Following his confrontation with the Minister, Harry lapsed into a serious period of doubt. After the trio's first month at the Ministry, Hermione was consumed by her workload, Ron was bitter at having to work in general, and Mrs. Weasley was overbearing in her in need for everything to be "going well at the office!"

Guilt and frustration with routine and order built up inside Harry, and he wondered what it would have been like at Hogwarts with time passing normally and no Voldemort to worry about. Everywhere he went in the Ministry, people wanted to ask him about the Battle, the Muggle world, his childhood, Voldemort's legacy, and what he thought about contemporary political issues. It didn't matter that he had already answered just about every question he was asked: people wanted a piece of him, even if that piece would be only slightly unique to them. Thankfully, both the Beast Division and the Spirit Division (the latter being where he now worked) had managed to avoid treating him like the Chosen One.

The minutiae of Harry's Ministry work shrouded him at times: for example, the department fielded complaints about the classifications of particular species; a representative from Brazil noted that the Curupira and Caipora had been misclassified as spirits and conflated in Ministry documentation. What interrupted the humdrum work were glimpses of his impact: for example, he helped draft a request that some land off of the coast of Scotland be cloaked by magic to dissuade Muggles from drilling oil. Given the risks to the magical community's secrecy, it would likely be years before the scheme was fully discussed and approved by the International Confederation of Wizards.

Ron and Hermione were having similar experiences, though Ron had been able to leave the desk to go out onto the field with his dad, and Hermione was already the most suited to working for the Ministry. In fact, she had been so wrapped up in government projects that she postponed her birthday celebration to the beginning of October.

When Ron and Harry finally got her to commit to a day off, they decided to spend it in Diagon Alley. Fred and George created a personalized line of accessories that would disguise them. With the help of a scarf, Hermione's bushy hair transformed into waist-length purple braids, and dense freckles cropped up on her skin; Ron's freckles nearly disappeared and his red hair turned brown when he put on enchanted socks; Harry donned invisible glasses and his hair went platinum blond. After throwing in a bit of Aging Potion, only some would be able to recognize them, and at that point it would be obvious they didn't want to be bothered.

As a gift, Harry and Ron told Hermione they'd buy her five books of her choosing and let her loose in Flourish and Blotts (it ended up taking her two hours to settle on which five to buy). Afterward, they hung out at a pub and seemed to be settling there for the night when Hermione asked, "What are wizard clubs like?" before downing the last of her drink.

Ron shrugged, a grin slowly spreading across his face as he joined her in throwing on his jacket. "I've only been to a Muggle club, but surely they've both got drink, loud music, lights . . . Fred and George snuck me in last summer."

"We're going, then?" The Yule Ball was proof enough that Harry couldn't dance, so he would surely embarrass himself. What was the difference between a good thrill of nerves and a bad one?

"Why not?" said Hermione, leading them out of the pub. "There's a nightclub I read about that's always hidden in a different spot in London. Opaleye."

"You read that in a textbook?" said Ron, walking closer alongside Hermione than he would sober.

"I don't only read textbooks, Ronald. It was featured in a wizarding travel guide for Europe."

"Oh. You didn't mention you're planning a trip."

Catching his tone, Hermione said quickly, "You'd be coming along, of course. And you, too, Harry," she added, once he picked up his pace to walk in sync with them. "Could we change before going out? I'm dreadful with makeup but there's this plum lipstick I want to pick up from Grimmauld Place."

So they kept their disguises on, changed into nicer clothes, and stuffed their jackets in the purse Hermione had enchanted for lugging clothes between the Burrow and London. They drank a bit, too, partly in order to arrive to the club later and partly to save money.

It wasn't a long walk to the club, which was tucked away in a small grouping of bars and restaurants at the end of the street. Outside, people chatted in unnecessarily loud tones, smoked (whether Muggle cigarettes or something magical, Harry couldn't tell), and presumably waited for rides. The Knight Bus came barreling into the side street and let out a few boisterous Greek wizards before peeling off again.

It took several moments for Harry to process his surroundings: the thumping music, the variety of beings, how the nightclub was illuminated. The walls—or maybe hovering just in front of the walls and floor—glowed with fractals of color as though the entire club were encased in a geode. Saturated planes of color, from the size of a thumb to an entire body, surrounded the clubbers, painting them in blood reds and fiery blues and radioactive greens.

"It's beautiful!" shouted Hermione over the music and conversation.

