Chapter Text
The alarm went off at six-fifteen.
Harry hit it without opening his eyes. Lay there for ten seconds. Listened to Ginny breathe beside him.
Then he got up.
The flat was small. Two bedrooms, one bath, a kitchen you couldn't turn around in. The rent was cheap because the building leaned a little to the left and the pipes sounded like dying animals every morning.
Harry didn't mind.
Because he lived with a five-foot, red-haired, feisty creature who could make a shack into a five-star suite.
He padded to the kitchen, put the kettle on. The usual. Tea first, then shower, then the slow death of the morning commute. By the time Ginny shuffled out in his old Quidditch shirt, he had her mug ready. Extra sugar. She said it was disgusting. She drank it anyway.
"You're up early," she mumbled, yawning into his shoulder.
"Same time as always."
"Feels early."
"Because you stayed up reading that Quidditch report."
She groaned. "Don't remind me. The Tutshill Tornados want to move their home games to Sundays. Sundays, Harry. Do you know what that does to the scheduling?"
"Terrible things."
"Catastrophic things."
She leaned into him. Warm. Heavy with sleep. He wrapped an arm around her and stared at the window. Grey London light. The sound of a street sweeper two blocks over.
Normal.
"I love you," she said against his chest.
"Love you too."
She pulled back, squinted at him. "You smell like tea and boring decisions."
"That's my new cologne. Desk Job."
She laughed. Real laugh. The one that made her nose scrunch.
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm efficient."
She kissed him quick and stole his mug.
***
The Ministry atrium was the same every day.
Golden statues. Fountain noises. Witches and wizards in robes that cost more than Harry's monthly salary. He walked through with his head down, badge clipped to his belt, and nobody looked at him twice.
That was the point.
His desk was in the sub-basement. Two floors below the Minister's actual office. No windows. One flickering torch that smelled like burnt lemon. The only decoration was a calendar Ginny had given him last Christmas—pictures of baby nifflers in tiny hats.
He sat down.
Opened the first folder.
Request for additional parchment, Department of Intradepartmental Communications.
He stamped it. Denied. Moved to the next.
Complaint about the quality of the canteen's mashed turnips.
He stamped it. Forwarded to Catering.
Proposed budget reallocation for the Floo Network's seventh quarterly review.
Stamped. Approved. With minor revisions.
This was his life now. Paper. Ink. Stamps. The occasional memo that said something like per my last owl in increasingly aggressive handwriting.
He'd been doing this for six months.
He was very good at it.
Around eleven, Ron showed up.
Ron was an Auror. Real Auror. Red robes, shiny badge, the works. He dropped into the empty chair across from Harry's desk and kicked his boots up on a stack of files.
"You look dead."
"Thanks."
"No, I mean. More dead than usual. You sleeping?"
"Fine."
Ron squinted at him. "Ginny says you've been twitchy."
"I'm not twitchy."
"You're twitchy."
Harry put down his stamp. Looked at his best friend. Ron had a new scar on his jaw—thin, white, maybe a week old. He hadn't mentioned it. Harry didn't ask.
"Busy week," Harry said.
"With what? The turnip complaints?"
"Someone has to fight for turnip justice."
Ron snorted. "Merlin, mate. I don't know how you do it."
"Do what?"
"Same thing. Every day. No action. No magic. Just... this."
Harry looked at the stack of folders. The flickering torch. The niffler calendar.
"Someone has to," he said.
"Yeah, but not you."
Harry didn't answer.
Ron shifted, uncomfortable now. He hadn't meant it like that. Or maybe he had. It was hard to tell with Ron. He was a good friend. Loyal. Thick as a brick sometimes, but good.
"I just mean," Ron said, "you were the best in our year. Everyone thought—"
"I know what everyone thought."
Silence.
The torch flickered.
Ron pulled his feet off the files. "Sorry. I'm being a git."
"You're always a git."
"Yeah, but I'm trying not to be."
Harry almost smiled. Almost. "It's fine. I'm fine. The desk job is fine."
"You said fine three times. That's how I know you're not fine."
"I'm content."
"Worse."
Harry picked up his stamp. Tapped it against the desk. Denied. Approved. Forwarded.
"I'm happy, Ron."
It sounded true. He'd practiced it enough.
Ron watched him for a long moment. Then shrugged. "Alright. If you say so. Ginny's happy, at least. She talks about you constantly. It's disgusting."
"She talks about Quidditch constantly."
"Same thing."
Harry laughed. Real one. Short, but real.
Ron stood up. Stretched. His robes rode up and Harry caught the edge of a bandage on his forearm. Fresh. Still pink around the edges.
"Case?" Harry asked.
"Small one. Smuggling ring. Portkeys disguised as broom polish."
"Broom polish?"
"Weird, right? Anyway. Got one of them. Two more out there. We'll catch 'em."
"I'm sure you will."
Ron nodded. Headed for the door. Stopped. Looked back.
"You ever miss it?"
Harry didn't hesitate.
"No."
Ron left.
Harry sat in the quiet. The torch flickered. Somewhere above, a hundred floors up, the Minister was making decisions that actually mattered.
