Chapter Seven

"…Sweetheart," a kind, soft voice whispers.

Bars block his view. Yelling.

So scary.

"Harry!"

"Mum, I'll protect you!" A blast of bright green.

A shrill shriek.

"Harry," cries a woman.

Cracking his crusted eyes open, Harry groans. His mouth feels dry and jaw stiff. Groping around on his nightstand, his hand bumps a hard object; shattering glass startles him into wakefulness.

A voice calls his name.

"Gin?" Harry answers gravelly. He grasps his wand, and the dark room fills with a faint glow.

Harry turns to glance at his wife lying next to him. Dark-red stains her nightgown, over the entirety of her chest, thickest between her breasts. Blood dribbles from her nose and mouth.

"By Merlin! Ginny!" Harry flings the saturated sheets off her, draws his wife into his arms, and leaps to his feet, experiencing no pain as glass cuts into his vulnerable skin.

"Ginny, Ginny," Harry sobs. "I'm so sorry." What-have-I-done repeats in Harry's mind over and over and over again.

Ginny's scarlet hair hangs limply like the rest of her unresponsive body cradled in his arms. Her bone-white skin only slightly contrasts with her pale blue lips. Light hitting her lashes creates long shadows on her cheeks that look like hungry denizens awaiting to steal her soul away.

Harry carries his wife down the stairs, through the corridor, and into the book-strewn library. He dips his shaking hand into an enamelled bowl that sits on the mantel and grabs a pile of glistening dust. The glass container tips over, spraying out its contents and hits the rug, a new hairline crack now visible on its once unblemished side.

Being sure not to jar his wife with his movements, he enters the fireplace, yells, "St Mungo's Hospital," and throws the handful of Floo powder next to his bare foot bleeding over caked soot.

The key to travelling by Floo powder is not thinking that your body is only standing on the floor, but thinking that your body is anchored to the Earth's core. With that thought in mind, Harry arrives in the bustling Emergency Ward of the Spell Damage Unit without stumbling and harming Ginny further.

The strong acrid smell of salves and opened potion bottles prickle the inside of Harry's nose. Stark light-blue walls, beige privacy curtains, and intense conjured overhead illumination backdrop the constant motion of Healers tending to patients.

A witch in a uniform of fitted-lime-green robes approaches Harry. "Sir, what happened?" She brusquely asks as she levitates Ginny to an empty bed. A team of Healers immediately surround and begin to evaluate his unconscious wife.

"Accidental Magic," Harry replies in a deadened tone.

"By a child?"

"By me."

The woman's eyes narrow. "And your name, sir?"

"Harry Potter."

The woman gasps and stutters, "A-Auror Potter?"

Harry nods and clears his face of his long dishevelled hair. He moves trying to get a better view of Ginny and winces from the burning puncture wounds on the bottom of his feet.

The Healer frowns, noticing Harry's bloody footprints, and points towards the comatose woman. "And that's…"

Harry's lips tremble and in a soft vehement voice, he answers, "My wife…" With growing volume, he cries, "Ginny. Oh, Merlin."

"Auror Potter." Louder, she again says, "Auror Potter," breaking Harry's rising panic. "How long ago was your wife injured?"

"Only a few minutes ago. I-I was having a nightmare and when I woke up, she was…"

One of the Healers by Ginny's side begins shouting orders.

"What's happening! What's happening to her?" Harry yells and strides towards the group of wizards and witches who were rapidly casting spells and uncorking numerous bottles.

A Healer aims her wand at the curtain near the head of Ginny's bed, and it swings around activating wards that prevent Harry's advancement and blocks any sound from escaping.

The witch, who had been questioning him, lightly sets her hand on Harry's arm. "I'm sorry Auror Potter, but I'm going to have to ask you to follow me." She guides him into a wheelchair that had rolled to them by itself. While the Healer escorts him to a bed on the far, opposite side of the room, she says, "Your wife's in excellent hands. We don't want to hinder her care by interrupting."

With the witch's assistance, Harry climbs onto crisp cotton sheets and lies down. Without watching him, she performs a wordless Tergeo, and his clothes that had been soaked with Ginny's blood are once again spotless and dry.

The Healer examines his feet and removes any obvious pieces of glass and places them into a ceramic kidney dish. Next, she takes out a coral-pink potion from her medi-satchel and sets it in Harry's hand. His palm remains opened-flat, and the glass container rocks with his shuddering. He stares at the woman, glances at the unknown concoction, and looks at her once more.

"A Calming Draught, Auror Potter." She answers his unspoken question.

