I.11

The night had turned thick as soot. Sheets of haze hung moodily between the old houses, across the twinkling grass in the square. Earth seemed to be reaching for sky and succeeding. The peachy hues of intermittent street lamps barely illumed the steps. Harry had his umbrella raised, and wondered at taking his chances of casting an Impervious Charm, how many Muggles would see, before he cared to notice an out of place obsidian bundle two steps down. A hooded figure that, for a brief second, had Harry revisiting dead memories of Voldemort's army. A remembered monody of screams passed. He shuddered and removed the garbled fantasies. He was in the future, and nothing of the past could hurt him now.

Believing it to be a member of the Spring Soiree, the event of all wizards and witches in Britain, Harry took the steps carefully and tossed out ineffectual words.

'I hear it's drier inside. Not a drop of rain.'

Leaving it at that, Harry headed to the left, meaning to find a vacant spot to Disapparate back to the Cauldron.

'Potter?'

Pivoting on his heel, Harry blinked before Grimmauld Place came into view anew. The hooded figure jumped the last step, and Harry fought off the whelming sense of horror. So long since he had seen such a shape, and of course it teased him to despair. He held his breath till the figure stopped, and soft orange light, diffused by drizzle, marked pointed features. A hand folded the hood from pate and revealed tangled white-blond hair and two deep-set icicles that barely passed for eyes.

'Good Merlin,' Malfoy said, an airy, uplifting note in his tenor, 'it is you.'

Harry tilted the umbrella handle against his shoulder, and the heavier drops glissading from its sides obscured Draco Malfoy. 'So it is. I heard you were back.'

A beat echoed by. Each weighed the presence of the other. Harry inhaled.

'Isn't this the part where you say something coy and dapper, like: "You're the last person I expected to see here, Potter!" And we say how have you been, isn't life grand, and so on, ad nauseam, till we get sick of fake friendliness and decide to end the charade by finally excusing ourselves.'

Malfoy chortled, not in the insulting way of old, but in a changeable manner none was used to just yet. 'Still the same Potter, aren't you? Still afraid someone's out to get you. Actually, I would like to know how you've been.'

'Why?' Harry tried to remove the defensive barricades. There was no point in holding back now. Malfoy would certainly know he was an unwanted acquaintance. 'Why should you want to know?'

'Because,' Malfoy leaned in a little, as if to drop a secret, 'people have been saying the most appalling things about you, Potter.'

'Let them talk, wouldn't be the first time. Enjoy yourself at the party.' He turned to go, leaving Grimmauld Place behind him. And thought more of leaving the house than leaving Malfoy.

He was a trifle annoyed when Malfoy's footsteps sounded beside his own. For a moment, Harry paused, aggravated, then moved ahead.

'You see, Potter,' began Malfoy, casual, 'I'm not so sure I want to go to the party. I won't know anyone there. Well, old school chums, I suppose, but why should I go? I was only invited by proxy, anyhow, by the Minister himself. He probably felt sorry for me. He knows I'm the last Malfoy in the United Kingdom. Then again,' Malfoy analysed Potter's altered profile, the tip of the nose and the curve of his chin, 'aren't you the last Potter wizard in the United Kingdom?'

'Yes,' grumbled Harry. 'What of it? I won't let it be an excuse for people to pity me, particularly the Minister for Magic.'

'I work for the Minister, Potter,' Malfoy added, enjoying himself too much. Shocking Potter had always been one of his hobbies at school, and a post-Hogwarts life proved rather dull without someone around to humour him. 'I was working for the Ministry of Magic embassy in Germany. Surely you've heard of this? No, no, you haven't. Why would you? My mother is on the continent now, and pleased with it, while my father whiles away his long hours as a prisoner.'

'Perhaps you should visit him. Often.'

'Do you know, Potter, you're very disputatious this evening,' Malfoy observed. 'I'm attempting to have a decent conversation with my old school enemy, and you're being bastardly about it. We are not the caricatures of youth we once were. Am I not being arrogant enough for you? Or have I brought you to an impasse? You don't know what to do with me. You're not sure whether or not you ought to be rude. You're not sure whether or not you really want to talk to me. And right now, I wager you're thinking that no one likes to listen to Draco Malfoy talk more than Draco Malfoy.' He chuckled warmly in his throat, and his eyes winced together when his lips arched into a grin. 'On that point, I'd say you're correct!'