Harry picked up his stamp.
Denied.
***
Ginny got home first.
She'd learned to cook. Sort of. She could do three things: pasta with jar sauce, eggs that were sometimes edible, and toast. That night it was pasta.
Harry walked in at six-fifteen. Smelled garlic. Saw her at the stove in her work robes, hair falling out of its ponytail, humming something he didn't recognize.
"How was the day?" she asked without turning around.
"Thrilling."
"Any good turnip drama?"
"The turnips are organizing. Demanding better representation."
"Those turnips are radicals."
"Terrorists, probably."
She laughed. Turned. Pointed a wooden spoon at him. "Take off your work robes. You smell like the sub-basement."
"I smell like victory."
"You smell like mold and old parchment."
"Same thing."
She grinned. He loved that grin. He loved her. The way she moved around their tiny kitchen like it was a stage. The way she left Quidditch notes on the counter—Call Montrose Magpies re: pitch rental—in her messy handwriting.
Dinner was easy. They ate at the small table by the window. She told him about the Tornados situation. The Magpies were threatening to pull out of a friendly if the schedule changed. The Harpies were watching closely because it might affect their own season.
"Sports politics," she said, twirling pasta, "are worse than actual politics."
"Worse than the Wizengamot?"
"Different kind of terrible."
He listened. Asked questions. Nodded at the right moments. He liked this. The normal of it. The way her voice went faster when she was excited, the way she used her hands to draw invisible Quidditch pitches in the air.
"What about you?" she asked eventually. "Anything interesting?"
"Ron came by."
"Ron always comes by."
"He thinks I'm depressed."
Ginny paused. Fork halfway to her mouth. "Are you?"
"No."
"Good." She ate. Chewed. Swallowed. "Because I like you not depressed."
"I like me not depressed too."
She smiled. It was soft. Private. The kind of smile she didn't give anyone else.
"I mean it, Harry. We're good, right? You and me?"
"We're good."
"And the job? You're okay with it?"
He looked at her. Red hair. Flour on her sleeve. A small scar above her eyebrow from a Bludger when she was twelve.
"I'm okay with it," he said.
She nodded. Accepted it. Because why wouldn't she? He'd never given her a reason to doubt.
After dinner, they cleaned up together. He washed. She dried. They didn't talk much. Didn't need to.
At nine, she curled up on the sofa with a stack of fixture requests. He sat next to her, feet on the coffee table, pretending to read a book.
At ten, she fell asleep on his shoulder.
He carried her to bed.
She murmured something about parchment shortages.
He tucked her in. Kissed her forehead.
Then he went back to the living room.
Waited.
***
Eleven-thirty.
The fire in the hearth flickered green.
Not a Floo call. Something else. Something quieter.
Harry stood. Walked to the fireplace. Touched a brick that didn't look different but was. It slid inward. Behind it, a small compartment. Inside: a folded piece of parchment. No signature. No seal. Just three words in handwriting he didn't recognize.
Midnight. The Leaky.
He read it once. Memorized it. Touched his wand to the parchment. It burned to ash in half a second.
He looked toward the bedroom. Ginny's soft breathing.
Then he moved.
***
The Leaky Cauldron at midnight was not the same place as the Leaky Cauldron at noon.
No tourists. No families. Just a few old men in the corners, nursing firewhiskey, not looking at anyone.
Harry walked in through the back. Not the main entrance. An alley door that only opened if you knocked a specific rhythm. He'd done it a hundred times.
Tom the barman didn't look up.
Harry went to the last booth. Slid in.
A woman sat across from him. Grey hair. Sharp eyes. No name. He called her the Handler because that was what she was.
"You're late," she said.
"I'm not."
"Two minutes."
"Traffic."
She didn't smile. She never smiled. She slid a folder across the table. Thin. Maybe three pages inside.
"New assignment."
Harry didn't open it. "I'm six months into a deep cover that requires me to be invisible. I have a wife who thinks I file paperwork. I have a best friend who brings me pity beer. I have a mother who cries on the Floo every Sunday because her son is a failure."
"Sounds like it's working."
"It's working too well."
The Handler tilted her head. "You want out?"
Harry looked at the folder.
Then he opened it.
First page: a photo. A man he'd never seen. Middle-aged. Forgettable.
Second page: a list of names. Ministry employees. All high-level.
Third page: two words.
They're leaking.
Harry closed the folder.
"When do I start?"
"Tomorrow. Your desk job gives you access. Use it."
"I always do."
The Handler stood. Paused. For a fraction of a second, something soft touched her face.
"How's Ginny?"
Harry's jaw tightened.
"Fine," he said.
"She doesn't know?"
"No."
"Good. Keep it that way."
She left.
Harry sat in the booth for another minute. Two. The folder felt heavy in his hands. Not because of the pages. Because of what they represented.
He thought about Ginny at the stove. Her laugh. The way she'd said we're good, right?
He stood up.
Walked out the back door.
Apparated home in the dark.
***
The flat was quiet.
He checked the bedroom. Ginny hadn't moved. Still curled on her side. Still breathing soft.
