A/N: This chapter takes place simultaneously with 'A Flock's Feast', going from early October (when Harry reluctantly agreed to give a speech about his mum at the gala) up to the day of Halloween. The main difference is this one involves events from the Potters' points of view. A somewhat fluffy and filler chapter? Absolutely. But it will soon become obvious why it's needed for the story. If it helps, the plot will rapidly escalate in the next few chapters with Halloween and its aftermath.

A final enormous thank you to cpalmer647, Gracie Pearl, and sheltie26 (who helped edit the previous chapter); Just William, Maiden of the Heavens, and thefirstservant (who showed interest in betaing); and DarkPhoenix, Mists, and Gambitized (who gave me wonderful ideas for the story summary)!

"And then she was kissing him as she never had before, and Harry was kissing her back, and it was blissful oblivion, better than firewhisky; she was the only real thing in the world, Ginny, the feel of her, one hand at her back and one in her long, sweet-smelling hair…"

— Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

'You can't imagine how many times I've been asked what that night was like. It's not quite as barmy as it sounds, as I've at least experienced enough Dementors and dark magic to memory it. But still, it's the tone of the questions that gets me: "Do you remember Voldemort that Halloween?" "How did it feel being hit by the killing curse when you were a baby?" "Were you scared after he brutally offed your parents?"'

'It's mainly the heartless questions that get on my nerves. But in all of them, there's always the same awe-struck tone. Awe-struck? What the hell did they think I was up to as a baby? Course, there was once some idiotic Hufflepuffs who thought this was a sign I was a Dark Lord—'

"Fuck. No. Can't swear. Or, y'know, call myself a Dark Lord. 'spect that'd be bad. Alright, scratch that part out. It's rubbish anyway."

'What did they think I was up to as a baby? Have none of them picked up a history book? Or, I suppose, they've looked at the wrong ones. I haven't read the recent stuff myself, but some of my brothers-in-law delight in it. I figured they owed me for all the ribbing over the years, so instead of scouring the nonsense books myself I asked them what I thought was an innocent question: did these authors get anything right about my parents?'

'Let me tell you, I have never seen George Weasley go speechless that quickly. Or at all, actually. It's a sight to behold. But there he was, stammering awkwardly as I stared at him. See, no one had bothered to tell me that this was a sore topic. Apparently, everyone had just assumed that I knew. Nobody dared mention it in case I blew up at the 'reminder' that my mum's bravery and sacrifice had been excluded from the history books.'

"Err, probably not good to seem trigger-happy. Not that it isn't justifiable in this case, obviously, but…yeah, not a good idea."

Harry scrunched his nose, writing another sentence or two before stopping. He could hear the Auror offices behind his door, taking a small amount of relief that no explosions were going off. It wouldn't have shocked him: the new security measures they were trying to implement had some interesting consequences. Still, the pyro-happy Aurors assured him they'd be ready for the Ministry gala. Which was something, he supposed. So long as the MLE was in one piece at the end of it.

His desk was messy (per usual), filled with ongoing case files, trainee reports, and back-and-forth communication with the hit-wizard office. At the moment, however, his attention was on a lone piece of paper covered in scribbles and blotted out words. He frowned at the rough draft he just couldn't get right. Scratching out the last sentence he'd written, he dropped his head to his hands.

"A speech about my mum for an inane gala," Harry said to the empty room, words mumbled and muffled. "I'm going to kill Ron. I really am."

'You're really not,' his ever-helpful inner voice chimed in. The wizard wondered when his conscience had begun to sound like Hermione. 'You still feel guilty about the acromantula! He knows full well you won't do a thing to him.'

Head still on the desk, Harry scribbled out another sentence, biro sharp and piercing the paper. He'd been using quill and parchment at first, but he'd switched once he realised how many drafts were ending up in the bin.

His inner monologue was true enough: he didn't have any plans to get back at Ron. He was honestly close to getting Hermione to set up another 'confrontation', just to force a truce. She'd likely go for it, wanting some peace and quiet herself. But Ron wouldn't see reason. Maybe he should draw someone else in? Go for Bill, perhaps, and have him pull his 'big brother act' to at least make Ron listen?

"I like my bloody job!" Harry glimmered to the (thankfully) still empty room. "Anyway, it's not Ron's business. He's a prat who hates changes, that's it. Has no bleeding clue of what's appropriate. Bringing my parents into this—seriously, how dare he? Why would he even do that!"

'Because he knew it would work. And because, you know, you sort of set a giant spider on him.' Cue Ginny's voice. Harry worried about the mental state of his conscience. 'You're going to the gala and giving a speech, aren't you? Ron knows exactly how to get under your skin. For Circe's sake, you're considering apologising to him to make this silly thing stop! Do you realise how ridiculous that is?'

Yes. Yes, he did. That didn't mean he had the faintest idea of what to do. He didn't know what was wrong with Ron these days. One would think they'd have enough to deal with, what with the crimes sprees and the press raising mass hysteria about non-existent cannibalism. Why Ron kept harping on about the promotion was beyond him.

'Could be a distraction,' Harry admitted, falling silent. 'Also, not like I made it easier with McLaggen. But that isn't the point!'

He wished that the most stressful thing in his life was his children's accidental magic or Ginny's pregnancy mood swings. Was that too much to ask? One quiet day with his family. Where no one was getting kidnapped or murdered, no Aurors (or politicians) were being childish prats, and where Ginny wasn't on the verge of hexing her boss.

Harry growled into his hand, rethinking some life choices (not for the first time). He wished being an Auror didn't feel so fulfilling. Because he loved helping people and being able to work through and solve cases, he did. It was the rest of the job he sometimes couldn't stand. He imagined waltzing up to Shacklebolt and handing him his resignation (would serve the man right for all the memorial nonsense). Surely McGonagall couldn't turn him down as a DADA instructor? Or he could be a teacher at the Auror Academy? Being a stay-at-home dad had a nice ring to it!

Or, even better. He and Ginny could toss their jobs out the window and embrace the fact that they had more money than they knew what to do with. Sure, Hermione and Shacklebolt would raise a fuss, and the Prophet would be seeing red over Ginny's broken contract. But it'd be brilliant to throw their responsibilities to the wind and do whatever the hell they wanted to.

Harry pictured this for a long moment, gaze not really on his blotted speech. They'd hold off traveling or any such thing until after the pregnancy, but that was still peachy. Lazying about, playing Quidditch, playing with the kids, 'playing' with Ginny…right perfect. He'd stop having to skip poker night with his mates, would get more time to catch up with friends, and everything would be grand.

