August

by bowtruckles

"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." Sequel to Off-Kilter.

3. Seventeen

"You're sure you've got them in your bag?"

Hermione sighs and pats her small beaded purse as reassurance. "Yes."

"And you're sure they work?"

Another, deeper sigh, and an exchanged look of exasperation with Ron. "They haven't been tested under all circumstances," says Hermione, her voice carefully composed in an attempt to mask her fraying patience. "There wasn't time. But I feel quite confident that I've duplicated the spellwork exactly, so they should do what you want them to do."

"All right, sorry," I relent. "Thank you for helping me. I really do appreciate it."

"Oh, you're welcome," Hermione says, now breaking into a smile. "I'm just so happy to have helped-"

"I'm sure they're perfect," Ron interrupts, albeit good-naturedly. "Now can we go? Mum doesn't like when we're late for dinner."

I don't bother to argue back that Ron has never been late for a meal, ever; the anxious excitement quivering in my stomach over what lies ahead for the evening overrules everything else. No Weasley birthday is complete without a home-cooked meal by Mrs. Weasley, so we're heading to the Burrow first, but then it's off to Diagon Alley, and from there, the outlook is painfully uncertain. Oh, I know we'll all end up sitting round one of those circular booths in the back of the pub, and Ginny's brothers will buy her shots of Firewhisky, and Ron and Hermione will continue to be their disgustingly affectionate selves, but that's about all I know.

It's nerve-wracking to be sure, but it's also a bit exciting in a way. There was a time when the only thing lying ahead for me was Voldemort. He was all I could see. Now that he's gone, my future's been cracked wide open, and that's overwhelming at times. It's hard to plan for anything past your eighteenth birthday when you don't think you'll live to see it. Now, though… I'm starting to see things take shape.

Much to Ron's chagrin, we are among the last to arrive. The kitchen at the Burrow is packed to the brim with Weasleys and smells deliciously of toffee. Among the chatter and bubbling pots and vegetables that are slicing themselves, we find Ginny at the table with a vast array of sweets and food arranged before her.

"Happy birthday!" Hermione exclaims, grabbing her up in an enthusiastic hug.

Ron's next with a one-armed embrace, tousling her hair until she smacks his arm to make him let go. Ginny's eyes lock on me, then, and tension swells between us: do I go for it? There's nothing I wouldn't give to hold her again, to have the flowery scent of her hair flood my nose, but it's really not about what I want. It needs to be what we both want.

"Hey," she says to me instead with a bright, easy smile.

"Hi," I reply, simultaneously relieved and disappointed. "Happy birthday."

"Yeah, well done," Ron interjects, clapping Ginny heartily on the shoulder and instantly snapping the tension. "You've managed to not almost off yourself today, so you're already ahead of me."

"It isn't hard," Ginny quips back, clearing some torn wrapping paper off a chair so Hermione can sit beside her. "I know better than to eat random sweets off the floor-"

"Oi!" objects Ron, playfully indignant. "They weren't just lying round in the dirt, they were inside a box-" He jerks a thumb in my direction. "He's the one who was chucking things all over the room, anyway."

"Oh, I see," I play along. "So it's my fault?"

"Of course not," Hermione says fiercely, as though anyone's being serious at all. "It's the fault of that awful girl who tried to dose you with a love potion. They really ought to be banned, you know. They're incredibly dangerous, not to mention unethical - to just take away someone's autonomy like that-"

"We know," says Ron, "we're just having a laugh-"

"Well, I just don't think it's very funny…"

As her diatribe about the horrors of love potions continues (despite the fact nobody's disagreeing with her), I drop into a chair opposite Ginny and take a couple biscuits from a dish on the table. As she moves a hand to push her hair over her shoulder, I notice something gold glinting on her freckle-dusted wrist.

"Is that new?" I ask, gesturing towards her arm.

She looks where I've pointed like she's forgotten she's wearing it. "Oh! Yeah, it's my coming-of-age gift from Mum and Dad. Wizards get watches, witches get bracelets," she explains. "Though I wouldn't have complained if I'd gotten a new broom instead."