Harry stopped, the rain starting a rustle against the streets, a tattoo on the umbrella, and stared at Malfoy. 'Go to the party. I'm sure you'll find someone willing to talk to you there. A lot of pretty girls who won't mind that your father supported Voldemort and tried to get you to murder innocent people.'

It happened in a second, that he had taken the step forward to Disapparate and Malfoy had caught his arm in a tight grip.

'Just wait two seconds before you go.'

Harry pressed his mouth against his teeth in a rewarding effort to keep quiet. Why should he listen to Malfoy? Because no one listened to Harry Potter.

'And answer a question, if you can. Tell me why you left the party so early. You, the famous Harry Potter, leaves a party at five after eight on a Saturday night. Why? Not so many pretty girls willing to listen to you?'

'No,' Harry thought then that 'yes' was the honest answer, but not the right answer. 'You said you hear appalling things about me. I hear them, too. Horrid whispers from people who know nothing about me. All around, everywhere I go. I hate London.' He said the three words and was astonished at how they relaxed him. 'I do. Great Merlin,' in a low, surprised voice now, 'I hate London. I hate it.'

Malfoy's fair eyebrows bunched in the middle. 'What about your friends? The Weasleys?'

'I could never live with them,' he said. 'They have their own life.'

'But you're a part of it.'

'An outside part. That's the way it is. Outside, far outside, looking in. Pitiful me!' Harry scoffed himself to stave off embarrassment. 'I look in all the shop windows to see all of these beautiful homes, shaped by beautiful lives, and I cannot buy one of them. That's the way it feels. That's the way it is. Now, you go off to your party, Malfoy, and I'm going back to the Leaky Cauldron. I'd say nice talking to you, but that would be one of the false niceties mentioned earlier. And, along the same lines of sarcasm: I'm glad you're well and all that.'

Before Malfoy could utter the protest Harry knew was rising, he Disapparated.

The night saved him.

-x-

Employed in the Ministry offices Monday, Harry discovered Malfoy lurking at various locations. They passed once in the hall, mid-morning, and exchanged surnames. But Malfoy was on his way to a meeting, Harry later found was at Gringotts. Six hours would pass before they had a conversation.

That day, Harry had been placed in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, level four, under the supervision of heads Dirk Cresswell and Cuthbert Mockridge, and, while the heads stayed cosy pushing papers in their offices, Harry took his orders straight from Hermione. And while Hermione spent most of the day out of her office, Harry acted as her assistant. She enjoyed bossing him around, saying it was like school days, though her correspondence and visitors were not like the homework essays they used to do, obscenely lengthy essays done at crowded tables in the Gryffindor common room, Hermione's books stacked high, and Ron's fingers smudged with ink. . .

'I heard you were at Madam St Eve's party Saturday night,' Hermione randomly announced.

'Only for an hour,' Harry said, trying to proofread a letter to a witch in Kent concerned about her imported Escoujan rats. 'How did you know about it?' Then his face fell. 'Oh not that society column rubbish!'

'Afraid it's true,' Hermione twitched her lip, 'you were in yesterday's edition. They printed the guest list. I saw Malfoy's name on it. Did you see him?'

'Sort of.'

'What do you mean, sort of?'

'He was waiting out on the steps when I left the house. Said he wasn't sure he wanted to go inside.'

'Really!' She set aside quill and parchment and ignored the memos that flew into the office. 'Did you talk to him?'

'He talked to me, more like.'

'What about?'

'Merlin, Hermione, I don't know! It's not like I sat up all night thinking about it.' Which wasn't exactly a lie but only clever circumlocution on his part. Not all night. But it had taken three hours for him to fall asleep. He blamed it on the leaky pipes that dripped away, the Leaky Cauldron living up to half its descriptive moniker.

'He's back from Germany. The only wizarding town in that country. What's it called? Schneestadt, I think, outside Heidelberg,' continued Hermione, once again armed with a quill, as though ready to dismiss the topic, interesting though it was. Harry's face no longer distorted in fury at the mention of Malfoy. 'Now he's back and working for the Ministry.'