He snorted at the last, shaking his head. He'd be bored stiff within months, he and Ginny both. A vacation here and there was fine, but he could barely imagine 'lazying around'. As awful as parts of his job could be, he'd take it over a meaningless existence any day.

Which was good enough, but didn't help his current predicament. Which was coming up with a speech about Lily Potter.

Harry refocused his gaze down at the page, nibbling his lip. He considered asking Hermione for help, then as quickly dismissed it. This wasn't like back at Hogwarts where his homework was an inch short. He should…ask Ginny? That was a thought. But it wasn't something she had experience with.

Neville maybe? Except he'd be busy with the start of term. Susan? Though she was surely swamped with cases. What about—

"Oh, obviously," Harry shook his head at his slowness, straightening in his seat. His wand was drawn. "Expecto patronum. Luna? I know you're busy with the griffin examination—which, really, thanks again for all the help with the Rippers, I know how gruesome all of this is. But I'd really like to chat. Nothing that important, it's not about any of the cases you're consulting on. Just please let me know when you have a moment. Cheers!"

It was barely ten minutes later when Luna Scamander wafted into Harry's office. Properly wafted, as her long periwinkle skirt hid her feet and flowed over the floor like lapping waves. Unless he was mistaken, her hair was pinned up with a sea urchin. It suited her. It also made her at once look like the epitome of and the opposite of a professional Magizoologist.

Despite the situation and his own bad mood, Harry couldn't help but grin. Luna tended to have this effect on people. Neville had once suggested that she was like a beam of sunshine. Ron thought it was like being hit with a dozen cheering charms. Seamus, ever eloquent, felt that her presence was like an acid trip after a line of coke (he'd nonchalantly reshuffled to start a new round of poker after dropping this particular line, ignoring Ron's snort, Dean's headdesk, Neville's groan, and Harry's moan that he shouldn't one of his idiotic friends know what 'plausible deniability' meant?).

Ginny thought that Luna was like a crowd of happily buzzing Wrackspurts. Hermione had immediately protested this comparison, arguing that she couldn't use an invention of Luna's to describe Luna, as this was a circular and redundant description (to which Ginny replied that this was rather the point).

As far as Harry was concerned, he'd always thought chatting with Luna was like being under the imperius curse. Not in a bad way. In a, 'floating-on-a-cloud-where-you-aren't-sure-which-way's-up' kind of way. Whatever the case, she always seemed able to clear things up for him. He wasn't sure how, but it worked.

"Hey Luna," he said as she sat down, sending him a light smile, "hope this isn't a bad time?"

"Oh no, it's fine." Luna squinted at something behind him, tilting her head. "I was glad for a break: examining that poor griffin was so sad. He was a life cut off far too soon. Harry? Why is your window smudged like that?"

Harry turned to follow her gaze, only to flush at the sight. An image came to mind: Ginny pressed against the window, her feet wrapped around his legs, their breath moaning against the glass. Neither minded skipping their lunch breaks for this. "Uh, I—"

"Pan Syndrome." Luna took this in stride. "It looks very much like a lost shadow. Oh, I'd be careful with that. Many odd things are reported when a shadow is wavering around. Best to sew it right back up!"

Harry cleared his throat, turning back to his friend. "Thanks Luna. I think I just need to clean the window but, ah, what odd things?"

"Nothing that bad. It's harmless, mainly, though mischievous," she hummed. "A lost shadow can invoke feelings of immaturity and childishness. A want to stay young. The main symptoms are heightened sexual desire and prowess, and it often flares up at pivotal transition points in one's life."

Harry coughed, forcing himself to meet Luna's pleasant gaze. For all his training on sensing lies, he hadn't the foggiest if she was having him on. "I see. Ah, I'll take care of that." Another cough. "I wanted to ask you about something else. I have to give a speech, you see. On my mum. It's…" he struggled for the right words. Then gave up and let it out. "I've written up seven drafts. Seven! All rubbish. Gibberish, more like. It's supposed to be about the end of the first war against Voldemort, so it should be simple. But nothing's working!"

Empathy filled Luna's stare. "This is the Halloween predicament everyone is buzzing about, isn't it. You don't know how to talk about your mother?"

He stopped short at her bluntness. Though it was a bit like a breath of fresh air after all the bureaucratic waffling he had to deal with. Also, at least she got the heart of the problem. "I…sort of. Yeah. That's about right."

"The speech isn't about both of your parents?"

A blink. "It, I mean, it could be. But it didn't seem—it's because—" it's because it was bloody well hard enough to find the words for one parent, "—it didn't seem appropriate. Ripley, the bloke organising this charade, is all about 'directness'. So I thought I'd focus on my mum."

"I see." A small smile. He fidgeted, feeling like she saw right through his excuse. "I'm a rather awful person to ask about this, I'm afraid."

"Doubt that. Things you say always seem to make sense." Harry paused, only then remembering the obvious. Remembered the mother in a grave and the father who had never recovered from the dementors. What made Luna the perfect person to talk to also made her the worst. "Shoot, I'm so sorry! If you aren't comfortable with this topic, believe me I understand—"

"Oh no, it's fine," Luna mused, as serene as ever, not seeming to mind Harry's sudden apology. "I meant that I know very little about mums. Certainly less than you do." There was a touch of something in her voice, of ringing anticipation.

Harry opened his mouth to refute this, before the image of Molly Weasley's bear hugs came to mind. Or Ginny murmuring soft lullabies to their sons. Or any of his sisters-in-law or friends with children, and their exasperated huffs about their mad kids. He closed his mouth.

"Exactly," she nodded, delighted at his clear train of thought. "See? You know quite a lot about mothers. Which solves your problem, I believe."

Harry was unsure if she'd just given him an epiphany, or if he was even more confused than when he'd begun.

Luna took pity on him. "I don't think you want your speech to be about the war, or you would surely already be done with it. You're having problems writing about your mother, since you never knew her. But you know about mums. Write about them."

"I can't just…" Harry trailed off, not knowing where to go.

"Plenty of things to choose from," she continued lightly. "A mother's love, her bravery, a parent's irrational need to protect their child? Love transcending death. I rather thought you were an expert on this topic."

Harry again cleared his throat, finding it swollen and scratchy. "Doesn't make it easy to talk about."

Luna gave a slight frown, tilting her head to the side. "To be honest, I don't see why you can't understand your mother."

