Chapter Text
By the time the house finally went quiet, Harry had already done dinner, baths, pyjamas, one missing sock hunt, two arguments over who had used whose toothpaste, and a bedtime story that Lily had interrupted six times to correct his voices.
It had been, by Potter family standards, a normal evening.
Which meant nobody had cried for longer than five minutes, nothing had exploded, and James had only asked seven times whether he could bring his new gloves to bed.
Harry had said no six times.
Ginny had said no once.
James had fallen asleep with them anyway.
Harry considered that a defeat.
The Thai food had helped.
Harry had been buried into work almost the whole week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours of meetings that ran late, of Auror reports that multiplied like rabbits. He had missed dinner. He had missed bedtime stories. He had missed the entire Tuesday evening argument about whether socks counted as shoes.
He'd walked through the door exactly when he'd promised Ginny he would, coat damp from the evening air, arms full of paper bags from the Soho place she loved but always claimed was too far out of the way to justify on a weeknight. His brain was already composing the evening with the precision of a military operation: dinner, baths, maybe—if he was very lucky and the universe felt generous—an hour of quiet before collapsing into bed like a man who'd been hit with a Stunning Spell.
He had it all planned: jasmine rice, pad thai, peace.
The smell of coconut, basil, chilli, and ginger had filled the kitchen before he had even managed to get his shoes off.
And somehow, by then, Charlie was still there.
Still standing in their kitchen.
Looking considerably less like he wanted to face a nesting Hungarian Horntail than he had two hours ago.
He took in the scene: Charlie at his kitchen table. Ginny's expression—not carefully neutral anymore, just tired. James's gloves. The general atmosphere of a family that had survived something difficult and was trying to find its way back.
Ginny had not asked him to stay.
Harry had not asked him to leave.
James had done the rest.
Ginny had told him earlier that Uncle Charlie was busy, that he couldn't stay long. James had nodded solemnly at the time, accepting this as fact.
"But you're here now," James said, talking over her the way eight-year-olds do when they've decided something is non-negotiable. "You have to stay. You have to."
He pulled on the new gloves—the ones Charlie had given him—and held them up. They were too big, the leather stiff and new, but he wore them anyway. He looked at his uncle.
"Look," he said. "Look at them. You have to stay for dinner. Please? Please stay?"
So Charlie stayed.
They ate around the kitchen island because the dining table felt too formal for what this was—recovery, not a truce. James talked too much, because James always talked too much when he was excited or tired or avoiding the fact that his leg hurt. Lily dipped a prawn cracker into curry and looked personally betrayed by the concept of spice. Albus asked whether dragons had taste preferences and whether that meant Charlie smelled different to them after eating Thai food.
Charlie smiled at Albus's question, then turned to James and touched the cast lightly. "Does it hurt?" he asked. James shook his head, already distracted by his spring rolls. Charlie offered Lily his instead, and she took them without hesitation.
Now, several hours later, the kitchen was mostly clean, the children were upstairs, Charlie was gone, and Ginny was standing in their bathroom in her dressing gown, rubbing face cream into her cheeks with more focus than the task required.
Harry watched her from the doorway.
Over the years they'd been married, he'd learned that Ginny's emotions lived in her hands. Not her face—her face could lie, could smooth itself into something polite and controlled. But her hands always gave her away. Right now they moved in careful, deliberate strokes, like she was working something out with each pass across her skin.
She hadn't noticed him yet.
She was still in that private moment before she remembered to perform anything—hair pulled back in a messy knot, the dressing gown Luna had gifted her for Christmas two years ago, the one that had faded from deep green to something softer. There was a smudge of face cream on her collarbone where she'd missed.
Harry could have announced himself. Instead he stayed in the doorway, watching the woman he'd married do something as ordinary as skincare while thinking too hard.
He loved her like this. Messy and thoughtful and entirely herself.
"You're doing that thing."
Ginny glanced at him in the mirror.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you're pretending this is skincare but you're actually having an entire conversation in your head."
"I'm moisturising."
"You're thinking very loudly."
Ginny stopped, looked at herself in the mirror, then sighed.
She set the jar down.
"My brother is an idiot."
Harry leaned against the doorframe.
"That doesn't narrow it down."
Ginny turned slowly.
"You've got five brothers, Gin."
"I'm aware."
"I've met them."
"You have."
"Repeatedly."
"Some of them more than once in the same day."
Ginny narrowed her eyes.
"Charlie."
"Ah."
"Obviously Charlie."
"Of course."
She turned to face him properly, but her arms didn't fold defensively. She just leaned back against the sink.
"He met her on Sunday, Harry. And somehow three days later I'm standing in my kitchen listening to him explain that he disappeared because of the same woman he met that morning."
Harry crossed to the sink and stopped beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched.
"Gin—"
"He's forty-one," she said. "He lives in Romania. He spends most of his life around dragons. And I don't think he's had a serious relationship since before Albus was born. So yes, fine, he met someone and apparently forgot how to behave like a functioning adult."
Her voice wasn't raw. Just tired.
Harry's hand found her waist.
"But James forgave him in approximately four seconds," Ginny continued. "And we fed him Thai food. And now I'm standing here realizing that's just what family is."
Harry's mouth twitched. "Messy?"
"Catastrophically messy."
"That's accurate."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Ginny shook her head, but she was almost smiling.
"And then he turns up here looking miserable and apologetic, and James takes one look at him and forgives everything."
Harry huffed softly.
"The gloves certainly didn't hurt his case."
"The gloves murdered our parenting lesson."
"That's true."
"We were teaching patience. Responsibility. Saving up for something."
"Excellent lesson."
"Gone," Ginny said. "Utterly destroyed. My brother broke my child and then bought him capitalism."
Despite everything, Harry's mouth twitched.
Ginny pointed at him.
"Do not laugh."
"I'm trying so hard."
"It is catastrophic parenting."
"It is," Harry agreed, "but James sleeping with Quidditch gloves under the blanket like they're a rescue animal is objectively funny."
Ginny turned away, but not quickly enough to hide the reluctant smile.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"I do right now."
"No. You hate Charlie right now. I'm just convenient."
She leaned back against the sink, and this time when Harry stepped closer, she let him.
He rested one hand on her waist.
"He did apologise," Ginny said after a moment.
Harry nodded.
"I know."
"Properly. Or as properly as Charlie gets."
"That's a range."
"It was not eloquent," Ginny said. "There were pauses. Several. One moment where I genuinely thought he might combust."
Harry's mouth twitched despite himself.
"What did he say?"
Ginny looked down at her hands.
"That he should have come sooner. That he was ashamed. That he didn't know how to face James, or me, or you. That it was easier to stay away for another hour, and then another, and then suddenly it had been two days."
Harry was quiet.
"He meant it," Ginny said.
"I know."
"He was careless. He wasn't paying attention. He should have been."
"Yes."
"And James got hurt because of it."
Harry nodded slowly.
"But he's also my idiot brother who panics when things go wrong and then makes them worse by hiding."
Harry huffed softly.
"That does sound like Charlie."
"It's infuriating."
"It is."
"And I'm still angry about it."
"So am I."
Ginny looked up at him.
"But I don't want to be angry at Christmas."
Harry's expression softened.
"No."
"I don't want James looking between us and Charlie and wondering why we're being weird. I don't want Lily asking why Uncle Charlie isn't coming to dinner. I don't want to explain to Albus that sometimes adults hold grudges for excellent reasons but it makes everyone miserable anyway."
"That's fair."
"And honestly," Ginny said, "I'm too tired to stay this angry."
Harry smiled.
"Also fair."
"It's exhausting. Anger is exhausting. Holding onto it is exhausting. And Charlie already looks like he's been hexed by his own guilt, so what's the point?"
