[c/w for shades of ptsd in the third section, drinking in the fourth section; mentions of Hermione/Ron, some overt Harry/Ginny]


Hogwarts Year Seven, Second Term

"Happy New Year, 'Mione!"

She glanced up at him from her novel and smiled. "Happy New Year, Harry."

He took the chair across from her while Ron sat down beside her on the couch. Ron gave her a smile and squeezed her hand, and Harry dropped his gaze. After what seemed like months of tiptoeing, these two appeared to be on solid ground. All for the best, he reminded himself. At the very least, it gave him a break from Ron's moaning.

"Missed you on the train," Harry continued, which was an understatement of the blinding panic that had taken hold of him when she'd failed to show up to their usual compartment. Thankfully, he'd received an owl from McGonagall not five minutes later, assuring him that Hermione would be at Hogwarts when they returned. He and Ron had only just made their way up from the Entrance Hall, the fresh snow still drying on their shoes.

Hermione shook her head, closing her book. Crookshanks was curled up beside her, and his tail twitched as she moved. Now that she had her hair in braids, he could see more of her face, and she looked tired. "There was a Portkey delay at the French Ministry. I ended up taking the Floo from the Gare de Lyon, straight to the British Ministry, and from there, to McGonagall's office. I got in maybe an hour ago?"

"Blimey." Ron sank back into the cushions. "That's a lot of hops for one day."

"Portkey delay," Harry repeated, frowning. "Why?"

Hermione gave him a warning look, the one he knew to mean 'don't get mad.' "That's been happening a lot, apparently. There have been intermittent transportation delays across Europe ever since the War. No real rhyme or reason to it, but my guess is it's a security precaution."

"You're joking," Ron scoffed.

"That's ridiculous," Harry added. "The country's been stable for, what—"

"Eight months, maybe?" Hermione cut in, giving him that sly, knowing smirk of hers that challenged every competitive bone in his body.

"Well," said Harry, still heated. "That's certainly better than the past five years!"

"Yeah," said Ron, "but that's the frogs for you. Worrying themselves to death over nothing."

"Honestly, Ron." Hermione rolled her eyes, then glanced around. Most of the students were still making their way to their dormitories, since dinner wouldn't be served for another half-hour. "Where's Ginny?"

She'd sounded almost tentative. Harry caught her gaze and said, "She's off meeting Luna's new canary. She'll be along in a minute."

Hermione nodded. She held his gaze for another long, inscrutable moment, then looked away, biting her lip.

Harry felt a weird jolt in his stomach. He could still remember, with frightening clarity, how warm and plush her mouth had been against his own, the way she'd shuddered and melted into his arms when—

Ron sat up and clapped his hands together. "Chess, anyone?"

Hermione dignified that with a snort and opened her book again, settling into the cushions.

"I'll play," said Harry, all too glad for the distraction.

Ron went to fetch his chess set from the dormitory, and once he was gone, Harry and Hermione sat in relative silence for several moments. Around them, the controlled chaos of students returning from the holidays continued, someone put on the wireless, and the fire crackled.

"What are you reading?" Harry found himself asking.

Hermione spared him a glance. "David Copperfield. I always—"

"Read it around Christmas, I know."

Hermione looked at him now, really looked at him, but before he could say anything else, Ginny plopped herself into Harry's lap and gave him a kiss.

"What did I miss?" she asked him, grinning, then finally noticed that they weren't alone. "Oh, hello, Hermione! Good holiday?"

Hermione gave her a thin smile. "Great, thanks. And you?"

"Brilliant," Ginny replied, and she reached for Harry's hand. He stared down at their intertwined fingers, unable to shake the feeling that he was watching this play out from someone else's body, someone else's life. It still didn't feel real. None of it did.

Ron reappeared, chess set in tow. "All right, Harry, two chocolate frogs say I take your bishop in the first ten minutes."


February brought the feeblest rays of sun back to the snow-covered highlands, but Calgrave was still determinedly dismal. Harry frowned up at the dark grey sky, and Teddy cooed in his arms as if sensing his unease.

"It's all right, little man." Harry gave the baby a bit of a jiggle and got a gurgle of delight. "Harry just hates the rain, that's all."

"'Arry!" Teddy poked him in the cheek. "'Arry, 'Arry!"

Andromeda's new cottage was snug and warm, an oasis in the midst of the dull winter. She now lived in a small Wizarding village near Nottingham, far away from London and Sussex and all the memories she couldn't afford to entertain. She worked in a little Wizarding nursery school around the corner, where Teddy spent most of his days, and Harry couldn't think of a better situation for his young godson. And, he could have the assurance that Teddy was growing up away from prying eyes, from scandal, from reporters who didn't seem to know when to stop. Teddy had rolling hills, fresh cow's milk, a forest to prowl through, a creek to splash in, and his own bedroom full of the best toys. (Harry had discovered he had quite a spending problem when it came to family.) What more could a young child need or want, he often found himself wondering. What more could there be, other than this?

Harry brushed a kiss to Teddy's neon red hair, inhaling some of his delightful, warm scent. It was getting more and more difficult to go back after days like this, to switch from pseudo-parent to teenaged war veteran. More exhausting. Less rewarding. A part of him, a part he always tried to ignore, just wanted to stay here. To stay here and grow old while Teddy grew up.

"There we are!" Andromeda appeared with a bottle in hand. Her long, greying hair was falling out of its loose bun, but otherwise, she was completely put-together, as usual. She passed him the bottle with a smile. "He'll be ready for a nap once he's gotten that down."

