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Heathcliff waited, his Transfigurations textbook propped open in front of him as he read. Trust Harry and Ronnie to be late—any word to that effect would have had his roommates saying, in commiseration, that girls were always taking forever to get ready, but Heathcliff didn’t think gender had anything to do with it. Harry and Ronnie were late because they tended to be late, and that was all. In the meantime, he had a Transfigurations test on Monday, and seven years and a war didn’t stop him from wanting top grades.
He knew the instant that Harry and Ronnie showed up, anyway. The door to the Three Broomsticks opened with a chiming of bells, and the blast of cold air made the pages of her textbook flutter before he pinned them down with a finger. That could have been anyone; it was the accompanying lull in the conversation that told Heathcliff that it was Harry and Ronnie.
The snow swirled around them as they walked in, laughing. Heathcliff smiled, shutting the textbook before Ronnie could get her hands on it and bemoan, for the millionth time, that Heathcliff worked too hard and that he could do it tomorrow.
The two of them were a picture. Harry was short, barely scraping five foot three; Ronnie was tall, close to five foot ten. Ronnie was lanky, a beanpole, built with minimal curves; Harry had packed on muscle with Auror training, and her shoulders were broader than Heathcliff remembered. Ronnie’s long hair, even swept up into a ponytail, was straight and sleek; Harry’s was short, like when they were eleven, and it was still a bird’s nest. At Hogwarts, Heathcliff had stood between them, especially once he had hit puberty and shot up like a tree to six feet tall—the quiet, academic anchor to their enthusiastic conversations.
Both of them still wore their Gryffindor scarves, Harry over caramel-coloured leather jacket and Ronnie over an olive-green parka that clashed horribly with both her scarf and her hair.
“Heath!” Ronnie spotted her first, looking around the room. Conversation was starting again around him, the students in the pub turning back to their own conversations or awkwardly trying to fake like they were doing so to hide their awe at seeing the Chosen One in the same pub as them.
Not for the first time, Heathcliff quietly thanked his lucky stars that he usually managed to escape the same scrutiny, and then the pushed the two Butterbeers he had snagged for his friends across the tiny table at them. It was a good thing he had thought to get them; with the crowd of students, he doubted Harry would have been able to fight her way to the front to order for herself. Not without being stopped and asked for an autograph or something, at any rate.
“Yes! You’re the best, you know,” Ronnie said, taking a deep drink out of hers, before wiping the foam off her mouth with the back of her hand. Harry, beside her, had picked up her own Butterbeer and drunk the first third of the pint in one go.
“Lady-like,” Heathcliff commented dryly, before favouring his oldest friends with a smile.
“Fuck that,” Harry said. “Fuck that with a flagpole.”
“Rough morning?”
“The usual.” Ronnie laughed a little. “Mum’s after Harry to meet up with another one of my brothers, as if she hasn’t met them all already.”
“I’ve spent every summer since our first year at the Burrow!” Harry burst out, waving her hands. “I’ve met Percy, and Fred, and George! I’ve even met Charlie, and Charlie lives in Romania, and what part of my life suggests I’m ready to move to Romania with your brother?”
“I don’t think Mrs. Weasley’s plan is for you to move to Romania with Charlie,” Heathcliff commented, suppressing a laugh. “I think the plan is for Charlie to move home.”
“Charlie isn’t even interested in women!” Harry waved her arms a little more, and Ronnie gestured at her drink. Harry grabbed at her glass and drained it. “And I’m not interested in men! Has your mum just not…”
“The best way to put it is that Mum just thinks Charlie needs to meet the right girl, and that you need to meet the right boy,” Ronnie replied with a small wince, while Heathcliff snorted. “It’s just—yeah. That generation, y’know?”
“I love your mum, Ronnie, but…” Harry shook her head. “I’m going to need another Butterbeer.”
