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Chapter Text

Harry-

You’re on an aeroplane right now. Flying around in one of those Muggle contraptions I’ve only ever read about and peered up at as they pass overhead. It seems unreal. But then again, I imagine a lot of things in my life would seem unreal to a Muggle. I hope you and Hermione are keeping Ron from panicking too much or loudly asking stupid questions. It’s a shame it never occurred to him to take Muggle Studies.

We’re going to go into Diagon Alley to get my school things tomorrow. Which means soon enough it will be time for the Hogwarts Express. I imagine it speeding me back to a place I’m honestly not sure I ever want to see again. It freezes me up sometimes, thinking about it. But then I tamp it down and give myself a stern talking-to, not to let my fear stop me. I’m going back because I choose to, and because no one can take Hogwarts away from us. They tried, and I’m going to prove that they didn’t win.

I’m going to prove a lot of things.

-Ginny

*     *     *

Ginny-

Ron was too terrified to make a scene. I can’t pretend to have been much better. It’s just…really far up. And kinda shaky and I’d much rather be on my broom, to feel like I could control it all at least. It’s a long time to be stuck in a metal tube. Very glad to have it behind me.

Still it’s kinda weird to think that I’m halfway around the world from you. Things here aren’t that different. Not really. Everyone speaks English, and there is the same odd mix of wizards hiding in Muggle space. But then I’ll see something just weird enough to remind me that I’m in a completely different place (like the things they spread on toast or the animals that seem put together wrong).

They have Aurors assigned to me even though the local Ministry tries to pretend there aren’t. It’s stupid if you ask me. Not that anyone has. They don’t seem any more likely to listen to me than our own Ministry. Most people here have no idea who I am. It’s nice. But also weird, and sometimes I wonder if that makes me exactly the arrogant berk Professor Snape always accused me of being.

-Harry

*     *     *

I came down to breakfast the first morning at Hogwarts, and everything was different. The house tables were just gone. Instead there were small round tables everywhere, fitting six to eight people. One long buffet ran along each side and everyone had to get up to fill their plates. (Tobias loves complaining about the inconvenience, of course. He’s a war hero, he likes to remind people.) But the part that was so unexpected, so wonderful, was that everyone walked around and talked and sat in different places and no one thought ‘House’. No one sticking to ‘only their own kind’ (whatever that may be). It felt right.

*     *     *

It’s strange, traveling again. I mean, I spent half a year living in a tent with Ron and Hermione so it should be more normal than anything else, really. We’re still just as lost, most days. Still have no clear idea how to achieve our goal. Only it doesn’t feel the same this time. And not just because we’re staying in proper homes and hotels most of the time. Not even because we aren’t being hunted anymore. Everything is different now, but mostly Ron and Hermione. You know, them . Together.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for them, I really am. It’s just, it feels like for the first time they’ve gone somewhere I can’t follow. Ugh. That sounds stupid. I should probably just scratch that out, but I promised myself when I started writing you that I wouldn’t edit myself, wouldn’t rewrite and consider every word fifty times. No matter how dumb I sound. Because if I start that, I think I’d never get a single word down.

*     *     *

I miss Smita. I mean, I understand why she didn’t come back. Lots of people haven’t and I can’t blame them for that. After all, I nearly didn’t come back myself.

Smita and I weren’t even as close that last year as we had been, but she’s been my best friend since I was eleven, even before I realized she was my friend. But now she’s gone, and it isn’t the same kind of hole left by people who are never coming back. She’s fine, she’s happy. She just isn’t here. Even so, Tobias and I still can’t even speak her name. I thought maybe he still hadn’t forgiven me, feeling it was my fault she left in the first place, but I think maybe he just can’t forgive himself, even if I’m not sure for what.

Smita would remind us both that her choices are her own and to stop being such melodramatic prats.

Writing that brought a smile to my face. She’d want me to hold on to that.

*     *     *

I never thought it would take this long to find Hermione’s parents. I mean, I know I said probably months rather than weeks, but I didn’t think it would be weeks and weeks without even the tiniest bit of progress. Hermione reminds us that even the elimination of likely locations from our list is progress, but I thought we’d have something concrete by this point. Not that I’ve actually told her that. She followed me around with very little progress and much higher risk, after all, so I definitely owe her.

All the same, Ron’s patience is beginning to fray. You can imagine how it goes. “Bloody hell, Hermione, you couldn’t have imprinted a specific address on your parents instead of an entire bloody continent?”  “Don’t be stupid, Ronald. What would be the point of sending them away if I knew where they were?” Ron actually goes silent then, and I know he’s thinking about that day in Malfoy Manor. Just like I do. We both know why she did this.

I still can’t get the sound of Hermione’s screams out of my head. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to.

They tend to disappear together for a while after that.

I’m beginning to wonder though, if Hermione isn’t maybe dragging her feet a bit. I mean, how is she really supposed to undo what’s been done? How do you even begin to explain any of this to people who don’t even remember you exist? What if they can’t forgive her?

I actually don’t mind the delay all that much. You were right (of course). It’s nice to be away for a while. It makes a lot of things easier. Sleeping. Just, you know, being, I guess.

Not that I don’t miss you.

I definitely do.

*     *     *

I walked down the northern corridor the other day. You know the one I mean. I was on the way to class, moving fast, mind on something stupid like an essay or an upcoming test, and I turned the corner to find two first-years sitting in that exact spot playing Exploding Snap. For a moment everything slipped back in time and there was rubble and smoke and screams in the castle and when I came back to myself I was standing over the boys with rage in my heart. I could feel the words crawling up my throat, the demand to know how dare they and didn’t they know? But of course they didn’t know. They had no idea where they were or what happened there. Soon no one will unless I slap a giant plaque in place that will only be a constant reminder of shattering loss that still won’t really mean anything. Still, the only thing that got me to finally walk away was Fred’s voice in my head saying, “Leave them be, Gin.” And I know, somehow, that a couple of silly, laughing boys is a much better legacy to Fred than a brass plaque could ever be.

*     *     *

We finally found them.

We sat on a bench, waiting for them to pass by and Hermione walked up to them, like someone asking for the time, and they just looked back at her with blank, polite faces. I don’t know what any of us really expected; some bolt of recognition, some easy undoing. We all know how tricky memory charms can be.

She just let them walk away from her.

I can hear her now, in the next room.

I think part of her wonders if it would just be easier to leave them like this. Ignorant. Blissful. But this was never their choice. She can’t walk away from that. We won’t let her.

I think tomorrow—

“What is it with you and that bloody parchment?” Tobias asks.

Ginny glances up. “What?”

“You’ve always got your face attached to it,” he says, trying to grab the edge of the letter.

She pulls it protectively into her chest. “I do not,” she automatically defends.

Tobias rolls his eyes. “Fine. Cling to your illusions. Have you even started your Transfiguration essay?”

“Of course,” she says, but it’s another lie, because she may have forgotten all about that. She came straight back from dinner and back to her parchment.

“Let’s see it then,” he says, calling her bluff like the complete arsehole he is.

Ginny starts shoving her things into her bag. “You know, you used to be a lot more fun.”

“You mean back when we were fighting a war?” he shoots back.

She flees to The Parlor, just for a little more breathing room. It’s much quieter anyway, only Nicola and the twins ever down there.

Four sisters. That emptiness is just another problem, one she prefers not to think about. Rubbing at her forehead, she pulls Harry’s letter out again, her shoulders relaxing as she skims the by-now very familiar handwriting.

She’s barely found where she left off when Nicola sits down next to her. “Ginny?”

“What is it?” Ginny very nearly snaps, feeling strangely besieged from all sides.

Nicola shrinks back at her less than welcoming tone. “Never mind,” she says, pushing back to her feet. “It’s nothing.”

Ginny sighs, pressing her fingers to her temple. “No, stop. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take my mood out on you.”

Nicola hesitates like she’s trying to decide if she’s sure she wants to risk it, and that just makes Ginny feel worse. Whatever she wants must be important though, because she sits down on the edge of the sofa.

“Nicola,” Ginny says, carefully softening her voice. “What is it?”

Her fingers pluck at the frayed edge of her sleeve. “I was just wondering if you’ve noticed Gemma. The second-year?”

Ginny frowns, the name not meaning anything to her. She honestly isn’t even sure she can conjure the faces of any of the second-years.

She looks back down at the letter in her hands. She’d really rather just keep reading. Rather just pen her response to Harry, pour her words out and then go to bed before facing yet another day in the castle.

With great difficulty, she rolls up the parchment and turns her attention to Nicola.

“Tell me about her.”

*     *     *

The next afternoon Ginny wanders down to the greenhouses before Quidditch practice. Hannah is there, her apron dusted liberally with dirt and other various stains. Ginny’s greeting dies in her throat as she notices Professor Sprout dozing in a nearby sunbeam, hands folded in her lap and head leaned back against the wall.

Hannah glances at Sprout. “You won’t wake her,” she says, not even bothering to lower her voice. “She could sleep through a dragon attack.”

“Let’s not put that to the test, shall we?” Ginny says, pulling up a stool. Leaning an elbow on the table, she fiddles with a packet of seeds. Hannah eyes her but doesn’t push, the two of them sitting in silence.

Eventually Hannah holds out a spade. “If you’re going to be here, you might as well be useful,” she says.

“Oh, sure,” Ginny says, pulling a pot closer and starting to fill it with a mix of earth and volcanic ash.

There’s a certain comfort to be found in the simple mindless rhythm of the task, almost like a quill moving across parchment. Almost.

She sighs, frowning down at the pot.

“What is it, Ginny?” Hannah asks.

She considers playing dumb, making a deflective Tobias-like comment about just wanting to hang out with a friend and not realizing that isn’t allowed. But the truth is she is here for a reason and they both definitely know it. Which makes Ginny wonder just how long it’s been since they’ve done this.

Still, she doesn’t answer right away, her fingers pressing into the cool soil as if it requires all of her focus. She feels Hannah shift, just the tiniest indication, and Ginny knows it means she plans on pushing.

She straightens, wiping off her hands. “It’s just harder than I thought it would be.”

“Being back?”

Ginny shrugs, poking her fingers petulantly into the soil.

“Dreams?” Hannah asks. “Flashbacks?”

“Some,” she admits. Those she can handle. Most days.

Hannah passes her a sapling and Ginny carefully settles it into one of the pots. Hannah sprinkles the soil with a powder and gives Ginny a watering can. They work in silence, completing almost the entire batch before Ginny gets around to what she really wants to ask.

She rubs the back of a hand across her forehead. “It’s just…how do you know when you’re coping, and when you’re hiding?”

Hannah’s expression softens. “You’re here, Ginny. That’s a lot.”

She used to think that too. She just isn’t so sure anymore. “Am I though? Here?”

They’ve already been back for nearly two months. If she’s brutally honest, she barely spends any time in The Parlor, rarely attends DA meetings. A quick glance at Hannah’s expression tells Ginny she’s certainly noticed it.

Ginny wonders sometimes if the only reason she still goes to Quidditch is because she’s the one in charge. That almost terrifies her more than anything, Quidditch having become a chore.

“You’re doing your best,” Hannah stubbornly insists.

“That’s the thing,” Ginny says. “I don’t think I am.”

She’s here, yes. But some days it still doesn’t feel like it. She’s just a body going through the motions a lot of the time. She attends class, never misses practice, does enough of her homework to get by, but other than that, where is she?

Sitting with a piece of parchment attached to her face according to Tobias. He has the annoying habit of being right about things like that, the prat.

Because the ugly truth is that she has been pouring a lot of her energy and attention into that parchment. To Harry, she tells herself. But there is the tiniest part of her that isn’t quite sure. Just the faintest doubt like an itch at the back of her mind, because some days it feels like a quill in her hand is the only thing that gets her out of bed.

She made this promise to herself before. Not to pin all her hopes on a voice bleeding through on a piece of paper.

Not to use it as an escape.

“What are you going to do?” Hannah asks, watching her closely.

Picking up a spade, she pats down the soil. “What I always do,” Ginny says, fear and regret twisting in her stomach. “Something necessary.”

No matter how painful.

She goes to Quidditch practice, throws herself into it as best she can. Even manages to yell at one of her Beaters for being a complete moron, and to judge from Reiko’s gleeful expression it was probably long overdue.

After practice, she eats dinner and does all of her homework and sits in The Parlor and talks to Nicola and Hestia and Flora in turn. It feels nearly impossible, exhausting and uncomfortable, everything in her wanting to escape, but she stays, like a specimen pinned to a board.

When it’s late, she goes down to her dorm. Opening her bag, she pulls out the parchment, looking down at Harry’s writing sprawled across the page with something like painful relief. She finishes reading the last paragraph and then reaches for her wand. Casting the charm, she wipes the words clear away.

The urge to reach for a quill is horribly familiar and hard to resist, but there is this life around her. She has to do better than this.

Opening her trunk, she lays the blank parchment inside and closes the lid.

She sleeps poorly, but sticks to her plan, waiting three long days before responding to Harry, just to prove she can.

I’m sorry, she writes, things have been a bit crazy here. The first Quidditch match is almost here…

It’s shorter than usual, but she doesn’t trust herself with more because she just doesn’t have it in her to explain the dangers of quill and ink, to apologize. To say that she thought she could do it, she really did. She thought she was stronger than that. But maybe she isn’t.

She’s never been as brave as he is.

She sends the letter and puts it away and pledges to herself to only take it out three times a week. She doesn’t carry it around and she doesn’t only watch the events around her simply as fodder for letters, but forces herself to be a part of them. A participant. And when her fingers feel that frighteningly familiar itch to pick up a quill, she takes out a pair of knitting needles instead.

That November, it isn’t unusual at all for people to walk into the Slytherin common room to find Ginny sitting there, needles in hand. She owled her mum asking for some yarn, and she far overcompensated. Now the table is nearly overflowing.

There are a few raised eyebrows, but not one dares to comment. Not even when Tobias eventually demands to give it a try. “Okay, what the bloody hell is this all about?”

“It’s therapeutic,” Ginny insists.

Tobias glares down at the yarn, tongue poking out in concentration. “I really doubt this is making me sane.”

“It’s just yarn, not a miracle worker.”

“Hush,” he says. “I’m trying to concentrate!”

Tobias gives it up as a lost cause rather quickly. Ginny is relieved. His complaining doesn’t really help her focus.

Then one evening Astoria shows up. They haven’t spoken a single word to each other since Caroline’s funeral. But Astoria just sits down without comment as if this in no way extraordinary.

Astoria has her own pair of needles. Not the clunky ones Ginny’s using, but tiny ones with spools of thin, gossamer threads.

Ginny watches her over her tangle of yarn.

Astoria hasn’t been down to The Parlor this term. Not a single time. Which more than likely means she has also given up music.

Ginny doesn’t blame her. But just because she is rejecting The Parlor doesn’t mean she isn’t still Ginny’s responsibility. Another thing she refuses to let slide anymore.

It’s very late, most of the common room emptied, when Astoria finally speaks.

“She hated it.”

Ginny stops, looking up at her.

Astoria is still focused on the delicate threads in front of her, like she could almost be talking to herself. “The world we lived in. The rules and traditions and an entire childhood geared towards a proper marriage. She used to always say she was only brave enough to hate it, not brave enough to do anything about it.”

Her hands drop to her lap, threads tangling and needles clicking against each other.

“My father said the Dark Lord was supposed to make us safe. And powerful. And protect our way of life. But it was a lie. All the war did was kill. Both my father and our way of life. And I’m left wondering what I’m supposed to do with that. Mourn a father than enabled a monster? Celebrate a resistance that killed my best friend?”

She finally looks at Ginny. “My father’s war killed my best friend.”

Ginny nods, because that is a truth that can’t be escaped. “Yes. It did.”

Astoria’s jaw clenches. “I’d still rather it was your fault. That would be…easier.”

Ginny’s chest constricts painfully. “I played my part.”

She spears her with a hard glance. “No. Don’t you dare do that to her. That was Caroline’s choice. In the end, that’s all she bloody had.”

Scooping up her threads, she strides out of the room.

Ginny slumps back in her chair, staring into the deep nebulous depths of the lake.

*     *     *

Astoria returns the night after that, and the night after, and Ginny soon gets used to having her as a companion. They rarely speak, and Ginny wonders if Astoria is keeping her fingers busy for similar reasons. Like maybe her fingers itch for a bow she can’t stand to let herself touch.

Like maybe she thinks she doesn’t deserve it either.

“Who knew you had a domestic bone in your body, Weasley?” Draco comments one evening as he passes by.

Ginny doesn’t stop knitting. “Who knew you had a witty bone in yours?” she says, giving him a smile that is equally friendly and predatory.

He rolls his eyes.

They’ve developed a strange sort of relationship. They aren’t friends, don’t even particularly like each other. But on some level, they understand each other. She thinks he is more than aware of their complete shift in position. The fact that Ginny speaks to him at all can only benefit him.

He’s been persona non grata since he came back, everyone aware that his father is in Azkaban and his mother under house arrest, her wand confiscated. It’s not that he’s reviled, necessarily, but rather it’s acknowledged that he played the game and lost and now he has to pay the price. Ambition is one thing. Poorly executed ambition another all together. Anything he wants in this world, he’s going to have to start again from the bottom. No one is going to help him on that climb.

Not that there aren’t a few younger students who seem to want to turn him into some tragic hero. Children of fallen parents, maybe, who see redemption for themselves in his story. Some are just young and stupid. Draco, to his credit, seems to have no patience for any of them, which unfortunately only seems to encourage them.

Draco hasn’t moved on, his fingers tapping the back of the couch.

Ginny decides it may be time for a calculated risk. “If you’re going to keep hovering, sit down.”

“What?” he asks.

“There’s an extra pair of needles in the basket.”

To her surprise, he actually complies.

It’s not long until one of his wanna-be acolytes walks by, eyes wide. “What are you doing?”

“Knitting,” Draco says, peering down at the yarn in concentration. “Now bugger off.”

The younger student blinks in astonishment, but does as he’s told.

“Isn’t there anything more…refined?” Draco asks after a while, eyeing the delicate spin of threads in Astoria’s hands.

Astoria huffs under her breath, glancing at the tangle in his hands dismissively. “And let you mangle the expensive materials?”

Draco falls back into sullen silence, but keeps working.

A few younger students join them over the next couple days, and the next thing Ginny knows, she has a crafting circle on her hands. Hannah thinks it’s wonderful when she tells her.

“It’s weird,” Ginny insists.

“It’s comforting,” Hannah says. “Building something with your hands after spending so much time tearing the world apart.”

Ginny shakes her head.

As Ginny their first Quidditch match against Gryffindor approaches, she leaves the circle to Astoria.

“Could you do something for me?” Ginny asks Astoria one evening.

“What?” she asks, looking wary.

Ginny juts her chin towards Gemma. “Could you just keep an eye on her for me?”

Astoria frowns, looking at the girl. “Why?”

“There’s something about her.” Ginny still hasn’t completely figured it out one way or the other. She shakes her head. “I’m just swamped right now. So if you’re going to be here anyway, I thought you could just let me know if anything…interesting happens?”

Astoria neither agrees nor disagrees, but Ginny knows that’s probably all she can hope for at this point.

The match against Gryffindor does not exactly go to plan. If anyone is in danger of being eviscerated, it’s not Gryffindor. Martin struggles in the goals, and their new Beater is still lost more often than not, but Ginny takes most of the blame for their abysmal performance on herself. For her distraction, her lack of dedication. Lack of focus.

The score climbs and climbs, well beyond what they can hope to catch, and Ginny diverts from her path. Streaking by Reiko, she calls out, “If you see that Snitch, get it.”

“But—,” Reiko protests, because to catch it now means they’ll lose.

There’s no bloody time to debate it. “Just catch it!” she shouts, and heads back into formation.

It’s more important to end this match before Gryffindor scores any more goals than it is to win. She may lose this match, but she sure as hell isn’t going to lose the cup. She can salvage this.

She will.

Gryffindor only scores twice more before Reiko gets the Snitch. It closes a lot of the painful gap in the score, and they will just have to live with the loss.

Still, Reiko is so pissed she won’t even speak to Ginny for the rest of the day.

The next day, she writes a long letter to Harry detailing the match—her mistakes, her failures, her ideas for fixing it.

She doesn’t apologize for breaking her promise. Just puts the parchment back away and resolves to do better.

*     *     *

The last weeks of the term pass in a blur of homework and DA meetings and evenings in The Parlor and Ginny doing her best to keep on top of everything.

One evening near the end of term, she sits in The Parlor, a stack of letters in her lap. There’s one written on fine, expensive vellum with pressed tool work around the border that Ginny is studiously avoiding. Instead, she reads a slapdash note from Ron that arrived that morning from a very weary-looking owl.

Sorry we’ll be missing Christmas. Hope Mum doesn’t take it out on you lot. Just think of poor me with no family at all and Christmas in the melting heat. Barmy place this country.

Ginny knows none of them expected to be gone this long, but as usual, she’s tried not to have any expectations at all.

Hermione and Harry say hello.

“She’s really going to go through with it,” Nicola bursts out, her own fancy vellum letter clutched in her hands.

“Apparently,” Ginny says, glancing at the wedding invitation from Tilly.

“Ginny…” Nicola says, sounding pained. But also like she expects Ginny to fix this somehow.

She feels a spike of pain in her temples, rubbing absently at it. “It’s her decision.”

Nicola crosses her arms over her chest and very nearly pouts, for once looking like the fifteen-year-old girl she’s supposed to be if not for the war and her parents. “It isn’t fair.”

“No,” Ginny says. “It isn’t. But since when has fairness mattered?”

Pushing to her feet, she leaves The Parlor.

In the common room above, Astoria and Draco are sitting on a sofa together, a tangle of threads and yarns and needles between them. Having long since abandoned his own projects, Draco only holds the skein for her.

Ginny watches them. Astoria has already fallen into the habit of reporting to Ginny about Gemma, always sounding distant and uninterested. It’s progress all the same.

Draco leans closer, his fingers fumbling as he lets out a low curse. Astoria regards the top of his head with the closest Ginny has seen to a smile on her face. It’s intimate and comfortable and makes sense on some levels. Two broken people, pulling together. Children of Death Eaters trying to find a way forward. Together.

Ginny looks away, feeling something burn in her stomach.

Turning for the stairs, she goes down into her room. It’s time to pack and go home and face the empty spaces no matter how much she’d rather not. And in January, she’ll attend Tilly’s wedding and try not to think about how much peace is nothing like what she thought it would be.  

Chapter Text

Someone is following him.

Harry doesn’t look back over his shoulder to confirm it, just senses that the man who has been a careful block and a half behind him for the last twenty minutes is still there.

He keeps walking, his pace exactly the same. In the middle of the next block, he pauses to look into a shop front. Rather than admiring the flowers on display, he takes the chance to confirm the man (or wizard, more likely) is indeed still there.

Sure enough, the wizard has paused in front of a newsstand.

Harry’s been here for about a week now, in this Muggle town Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins decided to make their home. Long enough that Harry is somewhat familiar with the layout of the streets in the downtown area.

With a plan still forming in his mind, he starts back down the street. At the corner, he takes an abrupt turn, dashing across the street just as the light turns red. A disgruntled motorist sends Harry a rather rude salute before tearing back down the road after nearly clipping him. Harry keeps moving, turning off the main drag into into a smaller side street. He takes another immediate left into a garbage-strewn alleyway.

Halfway down there’s an old, dark record shop, and Harry ducks inside.

Striding down the aisles of old vinyl, he picks a spot between a stack of cassette tapes and an over-sized dust jacket of a Blondie album. From here he can just see the street through the dingy windows. He waits. It’s less than five minutes before the wizard passes by looking harried and rushed.

Harry waits another five minutes to make sure the wizard won’t backtrack.

“Do you have a back door?” he asks the guy behind the counter. He doesn’t even look up from his copy of Rolling Stone, gesturing vaguely towards the rear of the shop.

“Cheers,” Harry mumbles before wandering through what is clearly a stock room to an exit labeled with a dim neon sign.

Rather than opening into an alley, Harry finds himself in the loud, busy kitchen of a Chinese restaurant. Someone yells at him in Cantonese, and Harry smiles apologetically before escaping out into the main dining room. Content that he’s lost his tail, Harry pauses, his stomach growling in response to the smells of the restaurant.

Lingering over a menu, he eventually orders some twice-cooked pork and a large side of chow mein. With food in hand, he cautiously steps back out onto the main street. It’s more crowded now with the mid-day lunch crowds, and there’s no sign of his stalker.

He retraces the familiar path back to a residential neighborhood full of carefully tended townhouses, going up the steps of the third one on the left with a door painted dark blue.

“Hello?” Harry calls out as he steps into the entryway. There’s no answer. He dumps the food in the kitchen and continues back through the house.

Hermione and Ron are sitting out on the small screened-in porch looking over a miniscule yard with a splashing bird fountain. A ceiling fan works against the gathering warmth as spring advances into summer.

“Hey,” Harry says.

Ron gives him a welcoming smile that seems rather relieved as well. “Mate. There you are.”

“Sorry,” Harry says. “Got a little lost.”

Ron snorts.

Harry lays a gentle hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “I brought some food.”

She glances up at him, giving him a distracted smile that honestly looks more like a grimace. She still looks worn and unrested, fragile in a way he’s rarely seen.

“What do you say we eat out here?” Ron says, voice thick with fake cheerfulness for all he’s talking softly.

“Yeah,” Hermione murmurs, seeming content to stay where she is. “Okay.”

Ron goes inside with Harry to get plates.

“You alright?” Harry asks, eying his mate.

“Yeah,” Ron says. He determinedly lifts his chin. “We always knew it wouldn’t be a spring broom ride, right?”

Yeah, but that doesn’t make it any less difficult. Hard on Hermione, of course, but also for Ron, as he tries to be there for her the best he can. It’s been three days since they put Hermione’s parents into the local Wizarding hospital. It was every bit as horrible as Hermione must have feared, her parents wild with confusion and fear and demanding to know who they were and what was happening to them.

“Why are you doing this?” Hermione’s mum asked.

“Everything is going to be okay,” Hermione promised them through her tears. “No one will hurt you.”

Of course that meant nothing to Mr. and Mrs. ‘Wilkins’.

It’s been three days since then. Three days of silence after the Healers asked them to stay away for a full week.

“How’s she doing?” Harry asks.

Ron pulls out forks. “Pretty much the same. If she’s not doing paperwork and making tellyphone calls, she’s sitting out there.”

Hermione’s been coping by throwing herself into taking care of her parents’ affairs—paying their bills, making excuses to their employers.

It honestly reminds Harry a lot of the way she was after Ron first left last year, but doesn’t dare say so. “It’s good that you’re here,” he says instead.

“Well,” Ron says, “it’s not like we were gonna let her do it on her own, was it?”

“No,” Harry says.

After lunch, Harry pulls back a curtain on the front window and peers outside. The wizard is back, leaning against a lamppost across the street a few houses down.

“He still there?” Ron asks.

“Yeah.”

“You ditch him again?”

Harry shrugs. “It’s kind of fun.”

Ron snorts. “Which part? The actual ditching or the making the Ministry look stupid?”

“Both,” Harry says.

It’s not the first Auror he’s spotted following him around since he’s been in Australia. So it’s not surprising or anything, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying. He can only assume Kingsley has been in contact with the local Ministry. Still pulling strings from halfway across the world. It’s really hard not to resent that.

That evening, Harry decides to ignore his Auror, settling on a park bench to read a lengthy letter from Ginny detailing Hufflepuff’s win over Ravenclaw the previous weekend. The game was apparently very low scoring, Hufflepuff surprising everyone by proving to be a defensive powerhouse. According to Ginny, it was still a closer match than Gryffindor’s apparent throttling of Slytherin a few weeks before. He can tell she still hasn’t quite forgiven herself for the loss.

Still, her analysis is actually pretty funny, and surprisingly in-depth, like she’s working out new strategies as she describes them to him.

Her letters have been coming less often the last month, even if they are still as long as ever. He tells himself that’s a good thing, because if she’s too busy to write she must be doing well. From their content, it seems like she’s more involved with things than she was earlier in the term. He knows it’s been a struggle for her, and it’s a good sign, even if he can’t help but think her letters are starting to feel more distant as they start to be more and more about castle events.

His own aren’t much better, there being only so many things to say about this town or Hermione’s parents.

Leaning back on the bench, he rolls up the parchment and spends the next half hour brainstorming new ways to ditch his babysitter.

*    *    *

“You know,” Ron observes, frowning down at the playing cards fanned out in his hands, “I think this game could be greatly improved if we played with an Exploding Snap deck.”

“You say that about all Muggle card games,” Harry points out as he discards.

“Yeah, well, if there’s no chance of getting a third-degree burn, what’s the point?”

Harry gamely grins, knowing Ron is just trying to keep them both distracted while Hermione is talking to the doctors through the Floo in the living room.

Ron turns to look at the closed kitchen door.

“Hey,” Harry says, nudging him with his foot. “It’s your turn.”

“What?” Ron says, spinning back around. “Oh, right.”

He makes a terrible play, but neither of them comment on it.

The door pushes open, and Ron jumps to his feet, cards instantly forgotten. “Hey,” he says.

Hermione gives him a tight smile, her face wan. “They say I can come in this afternoon. See if there's any chance they...”

“Okay,” Ron says. “We’ll come with you.”

Harry nods, pushing to his feet as well.

Hermione shakes her head. “You don’t have to do that.”

Ron moves closer, his hand on her arm. “It’s not about have to, ‘Mione. We want to.”

Hermione looks up at him, her eyes rather glassy with tears. “I’d really…” She sighs, her hand reaching out to touch his chest. “I just think this is something I need to do on my own.”

Ron frowns, clearly looking like he wants to push. “If you’re sure.”

“I am,” she says.

“Okay,” he says, pulling her into a hug. “Can we at least walk you there?”

She lets out a soft laugh, turning her face into his chest. “Yeah.”  

Harry sits back down at the table, carefully collecting up the deck of cards to give them a moment.

They walk her there in the afternoon and then sit on the steps out front and wait, Ron getting up to pace back and forth every once and a while. Harry just sits and watches a young mum with two kids in the park across the street.  

It’s been less than a half hour when Hermione comes back out tight-lipped and pale, and Harry doesn’t have the heart to ask for details, still too busy feeling guilty. Ron seems to know just what to do though, deliberately making a mess of something in the kitchen when they get back just to give Hermione something to distract herself with.

After dinner, the two fall into their familiar bickering routine that these days often leads to something else entirely, so Harry decides to make himself scarce.

Intending to go for another walk, Harry steps out on the stoop. As always, his stalker is across the street. For once, he just doesn’t have it in him to lead him on a wild chase. Instead, Harry heads straight for him, leaning against the fence next to him and shoving his hands in his pockets.

“So what exactly did you do to get stuck with this assignment?”

The Auror looks at him over the newspaper he is supposedly reading. He tries to play it off. “Excuse me?”

Harry’s torn between annoyance that they didn’t assign someone better and relief that it probably means there isn’t a real threat or anything.

“It’s got to be excruciatingly boring,” Harry continues. “I mean, I tried to make it more interesting for you, but ditching you is starting to lose its luster.” He tilts his head to the side. “I could try to get attacked instead or something. Do you even have Death Eaters here? Do you call them something else?”

For a moment it seems like the Auror might continue trying to bluff, but eventually he sighs. “You’re a pain in the arse, you know that, Mr. Potter?”

Harry shrugs. “People have told me that before.” He holds out his hand. “Harry.”

The Auror reluctantly takes it. “Gerard.”

Official introductions completed, Harry sits down on the curb, kicking his feet out in front of him.

Gerard finally seems to relax when it becomes clear that Harry has no intention of running off or hexing him. “Does this mean we can stop chasing each other all over the bloody place?”

“Deal,” Harry agrees.

It takes him another week to even notice the other Auror.

“And only because I let you,” Barina informs him as she falls in step next to Gerard one day.

Harry can’t be sure if she’s just that good, or if he’s let his guard down a little too much since he’s been here. Looking her over, he notes that the pair of them make the most unlikely looking team he’s ever seen—even more than Tonks and Mad-Eye. But that thought brings up a horrid tightness in his throat, so Harry focuses on his new babysitters instead. Gerard is middle-aged and going to fat, his fair hair thinning. Barina is short and dark with an abundance of frizzy hair and a nose ring.

Now that they are all speaking to one another, Harry takes to drilling them for information. “So, do you like it? Being an Auror? What was the training like?”

“Oh, no,” Barina complains. “Are you an Auror groupie?”

Harry feels his face warm. “No,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I was just curious.”

“You interested in serving?” Gerard asks. “Because I’m trying to imagine how that would work. People always stopping and staring at you in the streets.”

Barina snorts. “Asking for autographs and hitting on you.”

“I’m not that famous,” Harry tries to hedge. Not a single person here has ever bothered him after all. It’s strange and nice all at once, even if it means he isn’t really sure what to do with himself. At least that feeling of having constantly forgotten something hugely important has started to fade.

Gerard and Barina have both come to a stop. They’re looking at him like he’s an idiot.

“What?” he asks.

“You realize that you’re our job, right?” Barina says. “We know everything there is to know about you, Potter.”

Gerard nods. “Yeah. Read every article ever written about you, every report filed at your Ministry. It was a god damned library.”

Barina groans at the memory. “You know it ain’t all dark wizard chasing, right? Mostly it’s a lot of waiting around for something to happen.”

Gerard nods. “And paperwork. You wouldn’t believe the piles of paperwork.”

“We should let Potter do it for us,” Barina suggests. “Like an internship! That’ll cure him of the inclination right quick.”

Harry rolls his eyes and considers ditching them again.

*     *     *

Ron comes home the next afternoon having gotten a job in a kitchen at a Muggle pub of all things.

Hermione looks horrified, but she’s the one who has been fretting over how to pay her parents’ mortgage, not wanting to take yet another thing away from them by letting them lose their house and refusing to take more money from Harry. Either way, the Healers have made it clear that they are going to be here for a while, and they’re going to have to find a way to make ends meet.

“It’s fine, Hermione,” Ron says with an easy smile. “I get to learn to cook Muggle!”

She turns to Harry with wide eyes.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Harry says with confidence he doesn’t feel. “Just so long as he isn’t cooking actual Muggles.”

Ron cracks up.

By unspoken agreement, Harry goes in with Ron on his first day, mostly just to make sure Ron doesn’t make a muck of the statute of secrecy. Fortunately, everyone seems quick to blame any quirks on their being British. After a while, Harry eventually picks up a few shifts clearing tables and washing dishes. Not exactly exciting, but it brings in a paycheck and fills the days.

Hermione goes a step above and gets herself a clerical job with the local Ministry. Having a letter of recommendation from the Minister of Magic of Great Britain certainly helps, and Harry tells himself it’s stupid to resent the way people still seem to be manipulating their lives even from this far away.

The worst part is that she spends the next few weeks boring them with endless talk of comparative civics.

“Merlin,” Ron complains when she’s out of hearing. “It’s like being back in school again.”

Harry doesn’t mention the way Ron looks at her whenever she beings to blather on about it. Some things are much better left unsaid, especially when you’re stuck living with your two best mates who also happen to more than likely be shagging.

But that is definitely another thing Harry does not think about.  

And so they settle into their new lives as the Healers slowly pull back the charms imposed by Hermione, to see if there is anything left of the Grangers. Before they know it, the holidays are upon them.

It’s hard to get into the festive feeling when it’s hotter than anything Harry has ever felt. He honestly didn’t know places got this hot. Still, there’s fairy lights and wreaths and all the trappings of Christmas despite the sweltering heat.

“Just you wait,” Barina says as she walks him back to the Grangers’. “We haven’t even started.”

On the stoop, he says goodbye to his Aurors, promising not to stir from the house until morning. They give him relieved looks and disappear. Back home to their families, hopefully.

Harry opens the front door, the smell of dinner rushing out to meet him. Ron’s been planning something fairly extravagant, anything to take their minds off another holiday far from home.

Harry kicks off his shoes. “Smells good,” he calls.

He comes to a stop in the sitting room, his greeting dying in his throat. Hermione is sitting on the sofa next to a young blond woman.

“Harry,” Hermione says, voice overly enthusiastic and bubbly as she gives him a nervous smile.

Harry schools his expression, ignoring Hermione and turning instead to the woman watching the exchange with obvious amusement. “Cass,” he says. “I didn’t know you were coming.” He looks at Hermione. “What a surprise.”

“Oh,” Cass says, “Ron and Hermione insisted.”

Harry smiles at her as best he can, because as little as he knows her, they do work together at the pub. “I’m sure they did.” He nods his head towards the kitchen. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see if Ron needs any help.”

Cass gives him a knowing smile. “Sure.”

Closing the door to the kitchen behind him, Harry casts Muffliato and turns on Ron.

“What did you do?” he demands.

Ron looks up from the pot he’s stirring. “Now don’t get mad. It was Hermione’s idea.”

Harry glares.

“Okay, okay. We both thought it was a good idea. Cass is nice! And objectively attractive, if I noticed things like that anymore.”

“And also a Muggle,” Harry points out.

“Merlin, Harry. Don’t be prejudiced.”

“Are you kidding me?” Harry very nearly shouts.

Ron seems unperturbed. “At least we know she isn’t after the Chosen One, right?”

Harry sighs. “Ron.”

He relents. “Look. Just try to relax and try to enjoy yourself, okay? She didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Harry frowns. “Really?”

Ron shrugs. “The scuttle at work is that she’s estranged from her family or something. I don’t know. Seemed a sad time of year to be alone.”

“Well, then,” Harry says, feeling his anger fade somewhat. “I suppose that’s different.”

Ron looks relieved to have avoided Harry blowing up at him. “Look, we know you aren’t going to marry her or anything. It’s just meant to be a little fun.”

Harry gives him a sharp glare. “What would you know about a little fun?”

Ron laughs. “Fair point.” Grabbing Harry’s shoulders, he pushes him back towards the door. “Now go be nice while I finish dinner.”

“Yes, Mum,” Harry says, resigning himself to small talk.

It’s actually fine. He knows Cass from work, and she’s always been nice enough. A bit of a laugh, really. Fortunately she also doesn’t make anything awkward, either missing the strange undercurrents or choosing to ignore it.

Dinner is really good. Ron’s skills in the kitchen have only improved with his crash course in Muggle cooking. Enough that Harry wonders if his wand was the thing getting in the way. He makes a mental note to mention that to Ginny in his next letter. She’ll probably find that amusing.

“Harry?”

“What?” he asks, looking up from his plate to find Hermione staring at him from the other side of the table, a stack of desert plates in her hands.

“I said I’m going to help Ron with the dishes,” she says, giving him a pointed look. “Why don’t you walk Cass out?”

Harry is going to kill her later.

“She’s not very subtle, is she?” Cass says as they walk to the door.

“I’m sorry about this,” Harry says, rubbing at the back of his neck.

She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. I had a feeling it was a set-up when Ron asked me.”

He looks at her in surprise. “And you came anyway?”

She shrugs. “There are worse ideas.”

Harry blinks. “Than dating me?”

“Sure,” she says, smiling at him in a way he imagines is supposed to be charming. “It would certainly mean I didn’t have to deal with any trouble at the pub anymore, being your girl.”

Harry frowns. “People are giving you trouble?”

She laughs. “No need to go all super intense,” she says, waving her hand at his face. “I just mean everyone would be on their best behavior. And no one would dare skimp on my tips.”

Harry isn’t so certain. “You think so?”

She smiles at him, her head tilting to the side and her curls bouncing becomingly. “You really don’t see it, do you? You’re not exactly the kind of bloke someone messes with.”

Harry honestly has no idea what she means by that, because at the pub he’s just the bumbling Muggle kid who washes dishes, not a Chosen One or dark wizard defeater.

“Look, it’s fine if you aren’t interested,” she says, pulling to door open and walking out onto the stoop. “I’m not looking for anything serious. But if you ever need a plus one to get your friends off your back, just let me know.”

Leaning into him, she presses a kiss to his cheek before waving and disappearing down the steps. He stares after her.

“Are you going to be okay getting home on your own?” he calls out, frowning out over the dark street.

She turns to look at him, walking backwards down the sidewalk with her arms thrown wide. “Why? Going to offer to walk me home?”

Harry curses under his breath, pulling the door closed behind him before darting down the steps after her.

What Gerard and Barina don’t know won’t hurt them, he supposes.

*     *     *

At work, Cass treats him the same as she always has, and they don’t mention it again. Harry is relieved. But he also can’t help but think about what she said, not about dating her, but about people being on their best behavior at the pub.  

It’s been about a week since Christmas when out of the corner of his eye he sees it, a customer’s hand reaching out and brushing the hem of her skirt where it falls just above her knees. Cass gives the bloke a thoroughly artificial smile and steps out of the way as much as the enormous plate of food in her hands allows her to. The arsehole follows after her, saying something Harry can only imagine is lewd to judge from the way Cass’s face tinges pink as the rest of the table laughs.

She stands frozen a moment, and Harry realizes she’s trying to figure out how to deliver the last plate of food without getting bloody groped. Or fired.

Harry doesn’t think, just strides over and takes the plate from Cass’s hands.

“Harry—” she starts to say, looking alarmed.

He ignores her, stepping up behind the guy and plopping the plate down in front of him, some of the food slopping over onto the table.

“What the—” the bloke exclaims, looking up and almost comically startling when he realizes it’s not the pretty waitress that is pressed up in his space.

Harry doesn’t move back, leaning one hand on the table so he is even closer. “Eat your food. Tip your waitress very well. And keep your hands and your comments to your fucking self.”

He hasn’t kept his voice particularly quiet, and he’s aware of a lot of eyes on him. He ignores that for now, focusing instead on the customer.

The guy is definitely bigger than Harry, and much older too, but Harry’s always been quick. Of course, there’s four of them if his friends decide to throw in. It could get interesting.

Harry hasn’t had a lot of interesting in his life in a while.

The guy tries to scoot his chair back, but Harry puts his other hand on it and holds the chair in place. “You should also apologize.”

The tension in the room seems to ratchet up while the guy thinks about it, his friends shifting in their chairs. The arsehole resorts to trying to stare him down, but Harry just stares back, his fingers twitching for his wand.

It’s probably stupid that Harry’s disappointed when the guy backs down. His eyes dart towards Cass. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Didn’t mean no harm.”

Not exactly glowing, but Cass gives the guy a nod, smiling as if it’s no big deal.

Harry straightens, staring at each of them in turn. “Enjoy your meal.”

He lingers another few minutes just to make sure there won’t be any more trouble before heading back for the kitchen.

Ron’s in the doorway, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Having fun?”

“Loads,” Harry says, not particularly wanting to admit that he’d be having more fun if the guy hadn’t backed down.

“Do you even know how to fist-fight?”

“I know how to duck,” Harry says.

Ron doesn’t look so sure. “Remember, we’ve always done our best to leave the punching to Hermione.”

Harry lets out a reluctant laugh.

Ron pats him on the shoulder. “Next time just give me a little warning, will you? I’ve got some serious cast iron pots back here.”

Harry grins, in no way surprised to hear that Ron wouldn’t hesitate to throw in with him. It would hardly be the first time, and probably wouldn’t be the last.

“We totally could have taken them,” Harry says.

“Oh, no doubt,” Ron agrees with a laugh.

Harry keeps an eye out the rest of the night, but everyone seems very well-behaved.

He pays a lot more attention the next week though, realizing that while no customers usually act quite that badly, they still treat the waitresses in a way that doesn’t particularly sit well with him.

He watches Cass leave one night and thinks about that arsehole customer, and her walking home alone. The way she freezes sometimes when there’s an unexpected noise. The way it feels familiar in all the worst ways.

“Cass,” he says, stopping her.

She turns, smiling at him. “Yeah?”

“We’re going for drinks later, if you’d like to come,” he practically blurts.

“Yeah?” she asks, looking strangely hopeful.

He nods.

She hooks her hand through his arm. “I’d love to,” she says. She presses a quick kiss to his cheek before returning to her tables. “See you later!”

Unsurprisingly, drinks with Cass is fun and simple, just like she promised. It’s almost ruined by how pleased Hermione looks, but it is nice to have someone to talk to when he starts to feel like a third wheel.

And so they fall into a comfortable pattern leading into the New Year. Whenever he has somewhere to go, he takes her along, and she returns the favor. It keeps Hermione off his back, and Cass seems more relaxed at work. Harry still has to step in from time to time, but word of his protectiveness seems to spread because the incidents happen less and less often. He still never gets to punch anyone, though Ron threatens someone with a rolling pin once.

Outside the pub, everything stays rather light and uncomplicated.

She never asks about the roll of parchment he carries around or why he has a security tail. Why he’s in Australia or how long he intends to stay.

She seems utterly incurious, and he returns the favor by not wondering why she never talks about her past or why she would want to waste her time not-dating him.

Nothing serious, he reminds himself.

*     *     *

Ron lifts his glass, peering at the liquid sloshing inside. “You know,” he says, voice overly loud as they lounge in a rather rowdy bar. “Muggles may be barmy, but they sure know their way around alcohol. I mean, this shit would make a Thestral blind.”

He laughs at his own joke, and Harry, despite knowing better, laughs along with him.

Cass looks up at Ron from where her head is resting on Harry’s shoulder, her feet tucked up under her. “I don’t even know what you’re on about half the time,” she says.

Harry thinks it’s probably fortunate they’re all pretty drunk. The slip-up will be easy to play off.

At least it would be if Hermione didn’t immediately whisper furiously in Ron’s ear, the words statute of secrecy hissed loud enough to be audible. Not that Ron seems to mind being ranted at by Hermione, his arm wrapping around her waist as he smiles dopily at her. When she pauses in her diatribe, he drags her closer and says something in her ear that has her entire face flushing.

Harry looks away, leaning forward to refill his glass only to find the pitcher empty. “Bugger,” he mutters.

Cass swings her feet to the floor. “I can’t watch this anymore,” she declares, gesturing at Ron and Hermione, who are now nearly in each other’s laps.

“Me either,” Harry says. Especially if there isn’t going to be any more alcohol.

Cass pokes him in the arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

Harry nods, getting to his feet, pausing as everything swivels.

“You alright?” Cass says.

“Sure,” Harry says.  

They say their farewells, but Ron and Hermione don’t even notice as far as Harry can tell.

Outside, Cass winds her arm through his, and he’s gotten used to it at this point. She’s kinda touchy-feely, especially when she’s been drinking. He finds it annoying sometimes, but tonight he kinda doesn’t give a crap.

He leans his head back, looking up at the stars. He still can’t get over the basic disorientation of the constellations not being where he expects them to be. Beyond his required astronomy classes, he never gave them much thought at all. He still knows they’re wrong.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

“Are they really necessary?” Cass asks.

“What?” Harry asks, struggling to focus back on her.

Her head cants towards Gerard where he’s leaning against a nearby light post. “Like, is your life in danger or something?”

“Oh,” he says, wondering if his words are slow or just his brain. “No. That’s just—” He waves a hand in a vague gesture. “Stupid, really.”

“Good,” Cass says, smiling at him. “Then let’s ditch ‘em.”

“What?” he asks.

She grabs his hand, pulling him along with a laugh. “Come on, Harry. Live a little!”

It’s there again, that strange disorientation. Live a little. She tugs his arm insistently.

“Right,” he says, and lets himself be pulled away because he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to.

Soon enough they are running down the streets, taking random turns and laughing hard. Harry can hear Gerard cursing and running to keep up, but doesn’t stop. He’s got a stitch in his side and knows they can’t do this for much longer.

He tugs Cass into a dark doorway, pressing into the shadows and casting a subtle screening charm that if he were sober he probably never would have risked in front of her.

Gerard darts right past them.

“How did he not see us?” Cass asks, dissolving into giggles.

“No idea,” Harry lies.

She leans back against the wall. “God, that was fun.”

Harry’s heart is still thundering from running, and yes, it was fun. Doing something stupid and childish and none of it mattering really. That’s what he should be doing, right?

Her face nearly level with his, and it’s kind of like the stars, the way it doesn’t quite feel right.

Things are really hazy at this point, so he isn’t really sure how his mouth ends up on hers, who actually moves or what happened, just knows that it feels pretty okay. It’s kind of sloppy and she’s kissing him rather aggressively and that isn’t that great, but he honestly doesn’t care because he doesn’t want to think right now, everything just spinning and spinning.

Her arms wind up around his neck, her body pressing against the length of his, and it’s a bit of a shock, like he’s forgotten what it feels like to be touched, to have someone near him, holding him, and suddenly he really wants that. Wants to be wanted, or something. Needed. He doesn’t know, just kisses her back, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her closer.

Everything tilts dangerously, Cass letting out a slight yelp, and it takes Harry far longer that it should to realize that someone has opened the door that they are leaning against. The woman gives them a scandalized look. Cass just laughs and tugs Harry’s hand. He follows her out into the street without a word, his hand tight in hers as they wind their way towards her flat.

It takes a while to make it to the right part of town, but Gerard is back and looking cross after only a few blocks.

Once on the correct stoop, Cass fumbles with her keys, nearly dropping them, and Harry takes them from her, not doing much better himself, but eventually getting the front lock undone while she laughs and leans against him. He pulls the door open, and she ducks under his arm.

Grabbing at the front of his shirt, she draws him into the doorway, her mouth back on his, but this kiss lacks all of the mindless rush of the one before, like he’s sobering up or his thoughts have caught up with him or something. He tries to ignore it.

She tugs again, her intentions very clear, but his feet stay firmly put. Harry glares down at them.

Nope. They are definitely not moving.

“Right,” he says, leaning back and squeezing her hand before letting go. “Night, Cass.”

She doesn’t protest, just blinking back at him in confusion before saying, “Night, Harry.”

He turns and walks away, trying not to think the entire way back. Just stares at the pavement and focuses on the heavy tread of Gerard’s footsteps behind him. Back at the Grangers he slinks upstairs past Hermione’s room, pretending not to notice that Ron’s bed is empty before falling face first onto his own bed.

He wakes the next morning not a little hungover and feeling really, really terrible. And not just because of the alcohol.

But why the hell should he?

Live your life.

He’s just doing what he promised. Having a little fun as Ron put it. It’s what he’s supposed to do, isn’t it?

Only that is a complete load of bollocks, and he knows it.

He doesn’t want to mess about. He doesn’t want a bit of fun. Not with anyone, really. And certainly not with Cass. He likes her too much. But also nowhere near enough. And she has no idea what or who he really is, and he has no intention of staying here, and that isn’t fair to her at all.

The truth is he never wanted not-serious with anyone in the first place. And there is only one person he wants anything more with. And that is not Cass.

“Bugger,” he says, rolling over and pressing his face into his pillow.

*     *     *

He doesn’t see Cass again until the beginning of his shift two days later. She smiles at him as he enters, but doesn’t make her usual big show of a greeting.

A few hours later, she pokes her head in the kitchen. “Got a minute?” she asks.

“Sure,” he says.

They walk out into the back alley. Barina is lingering at the far end, trying to look like she’s not there. Harry ignores her, instead watching Cass as she lights a cigarette. In all the time they’ve spent together, he’s never seen her smoke before.

“I know,” she says, her nose wrinkling. “Nasty habit.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, shoving his hands in his pockets and slouching back against the wall.

“So this is weird,” she says.

He grimaces. “Look, Cass…”

She lifts her hand. “Just let me say something will you?”

He considers pressing through, but he’s a coward, really, so just nods and lets her speak.

“I just wanted to thank you for not, you know, coming inside with me the other night.” She looks like she’s having a hard time looking him in the face.

Harry grimaces. “Oh, uh, yeah. Neither of us were very sober.”

She looks at him like he’s just said something vaguely unexpected. “Yeah, well, after everything you’ve done for me, I suppose an argument could be made that I…” She gestures vaguely.

Harry frowns, honestly having no idea what she’s trying to say. He hasn’t really done anything for her. “That you what?”

She shrugs, scuffing at the concrete with her shoe. “I dunno. Owe you. Or something.”

It takes Harry a second to even figure out exactly what she’s implying, and then he feels a hard rush of something like horror. “Owe me?” he says.

Her chin lifts. “Don’t look at me like that,” she says, dropping her cigarette and stomping it out. “You don’t know. You don’t have any idea—” She snaps her mouth shut on whatever else she was going to say.   

Harry is staring at her in shock. He’s not sure he’s ever heard her sound like this, voice hard and expression almost angry. She’s always cheery and easy-going and nothing ever seems to bother her. It’s a reminder though, that he doesn’t actually know anything about her. Not any more than she knows anything about him. Just surfaces.

It all leaves him feeling even more ill than before.

“Bloody oath,” she says, dragging a hand over her face. “This was supposed to be light and simple. I wasn’t supposed to actually like you.”

“I like you too, Cass,” he admits miserably, because it’s the truth. Far too much to have let this happen.

She gives him a tight smile, not looking particularly appeased. “You’re sweet. But honestly, you’re also just…” Her eyes dart down the alley towards Barina. “You’re the kind of trouble I have no interest in, in oh-so-many ways.”

“I see,” Harry says, and there is no reason that should sting. He doesn’t care that he isn’t her type, that she isn’t interested. He’s relieved to hear it, honestly. Very relieved.

It’s just also kind of hard to hear that he’s still more trouble than he’s worth, even to a Muggle halfway across the world.

Cass groans. “God, you hate me, don’t you?”

He shakes his head. “No,” he says, and it’s true.

She frowns at him, staring closely like she’s trying to read his thoughts. “Oh, fuck,” she says. “You want to forget that happened just as much as I do.” She laughs. “What a pair we make.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, not wanting to hurt her. “I didn’t mean…”

She shakes her head. “You’re a good bloke, Harry Potter,” she says, reaching out and squeezing his arm.

“Not really.” He isn’t sure what this entire fiasco says about him, but he knows it isn’t good.

She laughs again. “It’s only the good ones who say that. Trust me.” She lifts up and presses a kiss to his cheek. She smells like smoke and stale chips. He forces himself not to pull back.

“See you around, okay?” she says.

He nods.

They leave it at that, their not-dating days at an end. Harry watches Cass move on to the burly, rather dull-witted bartender with a sense of detachment. He supposes he should be angry that she clearly was just using him to make her job easier, but it’s not like he hadn’t done the same just to get Hermione to leave him alone. To stop feeling like the odd man out.  

When Hermione bugs him about ‘getting back up on the horse’, he puts his foot down. He flat out refuses to go out on any more dates, no matter how much she tries to manipulate him into it, because he thinks maybe he finally gets it, that someone needing you to do things for them isn’t really the same as someone needing you.

“You sure, mate?” Ron asks.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “A bit of fun really isn’t what I want.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Ron says with an amused smile like he’d never really expect anything different from him.

Harry scowls. “Can we stop talking about this now?”

“Merlin, yes,” Ron says. “Let’s go watch a rugby thing.”

“Yeah, because maybe it will suddenly make sense the twentieth time we try.”

Ron grins. “Who knows?”

Ron leaves him alone after that, apparently having accepted that he’s serious.

Fortunately Hermione is distracted soon enough by the Healers talking about the possibility of releasing the Grangers to their care. After that everything is a mess of shuffling work schedules and Hermione’s mounting anxiety. Ron takes weekly lunch shifts and weekends, so Hermione can have Saturday and Sunday with her parents. Harry takes the dinner and night shifts to give Hermione and Ron evenings together while watching the Grangers during the day.

January bleeds into February, and Harry just keeps moving.

Chapter Text

Ginny slows her step when someone calls out her name, looking back over her shoulder to see Astoria striding towards her down the hallway.

“Hey,” Ginny says as she falls into step next to her.

Astoria merely nods back, clearly uncomfortable. It’s been long months since they started talking again, but conversations between them are still far from easy. But Ginny isn’t giving up.

“I’m going to bring Gemma down next week,” Ginny says. “If you’d like to—”

“No,” Astoria says, cutting across her. For all she helped Ginny get a clear view of who Gemma is, of whether or not she would benefit from being in the sisterhood, Astoria still wants nothing to do with The Parlor. “I actually wanted to talk to you about someone in the craft circle.”

They’ve been back from winter break for almost two weeks now, but Ginny hasn’t found any time to knit. If that means she no longer needs something to distract her from parchment and ink, she knows she should probably count that as a victory. The material point is that as the craft circle has grown, Astoria is the one central linchpin of the group, not Ginny.

“What’s going on?” Ginny asks.

“There’s someone who makes the most extraordinary embroidery I’ve ever seen. Pretty amazing stuff. I asked if I could buy some for an old set of robes I was hoping to update.”

She pauses, her cheeks pinking, and Ginny knows this is embarrassment for letting on that she has a limited budget. Living austerely is not something she is used to. Ginny lets it pass without comment. She doubts commiseration from a chronically poor Weasley would do much to help, especially since money seems far less tight for them as her brothers start their own careers and her father’s position increases at the Ministry. It’s a strange swap of circumstances all around.

“I’d like to see it,” Ginny says instead. “What you’ve done with them.”

Astoria nods absently, as if she knows perfectly well that Ginny has no interest in such things. “My point is, we started talking more and more, and she confessed she has all these ideas for clothes and new designs, some of which are rather unorthodox. She thinks wizarding fashion is a little overdue for an update.”

“Ambitious,” Ginny murmurs.

“Yes,” Astoria says, gesturing broadly. “Very. She’s only a first year, you know. She has these ideas and the drive too, just maybe not the…” She fumbles.

“The space she needs?” Ginny surmises, understanding that this is really about The Parlor.

Astoria nods, looking away. “I would just…hate to see her passion fade or get stamped out. I’d hate for her to give up before she even has the chance to try.”

Like Caroline.

But neither of them speak her name.

“Who is it?” Ginny asks, running through all the first years in her mind, trying to align this information with their faces. She’s been trying to be much better at this, paying close attention to the dynamics of Slytherin House.

“Her name is Dale,” Astoria says, something a little pointed in the way she says it.

“Dale,” Ginny says, easily able to bring the first year’s face to mind—only she thought he was one of the four boys sorted into Slytherin last September.

“Yes,” Astoria says.

“But—” Ginny starts to say.

Astoria’s expression hardens. “Her name is Dale. She told me herself.”

Ginny is definitely confused, but slows her tongue, swallowing back questions before they can do damage she can’t take back.

“When do you meet again?” she asks instead.

“Tonight.”

Ginny nods. “I’ll stop by after Quidditch.”

“Okay,” Astoria says and splits off, heading down a different hallway without so much as a goodbye.

Ginny watches her go, sliding into her seat in Transfiguration next to Neville only a few minutes late.

*     *     *

After classes, Ginny heads down the to the pitch to meet with Demelza and the other Chasers. She passes by her Beater Karl walking up with the Hufflepuff Beaters, clearly just having finished their own clinic. They murmur greetings as they pass.

Out on the snow-cleared field, the Gryffindor Beaters Ritchie Coote and Jimmy Peakes are still hanging about, talking.

“I hope Karl didn’t maim anyone,” she says as she approaches them.

Karl is the definition of erratic. Not a great characteristic in a Beater, but it’s not like she had a lot of choices when she cobbled her team together. It makes her doubly resentful though; once that he isn’t better, and again that he isn’t Bassenthwaite or Graham. She tries her best not to take that out on him. Some days she’s more successful than others.

Martin and Vaisey came back fortunately, and Reiko too, who is shaping up to be a shoo-in for Captain next year. That would have been it, if Ginny hadn’t sought out Rosier specifically and told him that if he really wanted to make up for being a wanker last year he’d at least help her pull a decent team together. Her reserve team was nearly non-existent.

She’s done the best she can.

Jimmy and Ritchie laugh appreciatively at her abuse of Karl.

“Believe it or not, he’s starting to get a handle on it,” Jimmy says.

“Well, I really appreciate you risking life and limb like this,” she says.

Jimmy snickers. “You’re the one who has to train with Demelza. Much riskier if you ask me.”

Ginny gives him an arch look. “I’ll be sure to tell her you said that.”

“I take it back!” he says, lifting his hands up in surrender. He runs off then to scoop up the last of the bats and returning them to the equipment rack.

Ritchie rolls his eyes at his mate’s antics. “I have to admit, when you first suggested cross-house clinics, I thought you were barmy.”

“It is barmy,” Ginny says.

“Yeah,” he agrees with a grin. “But we also haven’t had a single case of pre-game hallway sabotage or mysterious hexes. It’s kind of restful.”

Ginny nods. “You know, Hermione used to always say that Quidditch was bad for school unity.”

“She never even played Quidditch!” he says, sounding horrified.

“I know! Used to hack me off. But as much as I hate to admit it, she did have a point.”

“Maybe,” he reluctantly concedes. “Fortunately she’s not here to hear it. And I promise not to tell.” He gives her a sly wink.

Ginny rolls her eyes.

Jimmy has finished picking up by now, shouting for Ritchie to move his arse. He gives her a sheepish grin and starts heading toward Jimmy only to come to a stop.

“Hey, Weasley,” he calls out.

She turns back to look at him. “Yeah?”

“You and Burke,” he says.

She frowns. “What about it?”

“Are you two, you know, seeing each other?”

Ginny tries not to let on that she’s completely taken aback by the question. Not so much that people might assume things about her and Tobias, but that Ritchie would care enough to ask. It has her feeling strangely back footed.

“Why?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest for lack of anything else to do with them.

Ritchie doesn’t seem put off, lifting one shoulder in a casual shrug. “Just curious.”

She considers him. “No,” she admits. “We’re just mates. Now get off my pitch, will you?”

He grins at her, and Ginny can’t help but notice that he’s cute. Somehow that just makes it worse. Giving her a little salute, he jogs off the pitch to catch up with his friend.

Jimmy gives him a jubilant shove, crowing something about true Gryffindor bravery. Ritchie just glances back at Ginny, looking a little embarrassed, but pleased.

She supposes there is something about that Gryffindor devil-may-care attitude that reminds her of her brothers. That familiarity should be comforting. For some reason it isn’t particularly. Not that it matters. Ritchie’s interest is more likely a dare kind of thing for him, flirting openly with Ginny Weasley, like it’s some test of bravery.

Or so she tells herself as she watches the two boys wander out of sight, Ritchie giving her one last exuberant wave.

“Making my players lovesick and useless is a really low blow.”

She turns to find Demelza scowling at her. “Like you’re one to talk,” she shoots back, feeling strangely exposed.

Ginny’s seen the way her Keeper Martin trails around after Demelza. If their whatever-they-have didn’t seem to be built on a hearty foundation of cutthroat competitiveness, Ginny might have worried he would let Demelza score just to get on her good side.

“Whatever it takes to win, right?” Demelza says with a breezy wave of her hand.

“Sure,” Ginny says, stomping her feet in the cold. “But that’s enough about boys, all right? It’s time for far more important things, like Quidditch. And not freezing our arses off out here.”

“Merlin, yes,” Demelza agrees, hooking her arm through Ginny’s and dragging her over to where the rest of the school Chasers have started warming up.

*     *     *

That evening after a long warm shower and dinner, Ginny digs her knitting supplies out of her trunk. Joining the group, she finds that she’s missed it, the feel of needles and yarn in her hands. She’s still feeling a little unsettled after her run in with Ritchie, and it helps calm her mind, focusing on the pattern while listening absently to the flow of conversation around her. Most of it is idle gossip or complaints about parents or homework or professors.

As her fingers remember the familiar movements, Ginny pays more attention to Dale, the small student with floppy brown hair falling about their—no, Ginny corrects herself—her ears and slender silver rings on her fingers.

“I hear you design robes,” Ginny says.

“Oh,” Dale says, looking up at her with wide eyes. “Not really. It’s just something I think would be fun.”

Clearly an attempt to downplay her interest.

Ginny nods. “What kind do you like to do best?”

“All of it, really,” Dale says, eyes brightening, before ducking her head back down to the cloth.

Ginny looks at the intricate embroidery building up stitch by stitch. “That’s pretty great,” she says.

“Oh,” Dale says. “My grandmother taught me. Just something to pass the time.”

Ginny thinks there is a much deeper story there, but doesn’t push. They continue working in silence for a while.

Ginny rolls out her ball of yarn to free up more slack. “My mum was after me for years to learn to knit. I used to do anything and everything I could to avoid it. I’d much rather be out on my broom. It scandalized my mother’s family. My great aunt despairs of me ever learning any of the gentle arts. Apparently that’s no way to catch a husband.”

Ginny remembers finally figuring out what Muriel had done to infuriate her parents back at the beginning of her sixth year. She’d tried to arrange a betrothal for Ginny. Mental. Fortunately her parents clearly thought so as well.

That will be Ginny’s choice and no one else’s, Mum had very nearly raged when Muriel tried to push it again over the Christmas hols.

Dale is looking dubiously at the tangle of yarn in Ginny’s fingers. “Yet you learned anyway.”

Ginny shrugs. “After the war and everything…” She pauses, swallowing back the crowd of memories that threaten to roll over her. “It was nice to have a reason to spend time with my mum. And it’s strangely restful, making things with your hands.” She holds up the mitten disaster in progress. “I doubt this will catch me a husband either way.”

“Probably not,” Dale says dubiously, only to immediately look horrified, and Ginny can’t help but laugh.

Dale smiles, clearly relieved she hasn’t taken offense. “But you haven’t given up Quidditch.”

“No,” she says. “I never will. I love it, and it doesn’t matter if some people don’t approve. I couldn’t stop being a Chaser if I tried.”

“Yeah,” Dale says, looking back down at her hands.

By the time Ginny picks up her yarn and heads to bed, she is no less confused, but far more clear on what made Astoria speak up about Dale.

*     *     *

“I hear we broke up,” Tobias says as Ginny drops into a seat across from him at breakfast. “Is that why you won’t sit next to me?”

His ability to glean gossip will never cease to amaze her. “No. I won’t sit next to you because you eat like a drunken troll.”

He jabs his fork in her direction. “That is egregious slander, and if we weren’t already broken up, I would do it again just for that.”

She rolls her eyes, reaching for some toast. “Personally, I somehow missed the part where we got together in the first place.”

“Well, at least that sadly misguided misconception explains why no one has tried to date you,” Tobias says, something sly in his tone.

Ginny keeps her eyes on her plate. “And here I thought it was because everyone is terrified of me.”

“Oh, that too,” Tobias says.

“Morning, Ginny.”

They both look up to see Ritchie passing by.

Ginny gives him a tight smile, really, really hoping her face is not as warm as it feels. “Hey,” she says.

He moves off, and she can’t feel anything but relief.

“Interesting,” Tobias drawls into his porridge.

“Shut it,” she says.

Tobias lifts his hands. “I was just observing that Gryffindors are probably in general far too stupid to be terrified.”

“Don’t make me break up with you again.”

He snorts.

Ginny turns her attention to her food, keeping one eye on a clutch of second- and third-year Slytherin girls sitting at the next table. She ducks as owls arrive en masse with the morning post. There’s nothing for her today, but no less than four swoop down by Tobias, so she helps him by pulling off his copy of Witch Weekly from the nearest owl. He’s already getting his copy of The Daily Prophet and what looks like Which Wizard and something called Reader’s Digest.

Ginny reads the Prophet from time to time, mostly just to keep up on what is going on, but Tobias absolutely devours it along with every other major periodical, including a few Muggle ones. He particularly loves the gossip rags. The more ridiculous the story, the more joy he takes out of them.

Seriously, give this one an O for Outstanding in terms of sheer lunacy. Like, the Quibbler wouldn’t even touch this one.

She knows it’s inevitable that she’ll get a rundown of the most amusing stories by the end of the day, so she leaves him to his reading, turning her attention back to her breakfast, sneaking another glance at the younger girls, trying to pick out the topic of their conversation.

They all seem to be hunched over their own copy of the Prophet, whispering in scandalous glee. There must be something particularly salacious today. She turns back to Tobias to inquire, and he’s already watching her. He quickly looks away, reaching for his Witch Weekly and flipping the glossy cover open.

“What is it?” Ginny asks.

“Nothing,” he says, turning the page. “Same old boring stuff.”

“Tobias,” she says, because clearly it isn’t. “Is it the Prophet?” The buzz of conversation in the hall is only growing.

He actually looks a little hesitant, not just being an arsehole and holding out to annoy her, but honestly concerned about her reaction. It just sets her even more on edge.

“What?” she bites out.

With a sigh, he shoves the paper over to her.

She honestly has no idea what to expect, but she should have known it would be Harry. No one generates as much speculation and interest as him these days. Sure enough, there’s a photo of him on the front page, which isn’t all that unusual. It isn’t even that unusual that it’s a Muggle photo, frozen and still.

What is unusual is the young woman attached to his arm. Blonde. Very pretty. Her arm wound through his like it belongs there. Harry isn’t looking towards her in the picture, but speaking to someone out of frame. It doesn’t make it look any less…intimate.

LOVE DOWN UNDER, the paper declares.

She and Tobias would be laughing about that headline under different circumstances, she knows.

He is still watching her warily, but there’s no reason for him to.

“Good for him,” she says, pushing the paper away, but not before seeing another picture of them curled up together on a sofa somewhere. Harry is laughing in this one, looking relaxed and happy, the girl’s head resting on his shoulder with a calculating look in her eye.

But it’s possible she’s just projecting.

Tobias doesn’t look convinced.

“Really,” she says. “It’s none of my business.”

Even if it were—which it is not—this is not a conversation she has any interest in having in the middle of the Great Hall.

She pushes to her feet. “I have a few more inches I need to finish on my Herbology essay. I’ll see you in class?”

“Yeah,” Tobias says. “Sure.”  

All day it feels like the entire school is buzzing with the news, speculation about whether Harry will be staying in Australia permanently now. Who the girl is. By the time classes are over, Ginny is heartily sick of Harry Potter, gossip, and the entire continent of Australia.

“Hey, Weasley,” someone makes the mistake of calling down the table. “Your brother must write to you. Got any insight you’d like to share? Does he think Potter’s ever coming back?”

Ginny feels a cold sort of calm fall over her, spearing the idiot with a glance sharpened into knives. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else, Karl. Like one of those gossipy biddies on either side of you.”

Karl and his two mates look at each other as if they are trying to work out if they’ve been insulted.

One of them frowns. “Did she just call us old ladies?”

Across the table from them Martin shakes his head as if they’re all lost causes. “So what if she did? What are you going to do about it?”

They seem to think on that. “Nothing,” the one on Karl’s left decides, as if the risk of pissing off Ginny has just finally occurred to him. “Absolutely nothing.”

Martin snorts. “Good call, biddies.”

“Merlin,” Ginny says under her breath, pretty much hating everyone right now. She finishes her dinner quickly before she can get dragged into saying anything else stupid, and escapes down into the calm oasis of The Parlor.

She must not be quite projecting the calm she intends, because Hestia and Flora give her looks. They don’t say anything though, leaving her to focus on her homework in peace.

Try as she may, she can’t keep her attention on her reading. With a sigh, she pushes to her feet, pulling out the key hanging around her neck.

“Good evening, Mistress,” Nymue greets her as she walks into the library.

Ginny glances up at the woman in the stained glass window. “Good evening,” she echoes, wandering a circuit through the stacks, eventually circling back around to drop into the chair in front of Nymue.

Nymue looks down at her, hands calmly folded in front of her. “Is there something I can help you with, Mistress?”

“The sisterhood is for women only,” Ginny says.

“Yes,” Nymue confirms.

Ginny nods, fingers picking absently at the arm of the chair. “And what makes someone a woman?”

Nymue’s eyes widen, something vaguely amused in her expression.

“I’m not here for an anatomy lesson,” Ginny quickly says.

“I did not believe you were. It is just an unusual question, you must admit. One with an obvious answer, most would think.”

Ginny might have said that a week ago. “If someone says they are a girl, even if their body isn’t… If they feel they are…” She doesn’t even know how to properly ask the question.

“Yes,” Nymue says, apparently managing to read through her bumbling. “Sometimes souls end up in the wrong vessels.”

“Do they?” Ginny asks, never having heard of anything like that before.

Nymue nods. “Fortunately bodies can change, even if souls can’t. Or rather shouldn’t. Not without the kind of damage that can’t be fixed.”

She looks down at her hands, smoothing her fingers down the brocade-covered arm of the chair. “Have there been people, I mean women, like that in the Sisterhood before?”

“Yes,” Nymue says.

“Oh,” Ginny says. “So there wouldn’t be problems with the wards or the induction spells?”

“Mistress,” Nymue says, voice slightly chiding. “She is either worthy of being a sister or not. Her body does not define that.”

Ginny sits with that, letting this new information settle in, not without a few spots of confusion and discomfort. She files them away to properly investigate later. “Are there any histories that speak on this?”

“There are those who chose to speak of their own experiences,” she says, a book floating down from a shelf and settling in Ginny’s lap. “Which is often the best place to begin.”

Ginny opens the book and starts to read.

*     *     *

She comes up from The Parlor very late, the common room empty and silent. As she crosses the room, her eye is caught by an abandoned copy of the Prophet on a table near the fireplace. She keeps walking, but doesn’t make it all the way to the stairs before she stops with a sigh. Giving in, she turns back, crossing over to the newspaper.

She ignores the article, one she knows is likely filled with five lies for every half-truth. Even the pictures can’t really be trusted. But she isn’t interested in the words or even the witch.

Staring down at Harry’s picture, she reaches out and traces the edges of his face and down over his shoulder. Considering how little time she’s ever gotten to spend with him, how they went from a first kiss straight into a long separation, how a few late-night conversations and a string of letters is all she’s ever had of him, she is unprepared for the surge of raw emotions triggered by just looking at his face.

His bloody stupid, ridiculous face.

She folds the paper so only Harry is visible, the one with him smiling and laughing.

He looks happy. Relaxed and joyful in a way she’s rarely seen. She can’t know if that is because of being in Australia, if he finally found a way to let the war be over, or if it’s maybe the girl, if she did that.

The truth is, it doesn’t really matter. He deserves it. Being happy. Being with someone who can make him look like that. Someone who doesn’t shut down or fall apart.

But there is still this sharp tang of bitterness at the back of her throat, only it isn’t for the nameless witch or even Harry, but for Ginny herself. This is for her own weaknesses, for still allowing herself to feel this way after so much time, for not being able to take the chance when it was offered. For refusing to even try.

She doesn’t return the paper to the table, instead tucking it under her arm and heading downstairs for her room.

*     *     *

It’s Wednesday.

On Wednesdays, Ginny writes to Harry. It’s the basic schedule she’s held to since November. Wednesdays and Sundays. Only she missed last Sunday’s letter, not being able to get herself to write it. Harry didn’t write either, though whether that was just because she hadn’t or if he doesn’t have anything to write about either, she doesn’t know.

Or maybe he’s busy with other things.

