AN: See my profile for a rather sad explination of my lateness in this chapter

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear that I am up to no good. Oh, and I don't own Harry Potter. Other People do. I own Jenn though. She's mine. You steal her, I cut you up. Que?

Chapter the Second

Breakfast was a fun affair, where I got to fill Harry in on the latest gossip. With the Weasley family having grown into "world-domination levels" (as Uncle George... or was it Fred? put it) there was a lot to tell. Harry, for his part, informed me where he had been. Not having seen him since the Easter break, I listened with great attention as he told of holding down a job as a car mechanic in Egypt (he stopped by at Uncle Bill's, but didn't stay long). That lasted about two months, until a few Egyptian officials began poking around, based on an anonymous tip. Deciding to get out while the getting was good, Harry packed up and moved to Italy, where he served as a janitor for at a large villa right at the foot of the Alps. A few days back, he had up and left his job, and come back to England to be with the nearest thing he has to family for his birthday.

"Thirty seven, Jenn. Thirty bloody seven. Can you believe it? I mean... god, it's just so old. Next thing you know I'll be pulling my pants up to my eyebrows and yelling at children to get off my lawn."

"Oh come on, it's not that old. Besides, you're still young at heart," I replied, a hint of worry in my voice. Frankly, I could care less about age where Harry was concerned, but if he thought he was old, then it would make seducing him far harder. The things one does to jump their Godfather's bones.

Okay, I just realized how wrong that sounded. I resolve never to write a sentence that disgusting. I am truly and deeply sorry.

"'Young at heart' is a nice way of saying that a person isn't just over the hill- they've fallen off the cliff. It's also a euphemism."

"Not this lecture again..." I sighed mournfully. Harry had a personal vendetta against euphemisms

"Euphemisms, Jenn, are ways to obscure the truth. Sometimes, they exist out of sheer politeness- which would be fine, if it was genuine politeness. However, they are mostly used in a sense of faux politeness- one uses them not to spare someone's feelings, but to look better. And euphemisms also have a dark side. They are ways to lie- for people to hide the truth. It's not a hanging, it's a 'state sponsored execution'. It's not a prison- not, it's a 'detention center'. It's not hell- it's 'Azkaban'. Jenn..."

I tuned out around that point. I've heard the lecture a million times. Harry had always had a bad relationship with the press, and with public relations people- the two groups whose job it was to invent euphemisms. To, as Harry described it, put a blond wig on a fat, oafish pig.

I let him continue on his rant for about 3 minutes. By then, he was panting, gasping for breath, his face red and a thin sheen of sweat beginning to break out on his forehead. His eyes blazed with passion.

I wanted to kiss him senseless. Right there, right then. Shut him up with a good, long, tongue in man, hands roaming under his shirt, turn me into a puddle of gook full frontal snog. It took all my restraint not to, and instead to speak.

"Harry... you're sounding like Mum and House Elves..."

Harry, catching his breath, nodded. "You're... right Jenn. Quite right. Sorry. I remember that quite well- your Dad always used to say that whenever your Mum got off on one of her long, political ramblings that he just wanted to snog the living daylights out of her. It always worked too."

"Are you suggesting I should have tried that?" I said, my eyes glinting mischievously. Be carefully what you wish for, Harry.

"What can I say Jenn? I am an eminently eligible bachelor- women love me. I don't see why you should be any different," He said, with those damn green eyes filled with mirth. I hate him, I hate him, I want to be held in his arms every night.

I wanted to take him up on his offer. Oh, how sweet it would be. But I wouldn't- not now. Some day, though. Some glorious day. Tossing my napkin at him, I replied, "In your dreams, old man."

"I see my lecture had some success."

God needs to smite that man.

By this time, breakfast was over, and Harry collected the plates and brought them over to the sink. Tuning the radio until he found some jazz (Harry loves jazz), he began to wash the dishes, singing along to Ray Charles, something about unchaining his heart. I'm not quite sure where Harry got a taste for jazz- maybe some of the times he's gone across the pond to the States- but he loves it. It always seemed strange to me- I don't know, Harry just always seemed like the type to listen to hardcore punk, not soulful jazz.

"So, you never told me why your mum was out," He said, talking over his shoulder.

"Bloody party wanted her to make a speech- rally the troops or something like that. It's absolute bullocks!"

"Language Jenn! It's a good thing you're mother isn't here."

"Well, it is bullocks. It's seven months until elections, they haven't even gotten their candidate, she left them years ago, and yet they still come to her to save their sorry arses."

"Would you rather have no opposition to Fudge?"