"I hope so, I thought that walk would do him in for sure." Harry shifted Teddy onto his back and popped the bottle into his mouth. Teddy went after it like an animal, and both Harry and Andromeda laughed.

"Has he gotten better about eating his greens?"

Andromeda nodded, wiggling Teddy's foot. "He ate a whole portion of beans and spinach just yesterday."

Harry blinked. That was a huge change. "How on earth did you manage that?"

Andromeda flashed him a grin. It made her look younger. "I mixed it with his sweet potatoes. Don't tell."

Once Teddy was down for the count, Harry made his way to the Floo with reluctance. After he put his cloak on, Andromeda pulled him into a hug, and he let her, wrapping his arms around her small, delicate frame. It seemed that he'd grown again, because he had to hunch over a bit to rest his chin on her shoulder.

She released him and rubbed his arm, her gaze searching. "We'll come up north once the weather warms up a little. I haven't been to Hogsmeade in years, and Teddy will love Zonko's."

Harry nodded. "I'll try to visit again before the end of the month."

"No pressure, Harry." She rubbed his arm again. "It's your final year. You should enjoy it."

An unexpected lump rose in Harry's throat. "I know."

Andromeda was still giving him that look, like she was trying to find something in his face and failing. "Are you doing all right, Harry?"

He nodded, fighting the urge to step away. "Yeah, of course."

She clearly didn't believe him, but she nodded.

Harry landed on McGonagall's hearth with a shiver, and he looked round to see the Headmistress at her desk, in the middle of writing something. She glanced up at him with her usual enigmatic expression, and he smiled.

"I trust you had a productive afternoon, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes, thank you, Headmistress." He brushed a bit of soot off his shoulders. "Once again, I very much appreciate you allowing me to use your Floo."

McGonagall waved a dismissive hand. "You've been doing so since the beginning of the school year. I believe we can dispense with the niceties."

Harry grinned. "Understood." He made for the door, turning his back on the office that was so familiar and so foreign all at once. "Have a good evening, Professor."

"And you, Mr. Potter."

The castle was quiet and cold, which was par for the course on a wintery weekend afternoon. Harry pulled his cloak tighter around his frame and cast a discreet Warming Spell; he'd become more susceptible to catching a chill since his tenure in the tent.

He still had some time before dinner, and an unfinished Defense essay that was, unfortunately, calling his name. So he made his way to Gryffindor tower, and into a common room that was much quieter and emptier than he'd expected. He'd left his school bag by his favorite table near the fire, and after taking off his cloak, he pulled out his essay, quill, ink, and his Defense textbook.

It was only then, once he'd helped himself to a biscuit or two out of his personal stash, that he realized Hermione was in her usual armchair, head down, her back to him, fiddling with something that looked a lot like knitting.

"Hermione," he said, more out of surprise than anything else. "You're not in the library." She'd been holding herself — and, occasionally, him and Ron — to a NEWTs study schedule that was ruthless at best, evil at worst. It was incredibly rare to find her here, in the common room, on a weekend afternoon.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, and he felt a strange swooping sensation in his stomach, because her eyes were a bit red and her whole face was puffy. He knew that look so well by now that he felt a sudden burn of anger — he wanted nothing more than to punish the person who had made her cry, to turn back time and make it all disappear.

"Oh, I." She looked down again, a bit dazed. "I finished early, so I came back here."

"Right." Harry fiddled with his quill. "What are you making?"

Hermione sighed, then frowned. "A cowl, but it's not going well." She glanced at him. "I don't suppose Teddy's in need of another blanket?"

Harry fought off a grin. She'd already made him three. "Sure."

"That'll be my back-up plan, then. What are you working on?"

"Defense. I'm guessing you already—"

"Two days ago." She put down her knitting and rolled up her yarn. "Are you stuck?"

"Yeah," he found himself saying, even though he wasn't. "Yeah, I am, a bit."

"What on?" Hermione came over and settled down across from him. Underneath the puffiness, she was alert, sharp, ready. An expression he had seen countless times, one that meant pressing on in spite of what she was feeling, one that he'd wished to never see again.

"The feeding patterns," he replied. "You know I'm useless at geography."

They then passed a very fruitful hour or two discussing the different characteristics of a banshee, where Muggle and Magical folklore overlapped and where they differed, and whether banshees could potentially be manipulated by the whims of Dark wizards. Harry finished his essay with ease, and he found himself enjoying this, the simplicity of being a student again, of being able to distract Hermione, even if only for a short period. When the time came to go down to dinner, he packed up his things while Hermione stood and stretched. Her face was clearer now, brighter, and Harry felt a tingle of relief.

"I meant to ask," she said, as they stepped through the portrait hole. "How are Teddy and Andromeda?"

"Very well," he replied, unable to hold back a smile. "Teddy's walking more and more, he'll be a nightmare in no time. And his hair changes so often, Andromeda thinks it won't be long until he can do parts of his face. He's right about where Tonks started doing it."

"That's great!" And it sounded like she meant it. She even offered a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You must miss him."

Again, a funny feeling in his stomach, and he could only nod. As they joined the flow of students heading for the Great Hall, he leaned in a little closer and said, "Are you all right?"

Hermione took a quick breath, her knuckles turning white on the bannister of the staircase. "Yes, I'm— It's nothing, really, I was just being silly—"

"What happened?"

She glanced at him, and he was surprised to see anger as well as hurt in her eyes. "Another stupid fight, that's all. But I don't see what business it is of yours."

That stung. He stared at her, unable to understand what was happening. "Hermione, if someone's upsetting you, then—"

"Then what, Harry?" Her voice was brittle, ruthless, and she turned away from him. They were almost at the Entrance Hall now. "Just forget it."