Her arm extends across the table towards me, and the tension rises again between us as I lean in to take a closer look. Thin, delicate gold chains weave together, adorned here and there with tiny stars that sparkle despite the low light of the kitchen.

"I think Mum was really excited to shop for something other than a watch, though," Ginny continues as she takes her arm back. "And I've been using Charlie's old broom all summer, it's pretty decent."

"What kind has he got?"

"It's just a Comet Two-Forty," she says, reaching for her own biscuit. "But he took really good care of it, so it's still pretty fast. It's no Firebolt or anything, though."

She raises her brows pointedly at me, but it isn't challenging like it might have been a month or two ago. It's jocular, teasing, but friendly.

"I don't even have my Firebolt anymore," I remind her. "It's lost somewhere over the home counties."

"Oh, right!" She winces sympathetically. "Have you got a new one yet?"

Casually, I shake my head. "Not yet."

"Well, one flying thing at a time, I suppose," she says as she takes a contemplative bite of her biscuit. "Your owl hasn't even got a name yet."

"You're still thinking, huh?"

"I don't want to rush the decision." She laughs again, and the sound floods like warmth through my whole body. "It's got to be something really good."

Something knocks into my calf under the table, and I tear my eyes away from Ginny to see Hermione staring at me, eyes unblinking and sharp. What, I mouth as subtly as possible, and she just raises her brows and then turns her gaze down to the table. I follow her line of sight to see she's looking at her beaded bag, and her meaning becomes plain.

"Oh, right!" I blurt out, prompting curious looks from both Ginny and Ron. "Erm, so, Ginny, I actually have something for-"

But just then, Mrs. Weasley bustles over with steaming bowls of vegetable soup, and as the rest of the family joins us at the table, the moment ends before it even began.

"Nevermind," I say to Ginny, who's still regarding me inquisitively. "I'll tell you later."

•••

Despite it being a Tuesday, the Leaky Cauldron is packed nearly to the rafters when we walk inside. With more energy than I've seen him display in months, George bounds over to the bar and returns with a massive tray bearing pitchers of lager, glasses, and an entire bottle of Firewhiskey.

"I told Tom that it's a special occasion," he explains, flicking his wand so that the pitcher of beer lifts up and begins pouring into the pint glasses. "So you'll be well taken care of tonight, Ginny, don't you worry."

"Oh, believe me, I wasn't-" As she scans the crowded pub, her face lights up. "Oh, good, there they are."

She makes her way across the pub to a small back booth, where Luna Lovegood sits with a glass of gillywater in front of her and two pairs of Spectrespecs perched atop her head. Beside her is Neville Longbottom, who's got his own pint of beer. They rise from their seats as Ginny approaches and greet her with enthusiastic hugs, and as George begins passing around the drinks, the three of them fall into fast, easy conversation. I'm only vaguely aware of Bill pulling up extra chairs to the booth, or the glass of Firewhiskey being pressed into my hand, or Ron guiding Hermione onto his lap when there still aren't enough seats for everyone. All I can do is watch Ginny, watch the way she's glowing with happiness at the sight of her friends, watch the effortlessness in their interactions, and try to stamp down the guilt roiling in my stomach.

I cannot reverse time and return to last year. The fact remains that I just up and left, without telling her a word. I had no other choice, and I stand by what I did. Still… it was a whole year of our lives. A year of her life that I didn't experience. A year of her life when I wasn't there for her, and other people were.

It's no one's fault, least of all hers, but it snaps everything back into sharp perspective. Whatever progress I might have thought I was making, it's clear now that those casual chats over biscuits and butterbeers were only meager steps in closing a wide and gaping chasm between us. She's everything I see, everywhere I look, occupying all the space in my mind, but I'm only on the periphery of hers. While she sits in the middle of the booth, allowing her friends and her brothers to shower her with drinks and attention, I end up on the outskirts of the group in one of those extra chairs that Bill had dragged up, more of an observer than an actual participant.