"Uh, why?"

"I don't understand mine, as I can't imagine risking leaving my child just to experiment with dangerous spells. But your mum?" Luna sent him a long stare. "Would you take a lethal curse for your sons? Would you protect them without hesitation, even if all hope was lost?"

Yes. Yes, he absolutely would. The answer shone on his face.

Luna gave a satisfied nod. "Then I think you understand your mother quite well. The rest of this speech is, I imagine, only frivolous details." The tiniest of pauses, both contemplating the past. "Harry? There are things worth dwelling on in life. Worrying about this isn't one of them."

He wished he could believe her. Still, while he wasn't that much farther on in figuring out the speech, he did feel a bit better.

"Thanks. Really, thank you." Harry opened his mouth to say something else, but what came out was: "When's your move to Athens, by the way? It's been ages since you've been over for dinner. I know Ginny wants to see you. Think you and Rolf could cram us in before you leave?"

"Oh Harry, that won't be a problem!" Luna laughed, more cheerful than she had been a moment before. "The trip's been cancelled. We'll still be in Britain for at least the next year."

Harry frowned, knowing she'd been looking forward to it. "I hope it isn't because of the Ripper case. It's great of you to consult, but it—"

"No no, nothing to do with that." The tiniest bit of colour filled Luna's cheeks. Harry was taken aback, he couldn't remember ever seeing the woman look sheepish or embarrassed (albeit delighted). "Apparently there really is something in the water. I, that is, I'm ah…"

"Luna?" He looked at her in concern, having never heard her stumbling before.

"Twins!" She blurted out, now thoroughly blushing but with a bright beam. "I'm a, yes." She coughed, still off-balanced. "I suppose I will know more about mothers soon? So, yes. Rolf and I thought we'd stay put during the pregnancy. We know rather little about parenting but we, we thought it best to stay in Britain for a time?"

There was a heartbeat of silence, before Harry laughed and jumped from his chair, pulling his old friend into a hug. "Luna, that's brilliant! Congratulations. I didn't realise you were trying for kids!"

"Oh, we weren't." The blush was thoroughly back, though Luna happily returned the embrace.

"Sorry, shouldn't have asked that. I mean—twins! That's fantastic." Harry, instead of returning to his chair, sat on the desk (that is, the piled papers and folders). "You two have to come to dinner now. Does Ginny know? Have you told many people yet?"

Though Luna's flush was starting to diminish, pink still tickled her cheeks. "Not exactly. In fact, this just slipped out. We weren't planning on telling anyone until after all the silliness on Halloween."

Harry halted, the implication hitting him. He gave a small swallow, resisting the urge to give her another hug ('Too much time spent around the Weasleys,' he mused). "Right, of course. I absolutely understand. How about dinner 1st November, would that work?"

"That would be lovely." Luna was standing up, looking cheerful but uncertain. "I'm sorry for, ah, springing that on you," she hurried on before he could protest, "but I really should be going. Good luck on your speech."

She turned quickly, heading to the door. Harry stared for a beat, caught by surprise at the suddenness of the news and her running off. But he spoke up right before she got to the exit. "No wait, Luna?"

"Yes?" She turned back to him.

"I know you didn't mean to tell me, but I can't begin to say how thrilled I am for you and Rolf." He gave her a soft smile, trying to think of the right words to express this before she left. "Don't listen to the Wrackspurts, okay? You're going to be an absolutely brilliant mum."

Luna gave Harry the most delighted beam he'd ever seen. He realised Neville had a point: she was rather like a ray of sunshine.

"We have to talk." Ron stormed into the office, slamming the door. Harry looked up from his files, having just gotten back to his work after breaking up a duel in the hallway over which Junior Auror had messed up labelling a series of evidence bags. His ears had only just stopped twitching from an awry hex and he was in no mood for one of Ron's rants.

"Should I ask where McLaggen is?" Harry said, putting the papers aside. He hoped that Ron was here because he'd seen sense and wanted a truce. He figured he could dream.

"Who cares?" Ron instead answered, swinging into a seat. Harry, though mildly annoyed, let it go (as he basically agreed). "What with the press still on the pie nonsense, why haven't we talked about the bigger picture? For starters, we've got to be more open about the worst-case scenario with the Sweenies."

"That we have a serial killing group rather than a kidnapping group?" Harry's hopes for the conversation hit a rock bottom low. He hoped his plan with Bill panned out. "Not saying you're wrong, but the press is already whispering about a new Dark Lord. We aren't looking for mass hysteria here."

"Hell, that's not even what's most worrying me," Ron said. "The Sweenies are prolific. More than that, they're escalating—recent break aside. If they're behind those red light district disappearances too, they've shifted from high- to low-risk targets. Never a good sign."

"Could be a game to them," Harry took up the strain. "Or practice runs. Seems like classic psychopathy, though. If it was sexual we'd be seeing a pattern with the victims, and if it was trafficking they'd only be picking easy targets. What could they be getting from this? No ransom demands, they aren't contacting us or the media, and they're not displaying the bodies. Seems it's about inciting terror—but, frankly, they'd be better off with a massive attack. Could be the bodies themselves are trophies? Or they're doing something else to them?"

Ron looked queasy at the last. "So, if it is a 'game' and they're upping their risk with each victim: who'd they go after next? Started with prostitutes and orphans. Next was when we caught on with Fawcett, young and a relatively easy target, but was taken in a public space in broad daylight. Then they upped it with Davies, a semi-public figure in a private residence. The only mistake there was they tried out that potion, which they immediately stopped using."

"Then the press really got wind of it and the targets became harder to get," Harry cushioned onto the discussion. They'd hinted at this enough times over the past few weeks, but hadn't properly fleshed it out. "Celebrities, heiresses, and witnesses with plenty of them. Then we had Fudge, vanishing in the Wizengamot! Whoever's behind this, they don't care how many wizards are watching them do it." He scowled, frustration ringing. "If they keep escalating, who the hell will they hit next? High-profile people being actively protected, I suppose. Especially since it's like they want us to panic. So government and economic leaders, who we've already got increased security on."

Another thought had occurred to Ron, one that (from his expression) seemed to have been on his mind for awhile. "What if it's a different sort of challenge? The victims have also been getting more powerful. Physically and magically, that is. The first bunch was at-risk women and children. The next group was neutrally powerful; potentially able to fight back. Now, we're searching for people known to be magically powerful—or, in Fudge's case, protected by a crowd of them. Maybe that's the escalation."