"I know!" Harry shouted back, grinning. He made up his mind to read every page of the travel guide Hermione had mentioned.

The music wasn't in English—oh, it was, only pitched down and occasionally interrupting a consistent beat of sharp drums and something unrecognizable but electronic. He only noticed he was bobbing his head when he saw Ron doing the same. They headed straight to the bar, overwhelmed, and took a minute to survey the crowd.

Harry and Hermione spotted someone nearly simultaneously. Hermione nudged Ron, who was oblivious. "That guy has to be part Veela!"

The man was unusually tall, his straight dark hair falling over his shoulders, piercing eyes surveying the crowd, not returning any of the stares fixed in his direction. It was difficult to tell his age, but he was probably twenty, judging by the baby fat in his face and his slight build.

Ron nodded, then took a hearty drink. He, Harry, and Hermione stalled joining the crowd as they drank, until they were eventually pulled in by the increasingly energetic dance floor.

Initially they were each quite awkward; after the first few songs, though, they let loose, bodies churning with the music and colors. While Ron and Hermione were content mostly looking at each other, Harry let his attention wander. Twice he made eye contact with the part-Veela man, who checked Harry out when he thought he wouldn't notice. Over the natural course of moving across the dance floor, the trio ended up close to the man and his friend group. In his attempt to avoid a nearby couple making out, Harry stumbled, but the man caught his arm, steadying him with another hand at his waist. "Sorry!" he shouted over the music.

"It's alright!" Harry shouted in return, staring up at him. The alcohol gave him less control over his face, and he couldn't help breaking out in a nervous smile. The man reflected the look back and leaned in to say, "I love this song."

"What is it?"

"'Spellbound.' Dillon & Dickins are brilliant."

Seamlessly, or so Harry's buzz made it seem, they started dancing to the music, in a swatch of orange and blue. He couldn't figure out whether or not it was the man's Veela heritage that made him such a good dancer, then felt quite thick for making such an assumption.

When an unfamiliar song came on, the man gestured for Harry to follow him and stopped in an empty corner by the lavs. He bent down and half-shouted in Harry's ear, "If I had kissed you in the middle of the club, you probably would've been harassed." It was unclear whether he meant because he was part veela or if it had to do with their sexes.

Harry put a hand on the man's shoulder to keep his balance as he said in his ear, "What are you waiting for, then?" He felt a hand press against his back, and then they were kissing.

He wrapped his arms around the man's neck as their kiss deepened, and Harry distantly tired to figure out what was different about snogging him rather than Draco. He smiled momentarily, electricity passing through his stomach. He didn't even know this bloke's name! There was no history between them, only the pull of their mutual desire. After several minutes and after at least a few people had walked by them, the man pulled away.

They looked at each other, and the man's eyes flicked to Harry's forehead; his blond hair had been pushed back. It took Harry a moment to realize the disguise charm hadn't concealed his scar.

The man kissed him again briefly, cupped his face, and walked away, back to where his friends were dancing. Harry stared after him, wondering dazedly if he should ask for his number, until he remembered wizards don't use phones. His name, then? How does that work?

"Harry! There you are!" Ron grabbed his shoulders and shook him. An unmistakably purple smudge was on his cheek. "I've got to piss, and then we're heading home. Hermione has to wake up early, she told us we could stay out without her but why would we do that on her birthday? It's her birthday!"

"Okay, Ron, I'll wait here. Let's get some water before we go."

"Right. M'bye."

After they had all stopped by the bar one last time for some water, the trio left the club. The sky was clear that night and it was unusually mild, so they walked for a while, appreciating the city in which they had begun to build their life.

". . . You were awkward out there at first, Hermione," said Ron, "but after a few drinks, I almost didn't recognize you!"

Hermione pushed him playfully. "The drinking didn't help your dancing at all, Ronald."

"I dunno, I thought I had some good moves." He broke out into an elaborate reprise of his greatest hits of the night, bouncing to an imaginary beat, arms flailing with abandon.

"People are staring!" she cried, reaching out to stop him, but he merely took her arms and spun her around.

Harry watched them with amusement, only able to stop himself from telling them to get a room by saying, "So . . . I made out with that guy who was part veela."

They stopped and gawked at him. Ron raised his hands and Harry high-fived him, surprised and pleased.

"If I ever had to do it with a guy, it would've been him!" Ron declared, putting his arms around Harry and Hermione.

"He really is pissed," Hermione whispered across Ron to Harry.

"If this is how he gets on your birthday, he'll be a nightmare on his own."