While Harry gulps the prescribed brew, he watches as she unlocks a cupboard with a swish of her wand and pulls out a small tan crock of healing unguent. The sour odour of rotten lemons and earthy herbs grows stronger when she starts salving the ointment onto his feet. His pain gradually changes from sharp torrents to dull aches.

The Healer smiles and says, "Here. Let me take this for you." The Auror feels a yank and glances down. Still clutched in his right hand is his forgotten wand. Knuckles white, his fist painfully releases its stiff grip around the wooden rod.

She deposits his wand on a retracted, stainless-steel tray. The wood cylinder rolls across the shiny angled surface, creating a sound like quiet thunder; the lip of the metal sheet stopping it from toppling over the edge.

"You'll need to remain off your feet for a few hours so any embedded shards can work their way out. In the meantime, rest. As soon as more is known about your wife's condition, you'll be informed.

"If you need anything, just press green." She points at the rectangular box, topped with various unmarked buttons, bobbing weightlessly above his bed rail. "And I'm Healer Thornflos by the way."

"Thank you, Healer Thornflos," slurs Harry. "I'm..feeling…so tired." His eyelids shut.

"The potion you took will also help you sleep."

"No. No!" Straining to keep his eyes open, he says, "What if she…" But the potion is too potent, and Harry descends into darkness.


As Harry dozes, flashes of sensation taunt him. Sweetness coating his tongue. Hot slick skin. Moans of pleasure. Ginny's name echoes in his mind and the emotion of great loss weighs his soul.

Harry tosses and turns, mumbling her name.

"Auror Potter." A hand grasps Harry's shoulder and jostles him. "Auror Potter. I have news about your wife."

Harry's unfocused eyes discern a shadowed profile backlit by bright white light. "Ginny," he whispers in fear and reaches out a hand, thinking, "Is she gone? Has she come to say goodbye?"

The figure straightens and gruffly clears his throat. "Mrs Potter was stabilized and is fine—"

Relief fills Harry. He has to see her. He has to see her now with his own eyes. Harry makes to get off the bed, but the Healer pushes down on his chest and urges him back down.

The old wizard continues, "But she's still in a bit of shock from the loss."

"Loss?" Oh, no! What if she won't ever be able to play Quidditch again? She would never forgive him. The prickle of tears begins to sting Harry's eyes.

The Healer takes a deep breath. "Due to the severe trauma your wife sustained, the baby couldn't be saved."

"Baby?" Harry's eyes widen from the blow; all breath leaving his lungs. Two salty drops descend down his cheeks. "But…that's impossible."

"Mrs Potter explained that you were taking Sterility Potions and thought it might be hard for you to accept, so at her insistence, tests were done. Unfortunately, it looks as if a potion failed. It's rare but bad batches sometimes slip through.

"Your wife was about three months along, and the baby was yours." The Healer's gnarly hand pats Harry's shoulder. "I'm very sorry, Auror Potter. She's conscious. You can visit her whenever you're ready. Again, my sympathies."

As the Healer departs, Harry watches a young Auror stomp towards him. He doesn't recognize the man. Must be a newer recruit.

The wizard's shaggy auburn hair virtually obscures his piercing blue eyes. His clunky boots squeak as he crosses the scuffed field of floor tiles.

Glaring at Harry, the Auror strangles the cold bed rail with each of his sweaty hands. The young man shakes his head in disgust. "I just can't believe it. I can't believe I looked up to you. Who'da thunk you're nuthin' but an abusive bastard.

Harry turns away from the man's contempt; his own guilt overwhelming him. He hadn't hurt Ginny in the way the Auror thought—but he had hurt her.

"You're wand came back clean, but that's not unexpected. Wouldn't be so hard for one such as yourself. She refuses to press charges. Not surprising—just bloody sad." The young man's jaw pulses. Freeing his grip from the metal beam, now warm and damp from his touch, the Auror grits, "You're free to leave the premises."

A restrictive ward, which Harry hadn't detected until it began to unravel, loosens its hold and releases.

The Auror tosses an object onto Harry's stomach; it bounces off, landing in the crack between his back and the sheets. "Your wand," the wizard sneers and then marches away with his russet robes swirling behind him.

Harry sighs and rubs his stubbled face with his palms. He rakes his fingers through his hair, jerking past knots, not caring when strands snap. As he checks the status of his feet by wiggling his toes, he notices a black bundle at the foot of his bed. After a quick inspection, Harry realizes that it's his leather jacket.