"The point," Harry said carefully, "is that he scared us."
"He did."
"And he was careless."
"He was."
"And we're allowed to be angry about that."
"We are," Ginny agreed. "But we're also allowed to decide we're done being angry about it."
Harry considered that.
Then he nodded.
"You're right."
"I usually am."
"I didn't say usually."
"You were thinking it."
Harry pulled her closer, and this time Ginny leaned into him properly.
"James forgave him in approximately four seconds," she said against his chest.
"James is eight and easily bribed with Quidditch equipment."
"True."
"But he's also better at this than we are."
Ginny huffed.
"That's depressing."
"Little bit."
"Our eight-year-old is more emotionally mature than we are."
"In this specific instance, yes."
She pulled back just enough to look at him.
"We didn't forgive him tonight," she said quietly.
"No."
"We just didn't make the children live inside it."
Harry nodded.
"That's different."
"It is."
"But it's also something."
"It is," Ginny agreed.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Harry said, "He'll be at the Burrow for Christmas."
"He will."
"And James will want to show him the gloves again."
"Repeatedly."
"And Lily will probably climb on him like furniture."
"Almost certainly."
"And your mum will make too much food and pretend she didn't notice any of this happened."
Ginny smiled despite herself.
"That does sound like Christmas."
"Catastrophically normal."
"Exactly."
Harry kissed the top of her head.
"We can be angry and still show up."
"We can."
"We can be frustrated and still be family."
"Unfortunately."
"Very unfortunately."
Ginny closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them again, something had shifted.
Not forgiveness, exactly.
But acceptance.
The practical, tired kind that came from knowing that holding onto anger cost more than letting it go.
"Merlin, this family," Harry muttered.
"Our family."
"I'm aware."
"You married into it."
"Best decision I ever made."
"You're lying."
"I am," she admitted. "But I'm allowed to complain about it."
"Absolutely."
He stayed there a moment longer, breathing her in.
Then he pulled back and looked at her properly.
"Bed?"
"Bed."
"Actually sleeping?"
"For at least thirty seconds."
"Ambitious."
They finished getting ready slowly, because somehow even brushing teeth and turning off lights felt like a luxury when no one was crying, calling for water, asking about dragons, or trying to smuggle Quidditch gloves under a pillow.
Harry rinsed his toothbrush and wiped the sink because of course he did.
Ginny watched him.
“What?” he asked.
“You are incapable of leaving water on porcelain.”
“It’s not a personality defect.”
“It absolutely is.”
“It’s a useful habit.”
“It’s a sickness.”
He flicked a few drops of water at her.
Ginny gasped.
“Did you just—”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I would never.”
“You are a terrible liar.”
“And yet Head Auror.”
“Standards have fallen.”
Harry grinned and escaped into the bedroom before she could retaliate.
Ginny followed, tying her dressing gown more tightly around herself. The bedroom was dim except for the lamp on Harry’s side, the sheets turned back, the room carrying that soft end-of-day quiet that came only after the door had been shut against the rest of the house.
Harry got into bed first, propping himself against the pillows with the sort of careful exhale that told her the day had finally caught up with him.
Ginny sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled the pins from her hair one by one. Harry watched her in that way he had—steady, unhurried, like she was doing something far more interesting than removing hairpins.
"You're staring again."
"I like watching you."
She set another pin on the bedside table. "I'm taking pins out of my hair."
"I know."
"You have very low standards for entertainment."
"I have excellent standards. You're just used to being impressive."
Ginny rolled her eyes, but her mouth softened despite herself.
For a few moments, neither of them spoke. The room settled around them—the faint creak of the house, the distant hum of the wards, the sort of quiet that only came when all three children were actually asleep.
Then Harry said, "Ron had a suggestion at lunch."
Ginny paused, one pin still between her fingers. "That is usually how disasters begin."
"This one was almost sensible."
"With Ron?" She turned slightly, interested despite herself. "What did he say?"
Harry shifted against the pillows, his thumb moving absently over the edge of the duvet. "He thinks I should take Teddy fishing."
Ginny's hand stilled.
Fishing.
Harry had learned about fishing from library books when he was eight years old.
Not because anyone had offered to teach him. Because every other Saturday morning, Vernon would load the car with rods and tackle boxes and sandwiches Aunt Petunia had made the night before, and Dudley would climb into the passenger seat looking smug, and Harry would be left standing in the driveway watching them pull away.
Mrs. Figg's house smelled like cabbage and cat litter. She was kind enough, in her way. But Harry would sit in her front room with a biscuit he didn't want and a magazine he'd already read, and he'd think about Vernon teaching Dudley how to cast, how to bait a hook, how to be patient and quiet and wait for something good.
He'd gone to the library the following Monday.
He'd read everything they had on fishing. Freshwater, saltwater, fly fishing, coarse fishing. He memorized the names of fish he'd never seen, learned the difference between a spinner and a spoon, studied diagrams of knots until he could tie them in his sleep.
Just in case.
Just in case one Saturday Vernon turned to him and said, *You can come this time.*
It never happened.
But years later—after the war, after the trials, after the nights when he couldn't sleep and the days when he couldn't breathe—Harry had gone to a lake in Scotland. A quiet place. No one knew his name there, or if they did, they didn't say it. He'd bought a rod. Taught himself to cast properly, not just from books but from doing it wrong a hundred times until it felt right.
It wasn't about the fish.
It was about the stillness. The way time moved differently when you were watching water. The way you could sit with your own thoughts without them swallowing you whole.
He'd started taking Teddy when Teddy was small enough to spend more time dropping bait into the grass than getting it anywhere near water. Then James, though James treated sitting still beside a lake as a personal insult. Albus hadn't been yet, not properly—Harry wanted his first time to be calm, unrushed, not squeezed between school drama and someone else's crisis.
With four children, you had to be deliberate about it. You had to carve out time that belonged to only one of them, moments where they weren't competing for attention or negotiating fairness or watching their siblings get something they didn't. It was harder than it sounded. Life got in the way—matches and homework and someone's crisis always seemed to land on the weekend you'd planned. But you tried anyway, because each child needed to feel singular. Chosen. Like they mattered enough to be alone with you.
It had been their thing. His and Teddy's. One of those quiet routines that had never needed much explanation.
And then Teddy had turned fifteen.
Suddenly fishing was something you did when you were a kid, not when you were trying to figure out who you were without your parents' shadow falling across it. Teddy didn't say no, exactly. He just had other plans. A match. Mates coming over. Homework he'd left too late. One cancelled weekend, then another, then it had been months and neither of them had forced it. Neither of them had made it a thing.
And that was somehow worse—because it meant they'd both just let it slip away, one cancelled plan at a time, until fishing had become one more thing they used to do together.
Harry had noticed.
He'd let it happen anyway.
Ginny set the pin down carefully. "Fishing," she said quietly.
Harry nodded. "Ron thinks he might talk if I don't make it feel like a conversation. Walking. Fixing something. Fishing." His mouth twitched faintly. "He said sitting him down across from me would only make him feel like he was being questioned by the Head Auror."
Ginny gave him a look.
"He may have a point."
"I know." Harry looked down at the duvet. "I used to take him all the time. Then less. Then not at all. I noticed, and I let it become one more thing we used to do."
Ginny's expression softened. She climbed properly into bed beside him, drawing one knee up under the duvet. "That isn't only on you."
"No. But I could have—" He stopped, shook his head slightly. "I don't know. Asked. Tried harder."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Ginny said, "I've been thinking about what you said."
Harry's eyebrows rose slightly. "That sounds dangerous."
"Don't ruin this."