He put the folder in the false bottom of his work bag. The one Ginny never looked in. Why would she? It was just paperwork.
He undressed. Brushed his teeth. Slid into bed beside her.
She shifted. Mumbled something.
"Go back to sleep," he whispered.
"Where'd you go?"
"Bathroom."
"Mmm."
She reached for him. Blind. Half-asleep. Her hand found his chest.
"You're cold," she said.
"Sorry."
"S'okay." She pulled closer. "Love you."
He stared at the ceiling.
"Love you too," he said.
And meant it.
And hated himself a little for the lie underneath it.
The ceiling didn't answer.
Neither did Ginny.
She was already asleep again.
Harry closed his eyes.
Tomorrow he'd go back to his desk. Stamp the forms. Smile at Ron. Eat pasta with his wife.
And somewhere in between, he'd find out who was leaking Ministry secrets to the highest bidder.
Normal on paper.
The reality was different.
***
Saturday dinner at the Potters' was a ritual.
Every other week, rain or shine, Harry and Ginny Flooed from their tiny flat to the big house in Godric's Hollow. The house Harry had grown up in. The one with the garden Lily refused to stop expanding and the study James filled with old Quidditch trophies and worse jokes.
That time, Sirius was there too.
He was sprawled on the sofa like he owned it, boots on the coffee table, glass of firewhiskey in hand. He'd gotten older. Gray at the temples. But his grin was the same one Harry remembered from childhood—sharp, crooked, always planning something.
"There they are," Sirius said as Harry and Ginny stepped out of the fireplace. "The happy desk slaves."
Ginny dusted soot off her sleeve. "Some of us have important jobs, Black."
"Sports scheduling?"
"Don't mock the scheduling. I control the Quidditch calendar. I can make your beloved Puddlemere United play three away games in five days."
Sirius clutched his chest. "You wouldn't."
"Try me."
He laughed. Pulled her into a one-armed hug. "I missed you. Harry's boring without you."
"I'm standing right here," Harry said.
"I know."
Lily appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She had flour on her cheek and that look—the one that said she'd been cooking all day and loved every second of it.
"Ginny, you look wonderful. Is Harry feeding you?"
"Barely," Ginny said. "He thinks toast is a food group."
"It is," Harry said.
"It's not."
Lily pulled Ginny into a proper hug. Over her shoulder, she gave Harry a look. Warm. Fond. The kind of look that said I'm so glad you married her.
James came in from the garden, smelling like dirt and sun. He had a trowel in one hand and a half-eaten apple in the other.
"Ginny!" He dropped the trowel. Opened his arms. "My favourite daughter-in-law."
"I'm your only daughter-in-law."
"Exactly. No competition. You win by default."
She laughed and hugged him. "Your standards are so low."
"Incredibly low. It's a talent."
***
Dinner was loud.
It was always loud at the Potters'. Lily asked too many questions. James told long stories that went nowhere. Sirius interrupted with worse stories that went somewhere darker but somehow funnier.
Ginny fit right in.
She always had.
"Tell them about the Tornados," Harry said, when James had been deep in a story about something Peter had done at work last month.
Ginny groaned. "Don't encourage me."
"I'm encouraging you."
She rolled her eyes but she was smiling. "Fine. The Tutshill Tornados want to move all their home games to Sundays. Which sounds fine, except the Magpies have Sunday rights to the same pitch. And the Harpies are threatening to sue everyone because their season opener overlaps with the proposed schedule. It's a disaster."
"A beautiful disaster," Lily said.
"A preventable disaster," Ginny said. "If anyone had asked the Sports Department before announcing the change, we could have fixed it in an afternoon. But no. They sent the owl to the press first. Now it's a whole thing."
"Classic Tornados," Sirius said. "All wind, no direction."
Ginny pointed her fork at him. "That's exactly what I said."
Harry watched her. The way she lit up when she talked about work. The way she used her hands. The way she'd already charmed his parents into hanging on her every word.
She caught him looking.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"You're pretty when you're angry about Quidditch."
James made a gagging noise. Sirius threw a roll at Harry's head. Harry caught it without looking.
Lily raised her glass. "To Ginny. Who makes our son bearable."
"To Ginny," everyone said.
She grinned. Actually blushed a little. "I'm just here for the food."
***
After dinner, Lily stood up.
"Ginny, come see the new roses. I've been cross-breeding them with moonflowers. They glow at night."
Ginny's eyebrows went up. "That sounds illegal."
"Only slightly."
"Then absolutely."
They left together, arms linked, already deep in conversation about fertilizer or moonlight or whatever it was that gardeners talked about.
The kitchen door swung shut.
And suddenly it was just Harry, James, and Sirius.
The room felt different. Quieter. The warmth was still there, but something else sat underneath it. Something careful.
Harry knew this feeling.
He'd been ambushed.
He stood up. "I should help with dishes—"
"Sit down," Sirius said.
Not a suggestion.
Harry looked at James. His dad was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, expression neutral. But his eyes weren't neutral. They were worried.
Harry sat.
"I'm fine," he said preemptively.
"We didn't say anything," Sirius said.
"You were about to."