He was completely lost. "But Hermione—"

She marched ahead of him, getting to the Great Hall before he did. When he managed to catch up, she was sitting with Luna and Hannah at the Ravenclaw table, already tucking into a plate of Shepherd's Pie. She didn't even glance at him as he made his way to the Gryffindor table, where Ginny was sitting with some of her friends. There was no sign of Ron anywhere.

Grinny looked up and smiled at him as he sat down. "Hey, stranger! Where did you disappear off to today?"

It took Harry a few seconds to shift his utter confusion from Hermione to his girlfriend, and Ginny gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Ginny, I— I was with Teddy today, I told you last night."

Her eyes widened a bit, then she shrugged, going back to her meal. "Sorry, must've slipped my mind."

"S'okay," he said, glancing over at Hermione again. He'd thought things were better between them, but maybe, he realized, he'd been wrong.


In mid-April, high winds rolled through the grounds of Hogwarts and cancelled two weeks' worth of Quidditch practices. Students who dared to venture into Hogsmeade returned with wind-burned faces, streaming eyes, and a persistent shiver that turned into a cough if you didn't take a dose of Pepper-Up right away. Even most Care of Magical Creatures lessons had been moved into the castle for the time being, which proved to be most entertaining when a young Niffler broke ranks and ended up nestled behind one of the tapestries on the fourth floor, half of the school's watches tucked in its paws.

The winds beset the castle at all hours of the day, and managed to squeeze into every possible nook and cranny — moans, groans, and howls had all become part of Hogwarts daily life. Flitwick had resorted to Sonorous more than once to make himself heard, and students walked the halls wearing ear muffs and hats. Silencing Charms ran amok in the dormitories, especially at night, along with Warming Chams and huge piles of bedding to drown the noise as well as the sharp, tingling cold that seemed to follow every gust.

It's the wind, Harry thought desperately as he watched the glow-in-the-dark hands of his watch tick closer to three in the morning. It has to be the wind.

That had to be the explanation, though insomnia was not new to him. Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd had a solid night's sleep, certainly not since coming back to Hogwarts. Perhaps at Christmas, when he'd finally collapsed in Andromeda's guest room and slept undisturbed for a full fourteen hours. Exhaustion seemed to chase him everywhere in the castle, slipping through the shadows of the past, of the dead and wounded, of the faces of schoolmates he'd never seen again. He felt it most at times like this, in the dead of night, when the dark of his single room was inky-black and infinite. Completely different from and exactly the same as King's Cross.

It would be different, he thought now, rolling over to catch a glimpse of the skirting clouds through his velvet curtains. It would be different if it weren't so quiet.

Because it was, inside Harry's head. He'd expected, even wanted, to be haunted by everything, to carry the burden of all his trauma. To have his ears ring with the screams of the dying, the burn of rebounding spells. But it was as if someone had closed the door on a chapter he hadn't yet finished reading, and sealed the book under lock and key. He couldn't open it again, wittingly or not. It was normal, according to his Healer, but Harry wasn't sure he believed that any normal standards could be applied to his situation. What can you tell someone who stared Death in the face and bowed to it, only to awaken to a world hardly better than the one he'd left?

This wasn't to say that he didn't have nightmares, because he did. Infrequently — sometimes several nights in a row, sometimes not for several weeks — but often enough that he knew the greatest hits. Drowning in the lake, Godric's sword just out of reach; swallowing Fiendfyre until his lungs burned red and gold and he swallowed all of Hogwarts in a burst of rage; suffocated by the roots of the Forbidden Forest, his parents' faces melting into branches burnt black by the Killing Curse; Hermione's shriek of agony at the sight of his dead body, then her brown eyes dull, her skin ashen, blood pooling beneath her body and the bodies of all the people he—

Harry sat up, scrubbing a hand through his hair, irritation burning beneath his skin. This was pointless. He had to get out of here, to do something else. He got out of bed, shoved on his glasses, then pulled on another two sweaters, another pair of pajama pants, another pair of socks, and his slippers, then pocketed his wand as well as his Invisibility Cloak. He didn't know where he was going, but it didn't matter.

The wind whistled through the eaves as Harry made his way down the otherwise silent tower. As he passed the bedrooms of his classmates, he couldn't suppress a tinge of jealousy — they were probably all fast asleep, or close enough to it not to know the difference.

But, he was proved wrong when he stepped into the common room and found that one of the armchairs by the fire was occupied by what looked to be a life-size marshmallow. A marshmallow with a sort of frighteningly huge bun on top of its head.

Harry hesitated, then steeled himself and went over to the fireplace. They were the only two who were awake, so he couldn't just pretend that he hadn't seen her. "Morning," he murmured, taking a seat on the adjacent sofa.

Hermione blinked, coming back from wherever she'd been as she gazed into the fire. She was wrapped in a fluffy white comforter with only her head and her hands visible above the folds, and her braids were piled into a crooked bun that must've weighed about ten pounds. She squinted at him, apparently irritated, though not surprised. "Morning."

"Good book?" he asked her, rubbing his hands together for warmth. The wind, which had calmed down for a few minutes, whistled past the windows, making them rattle.

She glanced down at her lap, at the open book that she apparently had not been reading. It was massive, and it looked old. "Yes," Hermione said. "Fascinating."

Harry tilted his head to see the cover. "Magycal Humours And How to Balance Them," he read aloud. "Light reading?"

Hermione ignored him, closing the book and putting it down on the coffee table. "Why are you—?"

"Couldn't sleep." Harry sank back into the cushions. "You?"