'Yes, I've seen him skulking about the corridors. What does he do, exactly?'

'He works in payroll, to put it plainly.'

'Payroll?' Harry found it ludicrous and laughed till it no longer felt uplifting. But the word needed repeating. 'Payroll! That sounds insufferably boring.'

'Less boring or more boring than being assistant to the Junior Assistant's Assistant of the Department of—' she waved a hand to indicate the rest of the precocious title, 'et cetera?'

'Well,' Harry stirred from the chair and grabbed a couple of flying paper aeroplane memos from the ceiling, 'so far this is the best job the Minister has given me.'

Hermione flashed a brief, darling grin into the back of his messy head. Perhaps that was all Harry needed: a chance to do something no more important than checking memos and transcribing correspondence. It wasn't saving the world, it wasn't heroic in the least.

But that was the point, really.

-x-

I.13

Malfoy showed up at Harry's desk by three, pulling a distraught expression and examining a roll of parchment.

'Potter, I need to ask you something.' He observed the scattered desk, covered with memos in disorganised piles, broken quills, ink pots, and parchments hanging from a nearly closed drawer. 'Er, is now maybe not a good time?'

'Now's perfect.' Harry leaned into the seat and adjusted his spectacles. Malfoy continued to attire himself as he had at Hogwarts, with a dress shirt, a tie tugged loose, colourless robes, and black trousers belted at a lean waist. He was trim, pale, graceful, and handsome enough for second glances but not to rile the envy of competitors. 'Hermione told me you're working accounts.'

'Payroll.' He was relieved Potter didn't sneer. 'Not the most exciting job the Ministry has to offer, but I enjoyed it at the embassy in Schneestadt. You're working for Mrs Weasley today, yes?'

'And I hope to for a while yet. She's out. Do you need to see her?'

'Absolutely not,' he said dismissively. 'It's you I need to speak to.' Malfoy examined a chair with wooden armrests and blue upholstery.

'You may sit, Malfoy,' invited Harry, careful to sound only professionally friendly.

And so Malfoy sat, still glued to the parchment. He left it on the rim of the desk, and Harry saw that it was a payroll chart, with Harry's hours and different positions shoved into a table.

'I just want to make sure this is right,' Malfoy said, pushing up his shirt sleeves to his forearms. The faux daylight from the enchanted windows caught fine white hairs on immaculate, fair arms. Malfoy, reflected Harry, seemed physically undamaged from the war that had ravaged and scarred so many. Undamaged. Justice had missed an opportunity. And yet there was Draco Malfoy, perfect, whole, undisturbed, working at the Ministry long enough to still cram himself under the tough skin of Harry Potter.

'Now,' Malfoy unwittingly brought Harry to the present, 'you've worked in all these departments this past week, is that right?'

Harry took the table and examined it. Malfoy's handwriting, incredibly neat if condensed to fit the sixteen inches of usable space, had delineated the past seven days of Harry's life. How odd to see one's life categorised so crudely. But he returned it to Malfoy with a nod.

'Yes, that's right. I get a base salary. It's not different for each department I work in.'

'That's true, but to keep the Ministry records, and your personal file, as accurate as possible, I need to be as accurate as possible.'

'Isn't it a bit dull?'

'Compared to what? War? But I get to work with goblins.'

'You're part of GLO?' Harry used the common abbreviation for Goblin Liaison Office.

'Gringotts actually prints and distributes paycheques and handles deposits.' Malfoy snatched a glance from Potter. 'We work for the same department, believe it or not. My office is down the hall, but I'm never there.'

Harry tilted toward the parchment again. 'This is wrong, actually.' He held his forefinger above a departure time. 'That was my fault. I meant to leave a note.'

'So what time did you leave that day?'

'Seven-thirty.'

After penning a circle around the timestamp, Malfoy blew on the parchment, and the ink with the inaccurate time vanished. He scribbled in 7.30 and examined his handiwork. Harry tilted a little closer, and Malfoy caught a scent of soap and shampoo, and a tang of aftershave. Harry flattened a hand on the top of the desk, and Malfoy caught a glance at it, mesmerised by a little brown freckle near the wrist. 'Really, Potter, seven-thirty is late to be leaving work.'