James sighed. Ran a hand through his hair. It was grayer than last year. More lines around his eyes. Harry noticed these things now. He never used to.
"Harry," James said. "We want to talk to you about something."
"About what?"
"The desk job."
Harry's jaw tightened. "What about it?"
Sirius leaned forward. Put his glass down. "Kid, you look terrible."
"I look fine."
"You look like someone who hasn't slept in six months."
"I sleep."
"When? Between the filing and the—" Sirius stopped himself. Swallowed whatever he'd been about to say. "Look. We're not trying to—"
"Then don't."
Silence.
The clock on the wall ticked. Loud in the quiet.
James spoke first. "I'm not going to pretend I know what you're going through. I don't. I never failed at anything important. That's not a brag. It's just true."
Harry stared at the table.
"But I know my son," James continued. "And my son is not a desk jockey. My son is not meant to spend his days stamping forms and denying turnip complaints."
"It's a job."
"It's a coffin."
Harry looked up. Sharp. "That's dramatic."
"Maybe." James didn't blink. "But am I wrong?"
Harry didn't answer.
Sirius cut in. "You were the best in your year. The best they'd seen in a decade. Everyone knew it. The instructors knew it. The other recruits knew it. You were exceptional, Harry."
"Exceptional failures are still failures."
"That's not—" Sirius stopped. Rubbed his face. "Merlin, you're stubborn."
"Learned from the best."
Sirius almost smiled. Almost. "Harry. Listen to me. You can try again. Loads of people do. The Auror program lets you reapply after a year. You're six months in. Six more months and you can take the exams again."
"And what? Fail again?"
"You won't fail."
"You don't know that."
"I know you." Sirius's voice dropped. Serious now. No joking. "I know what you're capable of. Whatever happened in that final exam—it was a fluke. A bad day. It happens."
Harry's hands were under the table. Clenched.
He wanted to tell them.
The words were right there. I didn't fail. The Ministry made me fail. I'm not a desk worker. I'm a spy.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because he couldn't.
The vow he'd taken wasn't just a promise. It was magic. Unbreakable. If he told them, the magic broke something in him. Or in them. The Handler hadn't explained exactly. She'd just said you tell no one. Not your parents. Not your best friend. Not your wife.
Especially not your wife.
So he closed his mouth.
Swallowed the truth.
"It wasn't a fluke," he said instead. "I just wasn't good enough."
James's face crumpled. Just a little. Just for a second.
"That's not true," James said quietly.
"It is."
"It's not."
Harry stood up again. This time Sirius didn't stop him.
"I'm happy," Harry said. "Ginny and I are good. The desk job pays the bills. It's fine."
"It's not fine," James said. "You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You are. I know you, Harry. I'm your father."
Harry looked at him. Really looked. At the gray hair. The worried eyes. The hands that had taught him how to hold a wand.
"I'm okay," Harry said. Softer now. "I promise. I'm okay."
James didn't believe him.
Harry could see it.
But James also didn't push. That wasn't his way. He waited. He hoped. He loved.
"Okay," James said finally. "If you say so."
Sirius made a sound. Frustrated. He stood up too. Put a hand on Harry's shoulder. Squeezed.
"You're too young to give up," Sirius said.
"I haven't given up."
"You've settled."
"Is that a crime?"
Sirius stared at him. Long enough that Harry had to fight not to look away.
"No," Sirius said. "But it's a shame."
He walked out. Headed toward the garden. Probably to find Lily and Ginny and pretend everything was fine.
Harry stood in the kitchen with his father.
The clock ticked.
"I should help with the dishes," Harry said.
"Harry."
He stopped.
James walked over. Closer than before. Lowered his voice.
"I'm not going to lecture you. You're an adult. You're married. You make your own choices." A pause. "But I need you to know something."
"What?"
"If you ever want to try again—if you ever want to go back—I will be there. Every step. I'll hire tutors. I'll bribe instructors. I'll—"
"Dad."
"I'll burn the Ministry to the ground if that's what it takes."
Harry's throat tightened.
He blinked.
"Thanks," he managed.
James pulled him into a hug. Quick. Hard. The kind of hug James gave when he was scared but didn't want to say it.
"You're my son," James said into Harry's shoulder. "I just want you to be happy."
"I am happy."
"Then I'm happy too."
They both knew it wasn't that simple.
But they let it go.
***
Ginny found him later.
She was holding a glowing rose. Literally glowing. Soft silver light, like a tiny moon in her hand.
"Look what your mum made," she said. "It's insane. I love it."
"It's nice."
She tilted her head. Studied him. "What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Your dad looks sad. Sirius looks angry. You look like you've been chewing glass."
Harry looked at the rose. The way the light moved. Like breathing.
"They want me to try the Auror exams again."
Ginny's expression didn't change. "Ah."
"Ah?"
"I figured. Sirius has been giving me looks all night. The help him looks."
"He gave you those?"
"He's not subtle."
Harry leaned against the doorframe. The garden was dark behind Ginny. The rose glowed. She glowed. Everything soft.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"About you retaking the exams?"
"Yeah."
She thought about it. Actually thought. Bit her lower lip. Shifted the rose to her other hand.