Hermione shook her head, her gaze drifting back to the fire. Her expression was closed-off and naked all at once, a vat of raw and suppressed emotion. It made his tongue stick in his mouth. He didn't know what to say to that, to any of it.

So they sat there, in silence save for the wind and the crackling of the fire, for long enough that Harry forgot to check his watch. It was so similar to the many nights they'd shared in the tent, and so completely different. Now they were warm, healthy, well-fed, and the only thing they had to worry about were their exams. The war was over. Voldemort and all the shattered pieces of his soul were gone. Hermione's parents knew her again, and had held her for what must've been hours after she'd managed to reverse the Memory Spell. He could remember that moment with distinct clarity, waiting just outside the sitting room in their Australian house, tense and jittery from the anxiety he'd seen in Hermione's face for far too long. He could remember the way her mother had gasped, her father weeping, the thud of their knees hitting the floor as all three of them fell into a joyful, messy hug in the middle of the room.

He'd been an outsider then, just as he was still an outsider now. The interviews, the speeches, the commemorative plaques and statues, the annual minute of silence, all of it had catapulted him to a level of notoriety he had, foolishly, not expected. Harry had tried to push recognition onto some of the other heroes from the Battle, but it hadn't worked — the Wizarding public had known his name since he was a baby, and that wasn't about to change, scar or no scar. Said scar had all but faded away now, and he no longer carried the fear of not knowing what he might be capable of. Now, he knew.

He knew he was capable of feeling alone in a room full of people. He knew he could kill. He knew he could make a passable dinner or two — usually pasta. He knew he was a miserable packer, especially for international travel. He knew he still had trouble tying a tie. He knew his temper was somehow shorter and longer, now. He knew how to torture someone and make it count. He knew how Hermione liked her eggs — sunny side-up — and her weak spot for room service. He knew he would die for her, just to forget that sound she'd made when she saw him in Hagrid's arms.

"D'you ever miss Australia?" he said aloud, breaking their silence.

It took a moment to register. Hermione blinked, looking away from the fire to shoot him her trademark old-fashioned look, the one she'd been giving him ever since they'd met. He didn't think she was aware of it, half the time. "Pardon?"

"Australia," Harry repeated. "I know we were only there for—"

"Yes. No." Hermione shook her head, frowning now. "I don't know."

Harry nodded, letting a few memories flicker past him. Getting to the hotel in downtown Melbourne, meeting a few officials at the local branch of the Australian Ministry, shaking hands with the Australian Minister for Magic. Walking along the beach, watching Hermione think her way through what would probably be the most difficult conversation she'd ever have in her life. Sand in her hair, sun in her eyes. Room service and bad movies in her room the night before they went to her parents' house, when she was too keyed-up to sleep and he was too paranoid to let her sit it out in a room with multiple entry points. Lots of to-go coffee the next morning, burning his tongue before he followed her into their home. A seafront dinner when they celebrated, Mr. Granger popping a bottle of champagne, Hermione's face shining with joy in the blood-red sunset. It didn't matter, in that moment, that Ron wasn't there.

He was mourning, Hermione had said. She couldn't ask him to travel halfway across the world mere weeks after Fred's funeral.

"I liked the beach," Harry found himself saying, even though he knew he should drop it. "And that park by the hotel, the one next to the bridge."

To his surprise, Hermione smiled. "The one with that sculpture?"

Something jolted in his stomach and he fought the urge to smile back. "Yeah."
Hermione snorted. "I still don't understand how they allowed that thing in a public place."

Harry chuckled. "I think it was inspired—"

"It was…" She shook her head. "Harry, it was lewd. And just awful."

"Sorry, I didn't know you were an art critic now—"

"Don't be ridiculous, it's just an objective—"

She was interrupted by a crisp pop! as Kreacher appeared beside the fire, a small rag in one hand an unamused expression on his face.

"Kreacher was waiting," he growled, shuffling closer to the fire. "He was waiting to clean until the common room was empty. But it seems that Master Harry and Miss Granger have forgotten the way to their bedchambers this evening."

Harry grinned at him. "Hello, Kreacher."

Kreacher gave him, then Hermione, a short bow. "Please excuse me, Master Harry, but I must tend to the fire." With a snap of his fingers, the flames shrank, the ashes disappeared, and the fire banked itself. It was still warm, but Harry felt as if he'd just been splashed with cold water.

"Chilly night, isn't it, Kreacher?" he said.

"Indeed, Master." Kreacher was wiping down the coffee table now, and Hermione lifted her book out of his way. "Headmistress McGonagall has given us all more bedding and extra sweaters to wear outside of the kitchens." And he was indeed wearing a small black sweater with the Hogwarts crest on it.

"That's good," said Hermione, kindly. "Sorry to keep you up, Kreacher."

"Not at all, Miss," Kreacher replied. He glanced at both of them, in a shrewd way that instantly made Harry suspicious. "Is there something wrong with your bedchambers?"

An awkward silence fell, and Harry did not look at Hermione. "No," he said, fighting a blush. "No, we just… well…"

It was silent again, and Kreacher just… looked at them. "Kreacher understands," he said, going back to wiping up the coffee table. He clicked his long fingers again. The remaining trash scattered around the room vanished, and the furniture straightened itself out. Chairs scooted back under tables, books stacked themselves, and cushions plumped up. "Kreacher must be going."

"Goodnight," Harry said.

Kreacher gave him another bow. "Goodnight, Master Harry." Then he turned and did the same to Hermione. "Miss Granger." He vanished with another pop! and Harry felt some part of himself unclench.