Harry frowned. "Two decent theories. Either way, the current 'most at-risk' group overlaps. It's also small enough that our heightened protections basically cover them—so long as the Sweenies don't revert back to soft targets. So, who do we have? Shacklebolt, the main ambassadors, the magical royals, and the Heads of Departments and much of the Wizengamot. I'd get protection for McGonagall too, if she wouldn't hex us out the door for suggesting it. Who else would—"

"You?" Ron cut in. He stared in mild disbelief as the Head Auror blinked at him. "You know, the Wizarding Saviour who laughs at death?"

"I don't laugh at—" Harry shook his head, catching himself. "I'll grant you I might be a target if the first theory's true. But for the second? My magic's only above average. Doubt that's what they're after."

"Harry," Ron said slowly, as though speaking to a mentally deficient child, "you're the Man Who Conquered. Whoever this group is, they're bound to think you're Merlin incarnate. Assign some guards to yourself! Honestly, I'm shocked there hasn't already been an attempt."

Harry snorted, unconvinced. "Fine, fine. Though between the wards around my home and going to work surrounded by other Aurors—"

"They're targeting powerful and well-known wizards!" Ron interrupted. "Look, I'm mad at you, but apparently I have to save you from your own cluelessness. Get the guards. Then shut up and play nice with them."

Harry stared at Ron, feeling that the redhead was an utter hypocrite to say that after messing with so many partners. "I'm your boss. You do remember that, right? Maybe once in a while when you aren't scheming to make my life even more complicated?"

"Course I do. 's like how you're my oblivious best friend who sets giant spiders on me. Or like how I can go to your boss, and she'll happily order you to get a merry band of bodyguards. An army, more like."

Harry stopped arguing, deciding to pick his battles. He wondered how it was that, even when Ron was being a concerned friend, he still managed to get under his skin. "I already said I'd order some. But the Wizengamot's already been hit, so that's where I want the protections to be focussed. We know there's weak spots, even if we can't pinpoint them exactly."

"Fine, fine."

"Also…not about the Sweenies, but listen. Can we stop this mad back-and-forth? I'm sorry about the acromantula, but you used my parents against me and—"

"Would you look at the time? I'm late for lunch."

"RON, come back here! I'm trying to end this feud and—damn it. Yeah, that wasn't childish at all! Just slamming the door behind you: THAT'S REALLY EFFING MATURE, WEASLEY!"

For the first time in a long while, Ginny woke up naturally. Peacefully, from her internal clock. The boys weren't screaming, Harry wasn't mumbling in his sleep, and her stomach wasn't upset.

She—near luxuriously—kept her eyes closed, remaining in a relaxed sprawl under the blankets. Nuzzling her sleepiness and husband, she'd be perfectly happy to stay as such. So, it was only a rustling beside her that made her eyes crack open.

Ginny couldn't tell if Harry was waking up. She thought not, but he could be like her and was clutching onto the last bit of sleep. If so, she was glad. With the time he'd been having, he needed more rest. She absently considered getting up and starting breakfast. But her arm was pressed under his side and, with a leg caught between both of his, she didn't want to risk waking him by moving.

She shrugged, curling up closer to her husband. She wasn't about to complain about this. Especially since pressing against his bare chest was warming her even more than the blankets. She tried to work out why she was even chilled in the first place. Though it was October and the weather had been cold, the oh-so-wonderful boys in her life liked the house's temperature to be not quite as warm as a sunstroke.

As she poked at Harry's bare torso and took stock of her own undressed state, she chalked up the puzzle as solved. Partly solved. The previous night was hazy in the early morning, so she jogged her memory by process of elimination. Wiggling her limbs one by one, she soon worked out that she still had socks on and…well, she had two socks on. A glance under the sheets showed her that this was more than Harry wore.

Scrunching up her mouth and stretching, Ginny fought away the lingering sleep. Her recall of last night meandered in. She'd had a last minute deadline, so by the time she'd gotten home Harry had picked up the kids from the muggle daycare. He'd also already cooked and burned the beef stroganoff (that is, Jamie's conjured miniature dragon had harshly crisped it) and ordered Indian. The evening was otherwise unspectacular (said dragon having reverted back to a fluffy plush toy with a puff of smoke), where the only 'surprising' thing had happened after they'd put the kids to bed. Only surprising to her, that is, as her husband didn't find anything odd with thinking that his pregnant wife was as sexy as ever.

As far as Ginny was concerned, this proved that Harry sorely needed to get his eyes checked. Never in her life had she felt more like a beached whale. Her first two pregnancies hadn't helped prepare her for this situation, as she'd gained relatively little weight with her boys. So much so that the press hadn't caught wind of either pregnancy until she was well along. Her retirement from the Harpies had been cited 'for personal reasons', and until she was finally showing most of the papers assumed this was code for marital troubles. With Al, she'd even gone to a healer with concerns over her small baby bump, only to be reassured that some mothers' bodies simply didn't change much.

Now? She had this weighty little terror. She was grateful the morning sickness wasn't that bad, and she was more thrilled than pained that her enthusiastic baby was a kicker. But that didn't change how she (as she would frustratedly claim time and again) had been reduced to waddling around the house.

Harry would snort whenever she'd say this. He'd hug her, insist she hadn't gained that much weight, that she was as gorgeous as ever, and that she certainly wasn't 'waddling'. All of this cemented Ginny's closely held belief that she'd married a very sweet but very oblivious man. Because no matter what Harry said, she was peeved that the extra weight made even a simple jog laborious.

Yet, here she lay. Basically starkers. She looked down again at their bodies: focused on her prominent belly she switched to Harry's toned abs, and made a note to start working out with a fury the moment her baby was born.

"Lily Nymphadora, maybe. It flows off the tongue."

"Hell no."

"Harry!"

"Not even Tonks liked her name!"

"Do you like that, Lily-Bily? Oh yes you do! Feel that? One kick means she likes the name."

"We aren't naming her Lily. Or Nymphadora! Kicking does not mean she agrees!"

That night, it was Ginny. They rarely woke up to a scream (that hadn't been the norm for years), but the shaking and hiccuped gasps were more than enough to rouse the other. This night, it only took a few minutes to convince her she wasn't in the Chamber. They held each other tight, with his soft murmurs and her wide eyes with grappling fingers. It was only slowly that she relaxed, body easing, her skin sweaty against his. He never paused in his gentle reassurances.