They didn't have to wait very long to have another intoxicated night out; just one week later, after months of planning, Bill and Fleur held their wedding at the Burrow.

Since Voldemort's fall, the Auror Office had provided extra security to major events. Two Aurors had been assigned to the wedding, as though attendance of just about the entire Order weren't enough. The wedding party was also told to expect a reporter from the Prophet (though this had more to do with Harry than Ron or Hermione).

The wedding party and some additional guests took an extra two days off of work to celebrate and help prepare. Harry insisted on buying Ron new dress robes to compensate for his humiliating experience in fourth year. To prevent Ron from feeling like he owed him, Harry explained that he was actually being selfish, it was just so that he wouldn't be embarrassed by Ron's hideous attire. Although initially reluctant to accept the gift, by the day of the wedding, Ron had to be grateful; he studied himself in the mirror for longer than he probably ever had, trying not to beam at his own handsomeness. His red hair, untidy the day before, was now freshly trimmed and glossy. For some reason, Harry noticed more about his appearance now than he had in a long time. Pale eyelashes, the flow of freckles across the bridge of his nose, how a small dimple appeared on only one side of his face if his smile was subtle enough.

For what may have been the first time, Ron wanted Harry to notice how good he looked. The issue was, while Harry knew Ron's ego could use a boost, he didn't want to creep him out.

"So . . . how do I look?"

"Good."

"Come on, be honest."

"How can I tell you how fit you are when you've said nothing about me?" Harry smugly watched the flush creep up Ron's neck.

"Of course, I'm sure to girls at the wedding—why don't you just ask Hermione? You're the one who likes blokes, you should be able to tell if I look good."

"God's sake, Ron, you could tell Krum was attractive, couldn't you?"

A shadow passed over Ron's face.

"What?"
"I forgot until now. Krum's coming to the wedding."

"Oh! Oh . . . does Hermione know?"

"No idea. I'm guessing she's considered it, though."

"Sure." If he had been in the time loop, Harry would have tested asking Ron whether he was jealous of Krum and telling him to just ask Hermione out already, for Merlin's sake. Unfortunately, he still felt beholden to the permanence of time and therefore couldn't do anything that would risk pushing Ron away. The easiest way to avoid that was to bite his tongue whenever he was tempted to give unsolicited advice.

"You're going to look far more attractive than Krum. He's got er, traditional manliness on his side, maybe, and an impressive Quidditch career, yes, but . . . he doesn't have any of your charm. Or your height."

Ron groaned. "You sound like my mum."

"Oh, do I?" Harry reached over and pinched Ron's cheek, hard, causing him to yelp in surprise.

"What the hell?" Ron lunged for him, but Harry ducked out of the way, and, laughing, and ran out of the room. He and Ron nearly collided with Hermione on her way up the stairs.

"Glad to see you two are having fun. Ginny and I got up early to help set things up and get dressed, so you know."

"You look amazing, Hermione," said Harry. "Er, it was worth the time."

"Thank you." She looked past him at Ron, who was grinning at her. "You look quite handsome. The two of you." Hermione's hair was slicked back into a thin, glittery headband, with curls cascading out behind it. For a moment, Harry wished he had done something with his hair, too, or even asked Hermione to try and style it somehow.

"Your dress," blurted Ron. "It's green."

"You're awfully perceptive, Ronald."

"I meant to say I like your dress," he said, succeeding in making the exchange more uncomfortable.

"Thank you. Now, if you're finished with whatever you were doing earlier, let's find Molly and see if she needs help." She started to head back down the stairs, then gasped and produced a stout jar from her pocket. "Harry, I completely forgot to give this to you. I found it in Diagon Alley a few weeks ago. You'll have to wash it out with this," she pulled out a second vial, "if it doesn't work. Otherwise, the magic will fade on its own eventually." As she said this, the labels, which were originally in what Harry realized was Hindi, slowly faded to English, and back. The first bottle read, "Premium Hair Styling Cream."

"Thanks, Hermione. You're the best."

"Your hair is lovely, you know, I just thought for this wedding . . . and they're going to be taking pictures, I'm guessing you'll be in the paper."

"I appreciate it. As long as there's instructions on it, I should be fine."

"Right, I'll check on you in a bit, then!"

Facing himself in the bathroom mirror, Harry wondered if he should have asked Hermione to help him. He ran a hand along his stubble and sighed. Although he had felt increasingly insecure about his appearance in primary school, he had never given much thought to his attractiveness as a teenager. Since the time loop, or perhaps since fancying Draco, doubts washed over him in waves, his elementary school fears bubbling back up.

