A/N: So... after 3+ years of people occasionally asking for a sequel to Off-Kilter, or at least stating that they wanted more from the last chapter than where it left off (I still stand by how it leaves off), I've finally sorted out what happens next for Harry and Ginny. Once again, I have been shamelessly self-indulgent while hoping to cling to some vestiges of a plot, so if you're here, I hope that's what you're into! And truly, I've poured my soul into this, so I desperately hope you enjoy it.

P.S. Perhaps this goes without saying, but if you have not read Off-Kilter, you should read that first. This isn't the sort of sequel that stands alone.)

P. P. S. Happy 40th, Harry!

In typical London fashion, the morning of my eighteenth birthday dawns foggy and grey. I don't immediately move upon waking, instead doing the thing I always do on my birthday: trying to determine if I feel any different.

There have been times in the past when this date, and all of its perceived significance, has struck me like a bolt of lightning. I learned I was a wizard upon turning eleven, and this time last year, I was kissing Ginny in her bedroom, a day away from life as a fugitive. And other times, it has barely registered, wholly unremarkable as it passed me by. This year, I'm expecting more of the same. Yesterday I was seventeen, today I'm eighteen, and they're completely interchangeable. I'm still a trainee Auror, still dodging the Daily Prophet cameras anytime I step past my front steps, still living in this big, creepy house with my best mate. Nothing much has changed.

I've always thought birthdays are overrated. Well, I suppose I've always thought my own was overrated, or maybe Dudley just brainwashed me into thinking that. But I like celebrating other people's. It was always fun, back at Hogwarts, to sneak to the kitchens with Ron to steal a cake and watch his face light up as he opened his gifts. Ron's always been worth celebrating, Hermione too. But everyone's got one, and I spent a good ten years of my life with mine going unnoticed, so I'm happy to let this one go the same way. Eighteen is only a milestone in the Muggle world, anyway.

But I am hungry. And if I don't have caffeine soon, my brain will start to melt. I have no other choice: I force myself from the rumpled comfort of my bed and trek down to the kitchen.

"Morning, sunshine!"

Ron's beaming, freckled face is the first thing I see when I enter the kitchen, which smells of fresh coffee and frying bacon. He's tending to a pan on the stove as Hermione flits around him, pulling plates and mugs from the cupboard. She, too, smiles broadly when she sees me and hurries around the island worktop.

"Happy birthday!" she exclaims as she tosses her arms around me in a hug. "Finally you're awake - do you want coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks."

As she goes about pouring a cup, I seat myself at the counter and pull the Saturday edition of the Daily Prophet towards myself. Unfortunately, my own face is what greets me from the front page, and I shove it quickly away. Undoubtedly, there's an article either singing my praises or speculating on my personal life - actually, the two aren't mutually exclusive, it may well be doing both - and my anxiety swells at the thought of what they might be writing.

"Is it almost ready?" Hermione says in a low voice, sidling up behind Ron. She rises onto her toes, as if anything short of a levitation charm will make her tall enough to see over his shoulder, and curls her arms around his waist.

"A couple more minutes," he tells her.

With a spatula, he shifts around the contents of the pan. His back is turned to me at the moment, yet somehow I can still detect the soppy smile that surely crosses his face when Hermione lays her cheek briefly against his shoulder blade.

As I've always said, it isn't that I'm jealous of either of them specifically. They were made for each other. And I'm not naïve enough to think that everything is perfect for them, all the time. They still bicker, and occasionally I've heard the low mutterings and clipped tones of a brewing argument through Ron's wall, though it's almost always followed up by an excess of squeaking mattress springs. But at least they've got each other. They're done pining for each other, done dancing around it. They're actually doing the thing properly now. I've been there, with Ginny, and I just want it back.

Hermione releases Ron from her embrace long enough to pass me my mug of coffee, then returns to him to whisper something into his ear.

"Oh, right!" Ron turns to face me, leaning back against the counter. "So, er, I was talking to my mum earlier, when we were waiting for you to get your arse out of bed-"

"Uh oh, what?"