He was right of course. The party, or, to use its proper name, The Magical Liberal Party (MLP), was founded by Mum quite accidentally. During the war, she was actually able to persuade a large number of people to join S.P.E.W., especially aurors who were tired of house elves disrupting raids or aiding Purebloods. Mum had continued leading S.P.E.W. after the war, but it was an informal group without much, if any, power.

It was Harry's arrest that changed that. When Harry was arrested, Mum was furious, and she wanted to find some way to get Fudge out of office, and get a more progressive candidate in. However, she quickly found that Fudge belonged to the Wizarding World's most liberal party- all the other ones wanted to slaughter all magical creatures and put women back in the kitchen. She quickly reformed S.P.E.W. into the MLP, and handed over the reigns of its leadership to Susan Bones, who followed her Aunt's footsteps into politics. The MLP had been a thorn in the side of just about every other political party ever since- although it was far from having control, or enough allies to call for a vote of no confidence. However, without them, I shudder to think some of the laws that would have been passed. They were the ones who defended everyone's rights- from magical creatures to convicted felons. The service they provided was invaluable.

Still...

"Just because they're a useful bunch of foolish, idealistic prats doesn't mean they need Mum. She just founded the Party- she never ran it. And she still hasn't helped me with my History homework. Says that I should figure it out myself," I whined. You see, my Mum is the Professor of History at Hogwarts. Don't ask about how Binns got kicked out- it involves the Weasley Twins, a "lady of the evening" from Cuba, and lot of vegetable oil. And having a mother as a professor is far worse than you can possibly imagine.

"Well, Mione never really was one for helping with homework. She never helps you until the last moment. So don't expect anything until at least August 31rst."

"I know... It's been this way ever since I started Hogwarts. I was just hoping that divine intervention would maybe kick in this year... Wait a second, now that you're here, maybe you could help me?"

"Jenn, no student who had Binns, except your mother, actually paid attention in that class. I only know about Voldermort on, and even that I only learned because I had to."

"Well, you're in luck. Last year of school is Modern Wizarding History," I didn't mention that it was what most students call "The Interesting Stuff." I love Harry, but he might tell it to Mom as a joke, and well... Mom has never taken my jokes well. Let's just say that there was one time when Uncle Fred and Uncle George let me test their new line of "Hair Care" products. Things happened that night that will never be repeated again.

"Well, I could help you... under one condition," he said with that sly grin on his face, which he uses only when he has something devious planned (utterly killing my hopes that the condition would be a long snogging session. It never is with the hot ones). "I'm going to need you to degnome the garden because otherwise, me and your dad will have to do it. And me old back just ain't what it used to be."

I never was quite sure where Harry picked up the word "ain't", except that he was a Southern butler at one time. It might have been there... but the family he served was British.

But I digress. Back onto the subject, I shot Harry a dirty look at the prospect of degnoming. Does anyone like doing that? At least Harry is old enough to legally use magic in degnoming. I'm stuck doing using the old fashioned method. Unenthused, I trooped out to begin my work.

It took about an hour to degnome the garden. During the entire dirty, smelly, disgusting, "I will take at least three hours more than normal to get ready for any dates within the next year, and my boyfriends will never understand or appreciate this" task, Harry sat on our front porch, in a Hawaiian shirt and white knee-high shorts, sipping on a glass of lemonade while he watched me slave away. Did I mention that he has a really sick sense of humor?

Sometimes we hate those we love the most. In fact, a more appropriate word would be despised. And wanted to kill.

However, after I was finally done with the horrible, dreadful, terrible, abominable, atrocious, lousy, dissatisfactory, and just really bad task, Harry did pour me some lemonade, while making a great show out of gripping his back.

He walked, hunched over, up the stairs with me to my room, and sat, clutching his back, old-person style, on my bed, while I walked over to my meticulously kept desk. Another habit inherited from Mum. Luckily, I got her brains and organizational skills, not her social skills.

I pulled out my fresh ink and best quill (if my writing isn't perfect Mum makes me rewrite the paper), grabbed a piece of parchment, and began.

The assignment was to write an essay on how Voldermort's rise changed the magical world in two of the following areas: Economic, Education, Social Class, Battlefield Tactics, Relations with Magical Creatures, Women's Rights, etc. Somehow, Mum managed to make a war boring.

"Why did shielding spells become more popular despite the killing curse? Well, I don't Hermione, maybe because you told me to, and if any of us didn't use it, you'd kill us." Harry mused sarcastically. I snorted out in very unladylike fashion, and got a funny look from Harry. Yeah. Rule #1 of dating your godfather: Don't snort when you laugh. In fact, that probably applies to dating boys in general.

