Chapter Text
September 1998
Harry Potter’s scar was hurting again.
He woke up with a startling jolt. The first thing he saw was the familiar shock of red hair coiled in front of his face. Taking a deep breath, he pulled Ginny’s sleeping form closer to his, pressing his face against her hair. It seemed almost a dream that just five short months ago, he’d have given anything to be here, with her, smelling the strawberry shampoo in her hair and the mingling scent of girlish perfume. Now, it felt unnatural.
After a few minutes, when it became apparent that he would not get any more sleep despite the inviting warmth of Ginny’s body, Harry swung himself out of bed. His scar prickled again.
Hermione had assured him that it was entirely - what was that word again? Psychosomatic. In Ron’s words, ‘all in your head, mate’.
“It’s post-traumatic stress,” Hermione had said the first time he had woken up, screaming the entire Weasley household awake, convinced that Voldemort had returned. Why else could it be hurting like this? “You’ve gotten so used to it hurting that your mind’s convinced you it still does.”
That first incident led to much insisting from Mrs Weasley that Harry should see a mind Healer. He did, for a while, until he discovered that the Healer was secretly sharing deeply personal snippets of Harry’s life to The Daily Prophet.
Sharing might be a generous term, for much of the information passed on was highly embellished or just wildly untrue. For weeks, Harry had to dodge rumours that he had secretly been the love child of Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange, that he, Hermione and Ron were in a complicated, polyamorous relationship and - his personal favourite - that he was obsessed with, to the point of stalking, the famous singing witch Celestina Warbeck. The dubious connection between Harry and the celebrity witch was conflated with his apparent need for a mother figure.
It’d been a lesson learned. No more weepy therapy sessions with strangers.
Not that any of it had been weepy. Or useful.
Now all Harry could do was wait for the initial shock to subside. The wizarding world had transformed in just four short months since his defeat of Voldemort. Kingsley Shacklebolt was now Interim Minister of Magic, a position Harry doubted would change for a long time.
Harry crept quietly into the unusually quiet kitchen of The Burrow. The sun had only just started peeking through the closed windows, so Harry knew it was only a matter of time before Mrs Weasley would come clattering noisily down the stairs, a large basket of Sunday laundry floating right behind her.
He flicked his wand towards a chipped Chudley Cannons coffee mug, and it filled up with some coffee. He’d always found it so unnecessary before, the act of using magic for such mundane things. Perhaps it was the Muggle side of him that urged him against complacency in such things. Or perhaps it was the years of chores he’d been expected to do at the Dursleys without using his wand. It was these things, these tiny quirks and habits he’d never stopped to think twice about before, that seemed to be magnified now. He had to use magic - Harry didn’t know why, but it felt necessary. To remind himself, he supposed, that he was alive and whole. And, most importantly, that he was a wizard.
He took a sip of coffee and gazed out of the little kitchen window. A tiny little breeze had started to flutter in, reminding Harry that summer was over. This time last year, he had been camping in the middle of nowhere with Ron and Hermione. Freezing, hungry, scared teenagers. How had they done it? Harry shut his eyes, heard Hermione’s screams in the distance, Ron’s splinched arm, and opened them again quickly, shuddering.
“ Ugh . I don’t know how you drink this stuff.”
Gasping, Harry swirled around, spilling some of the coffee on himself as he pointed his wand at the perpetrator. Ginny’s eyes were wide with shock. She came towards him, wrapping her arms around his waist apologetically.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry…I should’ve known, I - ”
“It’s okay,” Harry murmured into her hair. Her lovely hair. How much he’d longed for it before.
“Come on.” She motioned for him to follow her to the ramshackle lunch table, still covered in last night’s activities. They’d all had a go at playing some wizard’s chess. Ron was so clearly winning but had ultimately let Hermione take the glory, having recently become a sickeningly model boyfriend that only Hermione and Mrs Weasley could appreciate.
“Evanesco.”
Harry flicked his wand at the table, and instantaneously, the chess board and various bits of chess pieces disappeared. He put his coffee down on the table. Ginny had wandered down to the front door and picked something up.
“Is that the Prophet?” Harry called. When he heard no reply, he looked towards her. She had an odd expression on her face as she approached him, a thick wad of paper curled in her hands.
