn’t be kind. Harry wonders what the fuck kindness has to do with it all. ‘Trust me, you know enough,’ she adds.

For what feels like hours, again, he says nothing. Looks at Hannah, in front of him, and thinks: perhaps, he always knew. Or at least, had an inkling, ever since Kingsley first told him Alecto Carrow wanted to call him as a witness, back when Hermione panicked, thought the woman wanted to see him go down for setting a Cruciatus curse on her brother. It never fit. Never felt like the Carrows, never felt cruel enough, believable enough, never - 

‘Harry, she knows,’ Hannah reiterates, unnecessarily. She bites her lip. He’s not spoken in too long. ‘She doesn’t care you tortured him. She’s going to argue that -’

He interrupts. Suddenly, he knows what to say. Suddenly, after months stuck in his own head, it all makes the most sense in the world. ‘She’s going to say I killed him,’ he speaks. Hannah looks up. ‘That I killed him ‘cause he raped her.’

And: it makes so much sense, doesn’t it? It’s the first time he’s said those words out loud. He thinks of: Giulia, that night. Of her words, and of Ginny’s, thinks of that first letter he wrote, back in January. At the bar, he couldn’t articulate why. Why he still wanted to talk to her. But, there is what she said: ‘Maybe, I did [like] him,’ and ‘I slept with him,’ and ‘I fucked him,’ and ‘it was my choice.’ It never was, was it? You don’t make choices with a knife to your throat. And while Alecto’s lawyer might not see it that way, might actually argue Harry just killed his client’s brother out of jealousy and passion because he was his ex’s new ‘lover,’ and while Ginny herself would probably hate him for even thinking the word, it’s just tumbled out of his mouth, now, and he won’t take it back. It feels right. She had no other choice but that man held a wand to her head and did it anyway.

He feels bile at the back of his throat. Tears are clouding Hannah’s gaze again. She apologises. ‘I should have told you sooner,’ she mutters. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure… She begged me not to tell anyone. Then, when I figured you knew, I - I wanted to find a solution. Not just come to you with more problems. Now, if you show up, she - Ginny won’t survive it if it gets out.’ Her hands are shaking with frustration. ‘And, if you refuse to show up, Hermione said you’d go to jail. I asked her, you know?’ Hannah looks up, pleading. ‘What would happen if, for whatever reason, you - she asked me why. Got annoyed ‘cause I wouldn’t tell. I thought - I should have kept Ginny safe. I was older. I should have told McGonagall; she never suspected anything. Gin hid it so well. I should have -’

‘Hey, it’s not your fault.’ The words escape his mouth without thinking; she looks up, startled. He would like her to close her eyes and breathe. ‘She didn’t - doesn’t - want anyone to know.’ He catches her gaze, forces a smile. She returns it - barely. ‘As for Alecto, it’s like Umbridge. It’s my mess to deal with, not yours.’

Hannah smiles, her lips pressed together. ‘Yeah,’ she nods. ‘It’s always you against the world, isn’t it?’

He bursts out a resigned laugh. 

She walks him back to the patrol car, that night. They are mostly silent on the way there, both wrapped up in their own thoughts. Harry thinks he needs to leave, now. Think. Think, quick. She speaks as his fingers catch the metallic frame of the front door. ‘You know, when I asked about Umbridge, Hermione said you didn’t want to speak about what happened to you.’ Oh, here we go, he thinks. Hermione should sometimes mind her own business. ‘I do get that, actually,’ Hannah adds, though, before he can object. He frowns. ‘It’s a shame they won’t let you speak about anything else, though,’ she shrugs. Her cheeks are red, still, make-up ruined, but at least, she isn’t crying anymore. ‘You’ve always been good at standing up for the rest of us.’

He lets out a short breath, somewhere between a sigh and a smile. Good - yeah, maybe. It’s cost him a lot. He’d do it all again in a heartbeat. ‘Thanks, Hannah.’

‘No,’ she shakes her head. ‘Thank you.’

And, after dropping the car off, that night, it takes him an hour to walk back from the Ministry up to Islington. An hour to think. Feel the anger in his blood, let it flow and hold it in, an hour take a leap, really, and decide to burn down the Ministry.