“Stop it,” she mumbles to herself. Fortunately her dorm is empty, so there is no one here to comment on it.

Picking up her quill, she writes about Quidditch and how all their classes are even more focused on NEWTs these days and how little prepared she feels. She tells him about Seamus managing to set a plant on fire in Herbology.

What she doesn’t write about are the articles, despite the fact that there have been no less than five more in the week since. She doesn’t ask about the girl or say that she hopes he’s happy. She doesn’t ask why he didn’t say anything, or what else he might be leaving out of his letters. She certainly doesn’t write about the way Ritchie is still going out of his way to talk to her, how she isn’t sure how to feel about that. How he sometimes reminds her of Harry.

The truth is she doesn’t want to know. And maybe some small part of her hopes Harry doesn’t want to know either. Or maybe she just can’t stand to hear him write back with something like, Good for you. Glad you’ve moved on.

She’s the one who made him promise to live his life, so sitting here feeling like this just makes her an arsehole. So she writes a letter full of careful facts and perfectly constructed anecdotes and giant invisible silences.

She feels drained by the time she finishes, and decides one letter a week is more than enough. Tapping the parchment, she sends it off, and sets about starting another day in the castle.

At Quidditch practice that afternoon, things are tense. Ginny herself is not in the best of moods, but the others seem even worse. Reiko is mercilessly picking on everyone, mostly snide remarks under her breath. Their loss to Gryffindor is still grating.

“How is it possible that you wankers are even worse now than last term?” Reiko rails after a particularly bad drill. “I thought these stupid clinics were supposed to make things better?”

“Look, you little—” Vaisey snaps back, looking ready to lay into her, and when the normally placid Vaisey starts to lose his cool, Ginny knows things have gone too far.

“Enough!” Ginny barks. “That’s it. Everyone shut their mouths.”

She gets various glares and mulish stares in response, but they all comply. She still kind of wants to shove all their faces into a snowbank.  

She’s beginning to empathize with Warrington’s need to nail her with that snowball way back when. Her lips curve in nostalgia as the memories rise up—the crunch of snow, the wet slush of it creeping down the back of her robes, Bletchley trying to pretend he wasn’t enjoying himself, her snowball catching Thompson square in the face.

“Okay,” Ginny says. “Brooms down, feet on the ground.”

They look wary, but do as they are told, standing in a loose half circle around her. “This way,” she says, leading them off the magically clear pitch and into the deeper snow.

Leaning down, she scoops up a handful of snow, carefully packing it into ball. Without another word, she nails Reiko in the chest with it.

“Hey!” she says, jumping back. “What the hell, Ginny?”

With quick flicks of her fingers, Ginny indicates two teams of three. “Team one. Team two. Every snowball that hits a member of your team is a lap around the pitch tomorrow at dawn. So work together. Watch each other’s backs. Build a strategy. Keep an eye on the other team. Wands allowed, but spells only on snow, not bodies.”

The two groups look warily at each other.

“Are you on a team?” Rosier asks.

“I’m keeping score,” she says, taking a step back. “But I run laps with all of you. So don’t mess it up. And go!”

Reiko doesn’t even hesitate, ducking down and grabbing for snow.

“Run!” Martin says to his team. “We need a fallback point!”

“Snow only!” Ginny reminds them as they all scatter off, snowballs already flying.

She can’t help it, can’t help but think of sodding Crabbe and Goyle and that ball of ice they nailed her with. She nearly misses the first point scored as thoughts of Crabbe threaten to swamp her.

She shoves it away. It’s something that happened. Something that is over and done and can never be changed. Doesn’t need to be.

She focuses on her team. “Two laps for team one!”

They groan, but redouble their efforts. Behind the protection of a tree, they put one person on watch as they whisper strategies.

By the time the sun starts to set, they are all soaked and out of breath and laughing hard, arms looped over each other’s shoulders and good-naturedly arguing over who has to run the most laps.

“All right,” Ginny says. “Go dry off, warm up, and get some dinner. I’ll take care of this.” She gestures at the equipment still strewn about.

No one argues, and she suspects their exhaustion and disinterest in clearing up is probably the only reason the entire team doesn’t turn a barrage of snowballs on her.

They trudge back up together, calls of “Thanks, Ginny,” and “See you later,” trailing behind them.

It doesn’t take long to get everything back into the changing rooms, storing brooms and bats and the equipment trunk. On her way back up to the castle, she pauses, gazing out over the Black Lake and the snow-covered lawns. Without conscious decision, she starts walking, wand melting a path in the deep snow in front of her as she goes.

The snow and deep twilight aren’t enough to disguise the landscape, her feet taking the same path she walked on a dark, smoky night almost eight months ago. There is smoke in the air tonight too, only from the chimney of the nearby Gamekeeper’s Hut and not a battle.

All the same, there is a moment where Ginny can’t breathe, all of it pressing in—that day and the feelings and the thoughts—but for once she doesn’t fight it, doesn’t shove it into a tiny compartment. Just lets it come. It’s just a moment, and then it kind of falls away, leaving her feeling more like she’s watching it all from a distance.

The bodies and debris and craters are long gone, the grounds swept clear. Only the Forest remains, still looming threateningly in the distance. Ginny stops just outside the edge of it. She stares into the dark shadows that could be hiding anything. She thinks about walking out into them, what that would feel like. Never expecting to come back out.

“Ginny?” Hagrid asks.

She doesn’t jump at the voice, having easily heard the crunch of his approaching footsteps, despite the tangle of memories.

He stops near her. “’T’ain’t smart to be this close. ‘Specially on yer own. Bad time of day for the Forest, dusk is.”

She imagines so. Some things nodding off, but others just waking up, maybe with a hunger that demands a price. The nebulous transitional spaces between day and night. The time for blood and sacrifice. For disappearances.

“What’re ye doin’ out here, Ginny?” Hagrid asks when she still doesn’t respond, voice so gentle for a man his size.

She turns away from the Forest, looking back up at the castle, now lit up in the darkness. Not looming or threatening, just there.

“Remembering,” she realizes. “Just remembering.”

Nothing more.

Because maybe she’s finally ready to let it be over too.

*     *     *

Ginny sees Neville stand up at the Gryffindor table, and pushes away her dinner plate. Getting to her feet, she looks at Tobias.

“You coming?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer.

Tobias shakes his head, holding up the ratty paperback in his hand. “Gotta finish this.”

Despite their best efforts, Tobias still resists the idea that he belongs in the DA, avoiding the space with the same focus he had the year before when he was playing double agent.

“Okay,” she says, not pushing. Partly because pushing never gets her anywhere with Tobias, but also because she looks up to see that Hannah is walking towards him. Tobias may be great at blowing off Ginny, but he still seems to have no idea how to deal with the gentle patience known as Hannah.

Ginny smiles at Hannah behind Tobias’ back, thinking it probably won’t be much longer until he starts showing up to the meetings.

She falls into step with Neville, the two of them chatting easily. As they pass by Dale on the way out of the hall, Ginny pauses by her seat. “Hi, Dale.”

“Hi, Ginny,” she says, smiling tentatively up at her. “Neville.”

Neville smiles at her.

“I’ll see you later tonight?” Ginny confirms, making sure Dale will be at the crafting circle.  

“Yeah. I have some new sketches,” she says, ducking her head.

“I look forward to seeing them.”

She can hear the DA long before she can see them, the loud hum of voices and laughter and the occasional crack of a hex echoing out into the hall.

Ginny and Neville walk in, silence following them like a wave as they cross the room. The four former leaders of the DA promised McGonagall to always have at least one of them present for the meetings—the Headmistress’s only stipulation. Though Ginny always wondered if her easy acquiescence was more born of the knowledge that they would have done it with or without her permission.

“Let’s start with disarming and protection spells,” Neville says. “Ginny and I will come around and check your progress.”  

The students start pairing off, older students with younger. She only has to shoot Seamus and Martin one stern look to get them to focus.

Ritchie gives Ginny a broad smile as she passes by. Little Melinda takes advantage of his distraction, hitting him with a disarming spell. His wand flies through the air, clattering on the floor.

“More attention on your opponent, Ritchie, and a little less on your…wand,” Ginny says.

“Oooh,” Jimmy says, other nearby students crowing with amusement at the rather off-color repartee. To his credit, Ritchie just laughs along with them, scrambling to recover his wand.

Ginny gives Melinda a pat on her shoulder. “Great work.”

She just shakes her head, an expression on her face that reminds Ginny of Hermione. “Boys are dumb,” the first-year declares.

Ginny bites back a smile. “Sometimes,” she agrees. “But they aren’t the only ones.”

Melinda snorts as if she definitely knows that’s true too.

Ginny makes a circle of the room, but at this point, the club is rather self-sufficient. Everyone knows what to do, and when there are new students who show up, they are automatically introduced around.

After twenty minutes, Terry Boot heads to the front to teach the older students a more advanced protective spell, while the younger ones continue to work on their basic skills.

Ginny steps back into the crowd, watching carefully as Terry explains the spell and the wand movement, throwing in a little history and basic theory behind the move.

The Gryffindors in the crowd grow restless quickly, wanting to try the spell. They drift off in pairs. Ritchie moves towards Ginny, but she pretends to be really interested in what Terry is saying. She tells herself it’s because she doesn’t particularly enjoy feeling like someone’s feat of bravery. And if that isn’t quite fair to Ritchie, she ignores it.

She ends up paired with Michael Corner, which is a relief. His face still bears the scars of the beating he took at the Carrows’ hands. It’s a sort of shared history that makes her feel more relaxed around him. Besides, he’s quiet and thoughtful, if not a bit of a know-it-all from time to time.

He corrects the way she’s holding her wand, and she tells herself that any chance to improve is worth the slight sting to ego, and fixes her grip. Besides, she manages to sneak her spell around his protections by the end of the session, so that seems to even things out.

“Okay,” Ginny says. “That’s it for tonight! See you all next week.”

Some students immediately stream out, but most just sit down in small groups, pulling out homework or just hanging out.

She’s picking up the last of the equipment, getting the room back in order when she feels someone walk up to her. She tenses, only to relax when she realizes it’s Michael. “Need any help?”

“Oh,” she says. “Sure.”

They work quietly, and Ginny pays attention to the way Michael doesn’t make her uncomfortable the way Ritchie does, the fact that he’s pretty cute and perfectly okay. An ideal choice, really.

“Hey, Michael?” she says.

“Yeah?” he says, looking up at her.

“If you don’t already have anything planned, do you want to go down to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?” she asks.

His eyes widen, not saying anything immediately, and Ginny just stands and waits for his answer, not particularly anxious one way or the other.

“Yeah,” he decides, giving her a tentative smile. “Okay.”

She smiles back. “Great.”

*    *     *

Things with Michael last almost three weeks, ending seven hours after the Slytherin-Ravenclaw match when he proves himself to be not only a very poor loser, but a pretty mediocre Quidditch player too.

As far as relationships go, it was easy and sometimes annoying and quite possibly boring. But it was, and she did.

She can.

Which is exactly what she needed to know.

Chapter Text

Harry wakes, looking up at the ceiling. Someone is banging around in the kitchen. Probably the Grangers.

He feels like he’s barely slept, his eyes gritty and dry. Probably because he hasn’t, having gotten in from his shift at nearly three in the morning. He rolls over, trying to get in a few more hours, but despite how exhausted he is sleep eludes him.

Eventually heaving to his feet, he goes to check in on the Grangers. He nears the doors to the kitchen when something clatters again.

“It just all feels wrong,” he hears Mrs. Granger say to her husband. “Is it going to ever stop feeling wrong?”

Harry comes to a stop, not wanting to walk in on something. Once everything has been quiet for a stretch, he makes a big show of scuffing his feet before pushing the door to the kitchen open.

“Harry,” Mr. Granger says, stepping back from his wife, whom he was apparently comforting.

“Did we wake you?” Mrs. Granger asks, looking embarrassed to be making noise in her own house.

“No,” Harry lies. “Not at all.”

“Are you hungry?” she asks.

He wants to be anywhere but here, honestly, but she looks so eager to do something he finds himself agreeing. They seem easier around him than their own daughter or her boyfriend, about whom they still seem unsure if they are even allowed to have an opinion. Considering everything that has happened is more Harry’s fault than anyone else’s, he finds that just as backwards as everything else these days.

As soon as he can, he retreats back to the den and his fold-out bed, but only manages to stare up at the ceiling until Ron gets back.

He emerges to talk to Ron, the two of them hanging about, and at least that is as easy as ever. Hermione arrives a couple hours later. Harry doesn’t think he’s imagining the way the tension seems to ratchet up after her arrival. There is still an awful kind of politeness in the way Hermione and her parents address each other, and it’s so much worse than yelling.

Watching them just makes Harry’s gut churn.

Ron pokes him in the arm.

“What?” Harry demands, returning his attention to him.

“Mate,” Ron says, looking at him with wide eyes. “What’s with you?”

“Nothing,” he says, rubbing at his temples. “I didn’t sleep that great, I guess.”

It’s not entirely a lie. He hasn’t slept particularly well ever since he moved downstairs to make room for the Grangers, though he can’t be sure why. He’s slept in far more uncomfortable places in his life.

Ron slings an arm around Hermione’s waist, the two of them sharing a totally unsubtle look that does nothing for his mood.

Their level of togetherness is beginning to irritate him. But maybe that’s just thanks to the number of times he’s wandered in on a snog or even just them looking at each other in a way that makes him feel like he’s walked in on something. With Hermione’s parents moved in, the house is starting to feel too small, too crowded.

Or so he tells himself.

He feels a slight vibration come from his back pocket.

“Fucking finally,” he says without thinking.

“What?” Ron asks, looking alarmed.

Harry shakes his head. “Sorry. Nothing. I, uh, just remembered something I was supposed to do. It was making me barmy.” He forces his mouth shut to save them all from his ridiculous rambling.

Ron and Hermione share another look.

“I’ve got a shift,” Harry says, grabbing his stuff and striding out of the room.

He jogs down the front steps, not waiting to see if Barina or Gerard are there today, just walking down the next block and turning into the small play park there. Finding a bench between two shrubs, he sits down, pulling the roll of parchment out of his back pocket. The Ginny Parchment as he’s come to think of it. He almost called it that out loud once, when Ron inadvertently picked it up, thinking it was just a spare bit he could use. Ron and Hermione gave him strange looks when he snatched it back out of Ron’s hands.

It’s not that he ever consciously decided to hide it from them. He just isn’t sure how to explain it to them. Doesn’t particularly want to. Besides, they have they own thing now, he’s allowed to have something of his own as well.

Or so he tells himself.

Their letters have tapered off the last few weeks. Harry’s been finding it harder and harder to think of things to write. Ginny’s not doing much better herself to judge from the fact that she’s down to one letter a week. She still usually writes each Wednesday without fail. Which is when he realizes she’s a full day late and maybe that’s why he’s been a little…on edge.

Harry glances around to make sure he’s unobserved, and then taps the parchment with his wand. Ginny’s writing spills down the page.

Harry-

Ugh. Sorry this is going to be short, but my completely incompetent Beater managed to bean me in the back of the head with a Bludger while I was working with Martin in the goal. Or so I’m told. Can’t say I really remember anything other than waking in the infirmary with Pomfrey frowning down at me. She made me stay the whole bloody night. I think she’s punishing me for that time with my collarbone.

I haven’t seen Karl yet. Neville reports that castle gossip has it that he quit school entirely rather than face me. Coward. (Karl, not Neville obviously.) He’ll have to leave England altogether if he really wants to escape my wrath. I’ll have to send you a photo just in case he ends up in your corner of the world.

Blast. And now Dean has just arrived giving me puppydog eyes. Doubtless I will regret agreeing to whatever new troll-brained scheme is heading my way. I must say my life was far more restful before I started hanging around Gryffindor. You lot are a trying bunch. Anyway. My concussion and I are off. Hope all is well and things with Hermione’s parents are going better than my week did.

-Ginny

Harry sits back, feeling no less jittery for having read the letter. He skims it again, but a second read doesn’t reveal anything. He’s not even sure what he’s looking for, just feels vaguely…let down or something. Which is stupid.

She’s busy and doing really well, and if that means her letters have started feeling more distant…well.

He shoves to his feet, crumpling the parchment as he carelessly jams it into his pocket, only to immediately pull it back out again and methodically roll it, smoothing out the wrinkles.

He’s going to be late for his bloody shift.

He tries to write back to Ginny during his breaks, but nothing sounds right and he just ends up siphoning off the ink despite his long-standing pledge not to do that.

He’s elbow-deep in dishes and scalding water when Cass wanders her way back through the kitchen for a cigarette break.

“Hey, Harry,” she says.

“Hey,” he says, not even looking up.

“Fair warning, you may want to watch out for Marina.”

“What?” Harry asks, looking up with a frown. He barely knows the dark-haired waitress.

“She’s got it in for you,” Cass says, hopping up to sit on the counter with a smile. “I may have told her you are delicious in the sack.”

“You told her what?” Harry says, rounding on her.

She shrugs. “Just extrapolating from a very hazy memory, mind you. But I feel like as your fake ex-girlfriend that getting you laid would be the kind thing to do.”

“God damn it, Cass,” he says, feeling his temper spike. He knows she’s still lugging around this warped idea of gratitude, like she needs to even the scales or something, but this is the last thing he needs right now.  

“No need to thank me,” she says, jumping back down. “Might make you less of a grumpy arse.”

Harry sucks in a breath. “Just do me a favor, will you, Cass? Stop doing me favors,” he yells after her.

“Right,” she says, winding her way towards the back door. “God forbid you actually have a little fun.”

Harry really wishes people would stop trying to make him have bloody fun.

The rest of the night is fairly calm, nothing more than a morose pair of older gents who drink way too much to get themselves home. Harry thinks how convenient a couple of Pepper-Up potions would be.  

At closing, Harry waves off an offer of late-night drinks with the rest of the staff, instead walking the two drunks home.

Outside, Barina falls into step with him, holding the arm of one of the sots. “Save us from Potter the endless do-gooder.”

“You could always go back and tell your boss that babysitting me is pointless,” Harry says, voice hard.

“Nah,” she says. “This is practically a vacation. No one’s tried to hex me in weeks.”

“I’m going to hex you one of these days.”

She looks both unimpressed and unconcerned about talking about hexes in front of the drunk Muggles. “Grumpy today, are we?”

Harry sighs. “That seems to be the consensus.”

After depositing the drunks back in their respective flats, Harry doesn’t immediately head back for the Grangers’ no matter how exhausted he is.

Walking through the empty early morning streets, Harry lets himself wander without a destination. He’s walked through most of the modest-sized town at this point. It usually helps clear his head. After about an hour, he ends up on a quiet street with a bakery. The baker already has the ovens working to judge from the smells wafting out over the street.

Harry walks another few blocks before abruptly coming to a stop, staring into a low-lit shop front, a red neon sign blinking morosely overhead.

“Thinking of going on vacation?” Barina asks, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “Hopefully somewhere tropical. I could work on my tan.”  

Harry ignores her blithe comment. He isn’t looking at the cut outs of palm trees or the pictures of white sand beaches with girls in bikinis. He’s staring at a picture of Big Ben. There’s a garish red star stuck to it emblazoned with the word SALE.

Stepping over to look at the travel agency’s front door, he notes their hours, glancing back down at his watch. Without giving it thought, he drops down to sit on the steps.

Barina doesn’t ask, just paces down the street and up the other side before settling on another stoop.

When the bakery opens, Harry goes in and buys coffees and Danishes, delivering half to Barina. Settling back on his stoop, Harry eats and drinks and watches dawn crawl across the cobblestones.

The travel agent arrives at 7:30. She stops when she notices Harry, like maybe she’s wondering if he’s a hobo or something.

Harry gets up, brushing crumbs off his lap and giving her room to reach the door. “Morning,” he says, trying to look like he has any idea what he’s doing.

“Waiting for me?” the agent asks.

He nods, giving her a sheepish smile.

She returns his smile, looking him over, and he wonders if she can tell that he’s been out all night. “Must be an important trip.”

“Yeah,” he says.

She holds the door open, gesturing for him to go inside first.

He takes a seat out of the way while she moves around the tiny space, turning on lights, booting her computer, and setting coffee to brew.

“Okay,” she says once her morning rituals are complete. “What can I help you with?”

“I need an airplane ticket,” he says.

“To where?”

“London,” Harry says.

She types away on her screen, green text sliding by on a black screen. “When?”

For the first time, he falters. “Uh, can I see a calendar?”

“Sure,” she says, pulling one down off the wall that has a photo of icebergs on it.

Harry looks down at February. There’s only about a week left. He flips to March. Ron’s birthday is the first. He should be here for that. His eyes fall on the second Saturday of the month.

He points to the square. “I want to be there before then. I’m not picky other than that.”

“Okay,” she says. “I can see what kind of flights are available. Give you some options. Do you have a return date?”

Harry shakes his head. “Just one-way, please.”

She smiles. “Going home?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I reckon so.”

He sits back in his chair while she works, for the first time in weeks feeling perfectly content to wait.

*     *     *

In early March, Ginny sets up a chalkboard in an empty classroom for an after-dinner Quidditch meeting.

Karl is the first to arrive, a full five minutes early. He slinks in, giving her a sheepish smile. He’s been very well-behaved the last couple weeks. Not that it will last, Ginny knows.

Vaisey and Rosier are next, with Nettlebed and Reiko following a few minutes later. They are left waiting on Martin, who wanders in five minutes late with a plate of pudding in his hands.

“Hey,” he says when they all turn to stare at him. “Me starving to death isn’t going to be good for the team.”

“You’re an arse,” Reiko says, arms crossing over her chest.

He shrugs like he can live with that and shoves a bite of tart in his mouth.

Ginny sighs. “Anyone else have anything completely ridiculous to say or can we get started?”

They all look expectantly at Nettlebed, the Chaser usually the source of most ridiculousness. He shrugs. “Fresh out.”

Everyone laughs, a few more playful insults getting tossed about.

While their decisive victory over Ravenclaw a few weeks back may have doomed Ginny’s short-lived relationship with Michael, it certainly helped with team morale. A more than fair enough trade in Ginny’s book. They don’t have another match until two weeks after Easter break, but Hufflepuff is no pushover this year and they need all that time to prepare to deal with their impressively stubborn defense.

“Okay, listen up,” Ginny says. “This weekend, Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff.”

They spend nearly two hours talking about their most common plays, brainstorming a few new ones to work on. Each player gets assigned specific things to study and watch for during the match this weekend.

“I want to know every strength and weakness,” she says.

They nod, almost automatically at this point, more than a few failing to hold back yawns.

To judge from their glassy-eyed stares, they aren’t going to be of anymore use tonight. “Okay, get out of here.”

They perk up and scatter with impressive alacrity considering their earlier torpor. “But if I see any of you messing about during that match, Reiko will make you wish you’d never gotten your Hogwarts letter!” she shouts after them.

They laugh, even as Reiko starts detailing her preferred punishments.

Cleaning off the board and shoving her things back into her bag, Ginny hurries out into the hall. She gets waylaid a few times on her way to the common room, especially after she has to take an unexpected detour to avoid Michael. It’s cowardly, she knows, but there are only so many ways to tell a bloke that you are broken up and have no intention of changing your mind, and he just keep pressing. It’s bloody exhausting.

By the time she gets back to the common room, she’s sure she’ll be too late, but fortunately the person she is looking for is still up.

“Dorinda,” Ginny says, crossing over to stand behind her chair.

The third-year witch looks up at her, her friends all not so subtly nudging each other and giving each other wide-eyed expressions.

“Hi, Ginny,” one of the other girls says, probably hopeful of being noticed.

Ginny gives the girl a brief smile of acknowledgement before refocusing on Dorinda. “Can we talk for a minute?”

“Sure,” Dorinda says, perfectly polite but still managing to clearly communicate her lack of enthusiasm.

They’ve spoken a few times over the last few weeks, and while Dorinda clearly respects the power Ginny supposedly wields, she definitely isn’t overly impressed by it. Ginny bites back a smile, knowing it wouldn’t do to show how much that amuses her.

Retreating out into the hall for a bit of privacy, they fall into step next to each other.

“I’m going to invite you down to The Parlor,” Ginny says.

Dorinda doesn’t look surprised by the news, only nodding like she’s been expecting it.

Each girl is so spectacularly different, each needing their own approach. Ginny used to think Antonia was just annoyingly oblique, but only understands now that was what she herself needed, not Antonia. Ginny needed the struggle to figure it all out, to grasp how little she knew and understood. But what Dorinda needs is blunt honesty. Something she gets far too little of in her life if Ginny’s suspicions are at all true.

“Before I do,” Ginny says, “I need you to understand why.”

“I know why,” Dorinda says, her chin lifting with pride despite the sullen note in her voice.

“Do you?”

“I’m beautiful,” she says. Not a boast, just a fact.

She is undeniably that, perhaps the most beautiful person Ginny has ever seen—Fleur included. Dorinda’s dark brown skin is smooth and flawless, her eyes dark enough to be nearly black. Her features have a perfect sort of symmetry that seems unnatural or otherworldly. The frizzy mass of her hair is pulled back from her face with intricate braids and twists.

The common room has buzzed with less and less subtle comments about the girl this term, like her body somehow says something about who she is or what she owes people.

“You are,” Ginny says. “But it’s not of particular interest to me, to be honest.”

Dorinda turns to look at her, eyes narrowed like she’s trying to decide if she’s offended by the complete dismissal of what she has no doubt always been told is her greatest asset, or just unbelieving of her sincerity.

Ginny shrugs. “Beauty is just a weapon to be wielded like any other. Either against you or for you.”

The girl still looks suspicious and unimpressed, but Ginny can tell she’s listening. If she’s to become a sister, it’s not going to be because of her beauty. No, Ginny is more interested in that shrewd look in her eyes, the sort she knows is far too easily hardened into brittleness. The Parlor can give her the space to just be, to be soft and bend when it benefits her, when she needs it, and maybe learn to hone that shrewdness into a fine sharp edge to be exerted as she chooses, not as it would be chosen for her.

“This isn’t about collecting you,” Ginny explains, knowing she already graces the table at Slughorn’s little parties. “It’s not even about what you can bring to The Parlor. This is about what it can mean to you. If you can accept that, there’s a place for you whenever you want it.”

This seems to sound far too much like an ultimatum to Dorinda, her shoulders stiffening. “And if I can’t?”

Ginny smiles at her.

Dorinda seems to deflate. “Right. No one ever turns down a chance at The Parlor,” she says, like she has no choice.

It’s Ginny’s turn to bristle. “That’s a stupid reason to do anything.”

“Aren’t you supposed to convince me?” Dorinda asks.

Ginny shakes her head. “This isn’t about me. Only you’ll know when you’re ready or if you ever will be.”

She turns and walks away, leaving the girl standing in the hall.

As she passes back through the common room, she sees Astoria doing her best to not look interested in what is happening. Ginny keeps looking straight ahead, disappearing down into The Parlor.

Tonight she isn’t greeted with silence, but rather the murmur of voices and machines.

Nicola and Gemma are across the room, fiddling with something as Dale looks on with interest. Ginny settles on the sofa where Hestia and Flora sit.

“Thought you were going to bring us a new sister,” Hestia says.

“We’ll see,” Ginny says.

“Well, either way, it’s already starting to look better in here,” Flora says.

“It is,” Ginny agrees, watching as Dale laughs at something Gemma says, hand pressed against her mouth as if she’s trying to catch the noise. Like she’s still trying not to draw too much attention to herself. “It’s good to hear her laugh.”

“Yeah,” Hestia says. “She finally seems to be settling in.”

Meaning she’s finally stopped looking like she expects them to change their mind and kick her back out. To tell her it was all some sort of cruel joke.

She’ll believe it eventually, Ginny hopes. There’s time.

Flora nudges her, pulling her back from her thoughts. “So are you seeing Ernie Macmillan now?”

“What?” she asks, thrown by the question. “Merlin, no.”

“But you were walking around Hogsmeade together this weekend.” Flora presses.

“Yes,” Ginny says, leaving the unfortunately off out of tact. When he asked her the week before, she’d said yes, mostly because there was no reason not to, but also because Michael was not taking the hint, and she thought that might help.

It doesn’t seem to have worked on either front.

“Just a one-time thing then,” Flora says.

“Yes,” Ginny says. “Definitely. One hundred percent.” Ernie is just as certain, both of them very content to never speak of the afternoon ever again, it was so awkward and painful.

Ginny frowns as it occurs to her that Flora isn’t usually one for idle gossip. “But, wait, why do you care?”

“Just curious,” she says, the lie given away by the pink tint to her cheeks and reinforced by the loud derisive snort her twin lets out.

Flora smacks Hestia’s knee, but she just laughs. “Someone has a bit of a crush.”

“Well,” Ginny says, smiling at her. “Don’t let me get in the way.”

“No excuses now,” Hestia says, waggling her eyebrows at her sister.

Flora pushes to her feet, lifting her chin. “I am going to check on the girls,” she declares haughtily, as if she is above such teasing, and crosses over to join Nicola, Gemma, and Dale.

Hestia just rolls her eyes and goes back to her book.

Shaking her head, Ginny pulls a stack of letters out of her bag. The one on top is from Tilly.

Ah, what marital bliss! I highly recommend it to all my sisters. Drop out of school immediately. You too could inhabit a small space with a near stranger and not speak to each other for days on end. Bassenthwaite’s cousin is still single, I understand. He probably snores just as loud and leaves his socks everywhere too. Though he wouldn’t have the excuse of being a depressed squib. Just let me know and I can set you two up. We could get a small house in the country together and contemplate drowning ourselves in the picturesque duck pond. Or maybe we should move out to the moors instead. Going down in a bog is probably more poetic.

Oh, stop fretting. I’m just kidding. Lord, I need whatever amusement I can these days, and today, that’s you. I managed to finally get a little copper still set up in one corner of my room, but I’m sure McGonagall would confiscate any sample I tried to send on. (Or drink it herself. I’m certain she’s a bit of a tippler. She’d have to be to with that job.) All the same, it’s nice to be working again in my spare time.

What I wouldn’t do to be back there with all of you right now. Bugger, I’ve burnt the bloody roast again.

-Tilly

Ginny sighs, rubbing at her eyes. She’s torn between admiring Tilly’s refusal to back down and wanting to scream in frustration over the situation she’s put herself in. Tilly may have felt she won the battle with Bassenthwaite’s family, but they layered on so many archaic wedding traditions and stipulations as to make her life nearly unlivable. Most of which Ginny hadn’t even realized were real laws.

One year. If Tilly can manage to keep her sanity for one year of being stuck in close quarters with Bassenthwaite day in and day out, the marriage will be legal and binding and then nothing short of Tilly calling it quits herself can undo it.

Ginny just hopes that is really the freedom Tilly seems to think it will be.

“Sounds a lot more like prison if you ask me,” Bassenthwaite said to Ginny at their wedding. “But then, no one is asking me, are they?”

Ginny spent the entire day just wanting to hex people.

The feeling hasn’t faded any in the months since. Seeking to distract herself, she shuffles through the rest of her letters. At the bottom of the stack is her charmed parchment. She’s surprised to see that the runes have darkened. Harry isn’t quite as regimented with his letters as she is, but he’s still a few days early which is uncharacteristic. Two letters back to back without a response from her in between is unheard of these days.

She tells herself she should finish her Transfiguration essay before reading it, but then it occurs to her that maybe something has happened. After all, Ron’s birthday was only a few days ago and he has a habit of being poisoned around this time of year. She pulls the parchment out, letting herself be undisciplined just this once.

Ginny-

Ron’s birthday is officially over here, so I can safely say he managed to survive it again. So there’s one less thing to worry about. He barely even made an arse of himself at the pub. He’s nineteen now after all. A tried and tested adult, he keeps telling us.

I managed to track down some Chocolate Cauldrons to give him like you asked. As you predicted, he looked really alarmed, but found them hilarious by the time he was halfway through the box with no side effects. Hermione questions your sense of humor. (Yes, I put all blame on you for the idea. What can I say, Hermione is scary.)

Hermione’s parents are all settled in now, and door-slamming rows seem to have tapered off, but all the same, no one seems ready to bring up the topic of moving back to England quite yet. Ron and I just try to stay out of the way. It’s fun.

Speaking of England, I’ve bought a plane ticket. Ron and Hermione are going to stay, probably another month or so, but I’m going to come back. Had my fill of Australia, I guess. I arrive on the 11 th . Just wanted to let you know.

Looking forward to hearing about how the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match goes and if Karl has managed to maim anyone else. Have you considered wearing a helmet?

-Harry

Ginny sits back, the parchment falling to her lap as Harry’s words thunder away in her head.

Almost seven months he’s been gone now, seven bloody months, and he just sandwiches it in there like an incidental anecdote. Oh, by the way I’m coming back, but in more important news, let’s talk about Quidditch! Not a big deal or anything.

Because maybe it isn’t?

Merlin. March 11th. Just eight days away.

She glances back down at the parchment, like she can somehow read between the words, make meaning out of the punctuation and spaces. Giving it up as a lost cause, she instead tries to work out what she feels. If she is at all ready for this.

“Ginny?” Hestia is regarding her. “Are you okay?”

She doesn’t have a clue.

Chapter Text

Harry’s plane touches down at Heathrow late in the evening. Late enough that by the time he gets his bags and takes the Underground into London proper, it’s nearly midnight. Grimmauld is dark and very, very cold when he gets there, though he can’t be sure if he’s just become too used to the heat. The house is clean though, and surprisingly free of dust.

He hasn’t told the Weasleys he was coming back, made Ron and Hermione promise not to either. He wants to give himself a chance to settle in at Grimmauld Place, partly because he knows if he spends even a single night at the Burrow he’ll have a really hard time getting away again. Or wanting to leave again.

Besides, it’s far past time he stopped depending on them. Isn’t that why he’s here? To prove he can do this on his own?

Dropping his bags in the entryway, he blearily checks the basic wards.

The Fidelius is still technically in place, but rather ineffective considering every person ever told of this place is now a secret keeper themselves. Harry remembers some mention of Lupin spending time reestablishing the safety of the place to be used as a safe house again during the war. Not that it really matters one way or another. No one knows he’s even here. Well, besides Ginny, and he doubts she’s going to show up or try to murder him.

Convinced it’s safe enough for a night, Harry falls into a bed.

After a fitful night’s sleep, he finds himself a bit at sixes and sevens, poking around the depressing house. There’re still some of their things scattered about from when he stayed here with Ron and Hermione at the beginning of their search. They never had a chance to come back for any of it.

He pushes the thought away because he keeps expecting one of them to walk into the room.

He wonders what they’re doing right now.

Then he remembers how dubious the two were about him being on his own, like they weren’t sure he could do it, and forces himself not to think about them.

Poking through all the rooms, Harry finally settles on which one he’s going to claim as his own, stowing his things before going out and buying some basic groceries for the kitchen at a local Muggle market.

In the afternoon, he heads over to Diagon Alley.

Apparently he’s gotten too used to being nobody, because the way everyone stares at him is jarring. People just come to a stop and stare, whispering to each other as he passes.

“Is that—?”

“It can’t possibly be.”

“I think it is!”

“Merlin, wait until I tell Iris! She’ll be green with envy.”

Harry pretends not to hear, picking up his pace. He can just imagine Barina and Gerard giving him shit. Not that famous, my arse!

Striding up the alley, he heads for the garishly lit store near the end. He pushes open the door and it lets out a foul sound that coaxes a reluctant laugh out of him.

Inside, there are only a few people in the shop. One of them is a young boy who drops the box of Canary Creams he’s examining when he spots Harry. His mouth gapes with astonishment.

Harry gives him an awkward smile and then turns his attention to the witch behind the counter.

“Uh, hi,” he says.

She doesn’t respond, just staring back at him with wide eyes.

“Is George here?”

She waves vaguely behind her.

“Poppy, have you seen my—” George walks out of the back office, stopping mid-sentence as he spots Harry. “Blimey, look what the kangaroo dragged in!”

“Hey, George,” Harry says, glad to see someone who can actually speak around him. “How are you?”

“Good, good,” he says dismissively. He peers past Harry. “Are my brat brother and his paramour with you?”

Harry shakes his head. “I came back early.”

This seems to surprise him. “Finally got tired of them?”

Harry laughs. “No. Just ready to come back, I suppose. They won’t be much longer. They’re working out the logistics of getting Hermione’s parents moved.”

George snorts. “Ah. No wonder you came back.”

Harry smiles, not particularly wanting to try to explain the restlessness that’s been building in his chest.

“Well,” George says, coming around the counter. “Give us a proper hello.” He wraps an arm around Harry, slapping him heartily on the back.

Behind them, the door rumbles rudely again, small groups of people sidling in one after another. They whisper and glance quickly between the shelves and Harry.

“Word of your miraculous return has apparently made its way around the Alley,” George notes as the shop begins to fill with people. “We’ll be overrun in no time.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I didn’t think…”

George waves it away. “You’ll probably double my sales.” His brow furrows. “Wish I had more staff on hand today though.”

“Can I help?”

George considers him. “Sure. But we should probably get you behind the safety of the counter. Poppy!”

She blushes furiously. “Y-yes?”

“Don’t let him get away,” George tells Poppy as he maneuvers Harry next to her by the till. “Mum would kill me if I let you out of my sight without bringing you back for dinner.”

“Uh, okay,” Harry says.

George climbs up on the counter. “Oi! No looky-loos. Only paying customers! But ten percent off everything in celebration of the Chosen One’s return!”

The crowd lets off a cheer, everyone rushing to pick things up off the shelf to bring up to the counter where Harry is. It’s so busy that he doesn’t have time to be embarrassed with the way people stare at him. Even Poppy stops being flustered after a while, ordering him about, even as she continuously apologizes for doing so.

The hours seem to fly by, but Harry is left exhausted by the time George flips the sign over. “We can afford to close early today.” He looks at Poppy. “Do what you can to restock the shelves. I’ll be back in the morning.”

She nods, looking around at the decimated store.  

“Come on,” George says, taking Harry’s arm. “We might as well Floo rather than risk the Apparition point.”

As Harry isn’t exactly keen on going back outside, he obediently follows George up to his flat and into the small fireplace.

They appear with a sooty whoosh on the other side, Harry reaching out to steady himself on the mantle.

“Look what I dragged home with me!” George announces.

“Oh my goodness! Harry!” Molly exclaims, rushing over to fold him into a hug. She pulls back to look him over, brushing ashes off his robes. “But when did you arrive?”

“Yesterday,” he says.

Molly sets her hands on her hips. “You should have let us know! How did you get back from the airport? And where are you staying?”

“Er, at Grimmauld.”

“What?” Molly says, sounding horrified. “Is it safe?”

“It should be fine,” Harry says. “I checked the wards.”

Molly frowns, not looking particularly convinced. “Arthur!” she yells.

Arthur sticks his head in the kitchen. Upon seeing Harry, he kind of blinks. “Well, hello.” He looks at Molly. “Did I get muddled again? Should I have known Harry was back?”

“No, dear. He didn’t let us know he’d returned. And he’s staying at Grimmauld. All by himself.” She gives him a look like she expects him to fix it.   

“Oh,” Arthur says, looking back at Harry and smiling. “All set up okay, then?”

Harry nods. “Yeah.”

“Well, then. Seems all right.” He pats his stomach. “Are we eating?”

Molly lets out a sound of exasperation. “Oh for goodness’ sake. PERCY!”

Percy appears in the doorway, giving Harry an almost comical look of surprise. “Harry, when did—”

“Yes, yes,” Molly says briskly. “Harry is back and we didn’t know and he’s staying at Grimmauld. Set another place will you?”

Percy seems to absorb that before going for the cupboard. “Yes, Mum.”

It’s chaos, shuffling around and food flying over to the table and everyone talking over each other, and Harry’s flooded with how much he missed all of this.

“I’m sure the Ministry will wish to be informed of your return,” Percy says as they all settle at the table. He eyes Harry like he wants to be the one to inform the Ministry but isn’t sure if he should.

George snorts. “No need to torture yourself over the moral dilemma, Perce. They’ll know one way or the other by morning, I expect.”

Harry’s brow furrows. “Will they?”

“Didn’t you see the photographer in the shop? It’ll be on the front page of The Prophet by morning, no doubt.”

Harry sighs. “Lovely.”

George claps him on the shoulder. “Welcome home, mate.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

After promising to drop by and visit again quite often, Harry Apparates to the front stoop of Grimmauld Place with an enormous container of leftovers clutched to his chest. He pauses when he sees lights on in the front room. Setting the container aside, he pulls his wand, silently casting Homenum Revelio.

Nothing registers.

He carefully eases the front door open, sliding his body inside.

Kreacher is standing in the front hall.

“Kreacher,” Harry yelps.

The House Elf stoically regards him. “Welcome back, Master.”

“Um. Thank you,” Harry says, still looking cautiously around the space. “There’s no one else here?”

“No, Master,” he says.

Harry stows his wand. “Please don’t call me that,” he says.

“If Sir insists.”

Not quite what he had in mind. “I, uh, thought you were at Hogwarts.”

The elf nods. “Kreacher comes here to clean as well, sir.” His eyes narrow. “Sir should have let Kreacher know he intended to return. He would have been here to properly greet Sir.”  

Harry has zero intention of letting Kreacher serve him hand and foot. “You don’t have to… I mean, you can stay at Hogwarts.”

One of Kreacher’s ears droops. “Is that what Sir wishes?”

Harry tries not to lose his patience. “What do you wish?”

Kreacher peers up at Harry. “Kreacher’s place is with Sir.”

“Fine,” Harry says, split between being uncomfortable with having a House Elf and not particularly wanting to be completely alone in this giant pile. “But you can go back to Hogwarts whenever you like. Go anywhere, really. You don’t have to ask me or anything. Okay?”

Kreacher nods.

Still, it doesn’t particularly sit well with Harry. He briefly considers giving Kreacher some clothes so he’ll at least have the choice, but remembers Winky drinking herself into oblivion and knows there is no easy answer. He stares at Regulus’ locket still hanging around Kreacher’s neck and wonders if that counts.

After all, this place is more Kreacher’s home than it is his.

So Kreacher stays, Harry deciding he’ll just have to make a concerted effort to treat him like some sort of cousin. Only one he likes , more or less.

Mostly that means asking, not demanding. Talking with him, no matter how mystified Kreacher looks when he tries. He wonders how long it will take to convince him to take Regulus’ bedroom for his own.

One way or another, they’ll have to learn to not just exist together, but to live together, as awkward as it may be.

*     *     *

Harry isn’t exactly surprised when Bill shows up the next morning.

“I’ve been told to check your wards,” he informs him. “Mum’s orders.”

Harry pulls the door open wider, letting him in.

Bill glances around. “Still as homey as ever, I can see.”

Down in the cellar, Harry watches Bill check the wards. He declares some of them shoddy lost causes, dismantling them and then building them back up from scratch. Harry tries not to bother him, but eventually he can’t help but ask exactly what he’s doing and why.

If Bill minds all the ceaseless questions, he doesn’t let on, patiently answering them all as he works.

“Here,” Bill says, jabbing his finger at the magical nexus of the ward. “Can you feel the difference?”

Harry scrunches up his nose, trying to put a name to the sensation crawling across his skin. “It’s…uh…smoother?”

“Yeah,” Bill says, looking impressed. “Not bad. That’s the Unplottable one. Totally different than the energy of a Muggle repellent ward. And nothing like the tang of a Anti-Apparition barrier. Incidentally, I can’t imagine why you would want to, but you’ll still be able to Apparate within the building itself. You know, in case you get too lazy to walk down to the kitchen.”

Harry laughs. “Good to know.”  

Bill turns back to his work, making incredibly complicated movements with his wand. Eventually he sits back on his heels. “And that is something a little extra. Don’t tell. Not strictly legal, but really bloody useful when it comes to keeping unsavory elements out of your hair.”

“Like the Ministry?” Harry says.

Bill laughs. “Exactly. No one is going to be able to eavesdrop or observe you in here. Not that you are anything less than a paragon of morality and heroics, but it will at least keep the Prophet free of pictures of you in your pants.”

Harry snorts. “Wonderful.”

Bill gets to his feet, brushing his robes off. “Okay. I have to get back to work.”

“Right,” Harry says, not intending to have taken up so much of his time. “Sorry about that.”

Bill dismisses his apology with a wave of his hand. “Like I was going to say no to Mum. Goblins have nothing on her.”

At the front door, Bill turns back. “Oh, and Mum also asked me to remind you that she may have conceded your living arrangements, but members of this family don’t miss Sunday dinner on pain of Howlers.”

“So noted,” Harry says, feeling stupidly warmed to be included in that rule.

“See you Sunday then, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry promises.

He smiles at Harry. “Welcome home.” He Disapparates with a barely audibly pop.

Left on his own again, Harry putters around, moving from room to room. He unpacks all of his things, which isn’t much really, but passes the time.

That evening, he finally pulls out his parchment, sitting down with it at the kitchen table.

Ginny? Are you there? he writes.

The chances that she happens to be looking at her parchment are minimal. Still, there’s always a chance. When staring at the blank sheet gets too aggravating, he paces around the kitchen, pulling open random drawers and nudging glasses straight on the shelf.

He spins on his heel when he hears the familiar soft hum of an arriving message.

Hi! Still there? it says.

Yes. Hi, he writes back. It’s awkward with the tapping constantly between brief sentences, but he kind of thinks it might be awkward even without it.

Well, Ginny writes back, this is different, being in the same time zone.

He smiles. Same side of the world and everything.

Finally all your letters aren’t coming upside down anymore.

He frowns down at the parchment, and her next message comes before he manages to write anything.

Merlin, you are totally sitting there thinking about that, aren’t you? That was what we, in England, call a joke.

Not a very good one, Harry writes back before he can stop himself.

There is a long pause this time, long enough that Harry begins to worry he’s offended her. Only the next message isn’t words, just a poorly drawn stick figure that seems to be crying tears.

Your drawings aren’t much better, he points out.

You couldn’t have stayed in Australia?

He laughs, something inexplicably easing in his chest. How are you?

Good. You?

Still getting over my jet lag and drowning in leftovers from your mum.

Sounds about right.

He sits back, gnawing on his lip before picking up his quill again. It’s time to stop avoiding the purpose of this conversation. Is this a Hogsmeade weekend?

It is. Thinking of coming for a visit?

Yeah. If that would be okay. He stares down at the parchment a moment before adding, I don’t want to get in the way or anything.

Of course it’s okay. I’m sure everyone will be over the moon. Except Tobias. But try not to take that personally. He hates everyone equally.

That’s big of him.

There’s a long pause then, and he doesn’t know if she’s writing or if someone came by to talk to her or what, his thoughts tumbling about in his brain as he waits.

The runes finally darken.

I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow then, she writes.

Yeah, Harry writes. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Stowing his parchment and quill, he goes up to his room and stares up at the canopy for a long time.

*    *    *

The door to The Three Broomsticks swings open and Ginny looks up, craning her neck slightly to look around Neville. It’s just a clutch of gossiping fourth-years. She sits back in her seat.

Tobias eyes her. “What’s with you? You’re like a Kneazle in a room full of liars.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ginny says, forcing herself to relax her hands and take a casual sip of butterbeer. “Then again, I doubt anyone ever has a clue what you’re on about.”

Across the table from them, Neville snickers.

“Watch it, Longbottom,” Tobias says.

Neville doesn’t look even remotely cowed, just rolling his eyes. Hannah gives them both repressive glances and then turns to Luna, asking about her latest post-Hogwarts plans.

Ginny tries to listen, she really does, but sitting here surrounded by her friends as her nerves eat away at her is torturous. She keeps trying to remind herself this isn’t a big deal, but it feels like one.

Ernie passes by, giving her a bland smile that she perfectly mirrors. It’s a timely reminder that this could be worse after all. It could be last Hogsmeade weekend.

The door opens again, and this time, Ginny forces herself to not look up, pretending to be listening very carefully to Luna.

Neville is the one to turn in his chair as students’ voices get louder, squinting as he stares towards the entrance to the pub. “Is that Harry?”

“What?” Hannah says, looking around as well.

“I think it is,” Luna says. “Though one can never be too certain.”

In the ensuing ruckus, Tobias slides Ginny a look. “What an amazing coincidence,” he mutters so only she can hear.

She elbows him in the ribs.

“Violence is a sign of a disorganized mind,” he says, rubbing the spot with a scowl.

Ginny ignores him, allowing herself to finally look up. There’s a crowd by the door, people laughing and talking all at once. Then someone steps aside and there Harry is, nose red from the cold, hair windblown, lanky frame bundled in a corduroy coat and a scarf.

He’s smiling, head canted down to listen to something Dennis Creevey is saying, but looking distracted, eyes darting around the space.

“Shall we go say hello?” Tobias asks. “Or just sit here and stare?”

Ginny tears her eyes away from Harry, regarding Tobias with alarm, only to find the rest of the table emptied, Hannah and Luna having followed Neville over to say hello.

Tobias is giving her a knowing expression. She ignores him, pushing to her feet and moving towards the door.

She’s about halfway across the room when Harry looks up and sees her approaching. Abandoning the other people, he crosses over to meet her.

“Hey,” he says, coming to a stop right in front of her.

Looking at him standing there, solid and real and close enough to actually touch, Ginny decides she remembered him wrong. Or just hadn’t quite remembered what it feels like to be the focus of his attention.

“Welcome home,” she somehow manages to say around the hard lump in her throat.  

Those simple greetings seem to exhaust their supply of words, leaving them awkwardly standing in silence.

“Uh,” Harry eventually says. “How are you?”

“Good,” she says, nodding a bit ridiculously. “Really good.”

He nods back at her. “You look good,” he says, only to immediately look like he’s swallowed his tongue, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I mean, uh, you know, happy.”

“You look right side up,” she blurts.

He lets out a surprised huff of laughter, seeming genuinely amused by her completely stupid joke, and for some ridiculous reason that makes it feel just the tiniest bit easier to breathe.

Behind him, the door opens again, another group of students arriving.

Harry winces, shuffling to the side like he’s trying to get out of the way when clearly the crowd is rushing towards him. “I wasn’t really expecting…” He glances around the pub. “This.”

She shakes her head. “You really thought the Hero of Hogwarts reappearing after all this time would go unnoticed?”

Harry’s jaw seems to tighten, and she knows he isn’t happy with the title, even after all this time. Despite how he may feel about it, it’s how people see him. She doesn’t imagine hiding away halfway around the world has helped any with that.

“People are happy to see you,” she says, trying to soften the blow.

“Are they?” he asks, his eyes intent on her face.

“Harry!” someone bellows. It’s Seamus, charging towards Harry as if the crowd is nothing, Dean a few steps behind, a wide grin on his face.

“Case in point,” Ginny says.

Dean and Seamus descend on Harry before he can respond, smacking him on the back and asking a million questions.

Hannah looks around at the crowd with concern. “Maybe we should get Harry safely into a seat before he gets trampled.”

“Probably a good idea,” Neville says.

Neville and Hannah maneuver Harry over to a large table at the back so he has the table between him and everyone else. Harry, she can’t help but notice, looks both overwhelmed and frustrated. Maybe she should have warned him, but honestly didn’t think she would need to.

In the shuffle, she ends up sitting across from him, not quite close enough to talk comfortably.

Dean grabs the seat next to Ginny, leaning into her while Seamus is distracted.

“The package came.” He shows her a small parcel tucked into his robes.

“Oh good,” she says. “You owe me.”

He laughs, patting her on the shoulder. “Don’t I know it.”

Looking back down the table, she finds Harry watching her, only to look away when someone says his name.

Ginny listens impatiently as Harry answers the same half a dozen questions over and over again (When did you get back? A few days ago. How was Australia? Good. Strange. Did you come back alone? Yes. Where are Ron and Hermione? Still there. Both doing fine. What are you going to do now? I have no bloody idea.) until everyone finally seems to settle down.

“The DA is still meeting?” Harry asks when someone mentions it in passing.

“Yeah,” Neville says. “Not so covertly anymore. And not in the Room of Requirement. It never really recovered, you know. But McGonagall gave us a space to meet in.”

The DA is still about defense lessons, but even more than that, it’s a place every student is welcome, a place where abilities and house and family lineage don’t matter.

“It was Hannah’s idea to keep up with it,” Neville says, giving her a smile.

Hannah ducks her head. “Ginny and Luna too,” she says, deflecting attention away from herself as always.

Harry looks over at Ginny. “Yeah?” he asks.

Ginny lifts one shoulder. “We all know how Hannah can be when she gets it in her head to do something.”

Hannah pokes her tongue out at her. “Like you’re one to talk.”

Everyone laughs appreciatively. Ginny glances at Harry, their eyes catching, and she feels a ridiculous smile spread over her face, feeling stupidly giddy.

The conversation rumbles around for a while between talk of the DA and the Quidditch standings, which Harry is kind enough to pretend he doesn’t know anything about.

“Ginny,” Flora says from the next table.

“Yeah,” she says, turning to look at her.

Flora cants her head towards the front of the pub.

Dorinda is standing by the door, her eyes on Ginny.

She feels her stomach drop. Bugger. She should be elated that Dorinda is finally actively seeking her out, but she’s too busy bemoaning her timing. Could she have picked a more inconvenient moment? She lets out a breath. There’s nothing to be done for it.

Ginny pushes to her feet, Harry immediately looking over at her. “I’ll be right back,” she says, giving him a fleeting smile.

Working her way back across the pub, she tells herself she’s got to be imagining that she can feel his eyes on her.

“Dorinda,” Ginny says.

“Hi,” she says, glancing around the room. “Can we…talk?”

“Of course.” Ginny gestures outside, assuming she won’t want to stay in the crowded pub.

Once outside, Ginny forces everything else from her mind, focusing on the girl in front of her. They walk down the main street and eventually out into the woods near the Shrieking Shack.

Ginny doesn’t push, no matter how much she’d like to, just walks quietly and waits for Dorinda to speak.

She eventually breaks, blowing out a frustrated breath. “Can you promise that if I was hideous you’d still be inviting me to The Parlor?” she says in a rush.

Ginny stops walking and turns to look at her. “No.”

“What?” Dorinda says, looking horrified. “But you said…”

Ginny knows what the girl wants to hear, but this can’t be about partial easy truths. “Being beautiful is part of who you are. If you weren’t, you’d be someone different. And I don’t know if I would have invited that girl or not. Maybe I would. But maybe I wouldn’t.”

Dorinda is back to looking at her with suspicion, and Ginny thinks how exhausting that must be, always wondering about people’s angles. It makes her think of Harry, besieged on all sides.

“You know, you actually remind me of someone.” Somehow the similarities feel bizarrely obvious for all that she’s never considered them before. “People have always wanted things from him, but only the parts they find important or useful. I think it makes it hard for him to trust people.”

She never intended to share anything like that, never even really thought about it that way, but that’s Harry; always throwing a wrench in things when she least expects it, even when he’s not actually here.

Only he is, she remembers, heart thundering away. For a moment, she wants to be back in the pub so badly it scares her.

Shaking her head, she forces herself to focus on Dorinda. “I’m not interested in pieces of you, Dorinda. We want all of you. And the truth is that if you weren’t beautiful, you’d be missing part of yourself. So, no, I can’t promise that. But this really isn’t about my promises anyway. It’s about you deciding if you’re willing to trust.”

“You make it sound so easy,” she complains.

Ginny smiles. “Oh, there’s nothing easy about it.”

She turns, leaning against the fence surrounding the Shrieking Shack as she gives Dorinda time to think on that.

“Don’t you find it rude?” Dorinda asks.

“What?”

“That I’m being so…”

“Hesitant?” Ginny supplies.

“Yeah.”

Ginny shakes her head. “It only makes me more certain.”

“Because I’m playing hard to get?” she shoots back.

“Because if all you cared about was the prestige of the sisterhood, you would have joined immediately. Now if you ever do join, it’ll be easier to believe it was for the right reasons.”

Dorinda looks like it never occurred to her that Ginny might be worried about her motives. “I can’t answer you now.”

Ginny shoves her hands in her coat pockets. “I don’t need you to.”

“Okay,” Dorinda says.

Sensing that she has asked everything she wanted to, Ginny decides it’s time to give her space. “I’m going to head back.”

“Okay,” she says again.

Ginny leaves the girl standing, staring off at the shack. She stops a short distance away though, turning back to look at her. “Dorinda.”

She looks up. “Yeah?”

“Even if you never join,” Ginny says, “I’m still here if you ever want to talk. About anything.”

Dorinda stares back at her, but doesn’t say anything.

Ginny smiles and heads back towards Hogsmeade. She glances up, squinting against the glare of the sun low on the horizon. Her buoyant mood evaporates. She’s been gone far longer than she intended. There aren’t many students milling about the main street anymore, and she can see a steady stream of them heading back up to the castle for dinner.

She quickens her steps, her chest tight as she nears the pub.

She pushes the door open, and inside is nearly empty. A few students are milling about, picking up coats and pulling on gloves and hats. But no one else.

“Damn it,” she breathes, feeling almost sick.

She nearly jumps out of her skin when someone touches her shoulder. “Ginny.”

She spins around and there Harry is, bundled up and looking ready to leave but still here .

“You haven’t left,” she says in a rush.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t want to go without saying goodbye.”

The relief makes it a little hard to think.

“Everything okay?” he asks, gesturing towards the door. “You know, with…”

“Oh,” she says, wondering what he made of that. “Yeah. It’s fine. Just the usual school drama. You’re really missing out.”

He’s watching her closely, lips barely twitching at her pathetic attempt at humor, like all of their earlier camaraderie is gone. Damn, damn, damn.

The pub is emptying completely, the last of the students walking out, but not without giving them curious glances. Ginny feels ridiculously exposed, looking down at her toes.  

“You have to go, don’t you?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah. Probably,” Ginny says.

She kind of wants to let out a long string of curses, to be honest. She glances back up at him. Seven months. Seven months and now he’s here. She’s not wasting it.

“Walk me back up to the castle?”

He straightens. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Of course.” He smiles, something bright and genuine that makes Ginny really glad she risked asking.

Outside the shadows have lengthened, only a few shafts of dull late-evening light hitting the patches of snow. They walk in silence as they head up the street, the snow underfoot a churned-up mess of dirt and slush.

She casts about for anything talk about. “Did you have fun?”

He pulls a face. “It wasn’t quite what I imagined.”

She wants to know exactly what he did expect, but she still feels all weirdly edgy and can’t bring herself to ask. “So,” she says instead, “just like usual then.”

He lets out a huff, but doesn’t deny it.

She isn’t really paying attention to where she’s putting her feet, far too focused instead on what she wants to say and what she should say, and how they aren’t necessarily the same thing. The path up to the school is cast in deep shadows by the towering trees on either side. As they step out onto it, she hits a newly formed patch of slush-turned-ice. Her foot tries to go in a different direction than the rest of her body, and she lets out a ridiculous squeak as she fights to regain her balance.

Harry immediately grabs for her, and she briefly wonders if she’s going to manage to take both of them down, but he sets his feet firmly and halts her momentum. Her upper body sort of bangs against his arm and then she’s leaning against him, sure that her face must be blazing.

“Sorry,” she mumbles.

“S’okay,” he says.

Merlin, she’s not usually a clumsy person. After a moment, he lets go, the distance between them widening again, and she finds herself wishing she were.

Despite that ridiculous thought, she does concentrate on picking her path far more carefully from then on. Because honestly, it’s nice just to be here, walking with him.

“I’m really sorry,” she says.

He cants his head towards her. “For what?”

She grimaces. “Basically disappearing on you during your welcome-home party.”

“Oh. It’s fine,” he says like it’s no big deal, but she kind of thinks it is. “I knew you would…have things. You know. A life.” He gives her a bracing smile.

I don’t, she very nearly blurts. She bites it back because she actually does, of course. She has responsibilities. People. She’s worked hard for it. This life.

“It was really important,” she says. “Or I wouldn’t have…”

His smile is genuine this time. “Really, Ginny. It’s fine.”

She stops pressing. Not because she feels any better about it, but because she thinks it might be weird if she keeps at it. She notices that their pace has definitely slowed, and she spends a few seconds analyzing that before forcing herself to stop. She doesn’t have enough data to go off of and it will only make her even more anxious at this point.

“So,” she says, glancing down at her feet. “Any more trips planned?”

“What?” Harry asks. “Oh. No. No more trips.”

She looks up at him. “A tour of Africa, maybe? Coast-to-coast broom ride across the Americas?”

“Walking tour of the Great Wall of China?” he says, voice dry.

“Yeah,” she says. “Anything like that?”

“No,” he says. “I’ve had my fill of traveling.”

“Okay,” she says.

He looks away. “So what was Dean’s troll-brained plan?”

“What?” she asks, nothing further from her mind than Dean Thomas.

“You, uh, mentioned it in a letter a while back,” he says, back to being awkward.  

“Oh, yeah,” she says, trying to remember what exactly she said. “It was nothing really. He got me to help George track something down that he wanted to give Seamus for his birthday. Apparently it was super important. It was a hassle, but at least now he owes me a favor.”

“Ah,” Harry says.

“It just came in today,” she says, remembering Dean showing it to her earlier.

“I hope Seamus likes it.”

She smiles, thinking of all the time Dean spent on it, how excited he was to surprise Seamus. Adorable, really. “Oh, I’m sure he will.”

Next to her, Harry stiffens, his step faltering. They’ve turned the bend, the gates in view now, and there is a rather large group of students loitering there.

Ginny looks at Harry’s expression of barely masked dismay and takes his arm, pulling them both off the path and out of sight.

He doesn’t resist, just looks at her in question as they move into the trees.

“We should just say goodbye here,” she says.

“I don’t mind walking you all the way up,” he says immediately.

She smiles at him. “No need for you to get mobbed again on my behalf.”

He lets out a breath, like he’s annoyed and grateful all at once.

“Really, Harry,” she says, “it’s okay.”

He nods.

They stand in the quiet space under the trees, and neither of them seem certain how to say goodbye as it gets later and later.

“You’re going to the Burrow for break?” Harry eventually blurts.

“Yes,” she says. “In two weeks.” That somehow seems like a tremendously long time and also far too soon.

“We’ll see each other then, right?” he asks.

“Been roped into Sunday dinners already, have you?”

He smiles. “Upon pain of Howlers.”

“Good,” she says, feeling a rush of relief knowing he’s being taken care of, that he isn’t, well, disappearing or anything like that. She can trust her mum to look out for him.

“I guess I’ll see you then, then,” he says, rubbing awkwardly at his hair as he takes a small step back.  

But she can’t let him leave, not until she knows really, so she steps into him and hugs him. Despite the unexpectedness of it, he somehow manages not to fumble or hesitate at all to hug her back, his arms closing around her.

She waits for it—the panic, the discomfort, any of it—but all she feels is the press of corduroy under her cheek, the warmth of his arms tight and comfortable around her.

She breathes out. “It was really nice seeing you again, Harry,” she says into his chest.

“You too,” he says, chin brushing the top of her head.

She forces herself to step back, because there is a new kind of panic buzzing in her mind now, one she hasn’t bothered preparing for.

His hands slide down her arms before dropping away with what might be reluctance. “Bye, Ginny,” he says.

She tries to give him the warmest smile she can manage. “Bye.”

He takes two steps back and then he’s turning, disappearing with a soft crack.

She feels her smile slip, the cold of the evening seeming to rush back in. She stares at the empty spot where he stood, footprints still visible in the snow, but there aren’t anymore clues to be found here, no more answers.

Turning back for the path, she carefully chooses her footing. She passes up through the gates, Tobias falling into step next to her.

“Alright?” he asks, his shoulder barely bumping hers.

She nods. “Yeah.”

And if that isn’t completely the truth, well, she has two weeks to figure out what she wants to do about it.

Chapter Text

“You went to Hogsmeade yesterday?” George asks.

Harry looks up from his plate. As promised, he showed up for Sunday dinner at the Burrow. Fortunately Molly seems to have finally forgiven him for staying at Grimmauld. Or at least given up complaining about it.

“Um, yeah,” he says, feeling stupid for not being prepared to talk about his visit.

George leans on the table. “How did the students seem? Eager to part with their sickles?”

“Uh,” Harry says, not really sure how to answer that. He hadn’t really been paying attention to the shops.

But George doesn’t seem to need an answer. “I’m still thinking about taking over Zonko’s. Just not sure it’s worth the rent for empty summers and the odd Hogsmeade weekend.”

“Did you see Ginny?” Bill asks.

“Yeah,” he says, a series of select memories rising up in his mind. His first glance of her crossing the room towards him, a shared smile, her shoulder pressing into his as she almost fell, a hug shared under the trees.

It was really nice seeing you again, Harry.

“Oh, did you?” Molly says. “How is she?”

“She seemed…good,” Harry says, barely resisting the bizarre urge to squirm in his chair.

“More importantly, is she still seeing that plonker?” Bill asks. He turns to look at Fleur. “What was his name?”

Harry frowns, gravity seeming to return with a lurch. He can only think of one person who was anywhere near Ginny other than Tobias. “You mean Dean?”

“Dean?” Bill says. “There’s a Dean now? Who the bloody hell is that?”

George snorts. “Seems our little sister is making her way around the school quite efficiently.”

Fleur presses her lips together in disapproval. “Your sister’s affaires de coeur are not your business.”

“Well, how about Harry’s then?” George asks, propping his hand up on his chin like he’s about to get some salacious gossip.

“Me?” Harry asks, feeling his heart take an erratic beat.

Bill turns to look at him. “Oh, yes. We were all surprised to see you come back on your own.”

Harry blinks. People kept saying that at the pub yesterday too. “I told you, Ron and Hermione are finishing up helping the Grangers sell their house and pack everything up.”

George snorts. “Is it possible he’s even thicker than before he left? We were referring to the witch. Blonde. Pretty. Clearly adoring.”

It takes Harry a while to figure out who they could possibly be talking about. Then it hits him like a ton of bricks. “You mean Cass?”

Harry is going to murder Ron when he gets back. Did he really write to his family about that?

“Is that her name?” Bill asks. “They didn’t mention it in the papers.”

Harry feels his stomach lurch. “The papers?”

“Oh, yes,” George says, smiling fondly as if over a cherished memory. “It was quite the thing for a few weeks there in January. Pictures of you and your lovely paramour. Speculation of whether or not you would settle long-term in Australia or if you would bring her home to make an honest witch of her.”

Harry stares at him in absolute horror. “She’s not—that’s not—we weren’t—”

“Take a breath, Harry,” Bill says, patting him on the shoulder. “Mum’s just glad you haven’t been wooed away from the country by an Australian tart.”

“William Weasley,” Molly scolds.

“She isn’t a tart,” Harry feels the need to defend. “She’s a friend. And I can’t believe anyone back here would care one way or the other. I must be boring by now.”

“Oh, Harry,” George says, giving him a pitying look. “You are in for some surprises.”

He remembers being mobbed at the pub and the crowd of people at the twins’ shop. For some reason, he can’t help but think of what Cass told him. You’re the kind of trouble I have no interest in. The food in his stomach seems to turn to rocks.

After dinner, Molly and Fleur lower their heads together, sending Harry very unsubtle looks from time to time.

George and Bill turn to each other and laugh.

“Best be on the lookout for whatever that is, mate,” Bill says to Harry.

Sure enough, after a restless night’s sleep, Harry’s barely finished breakfast when Fleur sweeps into Grimmauld Place.

She glances around the entryway with distaste. “Molly and I agree that if you are going to live here, there will have to be some major changes.”

Harry opens his mouth to protest, but Fleur spears him with a look so sharp she must be taking lessons from her mother-in-law.

“Okay, sure,” Harry relents, not having the energy or, honestly, the will to take on Fleur or Molly over it. Let alone both of them. If they want to fix the place up, they are more than welcome to it.

She gives him a brilliant smile that he can’t help but feel the impact of. He shakes his head to clear it, deliberately looking away from her. “But you have to work with Kreacher,” he says, trying to sound stern.

“What?” she asks.

He stares somewhere past her shoulder, refusing to budge on this. “It’s his home. He should have a say.”

Fleur still seems a little uncertain, but nods all the same. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

After a very surreal set of introductions, Fleur and Kreacher spend most of the day poking around the house. Kreacher looks utterly mystified to be consulted, but adjusts quickly enough. If there is one thing Kreacher can be counted on to do, it’s to be very protective of the house.

For his part, Harry just does his best to stay out of their way.

That evening, he’s pretty exhausted despite not having done much all day. He didn’t sleep well the night before, his thoughts endlessly spinning. It’s the same again tonight. He just can’t quite seem to drift off no matter how tired he is.

He’s lying in bed reading a book on wards that Bill lent him, and it’s interesting enough to hold his attention, even if he wishes it weren’t. Maybe he should switch to Hogwarts: A History or something. That would definitely put him to sleep. It’s early still though, so he doesn’t bother swapping books. Maybe he will if he’s still up at midnight.

It takes a moment for the familiar humming sound to penetrate Harry’s concentration, but then he’s scrambling up, the book falling to the floor as he reaches for the parchment and his wand on the bedside table.

Harry? Are you still up? Ginny’s message says.

He immediately digs around for a quill, summoning a bottle of ink from the small writing table on the other side of the room. In his haste, he doesn’t think that through particularly well, and he ends up with a lap full of ink. Cursing, he charms it back up, but by this point it feels like it’s been ages since Ginny’s first message.

Yes. Hi. I’m here, he scrawls, immediately tapping the sheet with his wand.

He waits impatiently for a response. Enough time passes that he starts to worry that she gave up or went to sleep. But then her next message comes, her handwriting spilling across the parchment.

Oh, good. Hi. I didn’t want to bother you, but I just really needed to apologize again. For Saturday. For just disappearing like that. For not being there. I don’t want you to think I didn’t want to be there. Because I did. So, I’m sorry. Again. And now I am going to stop rambling.

Harry lets out a shaky laugh at the tumble of words, and part of that, he has to admit, is blinding relief. Ever since finding out about him and Cass being in the papers, he’s been torturing himself, wondering if maybe Ginny left the pub on purpose to avoid him. Which doesn’t actually make any sense, because she still came back and asked him to walk her up to the castle and laughed with him and hugged him. Of course, that could just mean she didn’t see it.

Or just didn’t care. They’re friends after all.

He has no idea how to figure any of that out though, so instead writes back, I didn’t take it personal, I promise.

Good. I hoped you hadn’t. But it’s been bugging me ever since Saturday.

Then you should have written sooner, he writes, not liking the idea that she’s been beating herself up about it.

Yeah. Maybe I should have.

He stares down at her words, feeling the rising pressure to come up with something, anything to say. He just wants her to keep writing, doesn’t want this to end.

She gets there first, but rather than saying goodnight, she asks, So what are you doing?

He lets out a breath in relief. Reading a book, believe it or not.

Her response is immediate. You know how to read?

Shut it, he writes, smiling. I’m alternating between Quidditch memoirs and a book on wards.

Not revising for your NEWTs?

Ugh. Not you too. I get enough of that from Hermione.

Hey, I’m the one talking with you instead of writing my Potions essay. Hermione would be appalled at both of us.

Good point. She can probably sense it from all that distance away. You should expect an owl sometime Wednesday.

Something to look forward to. So, tell me about this book you’re reading.

You really don’t want to write that Potions essay, do you?

Nope.

Harry smiles, settling back and writing to her late into the night about the weirdest wards in the book.

*     *     *

In morning Charms, Ginny is paired with Luna in one corner of the classroom.

They are working on non-verbal spells, which hypothetically should make the classroom too quiet to cover any side conversations, but no one is doing all that well so far with the incredibly difficult skill. Meaning there’s plenty of cursing and grumbling to cover Ginny’s voice.

“You know the parchments you charmed for me last summer?” she asks Luna.

Luna doesn’t look up from the piece of torn cloth she is trying to mend non-verbally. “Yes. Of course,” she says. “Are they still functioning well?”

“Yeah. Great,” Ginny says. “The charms haven’t faded or anything. I was just wondering… Is it possible to fix them so you can send messages without having to do the spells after each one? Like, just be able to write back and forth immediately?”

When she wrote to Harry to apologize the night before, she had no idea the conversation would go on so long, or that she would enjoy it so much. The only annoying part was the logistics of sending messages.

She isn’t at all sure that they’ll even write to each other like that again, but she figures looking for a solution can’t hurt.

Luna looks up from the table. “It’s important to you.”

“Oh, no,” Ginny says, forcing herself to not look away from her probing gaze. “It’s just something I thought might be useful. But it’s fine without it.”

Luna holds her gaze. “I’m certain it’s possible. I may even know where to look.”

“Really?” Ginny says, trying not to sound too eager. “If you tell me what you’re looking for, I could search the library.”

Luna considers that. “It might be more efficient for me to do that myself.”   

“Maybe we could do it together,” Ginny says, not wanting to make Luna do all the work.  

“Oh, yes,” Luna says, beaming. “That would be so much fun.”

“Great,” Ginny says. She looks at the cloth, taking her own turn with the non-verbal spell. She tries four times, but at best the cloth only looks slightly less frayed.

“Do you think we could start after dinner?” Luna asks.

Ginny grins. “Definitely.”

They spend two hours in the library, researching specific charms as well as how to integrate and modify them to fulfill their specific needs.

“You know,” Ginny says, “you should sell these. The charmed parchments.”

“Why would I do that?” Luna asks.

“Well, if I find them useful, I imagine others would as well.”

“Is there someone else who wants a pair?” she asks, looking confused. “I could easily make another set.”

Ginny shakes her head. “No, Luna. I was thinking more like you could manufacture and sell them. On a larger scale.”

“No,” Luna says, turning back to the books. “That doesn’t interest me.”

“Well, if you don’t want to sell them, you could at least sell the charms. You know, the process of making them. My brother might be interested.”

“You can just give him the charms, if you like,” Luna says, still supremely uninterested.

“Luna,” she says. “You deserve credit for what you’ve invented.”

“I’m just trying to help a friend,” Luna points out.

Ginny touches her hand. “And I really appreciate that. But at least consider what you could do with the money. You could put it towards financing your expeditions.”

“Oh,” she says. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“Well, think on it, okay?”

Luna nods. “I will.”

“And when you’re traveling, we’ll have our own set to keep up with each other,” Ginny says, bumping her shoulder.

Luna lets out a joyful laugh.

*   *     *

Ginny’s down in The Parlor trying to finish the last of her homework when her parchment makes a soft hum. She told herself not to bother Harry again, or to expect him to write, but she’s still been carrying it around with her, so it’s possible that is a giant lie.  

Putting aside her work, she taps the parchment with her wand.

Got any more homework you need help avoiding? his message says.

She smiles. Always.