“Er, it’s nothing exciting.” He noticed that she didn’t put the paper beside him but, instead, on the empty chair next to her.
“If it’s a new rumour about me, you know I don’t mind.” Harry grinned. “What is it this time? I heard Rita Skeeter’s been cooking up a scandalous piece about me getting you pregnant - ”
Ginny smiled unconvincingly. “Yeah, just rubbish. You’d think they’d be a little more grateful after you’ve just saved them a lifetime of misery and grovelling to Voldemort.”
“Go on then, let’s have a look.”
She looked at him guiltily. “Harry, I - I don’t think - ”
“Accio newspaper.”
The paper whizzed past Ginny into Harry’s hand. He looked down at it, ignoring Ginny’s protests. His stomach twisted into a funny little knot as Draco Malfoy’s eyes stared back at him, dull and lifeless. The front page of the Prophet was plastered with a moving photograph of Malfoy in front of what looked like a Ministry courtroom, an Auror’s hand holding him by his arm. Above the photograph was a headline that sent shockwaves through Harry’s mind:
DEATH-EATER TRIALS CONTINUE: WILL DRACO MALFOY SHARE HIS FATHER’S FATE?
“Not so snappy with their headlines anymore, are they, the Prophet?” Harry mumbled. He put the paper down and pushed it away, suddenly having no desire to look at it.
“Harry, you know perfectly well how they like to drum things up,” Ginny said quietly. “He’s not even eighteen yet, they can’t try him the same way -”
“Can’t they?” Harry interrupted hotly. “What are the rules anymore, Gin? Do any of them matter? Lucius Malfoy was given all of ten minutes in his trial before they decided he was going to get the Kiss.”
“Yes but he’s been a Death-Eater since the first war,” Ginny pressed on. “And anyway, his lawyers have appealed, and he’s still nice and cosy in Azkaban, isn’t he?”
“Nice and cosy?” Harry’s voice rose in outrage. Ginny scowled back at him.
“I don’t know why you care, anyhow,” she snapped. “They tried to kill you multiple times, both of them. And Draco - ”
“He’s only a kid.” Harry averted his gaze from Ginny. Suddenly, he was back in the Astronomy tower from two years previously, watching as the trembling figure of Malfoy - scarred, scared, sixteen-year-old Malfoy - had just begun to lower his wand. Just begun to reconsider everything he stood for, right before Dumbledore.
“I’ve got to help him,” Harry said.
“Who, Lucius?” Ginny spluttered.
“Well, him too, if that’s possible,” Harry replied. “ Draco . Draco Malfoy. He saved my life, didn’t he? He could’ve given me away at Malfoy Manor.”
“He owes you his life, Harry. I think you’ve more than re-paid your debt.”
“It’s not about debt , Ginny.” Harry felt frustrated at her. It clawed at his heart, too, the fact that neither of them seemed to be in tandem anymore. She could understand him so well before. Harry had a sinking feeling, and it had been a feeling he’d had for a while now, that she somehow saw him differently - was he damaged to her? Going out of his mind?
“It’s about…it’s about…” Harry’s eyes searched around the room as though somewhere, underneath the furniture or beside the old Weasley Clock, he might find the perfect explanation for why he must help Draco Malfoy. His eyes stopped at a framed photograph of a laughing Harry, Hermione and the Weasleys from when they had gone to the Quidditch World Cup all those years ago…
Ginny followed his gaze and her brown eyes seemed to soften a little. She reached forward and squeezed his hand.
“I know,” she said quietly. “I get it…I may not like it, but I get it.”
Harry nodded, suddenly feeling exhausted.
“It’s going to take years, these trials,” Ginny said quietly. “You need to be prepared if you’re really doing this. They’re going to hound you. Make you re-live everything, over and over.”
Harry smiled wanly. “Wouldn’t they be hounding me anyway?”
Ginny laughed. “You secretly like the drama of it all.”
“Of course I do,” Harry chuckled. “Some might say I was Chosen for this lifestyle…”
The easy laughter that flowed between them made Harry feel more at ease. They were back to normal again, he and Ginny. And soon, perhaps not immediately, they would be as they had been in Hogwarts. The warm glow of the morning sun lit up the entire room, some of it catching in Ginny’s brilliant red hair. Harry smiled, dazed by her beauty, and leaned in to kiss her mouth. All would be well, of that he could be sure.
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