Also near him sit his boots, which lean against the bed frame on the floor, and a neatly folded pile of clothes, which rest on the cupboard counter. He tilts his head in thought. The house was locked; Kreacher must have brought them over.

Harry holsters his wand, manually closes his privacy curtain and changes.

His house-elf's sense of fashion must have frozen in the seventies. The button-down shirt provided for him consists of panels of orange, red, and white. The trousers are drab corduroy, and of course, the outfit wouldn't be complete without a pair of blindingly white Y-fronts. All items were previous gifts that Harry felt too guilty to get rid of so he had hidden them in the deepest recesses of his closet. At least, he was out of the clothes he had passed out in. Out of the clothes that had been covered in Ginny's blood.

After thoroughly checking all pockets, Harry feels no remorse as he throws his wrinkled former attire into the trash.

Concentrating on drawing measured even breaths, Harry walks down the lengthy ward of hospital beds. As he gets closer to Ginny's location, he spots an individual, facing away from him. The familiar balding man, tall and thin, sports a hand-knitted-carrot-hued jumper.

Harry presses his lips together and fights back tears. "Dad," he calls.

Arthur Weasley's blood-shot eyes, framed by thick-rimmed glasses, focus on Harry.

Uncertain what to do, Harry doesn't move another step until Mr Weasley lifts and opens his arms.

Harry sinks into the embrace, burying his face into his father-in-law's shoulder; body quaking as he silently weeps.

Once Harry's tears had ebbed, Mr Weasley pulls away, clasps the upper portion of Harry's arms, giving a firm squeeze, and says, "Hope you don't mind; Molly was able to bypass your wards because of the prior blood protections that her ancestors placed on the house. We were able to pick out a few things from your closet and pack for Ginny."

With a quick shake of his head, Harry's rough voice says, "No. Not at all." He glances down at his clothing, "I really appreciate it." Looking back into his father-in-law's soulful blue eyes, he asks, "How's she doing?"

Mr Weasley grimaces. "Molly's with her. She still has a week before she can leave. Hasn't said much. She's resting but awake. I was on my way to the Tearoom to get off my feet, but I'll wait until after you've visited so we can talk a bit more." Smiling weakly, the older man nods in Ginny's direction and says, "Go ahead."

Harry swallows, stares at his feet, and walks to his wife's side. Raising his head, he sees Mrs Weasley sitting on a stool on the other side of the bed. She's holding her daughter's hand and gently rubbing small circles on it with her thumb.

Harry chokes out, "I—"

Ginny turns away from him and curls into a ball.

He hovers his hand over her back, sensing the heat radiating from her body, wanting to touch her, but stopping himself. Clenching his outstretched hand and drawing it back to his side, he says, "I'm so sorry, Gin." His voice becomes even heavier and more broken. "I had…no idea. If I did…"

Mrs Weasley's thin lips purse, and she slowly shakes her head. The plump woman's eyes, the same heartfelt brown as Ginny's, gaze sadly up at him. "Harry, dear. I don't think she's quite ready to talk to you yet."

Harry's shoulders slump, and he feels Mr Weasley position his hands on them to guide him away.

"Come along, Harry. We don't want her growing too upset."

Harry follows Mr Weasley not paying attention to where they were heading.

As they stroll, in a soft voice, his father figure says, "We know it was an accident, Harry, but it was an avoidable accident. Avoidable tragedy, really. You need to finally accept help. You've managed to get by, but… I love you. We both do. But Ginny's our daughter, and we have to consider what's best for her..."

They come to a halt. Harry stares blankly at a brick fireplace and mindlessly nods until Mr Weasley's voice ceases to speak. He receives a parting hug from Mr Weasley and a handful of Floo powder. Harry lets the dust fall through his fingers and dutifully mumbles. He doesn't notice the usual vertigo as a force squeezes his feet, legs, torso, and head through winding holes of space and time. With a green afterimage floating across his vision, Harry once again stands in his library.

Harry gazes at the ground for a few minutes. No blood mars the floor. Was all that transpired just another nightmare? Stepping from the hearth, he glances up at the mantel. The bowl decorated with a pair of flying swans still bears its recent crack. No, not a dream.

Harry finally takes a step. And then another, and another. His eyes shine but shed no tears. His breathing hitches, ribcage spasms, and his arms tremble. And then, collapsing hard onto his knees—a long wail erupts from his chest, up his throat, and out his mouth; a harsh inhale following.

He crawls on the kitchen floor to the oak cabinet. Slamming his fist through its glass door, Harry wrenches out the first bottle his hand touches. As tears flow unbidden down his face, he begins to guzzle the searing liquid.