They chat a while about inconsequential things as the other Parlor girls finish up their projects and drift off to bed.

Ginny clears Harry’s last message and re-inks her quill. This is kind of annoying, isn’t it? Having to write and say a spell and wait and say a spell again. All for a few sentences at a time.

I don’t mind, is Harry’s response. But it is kinda a bother, yeah.

I was talking to Luna earlier. She thinks she may be able to update the charms somehow. I mean, if you’d like to keep talking like this.

She sends the message and waits for his response, trying to keep her breathing calm and steady, even as her fingers tap impatiently on the arm of her chair.

I do, he writes back. I think it’s a great idea.

She lets out a breath, staring down at his words as she tries to analyze the press of relief in her chest. I suppose that’s something we should have thought about fixing before.

Maybe we should have, he agrees.

Ginny gnaws on her lip.

Do you think she’ll be able to do it? he asks.

It’s Luna. Of course she will.

Of course.

So, did you do anything fun today? Please tell me about how exciting life outside of school is.

Sorry. I mostly just hid in my room.

Turning into a hermit?

No. I wish. Fleur was here today again. She and your mum have decided that if I am going to live here, it needs to be redecorated. She and Kreacher have been conspiring against me, I’m sure of it.

Ginny definitely doesn’t disagree with Fleur’s assessment, not particularly liking the idea of him living alone there in that dreary place.

So you’re really going to live there? He said he didn’t have any more trips planned, but she can’t help but wonder.

Well, as much as your mum tried to argue otherwise, I can’t very well live at the Burrow for the rest of my life. I figure this will do for now.

She looks at the words ‘for now’ for a long time.

*     *     *

On the way out of his house Thursday morning, Harry pauses on the stoop. His eyes sweep over the park across the street. It’s more habit than anything, something he does every time without thinking, but today his attention is caught by a person lounging against the fence near the bus stop. It’s not unusual for someone to be there, but there’s something about the guy that keeps Harry from dismissing him.

Harry’s still on the stoop, hidden behind the wards and charms, and he’s careful not to go beyond them as he watches the figure. He’s wearing Muggle clothing, but it doesn’t fit him quite right. Again, not totally unheard of, but still weird.

A few more people gather and less than ten minutes later a bus arrives at the stop. Harry loses sight of the guy as people get on and off the bus, but when it pulls away, sure enough, he’s still there, far more intent on the buildings to either side of number 12 than the bus.

It’s definitely time to contact someone, send a note off to Robards or something, but instead Harry heads back inside and up to his room to get his invisibility cloak. Pulling it on, he steps out past the wards and down the steps, darting across the street. Carefully circling around into the park, he approaches the guy from behind, pulling off his cloak and aiming his wand. Fortunately the square is pretty empty of Muggles.

“Who are you and why are you here?” Harry asks.

The guy stiffens, hand going for what Harry can only assume is his wand.

“Expelliarmus,” Harry says, a wand flying up to land in his empty hand.

“Turn around slowly.”

His shoulders drop, spreading his hands wide as he does as he’s told.

“Let me ask again,” Harry says. “Who are you and why are you here?”

Someone claps a hand down on Harry’s shoulder from behind, but before he can react, he recognizes the distinct press of a wand tip against his back. “Good thing no one is actually trying to kill you, Potter,” says the wizard.

Harry glances back over his shoulder, and this wizard actually looks more familiar. Someone he saw in Kingsley’s office.

The wizard lets go of him, lowering his wand and turning to his companion. “You let him take your wand?” he mocks.

“Shut it,” he says, scowling.

“What do you want?” Harry asks, his mood getting blacker by the moment.

“What do you think?” the grouchy one fires back.

Harry steps to the side so he isn’t standing between them, but doesn’t lower his wand. “Kingsley sent you.”

“Well, Robards, technically,” says the smiling one. “But yeah.”

Harry finally lowers his wand, but doesn’t put it away. “I don’t need to be followed around.”

“We aren’t here to debate you,” the angry one says, reaching into his coat.

Harry stiffens, lifting his wand again, but he only pulls out an envelope with his name written on it. “We were hanging around so we could deliver this.”

Harry takes it. “All the Ministry owls out sick today or something?” he asks, not believing that for a second.

“He’s funny,” his companion says. “Why isn’t that in the reports?”

“It says he’s a bloody pain in the arse and that seems accurate enough. Can I get my wand back?”

Harry ignores him, opening the seal on the letter. It’s from Kingsley, welcoming him home and requesting that Harry come see him as soon as possible. Very soon if he felt the need to have two Aurors accompany it. Or perhaps accompany him.

“Is there something happening that I need to know about?” Harry asks, watching them closely. Neither of them seem particularly on edge.  

“Above our pay grade,” the cheerful one says. “We’ll escort you.”

There is no way that is happening.

Harry shakes his head. “I can’t today.”

They both look astonished. “You can’t today?”

“Nope. I have plans. Tell the Minister I’ll get there when I can.”

“Potter,” one of them says, but Harry takes a few steps back, placing the Auror’s wand on the ground.

Before either can get another word in, he Apparates away.

Harry reappears on a small lane just before an elderly Muggle woman cycles around the corner on a rusty old bike. In his rush to avoid his Aurors, he forgot this was a Muggle area.

He nods at the lady as she cycles past, and she shoots him a deeply suspicious look. Once she’s out of sight again, Harry turns his attention back on the modest house in front of him. It has a large yard with a pond behind it.

He’s never seen the house in the daylight, and even then it’s a blurred memory of terror and pain and anxiety. He has a hard time reconciling this peaceful home with the memory.

Opening the gate, he heads up the front walk past a clothesline hung with white squares of fabric flapping in the gentle breeze.

He lifts the brass knocker, banging it lightly against the door a few times.

There’s the sound of a soft voice from somewhere inside, and Harry does his best not to pace while he waits.

The door pulls open, revealing Andromeda Tonks.

“Harry,” she says, brow furrowed.

“Hi,” he says.

It’s still weird to see her, the similarity of her features with Bellatrix. Especially as she stares at him with a less than welcoming expression.

“I’m sorry if this is a bad time,” he says. He was honestly too scared to send an owl ahead and risk her saying no.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

“Um. I was hoping to see Teddy?”

“Were you,” she says. She looks tired and wary, grey streaking her dark hair. “Why?”

He lifts his chin. “I’m his godfather, aren’t I?”

But that’s the real question, isn’t it?

Her jaw tightens. “I suppose you are.”

Harry sighs, rubbing at the back of his head. “Look. I can come back some other time if you need me to. Whatever works best for you.”

She considers him for another long moment before pulling the door open wider. “Come inside.”

They go down a hallway and past the kitchen until it opens up into a sunny room at the rear of the house. There are stacks of toys, a comfortable-looking sofa, and a playpen where Teddy currently sits, trying to stack blocks on top of each other.

Andromeda crosses over to Teddy, murmuring softly to him before lifting him up and out of the playpen and placing him on the floor. Teddy immediately grabs for the edge of the coffee table, pulling himself to his feet.

“Is he walking already?” Harry asks without thinking.

“Nearly,” Andromeda says. She smiles down at Teddy. “Any day now, right dear?”

Teddy says something back that might be words, but sounds more like gibberish to Harry.

“Well,” she says after Harry just continues to stand around and stare. “I have to check on something in the kitchen. Keep an eye on him for me for a few minutes will you?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, disappearing out the door.

Harry looks after her with alarm. What if Teddy needs something? Or cries or falls down? But Andromeda has disappeared, and Harry tells himself she wouldn’t abandon Teddy if she didn’t think it would be okay. Right?

“Pull it together,” he mutters to himself. It’s just a baby.

Crossing over, Harry sits down on the floor near Teddy. “Hey, mate.”

Teddy glances at him, but doesn’t seem particularly thrilled, scooting further away from Harry.

He pulls a small wooden dragon out of his pocket, holding it out. “I brought you this.”

Teddy looks at it, toddling closer a cautious step at a time, one hand grabbing tight to the front of the sofa. He takes the dragon in one fist, immediately shoving it in his mouth.

It’s big enough that Harry doesn’t think he needs to worry about him choking on it or anything, but keeps a close eye all the same.

He glances back over his shoulder, but Andromeda still hasn’t come back.

“I’m Harry, by the way,” he says, returning his attention to Teddy. “Your dad asked me… He asked me to be your godfather when you were born.”

Teddy seems far more intent on chewing on the toy than anything Harry has to say.

He’s so small, Harry thinks, watching the way he clumsily gets about on his thick, chubby legs, noticing how tiny his little fingernails are. It hits him then, that Teddy is almost the age he was himself when his parents died. When he went to live with the Dursleys.

Almost as if from nowhere, Harry is flooded with a fierce surge of protectiveness.

“I’m not really sure what a godfather is supposed to do. I mean, you’ve got your gran, which is probably best for both of us, as I have zero idea what you might need. She’s probably a pretty good mum too, since Tonks turned out so great.” He feels a tight squeeze in his chest. “I think maybe a godfather is supposed to just, you know, be there anytime you need him.”

Teddy seems supremely uninterested, cruising around the room with one fat hand gripping things as he toddles. Harry grabs for him when he nearly falls back. Teddy happily grips his finger, crawling up into his lap.

“I haven’t done a great job at that so far,” Harry says as Teddy swipes at his glasses.  “But I’m going to do much better. I promise.”

Teddy lets out a bright garbled sound, looking past Harry. He turns and Andromeda is standing in the doorway. His cheeks warm, realizing she must have overheard at least some of that.

She smiles at Teddy, her expression cooling significantly when she turns to look at Harry. “You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep,” she says.

“I don’t,” Harry says.

She looks like she is trying to decide if she believes him, and Harry forces himself not to squirm. “Okay,” she eventually says.

Teddy crawls up over Harry’s shoulder, and he grabs him, pulling him back down so he’s kind of awkwardly sitting on his arm. “I don’t know anything about babies.”

Andromeda shakes her head, sitting down on the sofa. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

He looks at Teddy, who seems to be trying to fit his entire fist in his mouth with an alarming amount of success. “I want to learn.”

There’s a low rumbling sound, Harry’s arm suddenly feeling much warmer than it had a moment ago. Teddy gives him a wide grin.

“Well, how about starting with changing a nappy?” Andromeda asks, arching an eyebrow at him. She looks like she is trying hard not to laugh, and she has never looked less like her sister than she does now.

“Brilliant,” Harry says, voice dry.

*     *     *

Harry is fairly exhausted by the time he gets home from Andromeda’s. Part of him wants to just eat and fall straight into bed, but his brain is buzzing with everything that’s happened.

He instead finds himself pulling out his parchment, not a little disappointed to find no message waiting. He didn’t write to Ginny the night before, primarily because he doesn’t want to feel like he’s bothering her, or barging back in or something. But tonight he just…really wants to talk to her.

Before he can talk himself into it, Ginny writes to him, right at nine, and he likes the idea that they have an unspoken set time.

Hey. This an okay time? she says.

Yes, he writes. I was just about to write to you myself.

Yeah? Something on your mind?

He almost writes no, or I just wanted to talk to you, not wanting to dump on her without even asking after her day, but finds himself writing, I went to see Teddy .

Did you? How was that?

The words just pour out, and he wasn’t even aware how much it’s been weighing on him until they do. I think I messed up, not going before. Andromeda wasn’t very pleased with me.

Her response is slow to come, and he braces himself for her to agree, to tell him off for being so thoughtless.

Even if that’s true, and I’m not sure it is, you can’t really change it. The past.

His shoulders drop, and of course she hasn’t blamed him. But she hasn’t absolved him of it either, and as uncomfortable as that is, at least it’s honest.

All I can do is be there now? he writes.

Yes. Exactly.

I want to be, he writes, a little overwhelmed with how much he means it, knowing he will do absolutely everything in his power to be there for Teddy. I promised I would be.

Then I know you will, she writes.

It’s hard, not seeing her face, hearing her voice. He just has blunt words on a page, and he doesn’t know if she is as certain of that as she sounds. How she could be after he’s left so many times before.

And don’t worry about Andromeda, she continues. She probably just isn’t sure of your intentions. She’s been caring for him for almost a year. And then you, his godfather, the famous Harry Potter, appear again one day.

That didn’t even occur to him, the very idea so ridiculous. She can’t possibly think I’d try to take him from her. How would I take care of a baby?

She probably just doesn’t know what to think, Ginny says. If you would take him. Try to make decisions for her. If you won’t stay, but just disappear again after he gets attached. She just wants to protect Teddy. Give her time and she’ll realize that you only want the best for him.

I do, he writes. I do want what’s best for him. I don’t want to cause any trouble. I just want to do what’s right.

She’ll figure that out. I have no doubt.

Harry finds that he believes her. He doesn’t know how she does that, how she always makes things seem…clearer. It all leaves him with this giant tangle of feelings in his chest he has no idea what to do with.

You should see him, Ginny. He’s so small. I don’t think I even knew kids could be that small. And I’m pretty sure he can put his entire foot in his mouth.

Talented kid.

You have no idea. I’ve already had to change a nappy.

Oh, Merlin. I shouldn’t write to you when I’m around other people. Now everyone is staring at me for laughing hysterically at a bloody piece of parchment.

He smiles, trying to imagine where she is. Maybe curled up on a couch in the Slytherin common room. I’ll do my best to not be funny, for your sake.

Oh, I doubt not being funny would be much of a trial for you.

Hey. I think I’m insulted.

I’m sure you can live with it.

That had better not be a Boy Who Lived joke or I am putting this parchment away right now.

See? I think you’d be perfectly great at caring for a baby, considering you’re practically one yourself. Underneath her words is a wonky drawing of a face with a tongue sticking out.

He lets out a burst of laughter. And to think, I was going to thank you for listening to me rattle on. Now I’d just be thanking you for calling me names.

Okay, I think I have to leave the area before someone calls Madam Pomfrey on me. I look way too ridiculous laughing at myself.

Seriously, though, he writes, thank you.

You’re welcome.

For the first time since he came back, Harry drifts off to sleep with no problem, feeling lighter than he has in months.

Chapter Text

Over the next week, it isn’t unusual for Harry to come home to Fleur and Kreacher arguing, or even more ominously, the two of them with their heads lowered together in conspiratorial whispers. He tries to stay out of their way as much as possible.

Mostly that means retreating to Andromeda’s. Caring for Teddy may be confusing and very, well, damp a lot of the time, but it is by far Harry’s favorite activity. There’s a lot to learn, but it’s also surprisingly fun. Everything is just so new and interesting to Teddy, it’s hard not to get caught up in that. Even his words are starting to make more sense the more Harry listens to them, and he can go longer and longer stretches caring for him on his own without panicking too much.

He tries not to crowd Andromeda though, letting her pick the times he can come over and designate how long he should stay. He thinks things are getting less frosty between them though, day by day.

When he’s not there, he’s taken to wandering around Muggle London in some attempt to regain that sense of anonymity he enjoyed in Australia. This is complicated by the fact that his two new Auror friends are still clearly following him. Ditching them isn’t nearly as fun as annoying Gerard and Barina was.

On the days when he feels like he can handle it, he helps George at the shop, but those days aren’t often. He feels stupid that he never considered his extended absence abroad might only make him more of a mystery, more of a spectacle.

So he avoids Wizarding areas, cares for Teddy, has dinner at the Burrow, and chats with Ginny at least every other night. It’s his new life.

By Monday, the nagging guilt of blowing off Kingsley gets to be too much, so he finally walks up to the Aurors and says, “I’m ready to go in, if he has time.”

One of them disappears—off to send a Patronus Harry can only assume—and less than fifteen minutes later they are heading for the Ministry.

If Harry thought being in Diagon Alley was bad, it’s nothing next to walking into the Ministry. It’s the middle of the day, so there aren’t that many people in the atrium, but the ones who are stop and stare and don’t even bother whispering.

A few people dart for the lifts upon seeing him, and Harry imagines he can feel the news of his arrival working its way through the building.

Sure enough, the halls get more and more crowded as they move towards the Minister’s office.

“Harry.”

Against his better judgment Harry pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. “Secretary Macmillan,” he says, voice tight.  

The wizard smiles, as if Harry remembering his name is some great honor. He’d find it less so if he knew Harry remembers him mostly as being one of the most annoying people he has ever met.

“I just wanted to say welcome home. We are all quite pleased to have you back.”

“Are you?” Harry says, doubting that very much. It was probably nice to have him out of the way, leaving room to spin whatever ‘truths’ he liked.

Macmillan steps closer to Harry, head tilting towards him. “Just so you know, my offer still stands. I’d be happy to help you get started on your career as an Auror anytime.” He smiles broadly at the two Aurors still trailing after him, definitely close enough to hear that, and for some reason Harry feels his face warm with equal measures of annoyance and shame.

“Thanks,” Harry says, “but I’m doing just fine on my own.”

The Secretary of Information’s expression doesn’t falter. “Well, my boy, you know where you can find me if you change your mind. You might be surprised. Perspective has a way of shifting when we least expect it.”

Harry wants nothing more than to just be done with this conversation. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I really don’t want to keep the Minister waiting.”

He’s fairly certain one of the Aurors snorts derisively at that—Harry’s money is on the grumpy one—but he ignores it.

“Oh, of course. I imagine the two of you must have a lot to talk about.”

“Goodbye, Secretary,” Harry says, and starts moving back down the hallway again, pushing past the clutches of staring people.

The Minister’s office sits behind an ornate door, more of a giant portal, like the entrances to those massive cathedrals he saw in a book once. The Aurors lead him into an outer office where there is another Auror and a woman behind a desk.

“Mr. Potter,” the witch says, getting to her feet. “I will let the Minister know you are here.”

“Great, thanks,” Harry says, beginning to feel nervous despite himself. He blames the setting.  

He barely perches on one of the chairs before the door opens again and he’s jumping back to his feet.

“The Minister will see you now, Mr. Potter,” she says.

“Oh, great. Thanks.” He glances at the two Aurors, now standing at a loose sort of attention near the outer doors.

Turning for the large oaken doors, Harry eases inside the room. It’s certainly big, with high ceilings and walls covered in portraits, but other than that it just seems to house a large desk and a few comfortable-looking chairs near a fireplace.

Kingsley smiles, getting up and coming around the enormous desk to greet him. “Harry,” he says, holding out a hand and seeming genuinely pleased to see him.

“Minister,” Harry says, taking the offered hand.  

Kingsley shakes his hand firmly in both of his. “How are you?”

“Good,” Harry says. “You?”

“Good,” Kingsley echoes. “Let’s sit, shall we?” He gestures towards two chairs near a fireplace.

They settle across from each other, the crackling fire radiating warmth.

“I appreciate you coming to see me,” Kingsley says.

Harry tries to determine if there is any chastisement there, but can’t really find anything in the even tone of his voice. “Sorry I couldn’t make it sooner,” he says all the same.

Kingsley’s lips press together, and Harry has the bizarre impression that he’s trying not to smile. “I hear you’ve been spending time with Andromeda and Teddy.”

Harry stiffens. “Did you?”

“Molly mentioned it when she had me over for dinner last week. She and Arthur are thrilled to have you back.” He gives Harry a knowing look. “Though not so thrilled to have you staying at Grimmauld.”

“Oh,” Harry says, wincing. “Yeah.”

He leans in conspiratorially. “She actually demanded that I make you move. Write a decree or something.”

Harry frowns. “I see. Is that why I’m here then?”

Kingsley laughs like he’s made a particularly hilarious joke. He shakes his head. “I think Molly has the strange idea that being Minister means I can make anyone do what I want.” He sighs. “If only that were true. I think I finally understand why Dumbledore always refused to even consider it.”

“That’s not why,” Harry finds himself saying.

Kingsley’s head lifts, regarding Harry closely with not a little curiosity. “No?”

Harry shakes his head. “He didn’t trust himself with that much power.”  

That seems to take Kingsley by surprise, his expression sobering. “Is that so?” He looks down at his hands. “He always did say it’s important to know yourself.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “That sounds like him.”

They sit silently, both lost in remembrances of Dumbledore, and it feels nice to have that.

“He would have been really proud of you, Harry. If he’d been here to see it.”

He was, Harry thinks, but doesn’t dare say. That is at least one certainty he gets to live with, no matter how confusing everything else can be.

“Do you think you’ll take your NEWTs?”

Harry nods. “Hermione arranged it all with McGonagall before we left.”

“Ah. I hope she’s been enjoying her work at the Australian Ministry.”

Harry winces. “Well, she certainly enjoyed talking our ears off about how they do things differently down there.”

“Did she?” Kingsley says, looking thoughtful. “I’ll be interested to hear what she has to say when she gets back.”

“I’m sure she’d enjoy that.”

Kingsley smiles. “Good.” He leans back in his seat, resting his elbows on the armrests and threading his fingers together.

Harry looks away, glancing around at the opulent room; the enormous crystal chandelier, the floor-to-ceiling windows with a view over the Thames despite being hundreds of feet underground.

Harry shifts in his seat. “Was there something specific you wanted to see me about, Minister?”

Considering how urgent his message sounded, this has been a rather informal conversation about nothing in particular.

He shakes his head. “I just wanted to check in with you. See how you’re doing, if you had any questions or concerns. If you needed me to do anything for you.”

“Do that with all returning citizens, do you?” Harry says before he can stop himself.

Kingsley has the grace to look a little abashed. They both know Harry even being in the building is going to be commented on and interpreted in a myriad ways. Harry’s support must still actually mean something, even if it’s beyond him why.

“I really did just want to see how you are,” he says.

Only they both know he could have done that in far less obvious ways.

“There is something you can do for me,” Harry says, figuring he might as well take advantage of this meeting while he’s here. “Get the Aurors pulled off me.”

“Harry,” he says, giving him a look like he’s just asked to visit the moon.

“Look. Is there a specific threat I don’t know about?”

“No,” Kingsley says, though Harry isn’t entirely certain he would tell him even if there were.

“I’m careful,” he says. “And if you hear of something specific, then yeah. Sure. They can follow me around all they like. But otherwise I really don’t like having people hanging out in front of my house. Or tracking my every move.”

“Robards thinks it’s a good idea,” Kingsley says.

Maybe it’s the mention of Robards, or just that Kingsley’s calm tone feels patronizing, but Harry’s temper sparks. “Ask Robards how he’d feel about me reinstating the Fidelius instead.”

Kingsley’s eyes narrow, because the threat is definitely clear. Not even the Ministry would be able to find him anymore if he does that. Not unless he chooses to let them know.

Harry crosses his arms over his chest. “Be tough to spy on me if he doesn’t know where I am.”

“The Ministry isn’t spying on you, Harry.”

But he’s been thinking about it. About the special ward Bill felt the need to put on his house and the pictures of him and Cass in the papers. “Are you sure about that?”

Kingsley’s eyebrows lift. “That’s a bit paranoid, don’t you think?”

Harry sighs, digging his fingers up under his glasses. “I’m pretty sure Mad-Eye would say there’s no such thing.”

Kingsley surprises Harry by laughing fondly. “Yeah. He probably would.”

It’s a reminder though, of who Kingsley is. Or was. That he was a part of all of this.

Harry leans forward, arms on his knees. “It just can’t always be like this. It makes me feel like it’s never going to be over. Like I’m never going to stop being the bloody Chosen One. I just want it to be over, okay? I want to be normal.”

Kingsley looks a little thrown by this litany of words, and Harry really didn’t intend to say them, but just couldn’t help it. Kingsley nods slowly, staring down at his hands. “Okay, Harry,” he says. “I’ll have Robards pull them.”

Harry straightens, admittedly surprised to actually have his request honored.

“But,” Kingsley says, finger lifting and face stern, “we reserve the right to protect you if you attend large events, or if we discover any evidence of a specific threat.”

“Fine,” Harry says, more than happy to comply. “I’ll tell you if I suddenly develop an interest in being a public spectacle if you keep me in the loop and tell me about any real threats.”

Kingsley gives him a tired smile. “I think I can live with that.”

Harry smiles back. “Good. Great.”

Kingsley gets up, moving back behind his enormous desk and sitting behind it. “I do hope you find it, Harry. What you want. You certainly deserve it.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, pushing to his feet. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Kingsley nods, attention back to the stack of papers on his desk. Harry considers his lowered head, the way he seems to be aging under the weight of all of this.

“If there’s ever anything I can do to help…” he can’t help offering again.

Kingsley nods, giving him a fond smile. “Thanks, Harry. It’s nice to have you back.”

“It’s nice to be back,” he admits.

No matter how frustrating it can all be, one thing he has never doubted is that he made the right decision.

*     *     *

He gets back from the Ministry to find a Hogwarts owl waiting for him on the lower railing just outside the edge of the wards and protections. It’s fast asleep, head tucked under its wing.

A few Muggles walking up the street give it rather wary glances.  

“Hey,” Harry says, giving the owl a gentle nudge.

It slowly lifts its head, spearing Harry with a rather reproachful look.

“Not a fan of those special wards, huh?” Harry says.

The owl holds its leg out, seeming to say, No time for stupid jokes, human. I’m a professional.

Harry quickly pulls the parchments off its leg. “Sure you don’t need some food or water?”

The owl shakes out its feathers and lifts off, its wing buffeting against Harry’s head.

He ducks, righting his glasses. “Yeah, thanks. You have a nice day too!” he calls out after it.

A pair of Muggles walking down the sidewalk stare at him as if he’s insane. Ignoring them, he jogs up the rest of the steps, slipping inside the house. He takes the letter down into the kitchen with him, prodding the stove with his wand to boil some water.

While it’s heating, Harry sits down at the table with the letter. There’s actually two sheets, the outer one a letter from Ginny.

Harry-

How old-fashioned of me, using an owl. Luna finally perfected the new charms. (Instructions enclosed.) I figured it would be a little hard to charm the parchments while you were trying to read from yours. So here are your step by step instructions. It doesn’t take that long. I managed to do mine this morning. So give it a try and let me know how it works!

-Ginny

The other sheet is covered with spindly writing he can only assume is Luna’s. He’s strangely grateful to update the old parchment rather than get a new one. He’s maybe gotten a little attached to it.  

The charms are more labor-intensive than difficult, so he has them done by nine that night. Just in time to test them out.

Testing, he writes. Almost by reflex, he reaches out to tap it with his wand, only to stop himself. It isn’t long until Ginny responds.

Well, she writes. Look at that! They work.

Her words appear across the page, one at a time, and there is something strangely intimate about getting to watch the pacing and placement of her letters, knowing she is writing them right now somewhere hundreds of miles away.

There’s no more hiding behind edits or pretending not to be struggling to come up with the right words, no more changing his idea halfway through a sentence.

Luna’s a genius, he writes, figuring that’s a pretty safe place to start.

She really is, Ginny answers. So you’ve been back for over a week now. Be honest, how has it really been?

He thinks about the staring and the questions and Kingsley and Teddy and Kreacher and all of it really. It’s a lot.

I can only imagine.

She doesn’t ask him to spell it all out, and it’s a relief, mostly because she probably already has a pretty good idea. I’m still glad I came. I just think I’d forgotten, being a nobody in Australia for so long.

Her response is immediate. You weren’t a nobody. You were still you.

Whoever that is. Not the boy he was before he’d ever even heard of The Boy Who Lived certainly, but he’s never been anything else since. Not really.

It’s a bit weird too, he admits, not having Ron and Hermione here.

I still can’t believe you came back without them.

He lets out a huff. Everyone keeps saying that. Am I really that codependent?

No. It just doesn’t make sense. Unless you’ve finally worked something out with Robards.

I haven’t.

Well, of course you’d say that if it were some top-secret position.

He laughs, because he doesn’t need to see her face to know she’s teasing him. I don’t have a secret job.

So no best mates and no job to keep you occupied. You must be going barmy.

Nah, he writes. There’s plenty here to keep me occupied.

It’s only after he writes it that he realizes what that sounds like, his heart thundering away in his chest.

Is there? she asks.

Harry scrambles, letting his hand get ahead of his brain yet again. Sure. Teddy and all.

Right, of course.

And you, he wants to write. And you too. You most of all.

Only him being in Australia has always only been half of the problem.

So tell me how Quidditch is going, he writes instead.

*     *     *

The high spirits of the nearing end of term has infected even Potions class. Slughorn is struggling to keep them all focused, especially considering they are working on a rather volatile potion to judge from the smoke billowing out of Susan’s cauldron.

Ginny is sharing a station with Tobias, Hannah, and Ernie, which isn’t nearly as awkward as it sounds. She worried for a while that going out with Ernie only meant that she now has two boys in the castle to avoid, but whatever awkwardness was between Ginny and Ernie has long since dissipated. She supposes part of that is just Ernie’s easy-going personality, but the fact that they mutually agreed they have no interest in dating probably also helps. Ernie once leaned in and commented, “Can you imagine if one of us felt different?” He looked pained by the very idea.

It does make her wonder if maybe Michael is acting the way he is because he was hurt by the breakup more than she realized. Maybe that’s why he keeps coming back to talk to her, to get her to change her mind. She’s tried to make it really clear that they are never getting back together, but he seems intent on proving differently, and she just isn’t sure what she’s done wrong, really.

In her most frustrated moments, she’s uncharitable enough to wonder if his continued attention is more about him trying to get her back just so he can be the one to break up with her.

That’s too petty and stupid to possibly be true though, so she keeps trying to hold her temper, even as Ernie’s behavior seems to throw Michael’s faults into high relief. She also can’t help but think that Harry, for all he wanted more from her than she was willing to give, has never made her feel like this, like she owed him or something. He never once tried to push her or persuade her differently, or made her feel like she’s done something horribly wrong to him. Not even last summer when there still seemed to be a glimmer of hope, when everything was still fresh.

Then again, if a comparison to Ernie throws Michael in rather bad light, a comparison with Harry isn’t even in the realm of fair.

“Are we out of gurdy root?” Hannah asks, reaching out and checking their ingredients.

“I’ll get some more,” Ernie says, pushing back his stool.

Ginny looks at her own stores. “Yeah, us too,” she says, turning to Tobias. “Go.”

“Me?” he says. “Why should I get it?”

Ginny just rolls her eyes, and he makes a big show of annoyance, but goes anyway.

She would have been perfectly content to get the gurdy root herself, but she knows far too well that she would have paid for it with petulant sulking for the rest of the session.

“It must be really hard to be him, torn always between his inherent quality of being a lazy arse, and his new insistence on never letting anyone do anything for him.”

“Ginny,” Hannah chides lightly.

“Yes, yes, I know.” They’re all compensating for something these days, any way they can. “Which is why I will not even mock him for it. You know, to his face.”

Hannah shakes her head, turning back to her cauldron.

Ginny gnaws on her lip, glancing back at Ernie and Tobias, currently stuck in the scrum in front of the supply closet.

“Hannah?”

“Yeah?” she asks, hand steady as she carefully stirs the potion.

Ginny eyes her own cauldron, content that it isn’t in immediate danger of exploding. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Have I been…different lately?”

“You mean happy?” Hannah says immediately, as if she doesn’t even need to give it any thought.

“What? No. I just meant…I haven’t felt absent or anything, have I?”

Ever since they updated the charms on the parchments, Ginny and Harry have talked every night for at least a few minutes, one time for more than an hour. She finds herself looking forward to it.

A lot.

It feels just vaguely familiar enough that she can’t help but wonder.

Hannah gives her a speculative look. “No, Ginny. You haven’t felt absent.”

She nods, relieved to hear it, even logically knowing she has been just as dedicated to Quidditch practices and DA meetings and handling her responsibilities in The Parlor. It seems important to be absolutely certain though. To make sure she hasn’t fallen prey to another blind spot. To know that this isn’t just some coping mechanism, but something more.

Maybe something a lot more.

Studiously ignoring the way her heart seems to be pounding just a little harder than normal, Ginny pulls her mortar and pestle closer. “Do I?” she asks. “Seem happy?”

The boys bustle back with their ingredients, so Hannah’s only response is to smile and reach out and squeeze Ginny’s fingers.

*     *     *

Thursday night, the Slytherin common room is loud with the end of term. Everyone is wandering back after stuffing themselves at the feast, sharing their holiday plans. Tomorrow they will all get on the Hogwarts Express and head home for Easter break.

That evening, Ginny spends some time in The Parlor with her sisters, having their own little farewell. Not all of them are looking forward to going home.

Flora and Hestia seem particularly subdued. Going home is never comfortable for them, back to a fractured family left bitter over a lost war and family name vilified. Ginny wonders which their family finds most unforgivable—that Flora and Hestia chose to resist Voldemort or that they ended up on the ‘winning’ side.

They don’t just have to deal with their family’s animosity either. Since the end of the war, Alecto and Amycus are easy villains for the public to revile. Simple. At least to anyone from the outside, to anyone who never had to experience it.

It’s the legacy Flora and Hestia get to live with.

Ginny can’t fix any of that, so instead she tries to remind them of what they have to come back to, that it won’t be forever.

By the time she’s able to check her parchment later that night, there are two messages waiting from Harry.

Ginny? You there?

After her protracted silence, he apparently wrote one more time.

Right. I forgot. It’s end of term night. Probably at the feast or scrambling to pack. Hope you have a good night!

It’s early enough that he’s probably still up. She could write something and they could chat. Only tonight she feels the need to be more strategic, changing it back to the letter format so she has a little space to plan and edit.

She doesn’t get past Dear Harry.

Another fifteen minutes pass, and she still has no more words to show for it. Which is utterly ridiculous. They’ve been writing to each other all week. Why this should be any different…

She stares at the blank space, gnawing at the end of her quill.

“Back to this again, are we?” Tobias asks, plopping down next to her and very nearly upsetting her ink bottle.

Reaching out to right it, she sighs, not bothering to deny it.

Tobias pulls out a worn paperback, burying his face in it, and Ginny turns back to her letter.

She thinks it’s funny how often moving on actually looks a lot more like going back to the beginning.

She knows what she wants. That much is clear at least. Probably has been since the first moment Harry walked into The Three Broomsticks. And if not then, the last two weeks have solidified it for her. The only question is what Harry wants. If she even has the right to ask.

A simple enough question, really. One she’s put off asking long enough.

She looks down at the parchment, dipping her quill in the ink.

Just ask the question.

She sits there, rapidly drying quill in hand, because the thing about Harry is that one can rarely predict what he’s going to do in any given situation. There’s just too many damn variables, and the first word won’t come.

It would be easier, she thinks, if he were actually here in front of her. Always has been. Like his bravery is contagious or something.

Setting her quill aside, she takes out her wand, siphoning up the Dear Harry.

“Giving up?” Tobias asks.

She shakes her head. “Just considering a change in tactics.”

He gives her a speculative look. “I’d press for details, but honestly I just don’t care.”

She kicks him in the leg, completely forgetting about the metal prosthesis. “Fuck,” she says, rubbing at her poor abused toes.

He snorts. “That’s what you get.”

Ginny has not been so wrapped up in her own dilemma that she hasn’t noticed that his petulance has been ratcheting up all week. A sure sign that something is going on with him. He’s become unusually good at hiding things from her after last year though, and she’s still learning to dig through that.

She eyes him. “Excited about the holidays?”

“Thrilled,” he says, voice dry.

“Tobias.”

He doesn’t look up from his book, tucking his chin into his neck. “It’ll be good to see Mags.”

As far as she can tell, he’s currently in the middle of a cold war of sorts with his parents over his career options that is pleasing neither side. “It’s only for a week,” she reminds him. “And you can escape to the Burrow any time you like.”

“I’ll take a week with my parents, thanks,” he says, as if he doesn’t love being at the Burrow. Just not as much as he loves being contrary and making people as miserable as he is apparently.

“Well,” Ginny says, not particularly put out by his attitude. One has to be rather immune to this sort of thing if one is going to be best mates with him, after all. “I’m sure Hannah would be happy to have you over to her place.”

Tobias’ head lifts with a jerk and Merlin, if glares could kill, Ginny would be a goner. “I can’t wait to get back to not being around you.”

“Stop trying to pretend you won’t miss me,” she says.  

He slumps down on the sofa, book lifted to his face. “Go away and we can test your theory.”

Ginny shakes her head in exasperation, gathering up her things. “Goodnight, arsehole,” she says, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Night, Gin,” he grumbles, his fingers catching hers and squeezing.

Returning to her room, she carefully packs the parchment away in her trunk and climbs into bed.

She lies awake for a long time.

Chapter Text

It’s after lunch on Saturday when there is a knock on the front door, the sound echoing dully through the hallways.

Harry frowns. Grimmauld Place is still pretty guarded, few people outside of the Order and the Weasleys able to get to the front door.

Kreacher is already in the hall when Harry steps out into it. “I’ve got it,” he says, waving him off.

Kreacher mutters something under his breath about the inappropriateness of the master opening his own door, but disappears back upstairs nonetheless.

Checking the location of his wand, Harry cautiously peers out the peephole, only to step back in surprise. He swings the door open.

“Ginny,” he says.

She’s standing on the stoop bundled in a coat. Over the scarf wrapped around her neck, she gives him a smile that seems just the tiniest bit nervous. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he says back, rather inanely. His mouth doesn’t seem to be working very well for some reason.

She shifts her weight. “I’m sorry to just drop by like this.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “It’s fine.”

“If now isn’t a good time—”

He shakes his head. “It’s a great time,” he says, trying not to wince at his own enthusiasm. He pulls the door open wider, and it bangs against the wall. “Want to come in?”

She nods, stepping past him into the entryway.

She stamps her feet on the mat. “It’s bloody freezing out there. So much for spring.”

Her cheeks are pink from the cold, he notices, her hair grown out long enough to go just past her shoulders now. “Yeah,” he says when he realizes he’s been quiet for too long. “I figured it was England welcoming me back by trying to freeze my bits off.”

God, did he really just say that? What’s wrong with him?

Ginny just snickers, shrugging off her coat and winding off her scarf. Underneath she’s wearing a pale blue jumper over a rather trim pair of jeans.

“Is there a place I can...” she says, holding up her coat.

Feeling like an idiot, he belatedly reaches for it. “Here, let me.”

He can feel her eyes on him as he hangs her things up, and he wonders if it would be possible for him to be more ridiculous and awkward.

“Let’s go to the sitting room,” he says.

Dutifully following after him, Ginny laughs when she first walks in, and the sound so startles Harry that he’s stuck staring at her.

Ginny doesn’t seem to notice, walking around the room and taking in the changes. Harry knows it’s been transformed almost beyond recognition, sunlight streaming through the sparkling glass, falling across a warm, thick rug and soft, elegantly striped sofas. The walls are papered in a pleasant green, the wainscoting gleaming warmly with a new coat of polish.

“Fleur?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

Ginny nods. “She can be like a force of nature, which I imagine is exactly what this place needed.”

“I guess so,” Harry agrees, not particularly interested in the room at the moment.

She spends a few minutes poking around, her fingers sliding along the top of the piano before she crosses over to look out the windows. Harry stands in the middle of the room, desperately trying to come up with anything to say as she leans on the sill to look at something in the square below, but his brain seems to be stuck on the simple fact that she’s here.

The silence is stretching long now, and Harry scrambles for something to say, not knowing why talking in person should be so much harder than writing. Before he can come up with anything, Ginny leans forward, resting her forehead on the window.

“Ginny?” he asks.

“You know,” she says, her back still to him. “I’m generally a very cautious person.”

Harry blinks at the odd non-sequitur, but is honestly just happy to have her talking about anything at all. “I’ve seen you play Quidditch,” he reminds her.

She turns around, leaning back against the sill. “What’s more controlled than Quidditch? There are clearly delineated roles, borders, rules, penalties. And if you study a team beforehand well enough, there are barely any surprises. It’s just…execution.”

He’s never thought of it that way. For him Quidditch has always been about freedom, about not thinking, flying around by the seat of his pants with very little fate-of-the-world consequences. He thinks that’s probably a big part of why he never really considered it for a career.

“Sounds a bit boring when you put it that way,” he says.

She smiles. “Only because you take such delight in leaping before you look.”

He shrugs, not bothering to deny it. “It can be harder to be brave when you know what’s waiting at the bottom.”

“As if that has ever stopped you.”

He gives her an arch look. “So first I’m codependent and now I have an impulse-control problem?”

“A massive one,” she agrees. “Me, on the other hand, I want to know everything. I want to know exactly what I’m leaping into. Even if it means I’m more likely not to take the leap at all.” She shrugs, crossing her arms over her chest and looking down at her toes. “I suppose that makes me a coward.”

“Bollocks,” he says. “You’re one of the bravest people I know.”

Ginny doesn’t look up, face still hidden from him as she shakes her head, and it strikes him that she seems strangely…vulnerable, standing there, one hand rubbing up and down her arm.

“You don’t know how long I was standing out on your stoop,” she says, “trying to work up the nerve to knock.”  

Harry’s brow furrows, barely having time to even process that before Ginny speaks again.

“Why did you come back?” she asks.

“What?” Harry asks, thrown by the speed of this conversation as it takes yet another unexpected turn.

She finally looks up at him, and there’s something determined about the set of her chin. “I mean, was it really just to get away from Ron and Hermione? Or to see Teddy? Or because you’re sick of traveling?”

He opens his mouth. “I…”

She pushes off the window, pacing towards him. “Why come back two days before a Hogsmeade weekend? I mean, it’s probably just a coincidence or something, but I keep thinking about it. I’ve been thinking about it since you first wrote that you were coming back. And then you came to Hogsmeade and we’ve been writing, almost every night...” She pauses, her hands tightening into fists before relaxing again. “If I’m reading too much into that, please tell me. I just need to know, one way or the other.”

This is a giant avalanche of words and information that Harry has no hope of parsing really, so all he’s left with is the unavoidable truth.

“You’re not,” he says, because he may be confused about a lot of things, but not about this.

Her expression doesn’t shift. “I’m not?” she asks.

He takes a cautious step towards her, his heart thudding away in his chest as he considers his options. He’d really rather not make an arse of himself again, but she has to have come here today for a reason. Ginny never does anything without a reason.

“I came back to see you,” he says, and it’s a bit of a relief to finally admit it out loud. When she doesn’t move to interrupt him or tell him off, he takes another step. “I wanted to see if there was any chance…”

Her entire body seems to soften with what he hopes is relief. “Really?” she asks, like she really wants to believe that but isn’t sure she should.

“Of course,” he says, only more certain in the face of her hesitance. How could she even doubt it?

“I told you not to wait for me,” she says. “I practically made you promise.”

“Yeah,” he says, because it’s not like he could forget. “But at the risk of making you angry, I have to admit that I didn’t really listen. I mean, I wasn’t expecting anything. I never assumed… I just kinda…hoped, I guess.”

He barely gets the smallest glimpse of her expression before she looks down, folding her arms across her chest.

Harry forces himself to just stand there and wait, trying to ignore the urge to shove his hands in his pockets. He’d really rather she were looking at him because he has no idea what is going through her mind. Is she going to tell him off?

She lets out an unsteady release of air. “I did too.”  

“What?” he asks, trying to concentrate over the pounding in his ears.

She looks up at him, and there is nothing like anger in her expression. “Hope.”

A large part of Harry wants to stride across the room, but he’s trying really hard not to get ahead of himself for once. “So you’re saying…”

“That I’d really like to kiss you,” she says in a rush. “If that’s okay.”

This is definitely something he did not expect to hear, his stomach lurching pleasantly. “Right. Great. Brilliant. I’m definitely okay with that,” he says, and is his mouth even attached to his brain anymore?

Somehow, she’s kind enough not to laugh at him for that, but neither does she move, and it’s going to be hard to follow through when they still aren’t close enough to touch.

“I just…” she says, hands twisting in front of her.

“What?”

She looks up at him helplessly. “I really don’t want to mess this up again.”

Finally giving into the urge, he crosses the last distance until he’s standing in front of her. “You never messed it up.”

She isn’t looking at him, staring somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. Reaching out, her fingers hesitantly touch his shirt, palm pressing down flat as if to prove that he’s really here. Warmth radiates across his body from the touch.

“Ginny,” he says, hand covering hers.

Her eyes finally track up to his face, her head tipping back. “Merlin,” she breathes, her fingers curling in against his. “Have you always been so bloody tall?”

He lets out a breath, feeling off-balance having her so near. “For a while now, yeah.”

Pulling herself up to her full height, she puts a hand on top of her head, drawing it forward until it hits just at his chin.

“Maybe you’ve shrunk,” he says, tilting his head down to look at her with a smile.

She gives him an indignant glare. “I’ll have you know I’m quite tall.”

“You’re perfect,” he says without thinking, his face immediately warming.

“If you believe that,” she says, ducking her face. “You’ve clearly been away too long.”

“I was scared I had,” he says, tentatively touching her arm, wanting to pull her closer.

She shakes her head, reaching for his face, fingers warm on his jaw. “I really hope that’s not true.” And then she’s lifting her face up to his and he’s leaning in.   

There’s an awkward moment of getting their noses aligned, of Ginny working her way around his glasses, but then her lips are there, soft and warm against his.

Until that very moment, he thinks part of him is still convinced this won’t actually happen. That she’ll pull back, that someone will barge in, that something will happen to get in the way. But she’s kissing him, it’s actually happening, and he has to bite back every instinct to just drag her closer and deepen the kiss. Instead he keeps it gentle, doesn’t push, and maybe he’s still holding his breath a bit because he remembers far too well a time when being around him only made her think of bad things. Of inescapable memories.  

So he concentrates on how she’s reacting, on making sure that everything is okay. The moment she pulls back, his eyes are intent on her face.

“How was that?” he asks.

She smiles. “Fine,” she says, her hands sliding down from his face to rest on his shoulders. “Nice.”

It was nice. Which should be good, but honestly, nice isn’t a word he ever thought he would use to describe kissing Ginny. He looks at her face, and she doesn’t seem panicked or worried, just slightly disappointed if anything—and that sparks a horrible feeling, like maybe it has been too long or she’s going to change her mind, but her hands are still on his shoulders, and he realizes with a jolt that what they are really doing is being stupidly cautious.

He’s never been a fan of cautious and he damn well isn’t going to start now because she’s here and he’s here and he’s not wasting that chance. He’s not ruining this.

If she needs someone to jump off a cliff, he’s more than happy to do it.

He reaches for her face with both hands and then he’s leaning back in and kissing her the way he’s always wanted to. Not like he’s going to break this by stepping wrong, but letting out everything he felt first seeing her at The Three Broomsticks, that moment she smiled at him and he knew he’d never really be content just being her friend. Letting her know in no uncertain terms that his feelings for her haven’t gone anywhere for all they’ve tried to pretend they don’t exist.

She makes a small sound of what might be surprise, and he really hopes this wasn’t a stupid idea to push her like this, but that worry evaporates as her fingers tighten on his shoulders and she’s pulling him even closer, kissing him back with matching enthusiasm.

And this… This isn’t nice or anything remotely close to that. He half-heartedly tries to come up with a word to describe it, but he pretty much stops having brainpower to think because it just feels…so much better than anything ever really.

When they eventually break apart, neither back away from each other. Harry’s breathing thunders loud in his ears, or maybe that’s his heart or his thoughts. He has no idea.

He lowers his face to her hair, breathing in the floral scent.

Her fingers curl into his shirt. “Is this really happening?” she asks, voice soft.

“Want me to pinch you?” he offers, because he’s an idiot and he’s feeling so stupidly giddy he barely knows what to do with himself.

She lets out a shaky laugh. “Now I know it’s really happening, because you are an utter prat.”

“Insulting me already?” he asks.

She leans back to look at him, eyes traveling over his face. Her smile shifts into something much more uncertain. “You really aren’t going anywhere?”

He is hyperaware then that he has kissed her twice before only to disappear right after—once to die. He touches her face, taking in the wild tumble that is her hair, her flushed cheeks and pink lips, and thinks she has probably never looked more beautiful.

“No,” he promises. “I’m staying right here.”

“Good,” she says, giving him a smile that warms him to his toes. It quickly falters though as something seems to occur to her.

“What?” he asks, fingers tightening of their own accord.

“I’m still going back to Hogwarts,” she says, sounding a little miserable at the idea.

His shoulders relax. “It’s not that long.” In the scheme of things, he can handle a few more months if he knows exactly what is waiting for them on the other side.

She nods, not looking at all convinced.

“If you’d rather wait—” he forces himself to offer, despite feeling sick at even the idea of putting this off again.

“No,” she says, looking horrified by the idea as well. “I think we’ve have just about enough of waiting, don’t you think?”

He nods enthusiastically. “More than enough.”

Before he can come up with anything to say, she’s kissing him again.

He doesn’t need any more encouragement than that, this time really settling in to the feel of it—of holding her, kissing her. It’s no awkward first kiss or a desperate last kiss. But something warm and exciting and so, so amazing.

So this is what it’s really supposed to feel like, he realizes.

Ginny’s arms wind up around his neck, fingers weaving up into his hair, at first gently exploring and then tugging him down like she can’t get him close enough, and he knows the feeling, his arm dropping to wrap around her waist, pulling her up against him. The angle changes again, somehow even better.

And oh, god, this. This is what he imagined. Heat and friction and the taste of her mouth, only it’s even more than that, a fiery warmth lodging deep in his body, radiating from every point of contact between them, and he can’t imagine how he lived without doing this every damn day for the last two years.

It feels like barely any time at all passes before the mantle clock lets out a soft chime. Ginny pulls back, staring blankly at it as if gathering her wits.

“Merlin, is that the time?” she eventually says.

“Hmm?” Harry says, honestly not at all interested in things like clocks and schedules.

“I was only supposed to be gone an hour.”

He frowns. “It can’t possibly have been an hour already.”

“It’s been an hour and a half.”

He cranes his neck around to look at the clock, sure that can’t be right. “Really?”

She touches his face, something soft and warm in the curve of her smile. “You are rather distracting.”

He leans into her, his hands sliding up her back. “Am I?”

She doesn’t have a ready comeback to that, blinking back at him like she really does find him particularly distracting. It’s only fair, he supposes, because he can’t stop himself from kissing her again.

“Harry,” she mumbles against his lips.

“Hmm?”

“I really have to go,” she says, which would be more convincing if she weren’t still clutching his arms and already kissing him again.

“Why?” he asks.

She sighs, settling back on her heels, an unacceptable amount of distance widening between them. “I may have…snuck out.”

He looks at her in surprise. “Did you?” Now that she’s of age, he doesn’t think she would have to do that anymore.

She grimaces. “I didn’t relish having to explain… Well, any of this, to be honest. If this went…badly, well, it would be hard enough to deal with without pitying looks from Mum.”  

He draws her closer. “That didn’t happen,” he reminds her, really grasping for the first time how hard it must have been for her to come here today, how much it had taken to even try.

“No,” she says, smiling. “Which only means Mum is going to be insufferable when she finds out.” She grimaces as if in anticipation of her future mortification.

It’s a bit of a sobering reminder, the idea of dealing with Ginny’s family. And Ron. Oh, god. Ron.

What is he going to say when he finds out? Is he going to hate him? Harry’s stomach twists at the thought.

Something of it must show on his face, because Ginny peers closely at him and says, “You know, we could just…keep this to ourselves for a little bit. If you want.”

“You mean us?” he asks. Just saying that makes him happier than he wants to admit.

She gives him a smile like she likes the sound of that as well. It fades as her fingers play with the collar of his shirt. “You’ve been gone a long time. A lot’s happened. Things are...different now.” She shrugs. “Figuring all of this out while everyone is watching…” Her eyes widen as if the idea horrifies her.

Honestly, as much as part of Harry wouldn’t mind shouting it from the rooftops, he isn’t particularly thrilled with the idea of trying to figure out how to do this with her family watching either. It sounds slightly terrifying actually. He tries to imagine dinner tomorrow with Molly and Arthur and George and Percy watching their every move.

“Sure,” Harry finds himself agreeing. “We could do that.”

She looks so relieved, giving him a brilliant smile, that Harry lets any other concerns fall away. They’re in this together now. Everything else is unimportant.

“Stop it,” Ginny says, voice stern.

“What?” he asks, not aware that he was doing anything, let alone how he might have messed up already.

Only she doesn’t look angry. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m never going to get out of here.”

“Oh,” he says, not exactly repentant of this particular sin. “Is that supposed to be a bad thing?”

“Yes?” she says.

“You don’t sound particularly certain.”

She clears her throat. “I’m certain. Definitely.”

But the only thing that is definite right now is that she’s staring at his mouth.

“Yeah?” he says, leaning down to kiss her because it’s not like he ever backs down from a challenge, and her lips are just right there.  

“Okay,” she says when he finishes thoroughly proving his point. “I don’t really remember what we were arguing about but you win.”

He laughs, and if part of that is relief, he’s going to ignore that for now. “I’ll have to remember that tactic.”

She puts her hands on his chest, firmly pushing him back away from her. “You’re going to be dangerous.”

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you home before your mum notices.”

She reluctantly agrees, slipping her hand in his as they walk out of the room. He tries not to let on that the simple gesture catches him off-guard, because once he gets past the unfamiliarity of it, he likes it. Really likes it.

Out in the hall, he watches her pull her coat on. Her scarf slips out of the pocket while she’s doing up the buttons. Harry leans down and scoops it up, fingering the soft lopsided knots that tells him she probably made it herself.

She holds her hand out to take it, but he’s strangely reluctant to give it up, so instead he steps closer, looping it over her head. He very carefully wraps it around her neck, tucking the ends into her coat.

He feels silly by the time he’s done, but Ginny is watching him with an expression that makes his skin warm.

She bites her lip. “See you tomorrow?”

“I like how that sounds,” he says, barely resisting the urge to figure out a way to hold her again.  

She smiles. “Me too.”

He pulls the door open for her despite how reluctant he is to see her go.

Out on the stoop she pauses, turning back to look at him. “Harry?”

For some reason, his heart is pounding hard. “Yeah?” he manages.

She shoves her hands down deep into her pockets, tilting her head slightly to one side. “I’m really glad you came back early.”

Something warm seems to expand in his chest, a bit like a Patronus. “I’m really glad you knocked,” he says.

She gives him a wide grin, her chin tucking down into her scarf, and Harry can’t help himself. Despite knowing she needs to leave, he steps out onto the stoop, taking her arm. He leans in and kisses her again.

She laughs against his lips, but doesn’t pull away.

Chapter Text

Harry Apparates to the Burrow early the next afternoon. It’s hardly the first Sunday dinner he’s attended, but this one, of course, feels very different. He’s rather stupidly nervous, and probably spent much longer trying to look presentable than he’s willing to admit.

Walking into the garden, Arthur waves to him from around the side of the house where he is working on something that may have been a lawnmower at some point.

“Hi, Harry,” he says, barely looking up from the machine.

“Hi, Mr. Weasley,” Harry says, only to immediately wince when Arthur actually turns to look at him. Harry’s been in the habit of calling him Arthur for ages.

Harry tries to give him a sheepish smile, but he’s pretty sure he just looks guilty. He reminds himself that this would only be more awkward if anyone actually knew about him and Ginny.

But apparently Harry’s weirdness is still far less interesting that the lawnmower, Arthur turning back to it and waving him distractedly towards the house. “You should go on through to the kitchen. Let Molly know I’ll be right in.”

“Sure,” Harry says, and flees.

Of course, Molly’s inside, which is even worse in a lot of ways, but this time he forces himself to be more normal. He gives her a smile when she greets him, and tries not to look like he’s glancing around to see who else is here.

“Arthur says he’ll be right in,” he reports.

Molly shakes her head, like she’ll believe that when she sees it.  “Go on through, dear,” she says. “Dinner will be ready soon.” 

He escapes the kitchen before he can do anything stupid, and he’ll take that as a victory. He peers up the stairs as he passes, but doesn’t see anyone.  

George is the only one in the sitting room when he gets there. Harry tries not to look disappointed.

“Hey, Harry.”

“Hey,” he says, shrugging off his coat.

“Take a load off,” George says, gesturing at the sofa.

Harry sits. They chat aimlessly for a while, mostly about the shop. He’s gotten to know George better the last few weeks. He’s still rather closed off, but in some ways the twins were always kind of  insular, a world unto themselves.

“I’ll drop by the shop,” Harry agrees when George finishes describing a new idea he has. Harry has been doing his best to pay attention, his fingers drumming on the arm of the sofa.

“Just be sure to let the press know first,” George says. “I could use the sales.”

“Oh,” Harry says, refocusing on him. “Okay.”

George rolls his eyes. “I was teasing, numpty.” He seems to reconsider. “Mostly.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

“Hey,” George says in mock umbrage. “As silent partner, you should have a care for our sales.”

At George’s insistence, Harry’s seen the shop’s books. He isn’t in any way worried. If there is one thing in this world people will always need, it’s a laugh.

“Hi, Harry.”

He pops up to his feet, startled by Ginny’s sudden appearance in the doorway. She’s wearing a white sweater over a dress of pale peach that makes it a little hard to think.

When his eyes make it back up to her face, he can see that she’s giving him a rather pointed look.

Right. Harry has to remind himself that he isn’t supposed to have seen her or even spoken to her in weeks. That he certainly didn’t just kiss her yesterday. Many times.

He almost gets derailed again.

“Hi, Ginny,” he says, knowing he sounds stilted and stupid. He forces himself to sit down again.  “Uh, having a nice year at school?”

Her grin widens. “Why, yes,” she says, her own voice overly formal, and he knows she’s taking the mickey. “Thank you so very much for asking.”

George gives Ginny a look. “I swear you get weirder every year.”

“Thank you, kind brother,” she says, leaning over the back of the chair to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“Ginny!” Molly calls from the kitchen.

“Duty calls,” she says, sweeping out of the room before Harry can muster another word.

George wipes off his cheek with a sound of disgust. “Ugh. She’s been like that all day.”

“Sorry?” Harry asks, tearing his eyes away from where Ginny disappeared.

“Cheerful,” George says with distaste. “It’s bloody annoying.”

“She has?” Harry says, feeling a stupid grin on his own face.

“Ugh,” George says. “Not you too.”

He tones down his smile. “Must be the holidays.”

Percy bustles in then, brushing his robes free of ash.

“Perce,” George says. “Never thought I’d be so pleased to see that sour face of yours.”

Percy frowns.

*      *     *

At dinner, Ginny feels terribly obvious, like she must have a giant sign above her head that says I am a complete and utter fool for Harry Potter.

She keeps thinking about that kiss. Well, many of the kisses. Not the first one, the scary, awkward, oh-god-maybe-it-actually-has-been-too-long-and-I-just-imagined-this kiss. No, she likes to forget that one all together.

She much prefers remembering the look on Harry’s face when his jaw tightened with determination and he stopped touching her like some fragile thing and just kissed her. Like he wasn’t secretly terrified of her underneath everything.

She rarely remembers feeling that overwhelmed by anything, like for once that annoying voice at the back of her mind always whispering caution just shut the hell up. Like it was no match for Harry at close range.

This is what she thinks about at dinner, even as she’s left to carry the majority of the conversation. George is generally rather quiet, and Harry is clearly feeling too worried about saying the wrong thing to speak freely. It’s unfortunate that Bill and Fleur are in France for a few days. They could have been counted on to carry the conversation.

As it is, unless they want Percy or her dad to get going on some boring Ministry stuff, which no one in their right mind does, Ginny is forced to fill the meal with talk of Quidditch.

But still.

She tries, but her eyes never stray far from Harry, and the fact that no one seems to notice is baffling. But also a huge relief.

Harry glances at her, their eyes catching. It takes a lot of control not to pull her lip into her mouth.

She clears her throat. “Now that you’re back,” she says, voice carefully light, “you should come to a match.”

“Oh,” Harry says, his eyes darting around the table, clearly trying to think quickly. “Yeah. That would be fun.”

He’s really terrible at this, and she feels a prick of guilt for even making him try. But she still needs time. Time to process and adjust and get used to the idea.

Harry may be blissfully—or ignorantly, more aptly—unaware of his press, but Ginny is not. Barely a day goes by without some mention of Harry in the papers, some speculation or outright lie.

She wants this to work. She doesn’t want the lens of the world falling on them while they are still trying to figure out how they fit together, how to talk to each other.

It’s not like this is the first time they’ve tried to make this work. It’s fallen apart spectacularly before it even began more times than she can count. In some ways it feels like they need to get to know each other all over again. And the last thing she needs is other people’s scrutiny on top of that.

So instead, she looks down at her plate, and lets Percy bore all of them for a while.

As Harry gets ready to leave that evening, Ginny walks close enough to him to whisper, “Broom shed.”

His eyes widen slightly as he turns to look at her.

She waves casually at him. “Night, Harry,” she says, voice louder.  

“Night,” he says, just a moment too late.

Ginny sits down, flipping through her mum’s Witch Weekly as Harry makes his rounds saying good night and thanking Molly for the meal.

She waits an excruciatingly long five minutes before excusing herself upstairs.

He’s pacing behind the shed by the time she gets out there.

“Hi,” she says.

He spins around. “Hi,” he says. He looks flustered, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” she says, stepping closer to him. “I know this is really awkward and weird.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not very good at this.”

“No,” she corrects, “you’re terrible at this.”

He scowls.

She steps up against him, looping her arms around his neck the way she’s wanted to since she first saw him in the sitting room. “Luckily I know there is something you are much better at,” she says, pulling his face down to hers.

Harry in no way seems to mind, all uncertainty dropping away as he crowds her back against the shed, kissing her intently like he’s been thinking about it a lot as well, and Merlin, it’s just as overwhelming of an experience as it was the day before.

Is it completely ridiculous to think she could stay here kissing him forever?

Fortunately he seems content with taking his time as well, the two of them tucked back there out of sight so long that Ginny forgets to even pay attention to anything else. Maybe some things are more important than not getting caught, and that should alarm her far more than it does.

The kiss slowly gentles and softens, until they are just quietly leaning against each other. Ginny turns her face into his neck, breathing in deep, and it’s a heady, warm smell that leaves her a little dizzy.

She is being ridiculous, she thinks, giving off a soft huff of air.

Harry tenses. “What?”

She shakes her head, leaning back to look at him. “You’d be laughing at me too if you could hear inside my head right now, trust me.”

His eyes travel over her face, his fingers playing with a strand of her hair.

“What?” she asks, wondering what he’s looking for.

He shakes his head, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Nothing. It’s just… George said you’ve seemed…”

She lifts an eyebrow at him. “Yes?”

“Happy,” he finishes, a bit feebly.

She smiles. “I am.”

“Good,” he says, and she doesn’t miss the way his shoulders seem to relax.  

She considers that maybe he’s been just as much of a bundle of nerves about this whole thing as she has. “Think I was going to change my mind?”

“No,” he says quickly, arms tightening around her. “I just… I’m happy too.”

Ginny feels something crawl up her throat.

“Really happy,” he says, so horribly earnest.

“Good,” she says, and kisses him again.

*     *     *

Harry’s just finished a drawn out breakfast—the meal punctuated quite often with long moments of staring off into space as he relives cherished, favorite moments of the last 48 hours—when Ginny sends him a message.

Got any time for a visitor this afternoon?

Harry grins down at the message, pulling out his quill and ink.

Absolutely, he writes back, relieved that he isn’t going to have to come up with some excuse to see her. I get back from watching Teddy at 2.

I’ll come by at half past then?

Perfect, he says.

They chat idly for fifteen minutes or so before Ginny has to go help her mum. It’s enough to make Harry feel more relaxed. He was still feeling a little anxious about how weird everything was at the Burrow the night before. Well, he amends, how weird he’d been. Ginny seemed calm and collected as always.

But happy, he reminds himself. Definitely happy.

He’s glad to have Teddy to focus on that morning, because it’s hard to be distracted when you’ve got a toddler to keep an eye on. Andromeda actually leaves them alone in the house together while she goes out to meet with someone for lunch. She doesn’t look completely comfortable with it.

“I promise,” Harry says. “I’ll Floo Molly the second I have a problem.”

She nods, and after hugging Teddy for the fifth time, finally leaves.

Harry doesn’t end up needing to contact Molly, but he does make rather a muck of the kitchen. He still hasn’t quite learned to anticipate when Teddy is done eating. Which he really needs to do one of these days, because Teddy’s main way of communicating that is to dump whatever is left onto the floor.

Harry makes the further mistake of immediately leaning down to clear it up without making sure Teddy doesn’t have anything left. Which is how he ends up with mashed carrots in his hair.

“Yuck,” he complains, and Teddy laughs and laughs, and that may be worth the mess.

Harry manages to get everything wrangled back into some sort of order by the time Andromeda gets back. She looks equally relieved and surprised to come back to a nearly dozing Teddy tucked into Harry’s side as he reads to him from Babbity Rabbity.

She scoops Teddy up and takes him up to his crib.

Harry clears up the last of the toys while she’s gone.

“So how did it go?”

“Great,” Harry says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“You missed a spot,” she tells him, pointing to a bit of carrot still smeared on his neck.

Harry laughs. “Should I come back on Wednesday?”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling at him. “I’ll see you then.”

Harry skips down the steps, uplifted by his successful turn at caring for his godson, but also really excited at the prospect of seeing Ginny. He makes it back to Grimmauld just in time to scrub off the last of the carrot and change his clothes before there’s a knock at the front door.

He scrambles out of his room, but Kreacher still manages to get there first.

“Miss Weasley,” he hears Kreacher say from the landing.

“Hey, Kreacher,” Ginny responds. “How are you?”

Kreacher is apparently flummoxed by the question, instead saying, “Is Sir expecting you?”

Harry thunders down the stairs, cursing himself for not waiting by the door. “Yes, he is.” He smiles at Ginny as she turns to look at him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she says, giving him a warm smile.

“Very well,” Kreacher says, looking between them before turning and leaving the room, muttering something under his breath.

They both watch him leave, Ginny letting out a soft laugh as he disappears.

“I’m still his favorite person, I can see,” she says, amusement in her voice.

Harry looks at her, still all bundled against the cold, cheeks slightly flushed. He wants to touch her, to hold her, and it’s this instant, undeniable need, only his hands feel two sizes too big and his legs and arms spindly and awkward, and he just doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. How this works, really.

But while his mind is mildly imploding over the conundrum, Ginny just steps into him and hugs him like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

He concentrates on not squeezing her too hard, wondering how long he’s going to be like this, awkward and stupid over how to say hello to her, even when they’re alone and there’s no one to see.

“Hey,” she says, lifting up and pressing a kiss to his cheek, and he feels himself relax under her easy affection.

“Hey,” he says, wondering if his expression is as dopey as it feels.

She’s smiling at him fondly, and he decides it probably is but no longer particularly cares.

“How long do we have?” he asks, forcing himself to let go as she steps back away.

“Oh, at least two hours,” she says, looking proud of herself as she pulls off her mittens.

“Good.” That’s even better than he hoped. Plenty of time for the nebulous plans he’s been imagining all day. “What are your feelings on ice cream?”

“Oh,” she says, giving him an arch look, “are we in the oh-so-important learn everything about each other’s weird tastes phase?”

“Is that a thing?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

“Well, I was thinking more of taking you out and, you know, buying you some.”

She gives him a dubious look. “It’s eight degrees outside.”

He shrugs. “Never too cold for ice cream.”

“True,” she concedes. Considering him for a moment, her head tilts to the side. “Is this a date?”

“Well,” he says, shuffling his feet. “We did sort of skip that part.”

She steps back up to him, hands resting on his arms. “As fun as that sounds, I think we’d draw a crowd at Florean’s.”

He touches her waist, his brain struggling with her so close, especially when she steps even closer. “Um, there’s a Muggle place a few blocks away. I was thinking of going there.”

Her expression brightens. “Perfect.”

He can’t help himself, she’s just right there, so he leans down and kisses her. She relaxes into him, and he wonders if she’s been waiting for that, but he’s enjoying kissing her way too much to think about that right now.

“You mentioned something about ice cream?” she says when she gets the chance.

“Right,” he says, trying to focus. “Ice cream.”

Letting go of her, he reaches for his coat, shrugging it on. Pulling the multicolored knit hat out of his pocket, he tugs it on his head.

Ginny’s eyes widen when she sees it but she doesn’t say anything, a soft pink flush spreading over her cheeks.

Out on the stoop he pauses, peering intently at the park across the street. He hasn’t seen the Aurors again, but he knows that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. But Kingsley did promise to have them removed.

“What is it?” Ginny asks, stepping up next to him.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “Just making sure, I guess.”

She peers out across the park, eyes sharp as she studies the few people in the square.

“I think it’s fine,” Harry says.

“Yeah,” she agrees, following him down the steps and out of the protection of the wards.

Harry gestures in the direction they need to go, and they start down the sidewalk together.

“You should rig up a secondary exit,” Ginny says. “With so many people aware of this place, it would be much safer.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks.

She nods. “It could be some closet you don’t use. Charm it to dump you out a few blocks over or something.”

Harry considers that. “That could be useful.”

Ginny shrugs, looking up at him. “Even if just to use in case of emergencies.”  

“Sure,” he says, not really expecting safety and escape routes to be the main topic on their first date.

She winces, clearly reading something of it in his expression. “Sorry,” she says. “It’s an old habit.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve thought about re-doing the Fidelius,” he admits. He’s still torn between the impulse to always prepare for the worst, and not wanting to live his life like they’re still in the middle of a war. Because they aren’t. It’s over.

She nods. “Who would be the secret keeper?”

“Me, I guess.” He has no intention of putting anyone in danger just to protect himself. “I can do that, can’t I?”

“I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask Luna. She can do the spell for you too. She did it for the Room of Requirement.” Her brow furrows.

“What?”

She gives him a fleeting smile. “Oh. It’s just weird being able to talk about it. But I suppose that’s how we know it’s really gone, the charm being broken.”

She looks down at her toes, and it feels like the sun moving behind a cloud.

They walk on in silence. Harry eyes her hand swinging by her side. He spends the next block trying to figure out the logistics of holding her hand. Just do it, he tells himself. Just reach out and do it.

In the end, he just kind of bumps his hand clumsily up against hers, making a total muck of it, but her fingers immediately catch his, righting the angle until her palm is warm and firm against his.

She smiles up at him, wrapping her free hand around his elbow so she’s sort of tucked into his side. Even better than he hoped.

“Okay,” he says, feeling buoyed by his success. “I’m ready to learn all about your weird ice cream preferences.”

She laughs, turning her face into his shoulder, and warmth seems to radiate up his side.

The spent the rest of the short walk comfortably mocking each other.

“Vanilla?” Harry asks. “Are you kidding me?”

She gives him a sharp look. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, it’s just…”

Her eyes narrow. “If you say boring, I’m going to kick you.”

“Well, in that case,” he says, taking a step away from her even as he holds tight to her hardwon hand. “I definitely wasn’t going to say that.”

“Prat,” she says, pulling him back against her. “What about you then? Wow me with your favorite.”

“Oh, that’s easy. Chocolate. All of the chocolate.”

She laughs. “You are such a cliché.”

He shrugs. “If it’s cliché to be right, well…”

They’ve reached the shop by now, so Ginny’s retaliation is lost as she stares into it. He can almost see her sort of mentally preparing to go into foreign territory, like she’s reminding herself of all the things she can’t do in a Muggle space.

“Come on,” he says, pulling the door open for her.

It’s fairly empty inside. Apparently some people are not as dedicated to ice cream as they are. But that’s probably for the best.

Ginny is trying to be cool, he can tell, but her eyes are wide as she tries to take in everything at once. They approach the counter, and her hand touches the smeared plexiglass.

“A machine?” she murmurs, probably trying to figure out how Muggles keep the ice cream from melting.

Harry nods, glad she doesn’t ask him how it works. That part of his Muggle education is sorely lacking.

The shop is one of those trendy new places, the ones where they scoop out the ice cream onto a cold slab and then sort of cut the toppings into it with metal paddles.

Ginny’s smile is uncommonly wide as she watches the bored teenager cut chocolate cookie crumbles and strawberries into the vanilla ice cream for her. She keeps shooting Harry looks like, Can you believe this?

He grins back at her, and places his own order. Ginny waits patiently to one side as he pays, but not so patiently that she isn’t already trying some of hers.

“Less pyrotechnic than our ice cream,” she observes, “but it’s still damn good.”

They sit down at one of the tiny metal tables. There is no way to sit at it without their legs bumping, but he doesn’t mind, and Ginny doesn’t seem to either.

The place is kind of dingy, the lights above flickering, the metal seats far from comfortable, but Harry still thinks this is by far the best place he’s ever been on a date. Though it’s possible that even Madam Puddifoot’s could be rendered palatable if he was with Ginny.

He doesn’t feel like he has to come up with anything to say, perfectly content to feel her leg pressing up against his and watch her take great joy in her ice cream. Hell, he’s taking great pleasure in just being on the same continent as her.

After a while, Ginny pauses in her focused eating to glance about the space. As she returns her attention to the table, her eyes fall on the coat Harry has draped across the back of his chair. The hat is poking out of his pocket, and she reaches out and touches it, her fingers pressing into the multi-colored wool.

“I can’t believe you still have that,” she says.  

He shrugs. “I’m rather fond of it.”

She smiles, leaning her elbow on the table and propping her chin on her hand. “I’ll make you a matching scarf. Only more hideous.”

“And mittens too, I hope,” he says.

She laughs. “That should keep all the witches off of you.”

He snorts. “Oh, now I see. That was your plan all along, was it?”

“To have you all to myself?” she asks. “Yes. Definitely.”

After giving him a warm smile, she returns her attention to her bowl, picking it up and carefully scraping up every last bit with total concentration. He turns back to own melting ice cream.

Inexplicably, something heavy seems to have settled in his stomach. Guilt, he identifies.

That should keep all the witches off of you.

Harry darts a glance up at Ginny.

“Harry?” she asks, clearly not missing it.

He tells himself to just leave it alone, not to ruin everything by bringing it up, but it’s gnawing in his stomach and it just feels dishonest not to say something.

“Um,” he says, dragging his spoon through his ice cream. “George mentioned I was in the papers here while I was away.”

“Yes,” she says. “That hasn’t changed.”

He’s watching her expression closely, but he can’t tell if she gets what he’s saying. “Back in January, maybe?”

Her entire body seems to still. “Oh,” she says, nose wrinkling. “That.”  

“Yeah, that,” he says, telling himself it was too much to hope that she might not have seen it.

Her expression clears, posture straightening. “It’s fine,” she declares.

It doesn’t feel fine at all. It feels awful.

“I assumed you dated, Harry. I practically made you promise to.” She pulls a face. “Not that I particularly liked seeing it.”

He groans, covering his face. “I don’t suppose if I told you it was nothing you would believe me,” he mumbles through his hands.

“Was it?” she asks.

He can’t help but wince. “Almost nothing.”

Ginny looks down at her bowl, spoon tapping against the edge. She seems to come to some sort of decision. “Do you know why I stopped writing as much last fall?”

