These are still JK Rowling's brainchildren. Only the story itself is mine.

Chapter 4

"Oh God, Oh God, Oh God…" Harry babbled, sprinting for the road. He stopped dead, panting, looked around wildly, and wheeled back toward the house. Then he turned back toward the road, a frustrated snarl rumbling in his throat.

"What can I do?" he thought frantically, tripping across the garden. "Where do I go?"

He couldn't think straight. His exhausted mind was reeling; he thought that his heart might have ascended into his throat and now sat thrumming there, cutting off the cool dawn air and beating hectically against his Adam's apple.

He brought his hands to his face, then realized there was something clutched in his hand. Ginny's letter. He remembered squinting at it a moment before, in the dim light of Ron's old room, and seeing an address printed there, beneath her name.

"I'll go see Ginny!" he told himself aloud, seizing the idea. "She'll help! She'll know!"

Without a second's hesitation, he ran out to the road, looked once in either direction, and flung his right arm into the air.

An enormous BANG fractured the calm, and the Knight Bus screeched to a halt before him. A young man stepped out, but it wasn't Stan Shunpike. This fellow was rather little and squat, with a mop of messy dark hair and a five-o'clock shadow that covered most of his face.

"Welcome to the-" he began tonelessly, but Harry cut him off.

"I know, I know! Take me to this address," he shoved the parchment under the man's stubby nose, "right away, and I'll tip you extra!"

The man eyed the address shrewdly. "How much extra, mate? There's a queue, you see. All these folks waiting to get where they're going, have been all night, you know…"

Harry fished around in his pocket and pulled out a handful of gold. "Take it!" he barked, "And get me there NOW!"

The man smiled widely now, fingering the gold Harry had shoved roughly into his chest, and said in a simpery, sugary sort of voice, "Of course, sir! Right away, sir!" And he turned and shouted the address to Ern, the ancient driver. The little old man nodded unsteadily and slammed on the gas.

"Have a seat sir, we'll be there in just a moment," the conductor beamed, pocketing the money.

Harry sank to the edge of the nearest bed, uneasily fingering the letter still clutched in his hands. He realized, with a start, that Pigwidgeon remained planted on his shoulder, looking ruffled and disoriented, but thrilled to be on a journey with Harry. Harry absently stroked the little owl's wings, smoothing the rumpled feathers.

Hours seemed to pass before the Knight Bus lurched to a gut-wrenching halt, skidding dangerously on the dirt road it had materialized on. Harry noticed, as he leapt from the bus without so much as a 'thank you' to the aged Ern or the grinning conductor, that the eastern horizon was lined with a watery yellow glow. As he looked around him, the bright sun breached the horizon and illuminated the land with golden light.

He stood at the gate of a little white house, surrounded on all sides by wide, green fields, which seemed to have sprung directly out of a fairy tale. A heavy thatched roof hunched roundly over four whitewashed walls, which were rough and uneven, but looked sturdy. Square, paneled windows, sparkling in the new daylight, were situated on either side of a thick wooden door that seemed to welcome him to the tidy doorstep. The garden was wild and untamed, but comforted Harry with same disorganized cheerfulness that the garden at the Burrow had always greeted him with. Everything about this little cottage made Harry breathe easily in the quiet, cool morning, despite the terror that throbbed in his chest like a great gnawing animal.

Just as his hand fell upon the gate, the wooden door opened with a creak. Harry fell into the hedges, holding his breath.

From the shadowy doorway came a young child, clad in green pajamas that didn't quite cover his skinny ankles. In the early morning sunlight, his bright copper hair gleamed like embers. He skipped awkwardly down the front steps, laughing and looking behind him at a fat, ginger cat, which ambled out behind him, looking displeased. The child fell onto his back in the garden and curled his little fingers in the tall grass that surrounded him, beaming at the sky. His bright eyes sparkled, and Harry felt a tickle of familiarity.