Finally…sweet oblivion.


A wet sucking sound, as Harry's cheek separates from the puddle of cold drool, breaks the stillness of the dim kitchen. He rolls onto his back with a groan and places a hand on his pounding head. A sharp sting triggers him to open his eyes, and he spots a deep gash across the back of his knuckles. Dried crimson flakes away when he flexes his hand.

After staggering to his feet, Harry balances against the breakfast table and fumbles around in his jacket pocket. His fingers find the small brass tin they were searching for and yank it out. He struggles to pop the lid, but once he succeeds, quickly tosses a mint into his mouth. As the tablet dissolves on Harry's tongue, his headache eases, and he exhales in relief.

A crimson dot drips on to the cotton tablecloth rapidly followed by two others. Harry grabs a discarded napkin and compresses it over the reopened wound on his hand.

He's about the release his wand and perform a simple healing charm when he thinks better of it. Since his magical credit limit has been greatly reduced, he should really start trying to conserve his spell usage whenever possible. So instead, Harry trudges up the steep staircase and into the only bathroom in the house through its hall entrance.

Self-igniting lamps flair to life when Harry opens the lavatory door. He rifles through the many drawers and cabinets until he discovers a jar of Murtlap Essence. Once Harry finished applying the healing solution and a bandage to his cut, he exits into the bedroom. The scene before him jolts his heart.

Stumbling and fighting back nausea, he plops down into a cushioned, corner chair.

On the armrest, Harry's fingernails absentmindedly pick at frayed, lilac upholstery fabric. He fixes his gaze on the perfectly made bed before him. The room smells of fresh, clean linens. He can't even see one mote of dust floating in the air. Mrs Weasley did such a thorough job of erasing any speck of gore that she had turned the room into a tomb.

Harry can't drag his eyes away from the bed. The last time Ginny and he had made love was…on his birthday about three months ago. Three months. A tear splatters onto his pant leg.

Last July, he was becoming very dejected, not having had any success obtaining leads on the trafficking ring. The family had made a real effort to battle another bout of his depression with a great bash. From what he can recollect after the razz, it had been such a happy day.

Fuck it. He can use a bit of remembered joy, especially now. Leaning over, Harry unholsters his wand. He pokes the tip into his temple and says, "Denuo."

At first, memories from hours ago flash by, then days, and finally months until Harry's eyes open to the familiar view of a vaulted cream-painted ceiling pierced by dark-stained support beams.

Warm arms wrap around Harry's firm abdomen and a head rests on his chest. The lithe body rises above him as he deeply inhales the scent of sweet tea roses. Looking into crinkled eyes, his mouth answers the offered smile with one of his own. A kiss lands more on exposed teeth than on his lips, and he feels the vibrations from throaty amusement judder against his chest.

"Happy twenty-third birthday, Harry," his wife whispers into his ear.

"Thanks, Gin." He tucks a ruby lock of her hair behind an ear and strokes her cheek.

"I know the previous couple of months haven't been easy, but today is your day…and," an impish simper spreads across her face, "I promise tonight will be unforgettable," she says waggling her eyebrows. "But first you need to get ready. You've slept-in enough." Harry groans as she tugs on his arm encouraging him to get out of bed.

"Come. On." She drawls out. "Take your shower. I'll start…breakfast?" Her brows scrunch. "Lunch? Brunch?" Ginny grins. "Well, whichever it is, you shall be eating like a king. I bought some fabulous imported thick-cut bacon..."

The smile on his wife's face gradually twists into a frown. She glides towards his nightstand and picks up a gold key. Dangling the piece of precious metal between two fingers for Harry to see, she says, "You know how I feel about leaving our vault key in any old place."

Harry forces himself not to roll his eyes. "Ginny, it was right next to me."

"No excuses, Harry. I hate that you make me have to nag you; I don't like doing it." She sighs. "But you can't keep something this valuable out in the open. Please, next time put it away after you're done. I'll go down to the library and…"

Harry's consciousness prods at the Recall Spell. He doesn't want to relive any arguments or routine happenings.

Time leaps forward.

The summer heat intensifies the fragrances from the orchard located behind the Weasley family home. His friends and family are tucking into a feast organized by Hermione, prepared by Mrs Weasley, and—supervised by Ginny.

Red and gold lanterns, floating above the long table, waver in the evening breeze. The yellow-green luminescence from lightning bugs reflects in the nearby pond. Croaks from frogs and songs from crickets add their own voices to the amicable chatter of the party-goers.

Harry watches Ron single-handedly devour the enormous roast that Hagrid had delivered earlier in the day.