"I think you'd pass," she said. "Easily. You're brilliant, Harry. You always were."
"But?"
"No but. I just—" She stepped closer. The rose between them. "I like our life. I like coming home to you. I like that you're not gone all hours chasing dark wizards. I like that you're safe."
"I'm safe."
"I know." She touched his chest. Right over his heart. "That's why I'm not going to push. If you want to try again, I'll support you. If you don't, I'll support that too. I married you. Not your job."
Harry covered her hand with his.
"What if I'm a disappointment?"
Her eyes flashed. "Who told you that?"
"No one. I just—"
"Harry Potter. Look at me."
He looked.
"You are not a disappointment. You've never been a disappointment. You failed one exam. One. In your entire life. Do you know how normal that is? Do you know how many people fail things and just... keep living?"
"I know but—"
"No buts." She pulled her hand free. Poked his chest. Hard. "You are my husband. I love you. And if anyone—including yourself—tells you you're a disappointment, I will hex them into next week. Understood?"
He almost laughed.
Almost.
"Understood."
"Good." She held up the rose. "Now look at this stupid flower. It glows, Harry. Your mother is a magical genius and she used it to make plants prettier. That's insane. That's the kind of family we married into."
He smiled. Real this time.
"Yeah," he said. "It is."
She grinned. Took his hand. Pulled him back toward the house.
"Come on. Sirius is trying to teach your dad a card game and it's going terribly. I want to watch."
They walked inside together.
The rose kept glowing.
Harry looked over his shoulder. At the garden. At the dark.
Then back at Ginny.
He didn't think about the folder in his work bag.
Not for a few hours, anyway.
***
Later. Much later.
They were home. Ginny was asleep. The flat was quiet.
Harry sat at the kitchen table. The folder was open in front of him. Three pages. A photo. A list of names.
He memorized them.
Then he burned the pages in the sink. One by one. Watched the flames turn blue, then green, then nothing.
The last name on the list was someone he knew.
Someone he'd had dinner with that night.
Harry stared at the ash.
Then he went to bed.
Ginny rolled over. Threw an arm across his chest.
"You smell like smoke," she mumbled.
"Just the fireplace."
"Mmm."
She was asleep again in ten seconds.
Harry stared at the ceiling.
The ceiling stared back.
***
Sunday lunch at the Burrow was a different beast entirely.
No quiet garden. No polite conversation over wine. Just chaos. Twelve people crammed around a table that groaned under the weight of Molly's cooking. Kids screaming. Someone was always on fire. Someone was always crying. It was the best kind of disaster.
Harry and Ginny Apparated to the edge of the property. The hill overlooking the crooked house. The chimney was already smoking. Three broomsticks leaned against the shed. Somewhere inside, a Weasley was yelling about something.
"Ready?" Ginny asked.
"Born ready."
"You look pale."
"It's the Apparition."
"You've been Apparating for years."
Harry shrugged. Forced a smile. "Didn't eat breakfast."
Ginny squinted at him. Didn't buy it. But she didn't push. She never pushed. Just took his hand and started walking down the hill.
The Burrow got closer.
So did the name in Harry's head.
Sirius Black.
He'd been turning it over since the night before. Since the flames had died in the sink. Since he'd watched the last page curl to ash.
Sirius Black. His godfather. The man who had slept on the Potters' sofa for six months after a bad breakup. Who had taught Harry how to ride a broom. Who had cried at his wedding.
On the list.
Harry's chest felt tight.
Mistake. Had to be a mistake.
The Handler didn't make mistakes.
Then the intel was wrong.
The Handler's intel was never wrong.
Then Sirius—
He stopped walking.
Ginny stopped too. Looked back at him. "Harry?"
"Sorry. Thought I stepped in something."
She glanced at the grass. "There's nothing there."
"Must have imagined it."
She studied his face. The way she did sometimes. Like she was reading a playbook and trying to figure out the next move.
"You're weird today."
"I'm always weird."
"Different weird. More quiet."
"Just thinking about food."
She didn't believe him. He could see it. But she was Ginny. She let things breathe. She trusted him.
She shouldn't.
But she did.
"Come on," she said. "Mum'll have my head if we're late."
They walked.
***
The Burrow's kitchen was a furnace.
Molly Weasley stood at the stove, stirring three pots at once with her wand while chopping something with a knife she held in her other hand. She wore her usual apron—the one that said Kiss the Cook in faded gold letters. Her hair was escaping its bun. Her cheeks were pink from the heat.
She spotted Harry first.
"Harry!"
The knife dropped. The wand kept stirring on its own. Molly crossed the kitchen in four seconds flat and wrapped her arms around him so tight his ribs creaked.
"Hello, Mrs. Weasley," he said into her shoulder.
"How many times have I told you to call me Molly?"
"A lot."
"And still you don't listen."
She pulled back. Held his face in both hands. Looked at him like he was the best thing she'd ever seen. He'd never gotten used to it. Being loved like this. Like he was one of hers.
"You're too thin," she announced.
"I'm not."
"You are. Ginny, is he eating?"