He has a horrible feeling where this may be going, bracing himself to hear about all the people Ginny dated. It’s only fair that he should have to, he supposes. At least there won’t be pictures. Just his own vivid imagination.

“I assumed you were…busy,” he says, wishing he had never been stupid enough to bring this up.  

She shakes her head. “Going back to Hogwarts was…harder than I thought it would be. Everything was a reminder. Every class, every hallway, every meal. I honestly don’t remember most of the welcoming feast. I think Tobias had to drag me from place to place.”

She pushes her bowl out of the way, her hands clasping together on the table in front of her.

“There was only one thing that seemed doable. And that was writing to you. And so I did. A lot. Too much.” She shakes her head. “I stopped writing as much because I realized it wasn’t fair, telling you to live your life and then leaning on you like that.”

“I didn’t mind,” he says, because he really didn’t. Even if maybe he should have.

She stretches her hand out towards him, fingers finding his. “It wasn’t fair to me either. I had to find a way to…be at Hogwarts.”

He can’t even imagine. He wasn’t brave enough to even try.

She sits up. “Look, the situation being what it was…moving on was the only logical thing to do.”

“Was it?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says, sounding certain and not a little mercenary.

He looks down at their hands where her fingers are twined through his. “And yet, here we are,” he says, almost as if to remind himself.

“Here we are,” she says, expression softening into a smile. “Your fault of course.” She leans forward, spoon dipping into his bowl to steal a bite of ice cream.

He laughs, defending his bowl. “Is it?”

She nods, eyes on his hands like she’s working up a strategy to get at his ice cream. “You’ve always made me a little irrational.”

He honestly isn’t quite sure if he should be offended or not. “Have I?”

She darts a glance up at him, and he can tell she’s not quite as calm and collected as she’s pretending, something a little uncertain in her eyes.

“That’s funny,” he says.

“Is it?” she says, shoulders tensing just the slightest bit.

He nods, squeezing her fingers. “Because you always make me feel…” He casts about for the right word to describe it. “Steady.”

She finally looks away from his ice cream. “Yeah?” she asks, voice soft.  

“Yes,” he says, tugging her fingers, just wanting her closer, and the two of them are leaning so close now that their faces are almost touching.  

Gnawing on her lip, she looks up at him, something in her expression making his stomach flip pleasantly.

He’s never understood people snogging in public, but he’s beginning to.

“Any chance you’re done?” she asks.

“Do you want to go back to Grimmauld?” he asks, definitely not opposed to being somewhere else. Somewhere more private. “Or are you just angling to eat my ice cream for me?”

“Hmmm,” she says as if she’s trying to decide between the two. “Yes to both?”

He laughs, dropping his defenses long enough to let her steal another bite. “Chocolate’s not so bad after all, huh?”

“No,” she says, her knee pressing into his. “I guess not. But I’d better have another taste just to be sure.”   

He can definitely live with that.

*     *     *

Despite that nearly disastrous first dinner at the Burrow, Harry turns out to be better at subterfuge than Ginny ever expected. He somehow manages to get himself invited over to dinner almost every night that week, and every time it ends up looking like her mum had to strong-arm him into it, like he is doing her a favor and not the other way around.

It’s almost as impressive as it is frightening.

Then again, she pretty much threw the gauntlet down when she said he was terrible at this, and it’s not like any part of Harry’s body is less than blindingly competitive. It becomes a game almost, one-upping each other in terms of schemes and plans. Which considering this means they get to spend time together, neither of them at all mind.

Not that either of them is willing to admit defeat either.

For her part, Ginny finds reasons to go into London, spending time with George in the shop or just visiting friends. On her way in and out of town, she manages to carve out at least an hour or so a day to sneak over to Grimmauld Place. And while kissing Harry has easily become one of her favorite things, they also go out into Muggle London on what Harry likes to call ‘dates.’ Which, if they want to keep a low profile, will certainly be as close as they will get.

It’s fascinating, really. It’s one thing to read about Muggles, but another thing entirely to walk around as if you’re one of them. She knows she’s glancing about like she’s on some amazing safari, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind.

Near the end of the week, he takes her out to Hyde Park to enjoy an unseasonably sunny day. They stroll down the long paths, watching the strange swath of humanity populating the park. Muggles seem to come in all types, more than she could have imagined.

Seeing someone coming towards them on a really strange contraption, she touches Harry’s arm, an unconscious gesture, just a press of her fingers to his forearm. She feels it though, the way he tenses under the touch as if stopping himself from pulling away.

She’s been noticing this particular reaction all week, turning it over like a puzzle piece in her mind. She’s never considered herself an overly tactile person, but she finds herself touching Harry whenever he’s near. Sometimes to get his attention, to point something out. Other times for no other reason than her fingers itch for it.

But now that she thinks on it, Harry rarely does.

She considers that’s part of the reason it’s been so easy to keep this a secret, the way he never reaches for her at all. Not that he doesn’t enjoy kissing her—he certainly seems to—but almost as if it never occurs to him to touch her or hug her.

At first she thought that was just him playing his part very well, or maybe some strange hang on from being hunted for so long, but as the week goes on, she’s beginning to suspect otherwise.

“Harry?” she asks.

“Yeah?” he says, glancing back at her. He’s still got that look like he’s amazed when he turns around and she’s actually here. She almost lets it derail her, feeling the urge to touch him again, but forces herself to stay on topic.

“Do you…not like it when I touch you?”

“What?” he asks, turning all the way around to face her. “No. Of course not.”

She gnaws the inside of her lip, trying to decide how much she wants to push. Things are still so new, yet she doesn’t really want to ignore this. “If it makes you uncomfortable,” she says, “you know you can tell me, right? It won’t upset me.”

“It doesn’t,” he insists, but she knows she isn’t imagining this, and the way he’s reacting is only confirming it.

Still, he clearly doesn’t want to talk about this, so she smiles at him and says, “Okay.”

They start back down the path, but as they walk, Harry seems to quietly fold in on himself, his shoulders hunching and his chin pulling in towards his neck. Ginny wishes she never brought it up in the first place. What the hell was she thinking? She really needs to work on not just saying whatever pops into her head when she’s around him.

He eventually lets out a sigh, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I guess… I’m just not used to it,” he mumbles into his coat lapel.

He didn’t say he isn’t used to her, she notices, and that is far too telling. “To being touched?”

He shrugs like it isn’t a big deal, but the look on his face makes her want to hex something.

Growing up in the Burrow was basically constant contact. Bumping shoulders on the stairs, fighting over the bathroom. Hugs and noogies and tackles and kisses, both affectionate and mocking. Hands on shoulders and flicking fingers. She doesn’t think she went a single day as a child without a hug from one or both of her parents.

She’s noticed it before, the way Harry looks so uncomfortable when her mum hugs him, like he has no idea what to do. She just never fully considered what that might mean.

She doesn’t have to ask to know that the Dursleys probably never showed him any sort of affection at all. Doesn’t have the heart to ask if it was ever worse than that. That maybe when he was touched it was only in anger. That when she unexpectedly touches him, he isn’t pulling away so much as bracing himself.

Even at Hogwarts he’s always had a bubble of sorts around him, being a myth and legend to be held in awe. At a distance. She tries to imagine Dumbledore, McGonagall or Lupin touching him that way and it doesn’t fit. He’s had Ron’s friendly punches and shoves and blustering, at least. But that isn’t the same.

It isn’t the same at all.

“I can stop,” she offers, never wanting to make him uncomfortable, especially for something that isn’t his fault.

“Don’t,” he says, abruptly turning to her, eyes wide.

“Harry,” she says, thrown by his expression, the way he looks like she’s just threatened to take something important away from him.

“I’ll do better,” he insists.

It occurs to her that he looks scared, like he’s terrified he’s messing everything up, like he’s failing her. Something like rage and sadness and fierce protectiveness rushes up Ginny’s throat, making it hard to actually speak.

“No. That’s not—You don’t have to do better, Harry.” She reaches her hands out, wanting to throw her arms around him and hug him tight, anything to make him stop bloody looking like that, but forces herself to stop, to fold her arms back in around her waist. “I don’t want you to do better. I just want you to be comfortable. That’s all. I just want to only do what feels right to you. That’s all I’m saying. Okay?”

Harry doesn’t answer, looking like he’s struggling with something, maybe with finding the right words, or a way to explain something to her. She just waits, biting her tongue against the avalanche of words she wants to say, to apologize for making such a muck of this.

Eventually something in Harry’s posture seems to break, and then he’s reaching for her and kissing her, right there in the middle of the park.

It’s a short, perfunctory kiss that ends almost as abruptly as it begins, clumsy in its intensity. Harry doesn’t let go of her or move away after though. “This feels right,” he says, voice rough. “You feel right.”

There’s an intensity to his gaze that makes her feel a little winded. Pressing her fingers into his arms, all she can manage to do is nod. Yes. Yes. It always has.

She wraps her arms around him and he lets her, despite the way he never completely relaxes into the hug.

“Okay,” she says, squeezing him tight. “Okay.”

She promises herself she’ll do whatever she can to make up for eighteen years of absent affection.

Chapter Text

On Easter Sunday, the whole family goes to Auntie Muriel’s. It’s a break in tradition, but traditions aren’t what they used to be, and it’s a bit of a relief not trying to pretend that they are.

Still, it’s bound to be a trial.

After they all spend the morning visiting with Teddy and Andromeda, Harry lets himself get roped into coming along for dinner. She tries to warn him off, but he’ll have nothing to do with it.

“It’s our last day together,” he says. “I don’t care if your aunt is a troll.”

“She’s worse,” Ginny mutters, even as she’s pleased to have earned a few more hours in his company.

Now as they all stand in the entryway, Harry glances around at the enormous house. “What, they were out of the really big mansions the day they were buying?” he murmurs.

George snorts.

The House Elf shows them into a huge parlor where Muriel waits for them, already seated on a chair like a throne. She watches them all as they file in, Mum and the boys dutifully giving her a kiss on her cheek.

Her eyes fall on Harry. “You make an uneven number,” she says by way of greeting.

“Um,” is all Harry manages in response, glancing at Bill next to him. Fleur makes a tutting sound under her breath, clearly unimpressed with Muriel’s rudeness, which is saying something, honestly.

Muriel ignores them, turning to Molly with clear displeasure. “Beside which, it isn’t appropriate for Ginevra to be bringing beaus to family dinners.”

George snorts, though whether at the idea of Ginny having a beau or Muriel’s hypocrisy after pushing for arranging a betrothal for her the year before, she can’t be sure. Still, Ginny happily nudges him in the ribs in retaliation all the same.

“Oof,” George says, escaping her reach by settling on a settee.

“This is Harry, Auntie,” Molly says, voice calm to the point of patronizing. There’s history here that Ginny has never quite understood, something that ties her mum to Muriel despite how unpleasant the older woman can be.

“I know very well who he is,” Muriel says, watching Molly as she walks Harry over to sit down next to George as if to get him out of range. “What I don’t know is how long he’s been dallying with Ginevra!”

Ginny takes a seat next to her dad, trying to stay calm. There is no way Muriel actually knows anything. She’s just being her usual unpleasant self. Ginny risks glancing over at Harry, and he’s staring at Muriel in horror, looking like his whole body has been petrified.

“No need to look quite so sickened by the idea, Potter,” Ginny says, trying her best to salvage the situation.

Harry looks over at her, belatedly gathering up his tattered composure, his mouth snapping shut.

Next to her, Bill snorts. “Just shows that he may be brave but he isn’t stupid, being interested in a nightmare like you.”

Ginny smacks him with a cushion.

Molly gives them a quelling look. “Harry is Ron’s friend, Auntie. He’s family.”

Muriel pins Harry with a gaze that feels just a little too knowing. “Just as well,” she sniffs. “The Potters have always been an eccentric lot.”

That seems to finally shake Harry out of his embarrassment. “Did you know my parents?”

“Your parents? Heavens no, child. I knew your namesake. Henry Potter.” Her nose wrinkles. “Quite the rabble-rouser during that little squabble the Muggles had early in the century. You have him to thank for the ignoble status of the Potter name.” She harrumphs. “Help the Muggles. What could he have been thinking?”

Her dad opens his mouth as if to interrupt, but Harry looks so enthralled that Ginny puts a hand on his arm to stop him.

Muriel happily blathers on. “Fleamont was just as bad. Hiding out in the countryside, doing whatever he pleased with no account for duty.”

“Fleamont?” Harry echoes.

“Henry’s son. Your grandfather,” she says with some asperity. “Honestly, boy. Don’t you know anything about where you come from?”

Ginny feels indignation climb her throat. Like Harry chose to be orphaned and raised by horrid Muggles?

Muriel snorts rather inelegantly. “Of course, if my ancestors married so willy-nilly I’d probably rather not know either. Not that Euphemia wasn’t pretty enough. You know, for her sort. A pureblood at least.”

Ginny’s eyes narrow. “Her sort?” she asks, voice hardening slightly in warning.

But if Muriel notices it, she clearly doesn’t care. “Oh, you know, daughter or granddaughter of some raja. Immigrated early in the century.” Her nose wrinkles. “With their strange manners and unorthodox magics.”

Ginny’s mouth falls open in outrage, and it’s her father’s turn to put a cautioning hand on her arm. She silently fumes, arms crossing over her chest.

“Auntie,” Molly scolds, looking horrified.

Muriel waves a dismissive hand. “Not that Fleamont cared. A foolish alliance, everyone knew. A love match,” she scoffs as if it is incomprehensible to her. She gives Harry a beady stare. “But then, Potters always seem to have more passion than sense.”

It’s only through great discipline that Ginny keeps her face from flushing. Out of the corner of her eye she can see that Harry isn’t quite so successful.

Muriel stands then, rising like a thundercloud, as if her interest in such things has abruptly waned. She hollers for the House Elf, demanding to know if dinner is finished yet. “I specifically said that we were to be seated at a quarter after!” she says, stamping her cane in displeasure.

At the door, Muriel turns to Molly. “Well, when they do get married, don’t look to me to borrow my tiara. Last time I very nearly did not get it back!”

Fleur looks incensed.

“Why do we submit ourselves to this?” Bill mutters.

George rubs his hands together. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This has already been far more fun than I ever could have hoped.”

“Boys,” Dad says mildly.

“Come on, Harry,” George says. “Let’s see if you have enough sense to find your way to the dining room.”

“If he had sense,” Bill says, “he never would have agreed to come in the first place.”

Ginny lets out a breath.

*    *     *

At dinner, Ginny ends up at the very end of the table on the opposite side from Harry, the entire table organized by strict rank. Rank that no one but Muriel seems to understand. Molly at her right hand next to Arthur (Prewetts being superior in all ways to Weasleys), with Bill at her left hand next to Fleur.

Harry gets the next spot on the right, probably some strange nod to his fame. But still unmarried, which in Muriel’s eyes puts him below Bill even if he married ‘an unpleasant French émigré.’

Ginny, as the lowest ranked—a single female, good lord!—sits on the distant left next to Percy and across from George. Which has the benefit of being far from Muriel’s attention, if not stuck with Percy for conversation.

Harry looks situated well enough diagonally from her, tucked between Dad and George. She gives him a bracing smile before settling herself in for the ten-course extravaganza that even Ron probably would have a hard time with.

Somewhere in the middle of the sixth course, George leans into Harry, saying something that makes Harry choke, looking up in alarm. He turns and looks at Muriel, and Ginny follows his gaze, almost choking herself.

Muriel’s hair is currently slowly changing color, from a stately grey to a violent purple leopard print.

Ginny lifts her napkin to her face, stifling a laugh.

George looks across at her with a gleam in his eye. “No need to let an opportunity for testing to pass me by.”

Their mum’s face is turning a deep shade of red as they all do their best to pretend nothing at all is awry.

“Brilliant,” she hears Harry breathe.

She glances at Percy, expecting him to be horrified, but instead he just raises an eyebrow and says, “I’m surprised she doesn’t have the House Elf taste all her food first.”

George lets out a startled laugh.

“What are you laughing about down there?” Muriel demands.

“The name Fleamont,” George blithely lies, winking at Harry.

Bill plays along. “Lucky you weren’t named after him instead.”

“He could have gone by Monty,” Ginny suggests.

Harry grins at her. “Not Fleamy?”

George cackles. “Well, now that’s what we’re going to call you!”

Muriel, clearly unhappy to have lost her position as the center of attention, loudly stomps her cane and demands for the next course to be brought in. The elves comply, not caring that Percy still has a bite on his fork as they sweep away his half-finished plate.

The rest of the meal is less eventful if not still seemingly endless. Even eventually escaping dinner doesn’t bring any relief, all of them heading back to the sitting room to listen to Muriel ramble on about whatever topic captures her attention. She spends time on the usual topic of the ‘great families’ and their latest foibles. It’s not quite as fertile ground as it has been in the past, considering many of those families have fled England, suffered deaths in the family, or are serving time in Azkaban.

“Ginevra,” Muriel says at one point. “Why don’t you sing for us?”

Ginny smiles pleasantly. “Because if I did, I am fairly certain you would all turn to stone.”

“If we’re lucky,” George says.

Muriel’s lips press together, looking like she’s caught whiff of a really bad smell. “How you are ever supposed to be able to find a husband, I do not know.”

Ginny shrugs, knowing that Muriel’s ideas of female accomplishments are as out of date as her fashion sense. “I guess I always figured I would just hex one and drag him back to my cave on the back of my broom.”

Bill snorts, somehow managing to turn it into a cough. They are all more than used to Muriel harping on them, Ginny most of all. Knowing she barely listens, let alone is hurt by it, her family just lets it go. Pushing back against Muriel only insures it will last even longer.

Muriel turns to Molly. “Then you’re still allowing her to play Quidditch, I see. A most unladylike activity.”

“She’s brilliant,” Harry abruptly blurts, breaking his rather long silence. He doesn’t look embarrassed, just incensed.

Muriel’s eyes flash dangerously at being so blatantly contradicted, in her own home no less, but seems incapable of blasting a guest, let alone the great hero of the wizarding world. She settles for harrumphing loudly and pointedly changing the subject. Which for a while means picking on Percy and his Ministry ambitions.

Once Muriel has her fill of picking on all of them, they drift apart, some people pretending interest in paintings just to get away from Muriel, others ‘stretching their legs.’

“Where did Harry get off to?” Molly asks.

Ginny noticed him leave, of course, and has just been biding her time, looking for the right opportunity.

“Probably got lost trying to find the loo,” George says, clearly unconcerned as he flips disinterestedly through the pages of a book.

Ginny pushes to her feet. “I’ll find him,” she says, like it’s a chore. “He can’t have gotten far.”

“I just hope he didn’t stray across the banshee in the east wing!” Muriel says, sounding more gleeful at the thought than worried.

As she suspected, he isn’t far away at all, just in the portrait gallery a few rooms over.

She watches him peer up at the Prewett ancestors. “You don’t look particularly lost,” she says.

He turns, smiling. “Figured you’d find a way to be the one sent to find me.”

“Sneaky,” she says.

He shrugs. “Motivated.”

She crosses over to him. “I’m sorry about Muriel,” she says.

He shakes his head. “Hey, next to the Dursleys that was almost pleasant.”

Ginny has no idea how that is supposed to make anything better. “She had no right to talk that way about your grandparents.”

“I’d never even heard of any of them before this. I mean I always knew I had to have…”

“People?”

He nods. “Now it actually feels real.”

“Like you didn’t just hatch out of a dragon egg?”

He laughs. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Miss Weasley.”

Ginny turns to see one of the House Elves standing in the doorway. “Yes?”

“Your father is ready to depart.”

“Thank you,” she says.

He nods, disappearing back around the corner.

Ginny turns back to Harry, the two of them looking at each other. Pressure rises in her throat, knowing these will be their last moments together for a long while. First thing in the morning she’ll be speeding back towards Hogwarts. She has the bizarre thought that this last week has been some sort of dream that will evaporate the second they say goodbye.

She reaches for his hands, squeezing them. “I’ll try to find out more about your grandparents,” she promises, wanting to give him something, anything. She can get Mum to ask Muriel.

Harry gives her an intense look like she’s just offered him the world. “I’ll make it to that match, I promise.”

She nods, trying to give him a bracing smile even as her fingers itch to touch him.

Impulsively, and before Ginny can remind him of the risk, he ducks his head and kisses her. She knows she should pull back, keep it quick, but instead she’s leaning into him. She considers that maybe the Potters are contagious, wonders if Euphemia once felt this way about a young, impulsive Fleamont.

Her heart is pounding away in her chest when they finally break apart, and very little of it about the risk of being caught.

His hands cup her face, his eyes intent on her features. “I’m going to miss you.”

She squeezes his wrists, nodding. “Me too.”

“Ginny,” a voice says, sounding much closer.

Ginny steps back, Harry’s hands dropping from her face.

She heads down the hall so it won’t look like they’ve just been standing about, hearing Harry following after her, and a second later, Bill comes around the corner.

“What are you two doing?” he says. “Planning your elopement? Muriel really wouldn’t approve.”

“Hey,” Ginny says, voice mild. “I’m not the tiara thief here.”

Bill groans. “I thought Fleur was going to curse her before that meal was done.”

Ginny huffs. “I’d pay to see that.”

“We all would,” Bill says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Ah, the joys of family.”

Bill looks at Harry, and she can see him wince at the thoughtlessness of his words.

“Come on, Harry,” he says. “Let’s get you home.”

“Yes,” Harry says with enough asperity to impress even Muriel, “because otherwise I may forget how.”

Bill laughs. “You’re such a little shit, Harry. It’s no wonder you fit in with us so well.”

“High praise,” Harry mutters, but Ginny can tell he’s pleased.

Bill presses a hand to the back of his head, pushing him forward. “Come on then.”

At the doorway, he glances back at her, and she raises her hand in silent farewell.

*     *     *

Hugging her parents goodbye, Ginny boards the Hogwarts Express for her final trip out to the castle. Her last term. It’s a bit hard to believe, really. One last term dedicated to endless NEWTs cramming and one final Quidditch match.

Stowing her trunk, she takes a seat in a compartment with a mix of DA members. She waves out the window to her parents. It occurs to her how old they look standing there—her dad tall with thinning hair and lines deepening on his face, her mum tucked into his side, grey beginning to mix in with the red. It must be even weirder for them, having brought at least one child to this train every term for the last seventeen years.

The train pulls out of the station, smoke and distance obscuring them from view.

“Ginny?”

She turns to look at Hannah.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

Ginny smiles. “Yeah,” she says. “Just thinking about time.”

Hannah nods, settling back in her seat. “It’s hard to believe we’re almost finished.” As long as it’s felt for Ginny, this is technically Hannah’s eighth year.

“Just think, no more homework,” Terry says, eyes closing with bliss.

The girls laugh.

“More importantly, no more exams!” Hannah says.

Terry snorts. “Yeah, but first the NEWTs.”

“Don’t remind me,” she says, looking a little green even at the idea.

Hannah always remarks that she feels rather silly, still having such extreme anxiety over something as mundane as sitting a test. Ginny just thinks they are lucky to have such normal things to worry about for once.

Throughout the compartment, students are having reunions after their week apart. Reiko is talking rather intensely with Dennis and Nigel about something, the two boys looking almost frozen in place. Demelza seems to be pointedly ignoring Martin. Neville is sitting with Susan and Luna. In the back corner, Dean and Seamus have their heads lowered together.

There’s been no sign of Tobias yet, but Ginny isn’t particularly surprised. This is going to be the term she no longer lets him get away with this avoiding the DA nonsense.

“Did you have a nice break?” Hannah asks her.

“Yeah,” Ginny says, feeling a smile spread over her face. “I really did.”

She thinks back to the message Harry sent her first thing this morning.

I hope you have a great term, Gin. And you’ll be back in no time.

“Yeah?” Hannah asks with interest.

Ginny just presses her lips together and looks out the window.

For a moment she lets her mind wander off into imaginary summer days. Early mornings in the pasture on her broom, dates spent exploring Muggle London, and long, uninterrupted afternoons at Grimmauld. It at once feels completely out of reach and so tantalizingly near.

“Ginny,” Demelza shouts, dragging her back out of her thoughts. “Come over here and settle this argument, will you? You’re way better at dealing with idiots than I am.”

Giving Hannah a long-suffering look, she gets to her feet and goes to say hello.

A few hours into the ride, she squeezes Luna’s arm. “I’m going to stretch my legs.” She wants to check in on her sisters, and maybe figure out where Tobias is hiding.  

“Alright,” she says.

Ginny gets up, stepping out into the hall. Flora and Ernie are out there talking. Flora gives Ginny a sheepish smile and Ginny grins back at her, but doesn’t linger, quickening her step to give them a bit more privacy.

“Ginny,” someone calls out as she crosses into the next car.  

She turns to see Ritchie catching up to her. “Hey,” she says.

He smiles at her. “You enjoy the hols?”

“I did,” Ginny says. A bit of an understatement really, but she has no intention of elaborating or letting herself get derailed again by the memories.

“Think you’re ready to face off with Hufflepuff?” Ritchie says.

She refocuses on him. Quidditch. Right. “Definitely,” she says.  

“Yeah?” he says, looking skeptical. “Not even a little nervous?”

She shrugs. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

His eyebrows lift. “You think you’ve cracked them, huh? Care to share?”

“Not a chance.”

He laughs. “Worth a try, I suppose.”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he gives her a not-so-subtle look, and Ginny feels dread fill her stomach as she stupidly, belatedly realizes what this is.

He takes a deep breath, shoulders squaring. “So, I was wondering if maybe you’d—”

“Ritchie,” Ginny says, cutting across him before he can actually say it.

He snaps his mouth shut, regarding her for a long moment. “You’re not going to go out with me, are you.”

It isn’t a question, and she supposes his blunt honesty deserves some in return. “No.”

He nods. “I didn’t think so.” He gives her a fleeting smile. “Figured I’d give it a go anyway. Spent the whole break working up my nerve.”

That doesn’t particularly make her feel any better.

It would be easy to explain that she’s already with someone, that she’s very happily with someone, but that might lead to difficult questions. Besides which, even when she could have dated him earlier in the year, she still didn’t, instead going out with Michael and Ernie. The truth is, she was never going to go out with Ritchie. No matter if he reminded her of him at times, he isn’t Harry. He never could be.

Ginny braces herself for Ritchie to ask why or what he did wrong, but he doesn’t, instead just giving her a half-hearted smile and backing away. “Okay. I’m going to…” He points vaguely down the hall. “Retreat with as much dignity as possible.”

It all just makes her like him even more.

“I’m sorry,” she still feels the need to say.

He waves a hand. “There’s plenty more witches where you came from. Some of them are even decent Chasers.”

She rolls her eyes. “Go away, Ritchie.”

He gives her a little salute. “As you command.”

She watches him retreat, vaguely hoping this doesn’t make it weird for either of them. Setting him firmly from her mind, she continues on her way. In the next car she finds the compartment where the Parlor sisters have gathered. Minus Flora, of course, who is more than likely still flirting outside the DA compartment.

The first thing Ginny notices upon entering is that Hestia has chopped off her hair and dyed it a rather intense shade of violet. She thinks there is probably a story here to be had. This is not the only surprise waiting for her though. Because even more startling is who’s sitting next to Dale, helping her with what appear to be rather complicated makeup charms.

Dorinda.  

She looks up at Ginny, something a bit defiant in the lift of her chin like she’s daring her to make a big deal of it.

Biting back a smile, Ginny just nods slightly at her and settles down next to Nicola to ask after her break.

Yet another piece falling into place.

The train pulls into Hogsmeade before Ginny manages to find Tobias. She catches sight of him in a departing carriage, so she at least know that he did come back. She’s more than a little annoyed with him by the time she tracks him down, sitting down next to him at the Slytherin table.

“There you are,” she says.

He gives her a look like he has no idea what she’s talking about, which only makes her more certain that he’s avoiding her. She has no intention of letting him get away with it.

“How are you?” she asks.

“Fine,” he says around a mouthful of mash. “You?”

Her eyes narrow. He’s being weird. She looks him over intently, but he pretty much looks the same as far as she can tell.

“Ginny,” Reiko says, sitting down on her other side. “I have some ideas I’ve been thinking about over the break.” She pulls out a notebook, slapping it on the table and nearly upsetting the settings.

“Ugh,” Tobias complains. “If this is going to be Quidditch shit, I’m out.”

He picks up his plate and moves to another seat further down the table with some other boys from their year.

Trapped by Reiko, Ginny lets him go, resigning herself to dealing with him after the meal.

It ends up not being as difficult as she prepared herself for because as she walks out of the hall, Tobias falls into step next to her. “Think we could go to the cloister for a bit?”

“Sure,” she says, and they take a turn, going against the flow of student bodies towards their common rooms.

“What is going on with you?” she demands the moment they are safely inside.

He walks further into the space, settling down in their normal spot. He stubbornly keeps his mouth shut, just looking up at her as if expecting her to sit as well.

Biting back a sigh at his dramatics, she sits down next to him and waits for him to speak.

He pulls out a small box from his robes, holding it out to her.

She looks dubiously back at him. “What’s this?”

“Go on, take it,” he says. “It’s for you.”

“For me?” she asks, taking it. She cautiously pulls off the lid, parting the tissue inside.

It’s a miniature occamy carved from an opalescent stone. She picks it up, its body cool as it slides across her palm, winding around her thumb. Absolutely beautiful, but she still has zero idea why Tobias is giving this to her.

“Where did you—?”

“She wanted you to have it. Found it in some marketplace somewhere, but didn’t trust enough to send it by post.”  

Ginny’s mind trips over the pronoun, automatically thinking of Mags, but only for a moment. Because this is not from Mags or Tobias’s mum or any of the women he should have been visiting.

“Who?” Ginny says, voice hard, because she thinks she has an idea, but that can’t possibly be right.

Tobias winces. “I didn’t go home for break. Never had any intention of it really.”

Her hand closes around the figurine. “You went to Tawang.”

“I did,” he admits.

She stares at him in shock. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

Didn’t want to make a big deal? Is he out of his mind? He traveled halfway around the world to see Smita for the first time in two years. How could that not be a big deal?

He’s still warily watching her as she sits there and silently rages.

She knows they’ve been writing, but nothing beyond that. Tobias clams up whenever she tries to broach the topic, and Smita adroitly avoids addressing it in her letters. She remembers how he was at end of term, full of fractious energy. On edge. Moody.

“Are you two…” she manages to ask.

He gives her a look like she’s being naïve. “Embarking on the world’s furthest long distance relationship after not having seen each other in almost two years? No, Ginny. We’re not.”

“But you went there,” she says, still trying to catch up.

He sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “I had to go, Gin. I just…needed a real ending, I guess.”

“Did you?”

He shifts, almost squirming as if in discomfort. “Do we really need to talk about this?”

Part of her wants to force him to, to make him give her every tiny detail. Only this thing between Tobias and Smita has never really been any of her business, not hers to demand about. He’s still her friend though, and she needs to know at least one thing.

She reaches out for his hand. “Just tell me that you’re really okay with whatever’s happened. That you aren’t just…deflecting.”

“I am,” he says, his expression for once completely open. “Honestly, Gin. It was…what it needed to be.”

She finds that she believes him. “Okay.”

He relaxes, clearly relieved that he’s not going to be given the third degree. They sit next to each other in silence.  

“Is she happy?” Ginny eventually asks, her voice sounding small even to her own ears.

“Yeah,” he says, a smile playing about his lips. “She really is.”

That will have to be enough for both of them, Ginny supposes.

He nudges her shoulder. “Completely in her element, and even more frighteningly competent than before.”

Ginny smiles fondly. “Good. That’s good.”

He slides her a look. “She wanted to know if you were too. You know, happy.”

Ginny looks down at the small figurine, running her finger down its back. “And what did you say?”

“I said I wasn’t sure, but that you seemed to be moving in that direction at least.”

She looks down at her hands, biting down on the inside of her lip.

“Was I wrong?”

“No,” Ginny says. “I am. Moving in that direction.”

“Yeah?” he asks, peering at her closely.

She’s fairly certain her face warms, but she doesn’t care. It’s not that putting things right with Harry has fixed everything, but that so many things had to be okay, to be better , for them to even have a chance at it, to even get as far as they have.

“Definitely,” she says.

He loops an arm over her shoulders. “We don’t need to talk about that either do we?” he asks, voice pained.

She laughs, leaning her head back against his arm. “Merlin, no. I know how much you would hate that.”

They would pretty much burn the world down for each other, and that’s more than enough. The rest is better left unsaid, for a myriad of reasons.

“I would though,” he says, his finger tapping against her shoulder. “Just so you know.”

“Hate it?” she asks, craning her neck to look up at him.

He rolls his eyes. “Listen. If you need me to.”

Even if he loathed every moment.

“I know you would.” She reaches up and pats him on the cheek. “But we wouldn’t want people to think you’d gone soft.”

“Ugh,” he says, pushing her away. “ Never .”

She laughs.

Later that night in her dorm, she ignores Bridget and Helena’s cautious greetings, her eyes lingering instead on the empty bed. Smita’s. And for a while Nadira’s. But now empty once more. Climbing up on her own bed, Ginny closes the drapes, barely noticing the swirling patterns on the dark cloth. She lifts the occamy, letting it slide up and wrap around her bedpost.

She curls up on her bed, the sounds of the lake a constant murmur in the distance, and breathes in the cool, humid air. All of it is familiar and comforting and a lot like coming home.

Pulling out quill and ink, she takes a moment to feel the heavy texture of her parchment under her fingers.

Have time to chat? she writes.

Harry’s response doesn’t take long to come.

Do you even need to ask? How was your first day back?

Let me put it this way, she writes, it definitely wasn’t boring.

Yeah? I’m all ears. Or eyes, I suppose. Technically. Ugh. You know what I mean.

She laughs, smiling down fondly at his ridiculous, messy words. Not slick and precise, not whispered and insidious and perfectly crafted, but bright and garbled and warm and right. So, so right.

Carefully inking her quill, she tells him all about her day.

Chapter Text

The week after Easter, Harry’s first inclination is to sit around the house and mope. Fleur and Kreacher are doing something in the dining room that he’s sure he’d rather not know about. He’s tired of the circus he causes by going anywhere near Diagon Alley, and Muggle London just doesn’t have the same appeal anymore.

He’s pathetic.

The one saving grace, as always, are the parchments. He chats with Ginny in the evenings when she has time. Usually about Quidditch and the DA and the latest gossip gleaned from Burke. Other times she just jots off random messages between classes that he’ll stumble upon later like little presents.

Why is Binns so terrible?

Oh Merlin, McGonagall almost made Vaisey piss himself today with just a look. Life goals right there.

I miss you.

It’s not the same as having her here, of course, but it certainly makes it more bearable. It also helps remind him that it’s real. That this is really happening.

When he’s not caring for Teddy or thinking fondly of the last week, he considers everything Muriel said about his grandparents. It occurs to him how little he knows. Bill has been bugging him to take a look at his accounts, to deal with the estates he has been left with, but he’s been reluctant. Now it sounds like an interesting challenge. At least something to keep his mind occupied for a while.

He honestly isn’t sure how welcome he will be at Gringotts these days though. Breaking into a vault and freeing a dragon and destroying half the building in the process may have made Harry far from the goblins’ favorite person.

He owls Bill about his intentions, only to get an answer back that he’ll need a few days to speak on Harry’s behalf to the goblins.

At the beginning of the next week, he gets the all clear. But only in exchange for returning some dusty ancient goblin artifact that he didn’t even know he had in his vault.

Bill meets him at the entrance, and Harry is pretty sure he isn’t imagining the rather frosty looks from the goblins. Then again, in his experience, goblins have never been all that warm to begin with.

“You’re lucky they didn’t confiscate your entire fortune,” Bill says as he shows Harry into his small office at the back. “They probably still would have if it wouldn’t have terrified the rest of their wizarding clientele.”

Harry shrugs, because it’s not like he had a choice about what happened. Instead he looks around the office in interest.

Bill gestures at the seat across from his desk. “Can I get you tea? Coffee?”

Harry gives him a strange look. “Um, no. I’m fine.”

Bill pulls a face. “Sorry. Habit. I have to be on my best human behavior when there’s clients about. There’s a reason the Goblins keep me, after all.”

“Okay,” Harry says, but it puts him on edge all the same, being treated like this by Bill, of all people.

Bill opens a drawer, pulling out a set of files and a ring of keys. He walks back around the desk, casually mussing Harry’s hair, and that’s better, if not totally annoying. Harry ducks his head and scowls.

“Come on,” Bill says. “Let’s go down to the vault. It’ll be easier to explain by just showing you.”

The nearly vomit-inducing ride down to the vaults is familiar by now, if not slightly more relaxing knowing he doesn’t have to worry about being caught. He has every right to be here today. Plus, the whole not trying to steal anything is probably a bonus.

The cart pulls up in front of Harry’s vault, Bill lifting the wards and opening the doors. Harry walks in, Bill lounging by the door.

As a kid, Harry never really had eyes for anything other than the piles of gold, which now seem significantly larger despite how much Harry himself has grown. He realizes with a squeeze of grief that this is because he’s inherited the Black family fortune as well.

He’d be embarrassed about Bill seeing this, but working here he probably already has a very clear understanding of Harry’s finances. Better than he himself does, really.

He forces his eyes onto the other things, the boxes and objects. Papers. There isn’t all that much. He leans over the closest box, full of what looks like old record albums. He casually flips through them, not recognizing a lot of the bands.

“I looked into it,” Bill says. “Fleamont and Euphemia had a vault as well.”

He looks up from the box. “It didn’t all just come here when they died?”

Bill shakes his head. “The money did. It’s enchanted to automatically follow legalized wills. Makes it harder for people to steal. But ordinary objects, papers, furniture, and the like, those have to be transferred, mostly because some of them can be volatile. Don’t want a strange cursed item accidentally melting all your currency.”

Harry huffs under his breath. “No, I suppose not.”

He glances helplessly around at the last material remains of his parents’ lives. Over in the corner he thinks he sees a trunk with a peeling Gryffindor crest.

“Do you want to see the other vault?” Bill asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Harry says. Passing by the pile of gold, Harry scoops out a modest amount into his coin bag so he won’t have to come back here for a while unless he wants to.

Back on the cart, they travel even further down into the caves, not quite near the Lestrange vault, but pretty close.

“Have they replaced the dragon?” Harry asks, hearing a distant grumbling sound emanating from deep below them.

“Officially?” Bill asks. “Yes, of course. Nothing but the best security.”

“And unofficially?”

“It’s actually a bit of a challenge to come up with a dragon these days, and Charlie and his pals have their eyes on this place. He told me You-Know-Who is gonna come back again before he lets us abuse another dragon down here.”

“Right,” Harry says.

Bill winces, looking at him. “Bollocks. Sorry. Just a figure of speech.”

Harry shakes his head, not particularly disturbed by the reference. “That just means there will never be another dragon down here.”

Bill smiles. “Good to hear.”

They climb off the cart, torches on either side of a vault door flaring to life as they approach. Bill opens the vault.

As he warned, this vault has no money. Harry thought that would mean it’d be pretty empty. But it is filled to the brim with furniture and boxes and what looks like art. Some of it looks old. Really old.

Harry blinks at it all. “I didn’t think it would be so full.”

“Yeah, well, this is pretty much the entirety of the Potter estate. Generations worth.”

Generations. It makes it feel stupidly real, that Harry does have a family, a lineage, a past. Walking to the closest pile, he pulls a dust cloth off an ornate gilded table. He wonders who bought it. Did they eat breakfast at it? Write letters?

“Might look nice at Grimmauld,” Bill says.

Harry smiles. “That would be up to Fleur and Kreacher.”

Bill laughs. “Yeah. She’d probably kill to get access to some of this.”

It’s a nice idea, actually, having some of these things around him. But for now he really just wants this to be his. Just his.

Wandering further in, Harry peeks under dust cloths. He stops when he uncovers two portraits in ornate gilded frames. The people in them stretch and yawn, blinking up at him in interest.

Smooth metal placards beneath each image say Fleamont and Euphemia in elaborate engravings.

Harry’s heart pounds in his chest as he looks at his father’s parents for the first time. His eyes are hungry as he takes in the details—the unruly mop of hair above Euphemia’s sparkling dark eyes, her skin a deep warm brown. Fleamont is almost plain-looking in comparison if not for the curve of his lips in a slightly challenging smile that feels familiar.

“Your grandparents died right before your birth,” Bill says, looking down at them.  

Which means they never got to meet him, but also that they didn’t have to see what happened to their only son and his wife.

“And by that time with the war, I suppose your father never got the chance to deal with his parents’ estate.”

Harry squats down in front of his grandparents. “Can I take these?” he asks.

“Of course,” Bill says. “I can have them wrapped and sent to Grimmauld.”

“Yeah,” he says, liking the idea of having them with him. It’s hard to move away from them, to force himself to move on to other things.

“You don’t have to stay,” Harry says, aware of how much time has passed. “I mean, you must have other things to do.”

“I’m good,” Bill says, giving Harry a lazy grin. “Beats having to do actual work.”

Harry doesn’t completely buy that, to be honest, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Bill’s expression shifts. “Unless you’d rather be on your own.”

He’s clearly here to keep an eye on him, to make sure he’s okay. That should probably bother him, feel overbearing. He thinks a year ago it probably would have.

“No,” Harry decides. “It’s okay.” The thought of all of this is a bit overwhelming, and it’s nice to have company.

He wanders for a bit, picking up random objects. Bill settles into a throne-like chair with purple velvet upholstery, one leg kicked up over the arm.

“Do you miss it?” Harry asks.

“What?”

“Curse breaking.”

“Oh,” Bill says. “I suppose. It was quite the thrill. Got to see a lot of the world. But there’s a time and a place for mad adventuring, you know?”

“Is there?” Sometimes it feel like mad adventuring is all he’s ever known.

Bill shrugs. “It’s lonely work. Hard to set down any real roots.” He smiles, something wide and suggestive. “And let’s just say that the sedentary life definitely has its advantages.”

Harry looks away, feeling his face warm. It’s perfectly clear what Bill is referring to, and Harry has no intention of letting his mind wander that in that direction. Certainly not with Ginny’s brother sitting right there.

“Speaking of sedentary,” Bill says, “there’s a house too. On some land.”

“What?” Harry says, setting back down an ornate set of salt and pepper shakers.

Bill nods. “Out in Somerset. There’s a family living there on a long-term lease. Generating pretty good income. But if you want…”

He shakes his head. That’s way too much for right now. “I had no idea there was so much.”

“Yeah, well, apparently Fleamont made a fortune off a potion he developed.”

“Did he?”

Bill looks at Harry, and for some reason he seems amused.

Harry’s eyes narrow, having a pretty good nose for when a Weasley is amused at his expense. “What was it?”

“Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion.” Bill’s eyes deliberately travel up to Harry’s as always unruly hair.

“You’re making that up.”

Bill laughs, leaning forward on his knees. “If only I was, Harry.”

The only person to take more merriment out of the news is Ginny. She clearly finds great pleasure in teasing him that his family fortune is from a potion he never bothers to use.

Probably because the product will lose popularity when people realize it has met its match.

Do I have to pretend you’re funny now just because we’re together?

Face it, Potter. You’re not the funny one in this relationship.

You keep telling yourself that.

He finds himself grinning like an idiot for the rest of the day.

*     *     *

As the Slytherin Quidditch match approaches, Harry arranges to attend. It’s actually fairly easy to pull off. True to his word, he even lets Robards know his plans. Hogwarts is safe enough that he doubts an Auror babysitter will be necessary, and fortunately Robards agrees, so long as Harry Floos straight into the Headmistress’s office. McGonagall is more than happy to accommodate him.

Harry honestly doubts he’ll be able to wrangle more than a few minutes with Ginny and only in the middle of a giant crowd, but that will still be more than worth the trip.

On Saturday, he gets up early, spending some time getting ready, thinking about what kind of pre-game rituals Ginny must be running through at the moment. He has to go into the Ministry to use their Floo connection to Hogwarts. Fortunately it’s pretty empty as it’s a Saturday, though the Magical Transport Department is still full of wizards arriving and departing through the International Floo Network.

Harry causes a mild stir when he arrives, but even that can’t penetrate his nervous excitement. He begins to regret breakfast by the time it’s his turn to Floo to McGonagall’s office, his stomach twisting. He’s far more nervous than he ever was when it was him playing.

He spills rather inelegantly out on the other side, nearly stumbling to his knees. When he rights himself, he’s looking up into the sternly amused face of McGonagall.

“Professor,” he says.

He swears she rolls her eyes a bit. “Mr. Potter. It’s nice to have you back at Hogwarts.”

He glances around the office, noting that it hasn’t changed all that much from when it was Dumbledore’s. There’s a new portrait on the wall. In it, Snape is snoozing, looking arrogant and unpleasant even in sleep. Next to him, Dumbledore opens his eyes just long enough to give Harry a conspiratorial wink.

“I, uh, appreciate you letting me come,” Harry says.

“Well, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall says, chin lifting, “you will always be welcome at Hogwarts.”

“Oh,” he says, feeling unexpectedly warmed by that. “Thanks.”

She clears her throat. “Shall we head down? The match is set to begin at 10.”

It feels weird to walk through the corridors with McGonagall, like he’s on his way to detention or something, but it does have the added bonus of no one waylaying him or trying to mob him. The few students still in the castle just whisper and watch him as he passes.

“It’s unfortunate you did not return early enough to attend the Gryffindor match last month.” Her expression hardens. “Or perhaps fortunate.”

Harry winces, knowing that Hufflepuff unexpectedly stymied Gryffindor in the last match, beating them rather handedly.

“There’s still a chance for the Cup thought, right?” Harry asks.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Potter. Always a chance.” She eyes him. “Though it would be more likely if you had come back for your last year.”

He gives her a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Headmistress.”

At the base of the Gryffindor box, McGonagall stops, gesturing him up the stairs. “I’ll see you back in my office after the match, Mr. Potter.” After giving him a smile that almost seems fond, she leaves him, no doubt heading for the professors’ box.

He trudges up the stairs, stepping out into the box only to be greeted by Seamus letting out a roar. “Harry!”

Everyone turns, voices lifting in greeting. So much for slipping in unnoticed.

He ends up surrounded by his old Quidditch team, all of them asking him questions at once.

“Just thought I’d come see you lot and check out a match,” Harry says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “So how’s the season?”

It’s Ritchie, of all people, who spends the next ten minutes filling Harry in on the current Quidditch standings and what the Gryffindor team needs to happen to keep their Cup dreams alive. Harry reminds himself as he listens that Ritchie has done nothing wrong in being smart enough to notice that Ginny is amazing.

Still.

“Been a strange season,” Ritchie concludes. “No clear front runner.”

Harry nods, knowing all four teams have struggled to rebuild themselves.

Demelza grunts. “Not helped by those bloody clinics.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, as if he hasn’t heard all about them from Ginny.

“Cross-house workshops for people in each position, you know?” Jimmy explains. “Like all the Seekers got together and talked and practiced and bounced ideas off each other.”

Ginny told him that she got the idea from that time he helped Reiko with a few pointers. He was still in Australia when she’d confessed that, things between them murky and confusing at best, so he hadn’t felt comfortable admitting that a lot of him helping Reiko had been him looking for any excuse to be around Ginny, and not some noble altruism or anything. He wonders what she would say if he told her now. Laugh at him, probably. But maybe also get that look on her face she does sometimes, the one that makes him feel like anything at all is possible.

“Barmy,” Demelza says, bringing Harry back out of his thoughts.

“You helped set them up!” Jimmy reminds her.

“Yes, well,” Demelza says, arms crossing over her chest, “Ginny can be bloody convincing when she wants to be.”

“Bloody terrifying, you mean,” Jack Sloper says, pulling a face.

Harry glares at him, biting back a nasty retort that at least Ginny’s never bloody knocked herself unconscious with her own bat.

Ritchie is the one to smack him. “Hey. Be nice.”

Sloper rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m so sorry to insult your girl.”

Ritchie’s skin darkens with a blush. “She’s not my girl, but that’s still no excuse for being an arse.”

“If you two are quite done being idiots,” Demelza says, “we’re talking about Quidditch, not your pathetic non-existent dating lives.”

“So who do we want to win?” Harry asks loudly. He knows he’s going to be rooting for Ginny no matter what, but he’d really quite like the conversation to move on to something else before he can decide if he’s more annoyed with Sloper or Ritchie.

Half of them shout Slytherin while the other half shout Hufflepuff, and they’re off on another debate about points and percentages.

“Hufflepuff has more victories than anyone else!” Seamus points out, shoving his way into the conversation.

“Yes, but the scores have been so low in those matches it doesn’t really matter,” one of the new Chasers points out.  

“We’re only 100 points behind Slytherin right now. And we’re playing Ravenclaw next. We can definitely beat them.”

Everyone seems to forget their differences long enough to abuse Ravenclaw for a while.

“Honestly, it doesn’t matter who wins. They’re both ahead of us right now,” Demelza says. “We just need Hufflepuff to stuff Slytherin like they’ve been doing to everyone else this season. Keep the score low. That’s all that matters.”

“Keep the score low?” Dean says. “With Ginny out there? Ha. Never going to happen.”

Sloper makes a dismissive sound. “No one’s scored more than a few goals on Hufflepuff all season! It’s going to take more than Weasley to overcome that.”

Harry snorts, thinking Sloper is even more hopelessly stupid than he remembered.

Everyone turns to look at him. Whoops.

“What?” Demelza demands.

“As someone who has played against her,” Harry says, trying to sound casual, “I can tell you that only an idiot would underestimate her.”

From nearby, Neville laughs. “Yeah. That’s pretty much never a good idea.”

The debate doesn’t end, just gets interrupted by the teams walking out onto the pitch.

Harry feels a broad smile spread across his face as Ginny walks out into the sunlight, fully kitted in her Quidditch leathers, hair in a braid down her back, and broom over her shoulder. He’s not sure how, but she’s even more beautiful than he remembers. Two weeks, he decides, is far too long to go without seeing her.

He’s staring, he knows, but just can’t look away as she warms up and shakes the Hufflepuff captain’s hand.

Once the match starts, most people pretty much lose interest in Harry. Or maybe he just stops noticing. Either way, he’s able to immerse himself in the excitement of the match, the joy of watching Ginny do something she so clearly loves. Intellectually, he’s always known how good she is, but it’s only now, watching her not as an opponent but as someone distant from the game, can he really appreciate just how spectacular she is. How absolutely fearless she is. She makes a few dives he never would have considered risking even in his stupidest moments, and he thinks for a supposedly cautious person, she really, really enjoys pushing the limits.

Harry winces and gasps along with everyone else when she cuts it pretty close. He has to bite back a laugh when she stops playing long enough to give one of her Beaters a thorough tongue-lashing. The infamous Karl, he can only suppose.

She swings near the Gryffindor box at one point, and this close he can see her expression, face set with a mix of fierce determination and cool competence that fills him with warm, buzzing pride. He shouts encouragement as she passes, and he’s probably imagining that she shoots him a smile.

Narrowly ducking under a well-aimed Bludger, Ginny grabs the Quaffle tossed to her by Vaisey and streaks towards the goals. She makes a feint towards the left ring that the Hufflepuff Keeper doesn’t fall for, only to immediately shift her weight. The Keeper lunges for the far goal, but Ginny is already following through on her original throw, hooking it through the leftmost ring even as her body heaves off in the other direction.

“Slytherin scores!” the student announcing the game shouts. “That makes six goals for the ferocious Weasley, bringing the score to 90 to 10. It seems Slytherin is the first team to finally crack Hufflepuff’s impressive defense.”  

“What’s got into her today?” Demelza moans.

“She must have heard you, Sloper,” Jimmy says, giving him a shove.

Dean covers his face like he can’t bear to watch. “This is terrible!”

“Hey, better Hufflepuff have to deal with her than us,” Jimmy points out.

“Someone catch the damn Snitch!” Ritchie yells, leaning out over the railing.

But the Snitch seems determined not to be found today, and the game carries on, a brutal defensive contest as the Hufflepuffs try to pull themselves together and Slytherin continues to batter them.

Ginny scores again, and the Hufflepuff Beaters are starting to get frustrated, concentrating their attention on her. She’s dodging Bludgers as best she can, but one manages to get her in the arm. It doesn’t seem to faze her much, though she has to be in pain.

She’s in the middle of passing the Quaffle off and avoiding getting her head knocked off by a Bludger when one of the Hufflepuff Chasers plows into her from behind, nearly unseating her.

“Foul,” Harry roars, getting only angrier when the call isn’t made. “What is Hooch playing at? That was clearly blatching!”

There’s a rumble of agreement from a few people around him, but Harry’s too irate to notice.

“Hey, if it keeps her from scoring, who cares,” Demelza says.

Harry’s about to tell her off, but Ginny’s already getting her revenge out on the field, intercepting a toss between the Hufflepuff Chasers, and he doesn’t want to look away long enough to do it.

“If someone doesn’t get the Snitch soon, I’m going to get a bloody broom and do it myself!” Demelza declares.

Movement just below the Hufflepuff goals manages to drag Harry’s attention away from Ginny. He feels his heart rate kick up because he’s pretty sure it’s the Snitch. Reiko seems to think so too, to judge from the way she takes off across the pitch.

“There,” Harry says, pointing. “Reiko’s got it.”

“Really?” Demelza says, shoving forward to the edge of the box.

The Snitch takes Reiko on a bit of a merry chase, giving time for Vaisey to score again. The Hufflepuff Seeker gets in the chase as well, but Reiko has clear advantage, very nearly crashing into the Professor’s box in her determination to get the Snitch first. A handful of Professors have to hit the decks, but then Reiko is pulling up, arm held triumphantly above her head.

“Sibazaki has the Snitch!” the announcer roars. “Slytherin wins! Final score 40 to 290.”

Out on the field, the Slytherin team is in a triumphant pile, the Hufflepuff team commiserating with each other nearby.

The Gryffindor box is quiet in their misery.

“It could have been worse, I suppose,” Jimmy eventually says. “Now all we have to do is win by 390 points.”

Ritchie groans. “At least it’s Ravenclaw. They’re terrible.”

Everyone’s spirits seem to lift again.

“I don’t care if it’s weeks away,” Demelza declares. “We are doing double drills every damn day!”

“Harry,” Ritchie says, turning to him. “Have I mentioned today that I miss you being captain?”

Despite himself, Harry finds himself laughing with his old teammate.

“Please,” Demelza says. “He’d be just as annoyed by how much you all suck.”

“Maybe, but at least he was always too distracted for double drills!” Dean says.

“Yeah, well, I leave dark wizards to others to take care of, so you’re shit out of luck.”

She leads a still grumbling Gryffindor team down out of the stands. The pitch below is swarming with students.

“Have fun?” Neville asks.

It’s clear from his expression that he hasn’t missed Harry’s enthusiasm. “Yeah,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “That was fun. Haven’t got to see a match in ages. Unless rugby counts.”

“Rugby?” Neville asks, looking confused.

“Australia is a strange place,” Harry says.

Neville nods as if that makes sense.

Looking back down at the pitch, Harry’s eyes skim over the students. A bunch of people from various houses have stopped by to congratulate Reiko. He finally locates Ginny just to the side of her. Demelza is talking to her, a scowl on her face as Ginny laughs.

Harry wants to go down there with a fierceness that is hard to resist, but doesn’t particularly trust himself to be remotely discreet.

“I might stay up here until it clears out a bit,” Harry says to Neville.

“Yeah,” Neville says, like he doesn’t blame him for not wanting to be mobbed. “It was nice seeing you.”

“You too, Neville,” he says with a smile.

For a while Harry contents himself with watching Ginny from the safety of the box, what snatches of her he can see through breaks in the crowd. Eventually he makes his way down. From ground level, he loses her in the crowd, but lingers around the stadium a bit, hoping to at least catch a moment together.

This is how he gets caught out by Slughorn.

“Harry, my boy!” he says, looking incredibly pleased to see him. “I’d read you were back in the country, but I had no idea you would be here today!”

That, of course, had been the idea. To slip in as quietly as possible.

“Hello, Professor,” he says, giving him a polite smile and already looking for a way to escape.

But Slughorn takes his arm, turning to the imposing woman standing with him. “You no doubt know who this is, Harry. Have you ever had the pleasure of meeting Gwenog Jones?”

“No,” Harry says, holding out his hand. “I haven’t. Ms. Jones.”

She shakes his hand, grip just slightly past polite in its firmness. “Mr. Potter,” she says, and he doesn’t know if he’s imagining it, but she seems distinctly unimpressed.

It’s actually kind of refreshing.

“Well,” Slughorn says, “if you will wait here, I will be right back!”

With that he disappears, leaving Harry and Gwenog standing awkwardly together. He has no idea what they are waiting for or why, so he doesn’t feel like he can just walk off.

Gwenog is the first to break the uncomfortable silence. “I hear you were a decent Seeker, Potter,” she says, voice brusque.

“Decent,” he acknowledges, because this is a professional player he’s talking to, one of the greatest Beaters ever to play. A couple school matches seems a bit insignificant next to that.

“Have you considered playing?” she asks.

Harry looks at her with surprise. “Professionally? No.” For him, Quidditch was always about simple joy. Escape. Being just a normal kid for once. He can’t really imagine it as a job.

She eyes him like she’s trying to judge his sincerity. “Well, there’s no denying you’d put arses in the seats.”

It’s clear that she means because of his fame and not his skills.

“Never much enjoyed being a mascot,” he says, voice mild.

Gwenog snorts, but doesn’t comment further, the two of them standing about in uncomfortable silence until Slughorn reappears, Ginny in tow.

Harry straightens up, watching her approach with a dawning sense of panic. Has he somehow given himself away?

“Hi, Harry,” Ginny says, something pointed in her tone.

Harry forces himself to take a breath. “Hi. Great match.”

She smiles, and god, he wants to touch her, tangled hair and sweat and all. “Thanks.”

Slughorn gives them a distracted smile. “Yes, yes. But here she is!” Taking Ginny’s arm, he maneuvers her around Harry to where Gwenog is now standing, a frown still on her face, and Harry realizes Ginny’s presence here has nothing to do with him.

“Harry,” Slughorn says, taking his arm and moving him away from the women. “It’s so fortuitous that you are here! I am having one of my little dinners this very evening. As a former member of our club, I would love for you to attend!”

“Oh,” Harry says, already feeling the automatic need to find any excuse at all to get out of the stuffy dinner, fueled even more so by his desire not to be shown off like a prize pony.

If Slughorn notices his hesitation, he doesn’t let on. “Oh, yes! Ms. Jones will be there. And Miss Weasley, of course. And I’m sure you know many of the students from your time here.”

That catches Harry’s attention. It may be worth sitting through a dinner if it means spending some time with Ginny. He tries to look properly interested and not overly eager.

“I’m not sure I’m allowed on the grounds after the match has ended,” Harry says. He’s probably already supposed to be in McGonagall’s office.

Slughorn waves a hand like the rules of the castle are just a simple inconvenience. “I’ll work it out with Minerva, don’t you worry. See you in my rooms at seven?”

It only occurs to Harry then that he’s not only been given a chance to see Ginny at the dinner, but also the seven hours until then to hang around Hogwarts.

“I look forward to it, sir,” Harry says, never feeling more warmly inclined towards Slughorn in his entire life.

“Call me Horace, Harry! You aren’t a student anymore.” With that last pronouncement, he crosses back over to where Ginny still is speaking with Gwenog Jones.

Ginny looks over briefly enough just to catch Harry’s eye, and he smiles at her. Pushing her hair back from her face, she gives him a quick smile before turning back to Gwenog.

He heads up to the castle to have lunch in the Great Hall, content with knowing that Ginny will find him when she gets the chance.

*      *     *

Ginny surreptitiously looks past Gwenog’s shoulder to see Harry heading back up to the castle. Disappointment swells in her stomach at not even getting a moment with him on her own. Having him here watching her match made her feel downright giddy, but it was no replacement for a proper hello after two weeks apart. For a moment she’s filled with the rash impulse to run after him, keeping this a secret be damned.

Swallowing back a sigh, she forces herself to focus on Gwenog, knowing how important it is that she’s even here. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t also resent it just the tiniest bit.

This is your future, Ginny, she sternly reminds herself.

By the time she makes her way back into the castle and down to her common room, she knows Harry is more than likely long gone. She still roots around her trunk to pull out the Marauders’ Map just to be certain. Her heart leaps a bit when she sees his dot in the Great Hall, sitting at a table with a bunch of his former housemates. She isn’t sure how he swung that, just hopes this means she’ll be able to catch him before he leaves.

Impatiently, she tugs off her uniform and rushes into the bathroom.

By the time she’s showered and changed, Harry is no longer in the Great Hall. But he is in Hagrid’s hut. She smiles, not knowing if he’s deliberately hanging about because he knows she’ll have team things to do. She hopes so.

The rest of her team is already lazing about in the common room. They’ve even managed to get a bunch of food. She falls onto it with gusto.

“Oh-ho, still willing to eat with the common people, are we?” Martin says.

Reiko snorts. “Thought she’d be eating in some fine establishment with her new famous friends!”

None of them missed her being whisked off to talk to Gwenog Jones. Or have any intention of letting it pass without comment.

Ginny sends them a two-fingered salute and helps herself to another sandwich.

“Well,” Martin says. “You are very welcome for making you look so good today.”

“Oh, please,” Rosier says. “That shot Florian got in on you so was so weak a ghost could have stopped it!”

Ginny rolls her eyes and listens as they all razz each other, reliving all of their greatest moments.

“Don’t you have anything to add?” Reiko says, looking at Ginny.

Ginny shakes her head. “I think my job here is pretty much done.”

Her last day as their captain. No practices or planning or strategy meetings. She’ll never play another match at Hogwarts. It hits her a little harder than she expects it to, busying herself with more food to cover.

She looks up to find them giving each other shifty looks.

“What?” she asks.

They all look to Vaisey. He clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “Look. We just…wanted to make sure you know how much we appreciate it, you know. You being our captain.”

Ginny carefully puts down her sandwich. “Oh,” she says.

Vaisey takes a breath and plows on, just as back-footed as Ginny feels, she imagines. “You can be…well, you know, focused and all, and a bit of a tyrant. You expect a lot from us and never let us forget it when we fall short, but even then, you know... Well.” He looks helplessly at Rosier.

Reiko seems to take mercy on him. “I think what he’s trying to say in his stupid boy way is that you are a great captain and we’re going to miss you and those of us who are still here next year, we’ll try to do you proud.”

Martin points at Reiko, nodding. “What she said.”

The rest of the team nods in agreement.

Ginny blinks, opening her mouth but not really sure what to say, feeling a horrid sort of pressure building in her chest.

“And for putting your faith in us,” Rosier blurts, not looking at her. “Even if we didn’t always live up to it.”

“We all make mistakes,” Ginny says carefully. “Merlin knows I cocked up that first match.”

Martin groans as if in pain at the memory of his own dismal performance.

“You all pretty much sucked that match,” Reiko says, looking disgusted. Her own performance was, of course, completely above reproach. “Fortunately for all of you, we’re still going to get the cup. I can feel it.”

“Yeah,” Ginny agrees. “I think we have a pretty good chance.” It will be nice to finish her career here like this. Even if she never did get to beat Harry fair and square.

“Just to be sure though, maybe we should slip the Ravenclaw captain a few pointers,” Reiko says. “Make sure they know all of Gryffindors’ weak spots.”

Spoken like a true captain, Ginny thinks with a smile.

“Or maybe we could just get Martin to keep Demelza thoroughly distracted,” Nettlebed suggests.

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” Martin mumbles.

“Oh-ho,” Nettlebed says. “Trouble in paradise?”

Martin just shrugs.

“A Slytherin and a Gryffindor?” Vaisey says. “Sounds more like a match made in hell.”

The boys break out into laughter, Martin giving them a pained grin.

Reiko leans into Ginny. “Is it just me, or are they stupider than normal today?”

Ginny chooses to hold her own counsel on that particular topic. When she has a chance though, she pulls the map out again, laying it on the ground next to her leg where only she can see it. Harry’s dot is sill in Hagrid’s hut.

She checks back periodically as they continue to talk and work their way through the piles of food. It’s been about an hour when she glances down to find his dot missing.

“Damn,” she mutters, flipping through the leaves until she finds him again. He’s on the move, just passing through the main doors back into the castle.

Watching carefully, she tries to work out his destination. It soon becomes very clear. Ginny scoops up the map, tucking it under her arm. “I have to go deal with something,” she says.

“What? Already?” Reiko says.

Martin snorts. “She probably has some people to intimidate. Hasn’t made a first year cry all year long.”

Ginny gives him an arch look. “Fairly certain I can make you cry without even trying.”

“Well, yeah,” he says. “Remember last week?”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “I’ll be back in plenty of time for the celebration. Though I do have Slughorn tonight.”

That riles them up again, all of them loudly ribbing her for her high and important friends. She wonders if maybe she should have one last practice, just to make them all run a million bloody laps.

She pushes to her feet and leaves, but not before Martin waves a metal flask at her in farewell.  

Oh, Merlin. It’s going to be one of those days.

Slipping out of the common room, she follows the familiar path to her favorite hiding spot.

Leaning her way through a porous wall, Ginny steps out into the cloister. A broken marble beam still slants across the space, but over the last year a soft carpet of moss and grass has spread across the scarred floor. She’s caught Tobias napping with a book face down across his chest here more than a few times.

Harry sits on a stone block, head lowered as he flips absently through one of Tobias’ paperbacks. The same stone they last sat on together the day after the battle.

“You’re still here,” she says.  

His head lifts with a jerk, a bright smile blooming on his face. “Yes, well, Slughorn decided he couldn’t live without having me at his little dinner tonight.”

“Brilliant,” Ginny says. That is hours and hours away. Even better than she could have hoped.

He sets the book aside, getting to his feet. “Who knew being collected could be so useful?”

She smiles, content for the moment just to take her fill of looking at him and him being here.

“You were brilliant,” he says, all full of earnest awe.

She feels her cheeks warm with pleasure. “I was, wasn’t I?”

He shifts on his feet, and for a moment everything feels weird and scary, like they don’t quite remember how to do this. They’ve been writing to each other, but this is the first time they’ve seen each other since that one magical week that somehow seemed like something separate from real life.

She crosses the space, stepping right up to him and winding her arms around his neck.

“Hi,” he says, his hands finding her waist, his posture seeming to relax.

“Hi,” she says.  

Harry’s hands tighten on her waist, and he leans closer only to hesitate, like he isn’t quite sure if this is okay. Ginny tilts her face up to his in implicit permission, her fingers sliding across the back of his neck, but letting him come to her.

After another awkward hesitation he does, kissing her gently—a cautious hello that quickly morphs into something more intent and focused, his hand flat and firm against her back as he presses nearer. Like usual, once Harry gets past his initial fumbling, he really knows what he’s about.

Ginny feels like all the nerves in her body are fighting for attention at once, like the clash of the high from her match and her excitement over seeing Harry again is layering on top of the rush of sensations conjured by the slide of his mouth against hers.

“Well,” she says when they reluctantly come up for air. “Glad to know I didn’t imagine that.”

“Just to be sure,” he says, and kisses her again.

She eagerly kisses him back, and if she weren’t already dead on her feet, she would gladly never stop.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s sit. I’m exhausted.”

“Of course,” he says, immediately letting go of her. “Sorry.”

She shakes her head, pressing her lips to his again just for good measure. “Never apologize for kissing me like that.”

He smiles, his hand settling on her hip. “Okay.”

They find a spot on the soft patch of grass, talking about Quidditch, pulling the match apart piece by piece for a long while.

They end up stretched out on their backs, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder. It’s lovely, feeling like there is no one putting demands on her, looking to her for answers or guidance or whatever. Just the two of them, being here together.

She stares up at the light filtering down through the broken marble, letting out a long breath.

“That was a heavy sigh,” Harry says.

Her hand bumps against his leg. “It’s just nice to relax like this for once.” She glances up at him, smiling. “Anyone ever told you that you make a great pillow?”

He smiles. “You’d be the first.”

She rolls until she’s pressed up against his side and props herself up on an elbow. “Good.”

He’s got one arm tucked back up under his head, looking relaxed and fit and completely distracting. He brushes a piece of hair back from her face. “Something going on?” he asks.

She leans into his fingers. “Oh, just a decision I need to make.”

“About Quidditch?”

Ginny frowns. “Quidditch? No. Thank goodness that is over.” The season ended for Slytherin just in time. She doesn’t envy Gryffindor and Ravenclaw the stress of three more weeks of practice. “As much as I love it, I need the extra time to focus on these bloody NEWTs.”

“Oh. Then what?”

She shifts, her fingers playing with the fabric of his shirt, tracing over the design on his t-shirt. “I can’t really talk about it.”

“No?” he asks, expression shifting.

“It’s nothing,” she’s quick to say. “I shouldn’t have even brought it up.”

“Is this about The Parlor?” he asks, lowering his arm from behind his head to trap her hand against his chest.

“Yes,” she says, having mentioned it enough in passing that he has a vague idea what that is. As much as anyone outside it does. “Which is why I can’t really talk about it.”

“Oh,” he says. “You mean because you’re Mistress?”

She looks down at him in alarm because that is something she has definitely never mentioned. It’s not like it’s a secret, but it’s also not something people tend to speak openly about. “How did you know that?”

He shrugs. “I heard some people call you that once.” He looks at her. “It’s one of those things that seem to follow you wherever you go. Like Quidditch Captain and DA leader and—” He stops abruptly, but she still knows exactly what he was going to say.

“Heir of Slytherin,” she supplies.

“Yeah,” Harry says, looking uncomfortable. “I suppose.”

She isn’t sure of the wisdom of bringing up an old boyfriend, but says it anyway because she wants to know what Harry thinks. “Thompson said those things make me terrifying.”

He slides her a look, his fingers tightening around hers. “Maybe to people who don’t know you.”

Ginny bites back a smile, the way he makes it sound like he clearly knows her better than Thompson ever did.

He waves his hand in the air. “It’s like this Chosen One nonsense, right? There’s who people assume me to be…and then there’s just me.” He gives her a self-deprecating smile. “Far less impressive.”

She doesn’t know about that, but isn’t quite willing to shatter Harry’s delusions about being a normal person. “So you don’t think I’m terrifying?”

“Oh, no,” Harry says, laughing. “I definitely think you are.”

She pushes at him playfully, and he catches her hands, tugging her towards him. She ends up half draped over his chest, and in no way minds.

Harry’s eyes travel over her face. “But not because of a bunch of titles people choose to associate with you.”

There are a lot of scarier things between them than that.

It’s probably not a sane sort of thing to feel, but she finds it strangely comforting that he’s maybe as scared of all of this as she is.

She leans down and kisses him, his hand slipping into her hair.

*     *     *

Far too soon for Harry’s taste, Ginny has to return to the Slytherin Common Room.

“I need to keep an eye on things,” she says with a grimace as she gets to her feet. “Martin smuggled something in for the celebration. And with Tilly graduated there’s no way to know how awful or potent it will be.”

He nods. “I suppose I’ll visit the Gryffindor common room,” he says, trying to muster some enthusiasm when he would much rather just stay here with her.  

“You should go down to the pitch.”

“Yeah?” he asks, following her back to the entrance to the cloister.

“They’ve been having pickup games. Neville and Dean and the others. It could be fun.”

“Okay, sure,” he says.

“And we’ll see each other at dinner. Which isn’t that far away.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

Despite that, he can’t help but reach out and grab her arm right before she steps out of the cloister.

She looks back at him. “Harry?”

Pulling her around, he leans in and kisses her. He knows she needs to go, he’s just having a bit of a hard time letting her go.

But rather than protesting, she lets out a soft sound, her entire body seeming to relax into him. She seems equally reluctant for the kiss to end.

“You know,” she says, “it’s probably a good thing you didn’t come back this year.”

“How’s that?” he asks, thumbs brushing her jaw.

“I never would have gotten anything done at all.”

He smiles. “Good point.”

“I’ll see you at dinner,” she says, finally stepping back away from him.

He gives her a few minutes’ head start before he slowly wanders his way down to the pitch, feeling fit to burst with contentment.

There are a dozen students gathered there, but not a broom in sight. Two rather wonky looking goals are set up at either end of the pitch, a confused gathering of students standing around a single ball. When Ginny said pickup games, he sort of assumed she meant Quidditch, not football.

“Harry,” Neville calls out, waving him over.

Harry crosses to where he’s standing with two younger students. “Hey.”

Neville gestures at the girl by his side. “This is Devon. And that’s Tim.”

“Hi,” Harry says, nodding at them.

The boy gives him an awkward half wave, the girl just looking at him speculatively.

“So football, huh?” Harry asks.

Neville nods. “Devon thought it might be nice to have something a bit more familiar for the Muggleborn students.”

“You grew up with Muggles, didn’t you?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Harry confirms.

“Did you play?”

“A bit,” he says, not particularly wanting to remember his primary days of never being chosen for teams and getting deliberately run over by Dudley and his brutal mates. He clearly remembers being clumsy, and he isn’t sure if that was just him not being particularly coordinated, or if wearing shoes and clothing three times too big for him had gotten in the way.

She looks relieved. “Anything at all would be helpful honestly.”

“I do at least know the rules,” he says, frowning as someone asks loudly where the other balls are.

“Only with our feet?” another student asks.

Neville waves a hand towards the Quidditch changing rooms. “There’s some spare stuff in there if you want.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll be right back.”

Harry walks in, vaguely recognizing the tall form of a shirtless Dean Thomas on the other side of the room.  

His greeting dies rather squeakily in his throat when he realizes Dean is not alone. In fact, he very clearly has someone backed up against the lockers.

Not just anyone, he realizes a moment later.

“Uh, Harry!” Seamus says, pushing Dean away.

They both look thoroughly kissed and more undressed than not, and Harry’s brain kind of fizzles a little. He belatedly averts his eyes, gesturing vaguely back towards the showers. “Uh, I’m gonna…”

He turns and definitely doesn’t run, disappearing behind the curtain hanging in the doorway.

He wonders for a moment how he could share a dorm with the two of them for six years and never notice. He shakes his head, focusing back on the task at hand. Football. Clothes.

Sure enough, there is a basket of clean but worn old shirts and abandoned Quidditch trousers. Harry digs out some that fit, changing before setting about Transfiguring his shoes into something a bit more appropriate.

If he lingers overly long at it to make sure to give Dean and Seamus time to clear out or finish or whatever , he tries not to think about it.

When he gets back out, only Dean is still there, fully clothed now and sitting on a bench, clearly waiting for him, one leg bouncing up and down.