'I was copying papers for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It seemed best just to finish them.' And I didn't have anything better to do went undeclared, yet roared angrily through Harry's mind. 'Look, Malfoy, about Saturday night, at the party—'

'You don't have to say anything. I suppose I was rude.'

'But that's what I was going to say.'

'We were both rude then.' Malfoy rose, surveying at the desk to be sure he had all he'd brought with him, and couldn't be sure since any object would be lost in such a mess. He had a fleeting look with Potter while securing the chart. 'Have you thought any more about leaving London?'

'I cannot see how it's possible.'

The same familiar excuse. A relief to know he was not the only one who found things impossible in the optimistic years of post-Restoration. 'Why not?' Malfoy didn't mean to prod or goad, but with Potter the inclination to do so came as naturally as breathing. They had been goading each other for nearly ten years. 'You've money enough to buy your own house.'

'I tried that once. It didn't really win me over with joy and happiness. And I don't want to try again.' Harry couldn't drop the inclination that Malfoy wanted to set a hint. 'Why do you ask?'

'Don't be paranoid, I was just curious. The thing is,' and Harry felt it coming in Malfoy's dramatic pause, 'I'm due to visit my mother again next month. Will be gone for a full week. If you wanted to, I'll let you stay at the manor.'

The Manor.

Harry only ever thought of it in capital letters. With dreaded italics. The Manor.

He swallowed. 'Malfoy, er—that would be tremendously awkward.'

'Why should it be?'

'I wonder,' Harry growled. 'Could be because last time I visited, we had a corking time. Locked in a cell. Voldemort prancing like a pony and making merry.'

'No cause for anger, Potter. I was there, too. I never go in that part of the house anymore. Can't bear to. I mean to have it redone someday, or,' he shook his head as vague impressions of ire trilled through him, 'or have it completely torn down. It's halfway falling apart as it is. How do you think I feel?'

'You still live there.'

'Right. And your digs are a falling down building in London that smells like Hagrid's feet on a good day.'

Harry knew he should've been insulted, the Harry of Hogwarts years would've been had Malfoy said such a thing. But now it was different. He laughed now, and Malfoy smiled with him. Shared mirth was a healing treasure that consumed the negative.

But to stay at the manor, where Dobby had obtained his fatal wound, where Pettigrew had perished . . . Harry had a perverse reaction: he wanted to see it. A glorious moment of masochism. He invited it in, let it stay, let it nettle. What might such a nettle do to his wayward mind? A ripple of lunacy came on, as a hotness in his stomach, and he felt a new desire to destroy the ghosts of the past. It was only by taking a journey through the darkness that he could turn his face again to the light.

Malfoy took Harry's characteristic silence as a chance to prattle on. Should it only take a little convincing on his part, the rest of the plot would simply fall slickly into place.

'I'll be gone. No one lives there, just two old house-elves, both of whom would be very happy to have someone new delivering orders for a week. It's in the country. Nearest neighbour is five miles. Nice walks, gardens, that sort of thing. Those are unchanged . . . Afraid you might have to deal with some of Wiltshire's grand spring flooding, however, but that only means the grounds are a bit soggy and the river branch crests its banks. Seventy-four rooms at your disposal, minus the five that I blew up in my post-war angst, the drawing room being one of them. The excellent collection of vintage wines survived. Damn wine cellar will outlive us all. And London is so far away you won't even know what people are saying about you. Even the stars are silent.'

The proposal fascinated Harry. That he should find it from Malfoy reeked of the macabre. But he wanted so desperately to get away, if only for a week; to get away from the chatter, the noise, the abundant monstrosities of city life, for seven consecutive days. To investigate the manor that had been such an epoch in his fight against Voldemort, and, indeed, against the Malfoys.

Draco divined Harry's saintly notions.

'Unless you've something against staying at the ancestral home of Dark Arts supporters who've been less than candid about their attachment through the years, you should accept.' Malfoy found the corners of his mouth tugged upward when Potter's green stare met his. So that was it. The awkwardness was a desire to disassociate with everything related to the Dark Arts. 'Ah, I see, I see. The wound of the immaculate angel has been unearthed. Very interesting.'

Heat cooked Harry's face. He thought of sending Malfoy off with an argument, but the inclination died when Hermione reappeared. Her loafers stalled as she came upon the two men, both standing, formal and stiff, and relieved to welcome her as a distraction.