"He's gotten so much better, Harry," said Hermione, flashing him a small smile. "Really, he has. A year ago he never would've worn that sweater, no matter how cold it got."

"I know," Harry replied, feeling a small burst of pride. He'd put in a lot of work with Kreacher after the war, and it seemed to be paying off. He checked his watch and saw that it was now close to four o'clock in the morning. His mind, his eyes, his body, ached with tiredness, but he was wired, electric, almost jumpy. The thought of going to sleep now seemed impossible.

Hermione suddenly sat up with a gasp, staring at hearth. "Harry, look!"

He did, and his mouth fell open.

Sitting on the hearth, just inches in front of the fire, was a small feast. A fresh carafe of steaming hot cocoa, another of coffee. A plate of croissants and sliced baguette, another filled with ham and cheese sandwiches, and a third with sputtering sausages and freshly-fried eggs. There were even a few apples tucked in around the plates for good measure, along with a pile of napkins, forks, and some mugs.

"No way," he breathed, sitting up. "Kreacher sent us a midnight feast."

Hermione just shook her head, speechless. But she made no move towards the food, either.

Harry didn't waste any time — he was suddenly starving, and the hurried plate of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding he'd had at supper felt like a lifetime ago. Sitting down in front of the fire, he went for the coffee first, pouring himself a mug and stuffing half a croissant into his mouth. The pastry was fresh and buttery, and the coffee was piping hot and delicious. He slugged down half a mug before he realized Hermione hadn't moved an inch.

Harry swallowed heavily. "Come on, it'll get cold."

But she looked torn. "Harry, d'you think he woke them up just to—"

Harry snorted. "Kreacher's not that popular. He probably just heated it up and sent it on its way, you know most of the elves are asleep by now."

"I suppose," Hermion said, pained, but he could see her wavering.

Harry tossed a ham sandwich into her lap. "There's no point in griping, he's already done it. Come on."

That did the trick. She inhaled the ham sandwich and slid down to the floor, tucking her comforter in around her. Now, she resembled a beehive.

Harry poured her a cup of hot cocoa and after that, it was as if a dam had broken. They ate and spoke in whispers, stifling their laughter in the sleeves of their sweaters. They talked about everything and nothing, rehashing stories that were years old, trading details of their first eleven years in a Muggle-only world. The wind continued to howl around them, but it faded into the background as the night melted into further infinity.

Eventually, Harry ended up in Hermione's armchair, slumped and dazed from the food. She was still curled up on the floor, polishing off her last bit of sausage, staring into the fire.

"Why do you do that?" he murmured, before he could stop himself.

Hermione's gaze did not falter. She chewed and swallowed, still staring into the orange embers. "I don't know. I find it comforting."

"Oh." He shifted a little, the upholstery soft and plush beneath his head. He could see why Hermione liked this chair so much — it was so old that it had lost all of its rigidity. "I see."

She did look at him then, shooting him this smile that was so small, so gentle, it made his stomach do this weird, twisty thing that, had he been more awake, would've freaked him out. But he just smiled at her in return, and she held his gaze for another moment, then turned back to the fire, brushing a stray crumb off her cheek.

Harry watched her, her nimble fingers, her feet buried in the comforter, her hair threatening to create its own orbit. She glowed, and the night ebbed around her. He felt his eyes slipping shut, and he didn't bother to fight it.

What felt like only minutes later, he felt a hand on his shoulder, then his arm. He jerked awake, going for his wand, the breath freezing in his lungs.

It was Ginny, her hands up in a placating gesture, her eyes huge as she knelt in front of him. She was dressed, a Weasley Wheezes beanie pulled down snugly over her ears, and the room around her was bright with fresh yellow sunshine.

Harry blinked, slowly realizing the situation. The few other students in the room were staring at him, fascinated and a little repulsed all at once. "Gin?"

"You were asleep," she murmured, concern and confusion warring equally in her voice. "I went to your room and you weren't there."

"Oh." Harry felt his heart rate begin to return to normal. He stowed his wand and sat up. "What time is it?"

"Nearly nine," Ginny replied. "I thought you'd want to get out of here before everyone—"

Of course. It was a Sunday. He nodded once, pulled himself up out of the chair. Every part of his body creaked and groaned in protest — sleeping in a chair definitely wasn't on his list of things to repeat — but it gave him the chance to take a look around the room. There was no sign of Hermione, and the remains of their late-night feast had likewise disappeared. Harry shoved a hand through his hair, then stretched, popping a few joints in the process.

"Why were you sleeping down here?" said Ginny, still using that hushed tone that he felt belonged more in a hospital than a common room. "Did something happen?"

Harry took one look at the panic and concern warring equally on her face and shook his head. "Got up to wander around a bit, ended up falling asleep. Nothing to it."

Ginny nodded, but she clearly didn't believe him. "All right. Are you coming to breakfast?"

Harry's stomach was as heavy as a ball of lead, but he nodded as he made his way to the staircase. "Yeah, be down in just a minute."

He didn't see Hermione at all that day, until he went to the library that evening to finish a bit of research for Potions. He noticed her from a distance, sitting at her usual table, across from Malfoy — something that he still didn't understand — stifling a laugh in the middle of her textbook, her eyes dancing above the pages.

"Must've been a killer joke," he muttered, yanking his book from the shelf with a little more force than was necessary.


