"You are mad," Roger said, almost daily. "You know that, don't you?"

Penelope was never sure if he was referring to the way she'd gathered her robes about her knees as she sat on the floor, or the fact that she sat on the floor to write her articles, or the fact that she wrote articles for the paper in the first place. She never bothered to ask, though; she simply smiled and said, "Well, I'm not insane, am I?" before returning to her article.

It was a routine, one of many they'd fallen into, and not by accident. As long as they had routines, it was easier to believe that this was normal. And the more normal the situation, the less chance they had to fear it.

"Are you afraid of this?" Roger asked one night as the owls left the press, laden with papers.

Penelope watched the last few owls disappear into the night before she turned to him. "Of course I'm not afraid. I'm scared, but that's not the same."

"There's a difference?"

"There's a world of difference," she replied. "It's easier to be afraid. But it's easier to do something if you're scared of it."

"So I suppose that means I'm scared of this," he murmured, bending his head to kiss her softly.

Well, that was something Penelope hadn't expected to happen. Moreover, she hadn't expected to like it, not when the last person she'd kissed was Tonks, and Roger was nothing like the Auror. But it happened, and she did like it, and she was kissing him back before she even realized what she was doing.

When she finally pulled away and told him he was mad, he only laughed, and she knew this could be a very good thing.

A happy accident, he called them, and it was nice to have some happiness, even of the accidental kind, in a world that often felt like it had gone completely mad.

Most times, they only had the late nights because the days belonged to Dust and Mildewe, and the evenings to the Informer. During their quick dinner break, someone—usually Remus, sometimes Tonks or another Order member—brought them information, and Penelope often left her food behind in her rush to turn the scraps of information into usable articles.

If Remus had brought the information, he'd more often than not stay to help her write, or at the very least edit. She couldn't help but notice, as he rolled up his sleeves to work, that his robes were as threadbare as they'd been before she'd started on his book so long ago. Surely the money he'd received from the publication could buy him a new set of robes

"I think you need to stop worrying about Remus Lupin's robes," Oliver advised her, as they sat outside Florean Fortescue's one weekend. "If you're not careful, Davies might catch onto the fact that you fancy him."

"There's nothing to catch onto," she reminded him. "Anyway, I'm not worrying. I just don't think he should spend so much money on the Informer if he's not taking care of—"

"D'you know what that is, Penelope?" He took a bite of ice cream, then smiled smugly at her. "That's worrying. So don't tell me you're not doing it, because you are."

"Even if I am," she mumbled around a mouthful of banana split, "that doesn't mean I fancy anyone besides Roger."

Oliver chuckled. "Just keep telling yourself that, love."

"A knut for your thoughts," Roger said one night, just after they'd owled the papers.

Penelope wanted to tell him her thoughts were worth a Galleon, at least, but before she could, the truth poured out instead. "Are we in over our heads?" she asked. "Is this too much for us?"

"If it is, I still want to do it," he replied. "So long as I'm with you."

She smiled at him, then, because she didn't know what else to do. Roger was one of the best things that had ever happened to her, and she knew he loved her, even if he'd never said it out loud. He'd started the paper, but he'd let it become her cause, and that sort of dedication was hard to find.

"And you with me, Penelope. That's how it should be." He smiled again, and it occurred to her that he smiled more than anyone she'd ever cared for. Perhaps that was because he had more to smile about. "Because I love you."

"I love you, too," she replied, almost automatically, and it wasn't until the words left her mouth that she realized she did love Roger. Roger in all his optimistic idealism was worth a hundred indecisive Tonks, a thousand ambitious Percys. Roger believed what she believed, he fought for what she fought for, and he loved her.

And if the world came crashing down around her, she'd survive, as long as he was by her side.