Ginny leaned against the doorframe. Arms crossed. Smirking. "I try, Mum. He just pushes the food around his plate."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
Molly tsked. Pulled Harry back in for another hug. "Don't you worry. I'll sort you out. Sunday roast. Extra potatoes. And you're taking leftovers home."
"Molly, really, I'm fine—"
"Nonsense."
She released him and moved to Ginny. Same tight hug. Same inspection.
"You look tired," Molly said.
"I look normal."
"You look like you're not sleeping."
"I sleep fine."
Molly's eyes narrowed. Then she smiled. That particular smile. The one that meant she was about to ask something she knew would embarrass everyone.
"So," she said, arms still around Ginny. "When are you giving me another grandchild to spoil?"
Ginny froze.
Harry froze.
The kitchen kept moving. The pots kept stirring. Arthur was in the living room with Fred and George, laughing at something. Ron was somewhere upstairs. The house was loud and alive and suddenly very, very small.
"Mum," Ginny said. Voice higher than usual.
"I'm just asking."
"You're always asking."
"I'm a grandmother. It's my job."
"You're not a grandmother to ours' yet."
"Exactly. That's the problem."
Ginny pulled away. Face bright red. She wouldn't look at Harry. She was staring at the ceiling like it owed her money.
"We've been married seven months, Mum. Seven."
"And?"
"And that's not very long."
"Nonsense. I was pregnant with Bill by month four."
"MUM."
Molly waved a hand. "I'm not saying you have to rush. I'm just saying—"
"You're just saying you want a baby to squeeze."
"Yes. Is that a crime?"
Ginny groaned. Grabbed Harry's arm. Dragged him toward the living room.
"We're going to say hello to Dad."
"You're avoiding the conversation!"
"We're finishing the conversation!"
The kitchen door swung shut behind them.
***
The living room was worse.
Not because of Arthur, who was delighted to see them. Or Fred and George, who were testing something that smelled like burnt sugar and regret. Or Ron, who was sprawled on the sofa reading a Quidditch magazine.
It was worse because Harry couldn't stop thinking about what Molly had said.
A grandchild.
He'd thought about it before. Of course he had. They'd talked about it. Before the wedding. Before the exams. When everything had made sense.
Two kids, Ginny had said. Maybe three. Definitely not four. My mum's insane.
Two sounds good, he'd said.
You're not just saying that?
I'm not just saying that.
Because I need to know. Before we do this. Before we—
Ginny.
What?
I want kids. With you. Whenever you're ready.
She'd kissed him then. Long and slow. The kind of kiss that said I love you without using words.
That was the old Harry.
The one who had been about to become an Auror. The one who'd had a future mapped out. The one who didn't have a folder in his work bag with his godfather's name in it.
That Harry could have kids.
This Harry?
This Harry lied to his wife every day. This Harry burned documents in the sink at midnight. This Harry was a secret. A weapon. A ghost.
What kind of father would that be?
"Harry?"
He blinked. Ron was looking at him.
"What?"
"You've been staring at that wall for like thirty seconds."
"Just thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
Fred—or George—snorted. "Potter thinking. That's new."
"Maybe he's thinking about grandchildren," the other one said.
"Shut up," Ginny said. But her ears were pink.
Arthur looked up from his newspaper. Genuinely confused. "Grandchildren?"
"Nothing, Dad."
"Mum asked when they're having babies," Fred said.
"George."
"I'm Fred."
"Does it matter?"
Arthur's face lit up. "Oh! Well. Whenever you're ready, of course. No pressure. But children are wonderful. Terrible, but wonderful."
"Dad, please."
"I'm just saying. The house is too quiet these days."
Ron looked around. Percy was arguing with someone on the Floo. Charlie was wrestling with a pygmy puff. The twins were setting something on fire.
"Too quiet," Ron repeated.
"Compared to when you all lived here," Arthur said. "Yes."
Ginny buried her face in Harry's shoulder.
Harry patted her back. Automatically.
His mind was somewhere else.
***
Lunch was chaos.
Molly outdid herself. Three kinds of potatoes. Two kinds of gravy. A roast that fell apart if you looked at it wrong. The table was so full there was barely room for plates. Still Molly was annoyed that Bill hadn't come with his daughters again.
Harry sat between Ginny and Ron. Ate mechanically. Nodded when people talked to him. Laughed when something was funny.
But he wasn't there.
He was thinking about Sirius.
The list had had five names. Four of them were strangers. Ministry officials he'd never met. Bureaucrats. Paper pushers.
And then Sirius.
Sirius Black. No known alias. Last known address: London. Status: Person of interest.
Person of interest. That was what the file had said. Not guilty. Not accused. Just interesting.
Harry stabbed a potato.
"What's wrong with you?" Ron asked, mouth full.
"Nothing."
"You're attacking that potato like it owes you money."
"Just hungry."
"You said you ate breakfast."
Harry looked at Ron. His best friend. The one who didn't know anything.
"I'm fine," Harry said.
Ron chewed. Swallowed. Studied Harry the way only someone who'd known you since you were eleven could.
"You've been weird for weeks," Ron said quietly. Lower so no one else could hear.