I just never know what to expect anymore. The last time I went to the Burrow, I ended up locked in the scullery. Which wasn't necessarily a bad thing, in the end, but it does put a bloke a bit on edge.

"It's nothing bad," says Ron. "She just wants to have a birthday dinner for you."

"What if I don't wanta birthday dinner?"

"I don't think she particularly cares what you want, is the thing." Ron bites the inside of his bottom lip to stop himself laughing - and they think I can't see it, but when Hermione discreetly presses her bare foot onto the top of his, he straightens up. "She's all excited anyway because Charlie's home - well, he's in Britain anyway, picking up a Welsh Green that someone's been keeping as an illegal pet so my mum wants everyone over anyway. Just pretend that it's Sunday dinner, but on Friday."

"So it's for Charlie, then?"

It's an appealing concept, having the focus on someone else for once, but I don't fully trust it. I know Mrs. Weasley. This is a woman who knit a sweater for a boy that she met for a grand sum of two minutes on a train platform. She's not the type to let birthdays just slide on by.

"Well…" Ron tries not to wince - Hermione's stepping on his foot again - but then forges on. "I think her exact words were 'it'll be nice to have Charlie home for Harry's birthday', so... do with that what you will."

"Ginny'll be there too," Hermione pipes up as though this is the most delicious news she'll deliver all year.

"Yeah, I reckoned so," I reply, "since she lives there."

Just as I speak, a thrill of horror rushes through me. The very idea, unlikely as it is, of Ginny actually being so repulsed by my presence that she leaves her own home - Merlin, I don't think I'd ever recover.

"So you'll go, then?" adds Ron with an expectant raise of his brows.

As if I ever had a choice. As if I'd ever do that to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. It isn't that I don't appreciate it, because I do, I really do, but everyone hasn't got to gather round just because of me.

"Yeah," I say, trying to sound casual. "Yeah, sure."

Now annoyingly smug, Ron returns to tending the frying bacon.

It's quiet then, for a bit. As Ron and Hermione continue fixing breakfast, I start sifting through a stack of old post, making a pile of interview requests to burn in the hearth. Most of the post I get these days is for things I'd rather ignore entirely, or things of no real relevance to me: adverts for the newest Cleansweep model, a voucher for a discount on self-stirring cauldrons at Potage's. It's a bit exhausting, actually, to contend with day in and day out. It's always the same, so even as time marches steadily by, it contributes to the sense that I'm stuck in place.

Silly, really, that post should have such an effect on me, but these days, most everything does.

We all sit down at the kitchen to plates piled high with fried eggs, bacon, and crispy toast and the conversation turns casual. As we eat, Hermione shares that she's expected at breakfast with her grandparents tomorrow morning, which means she won't be spending the night at Grimmauld Place, and I watch Ron fight to hide his disappointment. He's been counting down the days, with building dread, until she goes back to Hogwarts.

To be honest, I'm dreading it too. Not just for Ron's sake, but my own: Ginny being hundreds of miles away, behind near-impenetrable castle walls, does not bode well for me.

"Anyway," says Hermione, once she's finished a long-winded explanation about how her grandparents don't know she's a witch, and the resulting web of lies she's had to weave, "Harry, we wanted to-" She looks over at Ron, and they engage briefly in one of their trademark silent conversations. If I didn't know better, I'd think it was Legilimency, only Hermione thinks that's a 'disgusting human rights violation' and Ron thinks it's 'creepy', and they're both right. "Should we tell him?"

"Tell me what?" I ask, nerves spiking. "What happened?"

"It's nothing bad," says Ron for the second time that morning.

"You lot always act like you're about to give me some horrible news all the time," I tell them, a bit more sharply than intended. "Whatever it is, you can just say it."

One of these days I'll have to figure out how to stop being on high alert all the time.

"All right," says Ron, glossing over the sticky moment in that easy way of his. "We want to get you a birthday gift-"

"No," I interrupt, "you really don't need to do that-"

"We want to," interjects Hermione. "And we thought - if you want - we could get you a new owl."

Whatever I expected to hear, it isn't this. "An owl?"