After washing his hair and applying the cream, it instantly dried into a glorious tumble of curls.

There was a knock at the door. "Harry, are you still in there?" asked Ginny.
"Yeah. Er, you can come in."

Ginny and Hermione brightened upon seeing his newly sculpted hair. Harry found himself staring at Ginny's hair in turn, insecurities banished—blue flowers of some kind (bluebells, perhaps) had been woven into her wavy red locks, making the color look even more vibrant. She had opted to wear dress robes instead of a dress, matching the groomsmen rather than the bridesmaids.

"Your hair looks gorgeous," said Hermione, coming closer to look at it, while Ginny hung back, twirling something between her fingers.

"To be honest," said Harry, "I wasn't expecting it to work. I've never used a product in my hair before. Growing up, I used a bar."

"A bar . . . you mean, a bar of body soap?" Hermione looked horrified.

"Well, yeah, the Dursleys thought it was good enough for me."

"That's awful," said Ginny, shaking her head.

"Anyhow," Harry began as he patted his hair, "do you like it?"

"I do."

"But?" Harry caught his own worried look in the mirror.

Ginny exchanged a glance with Hermione, then stepped forward and rested her hand on his arm. "The pictures that'll be in the paper, have you thought about whether Draco's going to see them?"
"Of course he'll see them. See me."

"Then are you trying to remind him what he's missing?" said Ginny, waggling her eyebrows.

Harry groaned. "It sounds idiotic when you say it out loud, but . . . sure, yeah."

"He's an idiot for letting you go."

Electricity ran from where her fingers touched him, and he tried to keep his expression in check. "Er, what's that you're holding?"

"This? Oh, right, it's eyeliner. Kohl." She shifted to look in the mirror. "I'm only halfway finished, one second." Carefully, though it was clear she wasn't used to applying it by how much she was blinking, Ginny traced the top of her eye with an emerald line.

Harry hadn't realized he was staring at her makeup until she asked, "Do you want to wear some?"

"Er, no. Isn't it . . ."

Ginny capped the pencil and waved it in his face. "Harry James Potter, I will hex you if you were about to say 'Isn't it for girls?'"

"Fine. Isn't it not for boys?"

She pushed him lightly by the shoulder. "Look, do you want Draco to pine after you or not?"

"I don't see how—"

"Harry," interjected Hermione, "you ought to trust Ginny on this one. Krum wears eyeliner sometimes, if you couldn't tell. And so does every member of the Weird Sisters."

"One, I'm not Bulgarian, and two, I'm not in a rock band. People will talk. Won't they think—"

"They'll only talk about how good you look."

"Ha."

"I'm serious!" Ginny uncapped the pencil and rotated the top of it, turning the color black. "We can always take it off if you don't like how it looks."

"Fine! Go ahead. Not as much as you're wearing, though . . ."

Five minutes of watery-eyed complaining later, Ginny stepped back to admire her work. Without a word, she high-fived Hermione.

Harry looked at his reflection, angling his face from side to side. "I know something's different, only I can't quite tell what."

"See! So you like it?"

"Yeah, I suppose so."

In a vague imitation of his voice, she said, "Thank you, Ginny, you're amazing, and I've removed the stick up my arse." Then she took Hermione's hand and led her out of the bathroom.

"Was that supposed to be me?"

"Maybe," replied Ginny, and the pair's laughter dissolved down the stairs.

Harry gave himself one last look in the mirror, then followed, finding the entire downstairs transformed. Furniture had been whisked away to make room for high tables and circular floating seats. Silverly streamers led the way from the kitchen and living space to the ceremony outside, where a transparent floating tarp was draped overhead to catch any rain. By the time the guests began arriving, two servers were poised to offer dancing berry tartlets, smoked salmon blinis, and feta-stuffed peppers. Flowers had been stuffed in every possible crevice of the tent, the chairs outside, in the front pockets of wedding guests' dress robes, and enshrined the altar.

Throughout the ceremony, Bill and Fleur seemed to glow. As it was Harry's first-ever wedding, he found himself more easily swept up in the excitement of it, and all the more unprepared for the heart-rending pain of watching two people declare and celebrate their love. Was it fair of him to feel a tinge of bitterness that they were happy? No. Was it fair of them to be happy while he was pouting over the loss of Draco? Also no.