Eventually, the hold relaxed into a loose cuddle. Her breathing was no longer frantic, her gaze sleepy rather than fearful.

"So," Harry said after a pause, "ice cream?"

A shaky nod. "Extra caramel. Thanks, love."

A kiss, a stretch, a stroll to the kitchen, and sharing a 3am dessert between covers.

Harry had long since accepted that his work desk would always be in a state of disorder. He knew where the important things were, that's what mattered, and keeping track of those only required some basic upkeep. Namely, routine daily sorting of which case files he could close and which still required some work.

The Gravery brother robberies? Check.

Consultant for the Manchester art forgery? Check—forwarded to the hit-wizards as the first reports on the Imperius Curse being used seemed unlikely.

The potion robbery-turned-embezzlement? Check—out of trial, guilty verdicts all around. The sentence is due shortly. No further sign of Lestrange.

Harry took a longer glance at this last folder before setting it aside, considering the lack of progress on the closer focus of the remaining Death Eaters. Not every big case was a bust, of course. It was with a relieved sigh when the folder for the foiled Lisbon bombings had been closed and sent back to Portugal last week. Cases didn't normally end with no civilian fatalities, the remaining terrorist cell in custody, and minimal press coverage, but he was grateful when it did. It was especially rare with plots like this bombing had been (and Merlin knew he didn't want to think about how many times London had come near calamity since 2001).

If only terrorism was his main concern. He almost felt envious of his American counterparts: at least they were fighting an enemy they could see. As it was, he was carefully avoiding looking at two detailed folders on his desk—both of which had laid there as open cases longer than any other.

"Don't look at them, don't look at them, don't look at them," Harry mumbled to himself, knowing there would be no new information. But that hadn't stopped him from turning through the useless pages over and over again in the past months. "You know full well it's a waste of time and, honestly, is sort of becoming an obsession and is absolutely not healthy. Yeah. Something else."

The progress reports on the Junior Aurors? Check—he'd finished looking them over yesterday. Apart from Quirke's inability to stop with her double entendres, they were all training well. Issues with sleuth techniques and maintaining their cover, nothing out of the ordinary.

The extra security for the Wizengamot? In progress—more guards had been stationed since the Fudge debacle with Shacklebolt all-but under house arrest. They were still installing the new 'security cameras': an idea George had made a prototype ages ago that combined the concept of muggle video cameras with a walk-in Penisieve. It hadn't been viewed as high importance until recent events. Dennis Creevey was now heading up getting them set up throughout the Ministry in time for the Halloween Gala.

Harry's personal Operation 'get-the-press-against-Shacklebolt-and-turn-the-election'? On hold—there had always been the issue that there was no decent alternative to the bloke. Fudge out of the picture made it a hint better, but he didn't want to mess with an election made up of write-ins. Particularly as Bill had been joking about starting a grassroots campaign to get people to write in Harry's own name. Harry trusted the Weasleys with his life, but didn't trust them not to pull a stunt like that.

Operation 'get-Hermione-elected-Minister'? Indefinitely on hold—she'd murder him if she found out.

Operation 'get-Percy-elected-Minister'? Negligible—he remained torn if his brother-in-law or Shacklebolt would be a better idea, since he knew Percy would drag him into politics as well.

Operation 'find-out-what-the-eff-Ron's-planning-next'? A complete failure.

Harry looked down at the last one, frowning. He wondered if he could justify ordering a few Aurors to follow the git around.

"Lillian Molly."

"Marginally better, still not good. Why are you opposed to having Molly be the first name?"

"Because Percy has already taken it. But a middle name's acceptable."

"Just take out Lily! Make it Tonks Molly if you'd like. Tonks Potter isn't that bad."

"Harry, don't be ridiculous."

"I'm the one being ridiculous?"

"That sounds atrocious!"

"FINE! Luna Molly, then. How's that?"

"Not horrid, I'll admit. But it—oh. Oh wait."

"Ginny? I, I don't like the look you've just got…"

"LILY LUNA! It's PERFECT!"

"…hell no."

"My little Lily Luna! How cute is that? Absolutely precious!"

"No."

"It's adorable."

"Not happening, don't even think about it. I'm vetoing."

"Pfft, like you can veto."

"I'm the dad!"

"I'm pregnant!"

"It's a namesake after my mum!"

"Who you clearly have lingering issues with, so I'm making the executive decision."

"That's not even a thing!"

"Ga goo. Ga goo!" Ginny clapped her hands over and away from her eyes, beaming as her son giggled. "GA GOO!"

"GAH GAH!" Al gurgled right back, trying to jump about in his bright pumpkin costume.

"You adorable babbbyyy!" his mum happily chimed. With a small huff she lifted her squirming child, sitting back as he clamoured against her baby bump. "Umph. This can't all be from the watermelon. What's your daddy been feeding you?"

"DADA!"

"That's right!" she said brightly, wiggling his nose with her own. Hearing a soft noise from the doorway she didn't bother to look, assuming it was Harry coming back from putting Jamie down for a nap. "My liddle widdle brilliant baby. Yes you are, yes you are! My genius baby with a watermelon belly! Do you have a melon belly? I think you do, I think you do!"

Al giggled and squirmed about as his mum delightedly tickled his stomach.

"MY LITTLE WATERMELON BABY!"

"…so, I'm not asking about this." George chimed in from where he had been lounging at the kitchen doorway, peering at the two surrounded by watermelon slices. Ginny gave a small shriek and leaped around, instinctively holding her giggly baby behind her. "Hello to you too. Was wondering if you wanted to make a bet on the upcoming Puddlemere—"

"Why do you lot keep breaking into my house!"

"It's not breaking in if I have a key and open access to your floo," George rolled his eyes. "I'm insulted you think I'm not well-versed in trespassing laws. With that being said, if you need lock picking tips…"

"OUT!"

"All I'm saying," Ginny said, "is that we're long overdue a vacation. Picture it: sunny days and gorgeous beaches. Getting far away from paparazzi and m-u-r-d-e-r-s."

"Spelling things out doesn't work." Harry had finally gotten his son to latch onto the milk bottle. "Good Albie! Are you forgetting when Jamie wouldn't stop spelling out you-know-what? Did it right in the middle of dinner at the Burrow, too. Your brothers were looking at me shiftily for a month!"

"Like they don't use methods to hide their 'bedroom activities' from their kids," Ginny dismissed. "So what if Jamie latched onto s-e-"

"Don't!" Harry yelped, covering Albus' ears. Ginny blinked at this, blinked at her son (who continued drinking his milk and ignoring them), blinked at her husband, and let out a snort.