By the time my terrible horrible, dreadful, terrible, abominable, atrocious, lousy, dissatisfactory, and just really bad essay was finished, it was around noon, and I heard a faint pop from the living room, meaning that Dad was home. It had to be Dad, because Mum always reasoned that if she had to go to London to make some speech to a party she didn't even head, at least she should enjoy herself there.

She was going to a spa. The wench.

After he nearly had a heart attack due to discovering Harry in his seat(Dad's oblivious like that. He sees Harry's bags in the living room, which Harry has had for ten years, and just never connects it to Harry. Whose bags does he think they are? Some boy who is debauching me? Wait... if those belong to Harry... I did not mean for that to come out like that. Really. For once in this narrative, I made a completely unintentional reference to Harry and I performing intimate acts). Of course, this also meant that Dad insisted on making lunch.

Yes, I realize you're thinking that anything Ron Weasley, Hall-of-Fame bound keeper, coach on the rise, all around manly man, cooks is going to turn to stone, but, um, just between us, he's a really brilliant cook. Marvelous even. Come on- did you really think Mum would have ever learned to cook?

I mean, she attempted to. But the problem is, Mum thought that cooking was easy, because it mostly required reading and then following directions. She thought it was the same as Potions. This was a completely wrong assumption, but somehow her first few dishes were great. However, once she found out that she didn't need to watch the stove every minute, she began to read while she cooked. Bad, bad, bad idea. Wretched really. Ranking somewhere just below New Coca Cola on the all-time bad ideas list. Dad still has burn scars on the back of his hands.

Dad, therefore, had to learn how to cook. It wasn't hard. Nana Weasley helped. And so did Aunt Ginny. Aunt Katie. Aunt Dorothy (long story about Fred's wife). Aunt Maria (Bill never could get along with Fleur, so instead he married some Spanish archeologist), and Uncle Howard(oh, come on. You thought Charlie was straight? Yes, he loves dragons. But it's also a profession with very few women. It wasn't a coincidence. Yes, he's a rugged, dragon loving man. Who loves other, rugged, dragon loving men).

Aunt Penelope, who is very good at ordering out, ended up taking Mum under her wing.

Dad decided to bring out the grill (which is very American, but Dad loves, because it's fast, easy, and fries things), and decided told me to go "Uh... do whatever, uh... you girls do," in the tactful way that only Dad can. I took it to mean that Dad wanted some alone time to talk "guy talk" with Harry.

'Well, if they want to play it that way,' I thought, with an evil grin spreading over my face as I grabbed a trashy romance novel, and climbed up the stairs. Now, the flaw in the house's construction is that the walls are very thin in one place- between my walk-in closest (second floor), and the kitchen (first floor). Was it sneaky? Of course. But really, what woman hasn't done something at least slightly manipulative to get their man? It's not our fault that they are denser than brick walls.

"Mate, you didn't even really like that Isis woman," That was Dad's voice, attempting, unsuccessfully, to console Harry. But who was this Isis girl?

"I know Ron... I know. But it's just that... she, well she filled a void for a few years. I, well... yes, it was a mess. But you don't know what it's like to be near forty and alone Ron. You don't know what it's like when you're on the run, to find a woman, even a terrible woman, who accepts you, who comforts you for a time. You don't know what's it's like to run from the law because your love betrayed you. Yes, she may not have loved me... but, well, for a time, I thought I loved her." Harry sounded forlorn. I've never seen him like that. He just... well, he doesn't open up to people well. Mum and Dad, Aunt Ginny, Uncle Neville, sometimes even Uncles Fred and George. But he's very closed. I wish I knew why, but it probably has something to do with the muggles who raised him. Dad has sworn about the Dursley's- that was the muggles' name- ever since I was born.

It breaks my heart. It shouldn't be like that. Harry shouldn't be afraid to open up. And people shouldn't hurt him when he does open up.

Harry needs to stop feeling like he has to be perfect. You'd think he'd be able to open up around Mum and Dad- they've known him for years, but he doesn't. He still won't talk about some things- things in the war, things in his childhood. Harry doesn't seem to understand that you can't go around carrying as much emotional baggage as he does. Eventually, you collapse under its weight.

He needs to be able to, well, mortal. But he doesn't. And he can't. He's Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. The Man Who Fought. He's been looked on to be something more than human for so long, he's started to believe it. He's started to believe that he isn't allowed to have problems, sorrows, pain, or tears. He's not aloud to open up.

What he really needs is someone, anyone, to love him. To be his rock, to be his shoulder to cry on.

Maybe one day, I could be that person for Harry.

AN: New chapters shall be coming soon, to make up for my delay. I am truly sorry about it.

Also, if you read and don't review, I'll kill a kitten. A really cute kitten. So, anyone who doesn't review is a terrible kitten hating person.