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Summary
Harry caught the whispered conversation that followed near the water cooler. He always caught them. His hearing had sharpened during the war, along with his reflexes and his ability to identify threats. Everything was a potential threat now.
"—don't know how anyone could stand to live with him—"
"Did you see the ring though? Someone actually married that—"
"Must be a masochist. Or deaf. Can you imagine coming home to that every night?"
Harry's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. Let them wonder. Let them whisper. He'd stopped giving a fuck what people thought of him somewhere between watching Remus die and burying Fred Weasley. The ring on his left hand caught the light as he turned a page—white gold, elegant, expensive. A Malfoy heirloom that had been resized to fit his finger.