'Hello, Malfoy.' Hermione handed Harry a takeaway tea, claiming one for herself. 'How are you enjoying your job so far?'

'The same as Germany,' he said, adding an affable yet shaky grin. 'At least I know what I'm about. I wonder if I might have a private word with you?'

The tea in her hand shook imperceptibly. Through a tight mouth she agreed, then told Harry to get back to work, and closed the office door.

Over-brewed tea cracked a whip against Harry's remiss thoughts.

-x-

I.14

'Have you a question of payroll, Malfoy?' Hermione took to her desk and set the tea in a place she wanted to be sure it wouldn't be knocked by her occasionally clumsy elbow. With a gesture, she offered Malfoy a chair. He declined, opting to stand. His tall frame, with broad shoulders and painfully alabaster skin, provided an illusion, among Hermione's perfectly organised office, that he was bigger than the boy she'd hated at school, who used to love provoking Harry, who used to call her foul names. He used to, but the menacing look wasn't in him anymore.

The names were gone. The broken intentions disintegrated. The silly games vanquished. The only games he played now were with himself: how much sincerity to show, how much to trust, how much to admit.

'No, I haven't a question about payroll. I wondered if we might talk about Potter for a moment.'

This was remarkable. She stared up at him, with colourful memos flying about his diaphanous head, and tried to appear unsurprised. 'What about him?'

'You should persuade him to leave London for a little while.'

'To leave—' But she wouldn't continue.

'Mrs Weasley—er, Hermione—he's living at the Leaky Cauldron, avoiding people and becoming the source of jokes and ridicules.'

'I cannot stop what idle tongues say about him.'

'No one can. And, what's more, you shouldn't have to.'

'He used to be very social, used to go to parties, and liked going. Then it changed when he realised that people began to see him as being famous for being famous.'

'I've sensed that. Look, um,' now he took the chair, 'I've just made him speechless a moment ago by offering him a stay at the manor for a week. I'm going to Germany to visit my mother, and I thought it might be a beneficial interval for him.'

'The manor? Malfoy, don't you remember what happened—?'

'Of course I do, but I explained to him that that area of the house no longer exists.'

'He can't accept.'

'I think he will.'

'Why?'

'He'll want to see it again. You can't shut out everything awful in your past, Hermione. You certainly don't expect Harry Potter to do that.'

'But it was so stupid of you to offer the manor to him. Really, Malfoy,' she nearly rolled her eyes, 'the manor! It was a horrible, horrible . . . So stupid of you!'

His eyes widened at the insult. 'Yes, I gathered that afterward by his whole speechlessness dilemma.'

'If Harry needs to get away, he can always come stay with us,' Hermione said it to herself for comfort. Draco Malfoy was not permitted to know her friend better than she. 'He knows that.'

'You're missing the point, Hermione. He doesn't need someone to stay with, someone to watch over him. What he needs is time alone. You think it's easy on him, going to your house every weekend and seeing your wonderful little life with, what's his name, Ron?'

Hermione darted her eyes around in an attempt to collect protestations and truths. But this was Malfoy! What did he know of this?

She raced a gaze across him and understood. As though it was written as prose upon him, she understood.

He'd gone through the same thing.

Tentatively, eager to sort through this turmoil of Harry's, Hermione cleared her throat. 'And going to Germany helped you cope with the end of the war, the end of the Restoration?'

A smile took over. He recalled Hermione as he'd seen her during the Restoration of Hogwarts, busy, capable, bossy, demanding. He'd appreciated her then. She had been what the authorities needed, and she had been what her friends needed.

'Yes,' he said at length, 'yes, it did. People will still talk about him, that cannot be stopped, he'll always be Harry Potter, but he must become resilient to it. Persuade him to go to the manor.'

'You do realise that is asking a lot—even for me.'

'He's not as reluctant as you think he is.'

'I imagine you're wrong. What would happen if he did go? Everyone who reads the Prophet will know he's staying at Malfoy Manor.'

Malfoy manipulated a series of wonderful lies, and produced a sculpture of wondrous proportions. 'Then we'll not let on that he's at the manor at all. It's easily played out, you see. All you have to do is make a big fuss about having Harry stay with you at your place in—in— What's its name again?'