Which, well, brings him to back now: smoking cigarettes, waiting for the guards to call him in to testify. He’s worked all weekend for this. They’ve all worked all weekend for this. On Saturday morning, mere hours after his conversation with Hannah, Hermione found him in the kitchen at the house. Sat in her study spot, early morning; half-awake, having left Ron to sleep in upstairs, she seemed to take in the scene. The three dozen newspapers spread out across the table in chronological order. Everything that Kreacher could find in the house, dating back a couple of years - articles they hadn’t yet thrown out or tossed in the fire. Harry’s Muggle legal pad, scribbles in Biro; Hermione sighed and sat next to him, running a tired hand over her face. ‘I’m not going to like this, am I?’ she just asked.

He stopped to think about it. Laughed. ‘No, probably not.’ 

The match he lights has a funny name, this time around. It is called: Section 23, Paragraph 152.87 of the Criminal Evidence Act 1781 - a bit of a mouthful. It’s his only plan, of course, so it better work, for once in his fucking life. Others - people - depend on it. 

According to what he’s read between the hours of four and six in the morning, Section 23, Paragraph 152.87 of the Criminal Evidence Act 1781 gives any witch or wizard called as a witness in a criminal trial the right to ‘read into evidence any and all material which they reasonably believe to be relevant to the manifestation of the truth, as it pertains to the case being heard.’ To do so, the witness must personally endorse the evidence submitted as accurate, under the threat of perjury. 

‘Harry,’ Hermione whispers when he pushes the law book in her direction (she seems to hardly believe he’s even opened it). ‘This section is used to let witnesses refer to their notes, or bring in evidence like their own records, diaries, ect. it’s not made for well - what do you want to do, exactly?’

He’s not supposed to testify to anything he hasn’t personally experienced, he’s been told, but that may be the loophole. On the notes he’s taken, overnight, there were names, addresses, people who Umbridge persecuted and -

‘You want to read their testimonies into evidence,’ Hermione says. He can almost hear the wheels turning in her head. 

He looks down at his notes. Looks back up at her and says nothing. She already knows, anyway. 

Hermione closes her eyes. Sighs. ‘This is mad, it’s -’ He opens his mouth, she speaks over him. ‘No, I don’t just mean legally, I mean - even if you wanted to do that, this would take months, years. You’d need to get people to write something for you, then you’d need to make sure what they said is true, fact-check for accuracy. And, the Ministry -’ she trails off. The Ministry has enough on him to justify a life sentence in Azkaban, if they wanted to. The air seems to stick to her lungs, but truth be told, he’s already made that decision. If he gets arrested, then so be it. At least, it’ll be for doing the right thing. ‘How are you even going to find these people,’ she half-heartedly objects. ‘I mean -’

‘I’ll help.’

The voice rises from behind her. Focused on their conversation, they didn’t hear the door of the kitchen open. Hermione turns around, still in her pyjamas, and stares. Harry just looks straight at the boy standing in the doorway. ‘Seamus,’ she starts -

‘Dean will help too,’ he nods. ‘Hell, this whole fucking house will help. It’s the right thing to do.’

Hermione’s gaze finds Harry, across the table. She sighs. The thing with Hermione is: she knows a losing battle when she sees one. Her tone changes, from anxious to matter-of-fact. Hermione plans, she’s good at it. 

‘You’ll need someone to write your speech. You can’t just read that stuff into evidence as is, you’ll have to find someone to put it all together in a coherent narrative, get people to listen. I don’t think I can -’

He smiles, nods, tells her not to worry. ‘You coordinate people who want to help on what they need to do,’ he tells her, nodding to the bedrooms upstairs. Seamus has already run up to wake them. ‘I’ve got someone for the speech already.’

And, now, a couple days later, ‘someone’s just sent him the whole bundle at eight o’clock, this morning. Before that, the lot of them worked at Grimmauld all weekend, sending owls and Apparating to people’s houses, trying to figure out who, what, where and when, and most importantly: who wanted to talk to them. ‘Someone’ wrote as they went, Neville and Luna passing documents through the Floo. I hope you trust me cause you won’t have time to read all this before taking the stand, she wrote in a note, pinned atop a seventy-page file she sent back. Jokes aside, I think you’re doing the right thing. 