For the reception, guests moved to the giant tent that had been put up in the backyard. Inside, floating glass orbs shone in multiple colors onto the dance floor, and a singer-violin duo performed in the corner. Harry started drinking as soon as possible, and once Krum began talking to Hermione, Ron followed suit.

"You've done something with your eyes, haven't you? Put on, er, makeup or something?" asked Ron, gesturing at Harry's face.

"I have done, it's not too noticeable, is it?"

"Not too noticeable; it's noticeable, but not too noticeable. Like, I know you've got it on. Krum has got some, too."

"You've noticed Krum's eyeliner?"

"Shut up."

"I haven't said anything!"

"Oh, they're coming over."

"Hello, Potter." Krum shook Harry's hand; Ron and Hermione looked at each other.

"How are you, Krum?"

"I am well, thank you. We should get another drink. Hermione," he pronounced her name perfectly, "would you like a drink?"

"I'd like a gin and tonic, thank you."

Krum nodded, then patted Harry's shoulder and guided him toward the bar. "How have you been, Harry?"

"Oh, fine. Helped defeat the Dark Lord and all. And you? "

"Bulgaria has retired some old players. I am now youngest on the team. There is lot of pressure on me to win—but I have more fun than ever."

"That's great, then." He paused as Krum ordered the drinks, then asked, "This may seem out of the blue, but when you were at Durmstrang, did you know someone called Mikhail? He came to Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament."

"Yes, I knew him. We were not close, but had common friends. Why?" Krum clinked Harry's shot with his own. "Nazdrave."

"Cheers." Harry downed the shot, then the chaser. Judging by his expression, Krum's tolerance was much higher than his own. "What was I asking? Oh, well, I know someone who became friends with Mikhail when he came to Hogwarts."

"Ah. He was strange, but I liked him."

"Why was he strange?"

Krum shrugged. "Not interested in same things as us."

With Krum's accent and serious expression, Harry had no way of telling if this was intended as a euphemism. "Do you remember who he used to hang out with at Hogwarts?"

Krum mulled this over. "Blond boy. Father was Death Eater."

"Draco Malfoy."

"Yes, that was him. He was annoying."

"They got on, yeah?"

"They spent much time together. Mikhail is very mature, so we were surprised. We joked about their special connection." Krum narrowed his eyes at Harry. "Malfoy is the one you know?"

"Yeah. I suppose I wanted to know what type of person Mikhail was."

"As I say, mature, a little unusual. Girls liked him. He was like you, I think. Russian Harry Potter."

The ease of Harry's jealousy made him realize the tension he'd been holding. Draco's type included him.

"If you are finished asking about Mikhail, I want to know about that girl." Krum nodded toward Ginny.

"What about Hermione?"

Krum soured. "She has eyes for red-headed boy."

Harry grinned despite himself. Krum was more perceptive than he had thought—though, the two were now dancing together, after all. For a tipsy moment, Harry wondered what he would do if Krum came on to him. The amusing thought turned bitter as he realized how hungry Krum's gaze toward Ginny was. Nearly every fiber of his body told him to lie, except that he owed Krum for his honesty, and because knowing Ginny, she would reject him anyway.

"Ginny's single," Harry managed to reply as a slow song began to play.

Krum brightened and stood up. "Then I will see you later."

"See you."

As the crooning of a female singer filled the tent, Krum asked Ginny to dance, and she seemed to accept, though they kept a respectful distance between each other. As Harry left the dance floor, he saw a couple swaying together, faces so close they were nearly touching: Remus and Tonks.

A shock rippled through him, and he stood staring a little too long—he knew they wouldn't see him looking. Remus had moved on. And with a woman! She was young, too, wasn't she? He would get to that point someday, maybe, as hard as it was too imagine. Good for them, good for them. They deserve to be happy.

It was chilly outside, so Harry decided to find refuge in the small caterer's hut. Cradling a bottle of wine, he sat down on a crate of booze and continued to drink. A passing orb of light found him and settled in the air close by. Whether a half an hour elapsed or just a few minutes he couldn't tell; he forgot to check his watch and the slow-moving orb seemed infinite.

He heard footsteps and laughter long before he heard Ron say, "There you are!"

Harry tried to stand up gracefully but couldn't hide his intoxication.

"Whoa, are you alright, Harry?" Hermione gripped his arm to steady him.

"I could be better. Seeing everyone dancing together . . ." His voice was strained.

"If it would make you feel better, we could dance," said Hermione, not looking at Ron.