He immediately lowered his expression into something solemn. "Sorry."
Ginny leaned back against the headboard, fingers worrying absently at the edge of the sheet. "I still think Teddy needs consequences."
Harry nodded once.
"I still think he's been acting like an idiot," she continued. "And I am still angry."
"I know."
"He's hanging on by a thread, Harry." She looked down at her hands. "Grades. Classes. Curfew. Detentions. The fight. The attitude. It's not one thing anymore. It's a pattern."
Harry was quiet, watching her.
"And I know he's sixteen," Ginny said. "I know he's allowed to be moody and difficult and convinced we are personally ruining his life by asking where he's been. But there is a difference between normal teenage stupidity and whatever this is becoming. I don't want to hear about him missing curfew again. I don't want Neville writing because he skipped something he was supposed to attend. I don't want another letter about him punching someone."
She paused, then added more quietly, "I am not saying no detention ever because he's our kid and apparently our children are allergic to making life easy. But if he doesn't start being accountable next term, Quidditch is the first thing that goes."
Harry held her gaze. "First thing?"
"Yes."
"But not now."
Ginny exhaled through her nose. "No."
Harry's face went very still. Then his mouth twitched.
"Don't," Ginny said immediately.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're doing something. I can see you doing something."
"I'm simply sitting here," Harry said, the picture of innocence, "listening to my wife explain why she needs to ground Teddy from Quidditch—the thing I said two days ago was a terrible idea, the one you told me was too soft, that I was letting him off easy, that I didn't understand consequences—"
"Harry—"
"—and now you're coming around to my position by implementing my idea first. Fishing. Talking to him without it feeling like an interrogation. Which you also said was emotionally manipulative."
"I didn't—"
"You absolutely did. You said I was too lenient. That Teddy needed real consequences, not understanding. That pulling him from Quidditch was the only language he'd hear."
Ginny's jaw tightened. "I said he needed to understand there are consequences for his behavior."
"Right. And now you're saying he gets one more term to prove himself before Quidditch goes. Which means you're admitting that yanking him off the team immediately would have been the wrong move. Which is what I said two days ago."
"That is not—"
"That is exactly what you just said."
Ginny turned away, but her mouth was twitching despite herself. "This is insufferable."
"This is me being right," Harry corrected. "You spent two days telling me I was too soft. That I didn't understand how to parent a teenager in crisis. That you needed to be the one making the hard calls because I was too busy being understanding. And now—"
"And now I'm handling it," Ginny said flatly. "I'm the one setting the boundary. You get to take him fishing and listen without judgment. Congratulations. You've successfully delegated all the hard work."
"I haven't delegated anything. You insisted on it."
"Because you were going to give him another warning!"
"And you were going to pull Quidditch immediately!"
They stared at each other.
Then Harry's mouth curved. "So we've compromised. You do consequences. I do redemption. It's a very functional system."
"It's you being smug."
"It's me being proven right about my approach while you do all the unpleasant bits first. I'm not complaining."
Ginny gave him a look that could have stripped paint. "If you say 'I told you so'—"
"I would never."
"You're thinking it very loudly."
"I'm thinking," Harry said, "that I'm very pleased you've come around to my way of thinking. Eventually."
"I hate you."
"You don't."
"I hate that you're right."
"That's closer."
Ginny shook her head, but she was almost smiling now. "This is going to be unbearable, isn't it? You're going to bring this up for years."
"Decades," Harry said. "I'm planning the anniversary speech already. 'Remember when Ginny thought I was too soft and it turned out I was exactly right? Good times.'"
"Merlin help me."
"Too late. You married me."
She looked at him for a long moment, exasperation and affection warring on her face. Then she sighed. "Fine. You were right about fishing. Happy?"
"Ecstatic."
"But I'm still right about consequences."
"You are," Harry agreed. "You're very good at consequences. Terrifying, actually. It's one of your best qualities."
"Flattery will not save you."
"Worth a try."
Ginny shook her head, but the tension had finally broken. She settled back against the headboard, fingers still worrying at the sheet. "I still want to march up to Hogwarts and drag him home by the collar."
"The mother in you wants that."
"Yes."
"But?"
"But the mother in me also knows he'd hear the punishment louder than the point."
Harry nodded slowly.
That was the problem. That had always been the problem with Teddy lately. Every conversation landed somewhere slightly wrong. Ask him a question and he heard accusation. Set a boundary and he heard rejection. Tell him they were worried and he heard disappointment. Push too hard and he shut down so completely it felt like talking to a wall with messy hair and a talent for sarcasm.
She loved him fiercely. Sometimes that made it harder to know what to do with him.
"I rang Gwenog this morning," she said at last.
Harry's mouth twitched. "You called Gwenog because she'll actually tell you the truth."
"She won't tell me what I want to hear. She'll tell me if I'm being mental, and she'll tell me if I'm right."
She paused, fingers still worrying at the sheet.
"He turns sixteen in April."
Harry was still, listening.
"The development programmes start at sixteen," Ginny continued. "The serious ones. High-level training camps. Summer intensives. The kind of thing that actually matters if you want to go professional."
She'd been through it herself. She knew exactly what those programmes looked like, what they demanded, what they could do for a player with real talent. She'd seen kids come out of them transformed—not just better flyers, but sharper, more disciplined, more focused. She'd also seen kids who weren't ready get chewed up and spat out.
"He could apply this summer," Ginny said. "If he wanted to."
Harry watched her carefully. "And Gwen thinks he'd get in."
"Gwen thinks he'd be an idiot not to apply." Ginny's mouth tightened. "The player in me knows she's right. He's got the talent. He's got the instincts. This is the age where it starts to matter—where you either commit or you don't."
"But?"
"But the mother in me doesn't know if he's ready for it." She turned her head to look at him. "Not the flying. He can fly. That's not the question. The question is whether he's responsible enough to handle it. Those programmes don't mess about. They expect discipline. Commitment. You don't just show up and fly—you train, you study, you prove you're serious. And if Teddy can't even manage to go to his classes now, what happens when he's in an environment that demands twice as much?"
Harry nodded slowly, his thumb still moving absently over the duvet. Then he said quietly, "It's not about what we want, is it?"
Ginny looked at him.
"If Teddy wants it," Harry continued, "and he's willing to do the work and prove he's serious—then we can only help him by giving him the tools. But he has to earn it first."
"Yes."
Harry reached for her hand. His fingers found hers in the space between them, and he held on—not tight, just there. Present.
"What do you think Remus and Tonks would do?" he asked quietly.
Not rhetorical. Not testing her. Genuinely asking.
She'd been thinking about that all afternoon. What Remus would say. What Tonks would want. Whether they'd be proud of how she and Harry were handling this, or whether they'd think they were getting it all wrong.
She looked down at their joined hands.
"They'd want him to pursue it," she said finally. "They'd want him to have every opportunity. Remus especially—he'd never want Teddy to hold himself back because of fear or doubt."
Harry's thumb moved against her knuckles.
"But they'd also expect him to be responsible," Ginny said. "They'd encourage him, but they'd expect him to earn it. To show up. To do the work. Tonks wouldn't let him coast on talent alone, and Remus would expect him to prove he was serious before anyone handed him anything."
Harry was quiet for a long moment. Then he squeezed her hand gently.
"So we give him the chance. But we make it clear what the terms are."
Ginny turned her head to look at him properly. "Yes."
She exhaled slowly. "I don't care what he might be doing in ten years if he's falling apart now. I don't care about scouts or development programmes or whether Gwenog bloody Jones thinks he has good instincts if he can't manage to show up to class. But I also don't want to make a decision out of fear. Or anger. Or because I want to feel like I've got control of him."