As Mrs Weasley stands up to leave the table, she says, "Ron. Weasley. Pace yourself or you'll need to be dragon-lifted from the table."

Ron's face screws in indignation and with his mouth still full says, "Wha'."

Hermione covers her snickering with a hand until she regains her composure and then informs her fiancé, "What she means, Ronald, is save some room for dessert. Or at least save some for Luna, who has an excuse for a third helping—she's expecting twins."

Harry starts laughing at Ron's reddening face but pretends to come down with a coughing fit when his best friend glares at him. While raising his goblet in an attempt to hide his twitching lips, slim fingers loop around his wrist. Massaging his pulse-point with her thumb, Ginny tops his glass with more wine.

Already feeling a strong buzz, Harry smiles broadly at her and with a husky tone says, "Thanks, Gin."

Her answer is a lingering kiss on his ear.

"Now, none of that," George shouts seriously, blocking Fred Junior's eyes with his hands. "Think of the children," he cries in an exaggerated high falsetto, and the table bursts into hoots and laughter.

Oohs and aahs and explosions of colours catch Harry's attention.

Mrs Weasley beams as she carries a five-layer treacle tart. It totters to-and-fro and would have toppled over if not for a few well-placed spells. A grand total of twenty-three floating candles are divvied between each story of the confection and a miniature fireworks display—thanks to George—whistles and pops atop its peak.

Eyes like saucers, Harry says, "I'm going to need all the help I can get to blow out the candles on that."

Harry calls Teddy, who's chasing after a garden gnome, and gestures for the little boy to sit next to him.

All the attendees sing the guest of honour "Happy Birthday." The whole Weasley clan, except for Charlie who is researching Lightning Dragons in Iceland. Hermione, though not an official member of the family, was all but presumed to be one. Neville and his girlfriend Hannah. A very pregnant Luna and her husband Rolf. Hagrid and his long-lived canine companion Fang. And of course, Teddy with his guardian and grandmother, the widow Andromeda Tonks.

"Hurry. Make a wish." Luna encourages.

Jumping up and down excitedly, Teddy groans, "Come on, Uncle Hare."

"Okay, everyone. On the count of three," Harry instructs.

I wish…

"One!" shouts the guests.

…all who I love…

"Two!"

…prosperity and happiness.

"Three."

Harry grips his wand under the table. As he and everyone within range blows air on the flickering candles, Harry wordlessly casts the Ventus jinx. A strong wind extinguishes all the flames at once and sends smoke spiralling into the starry night sky. His loved ones cheer, clap, and begin clamouring whether they want a cream or custard topping.

George, his eyebrows arched in a wicked grin, cups a hand around his mouth and whispers, "Couldn't have done it better myself, mate."

When Teddy starts nodding off above his syrupy plate, Mrs Tonks decorously lays her fingers on Harry's palm and wishes Harry a goodnight.

Since Luna and Rolf are on hiatus from their jobs as magizoologists until the babies are born, they have been staying at Mrs Tonks' residence, the bed and breakfast, The Fetching Inn. The couple decides to leave with the matriarch so Rolf can help carry the snoozing Teddy home.

Luna's airy laughter and her husband's low rumble sound when Harry gives them each a big bear hug goodbye. Watching Teddy softly snoring in Rolf's dark arms, Harry brushes his godson's bangs away from his forehead and places a quick kiss.

Once all the Weasley children are tucked into bed, Hagrid reveals a large jug of moonshine and the late-night revelry commences.

When most of the guests had retired for the evening, Mr Weasley comes running from the direction of the barn waving something over his head.

Winded, the wizard swallows hard and says, "One more gift Harry. I was hoping to give it to you with everyone else's but the fine-tuning took longer than I had initially estimated. Here you are."

Harry, rather sloshed, struggles with the wrapper made from an old sheet of the Daily Prophet. After Harry exposes the steel-grey case with various coloured wires hanging from it, his face lights up and he slurs, "Thanks s'Dad." He almost loses his equilibrium when he gives Mr Weasley a tight squeeze and proceeds to slap a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

His father-in-law, chuckling, explains, "The booster is now fully automatic and has two settings—"

"At this point Dad," Ron interrupts, "I don't anticipate the birthday boy'll be retaining much of anything you say," he finishes with a snigger.

Harry's awareness has to agree with his friend. He was so bladdered from Hagrid's lethal homebrew that much of this is new to him.

Mrs Weasley exhales, "Well, today went swimmingly. Don't you think?" She squints an eye at George and Ron. "It's getting late. Boys why don't you go and help Ginny take Harry…"

Time skips ahead.