Harry shrugged.

"C'mon, we're going back to the reception."

"I'm not up for dancing."

"We'll sit, then. And fetch you some water."

Once inside, Ron and Hermione helped get Harry situated at a table away from the crowd.

"Did you see Remus and Tonks?" asked Harry.

"Yeah, everyone's talking about it. Hermione saw them snog."

"I'm happy for them. Sometimes things work out, and you get a happy ending. Guess I'm not lucky enough." Tears welled up in Harry's eyes. "Oh, God, I know I'm embarrassing myself."

"S'alright, Harry." Ron wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulder. "Malfoy's the biggest knobhead in Britain for leaving." He was warm and smelled familiar, comforting.

"You're the best, Ron. Can I kiss you?" Harry broke off laughing at the idea.

To his delight, Ron pointed to his cheek. "Alright, here you go."

Harry grabbed his face rather clumsily and planted a kiss where Ron gestured, then hugged him. When Ron started patting his back for him to let go, Harry turned to Hermione, who gave him a reluctant smile. After she had been properly embraced, he wiped his eyes. "Thank you. I miss him. But at least I have you two."

"We'll always have each other, yeah?" said Hermione softly.

"Of course, Harry, you'll be the best man at my wedding, and Hermione—" Ron stopped, and they stared at each other.

Thankfully, Luna and Ginny chose that moment to join at their table.

"Harry, are you okay?" asked Ginny at once.

Nearly bursting into tears again, Harry dropped his head into his hands.

"He's having a tough time," Hermione explained. "The declarations of love and whatnot."

"Does Draco know how much you liked him, Harry?" asked Luna, peering him with curiosity rather than pity.

"I don't know, I made it obvious enough."

"The next time you see him, make sure he knows."

"Luna's onto something, Harry," said Ron, fingers tapping on the beer bottle he held. "Malfoy's always been insecure. He was always saying how much better he was than everybody, making us feel like rubbish, acting like a little shit, you know, so why would he feel like he's good enough for you? Why would he think he deserves you?"

"It was never about deserving or not—"

"But if I can doubt it—you know I have, like how or why you chose to be friends with me of all people—and I'm a halfway decent person! He's awful and he knows it so maybe he's left because—right, because he knows it. It's not your fault, Harry, it's his, maybe if you told him he was good enough he'd believe you, 'cept deep down he wouldn't."

Harry wanted to argue, because Ron knew Draco as a narcissistic bully and not as . . . He blinked, staring at his drink. He couldn't defend Draco.

"Someone else talk about something," said Hermione, giving Harry's shoulder a brief squeeze.

"I assume you all saw me dancing with Victor Krum," said Ginny, pulling her attention away from Harry.

Ron sat up, craning his neck to get a view of Krum. "What's his problem? First Hermione, now . . . You're at least four years younger than him!"

"Merlin help any older woman who dates you, Ron, you're barely mature enough for your own age."

"Oh, come off it, I just think you ought to be careful with him."

"You're just bitter because you didn't get a dance with Fleur! Krum left Hermione alone because of you, and you're still ungrateful."

If Hermione had reacted, she composed herself before Harry took his eyes off Ginny.

"I'm getting another drink," said Ron clumsily, face bright red. He got up and turned around, then returned half a second later. "Anyone else want something?"

They all requested a drink, then Ginny and Harry turned to Hermione.

"What?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "It's obvious Ron fancies you."

"No, he's just awkward sometimes," said Hermione, tone convincing none of them. "Especially with girls."

"Girls he fancies," corrected Ginny.

"Unless he tells me outright, I shouldn't assume anything. He's a kind person, funny, and—he's only been jealous of me at times because he feels sorry for himself. Look, we're friends, and I don't want to jeopardize that."

"Fine, you'll both wait it out, and when you're nearing forty and have married other people, had kids, you'll think, 'Hm, maybe I should have said something.'"

"I never said I fancy him."

"You don't have to say anything, your face gives it away."

Even Harry chuckled. "I saw how you acted when I was stuck in time, you're not being honest with yourself . . ."

"Drop it, alright? I don't fancy him!" She looked down at her lap as Ron returned with drinks, and it was unclear whether he had heard.

The rest of the night faded into a haze. Harry remembered posing for pictures, drinking a lot of water, stumbling into the bathroom upwards of five times, and trying not to cry on as many occasions. When he woke up the next morning, he was barely hungover, just dazed. And, to his profound relief and surprise, ready to move on.