Harry was quiet for a moment. "That's not nothing."
"No. It's bloody irritating is what it is."
He smiled faintly.
"One term," she said. "Next term, he pulls himself together. Better grades. Going to class. No curfew nonsense. No fights. No acting like every adult in the building is an inconvenience sent to ruin his day. He does that, and we trust him enough to let him apply for those programmes in the summer. He doesn't—Quidditch goes. Until something changes."
Harry nodded once. "Alright."
Ginny looked at him. "That's it? No argument?"
"I agree with you."
"How unsettling."
Harry's mouth twitched. "He has such a thick skull."
"Affectionately."
"Of course."
"Infuriatingly."
"That too."
Ginny blinked hard once, annoyed at herself for feeling suddenly tender. "I don't want him to waste what he has because he's too proud to admit he's struggling."
Harry's face shifted, quiet and careful. "Maybe fishing helps."
Ginny looked at him. "You really think he'll talk?"
"I don't know." That honesty settled better than certainty would have. "But Ron might be right about giving him somewhere to talk if he wants to. No lecture. No sitting him down like it's a disciplinary hearing. Just me and him. Something quiet."
Ginny threaded her fingers through his. "Fishing."
"Fishing."
"Will he say yes?"
Harry looked down at their joined hands. "I don't know."
Ginny's thumb moved once over his knuckles. Despite herself, she could picture it: Teddy beside water, shoulders hunched, hair some impossible shade depending on mood, pretending not to need anything from anyone. Harry beside him, patient and quiet and trying very hard not to turn concern into pressure.
Maybe it would work. Maybe it wouldn't. But it was something. And something felt better than another lecture neither of them believed would land.
"Ask him," she said.
Harry looked at her. "When he comes home."
"I will."
"And Harry?"
"Yeah?"
"If he says no, don't make it a thing."
"I won't."
"If he's difficult, don't make it a thing."
"I won't."
"If he acts like you've personally offended him by suggesting it—"
"I will heroically not make it a thing."
Ginny narrowed her eyes. "You're mocking me."
"A little."
"I'm giving useful instructions."
"You are."
"He is very mockable right now."
"So am I, apparently."
"Yes, but I married you. That gives me rights."
Harry brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. Ginny's expression softened before she could stop it.
For a while, neither of them said anything. The house hummed quietly around them. Somewhere downstairs, the wards gave their usual faint pulse against the windows. One of the children turned over in sleep down the corridor, a soft thud followed by silence. No crying. No footsteps. No little voice calling for water.
Peace, or something close enough to borrow for a few minutes.
Ginny exhaled slowly. Harry shifted against the pillows.
"So we're agreed, then."
Harry's thumb moved once over her knuckles. "Alright."
He looked thoughtful. "I think parenting would be easier if they were born with manuals."
"You would read yours cover to cover and then annotate mine."
"I would absolutely annotate yours."
"I would divorce you."
"No, you wouldn't."
"No," she admitted. "But I would threaten it often."
Harry smiled, still holding her hand. Then his expression shifted. Softer. More tired. More him.
His thumb traced a slow line across her knuckles. Once. Twice. Not absent—deliberate.
Ginny felt the shift before he said anything. The way his breathing had changed. The way he was looking at her.
"When the Ashdown case closes," Harry said quietly, his voice lower than it had been a moment ago, "I want to take you somewhere."
Ginny's pulse kicked. "Somewhere."
"Anywhere." His thumb was still moving against her hand. "Doesn't matter where. Just us."
She turned slightly toward him, and his hand slid from hers to her waist—warm through the thin silk of her dressing gown. Not pulling. Just there. Present.
"No children," he said. "No family. No emergencies."
"That's not how emergencies work."
"I'll be rude to them."
Ginny's mouth curved despite herself. "Very confident."
"I have reason to be." His hand moved slightly at her waist, fingers spreading against the curve of her hip. Not urgent. Just steady. Like he was reminding himself she was real.
She shifted closer under the duvet. Close enough that her knee brushed his thigh. Close enough to feel the heat of him through the fabric between them.
"You're thinking about a hotel room," she said quietly.
"I'm thinking about you." His voice had gone rougher. "In a hotel room. With no interruptions."
"We could practice," Ginny said. Her hand came up to rest against his chest, fingers spreading over the buttons of his shirt. "For accuracy."
"We could," he said.
He leaned in and kissed her—softly at first, a small tired kiss at the end of a long evening. But Ginny's hand came up to his jaw, fingers sliding into the hair at his nape, and she kissed him back with intent. Not gratitude. Not exhaustion. Something hungrier.
Harry made a low sound against her mouth. His hand found her waist under the duvet, thumb pressing against the curve of her hip through the thin fabric of her dressing gown. Fourteen years, and he still knew exactly where to touch her. Where the silk would slide. Where her skin was most sensitive.
Ginny smiled against his mouth and deepened the kiss, her tongue sliding against his. Harry's breath hitched—she felt it more than heard it—and his hand tightened on her hip, pulling her closer.
Her hand moved down his chest, fingers finding the first button of his shirt. She undid it slowly, then the second, the fabric parting under her hands to reveal the line of his chest, the scattered scars she'd traced a hundred times before. Third button. Fourth. Harry's breathing had changed—deeper, more deliberate, like he was trying to stay still and failing. When she reached the last button, she pushed the shirt off his shoulders, and Harry shrugged out of it, letting it fall somewhere behind him.
She leaned in and kissed his collarbone, then lower, her mouth moving over his chest. Harry's hand came up to her hair, fingers tangling in it, not pulling but holding. She could feel his heartbeat under her lips—quick and hard and real.
His hand found the tie of her dressing gown. He paused, fingers resting against the knot, and Ginny nodded once. Harry tugged it loose, and the silk fell open. He pushed it off her shoulders slowly, deliberately, his gaze moving over her like a touch. She wasn't wearing anything underneath—hadn't bothered after her shower—and the air was cool against her skin.
Harry's hand moved to her ribs, palm flat, fingers spreading wide. His breath caught.
She reached for him, pulling him down into another kiss, and this time there was nothing careful about it. His chest pressed against hers, skin to skin, and the heat of him made her gasp into his mouth. His hand moved higher, cupping her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple, and Ginny arched into the touch. His other hand slid down her side, over her hip, fingers curling against her thigh before sliding between her legs, and Ginny's breath left her in a rush.
He kissed her again, deeper now, his fingers moving with purpose, finding the places that made her gasp, made her hips lift slightly off the mattress. Her hand fisted in his hair, pulling slightly, and Harry groaned against her mouth. His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, and Ginny felt the heat building low in her belly, spreading outward.
Her hand moved down his chest, over his stomach, finding the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. She could feel him hard against her palm through the fabric, and when she pressed slightly, Harry's hips jerked forward. She slipped her hand beneath the waistband, fingers wrapping around him. Harry made a sound that was half groan, half curse, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. He was hot and hard in her palm, and when she stroked him slowly, deliberately, his whole body tensed. She stroked him again, tighter this time, her thumb sliding over the head, and Harry's breath came faster, his hips moving slightly into her hand.
"Off," she said.
Harry shifted enough to push his pyjama bottoms down, kicking them off awkwardly. There was a moment of fumbling—his knee caught in the duvet, her elbow knocked against his ribs—and they both laughed, breathless and ridiculous. Then they were kissing again, and the laughter faded into something warmer, something more urgent. The angle was better now, nothing between them, and she could feel every inch of him—the heat, the hardness, the way he pulsed in her palm.
She guided him closer, shifting her hips, and Harry moved over her, bracing himself on one forearm. For a moment they just looked at each other—his face flushed, his glasses slightly askew, his hair an absolute disaster. She reached up and straightened his glasses without thinking.