Back in Godric's Hollow, George tugs Harry's arms and Ron pushes his bum up the stairwell. A few of the mish-mash of photos that frame the adjacent wallpapered wall are knocked askew.

Dropping unceremoniously face-up onto the mattress, the bed jiggles from Harry's impact.

Ginny's brothers wish her well and give her a peck goodbye.

Eyelids closed, Harry listens as his wife walks towards a window and stands there until the thump of the front door reverberates through the house.

With the soft swish of garments falling to the floor, each pad of her foot grows louder.

Harry's weight shifts as Ginny slinks on to the mattress. Thighs, strong from frequent broom flying, straddle his hips.

He groggily opens his eyes and mumbles, "Gin?"

His wife's hair, unknotted from its tight bun, spills around her elfin features. Freckles decorate her fair skin and draw his gaze to the pert mounds on her chest.

She whispers in his ear, "Your birthday's not over yet."

Sighing, Harry shuts his eyes and says, "Can we d'this t'morrow. I'm tire'."

"Don't worry Harry. I'll do all the work. You just enjoy yourself." She whips her wand through the air, and his wrists are yanked above his head and restrained.

"Gin what'er ya doin'?"

In a coquettish manner, she says, "Thought we might try something more adventurous; spicin' things up a bit." She flicks the end of his nose with her tongue. "I did promise you a night that would be unforgettable."

He strains against the conjured shackles and realizes his spread legs are restricted as well.

"Gin," Harry demands, "lemme up."

"Please," her eyes implore, "you've been so busy; it's been weeks. Just give it a try, Sweetheart, please."

"N—"

Not waiting another moment, she engulfs his mouth with her own in a deep kiss and doesn't stop until she can see his cock start to harden underneath his trousers.

Nibbling her way down to his collarbone, her fingers begin to unfasten the buttons of his dress shirt. As his flushed skin is revealed, inch-by-inch, her silky lips kiss; hot tongue swirls, and white teeth taunt, marking him with rosy blotches.

Harry can't help but moan in pleasure, thrashing his bound arms and legs.

Ginny's nails feather over his chest and erect nipples as she shoves away cotton fabric. Harry's body, toned and slightly tanned from his work as an Auror, shivers from her hungry stare.

Gliding her hazel-wood wand along his skin, she trails the line of his breastbone to the centre ridge of his abdominal muscles down until she tickles the dark patch below his belly button that continues under his fastened trousers.

She roughly palms his hard-on through his slacks and his back bows away from the bed.

A charm unbuttons his trousers and slowly unzips his fly. Fabric forcibly tearing apart causes Harry's heartbeat to quicken. Each leg of both his boxer-briefs and trousers split in half down the middle. The cloth splays open and reveals his lower body. Cool air assaults his rigid sensitive shaft.

Scooting down, Ginny's juices smear on his leg. She grips her fingers around his velvety skin causing Harry to grunt. While she pumps his cock until a bead of pre-come leaks out from its tiny mouth, Harry's form writhes and his toes curl. He gasps and wantonly arches his neck when his wife licks the shiny head.

Smacking her lips, she says, "You taste so good," then sighs, "I've missed this."

"Gin," Harry begs. He starts panicking and rocks his head back-and-forth; the confinement unearthing horrible memories of when he was at Voldemort's mercy, and he screams, "Untie me!"

"I know you're also attracted to men, Harry." Beneath his sweaty brow, his eyes widen. "Sometimes," she continues, "when you're sleeping, I hear you moan their names; it doesn't bother me—they're dreams. I just wished you'd confide in me like you used to." Ginny looks into his upset eyes and fervently says, "Harry for your birthday, I'm giving you what you want—what you truly need. I refuse to give up on us."

Ginny proceeds to stick the tip of her wand in her mouth and coats it with saliva. Her wand presses against his virgin opening. Harry vigorously shakes his head "no" and he tries to manoeuvre out of the way.

After gingerly slipping the dark rod into Harry's puckered hole, Ginny says, "Tremo."

Harry's mouth opens in a silent cry as foreign vibrations shoot waves of pulsing warmth throughout his entire body. Even with her gentle handling, a trickle of blood slides from his impaled bottom. His newfound pleasure overrides any discomfort, and heavy-lidded he compulsively fucks the air.

His wife repositions her slick folds over his leaking member and with one sure plunge, envelops him in her heat.

Through the fog of his drunkenness and arousal, Harry shouts, "Wait!" Panting, he says, "M'Sterility Potion." When her hips rise, he groans, "N'Stop."