"I haven't."
"You have. Ginny mentioned it too."
"She mentioned it?"
"She said you're distracted. Said you stare at walls a lot."
Harry's stomach turned. Ginny had noticed. Of course she'd noticed. She noticed everything.
"I've just been tired," Harry said. "The desk job is draining."
"It's a desk."
"Mental exhaustion."
Ron snorted. "Right. All those turnip complaints."
He shook his head. But he dropped it. That was the thing about Ron. He'd poke. He'd prod. But he wouldn't push. Not really.
"If you need to talk," Ron said, "you know where I am."
"Yeah."
"I mean it."
"I know."
Ron went back to his food.
Harry stared at his plate.
***
After lunch, Ginny found him in the garden.
She was holding two slices of cake. Handed him one.
"Mum's been asking about you."
"Good things?"
"Mostly. She wants to know why you're so quiet."
Harry took a bite. The cake was perfect. Everything Molly made was perfect.
"I'm not quiet."
"You're quieter than usual. That's like... extra quiet. Which is loud, in its own way."
"That doesn't make sense."
"It makes perfect sense."
He leaned against the fence. She stood next to him. Their shoulders touched.
"You want to tell me what's going on?" she asked.
"Nothing's going on."
"Harry."
"Ginny."
She turned to face him. Cake in one hand. The other on her hip. The sun caught her hair. Made it look like fire.
"You've been different for a while. Not bad different. Just... somewhere else. Like you're in the room but not really here."
"I'm here."
"Are you?"
He looked at her. Really looked. At the freckles across her nose. The small scar on her chin from when she fell off a broom at nine. The way her eyes were the exact color of hot cocoa on a winter night"
"I'm trying to be," he said.
Her expression softened. She reached up. Touched his face.
"Whatever it is," she said, "you can tell me."
He wanted to.
God, he wanted to.
But the vow sat in his chest like a stone. Heavy. Immovable.
"I know," he said.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
She held his gaze. Searching. Looking for the lie.
She didn't find it. He was too good at hiding.
"Okay," she said finally. "But when you're ready. You tell me."
"I will."
She kissed his cheek. Quick. Warm.
Then she pulled him back toward the house.
"Come on. Mum's bringing out the treacle tart and if we're not there, Ron will eat it all."
"Ron will eat it all anyway."
"Then we'll have to fight him."
"I can take him."
"You think?"
"I'm faster."
"You're shorter."
"I'm not shorter."
"You're a little shorter."
He almost laughed. Almost forgot about the list.
About Sirius. About everything.
Almost.
***
They left at four.
Molly packed a container of leftovers so big it barely fit through the Floo. Ginny kissed her mum goodbye. Arthur hugged Harry and whispered anytime, son.
Ron clapped his shoulder. "See you at work tomorrow?"
"Unless the turnips unionize."
"Don't joke about that."
They stepped into the fireplace. Green flames. Spinning. Then home.
The flat was quiet.
Ginny put the leftovers away. Harry stood by the window. Stared at the street below. Normal people. Normal lives.
"Harry?"
He turned.
Ginny was leaning against the kitchen counter. Arms crossed.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you too."
"And I meant what I said. When you're ready. I'm here."
He crossed the room. Pulled her into his arms. Held her tighter than he meant to.
"I know," he said into her hair.
She held him back.
They stood there for a long time.
The sun set outside.
The folder in Harry's work bag stayed closed.
For now.
***
The kitchen table was small.
Too small for everything Harry was carrying.
He sat there in the dark. The flat was silent except for the fridge's low hum and Ginny's breathing from the bedroom. Soft. Steady. Trusting.
He ran his hands through his hair. Pulled. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to feel something.
Sirius.
The name rattled around his skull like a loose coin.
Then the baby.
Molly's words. When are you giving me a grandchild?
Ginny's face. Red. Flustered. But not horrified. Not no. Just not yet.
Harry knew that look.
He'd seen it before. In the way Ginny looked at kids in Diagon Alley. The way her hand drifted to her stomach sometimes when she thought he wasn't watching. The way she'd said two kids. Maybe three like she'd already imagined their names.
She wanted them.
Not now. But soon.
A year. Maybe less.
Harry stared at the wall.
His hand moved to his chest. Over the spot where the vow sat. He couldn't feel it. Not really. But he knew it was there. A promise carved into something deeper than skin.
He thought about the night he'd made it.
***
Six months ago.
The Minister's office. Late. Way past midnight.
Harry had sat in the same chair where department heads begged for funding. His hands had still been shaking. His ears had still been ringing from the exam.
Failed.
The word hadn't made sense. It still didn't.
He'd aced the written. The physical. The dueling. The strategy sim. Every instructor had pulled him aside for months. Best in a decade, Potter. You're a shoo-in.
Then the final.
Three exercises. He'd crushed the first two.
The third: a simulated hostage situation. Dark wizard. Traps. Timed.
He'd done everything right. Cleared the room in ninety seconds. Neutralized the threat. Saved the hostage.
But the examiners said he'd used excessive force. Said he'd endangered civilians. Said he'd failed to follow protocol.