"Only if you want," Ron hurries to add. "I don't mind sharing Pig."

"It's not like I've got anyone to write to," I say, aware how pitiful the words sound as they leave my lips. There's a little optimistic voice in the back of my head saying that maybe I could write to Ginny, at Hogwarts, on the very slim chance that she would want to hear from me, but I ignore it. "Besides, I can't let you do that-"

"Sure you can-"

"Owls are expensive, it's way too much."

"Well, it'd be from both of us."

Ron looks entirely too pleased about being part of a couple that gives joint gifts. He and Hermione exchange a soppy look as I pick up my mug of coffee and drink deeply to buy myself time.

Truth be told, I don't know what I want. I don't know if there's an appropriate mourning period for one's mail-carrying pet. Come to think of it, I've never seen anyone close to me grieve for a pet. Dudley'd had a turtle that he grew bored of within a week and 'set free' in the garden at Privet Drive, and Scabbers didn't so much die as he did return to his true human form, so there was less grief then and more... horror and shock. I haven't given much consideration to replacing Hedwig at all.

"Maybe," I say finally, because they look so earnest and hopeful. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to look."

Hermione beams at me. "Then we'll go today."

An hour later, we're in Diagon Alley, and the clouds are just beginning to part so that the sun can peek through. It's crowded, like it always is, and I'm constantly scanning the waves of faces for the glint of a camera lens in the light. Not that I know what I'll do if I notice one. It's not as if I can just duck and hide: they'll have a bloody field day with that.

The Magical Menagerie, when we get there, is teeming with eleven-year-olds and their parents. The excitement is plain on their innocent faces as they scurry about the shop, poking fingers through the wires of owlet cages and gathering around a litter of kneazle kittens. It's so busy, actually, that nobody seems to notice when we walk in.

"So," Hermione begins, all business as usual. "What sort of owl do you think you want?"

I share a look with Ron over her head. "Er..." As if I've given any consideration to this before today. "One that flies."

Ron rubs a finger across his upper lip to keep from laughing. "Great idea, mate."

Undeterred, Hermione simply drags me by the arm to the back of the shop, where the entire wall is lined with cages. They've got everything from miniature Scops owls to massive Great Greys. Some look like they've just hatched, just little balls of feathers with gleaming eyes and razor-sharp beaks. A little boy with curly black hair, already dressed in his brand-new Hogwarts robes, pushes his way to the front, eyes wide with wonder.

I was never one of these kids. I wasn't even there when Hagrid bought me Hedwig, who constituted my first birthday present in ten years. And she was more than just a way to send letters. She was my only link to the wizarding world, my only companion during the long, brutal summer interludes at Privet Drive. I wish she wouldn't have died the way she did.

What would I even call a new owl?

"Great Horned owls are great for flying long distances," Hermione says, standing on tiptoe to look more closely at a massive, very stern-looking bird.

"Where do you think I'm sending letters, exactly?"

Hermione gives an exaggerated shrug and walks a little further down, as Ron shoots me another look that's almost apologetic.

"Okay, well, barn owls are really fast," Hermione continues, tapping her finger against the label on the bottom of another cage. "Great for making short trips, and also really friendly-"

But my eye lands on the price tag. "Twenty-five Galleons?!" I exclaim, horrified. "No, absolutely not."

"We know what they cost," is all Hermione has to say in response.

I look round for Ron, hoping he'll join me in seeing sense, but he's clear across the room now, having gravitated towards a pen containing a fresh litter of crup puppies.

So I continue down the row of cages, silently evaluating each bird in my mind. The eagle owls give off a distinct sense that they might claw someone's eyes out if not given their way. The prairie owls are bursting with energy, hopping wildly in their cages. The Scops owls are out of the question; Pigwidgeon would lose his fluffy little head with jealousy.

But the snowy owls… they're so calm, so mellow, napping despite the chaos of the shop with their heads tucked under their wings. There's a quiet dignity about them that reminds me of Hedwig and everything she meant to me. One of them looks a bit younger than the rest, smaller, with soft feathers.

Hermione sidles up beside me; the excitement radiating off of her is palpable. "See something you like?"

I want to give her a withering look, but I can't quite muster it. "Maybe."

"Oh, I knew it!" she exclaims, clasping her hands together in delight. "See, you didn't want to come here, but now that you have, you want one, don't you?"

"Yeah," I concede, "I actually do."

She lets out a delighted squeal, ignoring the many heads that turn, and darts across the shop. "Ron!"

When she's done dragging Ron away from the crup puppies, Hermione beckons over a shop attendant, who extracts the smallest snowy owl from the cage so I can meet him properly. I never went through this with Hedwig. Hagrid just picked her out for me, and I was so young and small and elated by my changing circumstances that I hadn't questioned it. But immediately I feel good about this. As the owl perches on my arm, claws sinking lightly into my bare skin, his yellow eyes pierce curiously into mine. By all logic, this reminder of Hedwig should be painful. I should want to storm out of the shop with Hermione and Ron following guiltily along in my wake.

But it doesn't feel like replacing her. It doesn't feel like forgetting. If anything, it's just another way to remember her.

"All right," I say eventually as I feed him an Owl Treat out of my palm. "I think I've made up my mind."

Hermione beams so brightly at me that her face looks fit to split in half.

As we walk towards the till, I see Ron reaching into the pocket of his jeans, and before I can stop myself, I'm swatting him on the forearm. "Don't worry about it."

He frowns at me. "Don't worry about what?"

"It - it's fine. I'll pay."

The scowl marring his freckled face only deepens. "Wha - mate. You can't buy your own birthday gift."

Detecting conflict, Hermione is on my opposite side in an instant with a manic, pleading look in her eyes. "We want to do it, Harry-"

"I know that, but you really don't have to."

"Would you stop saying that?" interjects Ron, exasperated. "Look, I've got an income now, I can actually afford to get you a gift."

It's my turn to be puzzled. "You've always got me gifts before-"

"Yeah, but they were never any good, were they?"

I shrug, recalling a pocket Sneakoscope, a box of Honeydukes chocolate, a book on how to charm witches. "I thought they were."

Truth be told, I was never terribly concerned with what I actually received. Even years after befriending Ron and Hermione and the Weasleys, I was always a little bit amazed that anyone was giving me a gift at all, regardless of the occasion. When it's ingrained in you for ten years that you're simply not worth the time or money or effort, it's hard to believe anyone would think otherwise. Even if those people are Ron and Hermione.

And even when those people are staring me down in the middle of the Magical Menagerie, their twin stares daring me to defy them.

"I'm just glad you brought me here," I add when it's clear they're not going to break this little standoff. "I just needed the push to do it. That can be the gift, all right?"

Ron folds his arms over his chest, glances at Hermione, then me, then scoffs. "Yeah, nice try."

He turns on his heel and darts towards the till, sidestepping a gaggle of preteen girls with puffskeins in their hands, and is transacting business with the shop attendant before I can say another word.

Hermione gives me an maddeningly self-satisfied smile. "Happy birthday, Harry."

"Yeah, thanks," I mutter again. "Fine, then, I'll just-" I'll just what? Secretly add Galleons to his Gringotts vault, as if he doesn't check the statements religiously? "I'll just have to make up for it at Christmas."

Ron laughs at me over his shoulder. "Shaking in my boots over here, mate."

Ten minutes later, once I've finished profusely thanking them (along with insistences that it wasn't necessary) we're walking down Diagon Alley and I still can't believe that I'm carrying an enormous wire cage housing a snowy owl once again. It's a good kind of disbelief, though. The positive, happy kind.

"Dammit," Ron mutters, and Hermione and I turn to look at him. "We should have brought Crookshanks with," he says as if that's any clarification. "Just to check him out, make sure he's actually an owl."

Rising on tiptoe, Hermione pulls his head down so she can plant a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek.

"What?" he asks, though he's flushed crimson and looks rather pleased with himself. "I just don't want to make that same mistake again, do you?"

•••

Everywhere I go, I look for Ginny. I find myself wondering what she'd say or do if she were with me, and looking for her face even in crowds that I know she won't be in. She embedded herself into my brain years ago and there's no undoing it. Even when I try not to think about her, she's always on my mind.

And at the Burrow, she's inescapable.

The evening is warm and breezy, and when we Apparate to the garden, most of the family is already outside. Mrs. Weasley stops laying the long, wooden table and hurries over to dole out hugs and birthday wishes. Mr. Weasley presses icy bottles of butterbeer into our hands, embraces Hermione, and claps Ron and me on the back.

All I see is Ginny. She's sat at the opposite end of the table, her long hair hanging over one shoulder. Even as Charlie bounds over to greet us, a friendly smile on his broad, tanned face, my eyes keep darting over to her. I don't feel the same soul-gripping anxiety that I might have felt a few weeks ago, but to be in her presence still makes me nervous, tongue-tied, awkward. She's only just across the garden, but the distance is making itself known in a way it never has before.

Ron and Hermione are pulled almost instantly into a conversation with Charlie about the dragon he's bringing back to his sanctuary. I hang on the periphery of the little circle we form, half-listening, not speaking. It's not that I don't find it interesting, but when I know Ginny's in the vicinity, she's all I can think about. I still don't quite know what to say to her, or how to act, or what to do. We're in this weird halfway state, where I know that she no longer wants to actively hex me, but I'm also not sure if that means she wants me to approach her, or just let her be. I almost feel like I'm dealing with a skittish cat and one wrong move could scare her off completely.

Though I'm sure by now that very little scares Ginny at all.

It's just as I'm stealing another glance that she turns towards us, though, and our eyes meet. I offer a smile, just a casual one, like the very sight of her isn't making my stomach shake, and to my pleasant surprise, she smiles back. It's not the blazing look she used to give me, in that other lifetime known as the last three weeks of sixth year. But it also doesn't look like she wants to set me on fire anymore - that's a different sort of blazing look - so maybe not all hope is lost.

"Harry?" calls Mrs. Weasley from the back door. "Can you come inside for a moment, dear?"

As she beckons kindly to me, I cross the garden and climb the steps into the house. It smells wonderful, like roasting vegetables and garlic with the faintly sweet undertones of the treacle tart that I expect will be served for pudding. But I have only a moment to think about food, because what's actually waiting for me in the kitchen knocks the breath from my chest.

It isn't a gift, not really. It's so much better.

An older woman with long, black hair and dark eyes is seated at the kitchen table. In her arms is a wriggling little infant, his small round head topped with turquoise hair.

Teddy.

I haven't seen Teddy in - well, longer than I'm proud of. He was just days old when all the funerals were taking place, and I'll never forget how he screamed and wailed all through Remus and Tonks' burials. Back then, the guilt was so fresh and so sharp that I couldn't even look at him. The whole time he was crying, I just kept thinking I did this to you, I did this to you. I'm meant to be his godfather and look after him, but what I really am is a shell-shocked teenager who's never held a baby before. I've written to Andromeda a few times, asking if I can see him - just see him, just so I'll know that his brand-new life isn't completely ruined - but it's been weeks. He's grown so much.

"Hello, Harry," says Andromeda quietly, adjusting Teddy's little onesie on his shoulders, making sure it's just right. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you," I manage. "Hi. How - how is he? How are you?"

"We can't stay long," is her reply. I guess I can't blame her for not actually answering me. I don't like being asked how I am either. "He's got to have his bath tonight. But Molly thought you'd want to see him. Would you like to hold him?"

That old familiar feeling of intense gratitude for Molly Weasley swells within me. "Yes, of course - yes."

"Here, sweetheart, it's easier if you're sitting," says Mrs. Weasley, her hands on my shoulders to guide me into a chair at the table. Once I'm seated, Andromeda rises and holds the baby out to me; his little sock-covered feet dangle in the air.

"It's all right," she says, more warmth in her voice now. "You can take him."

My heart in my throat, I reach out and place my hands on either side of his small, squishy body, just below Andromeda's. She releases him, only a bit reluctantly, and as my hands bear his full weight, I find he's heavier than I expected. Immediately I sit him up on my lap and use my hand to support his back.

"There you go," says Mrs. Weasley encouragingly. "You're a natural."

"I don't know about that," I respond. I've never felt so out of my depth.

"Babies are easy," Mrs. Weasley goes on, waving her wand casually at a stack of potatoes so that they begin peeling themselves. "It's when they're teenagers that you've really got your hands full."

"I remember," says Andromeda, her eyes never leaving Teddy.

Guilt shoots hot-white through me, the way it did in those early days after the war when it barely felt like any sort of victory at all. She's thinking of her daughter, her only daughter, and those memories are all she has anymore.

I revert my gaze back to Teddy. As he stares up at me with crystal-clear blue eyes, I feel a bit like I want to apologize to him. I do, silently, but I think he understands, because in that moment, his eyes go green.

•••

Despite Mrs. Weasley's invitation to the contrary, Teddy and Andromeda leave before dinner is served. We all gather round the wooden table in the garden, and somehow I end up seated across from Ginny. Charlie's presence is something of a novelty, so the conversation centers around him and his dragons and his mum making requests for him to just stay for a few more days ("they'll get on fine in Romania without you"), but Ginny's like a magnet pulling all of my focus towards her. I haven't spent this much time with her since Hermione locked us in the scullery, and I just want it to feel easy, but I'm a rigid, anxious disaster. What if I accidentally bump my foot into hers under the table? Spill my goblet of pumpkin juice over her plate?

More than anything, I want to go back to sixth year. I won't be greedy - I don't need the fleeting weeks when we were actually dating - but I miss our friendship, I miss her. She used to seek me out in the halls to tell me about something she'd read in Quidditch Quarterly, or we'd team up to take the piss out of Ron. She was always making little jokes that only I really understood, and she'd catch my eye from wherever she was - across the common room, maybe, or the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall - so that we could laugh about it together. She was the only person who could pull me out from within myself during fifth year when it felt like the world was ending.

It can't stay like this forever, can it?

There is cake - and singing - and Ron is super obnoxious on purpose about it - and as the evening stretches on, the setting sun streaks the sky with pink and gold and fairy lights pop up in the foliage surrounding the garden. It's the sort of evening that's warm and cozy without being stifling, and nobody seems to want to go inside yet. Little side conversations break out: Bill and Fleur with George, Charlie and his dad, Percy with his mum. I sneak away to fetch another bottle of butterbeer from the kitchen, and upon emerging, it's not quite clear where I ought to go. At the far end of the table, Ron and Hermione are picking at a plate of biscuits together, their bare feet overlapping in the grass. They're speaking softly, heads close, and then he leans over to kiss her on the forehead.

I know how much they're dreading being apart, and I also know that if I go to join them, they'll never tell me to bugger off so they can be alone, even if that's what they really want. Resigned, I seat myself on the steps next to the pile of old Wellington boots.

No sooner have I done so than the hinges on the back door creak, and I turn my head to see Ginny stepping outside. Her toned, freckled legs are right at my eye-level, and to my utter shock, they bend until she's set herself down on the rickety step beside me.

"So." She pries the cork out of her own bottle of butterbeer. "Birthday going well?"

I go to face her, but find I can't: looking at her is like looking into the sun. "Yeah," I nod, watching her pick at the label on her butterbeer with a fingernail. "Yeah, I've definitely had worse."

"Really? Which one was your worst?"

"Any of the ones with the Dursleys," I say honestly. "But probably my twelfth, that was the year they put bars on the window."

"Oh, I remember."

And it was the year you put your elbow in the butter dish, I want to add. The year you couldn't even talk to me without blushing. It's strange the way I used to notice her without even knowing it. She was always there, lurking on the very edges of my consciousness, and I hadn't realized until it was almost too late.

I don't want that to happen again.

Ginny drinks from her bottle, then licks a stray drop of butterbeer from her bottom lip. My stomach is jumping like it's full of Cornish pixies and my mind races so rapidly that I can't get any of my thoughts to stick, but I desperately want her to stay. Being around her, even if it's nerve-wracking right now, still feels so right.