'We live in Royal Hetherington-Upon-Kind,' Hermione said automatically.

'Yes, yes, that's the place. Blather it about the office that Harry's visiting you for a week, allow your husband in on the ruse, and you have yourself one Harry Potter very safe from the Prophet's devilishly annoying social column. Harry gains a week's holiday. I get the peace of mind knowing that damn eyesore of a mansion has been put to good use. And you and Ron may find an improvement in your best mate. Sorry, call me optimistic, but I don't see how any of us lose.'

Hermione's features were unreadable. Malfoy believed she'd laugh in his face and throw him ignominiously from the office, slamming the door repeatedly on his fingers for good measure. If that were the case, if she tossed him on his backside, Malfoy promised to step away from it forever.

What was his obsession with becoming part of Potter's life? Post-Restoration in Schneestadt meant long hours of a different restoration: restoration of himself. He wanted better friends than he had. He wanted to be a part of something important. He wanted to do something good for someone else. And the only people that were always doing good works were Harry, Ron, and Hermione. The Golden Trio had been the nucleus of Restoration at Hogwarts. Before securing a job with the Ministry's embassy in Germany, Malfoy had witnessed their willingness to sacrifice, aid and manage.

It was harder to create than destroy. That was what the Restoration years had taught him.

He was brought back to his senses with Hermione's gentle laugh. She shook her head but beamed.

'You're just the same, Malfoy. Always ready with a scheme. And for what? To get your way!'

'I'm hardly the same,' he intoned rather bitterly. 'And let me help, Hermione. You can trust me now.'

She, too, remembered the Restoration, the first week of it, when they had crawled around the rubble of Hogwarts, repairing, fixing, and always seeing Malfoy with his wand tip seaming shattered pieces. An upright Slytherin in an upside down world. They'd even conversed. Instigated by Malfoy, now that she thought back on it. Instigated by him, little by little, tersely, never apologetic. Just the understanding between them that they had lived through something tremendous, bigger than they would ever be. Lived, and were forever united by life.

Trust a Slytherin? But that was impossible for a Gryffindor to do.

Yet they had all been wrong about Snape. For seven years.

She met his gaze, the ice of his eyes warmed by tendrils of hidden passion, and slowly nodded.

-x-

I.15

'Have a good night, Potter.'

Harry looked up from his desk and saw Malfoy's triangular back disappearing down the corridor. 'You too, Malfoy.'

It was the first greeting of friendship passed between the former enemies.

'Harry!'

The quill dropped from his hand at Hermione's shout.

'Get in here, now!'

-x-

Harry and Hermione had known each other for so long, had a relationship roped by a filial understanding, that they had an unfortunate habit of speaking at identical times.

'You don't really want to go, do you?'

'I want to accept Malfoy's offer.'

But it did not always happen that they said the same things when they spoke at identical times.

-x-

A week later, Ron stood at an old cooker with his hand lazily twirling over a stew pot. He'd finally given up the frilly pink-checked aprons his mum had made, a provision for Hermione when she and Ron married that winter, poor Molly actually believing that Hermione would cook. The pinks were gone, replaced by common maroon, and one navy with a bunch of peppers on. But the maroon reminded Harry of the perpetuity of Molly Weasley's blessed jumpers she knitted for him every Christmas.

The fatal truth was that Hermione worked, Ron stayed home. She brought home what they required to live on. Ron kept house. Did laundry. Cooked.

Ron had adopted an expanding conceit about his pie crusts.

He stopped twirling and the spoon in the steaming pot of smelling-good stew stalled and flopped to the rim. Ron folded his arms. He sought Hermione for comfort, to unscramble the words in the tatters of his brain. She did this by wiggling up her brows. The knots untied within him.

Then, to Harry, gnawing on a heel of a rosemary baguette, Ron said, 'You do realise this is completely mental, yeah?'

'Mm,' Harry nodded and swallowed hurriedly, 'right, yes, completely. I'm mental. Mental as can be.' He had a swig of tea and gnawed additionally.

Hermione rubbed Ron's shoulder. 'It's only for a week. You know he should go. It would be good for him.'

'It would be mental for him. He'll snap in two. Get barky. We'll have to take care of the sorry sod for the rest of his life. Like dear old loony Lockheart.'