“Bet I can get a kiddie to fetch one for you,” Ronnie said, leaning over at the table behind them. “Oi! You think you can get the Chosen One another Butterbeer? She’ll give you an autograph if you do.”
“Ronnie!” Heathcliff started, but it was too late—the table next to them were third years who were furtively sneaking glances at them anyway, and the kid nodded furiously, took the Sickles that Harry offered, and took off to the bar.
“It’s not a problem if the kid wants to do it, Heath,” Ronnie said, her voice faux-reasonable. “Let it go.”
Heathcliff shook his head—he and Ronnie had been having similar arguments their whole school lives. “How’s Auror Training?”
“It’s shite.” Ronnie grimaced. “Days and days of procedure: do this, don’t do this, don’t you dare do this, it’s the worst. The mornings of duelling and Defense training are all right though, and next year we’re going to be assigned to our Auror pairs and trailing them around for on-the-ground training a couple days a week.”
“I don’t mind the procedure,” Harry said mildly. “It’s important so that we can get a conviction in the courts, you know?”
“But we defeated Voldemort!” Ronnie sighed gustily. “You’d think that’d count for something, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t see why it should,” Heathcliff contributed, setting his elbows on the small table and sipping at his own Butterbeer. “Voldemort was an exceptional case—a madman who took over the Ministry, the usual rules didn’t apply. Now that you’re doing routine Auror work, it matters a lot more.”
“Yeah.” Ronnie scrubbed at her face. “I’m just… yeah.”
“If you can’t handle the fire, get out of the kitchen,” Heathcliff said, shaking his head. He’d always had a hard time seeing Ronnie in the guise of an Auror. Harry was a different story, an iron stubbornness running through her bones that would carry her through whatever she wanted to do, and she wanted to be an Auror. Ronnie was along for the ride, having never really found what she wanted to do.
Not that Heathcliff could blame her. Ronnie had grown up overshadowed by five brothers, then had the Chosen One as her best friend. She had never had the time to work out what she wanted for herself, as opposed to what others wanted from her or what Harry needed from her. But that was for Ronnie to find for herself, and not for Heathcliff to tell her. She’d only tell him off, anyway.
“Enough about us, though. How about you, Heath?” Harry asked, a bit of a wistful look coming over her face. “How’s Hogwarts?”
“It’s… good. Different, but good.” Heathcliff sighed, looking around the pub. It was bustling and busy, no doubt a far cry from only a year ago. Kids bounced back fast, at least in some ways, but being outside the castle would have helped with that. “They basically lost all of last year—McGonagall decided we’d essentially repeat the year, as if last year didn’t happen. So, there are no second years, but a double cohort of first years. You can still see the effects of last year on some of the younger kids though. They travel the school in packs, and they’ve got a wariness in their eyes that we didn’t have.”
“That’s...” Harry sighed, looking away.
“You could have come back, Harry,” Heathcliff finished, looking at her with a beady eye. “Both of you could have come back.”
“I know.” Harry’s small smile was a bit embarrassed, while Ronnie had made a face. “But the Auror Training Academy offered me a spot, and I thought, well… you know, no need to do the NEWTs and all.”
“Why take the chance of failing our NEWTs?” Ronnie said brusquely. “Why didn’t you come with us? They offered you automatic admission, too. We could have all been together!”
“Because I don’t want to be an Auror,” Heathcliff said, shooting Ronnie a quelling look. They’d been through this before. “I’m looking at joining the Ministry, but not as an Auror. And anyway, the classes are interesting. In Transfigurations— ”
“Ah,” Ronnie interrupted with a roll of her eyes, holding up her hand. “No school talk, I don’t want to hear it, and as usual, you’re absolutely mental. Tell us about the Quidditch Cup instead—who’s winning? Did we beat Slytherin?”
Heathcliff laughed, and it was as if no time at all had passed. They were together, the three of them, and they were in the Three Broomsticks talking over Butterbeer. And Voldemort was dead, and the three of them had their whole futures stretching out in front of them.