Ginny pulls out a bottle from under a pillow. "Relax. It's right here," she soothes. The stopper is discarded on the floor and she pours the potion into her mouth. After swallowing a small amount, she bends over and urges his lips to spread giving him the rest of the cloyingly sweet potion with a kiss.

Harry's consciousness thus far has had mixed emotions, but after glimpsing the bottle in Ginny's hand, he knows something is wrong.

His usual potion resembles clear water, not a dark, red, nearly black syrup, and it tastes bitter, not sweet.

Ginny begins to pant hard; her pupils becoming so dilated that her eyes resemble fathomless pits.

A second later, lust like fire consumes Harry's mind and body. His already aroused cock hardens even further—

Harry's current self reflects, "She didn't become pregnant because of a bad potion batch as he was led to believe. She tricked me! She lied to me!... She used me."

Harry ejects his awareness, keeping himself from having to re-experience all sensations from a first-person perspective. Instead, he stands by the bedside and watches as if it were a typical Pensieve memory.

"No," he says in disbelief as Ginny's fucks his moaning doppelgänger. "I-I can't believe you…you forced me," he yells at his unhearing wife. "Did you actually expect this would solve all of our problems, Ginny? A baby. I know you argued that George got better after Fred was born, but I'm. Not. Him!"

Ginny flings her head back and screams, "Harry," as her walls spasm and coax the shaft hidden within her. Her victim bucks his own completion with incoherent shouts of endearments.

Smiling dumbly at his wife, pseudo-Harry croons, "You're m'sun Gin; I'd 'ave drown n' for you aft'r th' war. N'matter how deep I sunk, y'were there."

Stroking his cheek and releasing the binding spell, she shushes him and quietly says, "Sleep, Sweetheart."

"Love y'Gin," he mumbles and falls asleep.

Harry's breath catches as the Recall Charm terminates. Leaping from the antique armchair, the view of the pristine bed hammers his heart into a pulpy mess. With a bellowing roar, he thrusts his wand at the repulsive sight and booms, "Bombarda!" Wood splinters and the mattress shreds; tufts of cotton float in the air.

Nonverbally flinging open the door to her closet, he combusts everything within it. Every bag. Every dress. Everything.

Harry rushes down the stairs, needing to escape the scene of his violation. As he descends, he slings one blast that simultaneously shatters any wall hanging that frames an image of his wife. Just thinking the word "wife" makes him sick.

Shiny metal captures his attention as Harry walks down the corridor. He backtracks and enters the family room. A wall, dedicated to Ginny's Quidditch trophies and medals, mocks him. He's about to throw another spell but stops. Fuck her! After her betrayal, she's not worth any more credits or seconds of his life.

Harry passes into the library, standing in the middle, he demands, "Accio Potter Vault Key."

A book from a shelf smacks onto the floor. Harry grabs the hardcover, titled Alcoholism: The First Step Is Admitting You Have a Problem. Curling his lip, he says, "Real bloody subtle, Ginny."

From the wards placed upon the book, it feels fuzzy, like it conducts a static charge. Harry lifts the front cover, and a familiar key, inherited from his mum and dad, gleams within a shallow hollow. The key slips into his jacket pocket, and his fingers search for another item. While striding to the fireplace, he finds what he wanted and ignites a floo call.

Kneeling down, he reads the cheery coloured piece of cardstock in his mind: Burrow under Teutates Falls and then plunges his head into green flames.

In a workshop of sorts, two she-goblins busy by the fire. One quite large for a goblin, let alone a she-goblin, sharpens a wicked-looking sword, and the other, so petite she wouldn't reach his knees, is…welding; sparks from her work falling onto the hearth.

The weapon wielding she-goblin points her blade at him and in a rich soprano voice asks, "Who. Are. You?"

Flinching away, Harry cautiously asks, "Is Kluga home?"

The welder's child-like voice screams, "Kluga! You have a call!"

"Who is it, Lista?" Kluga's shouts back.

Before Lista can respond, the intimidating she-goblin jabs her blade and growls, "He won't say."

"I'm Harry Potter. Kluga gave—"

"Oh, Medusa's girdle!" Kluga cries, racing into the room. "For Ragnuk's sword! Lower your weapon, Rassig," she says in a harsh hushed tone. "I'm so sorry, Mr Potter. Don't mind my younger sisters," she grits. "How can I be of service? Did you want to go ahead and purchase a safe?"

A laugh escapes his lips, "Ah, no. I was wondering if you can help me with my estate."