The feeling dissipated like smoke when Harry's eyes fell upon the woman who emerged from the doorway. She was wrapped in an old flowered dressing gown, her hair was sleep-tousled and tangled, and her eyes were swollen with sleep, but Harry recognized her the moment the golden sunlight fell upon her auburn locks.

Ginny.

"What are you doing, you goose?" she said, fixing the child with a reproachful stare. "Do you know what time it is?"

The child simply giggled in response, rolling onto his stomach and burying his pale face in the grass.

"Earlier and earlier, every day," she muttered to herself, stepping onto the grass with bare feet. "And a lot of help you are, Crookshanks, letting him do whatever he wants!" She nudged the fat cat with her foot as she passed, and Harry suddenly recognized that squashed face.

Hermione's cat, Harry thought. Maybe that means Hermione is here, too. He smiled a little. Hermione would help him, he was sure of it. He almost stepped out from behind the hedge, almost revealed himself to Ginny and the child, but inexplicable nervousness kept him rooted to the ground. He clenched his teeth, watching the woman in the garden with a growing sense of dread.

She leaned over the boy and flipped him onto his back, scowling down at him in a theatrical manner, and pointed a dramatic finger at him.

"You, boy, are an insatiable, incomprehensible, and impossible! If you don't learn to sleep a little later, you're going to push us over the edge!"

"Over the edge?" the little boy echoed, grinning. He had clearly heard this speech before.

"Yes, over the edge!" Ginny cried, bending over him to tickle him. "Your father can't manage you, I can't manage you… any day now we'll decide to ship you away to Greenland and be done with you!"

"Not Greenland!" he shrieked between heaves of laughter. "No, no!"

"Then sleep, child, sleep! Six a.m. is no time for a child of your lineage to be conscious! Weasleys sleep until their mothers drag them out of bed. Uncle Fred and Uncle George would be astonished! Appalled!"

The child only laughed harder.

The warmth that has swelled in Harry's chest when he'd seen Ginny was rapidly congealing into cement. He knew the reason, he knew why he felt suddenly sick. It lay giggling in the lawn, on the other side of the hedge.

Ginny had moved on.

Harry closed his eyes, trying to ignore the jealousy that rose in his stomach like bile. He tried to discard the sadness that gripped him, tried to suppress the images that flashed before his eyes, of Ginny in a long, white dress beside him, of a child with her bright red hair and, perhaps, his vivid green eyes…

He swallowed the sorrow. This was no time to drown in jealousy. 'Mortal Peril', he reminded himself, thinking of Ron.

Then, he heard his name.

"Harry, come inside!"

His heart skipped. Shock tingled in his fingers and feet. She'd seen him, lurking creepily in the bush! She'd caught him watching her, her and her happy son, whose father probably waited somewhere inside the little house for his wife and son…

"No, Harry! No!" Ginny cried from the garden. "I said no! What have I told you about squeezing the slugs?"

Harry looked down at his hands. They were thoroughly empty of slugs.

"Ugh, that's disgusting," Ginny murmured, and Harry heard her whisper a little cleaning spell. Her footsteps sounded on the lawn, along with the quick, shuffling steps of the little boy. And suddenly, Harry understood.

The child was Harry.

'She named her son after me,' he thought numbly. He flushed with embarrassment at the mere idea. He didn't deserve that honor; he, who peered covetously at young mothers and their children through bushes…

"Harry," Ginny said again, and he let out a gasp, purely on reflex.

She turned suddenly in a flash of whirling red hair, her wand trained at the hedge behind which Harry hid.

"Who's there?" she hissed dangerously.

Harry, panicking, remained silent.

"Come out where I can see you, and identify yourself, or I will hex you. Come out, now."

Harry obeyed.

Ginny's eyes grew round. Her mouth fell open.