Harry smiled.
He positioned himself at her entrance, and Ginny's breath caught in anticipation. Then he pushed in slowly—so slowly—and the stretch made her gasp. It was familiar but still intense, still enough to make her fingers dig into his shoulders. Harry paused, giving her time to adjust, his forehead pressed against hers.
"Okay?" he whispered.
"Yes."
He moved. Slowly at first, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in. The friction was perfect, the angle exactly right, and Ginny's head fell back against the pillow. Harry's breath was hot against her neck, his body solid and warm above hers. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned her name.
The rhythm built gradually—steady and sure and exactly what she needed. It was never perfect, not like in books or films where everything aligned effortlessly. There were adjustments. Small shifts. A moment where the angle wasn't quite right and Ginny had to tilt her hips slightly. But that was the point. They knew how to move together. Knew how to communicate without words.
Harry's hand found hers, fingers lacing together against the pillow. Ginny squeezed. He squeezed back.
Her free hand moved down his back, nails dragging lightly over his skin. Harry shuddered, his hips stuttering slightly, and Ginny smiled despite herself. Fourteen years, and she could still make him lose his rhythm.
He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly the pressure was exactly where she needed it. Ginny gasped, her back arching off the mattress, and Harry did it again, deliberate and precise. His eyes were dark, intense, watching her face like he was memorizing every reaction.
"There—"
He groaned, low and rough, and the sound went straight through her. His rhythm picked up, thrusts coming faster now, harder. The careful control from before was slipping, replaced by something more desperate, more raw. Ginny could feel the sweat building between them, slick and hot where their bodies pressed together. Could hear the wet slide of him moving inside her, the creak of the bed, the harsh sound of their breathing.
Her nails dug deeper into his back—not light anymore but desperate, leaving crescents in his skin. Harry made a sound that was half groan, half her name, and pulled her closer, his hand sliding from her hip to grip her arse, angling her exactly where he wanted her.
"Merlin—" she gasped.
Harry's hand released hers and moved to her hip, gripping hard enough to bruise. He pulled her into each thrust, and the force of it made her cry out. Her hands scrabbled at his back, nails raking down, and she felt the moment they broke skin. Harry groaned—deep and guttural—and thrust harder, like the pain was exactly what he needed..
The bed creaked beneath them, and Ginny didn't care. She was trembling, her whole body wound tight, the heat building and building until she thought she might shatter from it. She could taste salt when she pressed her mouth to his shoulder—sweat and skin and Harry.
His rhythm picked up again, less controlled now, more desperate. Ginny could feel him getting close—the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath came faster, ragged against her skin. She tightened her legs around him, pulling him deeper, and whispered his name.
"Harry—"
He looked at her then. Really looked at her. His eyes were dark and desperate and so full of love it made her chest ache. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing over her cheekbone with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the force of his hips.
He came with a groan that sounded wrecked, his hips jerking, his whole body shuddering. She could feel him pulsing inside her, could feel the way his hand tightened on her face like he couldn't bear to let go. For a long moment he stayed there, forehead pressed to hers, breathing hard, his eyes still locked on hers.
He kissed her. Hard. Still moving slightly, still inside her.
"I love you," he whispered against her mouth.
"So much." His voice was rough, broken. "Merlin—Ginny—so much."
He kissed her slower now, deeper. Still breathing hard. Still holding her like she might disappear if he let go.
His hand slid down to her waist, pulling her closer, but he didn't pull out. Just held her there, pressed against him, kissing her between words.
Ginny pressed her face into his neck and breathed him in. "I love you too."
He laughed softly and pulled her closer, tucking her against his chest. Ginny went willingly, draping one leg over his, her hand resting over his heart. The room was quiet around them. No crying. No footsteps. No small voices calling for water or dragons or justice. Just them. Just this.
Harry's hand moved slowly up and down her back, fingers tracing idle patterns against her skin.
"The weekend," he murmured against her hair. "Still want it?"
"Mm." She shifted closer, her bare skin warm against his. "Desperately."
They didn't speak after that. Just breathed together in the dark, skin against skin, her leg still draped over his, his hand still moving slowly across her back. She could feel every inch of him—the solid warmth of his chest beneath her palm, the rise and fall of his breathing gradually slowing, the salt-dried sweat cooling on his shoulders where her nails had left marks.
Harry's fingers traced lazy patterns down her spine, and she felt him press a kiss to the top of her head. She tilted her face up slightly, and he found her mouth again—soft this time, unhurried. A kiss that asked for nothing but this: the two of them, naked and tangled, the world held at bay.
She nestled back into the curve of his body, fitting against him the way she always did. His arm came around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer. There was nothing between them now—no clothes, no distance, no need for anything else. Just the warmth of skin, the steady thump of his heart under her palm, the quiet of the house around them.
For a long time, they simply lay there in the dimming light, neither speaking nor moving, content to exist in this perfect moment of closeness and peace. The world outside could wait.
The twenty-first of December always felt like the real beginning of Christmas—the Hogwarts Express arriving home, children spilling back into their parents' lives carrying trunks full of dirty laundry, half-finished homework, and secrets they thought they were hiding well.
Ginny stood on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters with her hands buried deep in her coat pockets, watching steam curl across the station. The cold bit at her cheeks. Around her, the platform hummed with restless energy—parents waiting, younger siblings bouncing, someone's owl already complaining.
Harry should have been there. Instead, he was somewhere in the Ministry, buried under files and witness statements. The Ashdown investigation had been consuming most of December—forgotten tea, late dinners, the way he would stare at nothing before realising somebody had asked him a question. Whatever they had found mattered enough that he had cancelled King's Cross.
Bill checked his watch for the third time in five minutes.
Percy stood to her right, scarf adjusted to mathematical precision.
"It's not late," Audrey said patiently.
Louis frowned up at her. "But how do you know?"
"Because Uncle Percy has checked his watch seventeen times."
Percy looked offended. "I have not."
Bill snorted. "You absolutely have."
"Three times."
"In the last two minutes."
"That is not seventeen."
"Give it another five minutes."
Ginny smiled despite herself. This was the part she liked—before the chaos arrived. Just family on a cold platform, bickering about nothing.
Molly Jr bounced beside Audrey, mittens clutched in one hand even though her fingers were visibly pink. "Mum, can I get hot chocolate after?"
"We'll see."
"That means yes."
"That means we'll see."
"But it usually means yes."
Audrey's mouth twitched. "Then why are you asking?"
The Hogwarts Express let out a long whistle in the distance.
The platform stirred instantly.
Louis gasped. "It's coming!"
Fleur's hand landed on his shoulder. "Louis, breathe."
"I am breathing!"
"Slower."
The train rounded the final bend, steam billowing thick against the grey December sky. The screech of metal on metal echoed across the platform. Then the brakes engaged, and the entire massive thing began to slow.
Percy beat Bill to it. "Right on time."
"Shocking," Ginny said.
The train slid into the station with a final hiss and settled. For half a second, the platform held its breath.
Then the doors opened.
Students poured out—first-years too small beneath trunks that looked like they could flatten them, older students affecting boredom while scanning for their families, owls screeching, cats yowling, someone's toad making a desperate bid for freedom.
Louis bounced so hard Fleur had to physically hold him in place. "Do you see them?"
"Not yet, mon chou."
"But they should be here by now!"
"The train literally just stopped."
"That was ages ago!"
Bill's mouth twitched. "It's been twelve seconds."
"Exactly!"
Ginny scanned the crowd. Then she saw them.