Harry weighs the chances that he can sneak by without him noticing.

“Harry,” Dean says, popping up to his feet.

So much for that, he thinks, forcing himself to stop. “Yeah?”

“I’m, uh, sorry about that,” Dean says, vaguely gesturing back towards the lockers.

Oh, god, they were really going to talk about this. “It’s fine.”

“You don’t particularly look like it’s fine,” he says.

Harry rubs at the back of his head, feeling very uncomfortable and strangely nettled. “Yeah, well. I wasn’t exactly expecting… You know.”

“Right,” Dean says, something hardening in his expression.  

“Okay,” Harry says, desperately hoping this can be the end of it.

Dean stays firmly planted, crossing his arms over his chest. “We haven’t really told very many people.” His chin comes up. “It’s not like we’re hiding it or anything. But it’s kind of nobody’s business really. After the war it just…”

Harry can definitely relate to that. It also explains why he hadn’t heard about this. He’s kind of glad to know he isn’t that unobservant.

“Look, would you mind just…keeping this to yourself?”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Sure. Of course. No problem.”

“Great,” Dean says, but he doesn’t sound particularly pleased. In fact, he kind of looks angry. But he also finally turns and leaves, and Harry’s very glad to escape.

Once they’re outside, Harry notices Seamus send Dean a concerned look. Dean just shakes his head, Seamus’ expression hardening as he looks at Harry. Almost as if Harry has done something wrong.

Or been mean to his boyfriend.

It kinda clicks in Harry’s brain then, somehow managing to break through his discomfort. He grabs for Dean’s arm, pulling him to a stop.

“Harry?” Dean asks, sounding wary.

“It’s important,” he blurts.

“What?”

“You know,” Harry says, floundering a bit, but definitely not wanting them to get the wrong impression. “Um, after the war. Holding on to the things—the people—that matter.”

Dean seems to study Harry’s expression for a long moment. “Yes,” he says. “Exactly.”

“So that’s good. Right?”

“I think it is,” he says.  

“I do too,” Harry says. “Honestly.”

Dean’s shoulders finally relax. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Harry gives him a sheepish smile. “I just don’t particularly like walking in on people snogging. It was bad enough living with Ron and Hermione.”

Dean looks intrigued. “Oh, really? Do tell.”

Harry pulls a face. “Can we stop talking about this now? Because I want to see just how ridiculous wizards trying to play football is.”

“Oh my god,” Dean says, slapping him on the shoulder. “You have no idea.”

*     *     *

The football match is a bit of a mud disaster by the end, but still probably the most fun Harry’s had in a while. He isn’t even half bad, especially considering the wizard-born portion of the group kept tripping over themselves. Still, as fun as it was, he’s very eager to get to Slughorn’s dinner, speeding through a shower and a change so he can arrive at Slughorn’s room right at seven. He plans on taking advantage of every moment with Ginny he can.

Unfortunately, Ginny is not quite so punctual. Which means Harry gets another chance to stand about with Slughorn and Gwenog in the most awkward conversation he’s ever had, which is saying something really. It’ll be worth it, he reminds himself.

Any small annoyance Harry may feel towards Ginny disappears completely the moment she (finally) walks in the door.

She looks absolutely amazing. He’s fairly certain the dark, kinda pink robes she’s wearing are the same ones she wore to Muriel’s on Easter, but that doesn’t lessen the impact. She’s done something to her face too, her lips a deeper color than normal which only reminds him of how she looks when she’s been thoroughly kissed.

Suddenly this dinner seems like a terrible idea.

“That is Miss Dorinda Hale,” Slughorn says.

Harry drags his eyes away from Ginny, looking up at his old professor. “I’m sorry, sir?”

Slughorn gives him a knowing smile. “Quite possibly the most beautiful witch to grace these halls since Rowena herself.”

It takes Harry a moment to realize he’s talking about the girl standing next to Ginny.

“Oh,” he says, honestly not having even noticed the younger witch. “Right.”

She is rather pretty he supposes, attention already returning to Ginny.

Ginny catches his eye, giving him a warm smile as she brushes her hair back from her face in a gesture of careless annoyance like she would much rather have it pulled back. He grins at her before forcing himself to listen to whatever new thing Slughorn has started nattering on about.

Neville and Luna arrive not much later, and Harry takes it as a chance to escape. He nearly gets waylaid by a much younger student who stares at him like he’s something astounding. When the boy doesn’t manage anything other than stuttering a few unintelligible syllables, Harry smiles distractedly at him and keeps going.

“Hi, Luna,” Harry says as he steps up next to her. He’s happy to see her, and not just because she’s good company. She wasn’t part of the Slug Club back in his school days. It raises Slughorn in his estimation a bit if he finally realized how brilliant Luna is. “How are you?”

“Quite well,” she says, smiling up at him, the strange mushroom-looking things hanging from her ears swinging wildly.

“All recovered from the football match?” Neville asks.

Harry laughs. “Yeah. That was fun.”

“Sports have never really been my thing,” Neville says with a wince—he’d definitely fallen down his fair share. “But it’s nice to see the Muggleborns get a chance to share part of their culture.”

“Yeah,” Harry asks. “I hadn’t ever thought of that.”

Neville shrugs. “Tobias and Hannah, you know. On a bit of a rampage about it. Making Muggleborns feel more welcome.”

“Are either of them coming?” Harry asks.

Neville shares a look with Luna, his lips pressing together. “Well, Slughorn was quite keen on getting the ‘full set’.”

“Full set?” Harry asks.

“You know, the DA leaders,” Neville says, voice a bit dismissive. “Me, Luna, Ginny. But Hannah refuses to be collected. I think she finds all the fuss a bit alarming.”

Luna makes a small humming sound. “She doesn’t believe she’s done anything special enough to deserve the attention.” Her eyes find Harry. “Quite like you.”

“Well,” Harry says, pulling at his collar.

“I honestly don’t know why I keep coming either,” Neville admits. “I never know what to do.”

“Because the pudding is quite good,” Luna points out.

Neville laughs. “Of course.” He smiles fondly at Luna, and Harry wonders if maybe he keeps coming so Luna won’t have to be on her own.

“And Burke?” Harry asks.

“No,” Neville says, looking amused. “Slughorn did apparently want him. But Tobias refuses to do anything that doesn’t serve his purpose, he’s always quick to say, and Slughorn’s got nothing he wants. Even Ginny can’t get him to come.”

Harry glances over to where Ginny is standing with the Carrow twins. One of whom has chopped her hair and dyed it a rather alarming shade of violet.  

“Well then,” Harry says, “I suppose it must be an impossible task then.”

“Look who we have here,” a voice drawls.

Harry tears his attention away from Ginny to see that Blaise Zabini has joined them, Melinda Bobbin on one side and a younger brown-haired boy Harry doesn’t know on the other.

“Zabini,” Harry says with the barest level of civility.

He was one of the few Slytherins in Harry’s year to return to Hogwarts other than Malfoy. While completely cleared of any wrongdoing during the war, Harry still doesn’t find himself feeling particularly charitable towards him.

“Potter,” he returns. “The greatest jewel in Slughorn’s cap. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here. Come to soak up some adoration?”

“Mostly I was just looking for an excuse to spend the day at Hogwarts. See some good friends.” Harry looks at Luna, and she gives him a bright smile

“Well, lucky you, getting to skive off,” the guy next to Zabini says. “Suppose they’re just giving you your NEWTs.”

Harry’s eyes narrow.

“Aren’t you and Ron and Hermione coming back to sit them in June?” Neville intervenes, giving the wizard a hard look that is actually impressively intimidating.

“Yeah,” Harry says, voice tight. His attention is caught by movement on the other side of the room. Ginny is watching them from across the room, her eyes coolly assessing. “We are.”

“Made special accommodations for you, of course,” he responds snidely.

Melinda laughs, something light and tinkling but no less vicious for it. “Crispin,” she says, addressing the boy, “didn’t you know that one must always make way for the great savior of the wizarding world?”

Okay, Harry decides, that’s it. He opens his mouth to tell her off, but Neville gets there first.

“Yes, one must,” he says. “So why don’t you make way by buggering off?”

Zabini looks delighted. “Oh, Longbottom. I’m impressed. Got your knickers in a bit of a twist?”  

“You an expert in wearing knickers, Zabini?” Harry says.

Luna lets out a completely unsubtle belly laugh, arms wrapping around her middle as if this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Nearly everyone in the room turns to look.

Their three antagonists look confused by this sudden outburst, but Harry knows with absolutely certainly that he’s going to start hexing people if they turn their snide remarks on Luna.

Before anything can escalate further though, a high chime sounds, signaling the beginning of dinner. With one last dismissive look, Zabini and his mates turn for the table.

“Can’t tell you how happy I am to be back,” Harry says.

Neville makes a sympathetic sound before following Luna to the table.

Harry looks around to try and find Ginny. But Slughorn is already in the process of seating her next to Gwenog, the girl Dorinda claiming the seat on her other side. Slughorn looks to Harry next, clearly hoping to have him easily within reach for maximum mortification. He scrambles to grab a seat next to Neville, but that leaves the seat next to him open.

The young, starstruck student from earlier beelines for the open seat.

Harry sighs, reminding himself that this is all worth it. Just to get to watch Ginny smile and eat her dinner.

He’s clearly completely lost his mind.

He looks over at Ginny just in time to see her make some sort of a signal with her hand to someone. The next thing he knows, someone is sliding into the seat next to him. Only it isn’t the overly eager young student.

The Carrow twin with the bright purple hair turns to him, holding her hand out. “Hestia,” she supplies.

He fumbles to shake her hand. “Uh, Harry,” he says.

“Yes,” she says, lips twisting with amusement. “I’d worked that out, strangely enough.”

“Right,” he says, feeling stupid.

Hestia, it turns out, is a pleasant enough dining companion. Mostly in that she doesn’t ask him a lot of annoying questions and keeps the overly enthusiastic second-year on her other side from fawning over Harry.

Unfortunately, there is absolutely nothing to keep Slughorn from booming loudly down the table about what an honor and a pleasure it is to have Harry here. The distance between them seems to not be a deterrence at all. Not that he probably would have spoken more quietly even if Harry were directly next to him.

Slughorn turns to Gwenog with great theatricality. “On top of all his enormous feats of bravery, he also has a dab hand at potions. Like a dream. I taught his mother, you know. Such a lovely girl.”

He sighs a bit, looking at Harry with sad eyes.

Harry clenches his jaw, looking down at his plate.  

“But Harry,” Slughorn says, recovering himself. “Mark my word. He’ll go places. Wouldn’t be surprised if he were Minister of Magic one day!”

Harry considers it an enormous feat of self-control that he doesn’t tell Slughorn that being Minister of Magic sounds like the last job on earth he’d ever want.

Of course, the arsehole from earlier just takes this as more proof of Harry’s arrogance, sniffing dismissively.

“Nice to have things handed out on silver platters, I imagine. Some of us, of course, will have to earn our way.” He slides a glance in Harry’s direction.  

Harry’s hand tightens in his napkin, feeling his tenuous hold on his temper finally beginning to give.

“Some, meaning you, Crispin?” Ginny asks, voice mild.

She hasn’t spoken particularly loudly, but everyone at the table still stops what they’re doing, all side conversations instantly quieting.

Next to Harry, Hestia leans forward, expression watchful.

Crispin’s eyes narrow as he regards Ginny, but Harry can’t help but notice that he looks a little wary. “What are you insinuating?”

Ginny smiles, something all knowing and completely devoid of any real warmth. “Nothing. After all, I suppose it is hard work, having to pay Laughton five galleons apiece to write your Potions essays for you.”

She drops this factoid casually out onto the table like she’s talking about the weather, calmly talking a sip of her drink, even as her eyes keep the poor git pinned in place.

Crispin’s face drains of color, eyes darting to Slughorn in horror.

From next to Ginny, Dorinda lets out a low whistle. “You better hope that thick-witted Gryffindor you have writing your History of Magic essays doesn’t realize you’re short-changing her.”

“That is a lie,” he belatedly stutters.

“You pay her five galleons too?” Hestia says, blinking with faux confusion.

“No! That’s not what I—” He looks to Zabini as if for help, but he just turns casually to Melinda on his other side and starts a quiet conversation, effectively abandoning him.

Ginny leans back in her chair. “Remind me, do your parents pay you a quarterly allowance or do you have to earn all that money?”

For a second Harry thinks Crispin going to explode at Ginny, his hand already inching towards his wand just in case. Ginny just sits, utterly relaxed, and gazes straight back at him as if she knows with absolute certainty that she will win this battle—not with wands, but with words and knowledge and blinding nerve. It’s a bit like watching her play Quidditch. The way she has carefully and thoroughly eviscerated her opponent.

This, Harry realizes with sudden clarity, is the girl people talk about in half-swallowed whispers.

Gwenog is watching Ginny very closely, a small smile playing about her lips.

The guy collapses back in his seat, looking small in his defeat.

Ginny doesn’t smirk or let on at all that she knows she’s won, instead turning to Gwenog. “Oh, Ms. Jones,” she says. “Your drink is empty. Let us get that fixed for you.”

There is a pregnant pause at the table, and for a moment Harry foolishly wonders if he’s supposed to fetch it, but then a few people get up at once, refilling drinks and starting up new topics of conversation like nothing at all happened.

Harry doesn’t think he’s imagining that no one is daring to so much as look in his direction anymore.

He leans towards Luna and Neville. “Are these dinners always this exciting now?”

Luna shakes her head. “No. I think this has something to do with you, Harry.”

Neville laughs like this is a joke, but Luna just gazes steadily back at Harry, and he can’t help but think she’s quite serious.

“You should have seen what she did to Higgs when he said something particularly nasty about me last week,” Neville say, voice lowered. “Not that she’ll ever admit it was her.”

Luna gives Harry a serene smile. “Ginny is very protective of her people.”

Rather than touching that comment, Harry turns his attention back to his plate, blindly shoveling some food in his mouth.

For the rest of the dinner, no one floats even a single comment in Harry’s direction that isn’t scrupulously polite, no matter how ridiculous Slughorn gets.

*     *     *

Ginny casually glances around the room, not letting her eyes linger when she finally spots Harry safely tucked away in the corner with Luna and Neville. Originally she planned on joining them after Gwenog took her leave, but thanks to her little display at dinner she thinks it’s probably wiser to keep her distance.

She bites back a sigh.

It was hardly subtle, the way she dealt with Crispin, but then again, cunning is really about knowing what tool is required in any given situation. A blunt hex between the eyes seems to be exactly what Crispin needed. He’s been becoming more and more of a problem the last few months—belligerent with younger students in the halls, even being stupid enough to get handsy with Dorinda once. He may generally wield his intellect rather than his fists, but it doesn’t make him any less of a bully. And Ginny will not stand for another bully getting comfortable at Hogwarts.

No matter what.

The fact that on top of being a bully he’s also a hypocrite, well, that’s just a beautiful way for his own shortcomings to be his downfall. Whatever ends up happening to Crispin, he deserves it. Ginny doesn’t plan on losing any sleep over it.

“Lord,” Dorinda says, looking very satisfied by this evening’s events. “If you promised to eviscerate someone every time Slughorn hosted one of these, we’d all enjoy them a lot more.”

Hestia snorts into her drink. “Well, it’s important for people to remember that being a prat comes with a cost.”

Melinda chooses that moment to sidle up to the group of girls. “Merlin, Slytherin are so bloody dramatic. Always nattering on about everything having a cost.”

“Because everything does,” Flora says, eyes narrowing.

“I suppose you’d know that better than most,” Melinda says with a sly look.

Flora flushes.

Melinda may not be the empty windbag Crispin is, but dangerous or not, Ginny isn’t going to stand by and let her perpetuate this Carrows nonsense.

“Melinda,” Ginny says, voice calm. “Go away.”

Melinda looks distinctly unimpressed, but still takes a step back. “Gladly,” she sniffs as if she is well rid of their company.

Only once she is clearly out of earshot does Dorinda joyously observe, “What a bitch.”

Ginny shakes her head, turning to the girl next to her. “Flora,” she says, touching her arm.

Her chin comes up, cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. “Yes, I know. People’s perceptions of me only matter when they are useful to me,” she rattles off.  

Still, it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Especially the perceptions of idiots and arseholes,” Ginny reminds her.

Flora lets out a shaky laugh, Hestia squeezing her fingers.

Inexplicably, Ginny feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise in a wave, followed closely by the slight pressure of a hand against her arm. Sliding her eyes to the side, she is unsurprised to see nothing but empty space.

A quick glance over to the corner confirms that Harry has disappeared. She’s actually impressed that his patience lasted as long as it has.

“Well,” Ginny says. “I think I’m going to turn in.”

“Had enough excitement for one night?” Hestia teases.

“Something like that,” she says with a smile. She presses a kiss to Flora’s cheek. “Goodnight.”

After thanking Hestia for her help tonight and waving goodbye to Neville and Luna, Ginny slips out into the hall. She slowly walks down to a nearby corridor, one less prone to foot traffic at this time of night.

Coming to a stop, it’s only a matter of moments before Harry pulls her under the cloak with him.

It’s lighter than she expects, air seeming to easily flow through the silky material. It doesn’t make it feel any less intimate, tucked under there with Harry, so close after spending the last two hours keeping her distance and pretending not to notice him. It’s a little overwhelming, if she’s honest. Glancing down, she notices that the cloak is hovering a few inches off the floor.

“They’ll still be able to see our feet,” she points out, finding that little detail easier to focus on at the moment.

“No one is going to be looking for our feet,” he says, voice amused, but still guides her into a nearby alcove. He adjusts the cloak, pinning the edge of it to the wall above her head, letting the bulk of it hang down behind him to shield them completely from view.

“Better?” he asks.

“Not quite,” she says, and lifts up on her toes to kiss him. Having to sit across from him and not speak to or touch him was harder than she expected.

Harry very eagerly tries to kiss her back, the cloak starting to slip as he reaches for her. With a curse, he grabs for the edge, trapping it against that wall again. She laughs at his antics, feeling something warm rise in her stomach.

“Sodding cloak,” he mutters, wrangling it back into place.

She watches him struggle with it, his forehead creased with annoyance. It reminds her of how uncomfortable he looked through nearly the entire dinner. She reaches out to rest her hand on his chest, feeling the moment it takes for him to relax under the touch.

“I’m sorry that was so awful.”   

His expression clears, his attention once again focusing on her. “It wasn’t that bad.”

She gives him a look of disbelief. Anyone could see how miserable he was.

He lets out a breath. “Okay,” he concedes. “Dinner was awful. But definitely still worth it.”

The look he’s giving her leaves little doubt just what made it bearable for him. Her fingers press into his chest, the shared space under the cloak seeming to close tighter around them despite the fact that he hasn’t moved.

His smile is warm. “The second half in particular was almost downright pleasant. People were so polite to me.”

Ginny lowers her eyes, fixing her gaze on one of the buttons on his shirt. “Were they?”

This time, he does actually step closer. “You know,” he says, voice lowering, “you didn’t have to do that for me. Back there.”  

“Of course I did,” she says. If someone wants to come after Harry, they’re coming after her too. That’s just the way it is. “He had that coming long before he started being an arse to you, I can assure you.”

Though, if she’s completely honest, that was not exactly the way she imagined taking him down a peg. It may have been effective, but it wasn’t particularly planned. She remembers the icy burst of anger she hadn’t been able to control. She supposes she’s just lucky she didn’t make more of a spectacle of herself than she had.  

Harry is just grinning at her.

“What?” she asks, feeling flustered in a way she rarely does when she isn’t around him.

He shakes his head. “You’re just amazing is all.”

“Hardly.”

“Amazing,” he insists. “Whether you are kicking arse on the Quidditch pitch or making idiots piss themselves or just…eating toast.”

She can’t help but laugh. “Eating toast?”

His nose scrunches up. “Yeah, I stumbled on that last one. Doesn’t make it any less true though.”

She leans back against the wall, smiling up at him. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I eat toast.”

“You should,” he says, ducking his head and kissing her. He manages to free one hand without dislodging the cloak, wrapping his arm around her waist, pressing close.

She doesn’t know if it’s his looming departure or their approaching separation, maybe the way she is firmly backed against the wall with the cloak close and quiet around them, but there is something about this kiss that only increases the sensation that she is losing control.

She has no idea if she is supposed to find that as exhilarating as she does.

Resting his forehead against hers, he says, “I don’t want to go.”

She doesn’t want him to either, her fingers curling into his shirt. “You’ll be back.”

His shoulders stiffen. “That will be different.”

She winces, feeling stupid for speaking so thoughtlessly, because while it’s true that he’s coming back in only two weeks, it’s also for something nowhere near as pleasant as a Quidditch match. Or even Slughorn’s dinners.

In two weeks it will be May 2nd.

They consider each other, the heaviness of that event falling between them, thinking about where they each were a year ago. She was hiding in the Room of Requirement, trying desperately to think of a way around her Trace, her rapidly narrowing options. The inescapable wonder of where Harry was. How it might all end.

He was probably still at Shell Cottage, watching Hermione recover from being tortured by Bellatrix. Struggling and planning a way to get the next Horcrux, maybe already suspecting what was hiding inside him all along.

She leans forward, resting her cheek against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, and they both know she means more than just visiting her today.

He’s here.  

He wraps his other arm around her, letting the cloak flutter down about their heads as he hugs her tight. “Me too,” he says.

The castle is quiet around them as the hour stretches later and later.

Neither of them move.

Chapter Text

Harry lifts a large box from the back of the moving truck, carefully maneuvering his way across the sidewalk. Catching a neighboring Muggle peering curiously over the hedge, he tries to give them a friendly smile.

Nothing to see here, he thinks. Just some completely normal people moving in.

The Muggle doesn’t seem particularly convinced, quickly dropping back out of sight behind the foliage.

Adjusting his hold, Harry crosses into the house, passing through the entryway and into a room that will more than likely be the dining room. He’s almost made it when he hears the first ominous sound of tape giving way.

He lets out a curse, the bottom of the box ripping open. Somehow, before the carefully wrapped china can hit the floor, the plates freeze mid-air to hover perfectly inches from the ground.

“Careful!” Hermione admonishes, flicking her wand. The plates lift up in a smooth arc to settle in an orderly pile.

Harry gapes at her. “You said no magic!” They have, after all, spent the last three hours schlepping boxes inside for her parents for a reason.

Hermione pushes her hair back from her face. “Yes, well, that was a special case.”

“What? You know that makes no sense.” Anyone could have easily looked in a window, after all. That nosey neighbor for one. She already lectured him for what felt like an hour about the importance of her parents making a good impression on the new Muggle neighbors.

“It makes perfect sense!” she says, voice going shrill.

It’s not that Harry isn’t very happy to have his friends back, that he wasn’t nearly giddy when they first arrived. But Hermione been like this, tightly wound and nearly manic, nearly the entire time since.

They’d come by plane with her parents, Harry meeting them to help get everything moved into the nice home, even if it’s in a different town than the one the Grangers lived in before.

We don’t want to be where we were, we want to be where you are, her parents apparently said.

And maybe that’s part of it, this new move and new place, and her parents being back, but not really. They may have their memories back, but they aren’t the same people. Not exactly. Then again, he supposes none of them are.

Ron sticks his head in to see what the fuss is about, and Harry is definitely relieved to see him, silently pleading for him to handle the situation.

Ron just lifts both of his hands and disappears, apparently not wanting to tempt his barmy girlfriend’s wrath.  

Harry makes a sound of disgust. Leaving them alone for that long has clearly ruined Ron.

“These go in the kitchen,” Hermione says, hands on her hips.

“Can’t you just levitate them there?” Harry mutters under his breath.

“What was that?” she asks, scarily reminiscent of McGonagall.

“Nothing.” Leaning down and picking up the stack of plates, he obediently carries them into the kitchen.

“Thank you, Harry,” Mrs. Granger says, giving him a fond smile from where she carefully unloads flatware into a drawer.

“’Course,” he says.

They finally take a break in the early afternoon, the three of them eating slices of pizza around an unopened box. Now that he isn’t lugging boxes around or being yelled at by Hermione, he’s able to really appreciate how nice it is just to be here with his mates.

“When did you join an Aussie Quidditch team?” Ron asks.

“What?” Harry asks.

Ron passes a section of the paper he’s reading over to Harry. There’s a picture in it of him with Gwenog Jones from his trip to Hogwarts last weekend. It’s hard to tell who looks the most uncomfortable between the two of them. The article below reports that Harry secretly joined an Australian Quidditch team while he was away and really came back just to size up new recruits from the Hogwarts teams.

Maybe that explains Gwenog’s strange animosity. She thought he was trying to steal Ginny away to another team.

It’s a ridiculous rumor on many levels, but he supposes he doesn’t have a better explanation for being at the match that doesn’t involve him just wanting to see his girlfriend.

He pauses.

His girlfriend.

It feels strange to think of Ginny that way, even though clearly that’s what she is. Right?

He smiles.

“You seem...happy,” Hermione says, sounding almost wary.

Harry laughs, dropping the paper back to the floor. “What, you expected me to be all sad and mopey without you lot?”

“Well,” Ron says. “Yeah. We did.” He peers at Harry, as if inherently suspicious of a happy Harry.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Harry says, looking down at his pizza.

Ron waves it away. “I’m sure you’ll get back to normal soon.”

Harry feels a prick of conscience. Keeping his relationship with Ginny quiet seemed almost a lark when it was just sneaking around the Burrow and Hogwarts and dreaming up ways to steal time with each other. With Ron and Hermione around…it feels so much more like lying.

He tells himself that Ginny will be back from Hogwarts in less than two months. Everything should be settled enough by then for him to bring it up.

And if out of guilt, he is a bit more patient with Hermione’s mood, they seem to chalk it up to him missing them.

*     *     *

“Absolutely not,” Harry says, red-hot anger roiling in his chest as he shoves to his feet.

“Harry,” Kingsley says. “It’s important to—”

“I don’t care,” Harry cuts across him, a few people in the stuffy meeting room gasping with shock at his nerve. But frankly, Harry doesn’t care if he is talking to the bloody Minister of Magic. “You want to pin some medal on me in front of everyone—”

“The people need their heroes, Mr. Potter,” Macmillan says, voice calm and unruffled, every hair perfectly in place as if Harry’s anger can’t reach him. “Don’t you think they deserve that? Something positive in the midst of all of this?”

This, of course, meaning the war, the dead and missing and a giant stone monument with names carved on it as if that somehow can fix anything.

“The people deserve truth,” Harry says. “Not lies and pageantry. Or have you all forgotten how we got here in the first place?”

Kingsley has the grace to look a little embarrassed, but the other officials just give Harry unimpressed looks.

Harry leans his hands on the table, glaring around at the room full of officials staring at him. “I don’t do anything without Ron and Hermione there with me. You want heroes, they’re the real heroes. Pinning some medal on me and not them is a lie.”

“They aren’t candy to be handed out at your will, Mr. Potter,” one of the wizards says.

Harry turns on him and it’s on the tip of his tongue to ask him exactly where he’d been during the war. Hiding in a mansion somewhere? Sitting right here, not making any waves? How many of the wizards in this room did that?

“Besides which,” someone says, voice barely audible. “Miss Granger is…”

“Is what?” Harry says, spearing him with a hard look. “A Muggleborn?”

The man’s face flushes deep crimson. “Of course not. I mean, yes, but I wasn’t insinuating…”

“That a Muggleborn can’t be awarded the Order of Merlin?” Harry finishes for him. “Surely she wouldn’t be the first.”

The wizards all give each other uneasy looks, and Harry realizes with alarm that she probably is.

With difficulty, he swallows back his disgust, returning his attention to Kingsley. “They gave up everything to help me. Hermione was tortured, had ‘Mudblood’ carved into her arm rather than betray the cause. Ron saved my life multiple times, nearly losing his own in the process. And both did just as much as I did to destroy Voldemort, if not more.”

Almost everyone in the room flinches, and Harry still can’t believe how many people can’t even bear to hear the name.

He straightens, shoving his chair back into place, the table shuddering under the impact. It’s time get out of here before he really loses his temper. “I don’t need this bloody medal. Frankly, I don’t even want it. But if you think the people need it for some reason, fine. But it’s all of us or none of us.”

He strides out of the room, barely restraining himself from slamming the door on the way out.

He’s near the lift when someone calls out his name.

“Harry.”

He forces himself to come to a stop, and if it were anyone other than Kingsley, he wouldn’t have even done that.

“Harry,” he says. “I understand how you feel.”

“Do you?” Harry shoots back.

Kingsley regards him, his expression set.

Harry blows out a breath. Yes, of course he does. Kingsley risked a lot, he was right there with the rest of them fighting. And he, unlike everyone else in that room, actually knows what Ron and Hermione helped him do.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, dragging a hand through his hair.

Kingsley waves away the apology. “I know we all want the world to be a certain way, Harry. But the truth is, things are still tenuous. More tenuous than I’d like.”

He’s aged, Harry can see. There’s something worn about him now that isn’t the war, but a year in this job.

“It’s important to show a united front,” Kingsley says.  

I must not tell lies.

The anger crawls back up Harry’s throat. “If you’re worried I’m going to run out and make a scene over this with the press, I don’t think you know me very well.”

With a sigh, Kingsley nods, conceding the point.

“I’ve said what my terms are clearly enough. Goodbye, Minister.”

Kingsley flinches at the formal title, just the tiniest bit. Harry tries to feel bad about that, but he’s not going down this path again. He isn’t a bloody symbol. He’s a person.

“Goodbye, Harry.”

When he gets home, Harry pulls out his parchment, spilling out the entire story.

Did I do the right thing?

I think you already know the answer to that, Ginny replies.

He lets out a breath, leaning back in his chair. She’s right, of course. He may not even begin to fathom how politics work, but he bloody well knows what’s right.

I just wish I could have been there to see it.

Harry smiles. He considers it for a moment, having Ginny by his side, her having his back the same way she had during Slughorn’s terrible dinner.

I wish you could have been too.

At the end of the week, owls arrive for Ron and Hermione, informing them that the Ministry will be presenting them with the Order of Merlin, First Class at the upcoming May 2nd memorial.

“Blimey,” Ron says, eyes wide.

“Well deserved,” Harry says, clapping him on the shoulder.

Hermione gives Harry a long look, but doesn’t ask.

*     *     *

At the sound of polite applause, Ginny jerks back to her surroundings, glancing around The Parlor. She belatedly joins in on the applause. Somehow she’s missed Nicola’s entire demonstration, her attention having wandered way off.

“I’m sorry,” Ginny says to Nicola after, certain that the girl wouldn’t have missed her lack of focus.

“It’s okay,” Nicola says with a strained smile. “We all know what day it is.”

“Yeah.” The entire castle has felt strange today, people quiet at dinner, huddled into small groups. “Could you show me again?”

“Of course,” Nicola says, picking up the little metal machine.

Long after most of the girls wander off to bed, Ginny finds herself still wide-awake. She stares at the wall where the passageway to the Room of Requirement used to be, long since having disappeared along with the room itself.

A year ago.

It’s near midnight when she finally slips out of The Parlor and through the dark and empty common room. Rather than going to her dorm, she heads out into the castle.

When she gets to the DA room, she’s unsurprised to see Hannah, Luna, and Neville already there, seated at a small table together.

“Hey,” she says, taking the empty seat waiting for her.

Hannah reaches out and squeezes her hand. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

“Didn’t try,” she admits.

“Yeah,” Neville agrees, looking nearly worn as she feels. “It’s hard to believe it’s been a year already.”

“It feels like longer than that,” Hannah says. “But also…”

“Less,” Ginny says, knowing what Hannah means. The battle feels like lifetimes ago, but also fresh and raw and like it’s just one moment away from flaring back into reality. She can feel it all bubbling just under the surface, the panic and fear and cold determination to just keep moving forward.

“At least we’re all here,” Neville says. “You know, together.”

Luna smiles at him.

“I wonder where we’ll be next year?” Hannah asks.

“Here,” Neville says. “I mean, if we can. We should always try.”

“Yeah,” Ginny agrees, even as she wonders if there will come a time that they won’t feel the need to mark it. Not because the people and sacrifices have stopped meaning something, but that the terror of the event will have finally lost its power. Like maybe May 2nd being a day like any other might be the greatest remembrance.

But not this year. And probably not for many, many years to come.

“Part of us will always be here,” Luna says.

“Yeah,” Ginny agrees. “I suppose so.”

“I thought I might find you four here,” a voice says.

Ginny turns to see McGonagall standing in the doorway.

“Sorry, Professor,” Neville says, looking alarmed at being caught. “We just couldn’t sleep.”

Only McGonagall doesn’t look particularly concerned that curfew is long past. “May I join you?”

“Of course,” Neville says, scrambling to his feet for another chair to add to the table.

Hannah looks to Ginny with wide eyes, as if wondering if she knows what to make of this. Ginny just lifts a shoulder in response, not having a clue.

McGonagall settles on the chair, adjusting her robes as they all wait in silence. “I know none of you are particularly fond of public attention, so I thought this might be a better time than at dinner.”

“A better time for what?” Ginny asks.

McGonagall folds her hands on the table. “I understand that I don’t begin to know the extent of what the four of you did that terrible year to help your fellow students.” She shakes her head when they give each other alarmed looks. “And I am not asking to know.”

Ginny feels her shoulders relax.

McGonagall’s expression softens, her eyes gazing off in the distance. “We perhaps became too comfortable, too set in our ways here in Hogwarts, so much so that we forgot what this school should be.” She looks around at the four of them. “You have shown that to us. In many ways the four of you represent the best of Hogwarts. Your cunning, your creativity, your bravery, and above all your kindness and refusal to give up. I am not the Minister, I don’t have to right to bestow medals upon you, but as many of your classmates have reminded me this past week, I do have the right to do this.”

She pulls herself up, clearing her throat.

“Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom, Hannah Abbott, and Ginny Weasley, for dedication and risk above and beyond any standards of bravery, I award all four of you with a Special Award for Services to the School, as well as my sincere thanks.”

With a wave of her wand, a large plaque appears in the middle of the table, shiny brass with their names clearly inscribed next to their houses. “This will go in the awards case in the hopes that it will help us never forget again the lesson you have taught us.”

Hannah’s grip on Ginny’s hand is nearly painful. She looks to Neville who is staring at the plaque in mild astonishment, and Luna, who is smiling in pleasure, mostly likely at her friends’ accomplishments being acknowledged.

“Thank you, Professor,” Ginny says. “But we didn’t do any of it for honor or glory or awards.”

They didn’t even do it for each other. They did it because it had to be done. Because it was painfully necessary.

Ginny wishes to Merlin it had never been necessary.

“Yes, I know,” McGonagall says. “But it is all I have to give.”

“And we appreciate it,” Hannah rushes to say. “Thank you so much.”

“Yes,” Neville belatedly says. “Thank you.”

McGonagall nods, the plaque disappearing with a swish of her hand. “Now, if you’ll come with me,” she says, pushing to her feet.

They all warily follow her out into the hall, surprised when instead of leading them to the closest common room, she takes them to the Great Hall.

Inside are dozens of students, a table of food on one side, piles of squishy purple sleeping bags on the other.

“Apparently you four were not the only students who could not sleep,” McGonagall says, voice wry. “I trust I can rely on you to keep an eye on things?”

Neville nods, grinning at her. “Of course, Professor.”

“Good. Then I shall retire. Goodnight.”  

Voices lift in greeting as people notice them.

“This feels right,” Hannah says, smiling at the room of students.

“It does,” Neville agrees.

Luna takes his hand, leading him towards the table loaded with pudding.

“I’ll be right back,” Ginny says to Hannah, before following McGonagall out.

“Professor,” she calls, quickening her step to catch up.

McGonagall pauses, turning back to look at her. “Yes, Miss Weasley?”

“In the awards case,” she says, feeling slightly out of breath, “there is another special award for services plaque…” One nearly fifty years old, providing glory for a name that deserves none.

McGonagall’s forehead creases as it takes her a moment to realize which one Ginny is talking about.

Tom Riddle.

“I shall have it removed,” she promises.

Ginny nods, thankful not to have to speak the name, not tonight of all nights. “Thank you.”

McGonagall reaches out, her hand firm on Ginny’s arm as her fingers squeeze gently. “Your house should be very proud of you. As we all are.”

Ginny swallows back against the tightness in her throat. “Goodnight, Professor.”

“Goodnight.”

Turning back for the Great Hall, Ginny joins her schoolmates to wait for dawn to break and the sun to rise once more.

*     *     *

The one-year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts falls on a Sunday. Inside the Great Hall, now clear of sleeping bags and a long night’s worth of detritus, the students sit at tables quietly eating breakfast. Part of that is exhaustion. But maybe some of that is respect for the heavy feeling of the day ahead of them.

Ginny sits next to Tobias, trying to work up the appetite to eat anything. Tries to think about food and simple actions and not the burn of smoke in her nose and the feel of Tobias’ blood on her shaking fingers.

He shoves his mostly untouched plate back. “Can we just go outside?”

“Yeah,” Ginny agrees, getting to her feet.

She winds her arm through his, the two of them walking silently through the halls now completely repaired. Through the entranceway she once dragged him across.

Outside, the sky is clear, the crisp spring winds having finally given away to warm sunshine. A beautiful day for a truly horrible event.

Ginny takes in a deep breath, trying to let the smell of grass and pollen and clear air wash it all away.

Rows and rows of chair stretch down the lawns towards a stage built up near the lake. It viscerally reminds her of the day of Dumbledore’s funeral two years before. Only now there is a large stone monument towering above the pale white of Dumbledore’s tomb.

Groups of people are already gathered here and there, a stream of more arrivals walking up from the gates. Ginny supposes there are carriages running people up from Hogsmeade. The Hogwarts Express made a special trip from London to bring the Muggle family members of victims and students alike. Even the Muggle repellant charms were dropped for the occasion.

Further down near the lake, they run into the Creeveys, pausing to say hello. Dean is hugging a woman in greeting that Ginny can only assume is his mother, Justin Finch-Fletchley leading around a pair of rather awestruck-looking adults.

“If it’s always been this easy to arrange, you think they would have let Muggle parents tour the place with their kids before they sign them up,” Tobias grumbles.

Ginny squeezes his arm. His own family is not coming today, the official excuse being Mags’s health, but to judge from his mood lately, she suspects it’s actually something more.

Glancing around, Ginny can’t see any sign of Harry. She supposes they are hiding him away somewhere before the ceremony starts. It’s enough of an utter madhouse as it is.

She does spot Hermione, however, and it’s the first she’s seen of her since she left for Australia.

“Come on,” she says, tugging Tobias’ arm.

“Ginny,” Hermione says when she catches sight of her. She pulls Ginny into a tight hug. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Ginny says. “You?”

Hermione just kind of waves a hand, looking more than a little flustered. She turns to the couple standing next to her. “Mum. Dad. You remember Ginny.”

There is an awkward pause, Hermione’s face seeming to pale as her unfortunate word choice registers.

“Yes, of course,” Mr. Granger says, reaching out to shake Ginny’s hand.

She smiles. “It’s been a few years. I probably looked a lot younger last time you saw me.”

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Granger says, something like relief flashing across her face as she leans in to hug Ginny. “Nice to see you, dear.”

Hermione is wringing her hands as she watches them, her eyes intent on her parents as if looking for any sign as to what they think of all this. It must be unsettling, these two distinct parts of her life colliding in such a spectacular way.

Ginny knows this is part of the new trust they are building, Hermione bringing her parents entirely into her life, both her past and her present. Harry’s told her how much she’s been struggling with it.

“Is Ron here?” Ginny asks. She hasn’t had a chance to see him since he got back either.

Hermione frowns. “Oh, yes. I think he’s with Harry. I should probably…” She glances at her parents.

“I’ll stay with them,” Ginny offers. It may be nice to have something else to focus on.

“Thank you,” she says, looking frazzled by everything. “I was going to ask your parents, but I haven’t…”

“It’s okay,” Ginny says. “We’ll find them.”

Hermione walks off, and Ginny introduces Mr. and Mrs. Granger to Tobias. He eagerly questions them about dentistry while Ginny looks about for any sign of her parents or brothers.

“This way,” Ginny says, spotting them. “I think they’re saving us seats.”

Molly hugs and kisses Ginny, only releasing her to make a big fuss over Tobias, and at least that finally puts a smile on his face.

“Thank you so much for the sweets on my birthday, Mrs. Weasley,” he says.

“Of course! We were so sad not to see you over Christmas. You will come see us much more often this summer to make up for it, won’t you?”

“Well,” he says. “Only if Ginny is lucky.”

Ginny rolls her eyes, dragging him over to take a seat. She ends up next to Hermione’s father.  

“This award…” Mr. Granger says as everyone around them starts taking their seats.

“Order of Merlin,” she supplies.

“Yes,” he says. “Is it…”

He doesn’t seem to know exactly what to ask, but Ginny wants him to know, to really understand that the things they’ve been through, the sacrifices, none of it was a lark. None of it was any less than devastatingly necessary.

“It’s the highest honor we have.”

He smiles. “Like the Nobel Peace Prize.”

Ginny doesn’t have any idea what that is, other than the peace part. Maybe they should have an award like that.

Kingsley takes the stage then, an expectant hush rippling across the crowd.

It’s the kind of speech one would expect from a Minister. He talks about acts of heroism and sacrifice, about the future of Britain, the faith in a new generation of students and leaders. Hope for a future without war. Ginny tunes most of it out, instead watching Mrs. and Mr. Granger’s faces as they listen. They occasionally ask for clarification, and she quietly explains as best she can.

He finishes by reading the fifty names of the fallen featured on the memorial.

Ginny sits, staring straight ahead, and listens to the names go on and on and on. Tobias takes her hand, his fingers squeezing tight.

“We knew it was bad,” Mrs. Granger murmurs to her husband. “I just didn’t realize…”

After he’s done, Kingsley gives a few posthumous awards to surviving family members, including Andromeda with Teddy in her arms, accepting for both her daughter and her son-in-law. Doubtless the first werewolf to ever have the honor.

Easier, Ginny supposes cynically, to give that out when he can’t live to flaunt it.

Only then does Harry take the stage, Ron and Hermione by his side. A rush of noise builds in the crowd as people notice.

“That’s Harry Potter,” someone nearby hisses with amazement.

“I thought he’d be taller,” another voice comments.

Mr. Granger looks at Ginny as Harry’s name continues to build in the crowd like a buzz. “I didn’t realize Harry was…”

“The most famous wizard in England?” Tobias supplies.

“Is he really?” Mrs. Granger says like she can’t quite imagine it. “He’s such a sweet, polite boy.”

Tobias lets out a vaguely dismissive sound at this description of Harry, and Ginny nudges him in the ribs in retaliation.

Up on the stage, Harry, Hermione, and Ron are given their awards, the gold medals pinned to their robes. Kingsley gestures for Harry to step forward. After glancing back at Hermione and Ron, he shuffles forward a few steps, staring out over the enormous crowd.

Ginny knows he’s been dreading this, trying to think of something to say. For all that Harry has the ability to say the exact right thing when the stakes are high, when the pressure is on, when it’s a matter of right and wrong, he has a much harder time with the quiet times, with the political, with the emotional. Being put on a stage isn’t the same as fighting a war.

What am I supposed to say? he wrote to her when he found out he would have to speak.

They both know he is probably supposed to talk about what an honor the award is, to say something like Kingsley did about heroic sacrifice and the greater good.

But today is not about the Ministry or making anyone feel better, about spinning glorious tales. Ginny asked him instead what he would want someone to say to him in this situation. What he thinks really matters. Not to the reporters or the politicians, but to the students sitting out here still trying to understand what happened. To understand what comes next.

Harry lifts his wand to his neck, his voice amplifying.

“Albus—” he starts, only to stop and clear his throat. “Albus Dumbledore once told me, ‘Don’t pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living.’ And I do. I pity us having to live without them. The people we lost. But I know why they died. I know they died in a fight they chose, both for people they loved and people they didn’t even know. They fought so we could live, and have the chance to live without fear.” He pauses, his eyes sweeping out over the crowd, lingering on the Ministry officials and press. “We owe it to them not to let our grief make us hard, to make us angry. We owe it to them not to let fear lead us to make the same mistakes again. But to do better. We have to do better.”

He seems to falter for a moment.

Ginny hasn’t looked away from him since the moment he started talking, and he meets her gaze, like he’s always known exactly where she’s sitting.

Just pretend you’re talking to me, she wrote to him last night. His shoulders seem to square.

“Don’t pity the dead. Pity the living, Dumbledore said. And above all, those who live without love.” Harry pauses, glancing at the gleaming monument, the list of names. “They were loved.”

Ginny swallows back against the thickness rising in her throat, keeping her face carefully blank. Behind her, she can hear the sound of her mum crying.

On stage, Harry lowers his wand and starts walking off the stage, Ron and Hermione sharing a glance before quickly following after him.

A startled clatter of applause starts as people realize he’s done already, lasting barely a fraction of Kingsley’s speech.

Then off to one side someone stands, shouting, “Thank you, Harry!”

Other voices rumble in response, people saying Harry’s name or thanking him, another person standing and a few more, until the students of Hogwarts are rising to their feet in a wave, arms lifting.

Light flares from the wands held high in the air, flashing brilliantly despite the already bright sunlight.

Harry pauses on the edge of the stage, turning back to see the sea of people saluting him. He seems frozen, unsure what to do, until Ron steps forward to wrap an arm around his shoulders, leaning closer to say something to him.

She sees Harry relax slightly, hesitantly lifting a hand in response.

Mrs. and Mr. Granger look around in wonder, and Ginny pushes to her feet, lifting her wand in the air, Tobias only a moment behind her.

*     *     *

Ginny touches the gold medal on Ron’s chest, thinking of everything it really represents and wonders how heavy it must feel.

“Great, Ron,” she says. “Way to set the bar impossibly high for the rest of us.”

He smiles at her. “I can’t help being as amazing as I am.”

“Wanker,” she says, pulling him into a hug.

He squeezes her back, the hug lingering, both of them aware of how much they lost this day last year, how much more they almost lost. She is so grateful he is here. She’s missed him more than she’ll ever admit to him.

When they finally pull back from each other, Ron has an uncharacteristically serious look on his face. “You should probably get one too,” he says, gesturing at his medal. “Putting up with the Carrows.”

Ginny shakes her head, feeling everything inside her chest go cold. There are some things she never wants to touch again, to be brought out into the light. “Medals are for heroes,” she says.

Ron gives her a look. “Exactly.”

“Ron’s right.”

Ginny turns to see Harry standing with Hermione, the two of them finally having made their way through the crowd. The look on Harry’s face is a painful blend of bleakness and self-recrimination, like he doesn’t deserve any of this and would rather be anywhere else in the world.

Ginny forces her voice to be light. “Haven’t you learned, Harry, that we try never to tell Ron that he’s right? It makes him an unforgivable prat.”

Ron gives her a pinch, and she does her part, giving an exaggerated yelp. “I’m telling Mum.”

“Never mind,” Ron says. “No medals for tattlers.”

Hermione gives them both prim looks, and Ginny steps forward and hugs her. “I’ll behave, I promise.”

Hermione snorts. “I’ll believe that when I see it.” She still holds Ginny tight for a long moment.

Hermione moves to stand next to Ron, her hand slipping into his with easy comfort as Bill and Percy come up to congratulate them.

Ginny looks at Harry. “Congratulations,” she says, feeling protected enough by the crowd of her family around them to risk giving him a hug.  

His hands tighten in the fabric of her robe, arms firm around her.

“Cloister?” she whispers.

He nods.

“One hour,” she says, before pulling back, giving him a neutral smile.

She stays near him, close but not touching, as her family continues to mill about, keeping the press away from him.

*     *     *

Harry wonders if it’s possible to break your hand just from having it clasped and shaken too many times. He tries not to flinch every time some stranger or bare acquaintance pats him proudly on the arm or wrings his hand and asks for a photo.

Ron and Hermione stick close to his side, thankfully. Still the hour seems to stretch into days.

Ginny is never far either. Never within actual reach, never in talking distance, but always within sight. Enough that he assumes she is doing it on purpose, though whether for him or for herself, he can’t hazard a guess. He finds himself watching her, the way she talks to people, the way she holds her body. Something about it reminds him of her the summer before, and he doesn’t like it.

It’s another glimpse of that other girl, the one people whisper about. But he wants the Ginny he knows.

When the appointed time finally comes, he glances up to see Ginny slipping out of the hall.

Turning to Hermione, he says, “I think I’m going to see if I can escape for a bit.”

Ron is still talking to a secretary of something or other nearby, his hand tight in Hermione’s. She turns her body towards Harry, touching his arm, her face concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, patting her hand. “I just…need a minute.”

She nods, knowing how much he hates all of this. “Do you want company?”

“No. Thanks.” He thinks Ron and Hermione deserve every moment of this attention. “I’ll be fine. Maybe go say hi to the Fat Lady.”

In any other circumstance he may have actually liked the chance to wander the old familiar halls, but he is far too intent on seeing Ginny, on getting even five minutes alone with her. He’s convinced if he can just talk to her, he’ll be able to handle the rest of this.

You always make me feel steady, he told her once, and knows it’s true.

He smiles at Hermione, squeezing her fingers, and she smiles back. There’s a flash of cameras, and Harry sighs.

He gets waylaid three or four times on his way to the door, making him far later than he would like.

He’s finally out in the hall when he pulls on his invisibility cloak to avoid having to talk to anyone else. Not a moment too soon, as two ministry officials wander by, one of them, realizes, Trenton MacMillan.

“Interesting little speech Potter gave,” he’s saying.

The other wizard snorts. “Dumbledore trained him well.”

Harry feels his hands clench. A very useful tool.

“Brainwashed him, more like. He’s nearly as insufferable too.”

“All the more reason to get him and his tongue under control.”

“In due time,” MacMillan says dismissively. “After all, he’ll cut a dashing figure as an Auror, don’t you think?”

“And that’s a good thing?” the other asks, voice clearly incredulous.

“It’s not like he’ll ever be in the field. He’s too valuable and Robards knows it. But he’ll make a brilliant public face for the new magical law enforcement. And isn’t that all that really matters?”

They pass back out of hearing.

Turning, Harry strides off in the opposite direction, pulling off the cloak once he’s in a more deserted part of the castle. His chest feels like a horrible tangle of fury and sadness and embarrassment and he just wants to get there .

When he first walks into the cloister, he thinks he’s missed her. Only then Ginny steps out behind a pillar. She’s discarded her robes, just wearing her uniform, a black skirt with silver stripe, a white button up shirt, and a green and silver tie tugged casually down in a crooked knot. In that moment she seems to evoke every good and comfortable memory of school, what this place meant to him. Skiving off and cramming sessions and uniforms and Quidditch matches and laughter.

He crosses the space as quickly as he can, pulling her tight up against him. She hugs him back just as fiercely.

“How are you?” she asks. “And don’t feed me some bollocks about being fine.”

“I’m—” he says, only to break off at the unexpected tide of emotions. “I’m really happy to see you.”

Her fingers tighten on his back. “Me too,” she whispers, her voice thick.

He doesn’t like thinking about any of this. The battle, Voldemort’s body on the ground, Snape’s blood as it poured out over his hands. Doesn’t want to think about the history the Ministry is trying to rewrite. The uses they would like to put him to.

He just wants to stay here, in this quiet, safe place, and hold her.

“You did such a good job up there,” she says.

He shakes his head. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

“What you said,” she says into his shoulder. “It was perfect.”

He leans his cheek against the top of her head. “Someone gave me some good advice.”

She sucks in a shaky breath, her shoulders tight. He remembers her in the crowd, her face perfectly composed, moving between her family members, being exactly what other people needed her to be.

He pulls back to look at her. “How are you?”

“I…” For a moment she looks like she’s trying to pull herself back together, her face slipping into that haughty mask she wore out there.

“And don’t feed me some bollocks about being fine.”

She looks away and all he can think of is being in this cloister with her a year ago, the grief and year of separation like a solid wall between them.

Only today she doesn’t pull away, but rather folds into him. “I miss my brother,” she confesses, barely a whisper. A tear squeezes out, and she bats at it impatiently like she’s annoyed with herself for allowing it.  

“Ginny,” he says, cradling her face. He doesn’t know how to do this, just wants her to stop trying to be so strong all the time. “It’s only me. There’s no one else to see.”

Her eyes well up, and then she’s burying her face in his chest, her fingers tightening on his back.

He holds her while she cries.

Chapter Text

“Morning,” Hannah mumbles as she sits down next to Tobias at the breakfast table.

Ginny eyes her over her toast. She’s looking more drawn and tense the nearer they approach their exams.

Tobias reaches out, touching her back. “You okay?”

Hannah gives him a smile that doesn’t make her look any less wan. “Of course.”

It’s clearly a lie.

Ginny suspects she isn’t sleeping, making a mental note to catch a moment alone with her at some point. Maybe get a sleeping draught from Pomfrey.

Reiko strides up to the table then, heaving a stack of magazines out of her bag and dropping them in front of Ginny with a thump. They slide and scatter everywhere, nearly overturning a jug of pumpkin juice.

“Here you go, Ginny,” she announces cheerfully.  

Tobias tugs his plate closer with distaste, righting his cup. “Since when are you into magazines?” he asks. After all, she rarely shows interest in his.

Ginny flips the closest one over so he can see that they are all Quidditch Weeklies and various sporting journals. IS MONTROSE THE GREATEST DEFENSIVE SIDE TO EVER HIT THE PITCH? the issue asks.

“Oh,” he says, pulling a face.

“Just a little research,” Ginny says, sorting through the stack for one saying anything about recruitment. The first one she finds is about Seekers. She puts it to one side.

“Like you don’t have enough to do with NEWT revisions?” Tobias asks.

“Why are you even bothering?” Demelza asks, having come over to see what the fuss is about. “Already as good as got your spot, don’t you?”

Reiko snorts. “Yeah, because Ginny’s not really the sort to have backup plans. Likes to do things on a whim.”

Vaisey crowds over the pile in interest. He’s shown some interest in trying to go professional as well. “Not too many teams desperate for new starting Chasers this year, are there?”

“No, not particularly,” Ginny confirms.

Holyhead has to deal with the extra pressure of only hiring women, which cuts their pool by half. More than half, really, there still being slightly more men in Quidditch than women. So Holyhead has more need than most. As for the other sides, considering how long it takes to train and synchronize a team, they don’t tend to switch out starting players all that often. And when they do, they usually pull up from their own reserves.

Ginny keeps shifting through the pile, selecting a couple to look at more closely later. “There are a few at least looking to bolster their reserve squads.”

Rosier sits down on the other side of the table, looking mildly interested. “Scouting reports?”

Vaisey nods. “What about you? Are you thinking of throwing in?”

Rosier shakes his head, and Ginny isn’t surprised. As a Beater, he’s competent, but far from inspired. “No. I’ve been…”

“You’ve been what?” Reiko presses, not one to leave a sentence hanging.

He looks down at his breakfast. “I’m considering applying for the Auror Academy.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence at the table.

“I know it sounds barmy,” he says, rather violently stirring his porridge.

“It doesn’t,” Ginny says. “At least not to me.”

Rosier looks over at her, his shoulders seeming to relax, like her approval means anything at all.

“Ah,” Reiko says, snatching up an issue. “Here we are. League Chaser report.” She flips it open, skimming through an article, and Ginny has to resist the urge to snatch it out of her hands. “It looks like Caerphilly, Kenmare, Ballycastle, Chudley,” –“Of course!” someone interjects snidely— “Appleby, and Falmouth are all possibly in the market for reserve Chasers.”

“Really?” Ginny says, reaching for the magazine.

“Something catch your attention there?” Reiko asks, passing it over.

“Just keeping all my options open,” she says, even as her heart is pounding away in her chest.

She hadn’t thought there would even be a chance, but suddenly she’s thirteen years old again, watching the World Cup in complete awe, Harry whooping by her side.

Her stomach is a terrible clash of hope and fear.

“Well, if you don’t mind,” Tobias says, flicking his fingers dismissively at the unruly pile, “some of us are trying to eat.”

Reiko rolls her eyes, but starts gathering back up the magazines.

“Mind if I hold on to these?” Ginny asks, snatching up two other issues that have relevant topics on the cover.

“Go ahead,” Reiko says, cramming the rest into her bag.

They’ve all barely tucked back into their breakfasts when a fleet of owls sweep into the room, the usual flock crowding about Tobias.

“Hypocrite,” Reiko mutters darkly.

Tobias just gives her a cheerful smile, and offers an owl a bit of toast. They settle back into normal morning chatter then, Ginny trying to draw Hannah out into a conversation even as her mind is quietly spinning. She can’t wait to get alone to read through the reports. Part of her considers skiving off Potions, but knows she needs all the revision she can get as the NEWTs barrel down on them.

Tobias contributes to the conversation as well, going so far as to draw a smile from Hannah, even as he idly flips through this morning’s Prophet . Stopping on a page, he does an almost comical double take before falling face forward into it, cackling maniacally as his fist pounds on the table.

Ginny grabs for her cup as it jumps under his enthusiasm.

“Tobias?” Hannah asks, looking alarmed.

“Oh, Merlin,” he says between gasps for air. “It’s too good. Too easy. Too pure.”

“What is he on about?” Reiko asks.

“Who knows?” Ginny says, even though she has a pretty good idea. Tobias usually saves this particular level of mirth for stories dealing with one person in particular.

Sure enough, when he triumphantly holds up the paper for everyone to see, it has a picture of Harry on it. Unlike the coverage of the memorial the last few days—somber and heroic—this one shows Harry standing very close to Hermione, Ron slightly out of focus in the background.

“Does that say—” Reiko asks, eyes wide as she takes in the ridiculous headline.

Tobias nods with glee. “Oh, yes, it does.”

“Merlin,” Ginny says dismissively. “You’d think they’d have more important things to write stories about.”

“Clearly not,” Tobias says, returning the paper to the table, leaning over it as if attempting to memorize it. “I would have thought it was more of an all three of them thing.” He gestures with his hands in a way that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

“That’s why it’s better for all when you don’t think,” Ginny says.

“Well,” he drawls, “they always do spend an inordinate amount of time together.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “So did we, if you recall.”

He peers at her as if hoping to find anything under her bland indifference. “You going to defend your brother’s honor?”

She snorts. “That’s assuming my brother had any honor to defend in the first place,” she says, and goes back to eating her breakfast.

She isn’t angry or even shocked by the blatant lies and innuendos involving her inconveniently famous boyfriend and his best mates. She imagines all the fake pity she would have to deal with today if people knew. She’s just relieved, far too aware that it could just as easily have been her face plastered across the papers.

Tobias practically chortles his way through breakfast, reading out his favorite bits to anyone who will listen, grabbing random students as they pass.

No, Ginny thinks. Keeping their relationship a secret is the smartest thing they’ve ever done.

*     *     *

Golden Trio Love Triangle! the copy of The Daily Prophet declares.

The photo is from the memorial reception in the Great Hall. There were certainly enough photographers there for it to be possible, but Harry was too distracted at the time to pay it much mind. The photo seems to capture the exact worst moment, twisting a completely innocent interaction into something else entirely.

In the photo, Hermione’s hand is on Harry’s arm, his fingers reaching out to cover hers. She’s looking at him with concern, and from the strange angle of the photograph, it looks like their faces are very close together. Behind Hermione, Ron holds her other hand while he’s talking to someone else, looking completely oblivious to the interaction.

Hermione is furious. Ron laughs it off, and if he does it a little too heartily to be believable, Harry pretends not to notice.

Hermione rustles the pages, muttering angrily under her breath.

“It’s not like anyone believes it,” Harry says, trying to diffuse some of the tension.

Ron frowns. “What do you mean?”

Harry looks at him in surprise. “I just meant—”

“Are you saying you can’t imagine two blokes fighting over Hermione?”

Harry warily meets Ron’s eyes across the table, but the moment he sees his mate’s face, his shoulders relax. He knows in that moment that any worry about how Ron will take this is completely misguided. That day in the Forest of Dean was a long time ago.

“No offense, mate,” Harry says, leaning back in his seat with his hands behind his head, “but you’re probably the only bloke in the world brave enough to date her.”

“You take that back,” Ron says, pushing to his feet with a ridiculous, overly dramatic gesture. “My girlfriend is the most snoggable witch in the world!”

Harry also scrambles up out of his chair, screwing up his face. “I will not!”

Ron summons a wooden spoon, brandishing it like a sword. “How dare you!” He pokes it at Harry, missing by an age.

Harry yelps and runs out of the kitchen.

Ron takes chase, threatening to pummel him. “Admit it, she’s the most beautiful, smartest, bravest, sexiest witch ever! Of course you secretly want her!”

Harry runs from him, laughing so hard he almost trips over the furniture, resolutely making sounds of disgust. “Never!”

Hermione stands with her hands on her hips watching their progress as they circle back to the kitchen. She throws the paper down in the bin. “For Merlin’s sake. Anyone wanting to date either of you must be completely mental.”

Ron grabs her around the waist on his next pass through, spinning her around in an energetic little jig. “Luckily for you, love, mental looks good on you.”

“Ronald,” Hermione complains, even as she holds on tight, her eyes sparkling.

“What in the world is going on in here?” Molly demands, stepping inside, a half-empty basket perched on one hip.

Harry looks at her with a wide grin on his face. “Oh, we’re just fighting over Hermione, and I’m pretty sure Ron just won.”

“Damn straight,” Ron says, continuing to very inexpertly maneuver Hermione through the crowded space in some sort of stumbling dance.

“Ron,” Hermione sighs, looking up at him with something only an idiot wouldn’t recognize as an almost indecent amount of affection. “You’re impossible.”

Ron grins. “Just the way you like me.”

Molly clucks her tongue and makes noise about causing a ruckus in her house, but Harry can see that she’s pleased all the same.

“We really need to get back to revising,” Hermione says.

“In a minute,” Ron says, pulling her closer.

Despite her protest, Hermione doesn’t seem to mind all that much, lowering her head to his chest.

They do eventually make it back to their books, Hermione and Ron sitting very close together on the sofa and sharing increasingly less subtle looks.

It’s only as Harry turns his attention to his hopeless Transfiguration notes in an attempt to ignore his mates that it occurs to him to wonder if Ginny saw this morning’s paper.

More than likely, if that gossip-obsessed git Burke has anything to do with it. Cursing under his breath, Harry shuffles through his stacks of notes for his parchment, double-checking that Ron and Hermione are still too wrapped up in each other to be paying him any mind. He pulls out the worn parchment only to see that Ginny’s already written.

For the record, her message says, I have no interest in sharing you with my brother. Only one Weasley at a time, Potter. Don’t be greedy.

Harry lets out a startled laugh.

Ron and Hermione look over at him, and he just shakes his head, mumbling an apology.

It’s not that he thought Ginny might really believe it or anything, he tells himself. But it’s nice to know she seems more amused than hurt.

Fishing his quill out of the mess of notes around him, he writes, I thought I was meant to be having an affair with Hermione?

Her response is quick, and he wonders if she is similarly tucked up somewhere slogging through revisions. Word at Hogwarts is that it’s more of a threesome.

Harry blinks at her words incomprehensibly for a moment before he feels a horrific rush of comprehension.

He glances up at Ron and Hermione, who are once again paying more attention to each other than their notes. No one could possibly think—

Please tell me you’re joking.

Merlin, I wish I could see your face right now!

He sighs, an unexpected wave of melancholy rising in his chest. I wish you could too.

Why? Are you glaring at me?

No , he writes, frustration bubbling, ink bleeding a bit as he presses too hard. That’s not what I meant. I mean that I, I wish I could see your face and if you could see mine then—

He stops writing, really hating this instant transmission charm more than anything at the moment. Why does he always have to sound so bloody stupid?

He draws a thick line through his words, even knowing that won’t keep her from seeing them. Can we just pretend this entire conversation never happened? he scribbles below.

Harry.

He forces himself to take a breath. What?

I miss your face too.

His frustration seems to evaporate, his shoulders relaxing. Of course she somehow understands.

And the rest of you too, for the record, Ginny continues. I’d quite like all of you to be here right now. But I’d settle for seeing your face.

All you have to do is look at the bloody Prophet, he reminds her.

True. Tobias may have pinned this latest picture up on the common room wall. Rather nice engorgement charm.

He sighs. Lovely.

I’d offer to do something ridiculous to get my face in the Prophet so you could see it, but I quite like being left out of it, if it’s all the same to you.

He doesn’t blame her one bit.

*     *     *

Later that afternoon, Harry is in the sitting room surrounded by stacks of books and notes and practice tests when the front door to the Burrow bangs open.

“Hey, Mum!” a voice Harry recognizes as Bill’s calls out. “Just need to grab something from my room, yeah?”

Harry can’t make out Molly’s response over the thundering footsteps as Bill runs up the stairs. He isn’t up there long.

“Oh, Harry, hi,” he says as passes by the sitting room on his way back out. He stuffs something in his pocket. “Didn’t realize you were here.”

Harry gestures morosely at the laden table. “Revision.”

Bill pulls a face. “NEWTs. Ghastly business.”

Harry certainly doesn’t disagree.

“How many have you set yourself up for?” Bill asks, leaning against the jamb.

“Five. DADA, Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, and Potions.”

“The full Auror spread,” Bill says.  

“Yeah.” The same as Ron. Though Hermione is doing those five plus History and Runes.

“Ron and Hermione are here too?” he asks, looking around.

“Yeah. They ran upstairs to get a book.” As Harry says it, the excuse only sounds even feebler.

Bill, other than looking amused, doesn’t mention what they are probably really doing. “He isn’t being a prat about the thing in the paper, is he?”

Oh, great, Harry thinks with a wince. Nice to know everyone’s seen it. “No.”

“Good.” He pauses, giving Harry a speculative look. “You know, I’ve got a bit of a special job to take care of today. Want to tag along?”

Harry sits up, some of his revision-born lethargy dropping away. “What?”

He jerks a thumb up towards the ceiling. “You think they’ll be back down anytime soon?”

“Probably not,” Harry admits.

“Well then. You’re the one who keeps pestering me with questions about my work.” Bill shakes a finger at him. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Come see it in action. Think of it as practical revision. Even Hermione would approve surely.”

Harry isn’t at all sure what can be ‘in action’ about a desk job at Gringotts, but gets up to follow him all the same. Anything is better than NEWTs revisions, he tells himself. Or sitting here trying to pretend not to notice Ron and Hermione’s extended absence.

Besides, he’s honestly a little curious.

“Mum!” Bill shouts again. “I’m taking Harry with me!”

“Okay, dear! Bring him back in one piece!”

Bill leans into Harry. “No promises,” he says with a wink.

With that fairly alarming proclamation, Bill leads him down the front path, out past the wards.

“I’d better take your arm, if you don’t mind.”

Harry frowns. “We aren’t going to Gringotts?”

“No,” Bill says, looking indecently excited about something. “Bit of a field trip.”

Harry hesitantly places his hand on Bill’s arm. With a soft pop and a highly unpleasant squeeze, they reappear on top of a grassy hill. No matter how long it’s been since he first side-along Apparated, that sensation does not get any less awful.

Sucking in a few breaths to clear the dizziness, Harry takes in the valley stretching out in front of them. A large house sits nestled at the bottom.

“Where are we?” he asks.

Bill kindly ignores Harry’s less than steady state and gestures towards the house. “That is the home of Chaucer Mountley. Rich old codger. He has refused to use Gringotts to secure his goods, loudly disparaging the bank’s ability to keep anyone’s assets safe. Did I mention he’s paranoid as well?”

“So why are we here?”

Bill gives him a reckless smile. “To convince him to use the services of Gringotts, of course.”

Harry has the horrible feeling he’s about to be dragged into another uncomfortable interview. “Using me to butter him up?” he asks.

Bill laughs. “We aren’t going to talk to him, Harry.”

“We aren’t?”

Bill shakes his head. “We’re going to break into his house and steal something.”

Harry stares at him in shock. “What?”

Bill rubs his hands together almost as if in anticipation. “Best part the job, really. Testing people’s security systems. Almost like being back in Egypt.”

With that, he heads down the hill, Harry scrambling to follow after him. There is a voice at the back of his head annoyingly like Hermione’s pointing out that this doesn’t sound like a good idea.

Harry ignores it. It feels far too nice to be out and doing something—something mildly dangerous, no less—to spend time worrying about pesky details like legality.

Bill comes to a stop a few hundred yards away from the house. “Can you feel them?”

Harry pauses, not immediately sure what he’s talking about. Focusing on his surroundings, he can feel the tiniest static on his skin. He shuffles a few steps closer, Bill flinching as if to reach out to grab him. Harry stops right on the edge.

“Here,” Harry says. He turns to Bill. “Right?”

“Yeah,” Bill says, looking mildly impressed. “Warded to hell and back.”

Harry can’t help but notice that he doesn’t sound particularly concerned by that.

Bill pulls a bag out of his pocket. “Put out your hands.”

If this were a different Weasley brother, Harry probably would have refused, not being keen to open himself up for a no doubt embarrassing prank. But since it’s Bill, he cups his hands together, and Bill pours the contents out into them. It looks like a pile of glistening black rocks, cold against his palms.

“Picked these up in Egypt,” Bill says. “Dead useful.”

Leaning down over Harry’s hands, he breathes out a word in some other language and the rocks start to move . Harry just manages to hold back a yelp as they sprout little legs and start skittering about, keeping his hands steady despite how much he wants to drop them.

He should have known better than to trust a bloody Weasley.

Bill grins at him. “You can put them down.”

Harry squats down, letting the scarab-like beetles scuttle down his fingers and into the grass. He suppresses a shiver at the rather unpleasant sensation, rubbing his palms against his legs once they are all off.

Bill stands to one side with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the progress of the bug things. “They’ll find us any weak spots,” he explains. “Most wards are semi-porous. Unless you’re really vigilant about re-casting them, they degrade over time. Usually from small, harmless attempts to enter, each one weakening the field. So if you look carefully enough, you can sometimes find a way through without wasting the time and energy of dismantling from the outside through outright assault.”

Harry frowns. “That’s…fairly alarming.”

Bill shrugs. “No ward is fail proof. Fortunately most people are too impatient or just not skilled enough to find a way through even with the gaps. Besides, there’s a reason we maintain our wards so well at the Burrow and Shell Cottage.”

Harry makes a mental note to check his wards at Grimmauld Place as soon as he gets home.

In the grass fifty yards to their left, a small patch of red light glows softly. “Ah, found one.”

Bill strides over to the spot, squatting down and pulling his wand as the other beetles scuttle through the gap in the ward. “Just need to widen this a bit.” He draws shapes in the air, with a casual ease that belies their complexity. When he finishes, a series of runes flash brightly before burning away. He turns to Harry, jutting his head towards the ward. “Want to go through first?”

Not particularly, but that doesn’t stop him from moving forward. He crouches down, ducking through since he isn’t quite sure how big the gap is. He straightens, moving a bit further in until he feels the buzz of another ward nearby, the beetles scrabbling about for another opening.

Harry turns back to Bill, who is watching him with an amused smile.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Bill says, and then walks through the ward without even ducking his head.

Harry sighs.

The beetles have been hard at work meanwhile, a few spots of red glowing at the base of what looks like nearly half a dozen wards nestled within each other.

The weak points aren’t lined up directly or anything, but they are all rather near each other. Almost looking like a path.

“That seems a bit convenient,” Harry notes.

Bill laughs. “Well spotted. Clearly a trap. One I don’t plan on falling into.”

They make their way slowly through five more wards before Bill collects up all the beetles, tucking them away in his pocket. “We’ll have to do this last one the old fashioned way.”

Ignoring the temptation of the gap right in front of them, they start circumnavigating the house, Bill clearly looking for something in particular. Crossing into a lightly forested area, they are on the other side of the house completely by the time Bill comes to a stop. They are near what looks like a highly elaborate ornamental garden at the back of the building.

As they leave the trees, Harry glances at the giant windows staring out at them, fingers itching for his cloak. “Shouldn’t we worry about being seen?”

Bill squats down in front of the last ward, not even giving the house a glance. “The Wizengamot is sitting today, including our chap Mountley. He lives alone. Doesn’t even have House Elves. Not trusting them apparently. I told you. Paranoid.”

“And if there were Elves?” Harry wonders.

“Well, that would require an entirely different approach. They can be nasty when roused.”   

For all that Bill seems like he is treating this like a casual Sunday pick-up game of Quidditch, Harry can see that this is actually all carefully planned out.

Bill lets out a low laugh. “I know whose work this is. Wardle, you arsehole.”

“A friend of yours?”

“Oh, we had our run-ins in Egypt,” Bill confirms. “Quite talented. But dead lazy when it comes to thoroughness.”

Pushing back up to his feet, he scans their surroundings. “Yes, perfect,” he says, setting off once again.

Harry follows him to a path leading down the center of the rigidly symmetrical ornamental garden. At the head of the path stand two tall pointy cypress trees one on either side just up against a tall wall with rather wicked-looking metal spikes on them.

Bill considers it all for a long moment before stepping up against the wall, peering into the tree. “Didn’t bother to take it all the way across. Git. I hope Mountley didn’t pay him too generously.”

With that, Bill disappears into the tree, squeezing between the trunk and the tall wall.

A moment later, he reappears on the path on the other side of the last ward.

“Mind you,” Bill says, “it isn’t always this easy.”

Harry slides through the small space, the branches catching at his glasses. He wonders a bit at Bill’s definition of easy. They’ve already spent nearly an hour just working through the wards. Not that it’s felt that long really.

“So,” Harry asks, looking up at the house. “What’s next?”

Bill grins at his eagerness, leading him up the path. “Now comes the hard part. Remember those detection spells I taught you last summer?”

Harry nods, pulling his wand.

They work their way slowly closer and closer to the house, Bill having to stop and dismantle more than a few protective barriers and defensive traps. He inspects and rejects four different entry points to the house itself, finally settling on the main door visible in the façade.

“Won’t that be the most heavily protected?” Harry asks.

“You’d be surprised how quickly safety measures get lax when it comes to daily convenience.”

Sure enough, the front door creaks open with very little effort on their part.

“Come on, the vault is this way,” Bill says, pulling a piece of parchment with what looks like a floor plan of the house on it.

“Where did you get that?”

Bill shrugs. “Every house had an architect at some point. Just a matter of digging it up. Though I certainly had some help.”

With that, he unerringly leads them through a series of rooms, both of them still scanning for any active magic. Most of the magic glows some range of blue or red, indicating concealment and defense or active counter-measures. Fortunately there is no sign of the sickly green they discovered far too often last summer at Hogwarts.

The vault is at the bottom of a steep set of stone steps.