"An' then Vicky wanted to play with the gnomes. Told her that was stupid, but she wouldn't—"

"Don't tell people they're stupid, it's not nice," Harry said absently, shifting his gaze every so often between his blotted out speech and Teddy's squiggling over his sums. "Especially not your best friend."

"Yeah yeah," Teddy whirled his pen around. Sitting atop of the desk in his godfather's study, he'd put on his normal attire: bright green eyes and even brighter, fire engine red hair. The Weasleys had, sighingly, stopped bothering to protest the colour years ago: as Teddy insisted that he was always right when it came to colour, and that his inflamed hair was the exact shade of his practically-adopted-relatives'. "Though she's icky—alright! But she was stupid. Saying stuff 'bout how gnome spit was good for her. Said Auntie Luna had told her! Like she'd say that."

Harry paused in scratching out another sentence. He didn't know why, but that rang a bell. "I don't know what your Aunt Luna said. But I'm sure she didn't mean for you to get too close to gnomes. They can be dangerous." Teddy also looked up from his paper, sending Harry a, 'Really?' look. The wizard backtracked. "Not that dangerous. More of a household menace. But still, it's the principle of the thing."

"…Gran Weasley has us chuck them over the hedge?"

"Well, yes. That's, that's chores." Harry struggled (once again) with the line between 'rational parent' and 'overprotective madman'. He'd accepted that this was something that would only get worse with time. "I mean you should, err, stay away from their teeth. Nasty things, those."

Teddy stared at him before shrugging and returning to ignoring his maths for doodling. It was clear he stored this away as yet another weird thing his goddad said which had an amazing story behind it (much like his refusal to store Cornish Pixies or Blast-Ended Skrewts in his home—both of which came up a surprising amount). "Anyway, Vicky wanted to play hopscotch with them."

Harry snorted before catching himself. "I'm sure that went over well. But Teddy, no drawing until all your homework is done."

"I'm doing the problems!"

"You're clearly doodling a shark chomping a cookie—look, finish it all up before your Gran gets here tonight and I'll sneak you some chocolate before dinner. We have a deal?" Harry made a mental note not to mention this to anyone. His idea of effective parenting was viewed by many of his relatives as spoiling ("And turning our kids against us!" Bill had grumbled on one notable occasion, when his children had babbled happily to their 'favourite Uncle' for a full hour before acknowledging their dad's existence. "Underhanded, mate."

"Not my fault I'm lovable," Harry had cheeked back, before returning to breaking up an argument between the tutued but pouting Roxanne and Dominique over who was the prima donna).

The eight year old instantly brightened at the mention of illicit chocolate, returning to the maths work with a fury. Still, he continued his story as though there hadn't been an interruption. "Like the gnomes want to hop around! Didn't even get what she was saying at first. But when they did they were so grumpy. Like, sssooo grumpy! Humphed around and grunted. Thought one was 'bout to bite her! Course Vicky, being mental—"

"Don't call her mental."

"—being perfectly normal, was crazy happy 'bout it." Teddy looked up at Harry, face aghast. "Why's she mental?"

"She's not mental," Harry said calmly, "and you shouldn't use words like that. Vicky likes racing about, you know that. You're always having fun with her."

"I know," Teddy rolled his eyes at his godfather's slowness. "But other times she's so weird! Likes poking me. Likes poking gnomes! Who likes poking gnomes?!"

Harry turned back to the speech with a smile. "Reckon the same sort who like to tickle dragons."

Teddy paused before groaning. "No, 'cause that'd be awesome. But why gnomes!"

That night, it was Harry. Instead of hiccuping gasps, his body shook as he spoke in his sleep. Sometimes it was coherent, tonight it was nonsense, but always it was in a pitch of panic.

He was a lighter sleeper than Ginny. Easier to rouse. Almost always, barely after he was jolted awake he'd protest that he was fine and was sorry for waking her. She had long since stopped arguing with him, having found it was better to wrap her body around his until the shaking had lessened. Instead of reassuring him that it was only a nightmare, she repeated over and over again that she loved him.

On the nights when his voice sounded like a child's and he mumbled about a cupboard, her murmurs shifted to convincing him he wasn't alone.

Whatever the case, it always ended with ice cream in bed. Double chocolate for him, strawberry and caramel for her. More than a few mornings they'd blearily wake to find they'd fallen back asleep and the sheets were smeared with melted dessert. Neither minded.

"Lily Luna."

"No."

"Lily-bily. Lily-flower. Lily-bo-billy-fi-filly!"

"No."

"Do you hear me, Lily? See how pretty your name is? My little Lily baby!"

"Stop calling her that!"

"I can call my belly bump whatever I want, thank you very much."

"I'm pretty sure I have a say in this!"

"Do you want her to be named Nymphadora Hermione? Because I will call her Nymphadora Hermione. Or Muriel Dolores, how does that sound?"

"BETTER THAN LILY!"

"You have to acknowledge your mother issues."

"I don't have mother issues!"

"Of course you do. You're driving yourself barmy over this speech, you're refusing to accept the perfect name for our daughter, and don't think I haven't noticed you're skipping your visit to Godric's Hollow this year."

"Nothing's weird about the last. It's always been morbid, s'not bad I'm skipping it."

"You've visited your parents' graves on Halloween every year since the war! This means something, Harry. I don't know if it's the stress of the baby, the crime sprees, or the anniversary…"

"No, it's simple. I don't want our daughter to have a namesake from my side of the family! It's macabre and—more importantly—your brothers will kill me for supposed name-hogging."

"And you're making excuses."

"I'm not making excuses!"

"Mummy issues."

"Jesus Christ, Gin. I'm fine!"

"Sure you are. But a vacation and a touch of therapy would do you wonders."

"We aren't calling her Lily!"

Ginny had to give it to Harry: playing with a toddler swinging from one's neck while reading barely legible notes was pretty impressive. Especially as Jamie had long since 'stolen' his father's spectacles. Harry didn't seem to mind that his glasses' metal legs were being slobbered on, nor did he let the loss of glasses keep him from scanning the pages (while frequently breaking away to tickle his son and make sure he wasn't swallowing the frames).

Her thoughts caught up to her. Adjusting Al in her arms, she took a closer look at her squinting husband. "Are you only pretending to read that? No offence, but your eyesight's horrid."