The girls appeared through the steam—Dominique first, trunk bumping behind her. Victoire followed, elegant even with a bag digging into her shoulder, face composed in that particular way that meant she had decided she was the responsible one and everyone else was exhausting. Lucy came last, both hands tight on her trunk handle, cheeks flushed, scarf tucked high.
They were walking together. Technically. In the way people walk together when they are furious with each other but too polite to make it obvious in public.
Ginny noticed immediately.
Dom was talking—because of course Dom was talking—her hands moving in animated gestures that Victoire was pointedly ignoring. Lucy looked like she wanted to sink through the platform.
Bill's eyebrows lifted. "That looks promising."
"Doesn't it," Ginny said.
Lucy was already pink-cheeked and defensive. "I didn't mean to see. I was just trying to get my bag."
"You absolutely meant to see," Dom said, grinning.
"I didn't."
"You took notes."
"I did not."
Victoire rubbed her forehead. "Can we not do this here?"
"I'm just saying," Dom continued, "if Teddy isn't off the train yet it's because he's still saying goodbye."
Lucy immediately looked embarrassed.
"Dom."
"What?"
"Stop."
"If Callie lets go of him for five minutes it's a miracle."
"Dom—"
"I'm serious. The boy cannot function without her attached to his arm. It's like she's surgically grafted on."
Lucy snorted despite herself, then caught herself and looked away.
Victoire failed to hide a smile. "He's going to kill you."
"He's going to have to pry himself away from Callie long enough to catch me first."
The girls reached them.
"Auntie Ginny," Dom said, brightness forced on like a mask.
Ginny hugged her anyway. "There you are, menace."
Dom hugged back quickly. Too quickly.
Victoire stepped in next, polite and controlled. Too controlled.
Ginny held her for half a second longer than necessary. Victoire allowed it, but only just.
Lucy hovered half a pace behind them, gaze flicking everywhere except where it wanted to go.
Ginny's eyes moved over them and landed on the empty space where Teddy should have been.
"Where's Teddy?"
Lucy looked panicked. "I mean—he was. He is. He'll be here. Soon."
Victoire's gaze stayed fixed on the train. "Eventually."
Dom muttered, just loud enough, "Once he detaches himself from carriage seven."
"Dominique," Victoire said sharply.
"What?"
"Enough."
Then Percy's expression shifted. Not to anger. Not quite. It was offense—pure, bureaucratic offense.
Ginny followed his gaze.
Near the iron pillar, half-hidden by steam, a man in a grey coat lifted a camera. Not a phone. A proper press camera—black, bulky, professional lens already pointed in their direction.
He wasn't taking pictures yet. Just waiting.
Percy's face went very still.
"This platform," he said quietly, "is restricted."
Bill glanced at him. "Percy—"
"They are not authorised for arrival access."
"Percy."
"There is a press enclosure outside the Muggle concourse for a reason."
Audrey, very softly, said, "Breathe before you start issuing memoranda."
"I am not issuing memoranda."
Bill's mouth twitched. "You're thinking in bullet points."
"I am thinking in breaches of protocol."
"That's worse."
The man in the grey coat shifted, adjusting his lens. Then a second person appeared—younger, thinner, phone already in hand. Behind them, a woman with a notebook hovered near the wall, trying very hard to look like she belonged to somebody's child.
They were press. And they were absolutely not supposed to be there.
The first flash went off. White through steam.
Ginny felt it land like a touch against her face.
Then another.
The platform shifted. Not dramatically. But enough. A few heads turned. Then more. Someone followed the direction of the cameras and recognised her. Someone else lifted a phone. A parent nudged another parent.
"Oh Merlin—is that Ginny Potter?"
Louis's eyes went huge. "That's your name," he whispered, delighted. "They said your name."
Fleur's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Louis."
But Louis was too excited. His grin was enormous. "Auntie Ginny, you're famous."
Ginny gave him a look that was half fond and half please do not encourage them.
Bill shifted almost casually to her left. Not obvious. Just there.
Percy stepped to the edge of the group, already scanning for station staff, jaw tight.
Fleur drew Louis slightly behind her.
Audrey put one hand on Molly Jr's shoulder.
Nobody discussed it. They had all learned the choreography years ago.
Another flash. Then two more. The murmur spread across the platform like ripples.
"Ginny Potter—"
"Is that her?"
"Get a picture—"
Dom's eyes went wide. "Oh, this is going to be fun."
"Dominique," Victoire said.
"What? I didn't do anything."
"You're thinking something."
"I'm always thinking something."
Lucy looked like she wanted to disapparate.
Then Ginny saw Teddy.
He was moving through the steam with his hood pulled up, hands in his pockets, bag slung over one shoulder. Not hiding. Just managing. The hood was armor—a signal he'd been using since he was twelve: I know you're looking. Leave me alone anyway.
Three months older than September. A little taller. A little leaner. Shoulders broader but still unfinished. And apparently, he'd acquired the beginnings of facial hair—a dark, uneven shadow along his jaw that looked like puberty had started a sentence and got distracted halfway through.
He walked with his head down but his shoulders squared, navigating the platform like someone who'd done this a hundred times before.
Ginny stepped forward before anyone else could move.
"Teddy."
His head came up immediately. For half a second, all the armor slipped—his eyes found hers and something in his face softened. Then he remembered where he was, who might be watching, and his shoulders squared again.
But he came to her anyway.
Ginny met him halfway, arms already opening, and when he reached her she pulled him into a hug that was firm and real and exactly what she'd been waiting three months to do.
"Hi, love," she said quietly.
Teddy's arms came around her, tight and immediate. "Hi."
She felt him exhale against her shoulder—something releasing, just slightly. His hood was still up, and Ginny reached up without thinking and pushed it back.
"There you are," she said.
Teddy's mouth twitched despite himself. "Mum."
"What? I haven't seen your face since September."
"There are cameras."
"I don't care about cameras."
His expression did something complicated—caught between embarrassment and relief and the particular exhaustion of being fifteen and famous and trying very hard not to need this.
His eyes flicked once toward the platform—the mistake. Another flash went off. Then another.
The man in the grey coat shifted for a better angle. Bill shifted too. Casual. Easy. Directly in the way.
"Teddy! Over here!"
Male voice. Too loud. Too familiar for someone who had no right to familiarity.
Teddy's jaw tightened.
For a second he stood there, fighting every fifteen-year-old instinct in his body. Too old to be hugged in public. Too famous to forget what that hug would look like in tomorrow's paper. Too angry at the world to make it easy.
Then someone called his mother's name again.
And Teddy stepped into her.
Ginny wrapped her arms around him immediately. A real hug. Not polite. Not quick. Not for the cameras.
His arms came up slowly at first, reluctant with pride, then all at once. He folded into her, forehead dropping to her shoulder, body pressing into hers like muscle memory had won before he could stop it.
Ginny closed her eyes.
There he was. Still taller than she remembered. Still angular in that awkward adolescent way, all shoulders and elbows and stubbornness. Still hers.
Her hand slid to the back of his head, fingers firm, holding him there.
For one second, the platform disappeared.
Then the flashes went mad. One. Then three. Then too many.
White bursts through the steam. Cameras clicking. Phones rising. A murmur spreading fast.
Teddy went rigid against her. His hands clenched in the back of her coat.
His voice came out muffled into Ginny's jumper, small and vicious with misery. "I hate this."
Ginny didn't pull back. She just tightened her arms once, firm and grounding.
"I know," she said quietly. "Ignore them."
Her mouth brushed his forehead—soft, automatic—then again, a quick kiss that felt like punctuation.
"It's just noise," she murmured, the way she used to when he was little, when the cameras had been worse and he had cried into her shoulder in crowded places. "Just noise. Look at me. Not them."
Teddy pulled away just in time to brace himself as Louis crashed into him with the full force of an eight-year-old who had not seen his oldest cousin in three months.
"Oof—" Teddy staggered slightly, one arm wrapping around him automatically. "Louis. Hi."
"You're back!" Louis's voice was muffled against his coat, arms locked around his waist.
"I'm actually back."
"I missed you."
Teddy's expression softened. "Missed you too."
Louis pulled back just enough to look at his face, hands still gripping his coat. "You look different."
"Do I?"
"Yeah. Taller."
Teddy's mouth twitched. "Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because it's true."
Victoire stepped forward as they reached the group, one eyebrow raised. "Interesting. I got a wave when I came off the train."
Louis shrugged, already turning back to Teddy. "You're a girl."
"I'm your sister."
"Exactly."
Victoire rolled her eyes but she was smiling. "Noted. I'll try to be more interesting next time."
Bill reached them first, grinning. "There he is."
Teddy's mouth curved despite himself. "Uncle Bill."
"Good term?"
"Define good."
Bill laughed and pulled him into a quick, rough hug—the kind that was over before it could be awkward. Then he pulled back, squinting at Teddy's chin with exaggerated scrutiny. "Blimey. When did you start needing a razor?"
Teddy's hand went to his jaw self-consciously. "I don't—"
"You absolutely do. Look at that." Bill gestured vaguely at his face. "That's proper stubble, mate. You're getting old."
"I'm fifteen."
"Exactly. Ancient. Next thing you know you'll be complaining about your back."
Fleur stepped forward, hands reaching for Teddy's face with the easy affection of someone who had known him since he was small. "Mon chou." Her fingers brushed his cheek, then his jaw, then his shoulders with a critical eye. "You are too thin. They do not feed you properly at zis school, non?"
"They feed me fine, Aunt Fleur."
She made a small, dismissive sound—half sigh, half exasperation. "Non. I can see it 'ere." She tapped his cheekbone gently. "And 'ere." She squeezed his shoulder. "Zis is not fine. Zis is a problem. You 'ave lost weight."
Teddy's expression softened despite the cameras, despite everything. "I'm fine."
"You are never fine when you say you are fine." Fleur released him but kept one hand on his shoulder, proprietary and warm. "But you are 'ome now. C'est bien."
Percy stepped forward, squinting at Teddy's chin. "Your uncle's right. You're going to need a razor by Boxing Day at this rate."
Another flash went off. White and sharp.
Audrey laughed and nudged Percy aside, mercifully cutting him off. "Ignore him. Welcome home, Teddy."
Teddy's shoulders dropped slightly. "Thanks, Aunt Audrey."
Through all this, Teddy was managing. Being polite. But his smile was thin.
Dom pushed forward, eyes bright and dangerous. "So."
Teddy's entire body went rigid. "Dom."
"Hands full on the train, were you?"
"What?"
"You were literally the last one off. Someone keeping you entertained?"
Lucy made a small, strangled sound. "Dom, don't—"
"I'm just curious," Dom said, grinning. "Must have been something pretty good to keep you that occupied."
Teddy's face flushed immediately—deep red, spreading up his neck. "Can we not—"
"What? I'm just saying you seemed very... busy." Dom's eyes glinted. "Couldn't get away?"
"Dom," Victoire said, but there was a hint of amusement in her voice. She wasn't stopping her.
"I'm being serious," Dom continued, delighted by Teddy's reaction. "You had your hands full, didn't you? That's why you were the last one off."
Teddy's jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides. "Stop."
"Someone didn't want to let you go," Dom said, pressing on. "That's what I'm hearing."
Teddy's face was burning now. He looked away, jaw working, clearly fighting the urge to say something he'd regret.
Dom opened her mouth to push further, but Ginny stepped in smoothly. "Teddy."
His head turned immediately. For half a second, all the armor slipped again. Then he remembered where he was and who might be watching, and his shoulders squared.
"Where's Dad?"
There it was. Dad. Still, after everything.
Ginny's heart pinched.
"At work," she said. "There's been a lead. He'll meet us at Grandma Molly's."
Teddy looked away. "Oh."
"He wanted to be here. Just got held up."
"Yeah," Teddy said. "I know."
But he said it too quickly. Ginny saw the disappointment anyway. He had never been as good at hiding things from her as he thought.
Another flash went off. Then another. The cameras were multiplying now—three, four, more appearing from the edges of the platform like they'd been waiting for confirmation.
Teddy's shoulders tightened.
"Teddy! Over here!"
Male voice. Too loud. Too familiar for someone who had no right to familiarity.
Teddy's jaw set. He knew the drill. Don't look. Don't react. Don't give them anything.
Another flash. Then three more, rapid-fire, white bursts cutting through the steam.
"Ginny, over here!"
The noise pressed in from all sides—voices layering, cameras clicking, strangers shouting his name like they knew him. Like they had any right to him.
His shoulders hunched. His mood was visibly worse now—not loud, but contained, simmering fury that made him feel older than he was.
A woman pushed through the crowd, clutching her daughter's hand. The girl couldn't have been older than five, cheeks red with cold and excitement, eyes wide like she couldn't believe Ginny Potter existed in the same physical space.
"Mrs Potter," the woman said breathlessly, shaking, "I'm so sorry—could my little girl have a picture with you?"
The little girl stared up at Ginny like she was going to cry.
Teddy's voice went tight immediately. "Mum—please."
Ginny looked at him. Steady. Firm.
"Wait," she said quietly.
Not unkind. Not negotiable.
Teddy's jaw tightened. He obeyed anyway.
He had been raised on restraint. On wait, and be polite, and don't make it worse. His parents' voices lived somewhere under his skin now, automatic as breathing.
Ginny crouched so she was level with the little girl, smile softening into something real.
"Hi," she said. "What's your name, love?"
The girl made a strangled noise.
Her mum tried to rescue her. "She's—"
"I'M ELSIE," the girl blurted, far too loud.
Her mum winced. "Sorry."
Ginny laughed, warm and easy. "Hi, Elsie. How old are you?"
Elsie held up one hand, fingers spread wide with great seriousness. "Five."
Ginny's heart gave a small, stupid tug. Five. Albus was five. Five was still soft cheeks and too-big feelings and questions asked from under blankets when they were meant to be asleep.
"Well," Ginny said, smiling despite the ache, "I have a little boy who's five too. He would be very impressed with your shouting."
Elsie looked delighted. "I can shout louder."
"I believe you."
Her mum made a faint noise of horror.
Ginny laughed again and opened her arms a little. "Do you want a normal picture, or do you want a Quidditch face?"
Elsie's eyes went enormous. "QUIDDITCH."
Ginny's mouth twitched. "Excellent answer."
Ginny pulled the tiniest, most theatrical match-day expression—chin lifted, eyes narrowed like she was lining up a goal—and Elsie made a sound that was half laugh, half sob.
The photo snapped.
Elsie looked at the phone like it was proof she had dreamed it.
Then she grabbed her mum's sleeve. "Mum—she—she did it."
Her mum looked like she might cry too. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
Elsie shoved a small notebook forward with both hands, shaking with excitement. "Can you sign this?"
Ginny didn't hesitate. "Of course."
She signed neatly and added a tiny Harpy symbol beside her name—quick, practised, still personal.
Elsie stared at it like it was holy.
Louis, watching from Fleur's side, gasped with pure delight. "She draws the little bird thing!" he whispered, thrilled. "Auntie Ginny, do the bird on mine too!"
Fleur's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Louis."
Louis grinned anyway, eyes bright. "But it's cool."
Ginny stood, smoothing Elsie's hat back into place with an automatic, motherly gesture. "Alright," she said, voice warm but final. "Off you go."