NEWTs were only a few days away, and it was as if someone had performed one large, group spell on all of the seventh years. With each hour that passed, they seemed to become more panicked — their eyes twitched, their shoulders tensed, they chewed their nails to gritty stumps, they burst into tears or shudders with little to no provocation. It was about as entertaining as it was frightening, and Harry found himself wondering, more than once, how this group of teenagers had defeated some of the Darkest wizards in history without batting an eye but were rendered useless by a couple of exams. Really, he thought, grabbing Hermione's arm in time to stop her from pouring tea onto her eggs. Maybe all they need is another lunatic to throw some spells at.

It was Tuesday, the morning of their second-to-last review day. The exams began at eight o'clock sharp on Thursday, and Harry was beginning to worry that his best friends wouldn't make it. Hermione clearly hadn't slept the night before, and was muttering various Transfiguration laws under her breath. Ron was staring down at the tabletop, his eyes unfocused, his hand raised in midair, tracing the shape of a spell that Harry couldn't place. Harry shook his head, swapping the pot of tea for a platter of sausages just in time — Hermione flicked some of the sausages onto her plate, not even watching what she was doing.

Satisfied that no one was about to do irreparable damage to either themselves or their meal, Harry went back to his porridge. He wasn't particularly nervous about the exams because he'd been studying quite hard for the past few months, more than he had for any other test in his Hogwarts career. Part of it was Hermione's unavoidable influence, part of it was to set a good example for the sure-to-be-miscreant he had for a godson, and part of it was the excuse to do something other than think about what he was going to do after Hogwarts.

As if the universe had heard him, the morning's mail appeared. Harry glanced up, feeling a slight tingle of foreboding, and saw three nondescript owls heading for him.

One owl was for the Quibbler, which he paid for and immediately sent away again. The other two had thick envelopes tied to their legs, and Harry fumbled to untie them. He was thankful that his friends were too distracted to notice any of this — otherwise, there would be questions, questions that he couldn't answer.

Once the owls were gone, Harry forced himself to take a breath. He wouldn't be able to focus on anything else until he opened these letters. So with a quick, wandless spell, he cut both of them open, unfurled the first, and read it under the table.

3 June 1999

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to offer you a place as an Apprentice Teacher at Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in the Department of Defense Against the Dark Arts under Professor R. MacIlvy. As a part of this program, you will receive a small stipend, room and board in one of our fine lodgings, and compensation for travel expenses. Enrollment in this program requires you to fulfill two years' obligatory assistance to your Professor, and to complete a Master Thesis to demonstrate competency in your chosen field.

The letter went on, but Harry folded it back up, his heart thudding in his throat. This application had been a complete shot in the dark, something he'd done during one of those countless sleepless nights when the idea of making a future, a career, among the same people who had hated him not five years before, was more repulsive than he could express. Something he had done without considering the consequences, with the same blind faith as jumping off a cliff just a smidge too high above the water.

He knew it was impossible. He knew he couldn't leave Teddy and Andromeda like that—

They could go with you, came that tiny, infuriating voice in the back of his head. They could live in Boston or New York, Andromeda could get away from all the shadows of her past, you could start again, could build something new—

Harry opened the second letter, hoping that none of his emotions were showing in his face. Hermione and Ron were still lost in their own worlds — Hermione now had some flashcards in hand, and Ron was repeating a list of potion ingredients under his breath.

3 June 1999

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are excited and pleased to offer you a place as Seeker for Puddlemere United, with the chance of a place on the England National Team. Under normal circumstances, players enter the team with a Reserve standing, but given your record and natural ability, we are waiving this requirement and offering you a place as a Starter. Annual salaries are ranked by tenure, but we are happy to offer you a competitive package, along with assistance for relocation, and suitable accommodation. Training begins on 25 July 1999. Please reply immediately if you would like to move forward with this opportunity.

Harry folded the letter up, crumpling the edges a little in his haste. His heart was pounding painfully fast now, and he stuffed both the letters into the pocket of his robes, shoving them as far out of sight as he could.

This action finally caught Hermione's attention. She broke out of her reverie and frowned at him, her eyes asking a silent question.

"Sorry," he said, shoving a spoonful of lukewarm porridge in his mouth. "So what's on the agenda today, apart from you taking a nap?"


Harry was three NEWTs down, with three to go, and he was losing his mind.

Not because of the exams — no, they were well under control, and nothing compared to, you know, the multiple times he'd had to fight for his life — but because of the damn letters.

Every time he sat down to study or even to take an exam, he couldn't stop a tidal wave of images featuring all of his potential futures. It was like the greatest hits of all his possible lives, and it was maddening. He could see it all clear as day; all he had to do was close his eyes —

Walking in through the front doors of Ilvermorny, his robes fresh from the tailor, Teddy perched on his hip, pointing and cooing at all the sights and wonders of the new school. Marching onto the Puddlemere field, his wrist guards shiny and unbroken, Oliver Wood slapping him on the shoulder in greeting, the morning sun burning their eyes. Striding into the British Ministry, into a lifelong career doing the very thing he'd had to do since age eleven, all on his own, never able to trust anyone—

"That's it." Hermione plopped down next to him, tossing a few braids over her shoulder. She shoved one of her stacks of flashcards — these were blue, with green borders — into his hands. Her tiny writing was cramped into every possible inch of space, and it made his eyes swim. "I've got Charms coming out of my ears now, I can't do it any longer. Quiz me."

This was clearly History of Magic, and Harry had never felt more grateful that he hadn't chosen to keep taking it. He let out a breath, fanning the cards, his gaze still on the rolling green lawns far below. The ghosts of his future were still there, just out of reach, and something about it dampened the sunshine, made the window seat feel cold and impersonal.

Hermione clicked her fingers in front of his eyes and he jumped. She was looking at him, concern evident in her features, and her other hand was on his arm.

"Right," he said, sitting up. "Sorry."