"Near-sighted," Harry reminded her absently, scanning the pages. At his wife's answering silence he glanced up, squinted, and realised her confusion. "Anything near me is clear enough. It's only the far away stuff that's blurry."

"I know that, silly. It's just," Ginny crossed her eyes, frowning as she tried to blur her vision, "hard to imagine. Is it like looking at an out-of-focus photo, where people are coloured blobs jumping and waving about?"

"Pretty much." Harry shifted the swinging Jamie so that his son's monkey-hold wasn't as strangling.

She considered this for another moment before her attention shifted back to the notes he'd been reading. Though she was fairly apt at translating her husband's chicken sprawl, the words seemed even more rushed and in bullet-pointed shorthand than usual. Which was odd, as she could have sworn there'd been a nice copy of his speech that he'd been looking over the other day. "Those notes. Should I ask how many drafts you've tossed out?"

"Too many." Harry returned to reading over the pages. "Nothing seems right. Everything's either too personal or too historical."

"I understand it being too personal," Ginny said, also frowning, "but too historical? You might be overthinking things. If the speech is about the end of the First War, it's kind of a big thing. You can't avoid it being at least somewhat historical."

"Doesn't mean I want to talk about it," he let out a low exhale. "The stupidest thing. I'm going to kill Ron, I really am. You know everyone that'll be there, this whole gala? It's to celebrate the end of that war. They're celebrating what happened!"

With his words it all clicked into place, neatly dispersing any confusion. She bit her lip, not aware that she held her son closer to her chest. "Why don't you explain that? That, yes, Voldemort was weakened, and yes, it's a good thing society had peace for eleven years. But it doesn't make what happened any less tragic. You lost your family. There's no glossing over that."

"Yeah, that's what I wrote it the second and third drafts." Harry ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "Then tossed those in the bin. Too bloody personal, remember?"

"I don't think you can get away from it being personal," Ginny thought this over. "It is about your mum, after all. Why do you even need a speech? You could go up there and say what you feel. I know that's easier said than done, but still."

"What, say that I never knew the woman?" he asked, equal amounts sarcastic and worried. "Talk about how she's some great heroine? Relate the handful of things I've learned about her over the years?"

"Say that…" Ginny's voice trailed off. The problem was, if she was giving this speech she knew exactly what she'd say. She'd thank Lily Potter from the bottom of her heart. She'd say that this witch's bravery is the reason she's able to curl up with her husband at night. That she felt guilty for not visiting their graves more often, but hoped they would have liked her as a daughter-in-law. That she wanted her baby to be named after her absent grandmum. "You could say that you never knew her, but wish you did. Or you could say that your wife is eternally grateful to her and that, as I'm always right, Lily Potter was clearly a spectacular woman. Or, if you want to keep it simple? Say that you can play with your kids in a peaceful world all because of her."

Harry didn't answer for a long moment. "Maybe you ought to be giving this speech."

"I think it's good for you," Ginny replied. "Though there's no need to worry, this can be as short and sweet as you like. Say whatever you want and bollocks what anyone else thinks! She's your mum. She's not some historic, abstract person. But still, you're an orphan. No one's expecting you to have tales about growing up with her. Love, there's no wrong answer to this."

This night, it was Jamie.

A fevered shriek echoed through the house, causing both parents to jump out of sleep and grab their wands (Harry's from the headrest, Ginny's from the crevice between mattress and bed). After a moment of blinking, wands were tiredly tossed to the bedside tables. The two exchanged a long glance. Their silent argument was punctured with a second howl: Jamie's cry had woken his brother.

Harry sighed and sleepily ruffled for his boxers. Wearing knickers already, Ginny didn't bother with a top and—with a wide yawn—sauntered to Al's room. The man gave a bare thought to how they were getting damn good at this (trigger-happy instincts aside) as he tugged on some trousers and hurried to his son.

Jamie had stopping shouting by the time Harry had made it into the room, but the little boy was sniffling with blankets pulled over his head. In no time at all the child was being cuddled by his father who—through the hiccoughs—came to understand that a horde of ravenous hippogriffs was hiding under the bed.

Harry pulled him tighter, cooing softly to calm him. Voice little more than a whisper, he told the gulping child that he was an expert hippogriff wrangler and would have them out in no time. After the sniffling had diminished, the wizard scouted under the bed and shooed off the critters with cries of, 'Hocus Pocus!', 'Flibberty Gibbet!', and 'Hungry Hungry Hippogriffs!'.

Soon enough, Jamie was laughing and the bedroom was once again free of magical creatures. With a kiss on his forehead, Harry tucked his giggling son back under the covers. Pulling up a rocking chair, he assured Jamie that he wasn't going anywhere until the boy was fast asleep. After all, it wouldn't do to have the hippogriffs sneak back in.

"All I'm saying is you might have lingering issues over your parents."

"This has nothing to do with that."

"So you admit you have issues?"

"That's not what I meant! I'm well-adjusted, alright? I just don't like the name Lily."

"No, it's that you don't want her to be named after your mum."

"Is that so bad? I'm tired of namesakes. Either we pick one from your family or, hey, how about we pick a brand-new name. There's a thought! One with no baggage involved. Doesn't that sound nice?"

"Sure. If you weren't avoiding the issue."

"There is no issue! There's no problem! I don't like to dwell on my dead parents, how is that strange or unhealthy?"

"Because you're being defensive. It's like how Fred's name was taboo for ages. This silly speech shows it! You hate talking about your past."

"Oh, and in my shoes you'd like it?"

"No, but I hope I'd acknowledge when I needed help. Don't tut at me like that! You don't want to drag up the Dursleys? Fine, never tell me what those monsters did to you."

"Because they didn't do anything to—"

"But you never mourned your parents. That's a damn big thing to have lurking in the back of your head."

"I, what? Of course I've grieved."

"You've never looked them up! You've never researched them. You occasionally visit their graves, but you never mention your parents to our kids."

"Because there isn't anything to research or tell."

"Your mum's journal you found in her vault? The one you wouldn't touch but was fine with me reading? Or your family's homes which you've barely set foot in? The ones with portraits of your ancestors, who I've had quite a few conversations with over the years. Also, who kept fleeing the room whenever Sirius and Remus talked about his parents back at Grimmauld Place?"

"That…that isn't fair."

"You're right, it isn't. I'm being cruel and horrible. But I hate that I know more about Lily and James Potter than you do! Sweetie, that's why I wasn't against you giving this speech: I thought it'd do you some good."

"Ginny, stop this."