Elsie backed away clutching the notebook to her chest like treasure. Her mum mouthed thank you about fifty times as she herded her along.
Teddy watched all of it. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped. His fingers curled tight around the strap of his bag until his knuckles went pale.
They started moving, because standing still was letting the crowd grow teeth.
Bill guided them toward the barrier and the cars beyond it, steering with the easy authority of someone who had shepherded Weasley chaos his whole life. Fleur kept Louis close, hand firm on his shoulder. Percy and Audrey stayed near Molly Jr.
And Ginny kept walking while people tried to pull her sideways.
"Autograph, please?"
"Ginny, over here!"
"Just a quick photo—"
She couldn't say no. Not properly. Not without making it worse. Not without giving them a moment to film her refusing.
So she did what she had learned to do. She kept moving. And she signed.
A programme shoved toward her. A napkin. The back of a receipt. A small notebook someone thrust forward with shaking hands.
Ginny took a quill someone handed her and signed as she walked, handwriting neat even while her eyes stayed forward.
Teddy walked beside her, jaw set, silence loud. He looked like he hated the way strangers smiled at his mother. Hated the way they didn't see him as a person, just a prop. Hated the way they filmed them walking like it was a show.
More flashes went off as they walked. White bursts through the steam. Cameras clicking. Phones rising.
Ginny finished another autograph and handed it back without slowing. "That's all," she said, voice carrying just enough finality to make a few people hesitate.
Not all of them. Never all of them.
As they reached the barrier, Bill glanced back at the trunks being levitated behind them by Percy's careful wand work.
"Can't Apparate with all this," he said, half to himself. "Too much luggage. Have to load it properly."
Percy nodded, still guiding the trunks with precision. "Standard protocol. Can't leave school property behind."
Which meant they had to walk. Slowly. Vulnerable.
The noise shifted as they spilled out of the station and into the car park. It wasn't quieter exactly—engines idling, boots crunching on gravel, voices echoing off concrete—but it was looser. Less compressed. Like everyone could finally breathe again, even if nobody quite had yet.
They hadn't reached the cars. They were still walking together, coats brushing, bags bumping legs, the family stretched into a loose, uneven line. The cold bit harder out here, away from the steam and the crowd. Ginny's breath came out in clouds.
Audrey glanced around, smiling gently, trying to pull them back into something normal. "So," she said easily, "how has everyone been?"
Lucy answered first, because Lucy always answered questions like they were handed to her for safekeeping. "Good."
Dom snorted.
Lucy frowned. "What?"
"That was convincing."
"It was fine."
"You sounded like a hostage."
"I did not."
Victoire adjusted the strap of her bag. "Everyone is tired."
Dom looked at her. "That's your answer to everything."
"It is often correct."
Teddy, walking beside Ginny with his hood still half up, muttered, "For once."
Victoire's eyes cut to him.
Dom's face lit with terrible interest. "Oh, good. He speaks."
Teddy didn't look at her. "Unfortunately, so do you."
"Teddy," Ginny said quietly.
"What? That was restrained."
Victoire's mouth tightened. "You wouldn't know restrained if it hit you."
Dom gasped. "Careful, Vic. Poor choice of words."
Teddy stopped looking bored.
Ginny felt the change at once.
Audrey's expression flickered.
Bill looked between them.
Percy, who had been muttering something about unauthorised platform access under his breath, looked up. "What poor choice of words?"
"No one," Ginny said, "is answering that."
Dom opened her mouth.
Ginny looked at her.
Dom closed it. For about three seconds.
Then she said, "I only meant Teddy has taken up a very physical approach to problem-solving this term."
Teddy's jaw tightened. "Dom."
"What? I'm being vague."
"You're being annoying."
"I contain multitudes."
Lucy made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh and immediately tried to hide it.
Victoire did not laugh. That somehow made Teddy angrier.
He looked at her. "What?"
Victoire's chin lifted. "Nothing."
"No, go on. You've been not saying things for a week. Might as well continue loudly."
Bill's eyebrows rose.
Audrey said softly, "Ted."
But Victoire had already turned. "You want me to say something?"
"No," Lucy whispered.
Dom whispered back, "I do."
Victoire ignored them both. "You've been awful all term," she said, voice low and controlled. "And every time someone points it out, you act like you're being attacked."
Teddy's face went tight. "I made one mistake."
Dom coughed.
Teddy rounded on her. "What?"
"One?"
"Dom," Lucy said.
"I'm sorry, but one?"
Teddy's cheeks flushed. "You don't know what you're talking about."
Victoire laughed once. Not kindly. "That is exactly what you said last week."
"And you were just as smug then."
"I was right then."
"You think you're always right."
"No," Victoire said. "Just often enough that it upsets you."
Bill made a strangled noise and looked away.
Ginny did not smile. Even though a tiny, terrible part of her wanted to. Because this was still bickering, yes. Still cousins. Still Christmas car park and trunks and bad moods and too much family in one place.
But underneath it was hurt. Real hurt.
Teddy looked at Victoire like she had reached over and pressed a bruise. "You haven't spoken to me for a week."
Victoire's face changed. Only slightly. Enough.
"No," she said. "I haven't."
"Brilliant."
"You didn't seem to notice."
That landed.
Teddy's mouth opened. Closed.
Dom, for once, looked like she regretted having started anything.
Lucy stared at the ground.
Ginny kept her hand on Teddy's arm. "That's enough."
Teddy looked at her, indignation sharp. "She—"
"I said enough."
The words were quiet. But they landed.
Teddy shut his mouth.
Victoire looked away first. Not because she had lost. Because she was hurt enough that winning didn't seem worth it.
Bill shook his head, lips twitching faintly but eyes still watchful. "Some traditions never die, huh?"
Molly Jr looked up at Audrey. "Is everyone okay?"
Audrey gave a small smile. "They're fine, love. Just family."
Louis, trailing near Fleur, let out a small, impressed whisper. "That was intense."
Fleur gave him a gentle nudge. "Louis, focus on your bag."
Teddy didn't answer. He kept his hood up, jaw tight, cheeks still pink from more than the cold.
But he stayed close to Ginny. Close enough that her sleeve brushed his. Close enough that, when another flash went off behind them, he did not pull away when her hand found the back of his coat.
They reached the cars.
Teddy pulled away from her touch, his shoulder tensing under her fingers before he stepped back. He didn't do rounds of goodbyes. Didn't say "see you soon" to everyone or offer handshakes or hugs like most people did after spending time together. He just moved toward the Mercedes with purposeful strides, his posture rigid and closed off, opened the door with more force than necessary, and climbed in without looking back.
The door shut hard enough that it echoed across the driveway and through the still evening air.
The silence that followed had weight. It pressed down on everyone standing there, heavy and uncomfortable, filling the space where cheerful farewells should have been.
Ginny stood there for a long moment, her hand still suspended in the air where Teddy had been, before it dropped slowly to her side. Her fingers curled into a loose fist. Then she turned to face the family gathered on the front steps and gave them a tight, apologetic smile that didn't reach her eyes and looked more like a grimace.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, "He's exhausted. It's been a long day for him."
Bill glanced at Teddy's closed door, the reflection of the porch light glinting off the dark window, then back at her with understanding in his weathered face. "Let him be for now. He'll come around when he's ready."
Ginny looked at the Mercedes one more time. Through the window, she could just make out Teddy's silhouette, hood still up, face turned away. She thought of Harry in bed the other night, the fishing plan they'd settled on, the one term they'd agreed to give him. One chance to pull himself together before Quidditch was taken away. It wasn't mercy—it was a boundary, clearly drawn. She was angry at him, yes. But she was his mum—and she'd never give up on him.