Bill pulls a key out of his pocket. Only it doesn’t look like any particularly normal key.

“Goblin,” is Bill’s only explanation.

The door opens with a loud groan that seems more intentional than just the result of long neglect.

The vault is large. Not nearly as big as either of Harry’s vaults at Gringotts, but filled with chests of gold and trunks and artworks all the same. And dust. Layers and layers of dust.

“Clearly never met a cleaning charm he liked,” Bill mutters, peeking under a dust cloth and nearly disappearing in a thick cloud.

Harry casts a charm on his face to keep him from inhaling all the dust. “What are you going to take?”

“Choices, choices,” Bill says. “It needs to be something rare enough that he’ll recognize it as his own and not try to deny I made it inside.”

There isn’t much out on display, so it’s hard to say what might be recognizable. “One of the paintings?” Harry suggests.

Bill nods, considering one of them. “Hard to transport, but unique enough.”

Harry crosses over to a curio cabinet that seems full of thimbles, weirdly enough. As he passes by a life-size portrait of a figure mostly covered with a drop cloth, he comes to a stop. The pair of legs draped in tights and pantaloons isn’t particularly interesting, but there’s that itching sensation at the back of Harry’s neck he’s long since learned never to ignore.

Slowly, he reaches out, pressing a hand to the wall.

“What is it?” Bill asks.

“I’m not sure,” he admits. Pulling his wand, he casts the magical detection spell. Sure enough, the entire portrait—the exact size of a doorway—glows a soft blue.

“Christ. Good catch,” Bill says. He consults the map. “It isn’t even on here. Maybe another vault?”

“Why have a vault inside your vault?” Harry muses, looking around for any sign of a lever or latch to open it.

“Not for any upstanding reason certainly,” Bill says, running his hand along the edge of the portrait.  

Unsurprisingly, it seems magic will be the order of the day on the hidden door there not even being a keyhole to finagle.

Bill draws a rune, watching it carefully as it fades. Pulling a small notebook out of his pocket, he jots down a few notes before casting another version of the same rune.

Harry sits back and watches, not wanting to break Bill’s concentration. This is clearly the most challenging barrier they’ve come across to judge from the serious expression on Bill’s face and the sudden lack of explanation of what he’s doing. Harry bites back any questions, instead concentrating on not missing a single wand movement.

It’s nearly half an hour before the portrait disappears, drop cloth and all, leaving an ornate door in its place. With a soft click, it swings open.

Instead of gloating, Bill cautiously gets to his feet. “Best be on our toes for this part.”

Harry raises his wand, cautiously easing inside after Bill.

Sure enough, it’s another vault, this one smaller and sparser than the one they just left, just a half dozen widely spaced display cases flooded in pools of light like some kind of a museum. But pristinely kept, not a speck of dust or dirt to be seen. It also somehow seems more…quiet. The kind of quiet that almost seems solid. And threatening.

But it’s possible Harry letting his imagination get away from him.  

A necklace of large sparkling gems sits on the nearest pedestal, glimmering like a dare. Harry knows better than to touch, remembering all too well what happened to Katie Bell.

He’s drawn to another pedestal, this one not housing expensive jewelry, but what looks like a small brass lantern. The medal sides are dull in the light, the simple walls irregularly scratched and pitted with dark stains. Harry leans closer, and through the wavy, milky glass he can just make out what looks like a small lightning storm swirling inside—dark black clouds and sharp blue flashes.

For a moment, Harry is almost convinced there’s a sound coming from it. A voice?

“Bugger,” Bill says. “Just once I wanted to be a model employee.”

Harry turns, and at the other end of the room Bill has pulled back heavy curtains to reveal a set of deep black robes with a bone-white mask hung above it as if on display. Harry takes a careful step back away from the lantern, feeling his gut churn.

Death Eaters.

“Didn’t you say this Mountley bloke sits on the Wizengamot?” Harry asks.

Bill doesn’t answer, instead rubbing a hand across his face. “Okay. Okay. We need to find the nexus of the wards.”

“But—” Harry starts to argue.

“This is not the time, Harry,” Bill says, all earlier ease and amusement gone in a flash.

Lifting his wand, he sends off a Patronus to someone, what looks like an enormous Irish wolfhound galloping into the nearest wall.

Leaving the vaults, they move through the house, casting magic revealing spells and sidestepping a few traps and additional wards. Upstairs, they eventually find a small chamber off what looks like Mountley’s bedroom. A wooden grid hangs on the wall, a softly glowing ward nexus in each nook.

“I’d be impressed by his organization if I weren’t so pissed off right now,” Bill mutters, already snuffing the balls of light one by one. “I’ll get these down. I need you to go back down and trip that Caterwauling Charm we found.”

“What?” Harry asks.

“The charm, Harry,” he says, voice brisk and commanding. “Now.”  

Harry doesn’t bother arguing further, despite the resentment burning in his throat. Heading back out into a sitting room, he deliberately moves across the thin line of magic lining the windows. A god-awful wail rips through the entire house.

Harry presses his hands to his ears.

Bill must have taken down the anti-Apparition wards because not two minutes later, Harry sees two figures appear in the gardens outside. Harry quickly ducks out of sight as he recognizes the uniforms worn by the wizards. Aurors.

Great. This day just keeps getting better and better.

It’s hard to think with the high-pitched wailing, but Harry knows his window to act is quickly closing. He considers Apparating away now that the wards are down, but isn’t exactly keen on abandoning Bill, even if this is all his fault to begin with. Incapacitating two aurors is also not high on his list.

But neither is ending up in Azkaban. Even if that means he probably wouldn’t have to take his NEWTs anymore.

Harry will just have to hope the Aurors take Bill at his word when he says they are here at the request of the client. The Death Eater.

Ugh, he hates it when that Hermione-voice in his head is right.

The two Aurors walk into the main hall, one if them impatiently flicking his wand, the Caterwauling Charm falling blissfully silent.

Bill saunters down the stairs, apparently not surprised to see them. “Hey, guys. Nice of you to join us.”

“Us?” one of them asks, looking around.

Bill looks to Harry, gesturing for him to come out.

Harry gives him a look questioning if he’s lost his mind, and Bill just makes another impatient gesture.

Harry cautiously steps into the hall, wand still loosely held at his side.

“Blimey,” the younger of the Aurors says upon catching sight of him. “You’re Harry Potter.”

“Thanks. Sometimes I forget,” Harry says, feeling more and more nettled by the moment.

The other Auror rolls his eyes. “Well spotted, idiot.” He turns to Bill. “Dragging him into your life of questionable decisions, eh, Weasley?”

Bill just shrugs. “You’ve spoken with Shacklebolt.”

The recipient of the Patronus, Harry realizes.

“Yes,” the Auror says, as if particularly annoyed by that fact. “Where’s the vault?”

“This way.” Bill leads them back into the vault and then into the hidden one, Harry trailing quietly behind.

“Christ,” the young one says as they come to a stop in front of the robes.

The older Auror drags a hand over his face, cursing softly. “Alright. Put it in the notes. Two unknown suspects fled capture upon our arrival at the crime scene. No description available.” He looks to Bill. “Now kindly bugger the fuck off.”

Bill gives him a little salute. “Will do.” He puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Off we get.”

“That’s it?” Harry asks, glancing back over his shoulder at the Aurors as Bill ushers him out. “We’re just leaving?”

“Rather out of our hands now,” Bill says, guiding him out the front door. “Are you thirsty? I’m thirsty.”

Before Harry can respond, Bill grabs his arm and twists on the spot.

“Ugh,” Harry complains when they arrive in a small village he can only assume is a wizarding one since they’ve Apparated in the middle of a public square. “Please stop doing that.”

Bill just laughs and heads towards an old, rundown looking pub.

Harry cautiously follows him inside, not pleased to see that it’s fairly crowded inside. He presses down on his fringe, looking warily around the room.

“Why don’t you get that back booth,” Bill says, pointing to a dark corner. “I’ll grab us drinks.”

Harry shuffles back there, keeping his face lowered. No one seems to pay him much attention fortunately.

Bill brings over two pints, sliding one in front of Harry. “A reward for a good day’s work. Cheers.” He clanks his glass against Harry’s.

Harry takes a sip, finding himself far thirstier than he realized. The ale is slightly bitter and malty on his tongue. They drink in silence for a while, Harry still just trying to wrap his brain around what happened.

If the break-in was at Mountley’s request as a test to his systems, was he really so arrogant that he thought they wouldn’t find his secret vault? It seems a stupid risk just to prove a point. Harry looks up, considering Bill.

“Did you really go there just on Gringott’s business?” he asks.

“Of course,” Bill says, eyes on his drink.

Harry considers him a long moment. “I don’t believe you.”

Bill looks up at him in surprise. “No?”

While Bill clearly wasn’t happy to find those things, he wasn’t exactly surprised either.

“You suspected those things would be there,” Harry says.  

Bill shrugs as if indifferent, but Harry doesn’t miss the subtle charms he casts around the booth to ensure their conversation won’t be overheard. “It’s some rich old codger’s house. There’s always an outside chance.”

“That he’d be a Death Eater?”

“We don’t know what.”

Harry opens his mouth to protest.

Bill lifts his hand to cut him off. “All we know is that he had some…less than legal objects in his ownership.”

That seems like ridiculous splitting of hairs. People who set up bloody shrines to Death Eater robes are pretty much Death Eaters in Harry’s book. Idolizing them is no different than being one. “So what happens now?”

“The Aurors will empty the vault of anything dangerous and bring Mountley in for questioning.”

“And he’ll be brought up on charges?”

“Probably not. Not exactly by the book, them wandering in on a reported burglary.” He takes a long draw of his ale. “His barrister will doubtlessly get him off if he’s even halfway competent. It’s an ancestral home. He can claim he didn’t even know that secondary vault was there.”

“So all that was for nothing?”

Bill leans his arm on the table and gives Harry a look of exasperation. “Not nothing. He’ll probably lose his seat on the Wizengamot if there’s any justice at all. And all his stuff will be confiscated. I’m comfortable with there being a lot less of that dark shit floating around.” He sighs, dragging a hand over his face. “You have no idea how much money those things would go for on the black market.” He sounds almost wistful. “Instead it will all disappear down into the depths of the Department of Mysteries.”

“And then what will happen to it?”

Bill flaps his hand. “Who bloody knows? Study it? Lock it away? Not exactly talkative, that bunch.”

“Really?”

“Well, you’ve seen how secretive they can be, Unspeakables. Sometimes I swear no one has any idea what is really going on down there.”

Harry frowns. That doesn’t seem particularly wise.

Bill lifts his glass in salute. “At least I probably won’t get fired. So there’s that. Especially since that means Fleur won’t kill me. Or worse, make me sleep on the couch.”

Harry doesn’t comment on Bill’s rather skewed priorities. “You really think Mountley will become a client?”

“He’d be out of his mind not to start using Gringotts now. His mates too, when they hear of it.”

Because he never would have lost his stuff in the first place if he’d kept it there instead is the implication. Just like Bellatrix. Just like the cup.

“And that doesn’t bother you? Knowing people are hiding things like that at Gringotts?”

Bill’s eyes narrow. “And if it did? What exactly could I do about it?”

“You could tell someone. Like you did today.” Bill is either far more reckless than Harry ever imagined, or clearly knew they wouldn’t get in trouble with the Aurors. He must have some sort of understanding with Kingsley and Robards.

Bill shakes his head. “Even if that wouldn’t get me fired, which it definitely would, the Aurors have no jurisdiction there. The Goblins function like an independent country. Don’t want another Goblin war on our hands do we? No. All I can do is keep an eye on what’s under my nose. And that’s more than would happen if I wasn’t there.”

“Surely the Aurors—” Harry starts to press.

“That’s not the way it works, Harry. The Aurors are the arm of the law. They don’t decide what the law is, the Ministry does. A Ministry run more often than not by gits like Mountley.” He shakes his head. “Aurors are tasked with enforcing the letter of the law. They can’t just run around doing whatever they like.”

Harry’s hand tightens around his glass. “What about the Order then?”

Bill gives him a sad smile. “The Order is done. All tasks completed. You’re still here. You-Know-Who isn’t. That’s what we were fighting for.”

Harry finds himself less than satisfied with what sounds to him like a non-answer. He picks up his ale, moodily taking a long pull. Getting pissed sounds more and more appealing at the moment.

Bill sighs. “Look. During the war we were renegades. Revolutionaries. Heroes. Do you know what those kind of people are called during times of peace?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Vigilantes.”

There’s just enough bitterness leant to the word for Harry to realize that Bill likes the way things are far less than he’s letting on.

“It was a hard-won peace, Harry. You know that better than anyone. Now we have to learn how to live within the constraints of it. Even if it drives us barmy sometimes.”

That just isn’t good enough, Harry thinks.

Bill drains the last of his drink, pushing to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get you back. Ron and Hermione have likely come up for air by now.”

Unfortunately, one pint is nowhere enough to take the edge off, but luckily that means Harry can Apparate himself back to the Burrow.

Sure enough, Ron and Hermione are back in the sitting room when they get there.

“Harry,” Hermione says. “There you are!”

“I just took him on a bit of a field trip. Very educational, I promise,” Bill says.

Hermione’s nose wrinkles as Harry sits down. “Is that why you smell like a pub?”

Bill laughs. “A little positive reinforcement never hurts.”

“Christ,” Ron says with a long-suffering sigh. “I could really use a pint.”

“Oh,” Bill says, mussing the top of Ron’s head. “I have a feeling you’ve already had your fair share of positive reinforcement this afternoon.”

Both Ron and Hermione go scarlet.

Bill only laughs. “So, Hermione, have you decided which wizard to settle on? Or are you all going to try for a more communal arrangement?”

It takes Harry a moment to even remember the article. It seems like a million years ago.

“Sod off,” Ron says.

Hermione doesn’t even bother to scold him for his language, her burning face turned down to her book.

Apparently content with having given the two of them enough shit, Bill relents. “Okay, okay. I’m off. Thanks for your help, Harry.”

“Sure,” he says.

Bill claps a hand on his shoulder, giving him a sympathetic smile. After shouting a farewell to Molly, he disappears out the front door.

“Where did you go?” Ron asks the moment his brother is gone.

Harry doesn’t hesitate to fill them in. Bill hadn’t asked for secrecy, and even if he had, Harry probably would’ve told them anyway. Keeping things from them isn’t second nature for him, no matter how much things have changed the last few months.

He can tell Hermione is only half-listening, far too intent on her studies. She only lifts her head once to scold him for being so reckless, and he suspects she’s mostly upset he wasted time that could have been spent revising. He decides not to point out that she could have used the time to revise as well instead of doubtlessly having her face attached to Ron’s.

Ron, for his part, is a good audience as always, but seems less concerned than Harry would like.

“Well, the Aurors are on it now, right?” he asks.

“I suppose,” Harry says. But when has that ever really meant anything?

“Besides, it’ll all be safe in the Department of Mysteries,” Ron decides. “After all, no one in their right mind would go down there if they didn’t have to.”

Harry doesn’t miss the way his hand is rubbing absently at his forearm.

“Right,” he says.

Harry lets the topic drop, not feeling particularly satisfied, but not feeling up to arguing about it either. They return to their studies.

Harry’s focus isn’t quite there, finding himself reading the same page over and over again and retaining none of it. He glances up, watching Hermione creating a chart of runes and their meanings.

One of them catches his eye, looking familiar. “What’s that?” he asks, pointing to it.

Hermione brushes her hair back out of her face. “This one? That is a variant of the vestigium family.” Her finger slides along the chart. “Meaning footprint or track. But this has an extra component here, which adds breaking or tugging.”

That is definitely one of the ones Harry saw Bill use back at the vault. “Like, if you wanted to identify the components of a ward or charm you didn’t know?”

Hermione looks at him in surprise. “Yes, I suppose it could be used that way. To help characterize any unknown magical phenomena. I should add that.” She scribbles down a note, muttering quietly to herself.

Ron just laughs. “What do you care, Harry? You aren’t taking a NEWT in bloody Runes.”

Harry shakes his head. “Just curious.”

When Hermione moves on to another subject, Harry pulls her text towards him, skimming through the pages. After a moment, he flips back to the beginning and starts to read.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14

The castle doors open with a bang as Neville shoves through them. Ginny, Luna, and Hannah are right behind, escaping out into the warm spring sunshine of the Hogwarts grounds.

Properly, they should all still be in their DADA lesson for a couple more hours, but Professor Merriweather’s let them out early again, purportedly because they are getting plenty of practice through the DA, but more likely because he doesn’t have much to teach them. He’s a decent professor more or less, does a good job with the younger students in particular, but is well out of his league with the seventh years. He definitely knows it too, not trying to talk down to them or pretend to know something he doesn’t. Instead he gives them room to practice the things they will need for their NEWTs and otherwise leaves them to direct themselves.

They’re more than used to directing themselves by now.

Still, responsibility has its time and place, and right now they are too tired of homework and revision, meaning that rather than practicing they lounge near the lake and do pretty much nothing. From where Ginny settles on the grass, she can see Dumbledore’s tomb sparkling in the distance, the Battle of Hogwarts Memorial lost to the shadows.

Next to her, Hannah sucks in a deep breath, her head tipping back so her face is bathed in warm midday light. “I’m so ready for this all to be over.”

“Merlin, yes,” Neville agrees from where he’s lying in the grass nearby. “Though I’ve been thinking. What do you think will happen to the DA? You know, after we’re gone?”

Ginny’s been considering that more and more herself. It’s too important of a thing to let die—both as a place for students to control their own learning and for them to decide for themselves what they want Hogwarts to be.

“We could each select someone to replace us,” she suggests. If not just to make sure that it carries on next year.

“No,” Luna says, peeling off her socks and pressing her toes into the grass. “If they are going to have new leaders, they should decide for themselves.”

“Like an election?” Hannah asks.

Luna shrugs.

Neville picks a piece of grass, twining it thoughtfully through his fingers. “The DA is supposed to be about us deciding things for ourselves.”

“True,” Ginny says, not opposed to the idea. “But there should still be four. One from each house.” Both to share the load, but also to make sure the school never gets so fractured again.

“Definitely,” Hannah agrees.

Neville pushes up on his elbow. “We could take those dratted tattle boxes from last year and turn them into ballot boxes. One for each house. Student with most votes becomes a DA leader.”

“Whether they want to be or not?” Ginny asks.

“Don’t remember being given much of a choice ourselves,” Neville says with a snort.

That’s not entirely true, of course. Everything they did was a choice, even if just a choice among a sea of bad options.

“I do love the symbolism,” Hannah says. “That thing we hated so much being used for our benefit.”

“Yeah,” Ginny agrees.

Neville looks around at each of them. “So we’re all in agreement?”

“Yes,” Luna says. She gets to her feet, putting her shoes and bag near the base of a tree and tucking her wand up behind her ear. “I’m going to go for a walk in the forest now.”

Luna’s always loved being outside, but this last year it’s become something more, her need to be outside the heavy castle walls as often as possible. She doesn’t talk much about her time in the Malfoy’s dungeon. But none of them have forgotten it either.

Neville looks up at her in alarm. If Luna has coped by spending time in the Forbidden Forest, Neville has reacted by rarely letting any of them out of his sight, Luna most of all, like he’s still never forgiven himself for letting her be taken.

“You should come with me,” Luna declares, looking straight at Neville. Without another word, she walks off.

“Um, alright,” he says, scrambling to his feet and nearly tripping over in his haste. The back of his neck, Ginny notices, has gone red.

He waves rather awkwardly at them in farewell, and breaks out in a jog to catch up with Luna.

“What was that?” Ginny asks, looking over at Hannah in bewilderment. Interestingly enough, she’s looking a little pink in the face as well.

“I think,” Hannah says, voice lowered to a whisper, “she may have propositioned him.”

“Propositioned him?” Ginny says with a laugh. “You make that sound like you mean she…”

Hannah lets out a pained sound, closing her eyes as if to block out this conversation.

“Oh my god,” Ginny says. “You do mean what that sounds like.”

Hannah nods miserably, her eyes still closed as if she can’t look at Ginny and talk about this at the same time. “She came to me, a few weeks ago. Told me she found herself curious about…”

“Sex?” Ginny asks.

“Oh, Merlin, yes,” Hannah says in a rush. “She wanted to know what I thought would make good criteria for selecting a, you know, partner.”

It seems completely unreal except Ginny can see that conversation happening with perfect clarity. “And what did you say?”

Hannah dares to peer up at her. “That it should be someone she trusts. And ideally someone she loves.”

“A good place to start,” Ginny says.

Hannah seems relieved to have Ginny’s agreement, or maybe just needs someone to talk to about this but hasn’t been able to work up the nerve. “Luna said she also understood that it should be someone she personally found aesthetically pleasing.”

Ginny glances over to where the pair disappeared into the trees. “So…Neville, huh?” She has to admit from a completely objective point of view that Neville has certainly…grown the last year. Definitely more aesthetically pleasing than one might have expected back when she first met him.

“She was careful to say that while she both trusts and loves all three of us, she currently finds Neville slightly more aesthetically pleasing.”

Ginny laughs. “Well, that’s good to know. I’ll try not to take it personally that she thinks Neville is more fit than me.”

Hannah smiles. “She did seriously consider you, just so you know. But she seems to be under the impression that you are not available, no matter how aesthetically pleasing.”

Her gaze, Ginny notices, has become rather appraising. Too appraising. “Maybe she’s assuming I’m not attracted to witches.”

“Hmm,” Hannah says noncommittally. “That must be it.”

“What about you?” Ginny says, turning it back on her.

“She did ask if I would be interested,” Hannah admits. “I told her I didn’t think I could do that with someone I didn’t feel…more for? That the way I love my friends isn’t the same way I’d want to love someone I did… that with.”

Ginny nods. “And how did she take that?”

“I don’t think she quite understood the difference.” Hannah sighs. “I’m not sure I do. It’s not like I’m really in a position to explain myself all that well. I just know I don’t feel that way about her.”

“Well, knowing that is a good place to start,” Ginny says, leaning back on her elbows. “So is there anyone else you’ve propositioned lately?”

Her eyes widen. “Ginny,” she scolds, even as she laughs.

Ginny doesn’t really know what is or isn’t going on between Hannah and Tobias. It’s not like she’s in a position to interrogate either of them, particularly when she has her own secrets to keep. She is fairly certain Tobias has been banking on that particular fact the last few months.  

“Curiosity is perfectly healthy,” Ginny says.  

Hannah bites her lip. “And if I’m not?”

“Curious?” Ginny asks.

“Yeah.” Hannah is looking down at her hands now, like she’s too scared to see Ginny’s reaction.

“Well,” Ginny says, pausing to give herself time to choose her words carefully, “there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“You don’t think so?”

Ginny shrugs. She’s honestly never gave sex much thought herself, there always being far more pressing things to focus on. Like surviving and breathing and not turning into a gibbering mess. But now, lying here in the sun, the war behind them, things feeling settled and possible … Well, she can imagine being curious. Maybe even very curious.

But it doesn’t mean everyone is. Or should be. She certainly never was before after all.

She thinks back to her relationship with Thompson. He’d been her first serious anything. While she enjoyed kissing him well enough, it never made her particularly curious. She never anticipated it. She always assumed that was because she never really felt that way about him, and maybe she never did, but she’d also been very young, as much as she would have vehemently denied it back then. Fortunately Thompson was always incredibly careful with her—she can see that now, looking back with a lot more understanding of these things. He may have taken things a little past kissing, but he never pressed for more.

Unlike Michael. He was far less careful, very happy to push ahead with whatever he could get away with, which at the time she’d appreciated on some level, not being treated like a little girl, but after a while that only made it feel like she had to be on constant high alert, ready to stop him or fend him off at any given moment. And when she did try to put him off, he always made her feel like there was something wrong with her for that, her lack of interest in doing any of those things with him.

But there isn’t, she realizes. Hadn’t she just told Hannah that?

It wasn’t right, the way Michael made her feel, the way he still does some days. The way he comes around and pesters her. She’d done absolutely nothing wrong in breaking it off with him. By not wanting to be with him. He’s in the wrong for not taking no for an answer.  

She feels stupid, to just realize that now. It makes her want to jump up and find him so she can hex him properly like she should have months ago. Or maybe make it a special presentation at the DA, spells for girls to give boys the message that they aren’t welcome, using him as the test case. She entertains the fantasy for a moment, imagining it in perfect, satisfying detail.

She won’t do it, of course. But it certainly doesn’t hurt to know that she could.

Not that she thinks she needs that sort of practice these days. Harry has never pushed, or made her feel uncomfortable. Even if he ever did, she trusts that he would listen if she said something. She can’t imagine him trying to blame her or guilt her the way Michael did.  

Besides if Harry were to want to take things a little further, well, she wouldn’t be against that. She’s pretty sure she’d welcome it at this point, and that is definitely different from how she’s felt in the past. She smiles, brushing her fingers absently across her lips. Maybe she should find a way to tell him that the next time she sees him. See if he might be a little curious as well.  

Of course, if he is, she might just need to master a different set of spells at some point.

She frowns, something occurring to her. She rolls towards Hannah. “Did you and Luna talk about, you know, contraceptive charms?”

Hannah’s mouth drops open. “Oh, no. Do you think we should worry?” She looks towards the trees like they might run in after them, shouting about charms.

“I don’t know,” Ginny admits.

Luna’s mother died long ago after all, and Neville only has his grandmother. Ginny imagines these are not the kind of conversations that happen around the Longbottom dining table.

Ginny gnaws on her lip, considering. “Maybe they talk about it in Ravenclaw? I mean, in Hufflepuff, have you…” She isn’t sure how these things work in other houses. It seems a rather important topic to have not considered before.

“Oh,” Hannah says, cheeks pink. “Um. Yes. Professor Sprout. She collects all the second, third, and fourth year girls together and tells them. There’s even a pamphlet.”

Ginny looks at her in surprise, that not being at all what she meant. “You get it three years in a row?”

“She wants it to really sink in, I suppose.” She turns to Ginny, eyes wide. “Professor Snape never…”

Ginny laughs, shuddering at the thought. “Merlin, no. We take care of it ourselves. The older girls telling the younger.” Mostly whispers in the dark of the dormitories, or quiet side conversations in the common room. Unspoken knowledge of who to go to if you ever find yourself in real trouble. But only, Ginny realizes, if one is brave enough to ask.

“I’m trying to imagine Professor McGonagall sharing that now,” Hannah says. “Or Flitwick!”

They both fall back laughing.

Only now this has Ginny really thinking about it, and not just because this is stuff she might need to know herself. “Does Sprout only teach you about the charm?”

“Oh, no,” Hannah says. “She talks about potions to help with, you know, cramps or such. Contraceptive charms. Protection charms. A few hexes if a boy doesn’t take no for an answer. She even talks about…well, things you can do without a boy. Or a wand.”

Ginny’s eyes widen, trying to imagine dozy old Sprout talking about all of that. “Really?”

Hannah nods. “There’s even a tea, instead of the charm. Moon tea. Kind of complicated, but she says it can be more effective long term.”

Ginny sits up, looking down at Hannah in amazement. “I’ve never even heard of that.” Her mum has had rather red-faced and brisk discussions of the basics, but nothing as involved as that. “What else did she tell you?”

Hannah’s brow furrows as she tries to remember the salient details. “Not much else. Oh, except that Muggle methods aren’t very effective when used by wizards and witches.”

That seems like a rather important detail, especially for any Muggleborns who might try to use them.

“What are Muggle methods?” Ginny wonders, trying to imagine a machine or something, but having no idea how that could be even remotely feasible. It doesn’t seem like a part of your body you’d want to have elektricity near.

“I have no idea,” Hannah says. “My mother never really got around to…”

Ginny feels her stomach drop, remembering that Hannah’s mother was murdered at the beginning of her sixth year. She reaches out, giving Hannah’s fingers a squeeze.

Hannah’s lips press together, and she shakes her head, clearly not wanting to talk about it.

Ginny lays back in the grass, staring up at the trees to give Hannah a moment to collect herself. She thinks about the whispered charms passed from girl to girl in the Slytherin dorms. She thinks about all the information Hufflepuff girls have, and wonders what the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw students may or may not know. She doesn’t like the haphazard nature of all this information travelling about, no matter the topic. Or maybe especially because of the topic. If last year taught her anything, it’s that knowledge is a weapon like any other, one that can all too easily be used against you. She won’t stand for being told what she’s allowed to learn and what she isn’t. Especially when ignorance can hurt students.

“What exactly are you plotting?” Hannah asks. “You’ve got that look on your face.”

“I’m thinking maybe we should teach this at the DA,” Ginny says, the idea crystallizing in her mind.

Hannah makes a choking sound. “You’re joking.”

“I’m perfectly serious. The DA is about teaching us the things the school seems to think we shouldn’t know, but that we know we need, isn’t it?”

Hannah looks as if she’s trying to imagine it, a DA lesson about how to properly cast a contraceptive charm. “Everyone?” she squeaks. “Even the boys?”

“Of course the boys,” Ginny says. “Why wouldn’t they need to learn too?”

“Well, they don’t have anything to worry about, do they?”

She sits up, looking down at Hannah in surprise. “Of course they do! How exactly do wizards think witches get pregnant? And it’s not all just about pregnancy.” Maybe if Michael knew girls were armed with proper hexes, he would have acted much differently from the start.

“Of course,” Hannah says. “I didn’t mean… I just meant…”

Ginny crosses her arms over her chest. “If we have to worry about it, they should too.”

“I’m sure you’re right. I just don’t think I can …” She looks horrified, trying to imagine standing in front of the rather large group that is now the DA.

“We can have Neville talk to the boys,” Ginny concedes. Maybe break everyone into smaller groups by age or something. She’ll need to carefully think this through.

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate being delegated that.”

Ginny laughs. “We can talk about it when they get back.”

Hannah covers her face with her hands. “I’m kind of wishing I never brought this up now. I should have suffered in silence.”

Ginny pats her on the arm, deciding to take pity on her. “Okay. Let’s talk about transfiguring the ballot boxes to set up in the DA room for the elections instead.”

“Thank, Merlin,” Hannah says, clearly happy for the change in subject.

They sit out in the sun for a while longer, discussing what types of transfigurations and charms to use, how to get the box to automatically do the counting. They both agree they’ll need to consult with Luna to get it exactly right. But definitely sometime when she is less…busy.

By the time they head back inside for their next lesson, Neville and Luna still haven’t returned. When they do finally show up to Charms, Hannah and Ginny carefully don’t look each other in the eye as they pretend not to notice the leaves stuck in Neville’s disheveled hair.

“Have a nice walk?” Ginny can’t resist asking Neville.

He flubs the charm he’s working on, the corner of his notes catching fire.

Ginny helpfully puts it out for him.

“Er, thanks,” Neville says, looking a little red again.

Yes, Ginny decides. They definitely need to add a few things to the DA curriculum. Just in case.

*     *     *

Harry waves to the neighbor who is once again in her yard clipping her rose plants. Harry knows from unfortunate experience with his aunt’s roses that they do require a lot of onerous care, but the Muggle honestly seems to live outside. He might think she was unduly doting on them if he didn’t know the look of someone keeping an eye on the neighbors.

From the outside, the Grangers’ house looks perfectly normal. There’s not a single visible clue that there is an active potions station in the kitchen, that the sitting room fireplace will soon be connected to the Floo Network, or that three wizards have been spending their afternoons revising for their upcoming wizarding exams inside.

Despite that, the Muggle neighbor still looks suspicious as she lifts her hand in response to Harry’s greeting. Then again, Harry’s used to being gawked at by neighbors like he’s a delinquent.

Pushing thoughts of the neighbor away, Harry lets himself in the front door. He’s later than usual thanks to a required change of clothing after a rather disastrous morning watching Teddy. His shirt may never be the same. Following the sounds of voices, he wanders back into the dining room. The table is loaded with parchment and books and quill trimmings that would have sent Kreacher into profane mutters and banged pots in the kitchen, or so it had the few times they tried to revise at Grimmauld.  

Mrs. Granger is there talking with Hermione and Ron, seemingly undisturbed by the mess. “Oh, Harry,” she says. “Good timing. We’re just making summer plans.”

“Yeah?” he asks, swinging his bag to the floor and looking at his friends faces for any clues about these sudden plans.

Hermione looks vaguely uncomfortable. Ron lifts his shoulders in response like he’s just going along.

“We’ve let a house for a week at the beach,” Mrs. Granger says. “We’ve invited Ron and his family, and we would very much like for you to come as well. A bit of a graduation gift, if you will.”

“Wow,” Harry says.

Mrs. Granger’s smile slips, her hands twisting together in front of her. “It is our kind of place, uh, Muggle, as you’d call it. But that shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”

“I’m sure it will be great, Mrs. Granger,” Ron says in a way that makes Harry suspect he’s started using his Failsafe Ways to Charm a Witch on Hermione’s mum as well.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “It sounds great.”

“Excellent,” Mrs. Granger says, looking really pleased. “Now why don’t I fix you all a snack? You can’t learn on an empty stomach!” With that, she disappears back into the kitchen.

Hermione looks a little embarrassed. “I think they miss the ocean,” she says, looking miserable, and he isn’t sure if that’s because of the proposed trip or everything that happened in Australia.

“Then we should definitely go,” Ron says, smiling bracingly at her. “Sounds like fun, right, Harry?”

Harry nods. “Yeah. Sounds fun.”

Hermione gives them a tremulous smile, like she knows perfectly well they are mustering all this excitement mostly for her.

“Besides,” Ron says, “I’m practically an expert at passing Muggle these days.”

Harry and Hermione share a look. At the very least, it will be an interesting trip.

“I just hope Ginny will come along,” Hermione says. “She shouldn’t have to feel like she has to stay behind.”

“Mum would never let her stay home on her own, seventeen or not.”

Harry tries to imagine it, a week at the beach with Ginny. He decides summer can’t come quickly enough.  

They turn to their revisions then. Hermione has set them to a regimented routine in the weeks since the memorial. Harry doesn’t mind all that much. It’s helped dispel the rather aimless quality of his life these last few months, not that he will ever admit as much to Hermione. It also keeps him busy, which helps him not focus on how much he misses Ginny. Another thing he obviously isn’t going to admit to Hermione or Ron. Still, it’s not like revising is fun.

Harry spends his mornings with Teddy and Andromeda while Ron helps George in the shop and Hermione spends time with her parents and revising for the two additional subjects Ron and Harry aren’t sitting for. In the afternoons, they mostly revise at the Grangers’. They’ve completely moved in now, and Hermione seems reluctant to spend all her time away from her parents, especially since they’ve started showing some interest in magic, rather than being wary of it like they were right after leaving the hospital.

Harry wonders how much of her parents’ insistence on letting them use their home to study is trying to show they are fine with Hermione’s ‘other life’ and how much is Hermione trying to keep them involved in all aspects of her life. It doesn’t really matter—their home is as good as any to revise. Mostly because revision is awful no matter where they have to do it.

In the evenings, they tend to end up at the Burrow or Grimmauld, as practical revisions in a Muggle neighborhood are slightly more problematic than just studying texts and making flashcards.

By dinnertime that evening, Harry is starting to get a headache. Putting down his quill, he rubs at his temples. He isn’t at all convinced he’ll ever be able to squeeze any more information into his brain.

Across the table from him, Ron is resting his chin on one hand, his face slack as he stares off at nothing.

“Well, tomorrow we can—” Hermione starts to say.

Harry sits up, shaking off his lethargy. “I’m, uh, taking the day off.”

“Yes,” Ron says, flipping his book shut. “Brilliant idea.”

Hermione looks scandalized. “There are only two weeks left until we have to sit the exams! We don’t have time for a day off!”

“Hermione,” Ron whines. “I have blisters, I’ve been revising so much!”

“You do not,” she says, folding her arms over her chest.

He gives her a pathetic look, and Harry can see her start to bend, just the slightest bit. Normally he’d mock her for that, but he’s far too happy to see it working.

Ron definitely notices he’s making progress as well, his voice softening. “It’s a Saturday. Didn’t you want to go Diagon Alley? Look at that new quill? It could be like old times.”

Harry nods enthusiastically.

“Just the three of us,” Hermione says, looking a little misty.

Harry feels a bolt of alarm, wondering how this has gone so disastrously wrong so quickly. He darts a look at Ron and sees a similar look of dismay on his face. It occurs to him that Ron and Hermione probably have had a hard time finding any time together since they returned. He can sympathize with that, even if he dearly never wants to think about it.

“It’s always just the three of us,” Harry says. “You go just the two of you.”

Ron sends him a blinding look of gratefulness. Harry wonders how grateful he would be if he knew his real motivations. “Yeah, Hermione. Harry’s probably had his fill of us.”

Hermione looks torn between the idea of a day alone with her boyfriend and not wanting Harry to feel left out.

“Honestly,” Harry says, “I’m sick of the sight of you two.”

Hermione eventually reluctantly agrees, but as he leaves that night, she pulls him aside.

“Don’t think I don’t know that you’re hiding something from us, Harry. You know I’ll figure it out eventually.”

He doesn’t doubt it.

*     *     *

Ginny is not a fan of NEWTs.

She understands the necessity of them. Even if she’s pinning her hopes on a Quidditch career, she still can’t afford to just blow them off, no matter how much she’d like to. Plans and backup plans and contingencies, she reminds herself.

Despite that, Friday evening finds her sitting in the common room without a textbook, flashcard, or notebook in sight. Instead, she’s happily losing herself in her letters. Mostly she’s finalizing vacation plans with Smita and Tilly. Admittedly, it’s challenging to focus on the summer when she isn’t at all certain how she’s supposed to get through the next month. But it’s still nice to try.

Setting aside her letter to Tilly to send off with an owl in the morning, she glances at the clock. Fortunately she has yet another pleasant thing waiting to distract her from NEWTs because tomorrow is the last Hogsmeade weekend of the term. Of her time at Hogwarts all together.

It isn’t quite nine yet, but close enough. She pulls out her parchment from under the stack of letters and writes, Did you manage to get tomorrow away from Ron and Hermione?

It doesn’t take Harry long to respond. Yeah. It was a near thing though. Convinced them to take a day alone with each other.

She bites back a laugh, having a pretty good idea how that must have gone. How kind of you. Such a good friend.

I’m amazing. Now for more important things. How are we going to do this? I’m not particularly keen on a repeat of last time.

She rolls her eyes. Leave it to Harry to not even have considered the logistics of all of this until the night before. You don’t want to check in with all your old school mates? she can’t resist teasing.

They can all go to blazes for all I care. I only want to see you.

Ginny’s breath catches in her throat as she reads and re-reads his words. His bluntness tends to catch her off-guard still, the way he can fumble around and struggle to say what he wants and then just throw something like that out there. When he doesn’t immediately scramble to take it back, she knows he completely means it.

It just makes her plans for Saturday seem like an even better idea.

Well then, she writes, feeling warmth spreading across her chest. I suppose I should just come to you.

To London?

Yeah. Easy enough to Apparate from Hogsmeade.

The distance is a bit far, so she plans on breaking it into a couple quick hops just to be safe. She isn’t keen on splinching herself. But it definitely won’t be a problem. She’s even already chosen the locations. Besides which, between the two of them, she actually has a license to Apparate. Not that anyone has bothered to ever say anything to Harry.

What if you’re caught? Harry writes, predictably concerned about anyone taking a risk who isn’t him.

I’m going to choose not to take that personally. I don’t get caught, remember?

Right. My mistake. Please forgive me, oh sneaky Slytherin one.

She rolls her eyes. I’ll consider it. Anyway, if somehow I do get expelled, you’ll just have to take me in when Mum and Dad chuck me out of the house.

Deal.

Is ten-thirty too early? she asks.

Make it ten, is his immediate reply. I mean, if that’s okay.

She’ll have to get up early and slip out of the castle earlier than planned, but it won’t be too much of a problem. Not if it means more time with Harry. It might even mean she’ll miss the bigger crowds, making it easier to get away.

It’s perfect, she writes. I’ll see you then.

Great. See you tomorrow.

Night.

Setting aside her stack of letters, Ginny picks up her knitting, returning her attention to the conversations around her. A group of fifth-years seem to be moaning about their OWLs, and that should help her ignore the buzz of anticipation ghosting her skin.

Ginny smiles to herself, finding everything charming and amusing at the moment. “At least you’re not taking NEWTs,” she points out.

They groan.

“You seem so calm,” one of the fifth years says to Ginny. “How do you seem so calm?”

“It’s the knitting,” she says, lifting her latest project. Harry’s matching scarf. She peers at it critically. It’s probably not quite ugly enough. She’s gotten far too good at this, clearly. Maybe she should add in another color. A nice clashing purple, maybe.

“Any OWL advice?” Nicola asks from where she is revising with some of her classmates nearby. “You know, besides taking up a craft.”

“You know I never actually took them, right?” Ginny asks.

“What?” another boy asks. “How did you swing that?”

Ginny’s smile fades. “It was the year Professor Dumbledore died.”  

An awful quiet falls over the room. Meaning that it is quiet enough for everyone to clearly hear a student on the other side of the room mutter, “Well, if someone wants to murder McGonagall and get me out of these exams, feel free.”

A hard-edged chill seems to settle in Ginny’s chest, the last of her good mood flickering and dying.

Across from Ginny, Astoria shifts in her seat. “A lot of people suffered and died so you could sit there and bitch about exams without having to worry about being tortured or disappeared or killed,” she says, voice calm and cutting. “Show some respect.”

Everyone in the room is watching by now, a painful expectant silence hanging in the air.

“Sorry,” the student murmurs, apparently realizing the misstep, if not the danger of antagonizing these particular students.

Astoria darts a glance at Ginny, and she somehow manages to nods her thanks. Taking a breath, she loosens her hold on the now mangled project in her lap. She’s dropped more than a few stitches. Maybe it’s ugly enough now.

Turning to Dale next to her, Ginny asks her what she’s working on.

Dale still looks a little wide-eyed over the confrontation, but dutifully starts explaining her latest project.

Slowly the room once more fills with voices.  

*     *     *

A few minutes before ten, Harry pulls open his front door, shifting impatiently from foot to foot as he waits for the minutes to tick by. He tells himself he’s only hovering here out of respect for Ginny’s punctuality, but it’s also possible that he’s somewhat anticipating her arrival. Maybe a lot.

Right at the planned time, Ginny appears on Harry’s stoop with a soft pop just inside the disillusionment charms.  

“Hey,” he says, stepping towards her.

She doesn’t look particularly surprised to see him out here waiting. “Hey,” she says, lifting up to kiss his cheek.

“Any problems?”

“Of course not.” Running her hands over her face, she says, “I’m pretty sure I’ve still got both my eyebrows and everything.”

He laughs, lifting her hair as if checking that she has both her ears. “Yup, you still seem pretty symmetrical.”

Rolling her eyes, she swings her bag over her shoulder and shoves it into his arms. “Here. Carry this and be disgustingly chivalrous, will you?”

“What do you have in here?” Harry asks, pretending to stumble back under the weight of the bag.

“Just the essentials,” she says over her shoulder as she walks inside.

Harry kicks the door shut behind him and follows after her into the sitting room. Inside the doorway, she stops and glances around the room in a slow exaggerated sweep, leaning around the couch to look behind it.

Fleur hasn’t made any new changes to this area since Ginny was last here, so he isn’t sure what has earned this careful scrutiny.

“What are you looking for?” he asks.

“No Hermione?” she asks.

He frowns. The entire point is to be alone today. “Why would—”

She slides him a look and it takes him a moment to realize she’s teasing him about the bloody Prophet article and his supposed affair with Hermione. He lets out a sound of complaint and she breaks out into a wide grin.

“I’m glad you’re still enjoying this so much,” he grumbles.

She shakes her head. “I’m just happy to see you. It’s so much harder to mock you by letter.”

Dropping her bag on a chair that somehow manages not to collapse under its weight, Harry grabs her around the waist. “Well, if you’d rather mock me than—”

She doesn’t let him finish, lifting up and kissing him. Not a quick brush of her lips, but a thorough proper hello that Harry is more than happy to repay in kind. He’s amazed every time, both by how easy it is and how good it feels.

She drops back on her heels, the two of them just kind of stupidly grinning at each other. He can’t believe she’s actually here.

“I brought you something,” she says.

“Yeah?” he asks, having completely lost the thread of their conversation.

She nods. “A super special present.”

“My scarf?” he asks. She’s been threatening him with that ever since their first date.

“No. Still working on making it ugly enough.”

“Good,” he says. “I don’t want it until it’s the ugliest thing that’s ever existed.”

With a soft huff, she reaches into her pocket, pulling out an envelope. There’s something in her expression that has him instantly on alert. He takes it, half-expecting a framed copy of the horrible Prophet article, but there’s only a photograph inside. It’s one of Ginny with Reiko, both of them swathed in Slytherin green and smiling broadly as they jump up and down in celebration.

Ginny edges closer, peering down at the photograph. “I didn’t realize how few pictures I have of myself until I tried to find one. This was the only halfway decent one I had.” She gnaws on her lower lip, shifting a bit on her feet. “I mean, if you were serious about, you know, wanting to see my face.”

“I definitely was,” he says, knowing he shouldn’t be surprised that she took their conversation to heart. That she found some small way to help even weeks later. “This is great. Thank you.”  

She smiles, clearly relieved. “I can even come up with a sensational headline for you if you want to pretend it’s from the Prophet.”

“Oh really? Astonish me.”

She taps her chin, pretending to think hard. “How about Salacious Secret Sapphic Slytherins!”

“What?” he asks, choking out a laugh.

“I suppose you missed those rumors about me back when I got my first win as captain.”

“That you and Reiko were…together?” He thinks he would have remembered something like that. He’d been rather invested in her dating habits at the time, no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise.

She shakes her head. “No. That the only reason I made captain in the first place was by sleeping with the entire team. Reiko included.”

“What?” he demands, anger flooding his chest. Anyone with eyes in their head could see that Ginny is an amazing Quidditch captain. Sure she struggled a bit at the start, but she deserved it. She earned it.

Ginny laughs, maybe at his reaction, he isn’t sure. “It was a long time ago,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Harry doesn’t find it particularly funny. “Who would have said that? Let alone believed it?”

“Oh. Crabbe and Goyle, I imagine,” she says, her voice strangely flat.

He looks down at the photograph, Ginny’s shining face and Reiko’s clear glee. “Well,” he says. “They clearly had no idea what they were talking about.”

She shrugs. “Nothing to be done for it now.” Certainly not with one of them dead and the other in Azkaban.

The mood has definitely shifted, even if Harry isn’t completely sure why. Ginny steps away, reaching for her bag and flipping it open to reveal a stack of books. “The bad news is that I am so far behind right now that I’ll have to do at least some work.”

“No problem,” he says. “I can help you. Hermione has us practically revising in our sleep.”

She turns to him, waggling her eyebrows. “Oh, really.”

Harry dutifully makes a sound of complaint, happy to have her back to teasing him if it means that haunted look is gone from her eyes.

They spend the rest of the morning revising for Charms. Harry is completely unsurprised to find that studying with Ginny around is both a lot more fun and a lot more distracting.

“Argh,” she says after a couple hours, throwing down her quill in disgust. She flops back against the cushions, lifting her arms above her head in a big stretch. Harry watches with interest the way her shirt pulls up to reveal several inches of skin.

Ginny catches him at it, smiling at him before jumping up to her feet and walking around the room as if trying to work the kinks out of her back.

She stops by the table in the corner covered with a mountain of letters. “Getting a bit behind in your post?”

Harry groans. Ever since he got back, the Ministry started delivering a load of screened and ‘safe’ mail at least once a week, all of it from total strangers. Only now does he realize just how much the Weasleys must have done to shield him when he stayed there. He only opened a few before he gave it all up as a lost cause.

Ginny leans down, picking up an open letter that’s fallen to the floor, and it’s only as she looks at the bright red paper with interest that he remembers what that particular letter says.

“Wait.”

Only it’s too late, Ginny’s eyes widening. “Is this…a marriage proposal?” She waves the parchment in front of her nose, breathing in deeply. “That’s some perfume.”

Harry scrambles over to snatch it from her, but she pulls it out of his reach. “Not so fast,” she says. “Have you decided your answer yet?”

“Ginny,” he says, reaching for the letter again, only for her to dart out of reach. He frowns at her, and she smiles back.

“Come on, Potter, I thought you used to be a Seeker.”

Oh, now it’s on. He lunges at her, and she dances away with a shriek.

It’s a miracle neither of them manages to knock anything over as they chase each other around the room like maniacs. Eventually he catches her, or more likely she lets herself get caught, backed into a corner next to the letter-laden table where this all started.

But Ginny doesn’t give up, shoving the letter behind her in one last childish move. Her face is flushed with pleasure, both of them breathing heavily as much from laughter as from running around the room. He isn’t convinced this tightness in his chest is all from being out of breath.

Rather than reaching for the letter, he leans down and kisses her, couldn’t resist doing that if he tried.

She smiles as he pulls back. “Trying a change in tactics?”

He looks at her in surprise, not having considered that approach. “Would that work?”

Her chin lifts. “Only if you think I’m really that easily—”

He doesn’t let her finish her sentence, kissing her again. She hums against his lips, the letter fluttering forgotten to the floor as she lifts her arms up around his shoulders.

He doesn’t even bother celebrating his apparent victory, too busy making up for all their weeks apart. Merlin he’s missed her just…being here. Being able to touch her really. Even just to be touched by her, the way he doesn’t mind it, even looks more and more forward to it. Misses it when it’s gone, and that’s something new too.

As usual, her hands aren’t wandering from his shoulders and chest, moving slowly and predictably with intent he knows is anything but accidental. He’d startled once when her hand closed unexpectedly around his forearm, fingers tight—too tight and too unexpected. He normally wouldn’t have reacted that way, but he was so distracted by other things—Ginny—that he was taken by surprise.

She didn’t say anything about it at the time, but he can tell how careful she’s been ever since. He wishes she didn’t have to be, wishes he weren’t so weird and stupid. That he could just have a snog like a normal person.

He never thought about it until she pointed it out. Never really noticed consciously that this is another way he’s not normal, as if needed one. So, yeah, he doesn’t particularly like being grabbed at. Not that he ever minded when it was Ron or Hermione or Teddy’s enthusiastic grip. Those always feel more like comfort and warmth and belonging, he supposes. With Ginny, it’s that too, but also…more.

She would probably tell him it isn’t a big deal and she just wants him to enjoy their time together without worrying about any of that. Despite wishing otherwise, it does help, that firm, warm press of her hands in predictable ways. Besides, her hands may be careful, but that doesn’t mean every part of her is. She isn’t kissing him like he’s a fragile thing, but rather like she’s putting everything her hands want to do into her lips. And that’s great. Really, really great.

Her tongue slides along his and all those thoughts and worries seem to scatter, his body folding into and around hers as he makes a sound he might derisively call a whimper if he actually cared about anything other than Ginny kissing him.

Her mouth opens wider under his and without thinking he presses his advantage, backing her up against the table until their bodies are flush against each other, and, Christ, that feels amazing. Her fingers press into his shoulders in response, keeping him close, and he can only hope that means she likes it too.

She feels so small like this, pressed up against him, the way he has to duck down to kiss her, a stark contrast to how large she looms in his mind. His hands slide down the smooth curve of her back, mapping the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, and he just can’t stop touching her, marveling at how different her body feels than his own.

One of Ginny’s hands leaves his shoulder and he spends half a moment tracking its disappearance, but then her other hand is trailing down to the middle of his chest. It takes him a moment to realize she’s pushing him gently back away, like she needs more space.

He pulls his mouth reluctantly from hers, looking down at her in concern, an apology already building for his embarrassing eagerness.

Ginny’s face is flushed, her hair mussed—did he do that?—and before he can say anything, she’s smoothly pulling herself up onto the table, settling her weight on the edge of it. Her hand curls into the front of his shirt and then she’s pulling him back towards her, her knees brushing on either side of his hips.

“I thought this might be better,” she says, voice soft and somehow deeper than he’s ever heard it before and it does things to him. Wonderful things.

His hands settle on her waist, this new arrangement bringing her face nearly level with his. “Much better,” he manages to agree.

She smiles, hands settling on his shoulders again even as her foot hooks behind his knee, reeling him in closer.

He’s definitely been not-kissing her for far too long at this point, his mouth back on hers and taking advantage of the new angle. His thumbs catch the bottom hem of her shirt and slip under to brush against her skin. She makes a small breathy sound that makes Harry’s skin feel tight and warm all over.

He turns his face slightly to the side, lips near the corner of her mouth. “Okay?”

“Yes,” she says, and pulls his mouth back to hers and kisses him fiercely enough that it takes him a moment to even remember his hands.

He eventually does, slipping them under the hem of her shirt. Her skin is so so soft, warm under his fingers. His hands feel rough and clumsy in comparison, but she doesn’t seem to mind to judge from the way she’s kissing him, the way her hand slides around the back of his neck, fingers curling into his hair.

He skims up over her ribs, feeling each slight dip and rise, hesitating when he bumps up against the fabric of her bra.

“You can,” Ginny murmurs against his lips, face still too close for him to see her expression clearly.

“What?” he asks, brain a bit fuzzy.

“Touch me,” she says. “If you want.”

He clears his throat, fingers tightening. “Do you? Um, want me to?”

She leans back, eyes intent on his face. “Yes,” she says, looking embarrassed but certain.

“Okay,” he agrees, probably a little too quickly.

They both stand there another moment, neither of them moving, before Ginny smiles at him and leans back in to kiss him in that way that makes thinking seem rather impossible. He honestly has forgotten how absorbing she can be, way more dizzying than any amount of firewhiskey or Muggle concoctions could ever be.

It takes him a little while to realize he still hasn’t moved his hands, his thumbs aimlessly rubbing gently along the curve of her rib cage. He slides them higher, skimming up over the soft swell of her breasts. He keeps his touch light, paying just as much attention to her reaction—the way she’s started making a soft sound at the back of her throat that he likes nearly as much as touching her—as to the sensation of her under his palm, the thinness the of fabric.

After a while, this doesn’t seem to be enough for Ginny though, because she leans into his hands, and he takes the hint, touching more firmly. She mutters something too garbled to catch, but the intent of the words is fairly easy to interpret, and Harry’s flushed with the knowledge that he is doing this to her, making her arch into his touch and kiss him breathless, making him forget any self-consciousness. Her teeth graze his lower lip, leg tightening around his thigh, building warmth washing over his skin in reaction.

Wrapping one arm around her waist, he drags her closer, his teeth almost clanging against hers as the kiss morphs into something else. This is no lazy, content snog in a dark hallway, but something energetic and swelling, more like a ramping up of a coming match, a Snitch just out of reach. It feels a lot like he’s teetering on the edge of a really tall cliff and all he wants to do is dive screaming down the other side.

He shifts, trying to get closer, just needing more, and in his eagerness he bangs his hip into the table, the entire thing shuddering under the impact. There’s a huge rush of noise that has them breaking apart with a jolt, breathing ragged and faces flushed as they look around for the source.

It takes a moment to realize the sound was the enormous pile of letters getting dislodged and avalanching to the floor. He relaxes, letting go of his wand still stowed in his back pocket and returning his attention to Ginny.

She hasn’t reached for a wand, maybe always knowing it was the letters. Instead her hands are fisted in his shirt like she’s trying to keep him close, or maybe just keep herself steady. Her own shirt is still rucked haphazardly up showing a lot more than a small strip of skin.

Harry carefully withdraws his hand, sliding down over her ribs, and she bites her lip, letting out an unsteady sound.

He rests his forehead against hers. “You okay?”

She nods her head. “Yes,” she says, which he’d believe more if her voice weren’t quite so uncertain. “Maybe a little...”

It’s not like things haven’t been intense between them before, but this was something else entirely. “Overwhelmed?” he guesses, having a hard time getting his own thoughts together.

Her lips twitch. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, still trying to will his heartbeat back to something even remotely normal. He isn’t deluded enough to think that’s all because of the unexpected noise of the falling letters.

Ginny’s fingers loosen, one of her hands reaching behind her to brace herself on the table. “Not that being overwhelmed is necessarily a bad thing,” she says. The smile she gives him feels like a physical touch.

He rests his hands on her waist, his thumbs already itching to feel her skin again, wanting to kiss her again, and what is wrong with him? “I’m sorry if I…”

“If you what?” she says, tilting her head to the side.

He blows out a breath, tamping down the insistent urge to drag her up against him again. “I don’t ever want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” she says immediately, like she doesn’t even need to think about it.

He nods, reaching out and touching her hair, twining a strand between his fingers.

“Really, Harry, you didn’t,” she says, face leaning towards his fingers. “It means a lot that you asked.”

He frowns, not liking the implication that someone else may have not asked.

She pulls herself back into him, face pressing into his neck as her hands settle warm and firm on his chest, and he feels himself finally relaxing at the contact. They stay there together for a long moment, Ginny’s fingers absently playing with the topmost button of his shirt, occasionally brushing against the skin underneath, and god, that is in no way distracting.

“Harry?” she asks, voice slightly muffled by their proximity.

“Hmm?” he says, attention caught up in the feel of her touch.

“Have you ever…?”

When she doesn’t finish her sentence, he opens his eyes, pulling back just far enough to see her face. “Have I ever?”

She bites her lip, giving him a pointed looked.

“Oh,” he says rather stupidly as it occurs to him what she’s talking about. “You mean…”

She nods, looking relieved that he’s caught on. “Yeah.”

“No,” he admits, knowing that’s probably painfully obvious. That he is already way out of his league at this point. “I haven’t.”

She blows out a breath in something close to relief. “Me either.”

They share embarrassed smiles. It doesn’t really matter, one way or the other, but it’s kind of nice to know they’re in this together.

Ginny leans back on her hand, giving him a fond smile. “Though I suppose that means neither of us really know what we’re about.”

He grins back at her, just so happy to be here with her. “Oh, I have faith in our ability to figure it out,” he says without thinking.

Her eyebrow lifts.

Harry feels warmth flood his face. “Not that we’re going to… I mean, I wasn’t implying…”

She’s laughing at him now, but that’s okay, because her heel is still hooked around his leg, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt like she can’t quite stop touching him and he is definitely okay with that.

“I’d like it to be like this,” she says, a determined glint in her eye even as her cheeks are pink. “Us talking about it. Even if it’s…”

“Mortifying?”

A laugh leaves her in a rush. “Merlin, yes. I’d just…I’d like to know, what we’re comfortable with, what you…like.” She seems to lose her nerve then, leaning back into him to hide her face. “Oh, god.”

He wraps his arms around her. “I’d like that too.” As unbearable as it sounds, he’s long since learned that with Ginny it’s better to outright ask than just bumble around and inevitably muck it all up.

Her body relaxes. “Good.”

He slides his hand into her hair, hugging her tight, and she presses her face into his neck, lips brushing against his skin. He sucks in a breath at the contact, and she kisses him more deliberately.

“For the record,” he says, voice quiet. “What I like, is you.”

Her only answer is her mouth opening against his throat, tongue tentatively darting out to taste his skin.

“And that,” he says, fingers tightening. “That too.”

She smiles against his neck and does it again.

*     *     *

They’re halfway through lunch before Ginny finally stops feeling flustered. A good flustered, certainly, but a little disconcerting anyway.

Their…interlude was eventually interrupted by Kreacher, who’d happily made lunch for them. And that wasn’t at all awkward. But part of her honestly hadn’t cared, too tied up in what was happening. She isn’t sure which one should disturb her more.

She glances across the table at Harry, watching him take a drink of water. She’s seen him do that a thousand times probably, but she’s caught staring at his neck, remembering what it tastes like.

“Gin?” Harry asks.

“Hmm?” she says, snapping her eyes back to her plate and praying she doesn’t look as flushed as she feels. So much for not being flustered anymore.

His foot nudges hers under the table, and she forces herself to look at him. She’d feel awkward about the probably stupid smile on her face if he weren’t wearing an identical one.

She clears her throat, spearing a bit of meatloaf on her fork. “So. I have a serious question.”

His smile slips. “Yeah?”

She leans an elbow on the table. “Exactly how many marriage proposals are there?”

He pulls a face. “I have no idea. I stopped opening letters after the first few.”

She finds that hard to believe. “Aren’t you curious?”

“How many there are?” he asks, pushing the remnants of his lunch around his plate with his fork.

“No,” she says, not sure if he’s trying to be funny or just deliberately obtuse. “What they say.”

He shrugs. “I’ve read enough to know what to expect.”

She wants to press in on that, to know what else he’s read in there to make him look like these letters are something to be avoided at all costs, but he clearly does not want to talk about it. So she bites her tongue, even as she wonders if he will ever manage to reconcile himself with his fame.

Finishing lunch, they clear their plates, setting them to washing themselves in the sink. Heading back up to the sitting room together, Ginny looks over at the letters still strewn about everywhere, evidence of their rather enthusiastic snog.  

“Should we pick that up?” she asks, forcing herself not to be embarrassed.

“Trying to avoid revising, huh?” Harry tries to tease, but she can tell his heart isn’t really in it.

“Come on,” she says, taking his hand and tugging him across the room.

Harry conjures a large box, and they kneel down next to each other, scooping the letters up into it.

Ginny doesn’t try to read any more of them, knows they aren’t really her business. But that doesn’t stop her mind from passively cataloging the types of envelopes and missives as she drops them into the box. There are a lot more letters with fancy envelopes and loopy lettering, some with perfumes. If she didn’t know for a fact that the Ministry has screened all of these, she would worry about love potions.

She tries to shovel them in without looking at them, the same way Harry is. One catches her eye though, a rough edged envelope with large childish writing on the front. She can’t help but smile when she notices that the ‘a’ in Harry is written backwards. When she flips the envelope over, she finds a crayon drawing of a stick figure with overly large circular glasses and a jagged lightning scar under a mop of green hair.

It’s utterly charming, and Ginny finds herself imaging some kid somewhere painstakingly writing to Harry.

Biting her lip, she considers the wisdom of it before finally holding the letter out to Harry.

He turns towards her, automatically taking it. His lips twitch upwards in a smile at seeing the drawing, but it doesn’t stick. He carefully turns it over in his hands, ducking his head as he takes in the details like it’s something dangerous.

She tries to read his expression, but his eyes are hidden behind his lenses, and it feels a lot like that day out in the orchard so many years before—Harry struggling with the weight of everything everyone needs him to be. Maybe, she considers, for him these letters just feel like one more thing he can’t escape.

She reaches out, fingers touching his fringe where it falls over his frames. It’s getting long again. She tugs gently at a lock.

“Now green hair is an interesting idea,” she murmurs.

He lets out a huff, his frozen immobility seeming to break.

Ginny scoops up the last of the letters into the box, and Harry places the child’s letter carefully on top of the pile before shoving the entire box under the table and out of sight.

Ginny reaches over, taking Harry’s hand in hers. His fingers squeeze tight around hers, the two of them sitting side by side, neither of them moving.

“We should probably get back to revising,” she eventually suggests, giving his shoulder a gentle nudge.

Harry perks up at that, turning to look at her with far more eagerness than studying deserves. “Okay.”

Ginny shakes her head, giving him a stern look. “You will be sitting on the other side of the room.”

“Of course,” he says, clearly trying to look innocent.

If Ginny manages to learn anything at all about Potions that afternoon, she has no memory of it.

Chapter Text

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” Ron says.

Harry comes to a stop on the path next to him, gazing up at Hogwarts rising above the trees. “Yeah. It does.”

It’s only been a little over a year, but it’s hard to tell that a battle ever happened here. Only the most discerning eye would notice that the skyline of the castle is not quite the same, and Harry supposes it’s like Ron said last summer—after everything that happened, something should be different.

Walking past them at a steady clip with her trunk following behind, Hermione barely spares a glance for the castle, her mind doubtlessly already mired in timetables and upcoming exams.

Ron shakes his head, looking after his girlfriend with a fond expression. “Mental, that one.”

Harry makes a sound of agreement. As much as some things have changed, that certainly hasn’t.

“Come on,” Ron says. “Let’s get up there.”

Out on the lawn, students lounge in small groups, some down by the water throwing what looks like a beach ball out at the giant squid. These, Harry imagines, are the students lucky enough not to be seventh- or fifth-years, no enormous, life-defining exams looming over them. Despite his jealousy, it’s nice to see students enjoying themselves in sharp contrast to the last time he was here.

The castle interior is cool and dim in comparison, and much quieter. It’s harder not to think about the bad memories in here. For all he got to spend one pleasant day in the castle, it doesn’t necessarily outweigh everything else, and he’s glad to have Ron here by his side carrying on a steady stream of chatter.

The three of them head for the stairs towards Gryffindor tower, a route they’ve taken so many times before. Turning a corner, Harry stumbles as someone runs smack into him. He reaches out to stop what turns out to be a very young witch from sprawling back on the floor. Her robes identify her as a Hufflepuff.

She looks up at him, and her face seems to drain of all color.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks.

Her face undertakes another rapid transformation, a flood of red replacing the white. She doesn’t seem capable of speech.

“Er,” Harry says, not quite sure if she’s hurt or what.

“I know,” Ron says, stepping up and smiling kindly at her. “I’m very famous.”

The witch’s eyes dart to Ron and then to Hermione and back to Harry, a small sound of distress emanating from her.

Content that she probably won’t fall down at least, Harry lets go of her. She immediately sketches a bizarre sort of head bob curtsy thing before turning and fleeing with a small squeak.

Ron laughs quietly as she disappears, nudging Harry in the side. “Reminds me of how Ginny used to be around you, that first summer you came to the Burrow.”

“Right,” Harry says, finding himself disappointed to be treated that way here of all places. One of the few places he ever really thought of as home. But maybe not anymore.

They continue on their way back up towards Gryffindor tower, the weirdness of it all not dissipating. He honestly hadn’t intended to actually stay in the castle, but Hermione insisted.

“What if I miss an exam?” had been her constant refrain. “What if I’m late? What if there’s a book I need?”

So with McGonagall’s permission, here they are, trunks in tow, heading back to their old dorms for two weeks. As strange as it feels, it will definitely have its perks. Seeing friends. The amazing food in the hall. Sleeping in his old bed again.

But mostly being around Ginny of course. Pretty much completely Ginny, if he’s honest.

He hadn’t been all that hard to convince, really.

Their arrival coincides with lunch, which may or may not have been planned, primarily by Ron but definitely assisted by Harry. At this time of day, the common room is fairly empty, everyone outside enjoying the weather or cooped up in the library studying, no doubt.

Up in their old tower dorm room, everything waits for them just like always. It’s just how he remembers it, Neville, Dean, and Seamus’s beds already set up with trunks at the end, belongings strewn about.

Harry looks at his old four-poster bed and wonders if he’s imagining that it looks smaller than he remembers it.

By the time they dump their stuff and head back down to lunch, more students are out in the halls, many stopping and staring and whispering. It’s been a bit of an open secret, the arrival of the so-called ‘Golden Trio.’ Ginny has been helpfully filling him in on every amusing (to her) rumor flying through the castle.

The staring does nothing to help with the knots in Harry’s stomach, though honestly very little of that has to do with rumors or upcoming exams. He’s excited to see Ginny, yes; but he also just isn’t really sure what it will be like, being around her and Ron and Hermione at the same time, day in and day out.

Fortunately Hermione starts fretting over their schedules and what kind of questions they think might show up on their first exam tomorrow. It’s a distraction, a familiar one at that. Hermione obsessing and Ron complaining about it, and that’s pretty much like everything’s wrapped back around to the beginning.

Harry almost runs into Ron as he comes to a sudden stop in the doorway to the Great Hall.

“What the bloody hell,” Ron says, staring around in alarm.

At first glance, the hall seems to be in chaos. Rather than four long tables, there are a lot of tables of various sizes, some of them actively shifting and bunching up to make larger tables of dubious shapes. The students don’t seem that fussed about it really.

Neville appears next to them, greeting them warmly. “Come on. I know it looks weird.” He leads them to the buffet and then over to a table, sitting down with them.

“Thought we were finally shot of you three,” Burke says by way of greeting, dropping his tray down on the table nearby and taking a seat.

Hannah sits next to him, giving him a poke. “Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” Burke says indignantly.

Luna wanders up. “Hello,” she says, sitting next to Hannah as the table begins to morph into a long ‘L’ shape.

Reiko drops down in the empty seat next to Harry. “Potter,” she says, voice brisk. “Mind if I pick your brain about something?”

Hermione, who has always bemoaned the house divisions she thought were only exacerbated by Quidditch, looks at the chaos around her and beams.

Harry starts in on his meal, one eye on the room as he tries to answer Reiko’s questions about Quidditch and Seekers and feinting theories.

They’ve been there maybe fifteen minutes when Ginny finally walks into the hall. Harry forces himself not to react, but that doesn’t mean he takes his eyes off of her as she works her way across the room. He watches the way she affects the space around her, the way people melt out of her way. He doubts she even notices the effect she has on everything around her.

He’d think her completely unaware of his presence except that she unerringly shoots a smile in his direction right before passing out of sight to sit at a table behind him.

Harry forces himself to return his attention to his food. Reiko still hasn’t taken a breath as far as he can tell, or noticed his lack of attention.

Reiko finally stops talking enough to shove some food in her mouth when Harry notices Ron frowning at something just past his shoulder.

“What is it?” he asks.

Ron juts his chin, Harry turning and looking.

He sees Ginny sitting at a table with the Carrow twins. Michael Corner, he notices, is in the spot directly next to her. As they watch, he leans into her space, seeming to find little reasons to touch her. Just enough to not seem particularly innocent.

“That wanker,” Ron says, tone fairly dangerous.

Hermione just gives Ron a repressive glance. “That’s Ginny’s business, not yours.”

Even though he knows he shouldn’t, Harry can’t help looking over again. Ginny’s face, he notices, is carefully blank, but the next time Corner touches her, she leans into him, her mouth near his ear. To anyone watching it might look intimate and comfortable, right up until Corner’s face pales and he slides carefully away from her, leaving a sizeable space between them.

Ginny gives Corner a smile that seems pleasant on the surface but makes the hair on the back of Harry’s neck stand up.

Next to Harry, Reiko snorts. “Stupid git. She’s been trying to shake him off for ages.” She looks up at him. “Some blokes just can’t take a hint, can they?”

Harry has no interest in touching that comment, returning his attention to his plate as Ron starts abusing Corner to anyone who will listen. Harry definitely doesn’t encourage him, but he doesn’t exactly try to stop him either.

*     *     *

Ginny imagines she can tell the very moment Harry, Ron, and Hermione enter the castle. Patronus messages really don’t have anything on the rumor mill at Hogwarts. For the rest of Sunday, the castle buzzes with it. Ginny herself barely has time to do more than say a passing hello, the three of them are so constantly surrounded by students.

Monday the castle is a little quieter, many students sitting the first round of exams, including Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Ginny’s first exam isn’t until tomorrow, so she’s spending the morning in the DA room revising. There’s a fairly large collection of people there, mostly the girls, having drifted in to give the fifth- and seventh-years a gossip break.

Predictably, Harry is the center of almost all of it.

“Is it just me or is Harry Potter far more attractive now that he’s not always covered in blood or about to be killed?” Padma muses.

“Dunno,” Demelza says, lounging back on her elbow and looking annoyingly relaxed as a sixth-year with no exams to sit. “I think I prefer my wizards a little distressed.”

Padma laughs. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

Lisa Turpin looks around Padma’s shoulder from where she’s currently braiding her best friend’s hair. “Apparently Holly already propositioned him and he’s barely been in the castle a full day.”

Demelza fairly cackles upon hearing this. “Did she really? Did Potter take her up on it?”

Lisa shakes her head. “From what I’ve heard, he didn’t even realize she offered.”

They burst into laughter. Ginny just keeps her attention on her Potions notes as if she is at all studying rather than listening to a gaggle of girls speculate about her secret boyfriend’s love life.

“It’s like he doesn’t even realize that The Chosen One could pretty much have any witch he wants,” Padma muses.

“Not this witch,” Lisa points out.

“Right,” Padma says with a laugh. “Every witch who isn’t gay.”

“Or your sister,” Lisa says. “I think she still hasn’t forgiven him for the Yule Ball, Slayer of the Dark Lord or not.”

Padma laughs in agreement.

“Or who isn’t Ginny Weasley,” Demelza adds on.

Ginny looks up from her notes, doing her best to look like she’s missed the entire conversation. “What about me?”

Demelza waves her hand lazily. “Oh, just that there are some feats even the Savior of the Wizarding World couldn’t overcome.”  

“Meaning me?” Ginny says, working hard to keep her voice light and even.

“What did you say to Michael at lunch yesterday?” Padma asks, clearly curious. “He looked like he’d swallowed his tongue by the time you were done.”

Ginny supposes it was too much to hope that that little interaction had gone mostly unnoticed.

“I just pointed out that the only bed I had an interest in seeing him in was a hospital bed,” she admits, deciding that she’s fine with sharing so long as it turns the conversation away from Harry.

The girls let out loud whoops of approval, falling into each other, even as Susan shoots them disapproving glares for interrupting her studying.

Fortunately after that they move on to other areas of speculation, such as Astoria and Draco, and whether or not Dean and Seamus really think they are fooling anyone.

At lunch, Ginny peels away from the girls, looking around for her brother. He spent most of yesterday locked up doing last-minute studying, so this is her first real chance to talk with him. It would be completely reasonable to seek him out, she tells herself.

She finally finds Ron, already sitting with Harry and Hermione. Hermione’s face is scrunched as she thoroughly details something while Ron and Harry listen on, occasionally sharing amused glances as if this has been going on for a while.

It’s weird to see Harry back in a Hogwarts uniform, but definitely not unpleasant. Padma wasn’t wrong. He definitely looks particularly relaxed and fit for all he’s in the middle of exams. Having Voldemort and the war and even those sodding Dursleys behind him at last, she imagines.

He looks up as she nears, his face fairly lighting up as he catches sight of her. She knows he’s disappointed with how challenging it has been to find any time with each other so far. She has been too.

Ginny steps up behind Ron, mussing his hair. “How’d it go?”

He ducks his head, turning to scowl at her. “The best that can be said is that it’s behind us.”

She smiles, knowing her brother always prefers the doing to the writing about. If he really didn’t do so great on the written, he’ll no doubt do much better in the afternoon practical exam.

Touching Hermione’s shoulder gently, she says, “Hey. How are you?”

Hermione looks up. “The way they asked one of the questions was so ambiguous! There were at least three different ways it could have been answered, depending on how you read it. It’s so irresponsible! They should be clearer.”

Ginny nods, biting back a smile. “I’m sure you’re right. Did you give them all three answers and explain why?” She’s only half-joking, knowing Hermione.