Failed.
Harry had argued. Pleaded. Demanded a review.
They'd denied it.
The Minister had watched the whole thing from a viewing chamber. Had seen Harry's face when they told him.
And then, when everyone else had gone home, the Minister had summoned him.
Harry remembered the office. The dark wood. The portraits pretending to sleep. The Minister pouring two glasses of firewhiskey even though Harry he was on duty.
"You didn't fail, Potter."
Harry had looked up. Blinked.
"The exam was rigged. By my orders."
Silence.
"I need someone invisible. Someone everyone believes is a failure. Someone who can move through the Ministry without anyone watching."
Harry had stood up. Knocked over the whiskey.
"You ruined my career?"
"I saved your life."
"What?"
The Minister had slid a folder across the desk. Thinner than the one Harry had now. But heavier.
"There's a rot inside the Ministry. High-level. People selling secrets. People who'd kill to protect themselves. I've lost three agents in two years. They were too visible. Too good."
"So you picked me."
"I picked someone no one would ever suspect. A failure. A disappointment. The Boy Who Couldn't."
Harry's hands had balled into fists.
"My parents—"
"Can't know."
"Ginny—"
"Especially not Ginny."
Harry had stopped breathing.
"She's your weakness, Potter. If they know about her, they'll use her. The only way to keep her safe is to make sure no one ever connects you to anything important."
"So I lie to her."
"You protect her."
Harry had stood there. The folder on the desk. The whiskey spreading across the wood.
He'd thought about Ginny. About the wedding. About the way she'd smiled when he said I do.
He'd thought about the future. The kids they'd talked about. The house. The life.
"If I do this," he'd said, "how long?"
"I don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Harry had picked up the glass. Drunk the whiskey in one go. It had burned going down.
"I'll do it."
The Minister had nodded. Pulled out a piece of parchment. An unbreakable vow.
"Say the words."
Harry had said them.
***
Now he sat in the dark.
Six months later.
He cursed.
Not loud. Ginny was sleeping. But the word sat in his throat like acid. He cursed the Minister. The exam. The folder. The list.
He cursed himself most of all.
Because he'd said yes.
Because he'd thought this job would be better than being an Auror. Easier. Safer. Just paperwork with a little adventure on the side.
He'd been wrong.
This job was watching his godfather's name on a list and not knowing why.
This job was lying to his wife every single day.
This job was coming home smelling like smoke and saying just the fireplace.
This job was sitting at a kitchen table at one in the morning, alone, while the woman he loved slept in the next room, dreaming about babies he couldn't give her.
Not because he didn't want them.
Because how could he?
How could he bring a child into this? Into lies and secrets and midnight meetings at the Leaky Cauldron?
How could he look at a kid and say Daddy has to go to work now, when work meant chasing traitors and burning evidence in the sink?
Harry dropped his head to the table.
The wood was cold against his forehead.
He thought about Ginny's face when Molly had asked about grandchildren. The blush. The smile she'd tried to hide. The way she'd grabbed his arm and pulled him away but hadn't said never.
She'd said not yet.
That was worse.
Because not yet meant eventually.
And eventually was coming.
Fast.
He lifted his head. Stared at the empty kitchen. The calendar on the fridge. Ginny's handwriting in the margins. Buy milk. Ron's birthday. Harry's mum Floo call.
Normal.
Everything looked normal.
It was a lie.
He was a lie.
Harry stood up. Walked to the sink. Turned on the tap. Watched the water run.
He thought about the folder in his bag. The list. The fifth name.
Sirius Black.
His godfather.
The man who had cried at his wedding.
Harry shut off the tap.
The water stopped.
The flat was silent again.
He walked to the bedroom. Paused in the doorway. Ginny was sprawled across the bed. One arm thrown over his pillow. Her hair fanned out like fire in the dark.
She looked peaceful.
She looked like she trusted him.
Harry leaned against the doorframe.
He watched her breathe.
And he cursed again.
Silent this time. Just his lips moving.
Because he couldn't tell her.
Because he couldn't stop.
Because he was in too deep and the only way out was through, and through meant investigating his own godfather and lying to his wife and sitting at kitchen tables at one in the morning, wondering how it all went so wrong.
He was supposed to be an Auror.
He was supposed to have kids.
He was supposed to be happy.
Instead, he was a ghost.
And ghosts didn't get to have normal lives.
Harry pushed off the doorframe. Walked to the bed. Slid in beside Ginny as carefully as he could.
She stirred. Mumbled something. Rolled toward him.
Her hand found his chest.
"You're cold," she whispered.
"Sorry."
"S'okay."
She pressed closer. Her breath warm against his neck.
"Love you," she said.
Harry closed his eyes.
"Love you too," he whispered back.
The words tasted like ash.
He lay there in the dark. Ginny's body soft against his. Her heart beating slow and steady.
He wondered how long he could keep this up.
A month? A year? Forever?
Forever was a long time to be a ghost.
Ginny shifted. Her leg hooked over his.
She was warm.
He was cold.
He always was these days.
Harry stared at the ceiling.
The ceiling didn't have answers.
It never did.