(There is that, at least.)

He doesn’t know if those trials did well at judging people. He doesn’t know if it was all worth it, watching cogs in the machine be found guilty of the pieces they helped slot in. But at least, it can be an opportunity to tell people’s stories. To give a voice to the wounded and the dead, and the people who loved them. So that they are not forgotten. 

That morning, on the 29th, the guards come to collect him about an hour after he steps out of the Ministry. Harry is on his fourth cigarette (he might as well), when he spots an elongated, dark-haired woman in uniform exiting the public toilets, a few hundred yards up the street. He sighs, drops the fag to the ground. His hands are shaking; he shoves them inside his pockets. They make eye contact; he walks back towards her, nods when he gets within earshot. ‘They broke for a short recess,’ she says. ‘You’ll be up in five minutes.’

‘Great. Thanks.’

And: one, two, three, he thinks. It’s funny, he feels almost as nervous as the day they broke into the Ministry. 

Umbridge attempts to stare him down as he gets sworn in. Glares from the back of the room, sat between her own lawyer and a Ministry guard - Harry hadn’t missed her. She is wearing the same grey robes Lucius Malfoy did; they make it look like the colour has drained from her whole person, like if he looks down to the floor, Harry will be able to see a pool of pink dye like blood at her feet. He averts his gaze; her face still makes him feel like Fifth Year, like she is Right and he is Wrong, like he is telling the truth and she is smothering it. Harry makes a fist of his right hand under the table, skin stretching with the motion - the words are there, but not legible. He’s never been more certain of anything he needed to do in his life. 

The MPS prosecutor’s blonde hair escapes in low waves under her wig when she begins to speak. Harry steels himself. ‘I’d like to read something into evidence,’ he simply says.

The defence immediately objects. So, does the prosecution. A shower of legal arguments wash over him. ‘We can’t tell you not to,’ the Head Juror finally admits, ten minutes later (Hermione had checked, of course). ‘But, Mr Potter, I hope you know what you’re doing.’ 

The words file out of Harry’s mouth before he thinks them through. ‘Yeah, I hope so, too.’ 

He takes a deep breath, and -

‘ Dear Mr Head Juror, Members of the Jury, Members of the press, Professor Umbridge, 

Our names are: Hannah Abbott, Katie Bell, Susan Bones, Terry Boot, Cho Chang, Michael Corner, Dennis Creevey, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Seamus Finnigan, Anthony Goldstein, Hermione Granger, Angelina Johnson, Lee Jordan, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Ernie MacMillan, Padma Patil, Parvati Patil, Harry Potter, Zacharias Smith, Alicia Spinnet, Dean Thomas, George Weasley, Ginny Weasley, and Ron Weasley. We are writing today in our capacity as former students of Miss Dolores Umbridge, who taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry during the school year of 1995 and 1996, and as members of an illegal organisation formerly known as “Dumbledore’s Army.” 

We have asked Harry to read this letter on our behalf, not as a leader but as a friend, and the only one of us who the Ministry has so graciously invited to these proceedings. We have carried out extensive research into the acts committed by Miss Dolores Umbridge throughout her employment with the Ministry of Magic, both as a Professor in Hogwarts, but also as Head of the Muggleborn Registration Commission, under the supervision of Mr Pius Thicknesse. Through this letter, you will hear from the victims of Miss Umbridge’s reign of terror, which we know to have been cruel and ruthless, beyond the needs of any government acting in war time. However, as a collective, we would first like to formally extend our condolences and thoughts to them, and hope that our words in this public forum brings them some peace and recognition.

We trust that the following will help the Jury and the wider audience of this tribunal get a better understanding of the accused’s behaviour, leading up to, as well as during, the Second Wizarding War. This, in the interest of the truth, especially in respect of the trial of someone so keen on not telling lies.’ (You couldn’t help it, could you? he thinks to himself. She must have noticed he never added his own testimony to the mix. There were much more important things.)