“Of course I did, but that left me with so little time to do everything else.”

There’s no point in reminding Hermione that it’s done and over and that outside of using a time turner there’s no going back and changing it, so instead Ginny just makes a vague sound of commiseration and finally lets herself address Harry.

“And you?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Unfortunately I only gave one answer to that question, so I’m apparently doomed.”

Ron snorts into his pumpkin juice, Hermione glaring at Harry.

Ginny smiles. “Might as well give up right now then, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, nodding. “I’ll find a way to live with it.”

She’s tempted to make a joke there, but this is treading perilously close to flirting, and she is far too aware how many eyes are on him at any given moment. Looking away, she drops her bag in the empty chair next to Ron.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Only if you talk about anything other than Transfiguration,” Ron says darkly.

“Deal,” Ginny says, crossing over to the buffet to fill a plate.

The seats around them have all filled in by the time she gets back, people very eager to sit with them. She’s relieved to see Harry between Hannah and Neville, two people she can trust not to pester him. She knows all the attention has got to be wearing on him.

“So,” she says to Ron as she settles in her seat. “Shall we talk about Potions?”

He groans, no doubt at the reminder of tomorrow’s exam. “I have three exams in four days!”

Ginny’s pretty lucky in her own schedule, her exams spread out for the most part. Hermione apparently has four exams in a row next week. It sounds like hell.

“And I hate having to get up for more food at lunch,” Ron griped.

Hermione is now complaining to Luna, who seems serenely unperturbed by it, just nodding as she carefully spreads her bread with butter.

Ginny catches Harry’s eye across the table. “Your mates are a pair of grumps,” she observes.

“It’s okay,” Harry says. “I’m told I’m the cheerful one.”

Ginny can’t help but laugh, even as part of her brain is yelling about what a bad idea this is. It’s not like she’s going to go out of her way to ignore him, but she can’t exactly tease him the way she’s become more comfortable with. It’s a line she isn’t quite sure how to navigate. And she bloody hates being uncertain.

Just to be safe, she does her best to pay more attention to her food than Harry for the rest of the meal, no matter how tempting it is to do otherwise.

*     *     *

Harry no sooner finishes his afternoon practical Transfiguration exam than he finds himself once again holed up with Ron and Hermione studying for his next exam, with barely a break for dinner.

It takes a toll on his mood, only feeling bleaker and more annoyed as the evening passes.

It’s not even the tests he’s annoyed with really. The truth is that he seriously underestimated how hard it would be to find time with Ginny. He’s been in the castle for almost 36 hours now and still hasn’t had even a minute alone with her. There’s just always people everywhere. Including Ron. Especially Ron. Not that he doesn’t want Ron to be there. He likes Ron being around. It just makes it challenging to slip away to see Ginny without having to come up with some sort of lie. And he is terrible at lying to Ron.

He sighs, looking up from his potions notes. Currently, Ron’s frowning over at Hermione. She refused to sit with them, instead settling in the corner at a small table, glaring at anyone who dares approach her. Harry understands exactly why Ron is watching her with concern. She is demonstrating all the hallmarks of an impending studying-induced meltdown. She has a tendency to slam up against a wall at some point, and it isn’t pretty to see. Having two tests back to back certainly isn’t helping.

“Should we do something?” he asks. He’s hoping Ron has some sort of plan. Harry may have been best mates with Hermione for years, but he’s still never been that great at this particular part.

“She needs to be distracted for a bit,” Ron confirms.

Harry nods. That sounds about right. If she weren’t Hermione, he might suggest a broom ride or something similar. That always helps clear his head. But Hermione doesn’t find brooms particularly relaxing. She only finds organizing people relaxing as far as he can tell.

“Should I fake a personal crisis?” he offers. It would probably be a better option than letting her reorganize his notes, which wouldn’t really be a step in the right direction.

Ron shakes his head, clearly having something else in mind. “Could I borrow the map?”

“The map?” Harry says stupidly.

Ron gives him an exasperated look. “Yes the bloody map. You didn’t forget to pack it, did you?”

“Uh, no,” he says, not seeing any way around the truth. “I actually gave it to Ginny before we left for Australia.”

Ron frowns. “Ginny?”

Crap. “Well, it wasn’t going to be of any use to us, and your brothers gave it to me in the first place, so it’s already kind of your family’s,” he says, aware that he’s babbling, but unable to stop. “It seemed the thing to do.”

“She showed it to us,” Neville confirms from where he’s sitting on the other side of Ron. “Been pretty useful. I just wish we had it last year.”

“Yeah,” Harry says with a wince, thinking about the DA trying to work around the Carrows without the map. “Sorry about that.”

Neville gives him an easy smile. “It’s fine. You couldn’t have known.”

“I wonder if she would lend it to me,” Ron says, clearly more concerned with the present. He slouches back in the couch, apparently not liking his chances. “Not without wanting to know why probably. I knew I should have been nicer to her today.”

Ron was hardly mean to Ginny today. More like the usual affectionate sniping that seems to be their default state. Still, Ron seems to think this level of a favor requires a lot more buttering up.

Ron stares contemplatively at the staircase up to the boys’ dorms. “You and Neville aren’t going to sleep anytime soon, right? Maybe I could have the dorm to myself for a bit?”

Ron’s specific plan to distract Hermione becomes painfully clear in that moment. Harry and Neville catch each other’s eye only to immediately look away again.

“Surely Dean and Seamus won’t mind,” Ron says, either unaware or uncaring of their reaction.  

Harry thinks about what he’s pretty sure is going on upstairs in their dorm right now, having seen Seamus and Dean head up there earlier.

“Um,” Harry says, not sure how to avert this disaster without breaking confidences.

Out of desperation, he looks at Neville again, and they simultaneously seem to realize that the other is aware of Dean and Seamus’s relationship. Of course Neville would be. Hard not to be, having shared a dorm with them all year.

But Harry definitely isn’t going to think about that.

“There’s a closet,” Neville rushes out, saving them both.

“What?” Ron asks.

Neville nods. “On the third floor beneath Ravenclaw Tower. Around the corner from the Charms classroom.”

“A closet?” Ron asks, looking confused.

Neville squirms in his chair. “Some people use it for…well…”

Ron perks up. “Privacy?”

“Yeah,” Neville says, seemingly relieved not to have spell it out further.

Harry’s never really been up on the favored snogging locations in the castle, but something about the third floor tickles a memory in the back of his mind.

“Oh,” he blurts, the detail finally connecting in his head.

Ron looks up at Harry, clearly figuring it out too. “Oh, Merlin,” he says, letting out a bark of laughter. “Is that what that witch was saying to you yesterday?”

Harry feels his face warm. The witch ‘bumped’ into him in the hall and then proceeded to offer to give him a tour of the castle to see all the changes since he was last in school.

“She was pretty eager to show Harry the third floor in particular, if I recall,” Ron informs Neville, nudging him suggestively in the ribs.

Neville smiles. “Well, he is the Hero of Hogwarts.”

Harry wads up a spare bit of parchment and chucks it at Neville.

Ron laughs. “May want to avoid the third floor, mate. Or, you know, not, as the mood may take you.”

Harry groans, covering his face with his hands. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned about your girlfriend right now?”

“Oh, right,” Ron says, easily distracted from taking the mickey. He turns to Neville. “So if lots of people know about it, how do you make sure someone isn’t already…”

Neville awkwardly clears his throat. “There’s a painting of a pub. If the fire in the fireplace is lit, the room is…occupied.”

“Convenient,” Ron says.

Neville shrugs, a red flush working its way up over his collar. “It can be.”

They both stare at Neville, his understanding of this spot apparently going far beyond simple castle gossip.

Ron’s mouth spreads into a wide smile. “Neville, you dog,” he says with a chuckle.

Neville presses his lips together, clearly not interested in denying or confirming anything.

When it’s clear that he isn’t going to get any more details, Ron shoves everything away in his bag in preparation for Operation Distracting Hermione. “Wish me luck, lads.”

“Good luck,” Harry says. He thinks Ron’s going to need it, trying to separate Hermione from her books the night before a big exam.

“One more thing, Ron,” Neville says, before he can walk away.

“Yeah?” he asks distractedly.

Reaching into his bag, Neville pulls out a folded piece of parchment, shoving it towards Ron. “Just take that, will you?”

Neville looks incredibly uncomfortable, and Harry watches with interest as Ron opens the parchment, skimming the words and what looks like illustrations.

“Christ, Neville,” Ron says, eyes wide. “What are you, the house mum?”

“Just…look it over it, will you?” Neville says, sounding long-suffering.

Ron recovers, shaking his head back and forth. “Sure, mate. Cheers. Maybe I can convince Hermione this is just studying too.” With a wink, he turns on his heel, crossing over to approach Hermione.

Harry turns to Neville. “What was that?”

“Um.” Rather than explaining it, Neville pulls another one out, handing it to Harry.

Harry nearly chokes as he looks down at it. There’s a careful list of charms and instructions for how and when to use them. All of them revolving around sex. Some of them rather graphically. There’s even a bit about love potions and consent in there too.

Neville clears his throat. “We had them made up for the DA. Based off something Sprout gives the Hufflepuff girls apparently.”

Harry manages to recover himself. “You, uh, talk about this in the DA?”

“Technically it’s defense. Of a sort,” Neville mumbles.

“I guess so,” Harry says, looking down at the charms and potions he’s never even heard of. It occurs to him just how limited his own education is in this particular area—both from magical and Muggle sides. It’s not like the Dursleys would ever talk about it. And asking the Weasleys… Just no. Maybe he could have worked up the nerve to go to Sirius eventually, but that isn’t an option anymore. Even he and Ron don’t really discuss it, mostly because even if they leave it unspoken, they both still know it’s about Hermione.

“Do you mind if I, uh, keep this?” Harry asks.

Neville shakes his head, doing his best not to look at him.

Harry tucks it quickly away in his bag, not exactly keen on anyone else in the common room seeing him with it. By the time he looks back up from his bag, against all odds Ron has somehow successfully convinced Hermione to take a break, the two of them walking out of the common room together.

Meaning Harry is on his own as well. Finally.

Glancing at his watch, he notes that there’s only forty-five minutes left before curfew. Not a lot of time, but still time. Time he can spend with Ginny. He glances down at his potions notes. Surely he’s learned all he can at this point?

It honestly isn’t even a choice. Shoving his notes aside, he pulls out his parchment and quill.

Ron is finally distracted. Any chance you need a study break?

Screw potions, is her immediate reply. Meet you in the cloister in ten minutes?

Harry grins, relieved that she is clearly just as eager. Deal.

Dean and Seamus choose that opportune moment to come back down the stairs, a plan forming in his mind. “I’m going to have a bit of an early night, I think,” Harry says, shoving everything back in his bag and getting to his feet.

Neville looks quizzical, but doesn’t pry. “Yeah, sure. See you tomorrow.”

“Night,” he says and heads up the stairs. Up in the dorms, he stows his bag and closes the curtains around his bed. Hopefully no one will think to even look. He doubts Ron will be back anytime soon anyway.

Pulling on his invisibility cloak, he sneaks back out through the common room and out the portrait hole as some thirds years come in.

It’s close enough to curfew that there are very few people out in the halls, though he does cross Mrs. Norris at one point, her wide eyes following his progress.

You aren’t doing anything wrong, he reminds himself. For once.

The cloister is dark when he gets there, nothing more than the soft filtering of moonlight through the glass ceiling. It’s not enough to get around without tripping over anything, so Harry lifts his wand, muttering, “Lumos.”

He finds a lamp sitting on a mostly full bookcase wedged between two marble pillars, prodding it to life with his wand. It fills the small space with a soft golden glow that doesn’t quite eliminate all the shadows. Lit like this, the space feels even cozier than he remembers.

“Hey.”

He turns, and there Ginny is, still dressed in her uniform, wand held loosely at her side.

“Hey,” he says, smiling broadly as he takes a step towards her.

He’s so happy to see her, but he can’t help but notice that it feels a little weird. He isn’t sure why. They’ve seen each other since he arrived, but never alone really. The ease and comfort of her last visit to Grimmauld seems to have evaporated, like a reset button or something.

Or maybe it’s just how different she is here. He tells himself he’s probably just imagining that. More likely it’s just that it’s been more than two weeks since her last visit. Or that they have to be so careful when they are around other people.

It’s hard to slip back out of that.

“I’m sorry to take you away from studying,” he says, starting to feel foolish.

She shakes her head, stowing her wand. “Merlin. I’m not.”

His shoulders relax. “Yeah. I’m not really either.”

She smiles, and suddenly it feels easier, Harry crossing over to her and pulling her into a hug.

“How has it been?” she asks, arms wrapping around him as she presses into his chest. “Coming back?”

“There are definitely things about this place I miss,” he says.

She leans back to look at him. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding solemnly. “The Fat Lady makes the best jokes. And the treacle tart….”

Her nose scrunches up as she glares at him. “Oh, I see how it is. If you’d rather meet up with the Fat Lady, I could probably arrange it.”

He laughs, shaking his head before he leans in and kisses her. She only holds stiffly for a bare moment as if to remind him she won’t forgive his teasing so easily. Then she’s kissing him back, and it’s great, but also feels a little cautious, like they are working it all out again, and he’s really looking forward to not having to go weeks without kissing her ever again.

Ginny’s hands wind up the back of his neck, pulling him closer and everything shifts, the kiss deepening and feeling far more familiar.

Harry has never been more thankful for her strange little cloister than he is right now. He considers that maybe this is what it could have been like if he’d come back instead of going to Australia. But there are a thousand reasons that wouldn’t have worked, so he concentrates instead on being very content to be here with her now.

Apparently Ginny has similar plans of enjoying every moment they have together, and in no time at all, they are very well reacquainted, Harry settling on the grass with Ginny sitting on his lap, and it’s even better than he remembers.

“Harry?” Ginny says.

As he’s currently working his way down her throat with his mouth, his fingers fiddling with her topmost button in hopes of maybe gaining better access to the smooth line of her shoulder; he just gives a vague noise in response.

“About Michael,” she says.

Talk about a cold dose of water. This is definitely not what he wants to hear at the moment. Abandoning the button, he slips a hand up under the hem of her shirt.

She lets out a sound like a hum of approval, and he thinks maybe he’s successfully distracted her when she shakes her head a bit.

“Harry,” she says, voice stern as if remind him that she will not be so easily derailed.

He sighs, dropping his forehead against her shoulder as he considers the fastest way to get through this conversation so they can get back to more important things. “What about him?”

She’s quiet so long that he looks up at her. She’s biting her bottom lip, apparently working out exactly what she wants to say, but the gesture just makes Harry impatient to get back to kissing her. And stupid. It makes him pretty stupid too.

“Are you snogging him behind my back?” he asks.

She sucks in a breath, her hands pushing him away as she leans back. “What? No. Of course not.”

He nods, not thinking for a moment that she was, but a little unclear of the point of this conversation, particularly at this exact moment. “Okay. Then I don’t care about Michael bloody Corner.” They have so little time together, he’d rather not waste it talking about other blokes.

Only Ginny is frowning at him rather than looking appeased, something stubborn in the set of her shoulders. “We dated for three weeks.”

Lovely. So much for getting through this quickly. Harry leans his weight back on one hand, rubbing at his eyes with the other. “Okay. But you’re not dating him now.”

“Obviously not,” she says, beginning to look cross. She folds her arms across her chest, and that doesn’t bode well for anything.

Harry sighs. “Look, do I kind of want to hex him? Sure. Yeah. Quite a lot, honestly.” He peers up at her. “Can I?”

She shakes her head.

“Yeah. I didn’t think so. So, to recap. You aren’t currently dating him or snogging him and I can’t hex him.”

“I knew it upset you,” she says, and it occurs to him that she actually looks worried under that prim look she’s giving him. Like she isn’t sure how he is going to react to this evidence that she dated other people.

That’s the only reason he manages to bite back a sarcastic reply that would no doubt only get him in more trouble. “Only because he’s clearly still making a nuisance of himself. Not about anything you’ve done. We already talked about this, didn’t we?”

Her shoulders soften. “Yes, I know. I just thought seeing it might be different. I mean, the photographs of you and that witch…”

“Muggle,” Harry corrects absently.

“What?”

He shakes his head. “Cass is a Muggle.”

“Cass,” Ginny says, voice soft. “Is that her name?”

Dammit, he’s only making this worse. “Ginny,” he says, reaching out and pulling her back towards him. “I don’t care if you dated the entire bloody school.”

She gives him an unbelieving look.

“I only care that you’re with me now.”

“Which I definitely am,” she says.

“Yeah?” he says, giving her a challenging look.

She rolls her eyes at him, but also leans back into him, unfortunately stopping just short of actually kissing him. “The entire school?”

He sighs. “Except Malfoy. Please tell me you didn’t date Malfoy.”

She laughs.

“Seriously,” Harry asks, eyes narrowing. “Did you date Malfoy?”

Her fingers trail down the front of his shirt, tugging his tie free of its knot. “I thought you didn’t care?”

He regards her, attention split between this conversation and the movement of her fingers as they move on to his topmost button. “You’re really not going to tell me, are you?”

“Nope,” she says, finally kissing him.

He considers being put out by that, but honestly has much better things to think about than bloody sodding Malfoy. Mostly the way her fingers pull his collar to the side, her mouth following suit.

After passing a very pleasant half hour together, they are very reluctantly collecting everything to leave the cloister when Ginny brings it up again.

Hefting her bag up on her shoulder, she asks, “Do you know why I did it?”

“What?” he asks, shrugging his robes on and stuffing his tie in his pocket.

“Went out with them.”

He bites back the urge to press in on exactly who the ‘them’ is. Not just Corner, then. He’s already said he doesn’t care, he reminds himself. He busies himself with checking that he still has his cloak. “Because moving on was the logical thing to do, if I recall.”

“No,” she says.

He looks up at her. “What?”

Pulling an elastic band one more time around her hair, she drops her arms by her sides. “I mean, it definitely was. But that’s not why I did it.”

“Of course,” he says, smiling at her. “Because I make you illogical.”

She laughs, stepping closer and looking up at him fondly. “I think I was testing myself.”

“Yeah?”

She nods, her fingers tapping on his chest. “Going out with them wasn’t about moving on or any of the things it probably should have been. I just wanted to know that if you came back, if I did get another chance, that I wouldn’t muck it up again, that I wouldn’t freak out or…disappoint you.”

“Ginny,” he says, touching her waist.

She presses her face into his shoulder. “It was a stupid idea though. I wasn’t really testing anything. Because it turns out that being with someone who doesn’t mean anything to you isn’t the same as being with someone who does.”

Being with someone who does. Harry finds it difficult to respond for a moment, his chest seeming to fill with pressure.

“No, it isn’t,” he eventually agrees. He doesn’t want to, but he can’t help thinking of the entire fiasco with Cass—that being needed to do things isn’t the same as being needed just for you. “Maybe that’s a good test result. Figuring that out.”

“Why, Potter, that’s downright logical of you,” she teases, but he can feel the way her fingers are still firm on his arms like she’s not sure he won’t pull away.

He folds her into a hug, reveling in the way she just quietly tucks into his body, that tantalizing ease firmly back in place. “You could never disappoint me, Gin.”

“Oh, give me time,” she mumbles.  

He shakes his head, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “And you definitely aren’t mucking anything up.”

Her arms tighten around him. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Full marks. Gold star. O for outstanding.”

She laughs, leaning back to look at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Well, you definitely exceed expectations.”

He frowns. “Is that all? Where did I lose points?”

She tilts her head to the side. “Wasted potential.”

“How exactly?”

“Well,” she draws out, “there’s this whole thing where you could be kissing me right now...”

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. After all, he takes his studies very seriously.

Consequently, it is very very late by the time they finally leave the cloister, curfew little more than a memory. Of course, that means the corridors are all deserted and they don’t have to worry as much about being seen.

Harry has his invisibility cloak draped over his arm, the two of them hand in hand as they slowly wander back in the direction of her common room. Inspecting the alcoves, so to speak, from time to time, both of them far too aware how hard it might be to find time together again. He’s going to be exhausted and bleary for his morning exam, but honestly couldn’t care less.

He blames the exhaustion for their carelessness.

“Oh, bugger,” Ginny says, eyes going wide as she glances down at the map.

Harry doesn’t think, just flings his cloak over Ginny, the folds settling into place right as Professor McGonagall turns the corner.

“Mr. Potter,” she says, eyes narrowing. “Have you forgotten curfew?”

“Sorry, Professor,” Harry says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I must have lost track of time in the library.”

He smiles, hoping against hope that it might work on her.

For a moment, she seems to soften. “It’s nice having you three back, even if just for a few short weeks,” she says, giving him a rare smile. The smile disappears. “But don’t think I won’t put you in detention for breaking the rules.”

He absolutely believes her. “No, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am. I definitely won’t break any more rules.”

She lets out a sound suspiciously like a snort of disbelief. “That would be a first.”

Harry does his best to stand there looking innocent.

McGonagall’s eyes dart to the empty space where Ginny stands hidden.

Harry holds his breath and reminds himself there is no way she can see around the cloak.

After another long moment, McGonagall returns her gaze to Harry. “Well, I trust you can remember how to find your way back to your common room, even if reading a clock is beyond you?”

“Yes, of course,” he says, knowing he is far closer to the Slytherin common room than his own, let alone the library, but hopes that isn’t particularly obvious.

“Well then. Good night,” she says, walking away.

Harry blows out a breath.

“Oh, and Mr. Potter?” she says, coming to a stop.

He straightens up, turning to look warily at her. “Yes, ma’am?”

“You’ve missed a button. Just here.” She points at her own robes somewhere in the middle of her chest.

The implications of that flood Harry’s brain, and his face blazes with heat.

Damned if he doesn’t think McGonagall maybe chuckles to herself as she disappears around a corner.

Under the cloak, Ginny starts to laugh, leaning against him.

Harry wraps an arm around her, cursing under his breath. “She has not gotten any less terrifying.”

Ginny’s only response is to laugh harder.

Chapter Text

“Gin.”

She makes a low sound of complaint, wondering why someone is bothering her when she’s trying to sleep. She’d been having a nice dream too, she’s pretty sure.

A hand brushes down over her hair, settling on her shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “Hey. It’s getting late.”

It finally registers that it’s Harry’s voice rumbling under her cheek, which is unusual on many levels, but not at all unwelcome. She cracks open her eyes, realizing she’s not in her bed, but the dim space of the cloister. Right, she remembers. After slogging through their Potions exams, made only more grueling by the lack of sleep the night before, she and Harry managed to sneak away from everyone for a little while in the cloister.

They’d been lying in the grass talking, last she remembers.

She wipes at her mouth, hoping she hasn’t done anything embarrassing like drool all over him. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head. “My fault for being such a comfortable pillow.”

She turns her face into his chest. “Your fault for keeping me out so late last night.”

He laughs. “I’m sorry, but that was your fault.”

She rolls onto her back, stretching her hands up over her head as she peers at him. “How exactly?”

He waves a hand vaguely at her, encompassing her entire body. “You know, being you.”

She shakes her head, letting out a soft huff. “It’s a good thing I like kissing you so much,” she says, struggling to not smile as she gives him a faux stern look.

“Yeah?” he asks, eyes alight with humor as he rolls onto his side. “And why is that?”

She reaches up, touching his face, the slight scruff on his jaw scratchy under her fingers. “Because you’re an idiot,” she says, losing the battle with her smile.

“Am I,” he says, leaning into her, his hand coming to a rest on her side, warm and firm across her ribs.

Ginny feels her breath catch in her throat, something warm and expectant seeming to rise between them, almost like a physical thing.

He leans in, brushing his lips across the corner of her mouth, more a tantalizing caress than a real kiss. “It’s almost curfew,” he murmurs, as if a reminder to them both.

They’d promised not to be out so late tonight. They’re both exhausted and people will start to wonder if they are gone so often and so late.

“Yeah,” she says, knowing they need to leave. Honestly, she’s not sure she even trusts herself to kiss him at the moment. The way he’s staring at her mouth tells her he’s probably thinking the same thing.

Kissing has become a lot more complicated recently.

She closes her eyes, hoping that will help. “I hate curfew.”

“I’d much rather stay,” he says, breath warm against her neck.

She slides her hand down his arm. “Me too.”

If she’s being completely honest, what she really wants is to pull him down closer, to know what that feels like, his body solid on top of hers, maybe his leg sliding between hers as he kisses her senselessly.

Harry lets out a sigh, pressing a lingering kiss to her neck that does absolutely nothing to help the situation, before finally pulling away and rolling to his feet. Only then does she trust herself to look at him again. He reaches his hands out to her and she lets him pull her up.

“I didn’t mean to waste our time together,” she says, regretting her impromptu nap immensely.

He smiles at her. “It was hardly a waste.”

She looks at him in surprise. Watching someone nap doesn’t exactly sound like the most riveting experience. “Really?”

He shifts on his feet, suddenly looking uncertain. “It was…nice, I mean.” He blows out a breath. “Just being around you at all is nice.”

Ginny bites the inside of her lip, his awkward sincerity making her want drag him back down into the grass again. “Nice?” she forces herself to tease, to lighten the moment before she can get lost in it.

He smiles, shaking his head. “More than nice.”

“Good,” she says, and moves in to kiss him. Being upright hasn’t completely dispelled whatever that moment earlier was, though, both of them nearly forgetting things like curfew and promises. Then again, she’s deluding herself if she thought kissing Harry was ever simple.

She does manage to get back to her common room before curfew, though it’s a near thing.

She dreams about Harry that night, the specific details hard to remember after waking up, but the feeling of it lingering, leaving her flushed and out of breath.

She keeps drifting back into the sensation of it during breakfast, finding herself staring in Harry’s direction where he’s sitting with Ron and Neville. She chastises herself for being so stupidly obvious and turns her mind to more sobering things like her exams.

Today is Divination and tomorrow Herbology, meaning Ginny has the next two days free before she has to sit back to back exams on Friday and Saturday. It’s tempting to use the free time to nap and relax, but she knows she needs every minute to prepare.

“Library?” she suggests to Tobias.

“Yeah,” he agrees, taking one last swig of pumpkin juice before getting to his feet.

They walk together in comfortable, early morning silence, Ginny’s mind wandering once more.

She nearly stumbles when Tobias nudges her. “Are you even listening?”

“What?” Ginny asks, honestly not having heard him say anything.

He regards her, eyes narrowing. “You’re being weird.”

“I am not,” she says, tucking her books into her chest.

“Yes, you are,” he insists. “Kinda spacey. But also like you’re…happy.” He says this as if her being happy is inherently dangerous or something.

“Shut it,” she says, doing her best to school her expression. Or just look grumpy.  

Her effort is completely undermined when they turn the corner, because of course there Harry is, walking with Ron and Neville. Hermione, she imagines, is already in the library. Probably slept there the night before.

“Morning,” Neville says.

“Hey,” she says, doing her best to look primarily at Neville and her brother.

Ron mumbles a greeting, apparently no more enthused to be studying. When she finally lets herself look at Harry, he’s already considering her, looking at her like…

Merlin, his face is so bloody expressive, and it seems inconceivable that no one else will notice the way he’s looking at her, the way it drags those vague dreams back up in a moment.

She forces herself to look away.

Sure enough, as they all head towards the library together, Ginny can feel Tobias watching her closely. It kind of makes her want to hex him, which at least dispels any suspicious happiness.

If she’s honest, it’s weird having Harry here. Disorienting in a way that his day-long visits weren’t. She’ll just turn a corner or walk into breakfast, and he’s there. Not that she wishes he weren’t. Not at all. It’s just…a bit weird.

She tells herself she’s just not used to it. That it’s strange having him around after being apart for so long. It’s been nearly two years since he was a student at Hogwarts. And that was before they were ever anything, really. But another part of her wonders if it’s really because Hogwarts Ginny and Harry’s Ginny feel like two separate people. Secrets always require careful compartmentalizing.

He glances back at her again as they walk into the library, almost as if he’s hoping she’ll sit with him, but there is no way she trusts herself with that today.

“There’s Hannah,” Ginny says, grabbing Tobias’ elbow and pulling him towards a different table where Hannah and Susan are sitting.  

Ginny settles at the end of the table so her back is to Harry, mostly so she can resist doing anything stupid like stare at him, or try to remember more specifics of her dream last night. She has exams to worry about.

Really.

They work for a while, Tobias and Ginny focusing on History and Muggle Studies, while Susan and Hannah are hard at work on Herbology. It’s easily Hannah’s favorite subject, but you’d be hard pressed to know that from how miserable she looks right now.

Ginny’s just decided to take a break from History by switching over to Muggle Studies when Hermione and Ron start bickering, voices building from a soft hiss to almost outright yelling. Or so it feels like in the quiet of the library.

“This is serious, Ron!” Hermione shrilly announces to the whole room. “Our entire futures depend on these exams! We can’t afford to mess this up!”

Ginny turns, taking the scene in.

Harry seems to be ignoring Ron and Hermione even as every head in the room swivels towards them. Ever curious, Hogwarts students.

Harry looks up, catching her eye. She lifts both eyebrows in question and he just gives her a long-suffering look. She thought he mentioned the bickering having gotten better, but maybe exams just bring out the best in Hermione.

The table under Ginny’s elbow shakes slightly, and at first she assumes someone is jogging their leg up and down and jiggling it. She glances the other direction, ready to tell Tobias to knock it off when she catches sight of Hannah’s face.

She’s staring down at her notes like they may jump up and attack her, a sheen of sweat on her forehead.

“Hannah?” Ginny asks.

She doesn’t respond.

It’s Hannah that’s trembling, Ginny realizes. Not slight shivers like she’s cold, but a horrid shuddering like she’s in pain, or really scared.

Tobias’s chair scrapes back as he realizes something is wrong, leaning in close to Hannah and trying to take her hand. “Hannah?”

Hannah recoils, her breath turning into small little pants, her eyes staring unseeing as if she doesn’t know where she is, and with sudden realization, Ginny knows what this is. Knows all too well.

“Go get Pomfrey,” Ginny says to Tobias.

“Me?” he says, looking scandalized. “I’m not leaving.”

“Tobias—” she starts to object, aware that more people are noticing now.

“Is she alright?” someone asks.

Tobias looks around at the people who are gathering to stare, settling his gaze on a younger student standing nearby gaping rudely. He grabs the kid by the front of his robes, dragging him so close their faces nearly touch.

“Go get Pomfrey. Run the entire way. If I hear you did anything less, you’ll have to deal with me. And her,” he says, jutting his head towards Ginny.

The kid looks terrified, nodding vigorously before fairly sprinting out of the room.

Hannah, meanwhile, is still ashen, sucking in deep breaths that don’t seem to be doing anything. Ginny reaches out to her, only to feel the way Hannah flinches back against her touch, remembering with horrible clarity her own panic attacks. The way she’d felt frozen by the fear, by the possibilities, the choking smell.

Merlin, the smell.

Ginny closes her eyes, sucking in a breath.

“What’s wrong with her?” someone nearby demands.

Ginny forces her eyes back open. All around them, people are watching and whispering. Harry is nearby now as well, his hand on the back of her chair— so close, too close, I don’t know how to be that girl anymore—

She forces herself to focus on the present. On what is real. On what needs to be done.

“Everyone step back,” Ginny orders, voice quiet but brooking absolutely no argument. People crowding will only make it worse.

Everybody but Tobias immediately complies. Then again, she didn’t mean him, though he does lean slightly back, scooting his chair further away, giving Hannah more breathing room. Vaguely, Ginny can sense Harry moving away too and for a moment her panicked brain forgets everything else. She grabs for his arm, not wanting him, of all people, to go away. Needing him to be here.

He said he’d be here.

She immediately realizes her mistake, letting go and scrambling for something to cover her slip up.

“Could you open that window?” she asks, pointing to the nearest one as if that was her intent all along. She carefully does not look at his face.

“Sure,” he says. “Yeah. Of course.”

Ginny watches his progress across the room from the corner of her eye, a gush of fresh air flowing over the table as he pulls the window open, other students following suit with other windows. The piles of notes on the table rustle, air flowing cool across her face. She takes a deep breath and refocuses on Hannah.  

“It’s alright, Hannah,” she murmurs, not touching or crowding her, but just being there. “It’s alright.”

They are here and nothing is trying to hurt them and they are here. Together. Safe.

Everyone is safe.

They sit and wait for Pomfrey to arrive.

*     *     *

Harry looks up from his Herbology exam, stretching his back and glancing around the room at all the other students slumped over their papers. The only sound in the room is the scratch of quills.  

Hannah, he notices, isn’t here. Then again, he doesn’t really know what exams she’s sitting, so that might not mean anything, except he remembers Ginny mentioning Hannah wanting to go into Herbology as a career. So this isn’t one she’d miss.

Despite the exam in front of him, he feels his mind wander back to the day before, to what happened in the library. Hannah was in clear distress, and Ginny was just so damn calm at the center of it all. Except that one moment where she grabbed his arm. She’s usually so good about that stuff, not just being circumspect in public but not doing anything that she thinks might startle him, that he suspects she was far less calm than she was projecting.

He hasn’t seen her since yesterday, beyond a quick glimpse of her in the hall. She sent him a note last night saying she was in the infirmary with Hannah, but nothing since.

He tells himself there is no reason to think she’s avoiding him. They just have tests to study for, and here at Hogwarts it feels like Ginny has people looking to her all the time. Her housemates, her team, the DA. He wonders if that’s as exhausting as it looks.

Ginny isn’t sitting Herbology, so he doesn’t even get to see her there, or catch a quick moment to ask her if she’s okay. He doesn’t see her at lunch, before he has to go back in for his practical exam in the afternoon.

Unfortunately the tables are organized by house at dinner, so that doesn’t give him a chance to talk to her either, though he does at least get to see her from a distance. It would be nice to be able to just walk up to her and ask how she is doing. To just sit next to her. He can only imagine the stir that would cause.

After dinner he follows Ron and Hermione back to the common room. Hermione is already ramping up for her History exam the day after tomorrow—which Ginny will also be sitting, with Muggle Studies tomorrow—even as he and Ron get a three-day break until the DADA exam next Monday.

It’s impossible to get away from Ron that evening with Hermione refusing to be budged from studying, so Harry doesn’t manage to even get to his parchment until after he goes to bed, a bit early from claims of exhaustion.

Hey, he writes. Are you there?

She doesn’t answer right away, and he sits and waits, forcing himself not to write more. He eventually gets up, washing up and brushing his teeth before climbing back into his bed.

There’s a message waiting for him. Yeah. I’m here.

Here he finally has his chance, only now he isn’t sure what to say. Is Hannah okay?

Yeah. I think she’ll be fine. She’s just really embarrassed right now.

He still isn’t clear on what happened or why Hannah should be embarrassed, but is honestly more interested in Ginny at the moment.

And how are you? he asks.

Trying to figure out how I’m going to be ready for this exam tomorrow. And the other one Saturday.

Yeah.

She clearly needs to be studying, not hanging about with him. He can’t blame her for that. Still, it doesn’t stop the feeling that she’s avoiding him from intensifying.

She changes the subject then, the two of them chatting aimlessly for another ten minutes before she says she has to get back to studying.

The next day the three of them have no exam to sit, just DADA revisions. In the afternoon, Harry suggests the library rather than the common room for studying, and he won’t even pretend that’s not because this way he’ll at least have a chance of seeing Ginny, the Muggle Studies exam not having an afternoon practical component.

He’s so busy calculating his chances that he isn’t really paying attention where he’s going, which is how he ends up face to face with Draco Malfoy. He can’t help but tense, his hand twitching for his wand, which Malfoy definitely doesn’t miss, his own shoulders tensing as if he’s ready to pull his own wand.

Neither of them do though, instead just warily regarding each other. It’s certainly not the first time Harry’s seen him. Hard not to at least catch sight of the prat at meals or during the exams they’re both sitting. But it is the first time he’s been this close to him since the trial the summer before.

Harry can feel Ron shift next to him as the strange standoff stretches longer.

It takes Harry a moment to realize that Malfoy is not alone. Astoria Greengrass is right by his side, hand on his arm, but based on the way she’s looking at Harry right now, he assumes that isn’t so much to hold Malfoy back as to comfort him. Or protect him even.

Harry forces his arms to relax, hands falling by his side. “Malfoy,” he says with a brief nod.

Malfoy’s eyes widen just slightly before his lips press together. “Potter,” he says, voice completely flat and uninflected.

They regard each other for a long moment before Harry steps around him, heading back down the hall without another word. There isn’t really anything to say, after all.  

It’s not like he expects thanks for keeping Malfoy’s sorry arse out of Azkaban. He’d meant it, that he hadn’t done it for him. He realizes now that he hadn’t even really done it for Ginny. He’d done it because Ginny makes him want to do better. To be better.

“Poncey git,” Ron mutters darkly as he falls in step next to Harry, clearly not all that pleased to have avoided a confrontation. “And you. When did you learn self-control?”

Harry laughs at the disgust in Ron’s voice. “You’re just sad you didn’t get to hit anyone with a rolling pin.”

Ron sighs in what is probably nostalgia for Australia. “I do miss that bloody pub some days. Never a dull moment.”

Harry can’t say the same. He’s pretty happy to be where he is. He frowns, thinking of Ginny and his fear that she’s avoiding him. Still better than being in Australia, he tells himself.

Harry shoves his hands in his pockets. “Maybe you can buy a rolling pin when you get your first flat.”

Ron brightens. “There’s an idea. Maybe some good cast iron too.” He swings his arm as if armed with an imaginary skillet.

Harry smiles, even if he doesn’t quite feel it at the moment.

In the library, they settle at a table with Hermione. Harry tries to buckle down on his studies, figuring it’s as good a way as any to distract himself. Not that he doesn’t keep finding himself looking up at the doorway.

They’ve only been there about an hour when Harry looks up to see Ginny walking in. She’s by herself, which is rare in the castle. She glances across the space, her eyes falling on him. He tries to tamp down the hope bubbling in his chest, telling himself she probably isn’t here to see him, that she won’t risk that, but she crosses straight over to their table, smiling at Ron before sitting down in the empty seat next to Harry.  

“Hey,” she says, giving him a quick smile as she unpacks her bag.

Harry feels himself relax. “Hey.”

She and Ron chat for a while, discussing the latest letter from Charlie until Hermione’s not-so-subtle sounds of annoyance finally turn them back to their work.

Harry takes what is probably a far from subtle look at Ginny. She doesn’t seem like she slept particularly well.

She pulls a parchment out from the bottom of her stack of notes, and he realizes it’s her special parchment.

Sorry I haven’t been around much, she writes. It’s actually close enough that he can easily read what she is writing without his own parchment, but he imagines it will look far less suspicious if he focuses on his own instead.

It’s fine. Are you okay?

Look that terrible, do I?

“No,” he denies, perhaps a bit too vehemently.

“What?” Ron asks, looking up from his study-induced trance.

“Oh, nothing,” Harry says, scrambling. “I just got an answer wrong.”

Ron nods. “Carry on, mate,” he says bracingly. “You’ll get it.”

Ron goes back to his work and Harry glances at Ginny out of the corner of his eye. She’s smiling down at the table.

Smooth, Potter, she writes.

He’s just happy to have her smiling, even if it is over him being an idiot.

I’m surprised you can get any studying done at all with that gaggle following you around, she continues.

Harry frowns, glancing back over his shoulder. There’s a table of about five witches and two wizards, far too young to be sitting an exam. They all immediately look away and dissolve into giggles when they see he’s noticed.

Harry turns back to the table, sliding Ginny a questioning look.

The Harry Potter fan club, I imagine.

He drops his face into his hands, scrubbing his fingers up under his frames.

Don’t worry. Neville had one for a while too. Heroes are just irresistible, I suppose. It’s possible they’ll get over it by the time you’re 90.

He sighs, shaking his head and picking his quill back up. And you? Where’s your club?

Oh, I’m too terrifying to have a fan club. Besides, everyone knows only wizards are heroes.

Well, that is a complete load of bollocks. Besides, you’re far prettier than me.

Ginny makes a quiet sound of amusement into her sleeve, and Harry feels himself swell with contentment, so pleased to have been able to make her smile, to have said something right for once. Hell, so pleased to just have her here. Feeling daring, he slides his foot to the side until it touches hers. She gently presses back.

Someone hefts a bag onto the table with a thump, Harry jerking his face up. It’s Burke with Hannah right at his side. Ginny straightens up, her foot moving away from his.

“Hey,” Ginny says as Hannah sits down next to her, Burke claiming the empty seat next to Ron on the other side. The two nod awkwardly at each other.

“Hi,” Hannah says, her cheeks pink as she smiles shyly at them.

“Hi, Hannah,” Hermione says, giving her a kindly smile. “How are you feeling?”

Hannah only goes redder as everyone at the table looks at her. “Fine,” she mumbles, head ducking.

“Potter,” Burke says, voice carrying. “Didn’t think you’d have to study, them just handing you your NEWTs.”

Harry looks at him, surprised by this sudden attack, but after a moment realizes this isn’t actually really aimed at him so much as Ginny. Burke is grinning widely at her, eyes alight with mischief, and Harry has to assume this is about the scene with Crispin at Slughorn’s dinner. Made only bigger by word of mouth in the months since, no doubt.

Ron is glaring at Burke, mouth opening as if to lay in on him for saying that about Harry.

“Yup,” Harry says before Ron can pull a rolling pin on him, “right after they make me Minister of Magic. But it’s important to keep up appearances.” He lifts a book, deliberately holding it upside down. “Which way do these go again, Hermione?”

She ignores him, clearly having no time for the ridiculousness around her.

“Oh, I get it,” Burke says, nodding solemnly. “You’re just paying someone else to take them for you.”

There’s a distinct clunk as something connects under the table, like maybe someone kicked the leg of the table. Ginny winces, reaching down for her foot with a curse.

Burke grins at her. “One of these days you’re going to have to remember that.”  

Ginny flashes him a rude gesture and turns her attention to Hannah, who looks much more composed with everyone’s attention directed to Harry rather than her.

“Did you talk with McGonagall?” Ginny asks, voice low.

Hannah nods. “Just got finished. She says I’ll be able to take my exams in her office. And she’s arranged for me to have extra time.”

“Good,” Ginny says, reaching out and squeezing her arm. “That’s good.”

Hannah shakes her head. “It just doesn’t seem fair. Me getting more time.”

Burke makes an impatient sound. “And how is it fair, everyone else getting to take a test without their hearts pounding in their ears or their thoughts scattering or not being able to breathe?”

Despite not liking to agree with Burke, Harry has to admit that’s a fairly valid point.

Hannah doesn’t seem to agree, her face pink, fingers twisting together in front of her. “It’s stupid.”

Burke frowns, looking put out that he hasn’t convinced her.

“Like I was stupid?” Ginny asks, voice barely loud enough to be heard.

Harry swivels to look at her, but her face is turned away from him. Under the lip of the table, he can see that her hand is twisted in a fist in her lap.

“What?” Hannah says, face appalled.

“You saw how I was last summer,” Ginny says.

Harry stops even trying to pretend he isn’t paying attention now, something jolting in his chest. This is not something Ginny ever talks about. He shares an uneasy look with Ron, who’s stopped studying as well, attention on his sister.

Hannah shakes her head. “That’s not the same. You were… That was war! People had died. Horrible things—this is just a stupid test!”

Other than her hand tightening around her quill, Ginny appears unmoved by Hannah’s impassioned outburst. “We don’t get to chose what our brains get hung up on, Hannah.”

Ginny turns slightly, just enough to glance at Harry, the briefest flick of her eyes. His stomach twists as he realizes what she means, because he was the problem, wasn’t he? The thing that made her feel that way. The way these tests are making Hannah feel.

I just couldn’t breathe.

He has to stop himself from reaching out and taking her hand. That summer was a long time ago, he reminds himself. Then again, she has been avoiding him. He’s convinced he wasn’t imagining that now.

Burke leans towards the girls across the table. “Hannah, you would never tell someone they were being stupid for struggling. You wouldn’t even think it. So why don’t you try being as nice to yourself as you’d be to someone else for once?”

“He has a point,” Ginny says.

Hannah opens and closes her mouth for a moment, looking between her two friends. “Fine. You win,” she says, clearly not up to fighting both of them.

“Good,” Burke says. “I hate it when people forget that I’m always right.”

Hannah manages a smile. Only then she looks down at her books and notes and the smile disappears. She looks thoroughly miserable.

“Harry?” Ginny says.

He starts, surprised to have her directly addressing him. “Yeah?”

She isn’t quite looking him in the eye, he notices. “Do you know if Kreacher is in the castle?”

“Oh,” he says, thinking it over. Grimmauld doesn’t need much work when it’s empty. “Probably.”

She nods. “Do you think he’d be willing to sneak us some ice cream if you asked him?”

“Definitely.” Even if Harry didn’t technically have the power to order him about, it would probably make his month, getting to serve Harry in such an elaborate way.

Ginny turns back to Hannah. “What do you say? Should we take a study break? Stuff ourselves with some ice cream?”

Hannah looks like she’s trying not to cry. “You don’t have to—”

“Can’t you see she’s looking for an excuse not to study?” Burke says. “Come on. Be a good friend. Enable our bad habits.”

Hannah’s smile is a little shaky, but definitely there. “Sure. Of course. Never let it be said I got between anyone and ice cream.”

Burke puts his arms up, pumping his fists in silent celebration.

Ginny nods, all business now that there’s a plan afoot. “You and Hannah go to the DA room.” She gestures towards Harry. “We’ll get the supplies and meet you there.”

“Great,” Burke says, hopping to his feet and guiding Hannah out.

Ginny turns to Ron and Hermione. “Who’s in?”

Hermione won’t be budged, but Ron happily walks out with them as they head for the kitchens, looking relieved for the reprieve.

“This is like old times, yeah?” he says, bumping Harry’s shoulder as they fall in step together behind Ginny.

Harry grins at him. “Minus looming threat of doom.”

Ron shrugs. “Might rather face Fluffy and McGonagall’s chess set right now than these sodding tests.”

Harry agrees.

Ron jogs up to loop an arm over Ginny’s shoulders. “I’ve never been more proud of you, little sis. Glad to know there’s a little Gryffindor in you after all.”

She shoves him off, rolling her eyes. “Speaking of Gryffindors, why don’t you run up to the common room and tell everyone we’re having a study break in the DA room?”

“Yeah, sure.” He pats Harry on the shoulder. “See you in a bit.” He disappears up the stairs.

Ginny turns to Harry. “Kitchens?”

He nods.

It seems strange to be on their own together like this. Not that they’re alone. The castle is alive with students, both those avoiding studying and those who are lucky enough not to be fifth and seventh years. Ginny occasionally pauses to tell a student or two about the planned study break.

Harry just walks next to her, maintaining a very careful distance between them.

They are nearly to the kitchens when Ginny touches his arm and juts her chin towards an empty classroom. He dutifully ducks into it, watching as she charms the door shut behind them.

“Ginny?” he starts to ask, only to be cut off by her grabbing his tie and tugging it to bring his mouth down to hers.

She proceeds to kiss him very thoroughly and he is more than happy to return the favor despite the unexpectedness of it. By the time either of them come up for air, he’s dragged her up against his body, his arms wrapped around her waist to lift her up.

He slowly lowers her back to her heels, resting his forehead against hers. “Not that I’m complaining. I mean, I’m definitely not. But what was that for?”

If he did something to earn that particular reaction, he’d like to know exactly what so he can do it as often as possible.

She shakes her head. “I guess I just…needed a reminder that I could. That I wouldn’t…” She looks up at him helplessly.  

You saw how I was last summer.

He can see that Hannah’s panic attack has affected her far more than she’s letting on, and suddenly her avoidance makes total sense. He’s just glad she isn’t doing it anymore.

“Well,” he says, fingers brushing her cheek, “anytime you need a reminder, just let me know. Ten, twenty, fifty times a day. Whatever it takes.”

She laughs. “So selfless.”

“Completely,” he agrees, leaning down and kissing her.

“We should get on that ice cream,” she says with a sigh.

“In a minute,” Harry says and kisses her again.

A lot of people have assembled in the DA room by the time they finally make it back. The room erupts with cheers as a small army of House Elves follows them in, lugging tubs of ice cream and bowls and sundae fixings.

They carefully break away from each other to separate sides of the room. Harry knows he doesn’t trust himself that close to her right now and wonders if maybe she doesn’t either.

He automatically moves to join Ron, who is happily heaping his ice cream with fixings, but pauses when he sees Hannah sitting off to one side.

Shifting on his feet, Harry picks up a bowl of ice cream and crosses over to her. “Hey.”

She looks up at him, cheeks flushing. “Hi.”

“Do you mind if I…?” he asks, gesturing at the open seat next to her.

“Oh! Sure. Of course.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Harry sits down next to her.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“For what?”

“I must seem so silly, especially to you of all people.”

Harry frowns. “Why?”

“Getting worked up over something so unimportant.”

Harry looks down at his ice cream, considering what he knows about Hannah. She’d been their medic during the war, he remembers. Did a good steady job of it when she helped him with his skrewt injuries the summer before. And Neville said more than once that she held them together. Ginny doesn’t really talk about that year, but Hannah is one of her closest friends. That means something.

“I suppose you never heard about the time I trashed Dumbledore’s office,” Harry says.  

Hannah looks up at him. “What? Really?”

He nods. “Broke absolutely everything I could get my hands on.”

Her eyes widen.

He shrugs. “We all just…reach our limits sometimes, don’t we? Doesn’t make us weak. Just makes us…human.”

“I suppose,” she says, but he can’t tell she still isn’t convinced.  

“Besides, maybe tests freak you out, but the war didn’t, did it? From what I’ve heard, you were really there when people needed you.”

Hannah flushes, looking down at her hands. “I tried to be.”

He picks up a bowl of sprinkles and holds them out to her. “Then who cares about a bunch of tests?” 

She smiles, reaching out and taking a spoonful to scatter over her ice cream.

Harry looks up to find Ginny watching them. She smiles at him.

The warmth in her eyes makes it feel like she’s snogging him all over again.

Chapter Text

“How did you like that third question, Ginny?” Padma asks as they finally escape their history exam. “I imagine you had a few things to say about the institutional reforms of 1107.”

“Oh,” Ginny says, “I had plenty to say about wand law and the disbanding of double monasteries.”

Padma laughs. “I’m sure you did.”

It’s Hermione who looks scandalized. “That wasn’t in the curriculum.”

Ginny shrugs. A group of them—Tobias, Terry, Padma, and a few others—started their own independent study sessions this year, supplementing the endless drone of Binns with actually interesting history. History about wands and witches and reforms. Real history about the Ministry, not the perfect, pretty, sanitized version they’ve been getting for years.

“I still want to know where you got those texts,” Terry presses, never one to give up.

People like to say Hufflepuffs are stubborn, but by Merlin, a Ravenclaw who thinks something is being kept from them is relentless.

Ginny gives him a cool look. “Maybe the millionth time you ask, I’ll actually tell you.”

Terry isn’t put off. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

Ginny just shakes her head, knowing she will never reveal the source of the texts, that they in fact came from Nymue’s library. She wishes they lived in a world where those texts to could be out in the public, but she knows they are safest where they are. It’s the same reason the Muggle and other non-wizarding texts they rescued from the Hogwarts library during Umbridge’s reign are still there.

The world is always moments away from another purge.

“The real question,” Tobias says, “is will they even understand your answers, let alone like them?”

“Strangely, I don’t particularly care,” Ginny says.

Hermione shakes her head as if Ginny is completely beyond her. “Then it’s a wonder you even bothered taking it,” she says, voice slightly chastising.

Padma looks at Ginny with wide eyes, clearly wondering if she’s going to let Hermione away with speaking to her like that. Ginny bites back a sigh. It’s not like she hexes everyone who even remotely annoys her, for Merlin’s sake. Plus, it’s Hermione.

Ginny winds her arm through Hermione’s. “I’m sure you did great.”

She lets out a breath. “Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t even think to talk about double monasteries!”

“Then I am sure the readers will like your answer much better,” Ginny says, patting her arm.

By the time they reach the DA room, Hermione is happily dissecting all the essay questions and Tobias has predictably disappeared. Ginny waves at Terry and Padma as they split off to greet their friends.

Ron is lounging on a sofa with Jimmy and Ritchie.

“Hey,” he says, smiling at Hermione and lifting his arm so she can drop into the seat next to him. “How’d it go?”

Hermione seems to melt into his side. “Fine.”

He presses a kiss to her temple. “I bet you kicked that test’s arse.”

She shakes her head, but actually smiles.

Ginny settles into a nearby chair, smiling at Ritchie and Jimmy.

“Where’s Harry?” Hermione asks.

Ron points past Ritchie’s head. “Someone managed to get their hands on a boggart.”

Sure enough, on the far side of the room, a collection of fifth-years are watching a wobbling crate with real fear.

“They were struggling a lot,” Ron says, sounding disbelieving, like he can’t accept that fifth-years would struggle with a boggart.

“Who exactly would have taught them?” Ginny asks, knowing he hasn’t thought clearly about what sort of education this specific class of students have received.

Jimmy laughs. “Yeah. They basically had Umbridge—”

“Who taught no one anything,” Ritchie says.

“And then Snape—” Jimmy counts off another finger.

“Who refused to have a boggart anywhere near him after that thing with Neville,” Ritchie says with a grin.

“And last but not least, Carrow.”

Ritchie nods. “And he was too busy torturing us to actually teach anyone anything.”

Ron looks sobered by this litany of awful defense teachers. “Well, then I suppose it’s a good thing Harry couldn’t resist playing professor then. He’s been giving them pointers.”

“Of course he has,” Ginny says.

“Took ‘em a bit to stop just staring at him and giggling,” Ritchie says, “but I think they’re finally getting the gist of it.”

Ginny watches as Harry has the students practice the wand movements, stepping between the students to fix technique here and there.

“Looks like they’re finally ready to give it a go,” Jimmy says as Harry lines the students up.

The boggart comes out in the skeletal form of a thestral.

“Christ,” Jimmy mutters under his breath, though whether over the fact that a fifteen year old would fear the perfectly peaceful animal or just that the student can obviously see them. Most of the students can probably see thestrals now.

Standing behind the witch, Harry puts a hand on her shoulder, reminding her of her incantation or her amusing memory no doubt.

Gathering herself up, the girl flicks her arm, the thestral turning a pearly light blue with a rainbow mane.

Ron lets out a laugh along with most of the other students, the boggart stumbling back. “What is that?”

“No idea,” Ritchie says. “But I want one.”

“It’s a Muggle toy,” Hermione says, back to looking worried. Thinking about her own boggart maybe—a load of tests with Ts on them, no doubt.

Ron tugs on a strand of Hermione’s hair. “Come on then,” he says. “Let’s hear it.”

Hermione looks up at him, but isn’t able to hold herself back, launching immediately into a thorough analysis of the exam.

Ron even looks like he’s actually listening.

Ginny, having already heard enough of Hermione’s thoughts on the exam, instead chats aimlessly with Ritchie and Jimmy about their summer plans.

There’s a loud gasp of alarm from across the room at one point, one of the students letting out a horrible shout. They all turn to look, and Ginny sees Amycus Carrow striding across the room towards a trembling student.

For a horrible moment, Ginny thinks it’s real, thinks she’s back there, fear and rage thick in her throat.

Then Harry shouts encouragement, and of course, it’s just the stupid boggart. Considering how Ginny herself reacted it, it’s no surprise that the students are too upset to do anything. The boy standing in front of Amycus just stares at him in horror, his body shaking.

Harry steps up to him, saying something. The student just shakes his head, his eyes never leaving the skulking, blunt form of Amycus.

Apparently accepting that the student isn’t going to manage it, Harry steps in front, getting the boggart’s attention, facing off with Amycus.

Ginny can’t help but imagine it for a moment, what it would have been like, Harry here at the same time as Amycus. She shudders at the thought, unable to even conceive of the depth of punishment Harry would have no doubt garnered for himself that year.

By the time she refocuses on the boggart, Amycus’ dark hair has started lightening and shifting red as the figure shoots upwards in height, and even from this distance, Ginny can tell that it’s Ron, only Ron with his face twisted as he snarls something at Harry.

“I thought Harry’s boggart was a Dementor,” Ginny murmurs to Hermione. She’s too busy watching Harry to turn and see Ron’s reaction to being his best mate’s greatest fear—not Ron’s death, but something he said.

Even worse, Harry is clearly struggling, apparently no more prepared to see that than anyone else. Or hear it, to judge from the look on his face as boggart-Ron continues to berate him.

Harry half lifts his wand and the figure begins to shorten, red hair lengthening. He finally shouts out a spell, shoving the boggart back into the crate. To save for later practice more than likely, but Ginny wonders if he couldn’t quite conjure the humor Riddikulus requires.

Pausing with his hands on the crate, Harry seems to take a few deep breaths before turning back to the students. He consults with the shaken student for a long time before they finally give it another go.

This time the student manages it, casting the spell at Amycus.

Soon the students are all laughing, Amycus Carrow stumbling back in his full Muggle attire, his wand turned into a floppy rubber chicken.

Harry grins at the student, no doubt heaping praise on him.

The students go through one more round each, like maybe all of their greatest fears had already been toppled. Or knowing that even Harry Potter has fears.

The boggart once again carefully crated for later practice, Harry finally works his way across the room to them.

He looks a bit wary as he approaches, eyes darting to Ron like he’s trying to judge how much they saw. “Um, hi,” he says, hand rubbing at the back of his head, leaving his hair standing up on end.

Ritchie and Jimmy share uncomfortable looks, both of them getting to their feet for a surprisingly tactful retreat. “We’ll, uh, see you later, yeah?”

Ginny nods. “Only two days until the DADA exam.”

They groan at the reminder and then walk off.

Harry drops into one of their empty seats.

Ron, Ginny notices, looks a little grim.

Harry blows out a breath. “It wasn’t…” he glances at Hermione and then back to Ron. “It had nothing to do with…the tent.”

Apparently this oblique comment means more to Ron than it does to Ginny because he nods, something seeming to soften in his posture. “Yeah. Okay.”

Hermione reaches out, squeezing Ron’s hand, and Ginny is certain now that she’s missing something. She glances at Harry, but his attention is still on his best mate, his hand nervously picking at the edge of his sleeve.

“So what did I say?” Ron asks.

“It wasn’t you,” Harry is quick to say, tone brooking no argument.

Ron’s jaw tightens. “What did boggart-me say?” he amends.

Harry shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s all your fault.”

Ginny doesn’t think that’s a lie exactly, but it clearly isn’t entirely the truth either.

Ron doesn’t press though, instead giving Harry an easy smile that doesn’t erase the shadow in his eyes. “So you tried to turn me into a girl?”

“What?” Harry says, looking lost for a moment before he recovers. “Oh, yeah.” He lets out a laugh that is clearly forced. Wouldn’t even make a boggart tremble.

“Next time, make me a bit more”—Ron gestures with his hands as if mapping out a particularly curvy woman’s form—“will you? I have my standards after all.”

Harry laughs, this time sounding genuine and full of relief.

“And really, really big—” Ron starts to say, gesturing at his chest.

Hermione smacks his arm, giving him a disapproving look.

“Hey,” he says in protest. “It’s not my fault I would make a gorgeous woman!”

“You barely make a passable bloke,” Ginny says.

This has the effect of reminding Harry that she’s here, and he finally turns to look at her.

He gives her a small smile, but it’s clearly forced.

Deciding maybe he wants some time alone with Ron and Hermione to work through whatever this might be, she shifts to her feet. “I’ll see you lot later. I’m going to take a quick nap.”

Harry looks a little alarmed, but she gives him a warm smile when her back is to Ron and Hermione, letting him know that she doesn’t mind.

He nods. “See you later.”

Ginny actually manages to get an hour or so to lie down. It’s nice to have a little breathing room for a few days before her next exam. She still spends a few hours before dinner revising for DADA.

She sits with Nicola at dinner.

“You okay?” she asks, giving the younger girl a gentle nudge.

She’d been in the crowd of fifth-years in the DA room this afternoon.

Nicola nods. “I just…didn’t expect that. Him. Which is stupid.”

“Yeah,” Ginny agrees. Upon reflection the greater surprise was actually that more people’s boggarts weren’t Amycus.

“It was nice of Harry to help us though.”

“He was always a good teacher back when he ran the DA,” Ginny says. “So have you come up with any plans for the summer?”

“Tilly wrote and said I can come stay with her for a week in July.”

Ginny smiles. “That will be nice. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the company.” She plans on making her own visits as often as possible.

“Now I just need to get my aunt to agree,” Nicola says. She glances down the table towards her brother. He’s fallen in with some of the rougher boys, and Ginny knows it worries Nicola.

Losing both his parents and a sister at such a young age has to be hard to deal with.

“Well,” Ginny says, “you know you are welcome at the Burrow any time. Even if you just need to escape for a day.”

Nicola blushes. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

Despite her words, Ginny still doubts Nicola will take her up on it. Considering how much awe she held Antonia in at her age, Ginny can’t really blame her for that. She’ll just do her best to check in with her from time to time.

After dinner, she pulls out the map, locating Ron and Harry sitting together in the Gryffindor common room. She’d really like a chance to check in with him, to see how he’s doing, but she doesn’t want to get in the way of that. She’s rarely seen anything bother Harry or Ron more than being estranged from the other.

Besides, she has her own important task to focus on. One it’s finally time to follow through on. She’s carefully timed her approach, waiting until the last possible moment, but as the days bleed away, knows she can’t wait any longer.

So that evening she joins the crafting circle with her knitting for what is probably the last time. She listens to the students’ chatter, finding it hard not to think that in less than a week she will no longer call this place home.

It’s the weirdest feeling of wanting time to slow down and wanting it to speed up so she can start focusing on what comes next. It feels like the world will infinitely open up once she leaves here, but she’ll also be leaving so many things behind.

The contradiction lends the evening a bittersweet feeling.  

She lingers long after the majority of the crafting circle drifts away to their studies or their beds.

“Astoria,” Ginny says once it is just the two of them.

“Hmm?” she says, not looking up from her project.

“It’s time.”

“What?” she asks, finally tearing her attention away from the careful threads in her fingers.

Ginny pulls the gold dagger from inside her robes, laying it across her lap.

Astoria frowns, looking down at it and then up at Ginny’s face in dawning horror.

“No,” she says, recoiling.

“Yes,” Ginny counters.

Astoria glances around the room, leaning in towards her. “I haven’t been there even once this year!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ginny says.  

“It does to me,” she says, chest heaving.

Ginny places her hand on the arm of Astoria’s seat, voice low, but firm. “You know better than anyone the importance of this place.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t—”

“You can . We both know you can.”

The Parlor needs Astoria as much as she needs it, and only faced with this decision has Ginny finally realized that’s what being Mistress has always been about.

“Is this where you tell me this is what she would have wanted?” she spits.

“Astoria,” Ginny says.

“You don’t know what she’d want.”

“No,” Ginny admits. “But what I do know is that there are others like her. Like you and me. Who need this place. You know that better than anyone. And I know you’ll do everything to protect it, precisely because you know the cost.”

Astoria’s eyes sparkle with something that could just as easily be rage as sorrow. “It didn’t do anything for her, did it?”

Ginny feels that deep, but doesn’t let it show. Can’t afford to let it show. “That’s not true and we both know it.”

They regard each other, the space between them small, but feeling like an enormous gulf.

“It’s you, Astoria,” Ginny says, voice soft. “Nothing has ever been clearer to me.”

“No,” she says, shoving to her feet. “I won’t.”

She storms off, Ginny leaning back in her seat. The few people still in the room are watching on in interest, and she carefully tucks the dagger back under her robes.

*     *     *

Harry spends the evening in the common room, letting Ron trounce him at chess. Well, not that he lets him so much. It’s pretty much a foregone conclusion that Harry will lose no matter what.  Not to mention that Harry’s mind is even less focused on the game than usual.

“You know I’m not going to do that again,” Ron says, nudging his bishop.

“What?” Harry asks, refocusing on his best mate.

Ron’s ears are red. “I’m not going to take off on you again. On either of you.” He gives him a look that unexpectedly reminds him of Ginny, something fierce and determined.

Harry supposes it was too much to hope they wouldn’t have to have this conversation.

“I know you won’t,” Harry says.

“Do you?” Ron presses, Harry’s boggart clearly still on his mind.

Harry knows Ron would never choose to take off on them, never do that of his own free will. Knows it took the Horcrux to get him to do that last time.

But that doesn’t mean something else won’t drive him off.

How could you? his voice echoes in Harry’s ears.

“Hermione knows it too,” Harry says.

Ron looks over to where Hermione is curled up in a chair, her frizzy hair twisted up with her wand jammed in it. There’s a look on his face Harry hasn’t seen for months.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, deeply regretting dragging this all back up again.

Ron shakes his head. “Bloody boggarts. I’m just glad they won’t be on our exam.”

Harry nods in whole-hearted agreement.

They spend the rest of the evening talking about much more enjoyable things like the upcoming beach trip with the Grangers and Ron’s plans for working enough hours with George to save up for tickets to a Cannons match.

“Couldn’t we go see a different team?” Harry teases.

Ron scowls. “Just for that, I’m going to beat you in half as many moves.”

Harry laughs.

After the next game, Harry begs off, going up to bed to give Ron and Hermione a little time together.

He’s digging his pajamas out of his trunk when he hears the distinctive hum of his parchment.

Are you up?

Yeah, he writes.

Can you meet?

It’s well after curfew, but he can easily get around with the cloak and she knows that. He thinks even without the map, she has ways to get around the castle undetected. Besides, he doubts she would suggest it if she weren’t certain she could get away with it. Isn’t that what she said all those months ago? Wanting to know what’s at the bottom, even if it means never taking the leap.

Harry really, really prefers not knowing at all.

As much as he wants to see her, always wants to see her, he doesn’t particularly want to rehash everything. Because the truth is despite what Ron thinks he saw, Harry never actually got a spell off. He was too busy reeling at the words Ron was spitting at him. And then the boggart had started to change, and he knew who it was going to be, knew that figure… Heard her words even as he shut it away in the crate. You’re the kind of trouble I have no interest in.

He’s not really interested in having to explain to his girlfriend why she’s also his greatest fear.

Harry? Ginny asks.

Clearly he’s let far too much time pass. Cloister?

Yeah. But if you’d rather not, I understand. It’s late.

Harry sighs, her understanding somehow making it all worse. I’m heading over right now.

It’s probably just a chance to snog, he tells himself as he heads out into the halls under the cloak. Ginny’s never been one to interrogate him after all. Though he does have the unfortunate habit of spilling his guts around her without the need for interrogation.

He can’t help but drag his feet a bit, so it isn’t a surprise that she gets there first.

She looks up at him as he pulls off the cloak and her expression isn’t calculating or mischievous, but rather something a little bleak, and he feels his adrenaline spike.

“What is it?” he asks immediately. “Has something happened?”

“No,” she says, seeming a little unnerved by his reaction. “I mean, yes, but everything’s fine. I’m fine.”

Only she’s still got that look on her face and he’s not sure he believes that.

She blows out a breath, scrubbing her hands over her face. “I guess I just…needed you.” She looks embarrassed to admit it.

“To do what?” he asks, stepping closer. “What do you need me to do?”

She steps into him, wrapping her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest. His arms lift around her.

“Just this,” she mumbles. “Exactly this.”

His arms tighten around her. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re here, Harry,” she says. “Don’t you think that’s enough?”

He doesn’t answer, feeling a horrid thickness in his throat.

She leans back to look at him, but he finds he can’t quite hold her gaze.

“Do you, um, want to talk about it?” he offers, wanting to wince at how stupid that sounds.

She shakes her head, her hands coming to rest on his chest. “Do you? About what happened today?”

Her gaze is just a little too knowing. He pulls her back into his chest, pressing his face into the top of her head, taking comfort from her being here. Wanting to be here.

“No,” he says.

Maybe this is all he needs too.

*     *     *

Ginny doesn’t sleep particularly well that night. She tells herself it’s just the stress of the exams, reminding herself that there are only two more to go. DADA on Monday and then Charms on Wednesday.

Of course, there’s also the fact that Harry is acting a little strange, clearly spooked by whatever happened with the boggart. And Astoria is also carefully avoiding her.

So all in all, not a fabulous last Sunday in the castle.

Early in the evening she retreats to Nymue’s library and the fact that it is the one place in the castle she can be guaranteed solitude is not a coincidence. She sits on a chair, flipping through a book, not really taking in any of the words.

“Have you chosen us a new Mistress?” Nymue asks.

“I have,” Ginny says, not looking up from her book.

Despite the setback with Astoria, she still isn’t ready to admit defeat.

Many of the girls would make fine mistresses. Hestia and Flora could do it. Either of them. But putting one over the other wouldn’t be right. And they know who they are. They know what they are capable of. Neither of them need it.

Nicola isn’t ready, everything still far too unsettled under her feet to add this without crushing her. For the rest of them, it’s not their time.

It feels like it was always meant to be Astoria. Always will be.

And so she will hold her course.

“There is still time,” Nymue says. “And where there is time, there is hope.”

“Yes,” Ginny says. “There is.”

Climbing up off the chair, she returns to The Parlor. Dale and Dorinda are squeezed in a chair together, heads lowered over a glossy magazine and for a painful moment it could be two other girls, a different time.

Forcing her eyes away, Ginny notices that Gemma and Hestia are in front of the blackboard back where Millicent used to have her paints and canvases. Some sort of complicated charm work swirls across the surface.

Ginny sits down across from where Flora is helping Nicola for her DADA exam tomorrow. She juts her chin towards the blackboard.  “Should I be concerned?”

Flora looks back over her shoulder, taking a long moment to take in the work. She turns back around. “Not quite yet. Though it might be a blessing that those two will be apart this summer.”

Ginny laughs.

Nicola lets out a sigh. “I can’t believe the year is almost done. And that you won’t be here when we get back.”

“You can always write me,” Ginny says. “I will still exist after I graduate.”

Nicola nods. “It won’t be the same.”

Ginny reaches over to squeeze her knee. “Nothing ever is.”

She spends the next couple hours talking to each of the girls, listening to their summer plans, promising to keep in touch, to still be available to them. Reminding them that they will still have each other. The sisterhood has always been about more than one person.

She’s just about to go up to bed early so she won’t be a complete disaster in her DADA exam when Nicola looks past Ginny, her eyes widening.

“Astoria,” Flora says.

Ginny turns to see her standing at the bottom of the stairs, chin lifted defiantly as if daring anyone to mention that this is the first time she’s set foot down here since Caroline’s death.

“Good evening,” Ginny says, like it’s just any other day.

Astoria nods at her, hesitating only slightly before crossing over to sit down on the couch, carefully avoiding even looking at the chair she and Caroline used to spend long hours sharing, laughing together.

Hestia joins her sister, Gemma sitting near the feet of Dorinda and Dale. The three youngest girls share looks, as if they know something important is happening, even if they aren’t entirely sure what. Their missing sister has only ever been spoken of in passing whispers despite the central role she played in selecting both Gemma and Dale for sisterhood.

“Would you play for us?” Nicola asks as the silence stretches uncomfortably long.

“Oh,” Astoria says, looking over to the corner where all her instruments still wait for her, right where she left them the year before.

“I’ve missed hearing you play,” Flora says, voice gentle.

“We all have,” Ginny says, knowing what it took for Astoria to come down here, but also that she must not stop halfway. This will be all or nothing.

After another long moment, Astoria firmly nods, face set. She bypasses her harp, instead selecting the cello. She inspects it carefully, casting a few charms, checking the bow methodically. Only once she is content with their condition does she finally sit, cradling the cello against her body.

Her eyes close as the first note hums to life, filling the space. After a few quick scales and adjustments of the strings, she begins a song, something mournful and haunting, everyone in the space completely enthralled.

Ginny keeps her eyes on Astoria’s face, cataloguing each wince, for a missed note none of them notice, or perhaps just the pain of doing this again, for doing something she once loved but for some reason no longer believed she deserved.

The song thrums through the space, like a physical vibration in her chest, and Ginny knows she is not the only one with tears in her eyes by the time the last note fades into the stones.

“Thank you,” Ginny says. “That was…beautiful.” She knows the word is far from adequate. Always has been. But it’s the word she has.

Astoria sits with the instrument for a while longer, her fingers running over the wood before she pushes to her feet, carefully returning the instrument to its case.

“It was nice being with all of you again,” Astoria says. Rather than sitting with the rest of them, she heads towards the stairs, clearly having had enough for one night.

At the bottom, she turns back to look at Ginny. “Do you think we could speak for a moment?”

“Of course,” Ginny says, getting up and following her.

They don’t speak as the stairs twist in their familiar pattern, eventually dumping them out into the dark alcove protecting the door.

Astoria folds her arms across her chest, chin lowered. “I don’t want to fail them.”

Ginny shakes her head, guessing what this is really about. “You never failed her, Astoria.”

She looks up, eyes bright with unshed tears. “But what if I—”

Ginny reaches out and touches her shoulders. “No. No more what ifs. Just what is.”

Astoria closes her eyes. “And what will be.”

“Yes,” Ginny says, voice soft.

This is the moment, she knows, the moment Astoria will have to decide who she will be. If she will truly turn her back on this place.

With a deep breath, Astoria steps back out of Ginny’s grasp, but rather than walking away, she holds her hand out, her fingers trembling slightly.

Her decision has been made.

Ginny pulls the dagger from her robes, cupping Astoria’s hand in hers. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Astoria says.  

The blade draws smoothly across her palm, Astoria breathing heavily out through her nose at the pain. The blood wells in a perfect line, Ginny lifting both of their hands to the door, pressing against the wood. She speaks the sacred words, magic swelling in her skin and breath and bones. Building and passing from one to the other.

The runes on the door fade as the transference of power is complete, leaving them once more in the darkness of the alcove.

Ginny expects to feel empty, for there to be a tangible loss now that she has passed on her position to Astoria. To feel maybe at last like she is done with this place.

Neither are true, of course.

She will never be done with this place. She will carry it with her.

Releasing Astoria’s hand, Ginny turns once more to face her. “I leave them in your capable hands.”

Astoria’s chin lifts, her wound cradled protectively. “I won’t fail,” she declares.

Ginny smiles. She still doesn’t understand. Not completely. But that’s okay.

She’ll have The Parlor. And there’s time.

Down in the library, Ginny writes her final entry in the tome. Below the entry for Dorinda, Dale, and Gemma. Below the note of the loss of Caroline.

20th of June, 1999, Astoria Greengrass chosen as Mistress. May she find a way to live for the future without forswearing the past.

She looks up at Nymue. “It’s done.”

“Mistress,” she says. One last acknowledgement. “You are now part of me and will always be here.”