Harry chuckled. Ron whimpered quietly at Hermione. Harry could hear a cuddle happening behind him.

'You can't think this is a good idea,' said Ron, arms looped about her, trying the sweetness of him to ease her into his way of seeing things. 'You really don't want him to go.'

'Ronald,' Hermione turned on a chiding voice that rang like the aftermath of bells, 'he's going. Some ghosts have to be destroyed this way. You're just sore because you hate seeing Malfoy turn a new leaf.'

'Turn a new leaf, ha!' grumbled Ron. 'I'd like to turn a new leaf on him. Er,' his eyes widened, 'that didn't sound so pervy in my head before I said it, I swear.'

Harry chuckled again, finishing off the heel of bread.

'You shush your cackling, Potter!' Ron shouted in jest indignation. 'You don't trust Malfoy any more than I do, do you? No, I bet you don't. Because he's got sense, he has,' he made a point of telling this to Hermione, who had a sympathetic upturn to her alluring lips. 'None of this gadding off to Wiltshire! Isn't it a lovely time to go to Wiltshire! Yeah, I believe it is. All that sodding rain. Malfoy Manor! And I won't be having a part in this ruse of yours, if that's what you call it. Lying, it is! I've never lied a day in my life!'

Now laughter came from Hermione and Harry at Ron's expense. He ignored them, dashing about, cooker to sink to oven to table, preparing dinner.

'You know it'll be hell on us to lie to my mum! Blimey, Hermione, my mum!'

'Oh Ron, I have that all worked out.'

He flung the apron off to the back of the shabby but comfortable sofa, and sat at his typical seat. His scowl remained atypical. Harry helped himself to the meal, Ron's cooking becoming a favourite of his, even to the point where he couldn't tell the difference between Mrs Weasley's blancmange and Ron's. He remained quiet and ate, allowing the flippant spouses to argue insincerely.

Hermione explained her idea, briefly, brilliantly. 'We'll just tell your mum that it's my week to cook. That'll keep everyone miles away.'

Ron's scowl loosened to a fat grin. He appreciated his wife's cleverness, as well as her occasional inclination to do something just a little bit wicked.

Hermione finished with a flourish. 'And if they should pop round for tea, we'll tell them Harry's out. It's easily solved. This is so delicious, Ron! Oh!' She dampened his appreciative cheek with kisses. 'I'm such a lucky witch!'

The habit of blushing at compliments or good deeds Ron had never really lost. He touched her hand, but that was all, until the sanguine saturation faded. 'More stew, Harry?' He waited not for a response but filled the bowl.

Hermione reached for another bread slice. 'So what are you taking with you, Harry?'

'I don't know,' he replied awkwardly. Had they decided he was going? The final decision was left to Ron and Hermione, as were the most important things done in his life. 'I don't have much.' He hung his head over the bowl as he said it, but he didn't want pity. It was a casual observation. His room at the Leaky Cauldron was empty of personal belongings. He had some books, some robes, Muggle clothes. All the rest were fragments of his history. He would leave his room at the Leaky Cauldron and hand the fragments over to Ron and Hermione. An act he should've done years ago.

'I still think it's mental,' Ron said, after a swallow of good bread. Then tension of indecision returned. Harry and Hermione waited. Soon, Ron was full, set back, belched gratefully, and rubbed his still-slim girth proudly. 'I suppose I'm ousted on this vote. Two to one! Hardly fair. But there you have it. Democracy. And, anyway, Harry, it's not like you've gotten yourself maimed or kidnapped or killed any time recently—' Hermione smacked him at the elbow while Harry smiled. 'What? All I'm saying is that he's got to be careful. Specially round the Malfoy place. Well,' he sighed and held Harry's innocent gaze, 'as long as you promise to send us an owl or Floo us every day—every day, mind you—then I guess it's OK.'

'All right, guess I'm going then,' said Harry, comforted by Ron's support, even if it arrived reluctantly.

'But I want a message from you every day, Harry, or I'll Apparate myself over there and make sure you're alive. Every day.'

'Every day,' Harry nodded into the words, 'absolutely. Every day. Heard you the first four times, Ron. Is there any more of that blancmange from last night?'

-x-