A/N: You have no idea how many times I tried to write this chapter- it always (including this time) came out sucking… but I was so angry with the damned thing by the end that I just finished the current version. It has a certain flow- but that's the only good thing I can say about it. Also, it seemed longer when I was writing it. AND yes, the title is a song- three imaginary cookies to anyone who can name it! CTMSD: 2 Chapters.

It is very hard to do this in the right way, to tell the words that will open up whatever it is that's between Harry and I. I think, what we have isn't that special- it's just right. We fit each other like no one else ever has, or ever could. We've both seen it all, we both know what's been and what we want to come.

There is no time to dance around each other in a war. Harry and I, we never lied to each other, there were never comic misunderstandings that spiraled off into hilarity, there was just me and Harry. That's all there ever was, really. There was one moment, in his first year, at the train station where we made eye contact and there was nothing else in the world but that one moment, that one boy, those green, green eyes.

I mistook that for love- it wasn't. What I have with Harry now is quiet, peaceful and like a sedative. It's like laying in front of the fire in mid-December with a cup of tea, my favorite book and a blanket- it's warm and right and comforting. Sometimes, yes, it's more like being in the fire than being next to it- molten, fast, rough and bright. But the rest of the time there's a certain tempo to it- if it were a song it would be smooth and low, a caress.

I could go on forever about it. The way it feels when we- anything, I guess. Nothing is quite the same with him, I had boyfriends before Harry, but the simplest things- like when Dean held doors open for me- weren't the same. The feeling I could get kissing Dean and the feelings I get sitting next to Harry are the same. He's so much more.

I am going on forever about it.

"You look older," was the first thing Harry- dear, bumbling Harry- said to me. A year and a half and all I get is an observation. It was all I was expecting.

"You look like you," I said, walking over to him as fast as I could, him and my sons. "Are they alright?"

"They're fine, a little scared," Harry said, "but mostly of the Floo, I think," he looks at me and I can just tell that what he really wants is to put the boys down and hold me. Well, what I really want him to do is that, and Harry and I normally want the same things. "Jamie's been sleeping, though." I always call him James- never Jim, anything like that. But I knew that Harry would never be able to call him James, I had always known that, it would hurt him too much for words.

"They like you," I said, watching the shy Jamie cuddle close to his father's neck, while Sirius, who hardly approves of me sometimes, played with his shirt cuffs.

"I'm their father," he said, "and I love them." That's when I almost started to cry. Because there is something so unutterably beautiful about those words, that look, that man. And it's as if I can see him the way it should be, for a moment it's as if it's all really OK. As if Harry was the one holding my hand when they were born and not Bill, as if he were the first to hold them and not my father. It feels as if this is a real family and not the puzzle pieces that could make one.

"I know you do, love," I said, "If you want to give me James, we could go upstairs. Talk, maybe," he doesn't give me the grin that that statement would have elicited just a year ago, and a part of me is glad of that. A part of me, the better part, knows that he's just nineteen- he should be giving me that look, he shouldn't be holding his children. He shouldn't have to be a man just yet.

"I'd like that," is all he says, and he smoothly passes James to me, and as he does that, his hand brushes over my shoulder. And then, in that instant, the war is over.