So, without further ado, here are a few facts that, for the record, we would like to make known.’

He reads for three and a half hours, after that. 

Dolores Umbridge’s barbaric résumé. 

It’s the best thing he’s done for his world since last May.

(And, yeah, he’s got a plan for Alecto Carrow, too, but he’d rather not say.) 

Chapter Text

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xii. out of chalk (payable)

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It was Petunia who taught him you needed to settle your debts. 

She called it ‘being fair,’ or, ‘being grateful,’ which mostly meant giving Dudley firetrucks and blinking trainers for Christmas, while Harry tried not to get caught nicking his cousin’s toy soldiers. When he did get caught, he paid for it. Petunia was never literal about it, for she didn’t know about the mountains of gold laying in her nephew’s Gringotts vault, but she did keep a tab. A list of chargeable offences scripted on a blackboard in her head, an arrest sheet in screeching chalk. Petunia liked metaphorical debts the same way the justice system does: sins, expunged for a price. 

Harry supposes that is a thing they have in common. 

That spring, Umbridge is the one who pays for her sins. She pays - because she is guilty, because she survived, and because she got caught. She pays for those who didn’t and, to tell the truth, Harry feels satisfaction for the first time since the beginning of the trials. Satisfaction in knowing that, when the life sentence rolls around, it is on the basis of fact, not fantasies or mandatory minimums - an actual recognition of crimes. The ones he talked about in his speech. 

He is satisfied with: the wave of press that hits the wizarding world. When the Prophet releases the full, word-for-word transcript of the words he spoke in court as an add-on to their morning edition. Satisfaction at: the way it is then picked up by the wireless for their six o’clock news; by seven on the 30th of March 1999, the uncontainable press crowds outside Grimmauld don’t even bother hiding from Muggle eyes. Reporters have even Floo-ed in from overseas. Harry is satisfied with the fact that this woman’s victims have finally been heard, listened to. The dozens of ‘thank you’ letters he and the D.A. get throughout the next few weeks have to mean something. 

He’s not sure how he feels, though, when he realises that she will die in jail. Incommutable sentences and all. ‘Satisfaction’ doesn’t cut it. It won’t resuscitate those who died. It won’t bring anyone their ‘before’ lives back. It is what it is.

‘Are you not even a little bit satisfied?’ Ron jokes. ‘I think of her rotting in there every night before I fall asleep. It’s calming.’ 

Harry laughs. Peeks out the window, watching the journalists camped outside. ‘Yeah, alright, maybe a little bit.’

The Ministry, predictably, is irate. They spent all night trying to convince the Wizengamot to issue a gag order on the press - to no avail. Even the most conservative institution in the country refused to hear them. Now, the headlines read: FROM THE STATE-SANCTIONED ABUSE OF TEENAGERS TO THE KILLING OF MUGGLEBORNS - MR POTTER REVEALS THE MINISTRY’S SINS. The Ministry wanted trials that looked like justice: expedited, quick, guilty verdicts. They got the court of public opinion instead. 

Over the next few weeks, countless: press reports, debate shows, interviews and opinion pieces flood their space. Umbridge’s role in the Ministry, even prior to the war itself, has certainly raised questions. ‘Were they really going to sweep all of this under the carpet?’ Harry hears a woman say on the wireless one evening. She explains she lives in the country. That the war and the problems in London always felt far away. ‘Now, I keep thinking of those poor people. Listening to their stories, you think - Well, it could have been me, you know?’

Yeah, that’s kind of the point, he reckons. It could have been anyone. 

Spontaneous protests spurt in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. Slogans like: WE JUST WANT TO BE SEEN! From where he stands, Harry watches the conversation veer into re-trying those who’ve already been tried, to let their victims speak, and hopefully cater to more ‘appropriate’ sentences. There’s an inkling of vengeful sentiment in these positions, as though the verdicts would have been even harsher had people been allowed to speak. Harry doesn’t like it; it makes him want to look down at his shoes and avoid the questions, but considering his own feelings towards Kingsley’s administration, he just says: ‘Ah, I dunno, maybe? I’m not a lawyer.’ 

It’s enough to send the press into yet another bout of frenzy. 

The most active members of Kingsley’s political base turn on Harry, quick. Issue pathetically thinly veiled threats against him in the media, claiming he ‘is promoting instability,’ and ‘inciting riots,’ (a couple of shops in Knockturn Alley had their windows smashed during one of the protests). The progressives are now slowly sliding, dividing - different brands of rebels who can never agree for too long. Reformers fighting revolutionaries in battles about peace. The ones who agree with Kingsley, and the ones who want to burn everything down. 

On the other side of the spectrum, a number of old-guard, Wizengamot figures praise the Minister for his handling of the crisis, trying to keep the disruptions to a minimum and promoting quieter roads to compromise. They were against the trials to begin with, seeing their former respected friends and acquaintances in shackles, but considering more recent developments, have come to the conclusion that peaceful, quasi-confidential hearings and sentences were at the very least better than this. And, because perhaps, compromise is only a few steps away from the status quo, the reformers are now receiving acclaim from rather unlikely sources. Conservative wizards with long beards and money, power and important family seats, whose support Kingsley now seems to feel very ambivalent about. Harry guesses it must be hard to accept the applause and bouquets of those you spent half your life fighting.  

Through it all, the D.A. stands united. A single front, temporarily an army again - Umbridge has always been their common ground. Interviews in the press in support of Harry. The spotlight is shone on the ‘Hogwarts kids’ like never before - that is satisfying, too. The Americans interview Neville again, as well as Hermione, Seamus and Cho. The latter talks about the issues in St Mungo’s, the tight budgets and resources, their endless forty-eight hour shifts which no one should wish on people who literally hold lives between their hands. All of their young faces are on the front page: THE KIDS ARE ALL REBELS.  

Controversially, they named and shamed, in Harry’s speech. Mostly touched on Umbridge’s wrongdoings but also explicitly identified of a number of Ministry officials who participated in the implementation of her policies - if not actively, at least by looking the other way. ‘Unverified allegations,’ the British press called them but still, it made noise. Lots of noise. They took a vote on it; Harry changed his mind at least five times, listening to other people’s arguments. ‘We don’t want a witch hunt,’ v. ‘They have to take responsibility for their actions,’ - that whole silly thing. 

‘If something happens to them, it’s not our decision, it’s the Ministry’s,’ Hermione said. ‘If we keep the names quiet, we’re doing the same thing they did: deciding behind closed doors who deserves to be brought to justice or not.’ She paused, looked at Harry. Then, everyone else looked at Harry. ‘Plus, I’m sorry, it is a choice. We chose to fight. Risk our lives. Even you. You could have run away and you didn’t. They didn’t fight.’

Hermione is not someone who forgives. Harry stared at her, felt them all waiting for him to speak. He never wanted to lead - not like that. Remembered telling Giulia about the burden of it all back in autumn, how people like Robards can't get scared (or else, everyone else behind them tips over, a loss of confidence like a series of dominos). He put his hands up. ‘I don’t know,’ he shook his head. ‘I don’t fucking know.’ 

He couldn’t help but think that maybe, they should have gone with the amnesty law from the start. But then, Umbridge wouldn’t have been tried, and - there is just no good answer to give.

Hermione’s camp won by three votes. It felt good to not be the deciding factor on that one. 

After much equivocation, the MPS released a statement three days after Harry’s speech. Said they wouldn’t be charging anyone. Not enough evidence, they said. Considering the backlash, Kingsley had no choice but to at least sack all of these people. It didn’t exactly help with the Ministry’s staffing problems, but the pressure was too strong. And, when Harry showed up to work the next morning and realised a handful of others from Patrol were gone, including Thaddeus (‘Merlin, I worked with the bloke for two weeks!’ said Ron), he wasn’t sure how to even begin to feel about it. ‘Hey, we didn’t kill anybody!’ the heaps of law-abiding, keep-your-head-down citizens later declared in the press. ‘That kid wants to put us all in jail!’ 

Harry felt the need to argue that this was precisely not what he said, that he just wanted justice for those who’d suffered, but like with anything, a certain amount of subtlety in his words seems to have gotten lost in translation. So: yeah, sure, he totally wants to put everyone in jail and overthrow the Ministry, rule over his own little kingdom. Fine. Believe what you bloody want. ‘You’re a public figure, Harry,’ Hermione stressed. ‘You can’t go correcting everything that is wrong about you in the press or else you’ll still be there doing it as a ghost. I think we were pretty clear in our speech about wanting to give space to the victims. What the Ministry does with that is not your responsibility.’

Well, that’ll surely help his conscience, won’t it?

Kingsley’s a clever man, though, so he understood. That understanding didn’t make him any less livid. Harry’s testimony not only jeopardised his political future a mere three months from the elections, it also damaged his personal relationships, particularly with the rest of the Order. What he won in support to his right, he lost to his left, so to speak. Mrs Weasley, for example, is no longer speaking to him. Neither is Hagrid, nor Hestia Jones. Ron’s mother and Kingsley even had an actual row at the Burrow, he’s been told, which sadly coincided with the day before George’s birthday. 

Kingsley had come looking for Harry, apparently. To ‘talk to him,’ he said, though Harry himself wasn’t there. Had escaped to the seaside with Mia for the day, a celebration of sorts: she’d finally (finally, finally) got her traineeship at Gaultier. The letter had come when they least expected it, after she’d got her soul crushed by a templated rejection from Chanel, the night of Harry’s testimony. She shrieked at the sight of the post, the letter she pulled out with shaking hands, and jumped and danced and screamed in the middle of his living room. ‘I got it, I got it, I got it!’ She kissed him hot and heavy and all over the place. They took the train to the beach the next day; Harry fake-called in sick. 

‘You know,’ Mia said. They were walking down the promenade with ice cream in their hands. It was a nice day. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you.’ She paused and his mouth opened, ready to contradict her. ‘It’s not just the money -’ She shook her head. ‘Life’s just been… nicer,’ she paused. ‘With you in it.’

Looking back, he comes to the realisation that he’s not sure how he would have survived last winter without her, either. In response, he kissed the vanilla off her lips.

‘So, yeah, Mum completely lost it with Kingsley,’ Ron later tells him. Mia has always been his escape from reality, but there are many brutal ways he gets dragged back into it. ‘Accused him of silencing everyone. Said he was already working with the Aurors when they sent Umbridge to Hogwarts, that he must have known what kind of woman she was.’ Ron sighs. ‘Kingsley started to explain, said that she didn’t understand, that he hated Umbridge too but that, you know,’ he shrugs, ‘reforms take time and all that. Said that he doesn’t think washing your laundry out in public is a good way to get justice. “Harry should have let us handle it,” he said, “and, maybe in ten, fifteen years, society will be ready to reexamine this but -”’ Ron stops, looking at his shoes. ‘Well, then she said: “I DON’T UNDERSTAND?” and reminded him that Fred’s dead, so.’

‘Yeah.’

There isn’t much else to say to that, to be honest. 

Harry’s called into Robards’ office the moment he gets back to work, that week. Had to take the tube to get in, use the Cloak to sneak past the visitor’s entrance - the press has been camping outside the public loos on Horse Guards Avenue, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Robards is not doing anything else when Harry enters the room, his full attention focused on their conversation, which is not a particularly good sign. 

‘Am I getting arrested?’ is the first question he asks. It makes Robards laugh. 

‘What for?’ 

Harry observes that, for all of the training they’ve received about habeas corpus, he must admit he’s often had to operate under the assumption that the Ministry doesn’t in fact, always need reasons to arrest people. ‘That being said,’ he adds. ‘I could think of a couple.’

Robards eyes him up and down, that morning, and snorts. ‘You’re not getting arrested,’ he confirms. ‘That I know of.’

‘Sacked, then?’ 

It was always a possibility. Which would obviously suck, but -

Robards tilts his head to the side, gaze narrowed. He straightens up. ‘No,’ he says. Harry feels his muscles relax, ever so slightly. ‘But I’ve had a chat with our bosses at the DMLE,’ the Head Auror adds. That can’t be good. ‘They believe you’re under a lot of pressure with the trials at the moment.’