Harry felt his tongue unlock itself. "I know you're not going to believe it, but it's really me, it's really Harry. And I can't prove it to you, but your brothers believe me, your brothers and your parents, and Pig is here with me, see?" Harry gestured wildly toward the little bird, nearly knocking him off his shoulder. He could hear the hysteria in his own voice, but couldn't seem to stop babbling. "You have to believe me, Gin, I swear I'm me, I'll do anything to prove it to you, answer any question—"

"Shut up," she said, and Harry obliged.

Ginny was silent for a moment, her expression unreadable. Harry thought he might explode with tension.

"What did Harry say to me in the Chamber, after he'd saved me? What was the first thing he said to me, when I woke up?"

Harry thought for a moment, trying to ignore the blood thundering in his ears. "I told you that it was alright, and that Riddle was finished, as well as the basilisk. You were worried about what your parents would say, about being expelled…" he drifted off, watching her expression.

She was silent for another moment. A crease formed between her eyebrows. "Where did Harry and I go at Hogwarts, when we wanted to be alone?" Harry smiled a little at the faint blush that tinged her pale cheeks.

"The roof of the Owlery, mostly," he answered quietly. "We'd fly up there on our brooms, and sit there, watching the owls coming and going and trying not to slide off in the snow."

There was another long pause in which Harry's heart threatened to beat right through his ribs. Ginny's face was unreadable for a long while. Then the crease between her eyebrows developed into a frown. She bit her lip. Those brown eyes that made Harry's chest ache with longing were suddenly rather wet.

"Harry?" she asked tentatively, as if testing the name on her lips.

"Yeah," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm back."

She launched herself into his arms.

She clutched him tightly, and Harry couldn't help but tighten his arms around her slim waist. He relished the feeling of her in his arms. He was sorry when she pulled back.

"Oh Harry, I can't believe it! I just… I can't believe it!" Ginny gushed, looking at him as if she were memorizing him. "You've been gone for so long and I thought… we thought… but you're back! You're here now! Oh my God, it feels like a dream! I've had this one so many times before, but I've always woken at the end feeling like dying…"

She held his hands in hers, grasping them so tightly that he thought his fingers might buckle. The sun shone fully upon her face now, and it seemed impossible that she could be this beautiful. The years that Harry had been gone had shaped her face; she was paler, thinner, sadder and more breathtakingly gorgeous than she had ever been. Her brown eyes were bright and expressive, but Harry detected a fatigue beneath the surface that he couldn't remember seeing there before.

A quiet sniff broke the silence between them, and both Harry and Ginny looked down to see the red-haired child standing in the grass at their feet, eyeing Harry dubiously. Harry could see now that the boy couldn't have been older than four, though he stood taller than seemed right for one so young. His little face was serious.

"Oh!" Ginny said, taking the child's outstretched hand, "I forgot about you, sweetheart! This," she gestured to Harry, "is Harry! You were named after him, that's why your names are the same, darling. And Harry," she looked back at him with twinkling eyes, "this is Little Harry."

Feeling awkward and suddenly hot, Harry ducked his head and knelt before the child. "Hello," he said, stretching out his hand and smiling as cheerfully as he could manage. The child hesitated.

"Go on," Ginny urged.

Little Harry put his small hand into Harry's.

"Nice to meet you," he mumbled mechanically, eyes wide.

"And you," Harry responded, and to his surprise, he felt a surge of genuine affection for the little boy. He really was adorable. And, after all, he couldn't help his lineage, nor the fact that Harry was madly in love with his mother. He was just a kid. Harry grinned at him.

"Let's go inside," Ginny suggested. "I'll put on some tea and we'll see about breakfast. How's that my Little?"

Little Harry nodded enthusiastically, forgetting his misgivings concerning Harry and dragging him by the hand toward the house. "Breakfast, breakfast! Can we have bacon?" he crooned happily.

"Yeah, yeah, bacon as usual," Ginny laughed.

"Yay! Bacon, Harry, bacon!"

"Bacon!" Harry answered, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.