Kluga's eyes open wide. "Y-You want me to be your Solicitor?"

"Can a Solicitor stop my wife from accessing all assets that I owned before we were married and remove her rights to gifts that were given to me after we were married?"

The she-goblin nods her head 'yes'.

"And can a Solicitor set up another vault that my wife can use that contains only money and other valuables acquired after we were married."

"Yes Mr Potter," Kluga answers, "With your permission, a Solicitor can handle all your legal affairs."

Harry smiles at the she-goblin and says, "Then yes, for whatever's the accepted rate, I would be most appreciative if you would act as my Solicitor. And please call me Harry."

Kluga squeals and claps her hands. "You are my first client, sir."

"How old are you if you don't mind me asking."

"I'm seventeen," Kluga bites her lip, "but I've studied all the required texts—thoroughly. Is my age a problem…Harry?"

He smiles and shakes his head, "No. No, problem. The Wizarding World has a habit of forcing its children to grow up much too fast. I'm completely confident you're up to the task."

"I'll immediately start reallocating your property, and all will be ready by the morrow. Mr…Harry, I hope I'm not being too presumptuous, but do you desire to legally divorce your wife, as well?"

Harry's gut sinks. Ginny and he shared so much history. As much as he now abhors her, he still loves her; that's what hurts so damn much. But could he ever go back to her. No. He must finally admit that their marriage is irrevocably broken—and has been for some time. At some point during their marriage, the mutual respect and trust between them died. Even if it means losing the love of his in-laws, he can't imagine himself returning to her side as a husband.

"Yes, Kluga. I would like to officially separate from my wife."

"Alright," she nods then lowering her gaze says, "I can owl all necessary correspondence or if you would prefer, I can personally deliver any documents."

"It's up to you," replies Harry.

Continuing to look away, Kluga says, "Since I've never actually been beyond The Warren or Gringotts," her black eyes refocus on Harry, "I would love a chance to see what's out there, in person, not just from a book."

"Then it's settled." Harry beams. "Thanks so much for your help, Kluga. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow."

Grinning from ear-to-ear, she thanks him too.

Harry ends the call, breathes deeply, and exits the room. Memories of Ginny hit him from every angle. Celebrating an intimate Christmas Eve in the family room. Chasing each other around the house naked. Having make up sex on the kitchen table.

He sighs, glances around one last time, and places his house key on the countertop. Wiping unwelcome tears off his face, he leaves the life he has known for good.

Harry jogs behind his former home to a large storage shed. The building, towered by two black alder trees, is a new structure but was designed in the same style as the Tudor cottage.

After pushing the two hefty rolling doors open, Harry's delighted face takes in the sight.

He had fibbed to George. The weapons inventor had crafted Harry a far superior holster than anything currently available. An arm holster only works with a small wand or with a wand charmed with an easily cancelled shrinking enchantment. A wand in an obvious waist or shoulder holster can be stolen with a simple Accio. Not to mention most holsters aren't protected from damaged that can occur during hand-to-hand combat.

His new ankle holster was a fantastic present, but this—this one was his favourite.

Inside sits an enchanted 1964 Triumph Spitfire convertible. It's been a pet project for the past two years. After Sirius' motorbike was returned to him after the war, Ginny harped about the uncomfortable sidecar. This beauty was the compromise.

With Mr Weasley's help—Harry's heart pangs thinking about his soon to be ex-father-in-law—it went from being a rusty pile of scrap to being a dazzling showstopper.

Glossy black with chrome detailing. Cream leather upholstery and charcoal trim. The perfect balance of elegance and sportiness.

He loved the car so much that it caused him to break his own rule by leveraging his influence as "The Boy Who Lived" to obtain a proper license from the Ministry. The only caveat was that the automobile needed improved protection against possible Muggle-sightings while in flight.

That's what Mr Weasley gave him for his birthday, an improved Invisibility Booster. The enhanced booster automatically activates when the vehicle is in use, and it has adjustable settings: Complete, which makes it invisible to everyone outside the cabin, and Muggle, which makes it invisible only to non-magicals. With the upgrade, Harry can now fly the sleek sportster anywhere.

"Good evening, Sheena," Harry greets the car. "Would you like to go for a ride?"

The engine purrs to life, and a sweet honk answers.

"How about some fresh air," Harry suggests. The roof retracts and Harry slides into the supple-leather driver's seat.

After clearing any tree cover, Sheena begins to increase in altitude. The crisp evening breeze ruffles Harry's hair. He circles the old Tudor once, before zooming away from the tranquil countryside and towards London.