Ginny nods, feeling the press of tears but not letting them fall. This is not a loss. It is a continuation.

The sisterhood goes far beyond this place.

And so will she.

Chapter Text

“Ready for this?” Tobias asks from where he sits next to Ginny at a table in the Great Hall.

Lunch has long since been cleared away, the fifth-years and participating seventh-years waiting for their afternoon practical DADA exam to begin.

“Does it matter?” she asks, giving him a grim look.

He smiles. “How bad can it be?”

The written exam had been straightforward enough, no big surprises. But now it is time to show that they know more than theory.

The room falls quiet as the Head Examiner, a stern witch of indeterminate age, stands at the front of the room. “Fifth-year Hufflepuffs, you are with Examiner Hartwick,” she says.

The rest of the fifth-years are assigned by house, all of them filing out behind their purple-robed examiner.

Ginny gives Nicola and Reiko encouraging smiles as they walk past. Reiko nods at her, dragging the far more pale-looking Nicola along with her.

“As for the rest of you, we’ll be breaking you up into smaller groups as well. Please listen for your name.”

The group of seventh-years is nearly as large as the fifth-years, thanks to there being quite a few students coming back to repeat from last year. But also because nearly every member of the DA is sitting the exam. Not because of career plans; they’re hardly all becoming Aurors, after all, but more as a matter of principle. The Ministry and their series of professors may not have valued their learning of practical skills, but they have. They do.

Tobias gets called up before Ginny, joining Padma, Dean, Vaisey, and a few others.

Ginny ends up in the next group with Luna, Neville, Rosier, Parvati, Terry, Seamus, and Harry. At a nearby table, she can see Harry peel off from Ron and Hermione who will no doubt be in the last group. Harry smiles at her as they follow their examiner out and down the hall. They take a staircase down, not quite as far as the dungeons, but near enough.

“In here,” the examiner says, gesturing them inside a classroom that Ginny half suspects only appeared for these exams, having never noticed it before.

Walking inside, Ginny feels her body go cold. For a moment, it looks exactly like the room used by Amycus, stone walls and a long platform running through the middle with rows of benches lined in front of it. But it isn’t the same one of course, and she forces herself to think about that, the fact that there are windows running along one wall, small as they are. This is not that place. And this is not that time.

They are not those people anymore.

She glances at Neville and to judge from the tension hardening his face, he’s made the same connection. Seamus doesn’t look any happier, muttering something to Parvati that makes her nod in grim agreement.

Harry catches her eye, a question there. She just shakes her head, crossing over to sit with Neville and Luna as if not bothered at all. She will not let this rattle her.

Harry doesn’t press, taking a seat next to Seamus.

“Okay,” the examiner says, tucking a piece of parchment under his arm to clap his hands and get their attention even though they were already silent. “This will be pretty straightforward. I’m going to duel each of you to assess your offensive and defensive skills as well as ability to react in real time. Alright?”

He seems casual and matter-of-fact about it, but it doesn’t really do anything to dispel the feeling in the room.  

Neville’s hand immediately shoots up.

“Yes, Mister…?”

“Longbottom, sir,” he supplies. “Would you mind if I went first?”  

Ginny isn’t even remotely surprised to hear him ask.

The examiner shakes his head, looking down at his parchment. “We’re actually supposed to go in alphabetical order, Longbottom.”

Neville doesn’t budge, clearly unwilling to be so casually brushed off. “I understand that, sir. But I really need to go first.”

The examiner frowns, probably wondering why Neville is being so pushy. It has nothing to do with his eagerness to get the exam over with and they all know it.

“Oh,” he says, the tension in the room finally seeming to register to him as more than just exam nerves.

The look he levels on them makes Ginny think he must have attended the Carrows’ trial.

For Merlin’s sake, just stay down. Just give up!

Ginny breathes out slowly through her nose.

“No,” the examiner concedes. “I suppose this isn’t the best place for this.”

“It’s fine,” Neville says, jaw tight. “Defense can’t always be about being comfortable, can it?”

“No,” the examiner says, considering him. “It can’t. But you’re—” He seems to think better of finishing his sentence.

“We’re what?” Neville asks.

Children, Ginny knows he wants to say. She looks around at the students, all of them seventh-years and older. All of them members of the DA. All of them survivors of the war.

“None of us have been children for a very long time,” she says.  

The examiner regards her a long moment before finally nodding. “Very well. Mr. Longbottom, would you please come up?”

Neville gets to his feet, climbing up on the long dais while the examiner squares off with him on the other side.

Ginny feels Luna’s hand slip into hers.

She squeezes her fingers back, working to carefully control her breathing. This entire year, Merriweather never dueled them himself, no professor has. Not since last year. Not since the last time Ginny saw Neville stand up there, reckless and ready to make a painful statement.

Neville and the examiner salute each other.

“Let us begin,” the examiner says.

From the start it appears to be a normal, straightforward duel. The examiner is methodical in his approach, gradually increasing difficulty and speed, but never pressing in unfairly on an advantage. Only after they both settle in after the first few exchanges does he start to vary patterns, pushing Neville, surprising him, but never saying a word, just occasionally nodding his head as if in satisfaction with one of Neville’s better responses.

By the time it’s finished, Neville climbing back down, Ginny feels like she can breathe again.

“Nice work,” she says to him as he returns to his seat.

He gives her a warm but exhausted smile. The examiner may have been fair, but he hadn’t gone easy on him either.

They work through the rest of the duels, Terry next and then Seamus, Luna, and Parvati. They all make a solid show of it, Terry a bit less so than the others. Parvati is particularly strong, standing up there with a hard, determined gleam in her eye, like she’s still trying to find a way to have been stronger, to have been better, to have saved her best friend in that final battle.

After Parvati jumps down, wiping the sweat from her forehead, Harry starts to shift to his feet, only for the examiner to call up Rosier instead.

“Quickly, now,” the examiner says impatiently when Rosier and Harry look around in confusion.

Harry lowers himself back down into his seat, his brow furrowed.

Ginny only realizes this is far from a simple alphabetical mistake when she is called up next. She glances at Harry as she passes by and he shakes his head, giving her an encouraging smile.

Ginny calmly ascends the stairs, claiming her spot at the far end of the long platform. Taking a few deep breaths, she holds her wand loosely at her side.

“Ready?” the examiner asks.

She nods, and he immediately steps in with the first curse. She casts a spell to counteract it rather than block it, allowing her to immediately send a salvo back without the interference of a shield. He doesn’t give her any time to take pride in her good start, immediately pressing in with another attack. It all becomes ritual then, action and counteraction, the split moment of recognition, the proper reaction, reaching for the right words and movements.

It is far more difficult that it looked, sitting comfortably watching, but then it always is. She does have the benefit of watching all of the duels before her, so she’s able to put her knowledge to use, but the truth is that she has always been a competent dueler, but not much more. It’s just not where she’s put her time.

In the middle of the next salvo he does something completely unexpected, going against earlier patterns, and she can’t react in time, reaching for the wrong spell. The curse impacts her, knocking her off kilter enough that she stumbles down to her knee, rolling into the fall rather than risk dropping her wand by bracing herself with her hand. She hits the wooden dais with horrible familiarity, automatically preparing herself for the follow up, knowing what comes next when you lose, the pain and screaming that always follows. Her heart pounds and pounds in her ears, all spells and plans leaking away.

The tread of his feet moving closer is the only thing she can hear over the panic, and she doesn’t think, just reacts. Fights back.

Not this time.

Rolling onto her back, she wordlessly flings out a curse, only realizing after that it’s just the examiner, that this is just a test, that he was only moving closer to check on her, to help her back up, not curse her. Not punish her.

The curse impacts him with a sick thump, his breath gone for a moment. Ginny scrambles to cast the counter curse as he stumbles back.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I thought—” Merlin, why is her voice shaking?

“No, no,” he says, smiling even as he’s rubbing at his chest. “You certainly got me. And you’re right. You should never let your guard down.”

She thinks it’s rather kind of him not to point out that she clearly panicked. She doesn’t let herself look at the other students, too embarrassed to see their reactions.

He takes a few steps away from her, shaking his arm out. “That was a good one. What was it?”

She hesitates, but before she can answer, he turns and throws a hex out at her without warning. She barely gets a shield charm up in time, but she does, following with a random barrage of spells only meant to give her enough time to roll back to her feet, get in a better, more defensible position.

The back and forth continues for a few more minutes, the spells varying and requiring different counterspells before he lifts his hands and calls an end, clearly content to have seen the range of her skills.

Ginny finally lowers her wand, her breathing rough and unsteady.

He grins at her, nodding. “Well done.”

It’s hard to turn her back on him to climb back down, but she forces herself to do it, even as she keeps a firm grip on her wand. Back in her seat between Luna and Neville, she tries to be relieved she’s done, to take a moment to breathe. Only then Harry gets to his feet.

“I hope you haven’t forgotten me,” Harry says.

“Of course not, Mr. Potter,” the examiner says.  

Harry nods. “So just the alphabet then.”

Seamus snickers, but Ginny is more interested in the way the examiner looks vaguely uncomfortable.

As Harry climbs up on the platform, a door opens in the back wall of the room, a wizard walking in. He isn’t wearing the purple robes of an examiner and something about the way he carries himself instantly has Ginny on alert.

She glances at Harry to find him watching the wizard as well, eyes narrowed, and Ginny wonders if he is familiar to Harry.

“Would you mind?” the wizard asks the examiner, gesturing towards the spot across from Harry.

The examiner shakes his head. “Not at all, sir.”

Considering how unsurprised he looks, Ginny assumes the question is all for show. No one bothers to ask Harry if he minds.  

Ginny leans into Neville as the wizard gets in place. “Do you know who that is?”

“Gawain Robards,” he whispers back.

Ginny sucks in a breath. The Head Auror? She sits up taller, all of her earlier anxiety returning in a rush. What the hell is going on?

Robards lifts his wand in front of his face, bowing his head at Harry before flicking the wand to the side.

Harry mimics the salute.

“Ready?” Robards asks, stepping into a wider stance.

Harry’s only response is a curt nod, his eyes flashing with what Ginny realizes is anger. Though whether that’s for clearly being treated with special attention or something more personal, she isn’t sure.

Robards begins first, immediately casting a incredibly complicated barrage of spells, signaling right off that this duel is nothing like the others. There is no smooth easing in.

Harry is caught off guard, but recovers quickly enough, countering each spell, using some unorthodox movements to familiar spells that nonetheless work well, if not better. His anger seems to be driving him, and he manages to get Robards pushed back with a defensive charge, only for the Auror to press in with even more complicated spells. More than one of them seem dangerously overpowered and could cause serious injury.

Ginny tries to take comfort in the fact that Harry is clearly very good. He’s always been a natural on a broom, but here he is energy and movement, and it’s mesmerizing to watch, even as the hairs on her arm seem to rise as if from static, from the magics in the air. From seeing him there, facing off against a relentless opponent.

It’s just a test, she reminds herself. It’s not real. And this is an Auror.

Robards summons one of the unoccupied benches, bringing it to life with a shouted oppugno and sending it after Harry. There’s a heavy donging sound when Harry’s curse hits the bench, the wood once again immobile as he flings it back towards Robards.

With a flick of the Auror’s wand, the bench erupts into flames, burning to ashes in seconds.

“Holy hell,” Seamus mutters.

In his seat next to her, Neville shifts, body angling forward, the duel clearly on the edge of becoming something else entirely. Something much more dangerous.

Up on the platform, Harry starts losing ground, but it doesn’t seem like he’s being overwhelmed, so Ginny isn’t sure why he’s doing it, why he’s retreating, when suddenly a few things happen in rapid succession. Harry ducks under Robards’ curse rather than responding with magic, which seems reckless and unnecessary until he spins on his heel to throw up a protective spell just as another curse is sent at him from the side. Somehow, there is a second wizard, and where the hell had he come from? Through the back door while they weren’t paying attention?

Robards doesn’t seem alarmed or even surprised, still pressing forward.

Harry falls back further, jumping down off the dais as he now faces two people at once.

“What the hell,” Neville says, just as a third wizard steps in from the side. “Behind you, Harry!”

Neville is up on his feet, casting a stunner towards the new combatant, but then there is a fourth and a fifth and a sixth.

Ginny feels everything closing in all at once, Harry surrounded by assailants, and all thoughts of this being a bloody test evaporate because it’s smoke and chaos and the castle rumbling around them.

Ginny surges to her feet, hexing one of the wizards with his wand trained on Harry, vaguely aware that all the other students have followed suit. It’s clearly an ambush, and none of them are going to waste time figuring out intentions or leave Harry to face this alone.

The students’ addition to the fray is enough to distract a good portion of the wizards from Harry, but he’s still isolated from them on the other side of the dais, besieged from both sides and barely keeping his feet.

“We need to split them,” Neville shouts, looking at Seamus and Parvati and jerking his head to one side. They peel off from the group, Terry going with them, effectively drawing more of the attackers away from Harry.

The rest of them shift in the other direction, forcing the wizards to pull apart and turn their attention to the students or risk getting picked off one by one.

Soon there’s a gap big enough for Harry to make a run for it and come back to the greater safety of the group.  

“Harry!” Ginny yells.

He glances back, and she knows he’s seen the opening.

She steps forward with Rosier and Luna to cast protection spells as Harry turns and vaults over the dais. One of the wizards nearly gets Harry in the back, but Luna sends a particularly vicious conjunctivitis curse at him, the wizard falling back with a howl.

Harry makes it safely across, but a moment later, Luna gets hit with a streak of red light, slumping to the floor. Ginny drops down, Rosier covering her while she drags her back behind the rest of their classmates. After a brief check that Luna is fine, Ginny uses her momentary protection as a chance to assess the situation, watching the movement of the attacking wizards. She can see it, what they plan on doing next.

Getting to her feet, she touches on Harry’s back, careful not to get in the way of his wand movements. She can feel the tension in his body.

“They’re going to try to divide us,” she says loud enough for him and Neville to hear.

Harry casts another spell, deflecting an incoming hex, his head turning to take in the layout. He nods his understanding.

They could give up their position, but it’s slightly better, more open for movement, rather than littered with the overturned benches closer to where the other group of students is struggling under a renewed barrage.

“They’ll need to come to us,” Ginny says.

“Seamus,” Neville calls.

Terry has gotten hit at some point, Seamus and Parvati standing in front of him as more wizards press in on them. It’s going to be hard for them to get Terry back to the group and not get hit themselves.

It would honestly be foolish for them to even try.

“They should just leave him,” Rosier says.

Harry shoots him a withering look before darting across the room towards Seamus without any warning, flinging spells over his shoulder as he goes, his movements careless.

Rosier curses under his breath, but doesn’t hesitate to follow after Harry, casting a shield charm just in time to keep him from getting hit. Seamus drags Terry back into the larger group while the others keep up protections.

“Have they forgotten this is just a school test?” Seamus says as he slouches behind an overturned bench with Terry, nursing a nasty set of boils in his arm.

“Apparently,” Parvati shouts back, casting an impressive leg-lock spell that takes one of the wizards down, nearly knocking his neighbor out too.

Ginny dares to dart a glance at Harry’s face. His expression is set and he seems to be radiating some sort of powerful energy that reminds her inexplicably of her mum.

Rosier stumbles back under an impact, his eyes looking a little unfocused, clearly hit by something interfering with his reflexes.

“We can’t keep this up,” Ginny says, stepping in front of him to provide coverage. The simple fact is that they are outnumbered, not to mention severely out-skilled by their better-trained opponents.

“Got any suggestions?” Neville shouts back.

She doesn’t get a chance to answer, a hex impacting her leg, her entire body feeling like it’s turned to jelly. Her leg buckles under her and she stumbles, tripping over Luna’s foot. Unable to catch herself, she falls backwards, her shoulder catching the edge of an overturned bench. Her breath seems to leave her in a rush, but she still manages to keep her wand, struggling to find the breath to cast a shield to protect herself from any further damage even as pain flares through her body.

She vaguely hears someone shout her name, and then a powerful shield flares to life across the middle of the room, the chandeliers above swinging with the sheer force of it.

“Enough,” Harry bellows.

Robards jumps up on the dais, hands lifted. “Yes. Enough.”

The room falls silent, but Ginny still isn’t ready to believe it. None of the other students are either to judge from the way they warily stand shoulder to shoulder around the fallen, wands lifted. The attacking wizards all lower theirs, pulling back to the walls. At least those who aren’t in various states of immobility on the ground.

Harry doesn’t immediately lower the shield, glancing back over his shoulder at her.

She nods to let him know that she’s okay. Rosier leans down to help her back to her feet. She cautiously rotates her arm, but other than a little discomfort, it’s working fine. Parvati drops down to revive Luna and Terry.

Only then does Harry return his attention to Robards. “What are you playing at?” he demands.

“A very good question,” Robards says, hands tucked behind his back like this is a lecture. “Anyone care to hazard a guess?”

The students are still heaving with the effort of the fight, looking like Robards is out of his mind.

“You wanted to see how we would work as a team,” Neville eventually says.

“Very good,” Robards says.

“And with no warning,” Seamus adds, rubbing at his leg as if still shaking off the effects of a stinging hex.

Robards smiles, jumping down off the platform. He walks over until he’s standing in front of Harry. Neville and Rosier tense on either side of him, stepping up like they might have to defend Harry again, and Ginny can tell this amuses Robards, his lips twisting.

“I must say you took me by surprise, Potter. Very impressive. Embarrassingly shoddy wand technique, but nothing that a bit of vigorous training can’t fix.”

“I’m flattered,” Harry says, voice dripping with sarcasm even as his breathing is still slightly labored from the fight.

“Well, you shouldn’t be. Your wandwork is the least of your problems.”  

Harry’s jaw tightens with what Ginny imagines is the effort of not telling Robards off. “Enlighten me,” Harry bites out.

Robards steps into him, a blatant show of aggression that Harry doesn’t budge against, holding Robards’s gaze. “In short? You’re too emotional. You’re letting your emotions drive you instead of your head, and it makes you reckless. And dangerous.”

Harry has no ready comeback this time, clearly very close to losing his temper, his hand clenching and unclenching around the handle of his wand, Robards still staring him down.

This overbearing posturing is so clearly yet another test, another attempt to push Harry, test his limits, that it becomes glaringly obvious that this Robards’s real aim. It’s always been about Harry. Ginny is just done because how dare he. How dare he stand in this place with these students and blatantly attack Harry both physically and personally.

“Reckless?” she says, voice flat and even but no less sharp for it. “Like setting fully trained Aurors on schoolchildren? Students who not so long ago spent months being brutalized in a room very much like this one, by someone very much like you?”

Robards’s eyes slide over to her, coolly assessing. “As Mr. Longbottom so aptly put it, defense can’t always be about being comfortable.”

She supposes he means this as a way to put her in her place, throwing their own words back at them, but all he’s done is shown his cards, making it painfully clear that he’s watched every moment of this so-called exam even before he showed his face. That he’s planned every moment of this little spectacle.

She smiles. “As if any of this was about testing our defense abilities. If that’s all it was, there’s no reason for you to be here.” She shakes her head. “No. The only reason you’re here is to indulge your curiosity. And you didn’t care how you went about it.”

She’s watching Robards closely enough that she doesn’t miss the flicker of surprise, like he didn’t expect anyone to pick up on why he’s really here, what this bit of theater was really about when the clues are ridiculously obvious. They’re all just kids, after all, aren’t they?

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, pressing on, because she doesn’t care if he’s the bloody Head Auror, he has no right. “Did you think your motives were somehow not completely transparent?”

Robards’s attention is fully on her now, his expression difficult to interpret, but gaze completely unyielding. He moves in her direction, clearly about to stride over to her, aggression in every line of his body.

He doesn’t get very far, Harry deliberately stepping across his path, placing his body between Robards and Ginny without hesitation. Like he has no intention of letting Robards anywhere near her.

Robards looks at him, the two of them nearly of a height, expressions equally implacable.

The tension in the room ratchets up again; Seamus shifting slightly in front of Ginny, his wand tapping against his thigh in agitation.

“Oh,” Luna says, voice mildly curious. “Are we going to fight again?”

Luna’s question seems to finally penetrate the standoff, Robards looking away from Harry. After a long moment, he relents, taking a few steps back away, and Ginny gets the distinct impression that he’s regrouping.

“I admit,” Robards says, hands once again behind his back. “I was curious. I’d heard a lot about the so-called child-soldier army of Hogwarts. I suppose I wanted to see it for myself.”

Yet another partial truth, but Ginny knows she’s already pushed as far as she dares and so lets it lie.

Robards paces the length of the room, looking at each of them in turn as if he’s studying them. He eventually comes to a stop in front of Terry and Parvati. “But I can see you’re right, Miss Weasley,” he says without looking at her. “None of you are children. And you weren’t playing at anything, were you?”

Despite the panic and anger still swelling in her chest, Ginny’s voice is calm and flat as she responds. “No, sir.”

He nods. “There’s a lot of potential in this room. Far more than I expected. A lot of skill and willingness to work as a team and some sheer raw talent. With the right kind of training and a lot of hard work, you could really make something of that. Make a real impact.”  

An impact somewhere more important than just a school, Ginny assumes he means.

He crosses back over to stand in front of Harry. “In truth, I would be honored to have any of you join the Auror Academy.”

He holds Harry’s gaze for a long moment before looking at the rest of them in turn, as if to make them understand exactly what he is offering. Without another word, he turns and walks back out the rear door. The other wizards quickly follow suit, leaving the students alone.

“What the actual fuck,” Rosier says the moment the door closes behind them.

Ginny can’t help but silently agree.

“Christ, Ginny,” Seamus says, turning to her. “Is there anyone you’re actually afraid of? You’re almost as bad as Harry!”

She shakes her head, abruptly sitting down as her heart starts to pound away in her chest, the adrenaline of the moment starting to fade. “There’s plenty of things I’m afraid of, Seamus. But pointing out people’s hypocrisy is not one of them.”

Terry scoffs. “Honestly, did he really think we weren’t going to notice that every DA leader and every student even considering applying for the Academy is in this room?”

But some of the others are looking around as if they are realizing that for the first time.

Luna sits down next to Ginny, her hand on her knee.

“Not Ron and Hermione,” Neville points out.

“He wanted Harry on his own,” Ginny says, this being the part Robards seemed least willing to admit. “Probably wanted a glimpse of what The Chosen One is capable of without his trusty sidekicks there.”

Someone curses under their breath as if they are finally realizing just how premeditated that all was, just what Robards hoped to achieve. The Head Auror wanted to see how much of a problem this school army might be, see what kind of applicant pool he was going to get, and get unfettered access to Harry Potter, all neatly tied up in one little ambush.

She wonders how much McGonagall knew about this. Or Kingsley.

“I wasn’t,” Harry says.

“What?” Neville asks.

“On my own,” he says, glancing around at them. “I had all of you.”

She can tell it means a lot to him that no one in this room hesitated to throw in with him, test or no. They all had his back, even if he’s probably already berating himself for getting them in this position in the first place.

Seamus shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “Of course you did.”

Next to him, Neville nods. “We may be Dumbledore’s Army, but we’ve always been yours too, Harry.”

Harry blinks, looking like he’s struggling with how to respond to that.

“Come on,” Parvati says. “Let’s talk about this somewhere else. I’d really rather not spend another moment in this bloody room, if we don’t have to.”   

Neville nods. “Does anyone need to see Pomfrey?”

Despite more than one visible injury, they all shake their heads.

“We still have supplies in the DA room,” Ginny says. “We can just go there.”

“Yeah,” Parvati agrees. “We can see how everyone else fared in their exams.”

She, Terry, and Seamus file out together, Ginny not getting up from her seat.

Harry appears in front of her. “Are you okay?” he asks.

She looks up at him, doing her best to smile at him. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t look appeased, and she drops her eyes to his hand, the way it almost reaches for hers only to drop away.  

“Uh, are you okay, Luna?” he asks, seeming to recall that Luna and Neville are still both here.

Ginny turns to look at her, noticing that she doesn’t look all that well.

“Getting stunned always leaves me with a headache,” Luna says, brow slightly furrowed. “I believe I’ll go get a potion from Madame Pomfrey.” She gets to her feet.

Neville steps closer, taking her elbow. “I’ll walk you,” he offers.

“No thank you,” Luna says serenely, patting his hand absently. “I will be quite alright on my own.” She turns and walks out without another word.

Neville watches her go, clearly not pleased.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Ginny says, getting to her feet as well, doing her best not to wince at the pain in her back.

“Yeah,” Neville says.

They walk out of the room, catching up to the rest of their group where Seamus is already regaling other students with the thrilling tale of their exam.

Tobias strides up to Ginny. “What the hell happened to you lot?” he asks.

He looks completely unmussed while the rest of them look like they’ve been through a particularly rough Quidditch match.

“Ambush,” she says succinctly.

“What?” he says with enough alarm to confirm nothing like that happened in his session.

She nods. “Organized by the Head Auror himself, no less.”

Tobias is satisfyingly shocked. “Why in the world would—” he starts to say, only to break off when he notices Harry. “Oh, right. Of course.”

Harry does not look particularly pleased with this assumption that of course weird, violent things would be happening around him.

“Harry!”

They turn, seeing Ron and Hermione rushing towards them.

“What the bloody hell is this we’re hearing about you getting attacked during your exam?” Ron demands, looking like he really hopes they’re going to deny it.

Ginny’s impressed with the speed of the news traveling about, unless Ron just has a sixth sense about Harry getting himself in trouble.

“It was pretty exciting. You really missed out,” Ginny says.

“You mean it’s true?” Ron asks. He looks Harry over as if inspecting him over for injuries. “We leave you alone for one afternoon and this is what happens.”

“I hardly asked to be ambushed,” Harry defends, already looking marginally more relaxed just to have Ron and Hermione here.

“What exactly happened?” Hermione asks.

Ginny decides to leave them to it, walking into the DA room with Tobias.

“You okay?” he asks her, unerringly nudging her in the exact most painful spot.

She tries to bite back the hiss of pain, but can’t quite manage it. “We don’t happen to have any of that bruise salve still lying around, do we?”

Tobias frowns. “I’m sure we do.”

He leads her towards the small cupboard they keep stocked with basic supplies—a habit they’ve never quite been able to break. While Tobias is digging around through the various crocks and vials, Ginny shucks her robes and tie, dropping them on a nearby chair.

Having spent months together in tight quarters at the end of the war, the DA members aren’t exactly overly precious about privacy, so Ginny doesn’t think anything of unbuttoning her shirt, knowing she has a tank top underneath that more than keeps her covered. If anything, she’s just hoping she can get her injury dealt with before Ron and Harry wander in.

It’s a good instinct if Tobias’s reaction is anything to go by.

“Christ,” he says. “What kind of curse did this?”

Ginny cranes her neck, trying to catch sight of the area. Sure enough, a bruise is already forming down over her shoulder blade. “I tripped.”

The look Tobias gives her makes it clear that he doesn’t believe her. “Suppose you’re useless off your broom,” he mutters. “Can’t even walk in a straight line.”

She nudges him in retaliation.

“If you could refrain from violence long enough for me to help this would go a lot easier,” he chastises, pulling the top off the crock with a pop.

Ginny rolls her eyes, but dutifully submits herself to his ministrations, hissing only when he hits a particularly nasty spot.

“Stop being a baby,” Tobias says, but he also lightens his touch.

“Ginny!” Ron says. “What happened?”

She sighs, knowing it was probably too much to hope that she wouldn’t have to deal with this.

She glances back over her shoulder to see Ron, Hermione, and Harry standing behind her. Harry is staring at her shoulder like he’d very much like to have another go at Robards.

“I’m fine,” Ginny says. “It’s nothing.”  

“It doesn’t look like bloody nothing,” Ron says.

“Yeah, well, it’s nothing enough that I could still easily hex you if I wanted,” she says, not in any mood to deal with his overly protective brother mode right now.

Mercifully, Hermione drags Ron off, Harry reluctantly trailing after them with one last glance at her shoulder, his face tight with anger. They don’t go all that far, settling on a sofa nearby, shooting her less than subtle looks.

“So, besides the ambush, how’d the exam go?” Tobias asks. “You did actually have a real exam too, right?”

Ginny is grateful for the change in subject, more than happy to talk about anything other than the ambush or her injury. “Ugh. I botched it.”

“Yeah? You trip up there too? Accidentally hex yourself?”

Ginny let out a huff, shaking her head. “I flubbed a counter-curse. It was a stupid one to miss too.”

“Meh,” he says. “Most people missed at least one. I doubt it means you’re gonna get a failing grade.”

“Yeah,” she sighs.

Tobias’ eyes narrow. “What is it?”

“It’s not that I missed the spell,” she admits. “It’s what happened after.”

“Yeah?”

Ginny looks down at her hands. “The examiner got a hex in on me and I’m lying on that dais and he walks towards me and I just…”

“Cursed the shit out of him?”

“Yes,” she says, letting out a shaky laugh. “For a moment I thought…”

Tobias smooths the last of the salve on with an intense sort of concentration. “You thought it was me.”

She lifts her face with a jerk, but he isn’t looking her in the eye.

She doesn’t deny it because there’s no point in lying. They both know that’s exactly what happened.

“Don’t look so glum, love,” he says, putting the lid back on the crock. “There’s a reason they call them unforgivable after all.”

She watches him put the crock back in the cupboard.

“Maybe if you were better at spells,” she says. “As it was, I’d say it was mildly reprehensible at most.”

He lets out a bark of laughter, but Ginny can’t help but think his heart isn’t really in it.

A heavy silence falls between them as she shrugs her shirt back on and buttons it up. “Tobias…”

He gives her a crooked smile. “Don’t worry. You know me, I always land on my foot.”

“Ugh,” Ginny says, stretching up and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Now that was unforgivable.”

He tugs her braid and then walks off, over to talk to Rosier, which is an improvement over leaving altogether, at least. Only then she notices that Ron is watching her with very poorly concealed horror. She’d really hoped they weren’t close enough to hear any of that.

He leans over the back of the sofa towards her. “Are you saying that he—”

“Did what he had to?” Ginny cuts across him. “Yeah. A lot of us did.”

Ron’s eyes widen, looking comically torn between concern for her and anger at Tobias. She doesn’t need either.

“I am not talking about this, Ron,” she says, moving further away to sit with Parvati and Padma.  

Fortunately there is a bit of a distraction then, Dean careening into the room with Ritchie and Jimmy on his heels.

“There was a fight?” Dean asks, glancing around the room. “Someone tried to kill Harry?”

Seamus laughs. “Wow, that one grew fast. It was just a minor scuffle. Purely academic, right, Harry?”

“Right,” Harry says, voice wry.

Dean drops down on the sofa next to Seamus. “Are you okay?”

Seamus grabs his fingers and gives them a squeeze. “You know me. Pretty sturdy.”

Dean just shakes his head, clearly at a loss for words.

The entire room launches into yet another retelling for the benefit of the new arrivals. Ginny sighs, looking around the room, and of course she can’t stop herself from looking at Harry. To the casual observer, it looks like he’s just talking with Ron and Hermione as always, but she can see the way he’s quietly fuming, his knee bouncing a bit.

She doesn’t blame him, feeling pretty close to losing it herself.

Roughly shaking her head, she decides that’s it. She’s done giving Robards any more thought. They all need something else to focus on.

She pops up to her feet with an exaggerated stretch. “Okay,” she says loudly, drawing the attention of most people in the room. “That’s enough of that. I need a fly. Who’s up for a scrimmage?”  

She looks at Dean expectantly.

He lifts his hands, shaking his head. “I’ve already had my arse handed to me by you on a broom far too many times this year, thanks all the same.”

“Coward,” Ginny accuses.

“You’d think winning the Quidditch Cup yet again would be enough for her,” Ritchie grumbles.

Vaisey and Rosier share smug grins.

“What can I say?” Ginny says, making a show of tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I never get tired of winning.”

Considering how smug she tries to sound, it’s no surprise that Seamus and the others groan in complaint.

She’s just about to give another little push, when Harry unexpectedly speaks up.

“If I remember correctly,” he says, “I’ve never lost a single match to you.”

“Oooooh,” Seamus says, looking between the two of them with horrified delight.

Ritchie cackles while Jimmy just lifts his hands behind his head. “Potter only speaks the truth.”

Ginny turns to regard Harry, keeping her face placid despite how pleased she is to see Harry’s natural competitiveness rouse him out of his fuming. “Well then,” she says, “no time like the present.”

“Do you really think you could manage it?” he shoots back, all that fractious energy still bubbling right under the surface.

“The term isn’t over yet,” she says. “I’d say there’s still time to prove it.”

Dean looks between the two of them. “Well now I want to play.”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Ginny says. “Assemble your team, Potter.”

Harry leans forward. “You’re on.”

Someone lets out a cheer, the rest of the room bursting out into excited chatter.

“What’s the wager going to be?” Seamus presses.

“Oh,” Ginny says, waving her hand dismissively. “Beating Harry will be reward enough for me.”

“Afraid, are we?” Harry asks, voice mild.

Someone whistles, low and impressed.

Ginny feels a slow smile spread over her face, finding this side to Harry far more appealing than she probably should.

“Fine,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “When my team wins, you’ll wear Slytherin colors for the rest of term.”

There’s a chorus of reactions around them.

“Low blow, Weasley!” Jimmy complains.

“Who says we want him?” Tobias asks loudly.

Harry ignores them all, his eyes still on Ginny. “It won’t be a problem, as I have no intention of losing.”

“And what will Ginny have to do?” Dean asks.

Harry taps his chin, clearly giving it some serious consideration. Ginny isn’t too worried, knowing he won’t do anything to humiliate her. And he knows she doesn’t have money for a side bet.

As he lingers over the decision, people shout out ideas, everything from making her wear a shirt that says Gryffindor Rules to a not-so-quietly muttered suggestion that she polish his broom.

Harry’s eyes narrow, his head whipping around as he tries to locate the source of that suggestion, but before he can say anything, Ron gets there first.

“You’d better fucking mean his Firebolt or I’m going to use you as the next Weasley Wheezes test subject, you sodding twat.”

Jimmy leans into Ritchie and in a stage whisper says, “Maybe we’ve been afraid of the wrong Weasley this whole time.”

Ginny just rolls her eyes. “I’m waiting.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “You serve us breakfast. By hand. No magic.”

Embarrassing, but not horribly so. Just enough to make a spectacle of herself and let them revel in their win. It’s a good choice.

“All of you?” she asks.

Harry nods. “The whole team. You know how annoying it is to have to get up and refill our plates.”

Ron laughs appreciatively, slapping Harry on the back.

Ginny just smiles at them. “Pour your tea for you?” she says in an overly sweet voice that makes the smile slip off Ron’s face.

“She’ll probably poison it,” Dean says in an undertone.

“Nah,” Seamus says. “Do you know how many people have tried to kill Harry? Even Ginny probably couldn’t manage it.”

“That is an entirely different wager,” Terry points out.

Seamus nods, eagerly turning to him. “You’re right. Odds?”

“Oi. That isn’t funny,” Ron says, though whether at the idea of his mate being poisoned or his sister poisoning people is unclear.

Seamus shrugs. “You didn’t see how many Aurors Harry took on at once.”

Before the conversation can devolve into yet another discussion of Robards, the door opens with a slam, Demelza and Reiko striding in with Martin on their heels.

“What is this I’m hearing?” Demelza demands.

“You mean about the ambush?” Parvati asks, turning in her seat to look at them.

Reiko frowns, waving her hand dismissively. “Ambush? Who cares about a sodding ambush?”

Demelza nods. “Yeah. We heard something about a Quidditch match?”

After a stunned moment of silence, everyone bursts into laughter.

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor common room is buzzing with excitement over tomorrow’s impromptu Quidditch match, so much so that all the students with exams the next day—Astronomy and Arithmancy—have fled the area in hopes of quiet, including Hermione.

“You should really be studying for Charms,” Hermione tells Ron and Harry before disappearing to the library. There’s no real heat in her voice though, and Harry imagines she’s just happy to see him focusing on something other than his urge to track down and curse the Head Auror.

Truthfully, Harry would gladly have another go at Robards. He might not be able to take him in a duel with his ‘shoddy fucking wandwork’, but he’d happily try again all the same. His hands tighten into fists on the arms of his favorite chair. The cheery fire and comfort of one of his favorite places is doing little to lift his mood.

Ron nudged his foot. “Chess?” he asks, clearly hopeful of distracting Hary out of his ‘sulk’ as he would doubtlessly call it.

Before Harry can answer, Demelza squats down on the edge of the hearth in front of them. “Okay, Potter. What’s the plan?”

“What?” Harry says, his agitation only growing.

Demelza stares at him nonplussed. “Christ, Harry. I knew you needed me as a Chaser, but this is ridiculous.”

Right, Harry thinks, Quidditch. He forces himself to take a breath. The last thing he needs is to piss off his best Chaser. “Of course I want you to play,” he says. “Won’t it just be the normal team? Only with me and Ron?”

The current Keeper fortunately already begged off, being a fifth-year with exams tomorrow, so Harry doesn’t even have to feel bad about wanting to have Ron on his team instead. As for the current Gryffindor Seeker, the third-year doesn’t seem put out, instead claiming to be excited to see Harry play.

But Demelza is regarding Harry like he’s crazy. Rubbing a hand over her face, she takes a breath as if willing herself to remain calm. “Let me ask you something. Do you want to win this?”

“Of course I do,” Harry says, not particularly appreciating the insinuation that he doesn’t.

“Okay then,” she says. “We need Harper.”

Harry shares a dubious look with Ron. “Kieran Harper?” He was a Seeker as far as Harry remembered. A bad one. And a Slytherin one at that.

Demelza shakes her head. “Of course not. His sister. She’s a Ravenclaw. And a killer Chaser. I mean, nowhere near as good as Ginny, but who is? We need her.”

Harry frowns. “Are we supposed to be recruiting from other houses?” he asks Ron.

He shrugs. “Ginny did say assemble your team. She didn’t say it had to be all Gryffindors.” He looks at Demelza, something assessing in his gaze. “She’s that good?”

“She is.”

“Well then,” Ron says, hands slapping his knees. “What would be the harm in asking?”  

“But Chasers have to work together,” Harry points out. “Wouldn’t it be a disadvantage to bring in someone new?”

Demelza shrugs. “Usually it would be, but we’ve been having those bloody clinics all year, haven’t we? All of the Chasers have spent time together training, know all the same basic plays, and she’s good enough that a little confusion on the field will still leave us better off.”

Harry looks at Ron, who nods his agreement. “Okay then,” Harry decides.

Demelza grins, popping up to her feet. “Great. Let’s go.”

They follow Demelza through the castle, down the main corridor and then back up to the Ravenclaw tower. “Oi,” she says to a student they pass on the stairs. “Is Harper in there?”

“Excuse me?” the witch says, looking confused.

Demelza doesn’t seem put off. “Why don’t you run up and check? It’s important.”

“I’m not a bloody House Elf—” the Ravenclaw starts to say, only to stop when she realizes Demelza isn’t on her own. The girl’s eyes widen slightly when she sees Harry.

Ron nudges him in the ribs and Harry belatedly smiles at her. “We’d, uh, really appreciate it.” All for a good cause, he tells himself.

The kid nods, turning and disappearing back into the common room after puzzling out a rather extended answer for the door.

It doesn’t take long for Harper to appear. She’s younger than Harry expects, but taller than Demelza already. “Well,” she says, looking between the three of them, “a gaggle of Gryffindors. What could this possibly be about?”

“Come off it, Harper,” Demezla says with impatience. “You know why we’re here.”

“I do?” There’s something distinctly disturbing about a Ravenclaw playing dumb.

“Would you be interested in playing for us tomorrow?” Harry asks, not keen on dragging this out.

“Sorry,” Harper says, shaking her head. “I can’t.”

She doesn’t seem particularly sorry.

“You don’t have any exams!” Demelza says.

Harper rolls her eyes. “I had noticed that, strangely enough. I still can’t play for you.”

“Why not?” Harry asks, a sinking sensation in his stomach telling him he already knows the answer.

“Because I’m already playing for Ginny,” she says with a bright smile.

“Son of a bitch,” Demelza says. Her face pales as something else seems to occur to her. “Oh, no.”

“What?” Harry asks.

Demelza ignores him, instead addressing Harper. “Did she get the Hufflepuff Beaters?”

Harper just smiles, and he wonders why she bothered to come down here if she never intended to play for them, if she really just wanted to gloat.

“Did we want the Hufflepuff Beaters?” Ron asks.

“What?” Demelza says. “No. Jimmy and Ritchie are great. But the Hufflepuff Beaters are a huge improvement over bloody Karl. Ginny clearly is not messing about.” She turns to glare at Harry as if this is all his fault. “She probably asked them all before she goaded you into the match.”

Harry is finally getting a sense of just how seriously everyone is taking this, Ginny included. Not to mention the creeping feeling that this is nowhere near as impromptu as it appears.

He thinks Ginny could stand to realize she’s not quite as in control as she’d like to think.

“Harper,” he says, banking on the fact that there was another reason she came down here to meet with them.

She looks up at him with something like anticipation sparkling in her eyes. “Yeah?”

“Is there anything at all we can do to convince you to change your mind?”

Demelza’s head lifts, expression alert.

Rather than being surprised by the offer, Harper looks like she’s just been waiting for it. “Anything?”

“Within reason,” Harry says, not at all sure he likes how eager she looks.

She comes down the steps until she’s standing in front of him. “Before we talk terms, I need you to confirm or deny something for me.”

“Okay,” Harry says, giving Ron a wary look. Demelza just makes an impatient gesture, as if telling him to humor Harper anyway he can.

“I’ve heard rumors that you have an invisibility cloak. One that is said to be impressively effective. True or false?”

Harry hesitates even though it’s far from a secret at this point. “True,” he admits.

Harper’s face lights up. “Okay. That’s my price.”

“What?” Ron exclaims. “You’re barking.”

Harry silently agrees. No Quidditch match is worth giving up his father’s bloody cloak. One of the Deathly Hallows. Even if she clearly doesn’t know that.

She gives them a look of exasperation. “I’m not going to keep it. I just want to look at it. Study it a bit. It would help me with a little theory I’m working on. Say, 12 hours?”

Harry is already shaking his head. There is no way he’s letting the cloak out of his sight, let alone for that long.

“Six hours,” she amends, clearly desperate.

“One hour and I’m there the whole time,” Harry says.

Her eyes narrow. “Two hours and you’re there the whole time.”

“Done,” Harry says. He holds out his hand.

Harper takes it, shaking it firmly and giving out a small squeak of excitement. “That’s worth Ginny Weasley’s wrath.” She frowns, looking at Demelza. “Besides, she won’t be here next year, right?”

“Nope,” Demelza agrees, patting her on the shoulder. “We’re in the free and clear. Better off than this lot.” She jerks a thumb towards Ron and Harry.  

Ron groans, looking at Harry. “She’s going to kill us, you realize.”

Harry shrugs, not particularly worried at the moment. “She started it.”

Harper seems equally unconcerned with their fate. “So...the cloak? Can we do it now?”

Harry isn’t that thick. “After the match.”

“Fine,” she grumbles. She heads back up the stairs, pausing once to look back at them. “Oh, one more thing. You lot have to tell Ginny.”

Ron groans, but Harry just nods. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Better you than me,” Ron says, not offering to fall on that particular sword. “Want to borrow Pig? No reason you have to do it in person.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “She isn’t that scary.”

“Have you met my sister?”

“Yes, well,” Demelza says as they start back down the stairs. “There’s no reason to rush to tell her.”

Harry slides her a look.

“What?” she says, not looking even remotely abashed. “We need every advantage we can get.”

“She deserves time to fill Harper’s spot.” He may be willing to lure a player away from her, but he isn’t going to play that dirty.

Demelza sighs. “Fine. If you want to be all noble.”

Ron laughs. “Have you met Harry?”

Harry tries to trod on the back of Ron’s robes in retaliation, Ron dancing out of the way with a laugh as he aims a kick at his shin.

Harry is pretty sure he hears Demelza mutter the bloody savior of the wizarding world my arse under her breath as she leaves them to it.

When they get back to the common room after a celebratory stop in to see Kreacher in the kitchens, Harry ducks up into their dorm and pulls out his parchment. He isn’t scared of Ginny, but a happy hour enjoying sweets and debating Quidditch with Ron has gone a long way towards softening his annoyance and frustration over the DADA exam. There’s a small part of his brain wondering if maybe he took this whole competition with Ginny a little far. He isn’t even completely sure where it came from, the things he said to her in the DA room. Not that Ginny seemed offended at the time, and maybe, just maybe, the way she looked at him with that particular glint in her eye only egged him on.

Still, he hasn’t really had a chance to talk with her about it, so he can’t be sure what she thinks of it all.

Hey, he writes.

Hey yourself, she writes back, which isn’t a lot to go on.

He supposes if she were really annoyed with him, she wouldn’t have written back at all. But it can’t hurt to ask just to be sure. Right?

Are you still okay with all of this? The match?

Her response is immediate. Bring your A game, Potter. I’m going to squash you.

Well then. He’ll take that as a yes.

Anything to win? he clarifies.

Pretty much.

Then you won’t mind that I stole Harper.

You did what?!

All’s fair, right?

Oh, now it’s on, Potter.

He bites back a laugh. It wasn’t before?

Joke’s on you if you were hoping for a snog tonight. Now I have a Chaser to recruit.

He doubts they really would have met up tonight anyway considering how exhausted they both are, but that doesn’t stop a traitorous feeling of disappointment from blooming in his chest. Well, don’t waste time trying to get Harper back.

You seem pretty certain. What did you do, bribe her?

Harry doesn’t immediately reply, not exactly sure how much he wants to admit to.

Oh my god, she writes. You totally did. What did you give her?

Harry isn’t fooled for a second. Why, so you can try to offer her something better?

Would I do that?

He knows she would. Trust me. You can’t top this.

Oh really? Now I have to know.

He only hesitates a moment before writing, A date with The Chosen One.

It’s not exactly a lie, as Harry will be there too as Harper looks his cloak over, but it’s also deliberately misleading. There’s a disconcertingly long pause, or maybe that’s just how it feels to Harry as he begins to regret the impulsive jab. She has to know he wouldn’t do that, right?

Wow. Playing dirty, are we?

Harry can’t help but squirm. No, he admits. I wasn’t serious.

Harry.

What?

Please don’t ruin perfectly good trash-talking with your adorable sincerity.

Harry frowns, feeling vaguely insulted. I am not adorable.

Yes, you are. ADORABLE. Like a wobbly-legged new fawn. A squat-faced baby kneazle. Hagrid when he has a new pet.

He winces. Okay, now it’s on, Weasley.

Is it?

We’ll see how adorable I am when my team is trouncing you.

Much better. Only now I kinda do want to snog you.

No fraternizing with the enemy.

Pity.

Harry smiles, once again very much looking forward to this match. I’ll see you tomorrow?

You bet that adorable arse of yours you will, Potter.

I don’t recall my arse being part of the wager.

Oh my god. Go to bed, Harry. You’re going to need every moment of beauty rest for your date with Harper.

Just worry about staying on your broom, Weasley.

ADORABLE.

Harry lets out a snort of amusement and tosses the parchment aside. He thinks this Quidditch match is going to be even more fun than he originally thought.

*     *     *

By breakfast the next morning, none of the excitement over the match seem to have faded. The two teams and their supporters have settled on opposite sides of the room to eat.

Not that everyone manages to choose a side. Neville walks in, glancing between the two groups and shifting uncomfortably on his feet. Dean and Seamus happily heckle him over his hesitation.

“Where’s your house pride?” Seamus yells.

Face red, Neville finally picks a seat in the middle of the room with Hannah and Susan.

Hermione looks around at all the fuss, clearly barely resisting rolling her eyes before turning back to her Arithmancy notes.

Harry turns, looking behind him. He locates Ginny in the middle of a crowd of Slytherin and Hufflepuff students. Burke, he notices, is nowhere to be found.

Ginny catches him looking, holding his gaze as she clearly mouths the word ‘adorable’ at him, and damn it, he’s not at all sure this feeling in his chest is annoyance.

He gestures his thumb down, letting her know that he isn’t going to hesitate to crush her.

Ginny just smiles back, something fierce and warm in her gaze, like she’s really going to enjoy destroying him.

Ron notices him staring, pulling Harry back around. “You can’t let Ginny get into your head. She’s a master at mind games, remember?”

Harry doesn’t dare say that Ginny doesn’t need mind games for him to find her amazing and irresistibly snoggable.

Sadly, he doesn’t get another chance to see her that morning, off with his team to talk strategy, Ginny no doubt off with hers somewhere. Everyone sits separately again at lunch, Ron muttering something about not fraternizing with the enemy.

At half past one, they finally head down to the pitch to change and start warming up. Someone even transfigured the uniforms, Harry’s team in red and blue, Ginny’s in green and yellow, and it all feels rather official. Ernie has offered to serve as a referee, while Luna is going to do the commentary. As the warm ups continue, a rather alarming amount of students gather to watch.

The only test sitting that afternoon is Arithmancy, one of the least popular subjects, meaning almost everyone else is here. Harry supposes there haven’t been any diversions the last few weeks. For once. Who knew Hogwarts could actually be boring?

The planned start time approaches, so Harry and Ginny both touch down, walking towards each other to meet at the center of the pitch as the defacto captains.

Harry watches her approach, deciding that Ginny in her game leathers may just be his favorite thing. Or maybe it’s just the way she’s looking at him, so bloody certain of herself.

Just as they finally reach each other, McGonagall appears with Madam Hooch. Harry can hear Demelza curse above him.

“And what exactly is going on here, Mr. Potter, Miss Weasley?” she asks.

Ginny’s eyes widen with faux sincerity. “Studying for Charms, ma’am?”

McGonagall presses her lips together in disapproval, though Harry suspects she’s actually more likely trying not to look amused. She looks above Ginny to address Reiko. “Miss Sibazaki. Don’t you have an exam this evening?”

Unlike the Gryffindor Keeper, Reiko apparently has no problem playing on exam day. The match probably won’t go late enough to interfere with the evening Astronomy practical exam, but it’s still a risk.

“Some things are far more important, Professor,” Reiko says.

McGonagall’s eyebrow lifts. “I see.” She glances around at the large collection of students in the stands. “Well, I am sorry to say that I cannot allow this match to go forward—”

Everyone starts shouting and complaining.

“Without,” McGonagall continues, raising her voice, “supervision and an official to ensure standard rules are adhered to. I will not have any pointless injuries on my grounds.”

Harry catches on quick, smiling at Professor McGonagall. “Is there any chance at all, Professor, that you might have a little free time on your hands? We’d really appreciate it.”

McGonagall’s lips twitch as she looks at him almost fondly. “Fortunately,” she says, “I do find myself unengaged this afternoon. As does Madam Hooch.”

“How lovely,” Ginny says.

McGonagall leans into Harry as she passes. “I expect you to win, Mr. Potter. Gryffindor has suffered quite enough losses this year as it is.” Her cool eyes slide to Ginny as if to blame her for that.

Ginny’s smile doesn’t slip.

Hooch steps between them as McGonagall leaves the field. “Let’s have a clean match, shall we?

Harry and Ginny nod.

“Now shake hands.”

Ginny holds out her hand and Harry takes it, finding it surprisingly difficult to resist doing more than just shaking it.

“Finally I get a chance to kick your arse fair and square,” Ginny says.

He grins at her. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll try,” he drawls, his fingers tightening around hers.

Her eyes flash in response, and Harry is momentarily distracted by how much he’d like to kiss her.

With a wink, she drops his hand, hopping up on her broom and smoothly taking position, Harry belatedly doing the same.

With a shout, Hooch lets the balls go, Ginny immediately swooping in for the Quaffle, shouldering Harper out of the way and forwarding it to Vaisey.

Harry almost gets distracted watching her, barely catching sight of Reiko starting chase after the Snitch. He doesn’t have time to work out if it’s a feint, cursing under his breath and taking off after her.

Reiko is fast despite her inferior broom, executing tight turns and spirals with a cool confidence she hadn’t yet developed the last time he played against her. More than two years ago, he realizes with a jolt. He probably should have paid a bit more attention to her when he came to watch that one match earlier this term. Clearly Reiko has done nothing but practice, and Harry feels his first twinge of doubt.

Reiko stops, so completely and quickly that Harry has to swerve to avoid her, pulling up on the handle and smoothly leaning into a barrel roll until he is hovering just a few feet above her, his eyes sweeping for evidence of the Snitch.

“It’s over there,” Reiko says, pointing at the lower ring at the far end of the pitch.

Sure enough, Harry catches the slightest glint of gold before it’s gone again.

Just a feint then, he realizes, taking a moment to appraise her.

She shrugs, giving him a confident smirk. “I thought Ginny deserved more time to play. She’s having so much fun.”

Harry knows he shouldn’t but his eyes find Ginny again, watching her work through a wicked set of twists and climbs and barely controlled falls. She may be having fun, but she is also clearly taking this very seriously.

And she’s fucking spectacular.

For a moment he almost wishes he were in the stands with nothing else to do but watch her. Instead, he forces himself to settle into a comfortable search pattern, never letting Reiko get too far away. He has confidence that his broom is faster, but she’s sneaky. He knows better than to let his guard down.

Below them, the battle wages on. Harper, he has to admit, is good. Better than Dean. It’s a good thing too, because Ginny and Vaisey are still rolling over them, helped no doubt by the Hufflepuff Beaters who are a serious force. The Slytherin Keeper is solid, but nothing inspired. Ron is a good match for him, so they’re even there.

Nettlebed is the clear weak spot on Slytherin’s offense. He just isn’t that great, nearly getting unseated by Bludgers far more often than he should if he were properly focused. Or possibly he’s just having a hard time keeping up with the complicated Chaser plays and keeping an eye out at the same time. Either way, Harry suspects it’s the one thing keeping them from running the board more than they are. That and Demelza’s improved throwing arm. He has a hard time predicting her throws and wonders if this is Ginny’s influence. Either way, it’s clearly a good thing they snagged Harper when they did.

There’s a loud crack and whiz, a Bludger heading Harry’s way despite the fact that he’s not near the Snitch. He ducks and dives, easily evading it, but enjoying the chase as he works his way towards Jimmy, who sends it back towards Nettlebed with a hefty swing of his bat.

“I think that was a love letter for you, Harry,” Jimmy laughs.

Sure enough, when he looks over, Ginny is grinning at him, giving one of the Hufflepuff Beaters a high five as she flies past.

“Just making sure you’re paying attention, Potter!” Ginny shouts as she streaks by.

Harry forces his eyes off her retreating form and relocates Reiko, ascending to a higher viewpoint again. He and Reiko spend the next hour taking each other for merry chases and Harry has missed this so much. They get more and more daring, swerving in and out of the stands much to the cheering glee of the watching students.

They catch sight of the Snitch a few times, but never get close enough to even attempt a catch.

Harry is careful to keep one eye on the score. Slytherin has been solidly ahead from the very beginning, slowly increasing their lead. Not quite yet enough that they can win without the Snitch, but if the match goes on much longer, they could.

After about two hours, Harry decides that as fun as this has been, he really needs to get his hands on the Snitch. He stops biting when Reiko feints, instead settling into an intense search pattern.

Fifteen minutes later, Harry is the first to spot the Snitch. He doesn’t bother glancing at Reiko, knowing generally where she is, just takes off directly for it. If he can end this now it’s their best hope for winning.

There’s a shout followed by the crack of a bat. Harry swerves enough to dodge the Bludger, but Ritchie is already there, sending it back without getting in Harry’s way so he doesn’t have to waste time evading. There’s a roar in Harry’s ears that may be the crowd or the wind or just his heart pounding in his ears as he hurtles after the Snitch.

He’s almost there when the Snitch shudders and streaks off behind him, directly towards Reiko. Harry banks hard, giving chase, Reiko making up massive distance as they both meet in the middle before pulling up after the Snitch, nearly colliding with each other.

The crowd is roaring again, but it’s all lost in the rush of wind and the last distance to the Snitch as it continues to climb straight up, higher and higher above the stands. Reiko is somehow keeping by his side despite her inferior broom, but beginning to fall just slightly behind.  

He’s going to get there first.

Plastering himself against his broom, he stretches out his hand. Next to him, Reiko does the same. It’s really, really close, Harry and Reiko both straining for the Snitch. He lifts up off his seat, his broom nearly imperceptibly listing to one side. It’s just the tiniest moment, the tiniest hesitation, but it’s enough. He can’t prove it, but he swears Reiko gave his broom a nudge, because rather than closing around the Snitch, his hand only finds empty air.

Reiko lunges not a moment later, nearly falling off her broom as she throws it all in for one last chance at the Snitch. Harry is forced to swerve not to hit her and by the time they are both righted again, Reiko lets out a shout.

They are both far, far above the stands by now, too far to be heard, but sure enough, there it is fluttering between Reiko’s fingers—the Snitch. Her face is nearly bursting with joy and then she’s flipping backwards and spiraling back down towards the pitch, Snitch still lifted in one hand.

Harry watches her go. His heart is still thundering from the chase, his skin feeling warm and wind burned, broom humming eagerly under his hand. He’s disappointed, yes, feeling that he’s let his team down, but it somehow doesn’t take away from the thrill of the chase.

Turning his broom, he heads down after Reiko, where she’s already disappeared under a pile of her teammates in the middle of the pitch.

“Tough luck,” Jimmy says, pulling his broom up next to Harry. “I thought for sure that you had it!”

“So did I,” Harry admits.

“That’s Reiko for you. Sneaky little git.” But there’s no heat in his voice, rather an affectionate sort of annoyance.

That’s when Harry notices that most of his team is in the scrum at the middle of the pitch as well, at first looking like maybe a fight is breaking out, but it’s really just harmless shoving and shit-talking and laughter.

It occurs to him that more things have changed at Hogwarts than he realized.

Ginny peels off from the group, looking up at Harry, hands on her hips as she regards him.

Diving down to the ground, he makes a quick stop, hopping down off his broom to approach her.

They meet in the middle, each reaching out to shake hands.

“Congratulations,” he says, squeezing her fingers.

She grins at him. “Great match.”

She’s flushed and sweaty, her hair half falling out of her braid and he wants to kiss her so badly he worries for a moment that he won’t be able to stop himself.

He must actually tug on her hand a bit, drawing her closer, because her eyes widen. She pulls her hand free, stretching it a bit before putting it behind her back.

“We can talk about the terms of our bet later?” she says, taking a careful step back.

He clears his throat, folding his arms over his chest. “Uh. Yeah. Of course. Looking forward to it.”

“Not as much as I am. Trust me,” she says, giving him a brilliant smile before turning and walking away.

Before Harry can remind himself to stop staring, Reiko comes barreling towards him, her face bright with joy. He can’t even begrudge her the catch. She was really great.

“Merlin,” she says, shoving at his arm. “Can we play against each other more often? That was the most fun I’ve had playing all year!”

He laughs, rubbing at his hair. “I’m not sure I could keep up with you.”

“Are you kidding me?” she says, practically bouncing on her feet. “I thought I was going to die out there. You’re amazing!”

He thinks that is probably a pretty generous exaggeration. He may have some natural talent, but Reiko clearly lives and breathes Quidditch in a way he never has. And he’s definitely not as small and light as he used to be, having a good foot on Reiko. He hadn’t even realized quite how much of a physical change that was until he was up there. It’s been more than two years since he last played a real match after all.

“Well done, Miss Sibazaki,” McGonagall says, appearing next to them. “But don’t you have an exam to prepare for?”

Reiko casts a quick time charm, letting out a squeak when she realizes how late it is. The match went so long that dinner has already started.

“Bye, Harry!” she says, darting forward and giving him a hug.

Harry stands immobile under the onslaught, but before he can recover she’s darted off, giving her teammates giant high-fives as she passes and flipping someone else off in response to something shouted at her.

Harry shakes his head, amused at her antics.

“Well, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall says.

He winces. “Sorry, Professor,” he says.

“No matter,” she says, despite looking like she’s sucked a lemon. “A Headmistress shouldn’t show favoritism, after all.” She leans in conspiratorially. “Though I think it is fair to admit that it was nice to see you enjoying yourself.”

He smiles. “I definitely did,” he says. He glances around at the pitch, the students still milling around the field. It looks like more than a little money is changing hands. “There really are a lot of things I’m going to miss about Hogwarts.”

“Yes, well,” she says. “Perhaps you’ll return to us some day.”

He turns to her, not sure what she means, but she just smiles at him, patting him a bit awkwardly on the shoulder before walking away.

Harry shakes his head, turning his attention instead towards finding Ron. Before he can, Harper corners him. At first he thinks she’s going to be mad that they didn’t win, but she doesn’t seem to care in the slightest. “Now?” she asks.

“The cloak?” he asks in disbelief.

“Of course the cloak. You never said we had to win!”

“Any chance I can, I dunno, shower, change, and eat first?”

Harper clearly doesn’t like that, but doesn’t push. “Fine. Charms classroom at seven?”

He nods. “I’ll be there.”

“You’d better be,” she says, walking off to join a group of friends.

Harry shakes his head in amusement. He’s always saying he doesn’t want people treating him like a celebrity, after all. He supposes this counts.

“Harry!” Ron shouts. “Get over here!”

Harry lets himself get swept up in the group.

*     *     *

After dinner, Harry spends two hours studying charms with Ron and Hermione while Harper examines his cloak. Hermione, he notices, rarely takes her eyes of the girl.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asks.

“All for a good cause,” Ron says. “Despite the outcome.”

Still, Hermione is the one to notice Harper pull out scissors and a candle. It takes far too much energy to convince her not to set the bloody thing on fire just to see if it would light.

The moment the two hours is up, Harry snags the cloak (fortunately still intact and working) and heads for the cloister.

He isn’t there long before Ginny shows up.

“Have a nice date with Harper?” she asks, strolling into the room looking smug and still flushed with victory.

“Loads of fun,” he says. He can’t even manage to rouse the wherewithal to pretend it was.

She tucks her hands behind her back, letting out a hum of sympathy. “All that for nothing.”

“Ugh,” he says. “Don’t remind me.”

Her grin only widens. “So how does it feel to lose to me?”

“That didn’t count,” he says, mostly to wind her up. She could have the decency to look a little less pleased with herself after all. “It wasn’t a real match.”

Sure enough, her smile slips. “Don’t be a bad loser, Harry.”

He somehow manages to keep his expression stern, crossing his arms over his chest. “I clearly need to fit regular practice into my schedule. I’m slipping. It’s the only explanation.”

Her eyes narrow, and he finally relents, grinning at her.

“You are the worst,” she says.  

He laughs, pulling her into him. “And you are completely brilliant.”

“Changing your tune now,” she teases, snuggling into him.

“I’ve always thought you were brilliant.”

“Uh huh,” she says.

“Honestly, Ginny, you were amazing. Your whole team. I always said you would be a great captain.”

She leans back to look at him, her fingers on his face. “You’re pretty amazing yourself. It was nice to see you up there again. You looked like you were having fun.”

“I was,” he says. He should probably be more upset about the loss and his upcoming humiliation, but he’s still just happy to have played.  

Her head tilts to the side as she regards him. “So feeling better then?”

He doesn’t have to ask since what. “Finally ready to admit you arranged this entire thing?”

She shrugs. “I thought we could all use a distraction.”

He knows without asking that she did it for him as much as anyone. He gently touches her shoulder, remembering the bruise yesterday, the choking anger. “It’s okay?”

Instead of answering, she reaches for the buttons on her shirt, undoing the top few. “I have a feeling you won’t stop worrying until you see for yourself.”  

She isn’t wrong about that.

Slipping her shirt off one shoulder, she turns so her back is to him.

Sure enough, the bruise is completely gone. He runs his thumb over the pale skin, telling himself it should be a relief.

“Now, the one on my thigh from that run-in with the Bludger is a different thing,” she says.

But seeing Ginny swoop and dive and get winged by a Bludger still didn’t induce half the panic seeing her go down under that curse had. He steps closer so her back is against his chest, closing his eyes as he breathes in the familiar scent of her hair.

She leans against him. “Want to see that one too?”

He knows she’s teasing, trying yet again to lighten the mood, make him feel better. And he does feel better after the match, the sheer joy of it. Every part of their stupid trash-talking and competition. But that doesn’t erase the fact that he still doesn’t know what to think about everything that happened yesterday in the DADA exam. The sheer fury is gone, but the pit in the bottom of his stomach isn’t.

I would be honored to have any of you join the Auror Academy.

“Do you think it’s really changed?” he finds himself asking.

Ginny turns around to look at him.

“The Ministry,” he clarifies.

Her eyes take a slow sweep of his face as if looking for the origin of his question. “By Voldemort and the Death Eaters being removed?”

“Yeah,” he says, letting his hands fall to her waist.

She doesn’t answer right away, looking just past his shoulder, really considering her answer, and he’s gratified not to be brushed off or instantly mollified. It makes him feel like it’s actually a question worth asking.

She eventually returns her gaze to his face. “I asked Smita once, why she didn’t come back. If it was really all about her mum’s job and the healer program.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, not exactly clear what this has to do with anything.

“She said that was a lot of it. But also…” She pauses, her nose wrinkling like she’s trying to remember Smita’s exact wording. “She said that just because Voldemort is gone doesn’t mean that the ideas that allowed him to come to power are gone too.” She looks up at him. “Is that what you mean?”

It’s not what he’d been thinking about at all, more focused on the Ministry’s inherent flaws, ways of doing things, whether there is something specific to be fixed or if he’s just being…contrary or insufferable or refusing to accept things the way they are. But to hear Ginny speak it, yes, that seems to give name to some unspoken worry.

A lot of people might shrug it off, try to point out that it isn’t really his concern. But looking at Ginny, her serious, unflinching gaze, he doesn’t feel arrogant for worrying, or for feeling in some small way that maybe it is his concern.

“Can the Ministry change?” he amends, because maybe he didn’t quite ask the right question.

Ginny nods. “I don’t know,” she admits.

It should feel like a sidestep, but for some reason Ginny’s uncertainty helps, like it’s permission to not be sure himself, to wonder.

“I don’t know either,” he says.

She reaches out, her hand cradling his cheek. But there’s also a sparkle in her eye.

“What?”

She shakes her head. “Just thinking about how good you’re going to look in green and silver.”

Dutifully, he lets out a groan, but privately thinks his punishment is a small enough price to pay for the look on her face. It’s nice to see her smiling and flushed, so certain in her place on the pitch. It’s hard to believe she once struggled to believe she could be a good captain.

At least her future seems clear.

“There’s at least one good thing about this all being over, loss or not,” he says, hand splaying across the small of her back.

“Yeah?” she says, letting him pull her closer. “And what’s that?”

“Well, I’m no longer the enemy, right?”

“Hmm,” she says, arms lifting around his neck. “Are you trying to bribe me with an offer to snog The Chosen One?”

He leans in, lowering his face until his nose brushes the soft skin below her ear. “Is that a tempting offer?”   

She tilts her head to the side. “Depends on what you’re trying to get out of the bargain, I suppose.”

“Admit that my arse is not adorable in the slightest.”

She laughs, rather boldly sliding her hand down his back to settle on his bum, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Definitely talented and brave,” she says. “A very fierce arse. But still adorable.”

“Sorry. Just for that, no snogging The Chosen One.”

“Just as well,” she says, winding her other hand up into his hair. “I’d rather snog you anyway.”

Harry is more than happy to accept those terms.

*     *     *

As Harry walks down the hallway to breakfast, a particularly daring Slytherin witch approaches him, looking him up and down.

“Green is really your color, Potter,” she says with a wink, and even Harry isn’t so dense not to pick up on the suggestive nature of it.  

Ginny wasn’t content with him just transfiguring his tie, instead decking him out head to toe in green robes, trousers, and shoes, with an obnoxiously large silver Slytherin crest on his back. He supposes he’s just lucky she didn’t try to make him dye his hair. He’s enough of a spectacle as it is.

Ignoring the witch, Harry continues walking straight ahead as if he hasn’t noticed her.

Not two minutes later he gets glowered at by a younger Slytherin who seems mortally offended to see him ‘playing at Slytherin.’

Ron chuckles, clearly taking far too much glee in Harry’s predicament. “At first I thought making you wear Slytherin colors was a pretty weak choice, but Ginny really knew what she was doing, didn’t she?”

Harry sighs. Despite it being the second morning he’s been forced to wear them, the reactions have not dropped off at all. “You’re really surprised?”

“No,” Ron admits. He slaps a hand on his shoulder. “Well, you were the one who was stupid enough to bet her, so you only have yourself to blame.”

Harry snorts. “And what wager did you make with her?”

Ron’s face falls. “The only good thing about it is that my humiliation will have a smaller audience,” he says obliquely.

They walk into the Great Hall together. The walls are swathed in Hufflepuff colors, having secured the House Cup at the Leaving Feast last night despite their second place finish in the Quidditch standings.

At least it’s breakfast, all the students mixed up rather than sitting by house like at dinner, so he doesn’t get anyone trying to tell him he’s sitting at the wrong table.

Seamus still eyes his robes with distaste when he sits down with his plate. “As if losing weren’t bad enough.”

Harry plucks at his robes. “At least I can finally change out of these once we’re on the train.”

“And not one moment sooner,” Ginny says in a sing-song voice as she strides by on her way to the breakfast buffet. “Can I get you some tea, Ron?”

His look of horror seems to be all Ginny hoped for. She laughs, walking off to sit with a collection of Slytherin girls.

“Ugh,” Ron says, slumping over his meal. “I have to live in the same house with her all summer!”  

“Plenty of chances to poison your tea,” Dean says, nodding solemnly.

Ron lowers his head to the table.  

An hour later, they are climbing onto the Hogwarts Express for the final time. It’s not quite as Harry remembers it, the car they get onto having no compartments at all, rather one large space. No one else seems to think this is at all strange though, the train thrumming with excitement. Students are darting back and forth between different groups, laughing and playing games of Exploding Snap. Everything the way it always should have been.

He settles on a seat next to Ron, idly wondering when the trolley witch might come by, already anticipating a pumpkin pasty.

The train chugs into motion, speeding him towards London. Not back to the Dursleys or an uncertain summer. But back to his own place and his godson. Back to long summer days at the Burrow.

“Alright, mate?” Ron asks, nudging him in the arm.

“Yeah,” Harry says. He smiles at him. “Everything’s great.”

“Good. Then kindly take those bloody things off, will you?” he says, gesturing at his robes.

Harry laughs.

*     *     *

The Burrow’s garden is golden in the sunset, and the fading light catches Ginny’s hair as she laughs at something Burke says. Harry watches her flit around the party, wearing a floral print dress that falls just above her knees but flares outward every time she moves.

There are loads of other familiar faces. There’s Luna and Neville and Hannah. Ritchie and Jimmy are over in one corner talking to Vaisey and Rosier about Quidditch no doubt. Dean and Seamus are being far from circumspect over by the food table, while Padma, Parvati, and Lisa look like they’re trying to sneak something into the punch bowl.

All newly graduated Hogwarts students with their NEWTs firmly behind them.

As the evening darkens, Hermione conjures a bunch of her flames in jars, spreading them around the tables. The yard echoes with laughter and music, and Harry’s not sure he’s ever felt quite this content.

Looking up from his conversation with Ron, Harry automatically looks for Ginny, but can’t spot her in the crowd. He frowns, glancing around. He finally locates her on the far edge of the garden, standing by herself. Turning, she catches his eye, subtly canting her head towards the orchard.

Harry feels his stomach tighten. He glances at Ron and Hermione, but they are completely engrossed in one another, their cheeks flushed. It’s possible the girls were successful in getting something slipped into the punch. Turning back to Ginny, he nods. She flashes him a bright grin before disappearing out the gate.

Harry lingers a bit, navigating the edges of the party before following after her.

He walks out into the trees, the blossoms rich and sweet in the night air.

“Have I mentioned,” says a voice from behind him, “that you are annoyingly fit?”

Harry turns, finding Ginny leaning back against a tree, one knee lifted and her foot pressed to the trunk behind her.

He crosses over to her, only stopping when he is rather thoroughly invading her space. “You must be foxed,” he murmurs, brushing a petal out of her hair.

“I am not,” she says, looping her arms around his neck. “You’re just bloody distracting. Can barely pay attention to people at my own party.”

He presses a kiss to her shoulder, right where the short sleeve ends. “If anything is distracting, it’s this dress.”

“Yeah?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Not as distracting as you, but a close second.”

She huffs. “Git,” she says, somehow managing to layer the insult with affection.

He kisses her, his hands at her waist. It’s slow and languorous, Ginny making a low sound at the back of her throat that makes Harry’s skin tingle all over.

It inspires him to apply himself thoroughly to making Ginny relax in a way she rarely does other than when they are doing this. He takes pride in the fact that he can switch her brain off if he tries hard enough.

Harry has to consider that his brain isn’t quite unaffected either, because it takes him far too long to register the sound of someone approaching. He pulls back, leaning around the tree, breathless giggles and heavy footfalls only getting closer. Ginny is the one to grab his hand and pull him down into a crouch. Her wand is out in a flash, casting a very impressive disillusionment charm around them.

A moment later, Hermione and Ron appear from between two trees. Ron grabs her around the waist, reeling her in. He then proceeds to devour her face, or so it appears to a highly irritated Harry.

Ginny turns into his shoulder with a low sound of disgust. Harry stares down at his toes and wonders how this is his life. He can only hope they move on before things go too far.

Without warning, a loud bang like an explosion echoes through the trees. Harry tenses, reaching for his wand, but in the following silence roars of laughter filter in from the party.

Ginny’s hand kneads gently at Harry’s shoulder, and he knows she didn’t miss his reaction.

Thankfully Ron and Hermione were also startled by the noise, no longer plastered up against one another. They disappear further off into the trees.

“Ugh,” Ginny says once they are gone. “I could have lived without seeing that.”

“I’ve seen worse,” he mutters.

“Oh really?” she asks, peering up at him.

He grimaces.

He isn’t sure who breaks first, but somehow they are both laughing, slumping against each other.

She threads her fingers through his, laughter dancing in her eyes even as her expression softens. She runs her thumb across his palm. “We made it.”

She almost sounds like she can’t believe it.

Harry lets his eyes travel over her face, focusing on the way her hand feels natural and right in his, the comfort of her shoulder against his. What it feels like to sit at the base of this tree with her and having nothing hanging over them. No imminent separations. No looming mission. There’s nothing but her.

Reaching out, he pulls her up into his lap. “I never doubted it.”

She smiles, leaning down to kiss him.

They have nothing but the long stretch of summer ahead of them.

.fin.