"Harry," she said, all quiet. "What's wrong?"

His heart stuttered a little. He'd forgotten how easily she could read him, better than anyone he knew. "Nothing."

She gave him one of her trademark looks. This one said 'come on, you know I'm not that stupid.' It was one he knew well.

Harry sighed. "Like a dog with a bone."

He got a pinch on the arm for that one.

"All right, all right." Harry pushed a hand through his hair, dropping his gaze. "I've just got something on my mind, and I can't—" He broke off, glancing around the common room. "I can't talk about it here."

Hermione took this all in, her gaze thoughtful and searching. After a moment, she leaned back a little. "Something," she echoed.

"Something… big," he said, then winced. This was all becoming very dramatic. "Listen, can we just… talk about it later? Somewhere we can't be overheard?"

He could practically see her weighing the scenario in her head. It was Saturday evening, they only had another thirty-six hours or so before their next exam, and Hermione Granger did not compromise her study time. But then, to his surprise, she nodded. "Meet me down here at eleven o'clock, all right?"

Harry nodded, hardly able to believe his luck. Nor could he believe that he was really doing this, really telling someone about it. But he knew, almost as well as he knew that Hermione would receive an Outstanding in History of Magic, that she would know what was best. She could help him figure out what he needed to do.

And with that, he held up the flashcards. "Tell me about Drogomir the Dull."

Several hours later, the common room was all but deserted. The library hadn't closed yet, so most of the seventh years weren't in the tower, and the younger students had called it quits as well. Harry was surprised to find the common room as empty as it was, but that surprise vanished when he saw Hermione waiting for him by the portrait hole, in her pajamas and dressing gown.

She also had a bag in one hand, and she jerked her head in the direction of the exit. With a nod, he followed her out of the room.

They didn't speak as he followed her down the hall, then through a tapestry with a false back, down a hidden flight of stairs, along another hall, and finally, into a disused classroom with a large stone fireplace. Even though it was June, the room was dark and chilly, and Harry suppressed a shiver, waving his hand at the fireplace, conjuring a large fire. The flames reflected cherry-red and gold on the dusty old windows, and Harry leaned against a desk, too jittery to sit down.

Hermione was busy locking the door, and he heard her mutter a few of the old favorites — Muffliato, Silencio — before she made her way over to him. She set her bag on the neighboring desk with a loud clunk, and Harry's surprise only tripled when she pulled out a sizable bottle of Firewhisky, followed by two small glasses.

"What?" she asked him, not bothering to whisper. She looked smug, pleased. "Did you really think I'd come unprepared?"

"No, I— I—" Harry blinked down at the bottle, trying to sort through the different emotions he was feeling. Delight was currently at the head of the pack. "I just didn't expect—"

Hermione snorted, already pouring them a measure. "Give me a little credit, Harry. I knew that if we could only talk about this in the dead of night, in complete solitude, we'd need a little liquid courage to get through it."

He grinned in spite of himself. "Hey, the dead of night thing was your idea, not mine." But he picked up his glass and clinked it against hers. "Besides, we have exams in less than two days."

"Believe it or not, Harry, over the past year or so I've become quite adept at a new skill. I call it seeing the bigger picture." And with that, Hermione knocked back the entire shot of whisky like it was water.

Harry stared at her in astonishment. He had no idea, had never even seen her drink—

"Go on, then." Hermione poured herself another measure and started walking around the room, waving her glass in the air. "Catch up."

Harry did. The whisky went down like burning liquid ash, but he was so used to it by now he barely even winced.

"Can you tell me now, or do we have to wait a while for it to kick in?" Hermione dragged her finger along the top of some scattered desks, and a few clouds of silvery dust drifted into the air.

"We don't have to wait." Harry pulled the letters — now worn, rumpled, and smoothed from the number of times he'd reread them — out of his pocket and held them out to her.

Hermione paused, looking from him to the letters, then back again, almost as if she thought it was a trick. She was striking like this, half of her face bathed in the warm orange glow of the fire, the other in a silvery beam of moonlight. Her hand reached out and plucked the letters from his grip in a movement so quick he almost missed it, then she turned away, moving closer to the fire to read.

Harry leaned back against his desk again, and poured another glass. He sipped this one, knowing he wouldn't have to wait for long.

It took less than a minute. Hermione went from one letter, then to another, then the third, then the fourth, then the fifth, then the sixth. She turned to him, and he could see all of his emotions reflected back at him in her face. "Harry," she managed, putting the hand with the glass in it to her mouth. A bit of Firewhisky splashed to the ground, but she didn't notice.

"I know." He took another sip of whisky. "Makes it hard to concentrate."

"No, I mean—" Her mouth hung open for a moment, then she shook her head and grinned. "When you said you couldn't talk about it, I thought you meant— God, I thought—"

Harry frowned at her. "What d'you mean?"

Hermione straightened, barely masking a look of alarm. "No, nothing. Nothing at all." She dropped her gaze back to the letters, then slowly made her way back to him. "Wow. It's certainly a wide variety to choose from."

"Understatement of the century." Harry finished his glass and started wandering around the room, looking out of the windows that showed him the north lawn. He had never been in this classroom, and he was beginning to wonder how Hermione knew about it.

"So, Ilvermorny. Puddlemere. New York. Berlin. Ballycastle. London." Hermione fanned out the letters just as he'd done to her flashcards not six hours earlier. "And you can't decide?"

Harry shook his head. Outside the windows, a pair of owls drifted past on a lazy breeze.

Hermione hummed, going over to the other end of the room. "Harry, this offer from MACUSA is hard to refuse."