"I want to name my daughter after a woman I greatly admire. I've yet to hear you make one decent argument against it!"

"We aren't calling her Lily."

"Don't be such a stubborn—"

"Would you stop! Alright, FINE! I don't give a damn if your brothers think I'm name-hogging and, yeah, the name itself is beautiful. I admit it! Are you happy? But we aren't calling her Lily. You can pick anything else, I don't care. You want Harriet Merlin Potter? Great! You want five middle names? Fantastic! You want to hyphenate some constellations and splotch them in there? Wonderful. But Lily is off-limits. You don't know how much I regret James' name, like I've cursed him with something. Albus' isn't much better. I'm not doing the same to our daughter!"

"Harry…"

"I'm, I have to go. Someone came into my office. I'll see you later."

"Harry, don't hang u—"

"I'm sorry."

"No it's, it's my fault. I shouldn't have cut you off like that. No one actually came into my office."

"Heh, yeah. I guessed as much. But I was the one pushing and I don't want to go to bed angry. Jamie was giving us odd looks all through dinner."

"Too perceptive by half, that one. Though…you're right. I hate fighting."

"Let's shut up about the name. The bugger isn't due until December, plenty of time to hatch out a compromise."

"I guess…"

"Right. A compromise isn't possible, is it."

"Not really."

"Harry?"

"Hmm?"

"If it bothers you that much, okay. We won't name her Lily."

"Gin, thank you."

"Anyway, I still like the sound of Nymphadora…"

"How about Nymph? Not as many letters."

"That doesn't have the same sound to it!"

"That's sort of my point. Hey, how about Ginevra?"

"Don't you dare."

"Little Ginevra Muriel Potter!"

"Harry! Don't joke about—mmph. …oh no, nope. You can't shut me up with a kiss!"

"Hah, sure I can't."

Ginny was at the mirror, earrings dangling, glaring at her hair.

"Crown braid," she muttered to herself, flicking a loose strand. "Crown braid, Fleur said. 'Formally elegant', she said. Could've warned me it'd look like a beehive! But oh no, 'trés magnifique', she insisted." The woman huffed, examining the updo that (even after three attempts) was messier than she'd been after. "Don't know why I bother with the bloody—"

"You look beautiful."

Ginny turned at the voice, an incredulous gaze in her eyes. Harry stepped into the room with a soft smile.

"Don't stare at me like that, you do." Arms wrapped around her silk red dress, his shirt brushing against her thin necklace.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," she said, putting the mirror aside for her husband. "Though, my my, Mr. Potter. You're looking handsome."

Like her, he'd went for muggle clothes rather than formal wizarding attire. She mused that it likely wasn't meant to be a statement. He surely hadn't thought anything of the formfitting green shirt or of the tailored black trousers and jacket, other then that they were comfortable. But she could picture the Witch Weekly article tomorrow: Harry's picture front and centre with an accompanying story of how a boyish, casual style was back in fashion.

"Very handsome," Ginny amended, straightening his collar. "Nice and informal. I like it."

"Well, here's the thing." Harry gave her a sheepish grin. "When I was getting ready I had a fantastic idea."

She waited. Nothing else seemed to be coming. "Yes?" she prodded. Then had to wait a few more seconds.

"Let's not go," he abruptly broke the pause, gathering her closer to him. His hair tickled. "It's a stupid gala and a ridiculous memorial. To hell with Shacklebolt! Do you honestly want to spend an evening dealing with paparazzi and politicians?"

No. Nope, she had no desire to dive through camera flashes and fend off socialites. She sorely wanted to stave off the event with Harry. But…she let out a sigh, breath brushing his cheek. "We can't."

"Let's stay in tonight," Harry repeated, voice low and oh-so-tempting. "Drop the boys off, blow off the gala, and disconnect the floo."

"Sounds heavenly." Ginny returned a soft kiss before pulling away. "I'm still going. I've already stuffed myself into this dress!"

"Which you look lovely in," he murmured against her hair, not relenting. "Though it'd be easy to take off…"

"Two sewing charms, three refitting spells, and another sewing charm once I was in." She sent him an unimpressed look. "I'm quite literally sewn into this dress."

"One little cutting charm?"

"Missing the point." Ginny gave a small groan. "It's a near miracle I'm not bursting out of this!"

"You're beautiful." Harry pulled her back into a hug. "You're always gorgeous and you're not 'stuffed into' or 'bursting out of' anything. But, like I said? As much as I love you in this dress, I'd prefer you out of it."

"Fine then. I'll waltz into the Ministry starkers."

"Or we forget about the Ministry," he wasn't to be dissuaded. "Spend the night relaxing. No kids, no owls, no deadlines, no floos, and no speeches. No one bothering us."

"Ripley would kill you. As would Kingsley."

"I'll remind them what happened to Voldemort." Harry was wholly unconcerned. "Neither of us want to go, so let's skip it. Why not? The boys are going trick-or-treating with George and Angelina, and everyone else has plans. It'll be just you and me. When has that last happened?"

She considered this for a long pause. Even with the trouble it would cause, it sounded blissful. "I could use a pregnancy excuse. Sickness, nausea, what have you."

"Or I'll play the fame card." He smiled to her deadpan look. "About time the celebrity nonsense came in handy. If it can get me an evening alone with you…?"

"Men," Ginny humphed with a small grin, pointing at her stomach. "Why would you want to shag while—"

"You're gorgeous," Harry cut in. Then kissed her to halt further protest. Pulling back after a time, he continued as though there'd been no interruption. "Belly bump and all. If you ask me, it makes you even sexier."

"You're mental." Ginny rolled her eyes, yet couldn't stop smiling. "Very sweet, but mad."

"Handsome. Don't forget handsome." He scrunched her hair up, fingering the loose braid and bun. His other hand played with the top of her strapless dress.

"Humble, too," she breathed into his ear, the tightly secured dress sliding down her form. "Don't think this gets you out of the gala. You've stressed so much about that speech and Kingsley really would be upset."

"Hm mmm." Harry clearly couldn't care less.

"It will get you there fashionably late, at most."

"Hmmm…"

"I'm serious, Harry, we shouldn't just…ohh."

"The fact that Harry Potter was going out with Ginny Weasley seemed to interest a great number of people, most of them girls. Yet Harry found himself newly and happily impervious to gossip over the next few weeks. After all, it made a very nice change to be talked about because of something that was making him happier than he could remember being for a very long time, rather than because he had been involved in horrific scenes of Dark Magic."
—Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince