Nobody likes August. Nobody wants it to be August. August just means that September is inching ever closer, looming in the all-too-near future, bringing with it the dismantling of everything that's been established this summer. What was once a near-infinite stretch of time is now dwindling so rapidly that every second needs to be counted and filled to its full potential. It's now become imperative that I do something before she leaves, something to carry this momentum forward once she's back at school.

It's too bad, then, that I haven't the foggiest idea where to begin.

The evening after I turn eighteen, I'm lying on my bed, staring at a textbook and trying not to think about the way Ginny's legs looked in those cut-off shorts when there's a knock at my door.

"Yeah?"

The knob turns, and Ron pokes his head in. "You've got some post."

As I sit up, he lobs a scroll of parchment in my direction and then watches as I break through the wax seal and begin to read. It's vague, as is all written correspondence from the Ministry, but given the fact that I'm told to report to the Auror department within the hour and pack a change of clothes, I can rather accurately glean what's going on: I'm being sent on a mission. A proper one. Not the little reconnaissance day trips that usually result in a stiff back and very little actual information. There might actually be perpetrators present for once. Death Eaters, even.

"Everything all right?" Ron asks, arms stretched over his head, fingertips clinging casually to the top of the door jamb.

"Yeah," I reply, surprised by how much I mean it. This feels good. It feels like purpose, like progress. No more treading water and biding my time. I'm actually doing something. "I've got to go to the Ministry."

Scrambling off the bed, I grab my rucksack from the floor and pull open the drawer to my dresser. What does one even pack for their first official mission as a trainee Auror? A million ideas flash through my head, none of them sticking around long enough for me to act on them.

"The Ministry? On a Saturday night?"

I shove a few pairs of pants into my rucksack. "They're sending me on a mission."

Ron's hands drop from the door jamb down to his sides. "You're the first one!"

His ability to feel enthusiasm on my behalf is never anything short of astonishing, and I can't help but laugh as I continue digging through drawers, pulling out socks and undershirts at random. We've known this would be coming: as part of the final stretch of our training, we've been told we'll be taking on a more practical role. But as we won't be fully qualified until just before Christmas, it still does come as a bit of a surprise.

"I don't know how much I'll get to do," I think aloud. "I'll probably just be there to observe."

"Yeah, maybe. So I guess you can't come with me to Hermione's house, then."

I slide a drawer shut and turn to face Ron. "You're going round Hermione's?"

Owing to the distinct lack of parental supervision, he and Hermione spend the majority of their time together here at Grimmauld Place.

"Yeah," Ron replies. "I think she feels a bit guilty, you know, she spends a lot of time here and she's about to leave for school soon, so - but she still wants to see me, so we're having a film night with her mum and dad."

"I wouldn't have gatecrashed film night with your in-laws anyway."

Ron goes bright red in the face. "They're not my in-laws," he mumbles. There is an unspoken yet at the end of that sentence that neither of us acknowledges. "And it's not gatecrashing if Hermione's told me to invite you."

"Right. Well, maybe the next one," I say noncommittally.

"I've never watched a film before," Ron realizes aloud with a note of anxiety in his voice. "What if I do it wrong?"

Chuckling, I zip my rucksack shut. "It's not something you can really get wrong, mate." I point across the room to where my new owl sleeps soundly in his cage, head tucked under his wing. "You'll keep an eye on him while I'm gone?"

"Yeah, course," Ron nods, and I step past him into the hallway. As I make my way towards the bathroom in search of my toothbrush, he follows along behind me. "What're you calling him, anyway?"

"Don't know yet." I pluck my toothbrush from the holder and stuff it into a side pocket of my rucksack. "Actually, er…" In the mirror, I catch Ron's eye. "Ginny might be coming up with a name for him. She mentioned that last night."

"Oh, God, good luck with that," says Ron at once. "Knowing her, she'll end up naming it something like - like Agamemnon, or… Roger."

"Roger?!"

"I don't know," he admits with a laugh. "I'm a bit stressed out here, all right? I thought I'd have you as a buffer tonight."

"I'm not sure what you're worried about," I say as we proceed back into the hallway and down the stairs. "Hermione's parents like you, don't they?"

"Yeah, I mean, she says they do, I guess I believe her, but…" He grimaces. "I'm still the bloke who's shagging their daughter, right? They're bound to judge a little, and I just don't want them to think I'm this weird wizard that they can't understand. I'm already clearly punching well above my weight with her-"

"It'll be fine," I assure him as we reach the landing on the ground floor. "Just don't talk too much during the film, it makes it hard to pay attention."

He nods seriously. "Got it."

I pat my back pocket to be certain that I have my wand, and then head to the front door. "Let me know how it goes. I'll be back in… a few days, I reckon. They didn't say."

"All right, good luck. I'll look after little Agamemnon for you-"

"He's not called Agamemnon-"

"Roger, then." As I roll my eyes, Ron gives me a wide, obnoxious grin. "See you later, mate."

•••

It's not until early Wednesday morning that I return, bone-tired and a little bit bruised but utterly satisfied. The thing I learned about Auror missions is that they're shockingly boring save for a few adrenaline-flooded, terrifying moments, but those moments are just what I need. The purpose, the sense of accomplishment, the knowledge that I've made some sort of positive impact, they're all the reasons that I wanted to be an Auror in the first place. To keep fighting off darkness - rather than being sat in a classroom like I have been all summer, learning about how to be good enough to fight off darkness - feels like a wonderful return to myself.

Plus, we actually came out ahead. They were small-time Death Eaters, nobody in Voldemort's inner circle, but as most of Voldemort's inner circle is currently in Azkaban awaiting trial, they'd been trying to reenergize the movement. Emphasis on trying, because they're in Azkaban now too.

The sun is just barely rising as I haul myself into the bathroom and let the shower rinse away days of caked-on dirt and sweat. When my fingertips have gone wrinkly from the hot water, I exit, pull on some semblance of pyjamas - joggers and an old white t-shirt - and deposit myself happily into my bed. The clicking of my nameless owl's beak as he nibbles on an Owl Treat is the only sound in the room as I hug my pillow and let myself drift off.

Hours later, I'm pulled slowly back to consciousness by the sound of knocking on my door. My face is smashed into the pillow, a puddle of drool under my lip. I attempt to lift my head, only to find it's too heavy to bear, and let it fall back down again. "What?" I croak.

The door hinges creak as the knob turns. I crack one eye open to see Hermione enter, a wide grin splitting her face, and inwardly I groan. Outwardly, I simply pull the duvet up over my head.

"I'm sleeping," I mumble, only to feel the edge of my bed dip as she seats herself upon it.

"It's nearly six in the evening," says Hermione. "You can't sleep all day-"

"Watch me."

"We went to the Burrow on Sunday for dinner," Hermione goes on like I'm not still buried under blankets and patently ignoring her, "and Ginny asked after you."

Damn you, Hermione. Just like that, I'm as awake as if I've just chugged a cup of coffee. Pushing the blanket off my face, I rub my palm over my chin and sit up. "What do you mean? What'd she say?"

"She said, 'where's Harry?'"

Hermione divulges this tidbit - these two words that someone spoke three days ago - as though she's discovered the holy grail. Maybe they just aren't sinking into my fatigue-addled brain, but they aren't registering as the thrilling revelation that she expects them to be.

"All right," I say slowly, picking up my glasses from the bedside table and sliding them on. "Is that all, then?"

"Oh, Harry, don't you see?" she says excitedly. "It means she was expecting you-"

"I think she probably wanted to know if she could expect to be locked in the scullery again," I say pointedly.

"But she wanted to know where you were," Hermione goes on. "She was thinking about you."

"Or she just assumed you lot would have brought me with you." I push my glasses up to rub the bridge of my nose. "You're overthinking this."

Because I've learned, over the years, not to get my hopes up too high. A lifetime of loss and disappointment has taught me not to expect too much. And after days of confinement in a tent with a bunch of Aurors twice my age and little else to do but think about Ginny, and replay every single second of that conversation with her in my mind, I've opted just to be grateful that it happened at all. Any act of friendship from her is already more than I deserve, and that's likely all it was. It was not necessarily the romantic moment Hermione so desperately wants it to be.

I remember, once, when the thought of Ginny rejecting me never even crossed my mind. The obstacles I faced in sixth year had all been external: her relationship with Dean Thomas, and then, once that ended, Ron's potential disapproval and subsequent disowning of me. I never once considered that I might go for it with her, and she might let me down easy. Somehow I always imagined that if I mustered up the courage to go for it, and if Ron didn't strangle me as a result, then that would be it. We'd be together. It was that simple.

But now over a year's gone by, and nothing's that simple anymore. So much has happened, and I can't expect us to be the same people we were. I think we can still be good for each other, maybe even better than before. But it takes two, and maybe she doesn't feel the same.

As Hermione opens her mouth to argue with me, and probably posit some ridiculous theory about Ginny's hidden messages ("I think she was blinking in Morse code, Harry, and if I've translated it correctly…"), my stomach lets out a spectacular gurgle, and I realize that I haven't eaten in nearly twenty-four hours.

"Come on downstairs," Hermione says instead. "Ron's gone to pick up takeaway, I'm sure he'll be back any minute."

"Oh, I see," I reply, shoving the blanket off my legs. "So he left, and you took the opportunity to pester me."

She jumps up from the bed. "I did not!" she snaps, indignant - and, honestly, protesting far too much to be believable. "I just thought you'd be hungry, that's all."

"Mmhmm."

I follow her out of the room and down the stairs to the basement kitchen. In the middle of the worktop sits an open box of cereal, and I seize upon it, scooping out a handful of corn flakes and depositing them directly into my mouth. "Oh, hey," I say, suddenly recalling the circumstances under which I left, "how was your film night? With your mum and dad, I mean."

"Oh," says Hermione, a tad perplexed as she opens up a cupboard and pulls out a stack of plates. "It was nice."

"How'd Ron do?" As her head swivels round, brows knitted together, I clarify, "he was a bit nervous."

"Well, he's got the attention span of a fruit fly," she says affectionately, "but we all had a nice time. My mum thinks he's hilarious."

"You should really tell him that."

"Tell who what?" comes a voice from the doorway, and in walks Ron with several plastic bags hanging off his arms. Hermione bounds over to him and leans up for a kiss, and as he bends to meet her, I shovel more dry cereal into my mouth and wait for them to detach. Finally - they're snogging like he's returning from several months away at sea, not a ten-minute trip to the local curry place - they break apart, and Ron looks over Hermione's head and nods at me. "You're alive!"

"Barely."

Ron drops the plastic bags onto the worktop with a thud. "Don't worry, I took good care of little Agamemnon for you-"

"He's not called Agamemnon-"

"Roger, then," Ron laughs. "Anyway, how'd the mission go?"

"Really good, actually..."

I spend the first half of our meal - chicken tikka masala, samosas, and enough naan to last for days - detailing the mission for Ron, who has a thousand questions and wants to know everything that happened. Hermione listens with a surprising lack of commentary, her hawk-like gaze bouncing anxiously between Ron and I. It's not difficult to imagine how her nerves will magnify once Ron has his first mission.

I can't stop myself wondering what Ginny would think of it all.

•••

The rest of the week passes by uneventfully, and before I know it, it's mid-morning on Sunday and I'm dragging myself out of bed once again. Ron's bedroom door is closed, which means they're still sleeping or otherwise occupied, so I head down to the kitchen and start fixing breakfast. We don't have a ton - just some eggs, a slice or two of bread, a tin of beans - but as it's Sunday, we'll likely be sent home from dinner at the Burrow with enough leftovers to last us the entire week. Mrs. Weasley must have a sixth sense for when we're about to start living on pizza.

It's not often that I ever eat a meal alone. Despite their intense coupledom, Ron and Hermione are nearly always around me, perhaps out of concern that I'll backslide into wallowing if I'm left to my own devices for too long. These days, their concern is mostly misplaced.

But I do wonder what it would be like to have someone. To have a lazy lie-in on weekend mornings, too safe and secure in the warmth of each other to even consider leaving the bed. To cook breakfast in our pyjamas and read the Sunday Prophet together, poking fun at the gossip column and devouring the Quidditch statistics. It's always Ginny in these fantasies; I can't imagine having this sort of domestic intimacy with anyone else. And then I wonder if she ever thinks about it, ever considers what we could have been had a war and darkness and evil not gotten in the way.

Ron used to do the same thing with Hermione. He'd wonder what would have happened if he hadn't kissed Lavender Brown, or if he'd asked Hermione to the Yule Ball properly instead of as a last resort, or if he never stormed out of the tent that night. Maybe if he could have reversed time, and started things up with her sooner, everything might have been different. He doesn't look back like that anymore - at least not aloud, to me, the way he used to - and maybe that's because he's got what he wants now, but maybe it's also because it's not worth dwelling on. It happened, and there's no changing it. All you can do is look forward and focus on what could be, not what might have been or what never was.

No one is more surprised than me that Ron's my benchmark for a healthy relationship, but this is the place my life has taken me.

Eventually the pair of them resurface, and by mid-afternoon, we're Apparating over to the Burrow. I no longer get stomach-twisting anxiety at the sight of it like I used to, which is a welcome change. Mrs. Weasley ushers us inside, offering drinks and pre-dinner snacks, and of course Ron sets about passing around butterbeers and nicking a slice of cheese from the worktop. There's no sign of Ginny yet, but as usual, I'm on high alert.

Ron pokes me on the arm. "Let's play chess."

"Why do you even want to play with me?" I ask even as I follow him into the sitting room. "It can't be that much of a challenge."

"It's not," replies Ron with a laugh. "But I like the chess set here."

Just as we reach the chess table, the staircase creaks and I forget about the game entirely as Ginny descends in a loose t-shirt and denim shorts. Her hair hangs loose down her back, the ends nearly reaching her waist. Tossing out a casual greeting to us, she swipes a copy of The Quibbler from an end table and falls onto the sofa. There's something so effortless about everything she does: I'm sure she has no idea the easy confidence she exudes simply by existing, but I just want to drink her in.

Unfortunately, Ron takes the seat that actually faces the sofa, so I'm left to sit with my back to Ginny. Not only can I not discreetly observe her like this, but it feels a little awkward knowing she's staring at the back of my head.

That is, if she's even looking this way. She probably isn't.

"So, Ginny," says Ron as he sets up the chessmen on the board. "I couldn't help but notice your birthday's coming up."

My stomach flips. It's not that I haven't been aware - I have been rather acutely aware of anything having to do with Ginny Weasley for a couple years now - but given that I have no idea how to approach it, I was hoping I could linger in willful oblivion just a little bit longer.

"Nothing gets past you," she replies, scooting over to make room for Hermione on the sofa. "So what about it?"

"So seventeen's a big deal. Where's the party?"

Losing a brief battle with my willpower, I glance over my shoulder to see her narrowing her eyes at Ron. "Interesting that you think you'd be invited."

"Ahh, so there is a party."

"Well… I'd been thinking of getting people together to go to the Leaky," says Ginny, almost like it's a confession. "But I'm the last of everyone I know to turn seventeen, so maybe that's a bit boring at this point."

"You won't need to twist any arms to get people into a pub," replies Ron as he nudges one of his pawns across the chessboard. "Doesn't matter what the reason is."

"Thanks," says Ginny dryly. "I was just going to invite Luna, Demelza, Neville probably - do you lot want to come, too?"

All the chessmen on the board have turned to face me; the knight's horse paws impatiently as though awaiting instruction. But I can hardly care less about that right now. There's an earnesty in her invitation, a sense that it doesn't come from a sense of obligation or politeness, but in truly wanting that company. The only problem is that I don't know if I'm included in this. I don't know if she's speaking to Ron, and by extension Hermione (because they're a packaged deal these days), or if she means all three of us. And it's not as if I can just ask. How pathetic would that be?

"Yes, of course we'll be there," Hermione replies brightly. "Wouldn't miss it."

"Harry, you too, right?"

The Cornish pixies are back in my stomach. I shift to sit sideways in my chair so I can see her more easily and muster up a nod. "Yeah," say, hoping my enthusiasm shines through all my nerves. "Great."

She smiles, that effortless radiance back with a vengeance. "Oh, and I'm still thinking, by the way."

"What?"

"For what to call your owl. It's got to be something really good."

"Oh, don't bother," pipes up Ron. "I've started calling him Agamemnon now-"

Ginny bursts into incredulous laughter; it lights up the whole room. "Agamemnon?!"

•••

I need to find a birthday gift for Ginny. No, not need. I want to give her a birthday gift. Not because I'm trying to send any sort of message, or because I think it'll get me back into her good books. I just want to give her something that might make her happy. I want to be the reason for a smile on her face.

Only problem is, I've no idea what that gift should be. I'm not unaware of my own status, so I know I can probably get her anything she wants in the entire world: a Firebolt, her very own pet dragon, a private Weird Sisters concert. I wouldn't do any of these ridiculously lavish things, as it would look like nothing so much as me throwing Galleons around in an ill-advised attempt to win her back. Nothing too boyfriend-y, either, like jewelry or flowers. It's just got to be something she'll like. Something that'll make her happy.

All of Sunday night is spent ruminating over this. Ideas surface and then are immediately stricken from consideration; nothing feels right. By the time Monday afternoon rolls around, I've made absolutely no progress at all. I go through morning classes in a daze, scribbling idly in the corners of my parchment when I ought to be taking notes, and when we're released for our lunch break, I head with Ron down to the Ministry cafe. In stark contrast to my quiet, anxious introspection, he's apparently had far too much coffee today and is prattling on a mile a minute, only pausing to take a breath, and certainly not long enough for me to get a word in edgewise.

"So I told Hermione," he's saying as we're selecting sandwiches, packets of crisps, slightly-bruised fruit from the array of food, "why don't we just go and look at the crup puppies again? I mean, she barely even noticed them when we were at the Magical Menagerie with you, she was all worked up over the owls, but I think if she went and saw them again, she might actually like them, you know?"

"Mmm," I reply with what I hope is an understanding nod. I am lightyears away from relating to purchasing a joint pet with a significant other.

"But then she says there's no sense in us even looking," he goes on as we step up to the till to pay. "Since she's about to leave and all that. But it isn't like she'll never be back, I just think it's worth considering, instead of her just deciding she doesn't want one."

At this point, I can't not interject. "Well, look, if she doesn't even want a puppy, you should probably drop it."

"But you didn't want an owl until you were actually in the shop looking at them," says Ron reasonably as he accepts his change back from the till attendant. "She could go the same way."

We find our favorite table in the back, the one that offers the least chance of people noticing and therefore bothering us, and the conversation pauses as we dig into our food.

"Besides," I say once or sandwiches are half-gone, "isn't Hermione more of a cat person anyway?"

Ron gives a concessionary tilt of the head. "I s'pose, yeah. Actually, I bet that's part of it. I doubt Crookshanks would take too kindly to a puppy."

Briefly, I picture it: surly, squashy-faced Crookshanks faced with a gamboling, overexcited puppy. "Yeah, probably not. Though Crookshanks is going to Hogwarts with her, isn't he?"

"Yeah," replies Ron with a note of gloom in his voice as though he'd very much like to trade places with the cat. "But she's not going to be there forever, and…" He takes an enormous bite of his sandwich and slowly chews. "I mean, I guess there's the chance that… that once she's done, we might... y'know. Find a place of our own."

Quickly he shoves a handful of crisps into his mouth.

"Oh," is all I can say, surprised and yet not. "Really?"

He swallows his mouthful. "Yeah, I mean, it's come up a couple of times recently, so... yeah."

It's funny how you can think you know everything there is to know about a person. After seven years of friendship - of living with him more often than not - I do feel like I know everything about Ron, but he's got this whole other side of his life that doesn't involve me at all. Until today, I had no idea that he and Hermione talk, or argue rather, about adopting a puppy, or about properly moving in together once she finishes school. I don't know what else they talk about or what else they're planning, and it isn't my business to know. But now more than ever, I see that his life is moving in a drastically different direction than mine. He's moving forward, and I'm standing still.

"It's not that we don't like Grimmauld Place," Ron adds, "because we do, honest-"

"You don't have to like Grimmauld Place," I assure him with a laugh. "I'm not offended."

"No, really. It's fine, I like living there, it's just..."

"You want your own place."

"Yeah," he admits. "But it's not for certain or anything, and it wouldn't even happen for about a year anyway, so-"

"If you feel bad about it, don't," I tell him plainly. "I get it."

"She's just going to be gone for so long, you know?" Ron goes on, and I get the sense that he's no longer seeking validation, just thinking aloud. "I'll barely see her, and once she's back, I just… want to be able to see her all the time."

I nod my agreement. I've spent so much time around my best friends that it's difficult to imagine what such a prolonged separation will be like. The war and its aftermath has driven the wizarding world to cling more tightly to each other than ever before. The dread that Ron feels over the impending departure of the Hogwarts Express is not unique; no one wants to be apart.

Suddenly it's like the answer to my latest predicament has been staring me in the face all this time.

"Speaking of Hermione," I say. "Is she coming round tonight?"

Around a bite of an apple, Ron nods. "Most likely, yeah. Why?"

"I need her help with something."