"So is the one from Ilvermorny," he replied. The Firewhisky was smoldering in his belly, and for a brief moment, he felt like he could breathe fire. "And the one from Puddlemere."

That earned him a chuckle. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that the two best teams in the league are trying to get their hands on you. They've only been sniffing around you since you were thirteen."

There was a loud dragging noise, and Harry turned around with a frown. Hermione was wheeling out a massive, dirty chalkboard from one of the shadowy corners of the classroom. She stopped when it was in the middle of her room, dusted off her hands, and pulled out her wand. A piece of chalk floated into the air accordingly, and Harry bit back a laugh.

"Let's think this through." Hermione waved her wand, and the chalk drew the outline of a huge chart with five columns and six rows. Next, at the top of the columns, the names of his different employment options appeared. She turned to him then, holding out the pile of letters. "Come on. Pros and cons."

Harry quickly lost track of time after that. Hermione wasn't keeping the possibilities at bay — she was inviting them in. Now that he allowed himself to think about it without fear, without hating himself for wanting to leave Britain, things became simple, even obvious.

The Puddlemere offer had more pay, but the Ballycastle offer had more long-term benefits. Ilvermorny offered him more geographical distance, but not any more prestige than Wallenburg Institute of Berlin, which specialized in DADA. Both had similar pay structures, and either place was as good as any for a fresh start.

The Auror training at MACUSA was comparable to the one in Britain, and it gave him a clean slate, a position without too many expectations, a career line that was predictable, even delightful. But then, of course, there was the Ministry. And Kingsley. And the faces of everyone he knew, everyone he'd lost.

"I won't fault you," Hermione murmured, when it was well past one o'clock in the morning and they were both several shots in. She was next to him, leaning against the desk, and she was close enough that he could smell her soap. She stared up at the massive chalkboard, which was covered in her scribbles and arrows and more than a few strange drawings. "I won't fault you for leaving."

Harry blinked, his whisky-soaked brain needing a moment to catch up. "Really?"

Hermione paused for a moment, then shook her head, a small smile ghosting her features. "You've earned the right to do what's best for you, in my opinion. It's time to put yourself first. And Teddy, of course."

Harry stared at her, feeling a trickle of warmth low in his belly. He could see the freckles on her nose. "Right."

Her smile grew, and she turned to look at him. "So then, Harry Potter. Have you decided?"

He started to grin. "Yeah, actually, I think I have."

"Good." With another wave of her wand, the chalkboard wiped clean, and trundled itself back into the corner. Hermione stood up, stretched a little, and started putting away the whisky.

"Hermione," he said, his tongue thick. "Have you decided yet?"

She paused for only a moment, so briefly that he almost missed it. He knew she was swimming in job offers, none of them contingent on her NEWTs. "Yes," she said, and the glasses clinked against the bottle as she zipped up the bag. "I'm starting at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures at the end of August."

That sunk in much faster than Harry had expected it to. He found himself nodding and smiling. "Good. That's perfect for you."

Hermione smiled again, and he could tell she was relieved. "Don't let it hold you back, Harry. It's time you stopped worrying about the rest of us."

"I'm trying," he told her, and swept his hand through the air, extinguishing the fire.

When they stepped out from the shadows into the dim hallway, Hermione paused, shooting him a glance that he could only describe as wary. "Harry," she murmured. "What about Ginny?"

Harry forced himself to nod, even as his stomach turned to stone at the prospect of asking Ginny what she thought about America. "I'll handle it."

Hermione didn't look convinced, but when they parted ways at Harry's bedroom door, she gave him a smile that was encouragement and affection all rolled into one. Harry found himself smiling back, and he slept soundly through what little remained of the night.


The following Tuesday, a mere half-hour before his last NEWT — Potions, of course — Ginny came charging into the Great Hall, her eyes glowing and her face ablaze. She was little more than a red streak as she shot down the length of the room, and Harry could only jump in shock when she launched herself into his lap, sobbing incoherently into his shoulder.

Baffled, Harry tried to get a grip on her before she took both of them down to the floor. Everyone was staring at them, including Ron and Hermione, who were sitting across from him and watching the scene with expressions of genuine concern.

"Ginny—" Harry tried to peel her arms away from his neck. He'd never seen her like this before, and he couldn't help but worry that something— "Ginny, tell me what's—"

"The Harpies!" she shrieked, close enough to his ear that he flinched, trying to shove her away. But it didn't work, and she flapped a bit of parchment in the air. "The Harpies! They want me, Harry! They want me to start training right away!"

The pieces clicked together in Harry's mind, and he felt as though he'd skipped several steps on his way down a winding, steep tower. "What?"

"The Holyhead Harpies, Harry!" Ginny gave him a playful shove, beaming, tears still streaking down her face. "They've made me an offer, and a bloody terrific one at that!"

"Oh." Harry quickly rearranged his face into a smile. "That's incredible, Gin—"

"I know!" she squealed, launching herself back into his arms.

Harry patted her on the back, wondering if he would ever breathe again. He didn't miss the look on Hermione's face, the brief look that mirrored the disappointment welling in his own chest.

"It'll be brilliant!" Ginny was gushing into his shoulder. Around them, people were starting to grin and laugh and go back to their breakfast. "We can get a little cottage right in the middle of town, we'll stay there during the season and you can get to the Ministry via the Floo, and it'll be so lovely, Harry, you can come to all the games, maybe they'll even let you coach—"

"Yeah," he said, rubbing her back, feeling hot and hollow and itchy all at once. He looked everywhere except for Hermione's face. "It'll be brilliant."