"So which one was your best?" she asks.

I don't even have to think about it. "My seventeenth."

Her eyes cast to the grass, she nods. I know that, like me, she's recalling that unbelievable last kiss in her bedroom, the one that carried the weight of so much more than just a goodbye. I've wondered countless times what it might have become had Ron not interrupted; I think I'll always wonder.

She gives a little jerk of her head. "But you got an owl this year."

"Oh, word's got out, huh?"

Her brown eyes lift to meet mine, her gaze withering. "It's all Hermione knows how to talk about."

We laugh then, together, and the Cornish pixies in my stomach die down and now it just feels good. It feels right. For a second, with the golden sunlight and the warmth and the all-consuming affection I feel for her, I can pretend that it's the end of sixth year all over again and she and I are lounging around behind the greenhouses. The only difference is, I don't exactly have license anymore to go in for a snog.

"It was a good idea, the owl," I say. "I do need to name him, though."

Ginny sits up straight, face alight. "You know I'm amazing at naming pets."

"Somehow, I don't think Ron would agree with you-"

She feigns offense. "Pigwidgeon is a beautiful name, and it suits him perfectly, Ron's just an idiot," she declares. "I'll have a think about it. I'm sure I can come up with something."

"I can't wait."

And I really can't.

I take another drink of butterbeer and take in the scene before me. Across the garden, Hermione has scooted her chair closer to Ron's and is now tilted against him, her head on his shoulder.

Ginny follows my line of sight, then scoffs. "They're so disgusting," she declares. "I don't know how you stand living with them."

"I only live with Ron, really, and they're not usually this bad." At Ginny's skeptical quirk of a brow, I relent. "Fine, yeah, they are. It's hard to get mad at them, though. They're happy."

It hangs in the air, unspoken between us. Ron and Hermione's simple, easy bliss is a glowing light, throwing my own melancholy into sharp relief. Nobody needs a relationship or romantic love to be happy or have a full life, but the fact remains that Ginny did - does - could, again, someday - make me happy. It isn't her fault that it's gone now, but I can sense the gears in her head turning as she picks up on the deeper meaning.

I've actually got a talent for ruining good things as soon as I have them.

"Right. Well-" Ginny stands, giving me another eyeful of her bare legs. "Happy birthday, anyway."

And she's back inside the house a second later.

The sky continues to darken into dusky blue as I sip my butterbeer and try to bolster my own self-esteem. She approached me, I remind myself. She could have walked by without a word, but she opted instead for my company. She chose me over everyone else.

Hermione rises, crossing the garden towards Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and I take the opportunity to steal the chair she was occupying. As I break off a piece of chocolate biscuit and pop it in my mouth, Ron narrows his eyes curiously at me.

"What?"

"Nothing," he says, reaching for his own biscuit. "Just saw you talking to Ginny, that's all."

"Hermione's told you to ask me about it, hasn't she?"

"Maybe," Ron chuckles. "Just, she said she didn't want to pry-"

"So she has you do her dirty work for her?"

Ron says nothing, instead biting into the biscuit with a resounding crunch.

"There's nothing to pry into," I continue. "It wasn't anything remarkable-"

Hermione reappears before us. "What wasn't remarkable?"

"I'll tell you later," Ron mumbles, pulling her by the hips to sit on his lap. "You sure you can't stay a little longer?"

"No, I can't," she tells him, rather matter-of-fact, even as she adjusts her position on his lap to face him more fully. "I only came back over here to say bye to you."

Her hand closes around his, fingers knitting together as though designed to do so.

"Yeah," Ron concedes, knowing he never really had a dog in that fight anyway. "All right, I'll walk you."

The protective spells over the Burrow extend dozens of yards in every direction from the house. Even with the end of the war, the Weasleys have continued to reinforce them, and one has to leave their boundaries to Disapparate, so Ron and Hermione walk hand-in-hand to the invisible border. The sky has gone dark now, a velvety black; the waning hours of my eighteenth birthday are finally upon us.

All in all, I've got no complaints.