Still, I figure that the party has to thin out eventually - at one point, the whole of Dumbledore's Army and Gryffindor Quidditch are crammed into this far corner of the pub - and maybe I'll have my moment with her then. Her gift still burns a hole in my pocket (or rather, Hermione's bag, but I'm still thinking of it), but I don't fancy making a big presentation in front of everyone. It isn't about making a statement or sending any sort of message. I really do just genuinely want her to have it. And until then, I'm content to sit back, nurse my glass of Firewhiskey, endure George's ribbing about said conservative drinking, and watch for an opening.

"My money's on Peru," Ron says loudly, leaning around Hermione to pour himself another beer. "They made it all the way to the semi-final last time, and they only lost because Ireland were so good-"

"And yet," George interjects, exchanging grins with Angelina Johnson and Lee Jordan. "I seem to recall you supporting Bulgaria that year."

Ron shrugs dismissively. "I doubt Bulgaria will even make it to the quarterfinals this time."

"But they've got some new Chasers," says Angelina fairly. "And they've still got Krum."

"Yeah, but he's getting old, isn't he?"

From her perch on Ron's knee, Hermione rolls her eyes with a disbelieving shake of her head. "He's hardly old, he's only just turned twenty-two."

He peers around her shoulder to look at her in alarm. "How do you know that?"

"It's just simple maths, Ron…"

I've almost forgotten about the Quidditch World Cup entirely. For obvious reasons, England isn't participating, but because Voldemort's reign of terror hadn't spread past the United Kingdom, the rest of the wizarding community had carried on recruiting athletes and hosting matches. It boggles my mind that while I was on the run, and the Weasleys were in hiding, and the Carrows reigned supreme at Hogwarts, for most people, life hardly changed at all.

Sometimes I wonder, if we hadn't won, just how bad it would have got.

"It'll either be Peru or Japan," Ginny chimes into the discussion at some point, earning herself an appreciative nod from Ron. "Japan have got that new Seeker, she's meant to be really good."

"But Seekers alone don't win matches, Bulgaria are proof of that," counters Lee. "You need good Chasers too."

"Yeah, and they've got them…"

As Ginny launches into an explanation of Japan's new offensive strategy, a light flush rises in her cheeks - whether from alcohol, the warmth of the pub, or her sheer passion for Quidditch, I can't be certain. I, for one, am just happy to see her like this.

So, naturally, that's when the first camera goes off. The sudden flash of light through the dimly-lit pub causes the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. Next to me, Ron and Hermione instantly go tense. Furtively I glance around the pub, trying to discern the source, but it's crowded and dark and whoever the photographer is, they're likely employing stealth magic.

"Fuck," I hiss through gritted teeth. "Goddammit, why now?"

"Ignore it, mate," Ron mumbles, barely loud enough to be heard, rubbing his hand over his jaw to mask the movement of his lips. "Just ignore it."

Easier said than done. Every click of the shutter, every burst of light, every scratch of a Quick-Quotes quill against parchment, they're all brutal reminders of exactly how abnormal my life is. That Ginny and her friends are able to sit in a pub on a Tuesday night with a pitcher of beer and argue over Quidditch is nothing short of miraculous, nothing to be taken for granted, and my presence turns it into something gossip-worthy. This night is meant to be about her, not me.

"I'll just go," I decide. "If I leave, they'll leave."

"But you can't!" Hermione yelps, jumping up from Ron's lap. "You haven't given-"

"I know," I say, "but I'll have to do it another time. I don't want to ruin her night."

"Nothing's ruined," says Ron. "Everything's fine, see?"

He gestures to the table, where the conversation has shifted to fond reminiscence of past Quidditch Cup victories.

But it won't be fine. Not once the photos are in the paper, captioned with speculation and half-truths. Not when Ginny realizes that this is what life with me around is like: constant scrutiny, no privacy, no normalcy. I should do my best to spare her before it's too late.

"Oh, Harry, don't," Hermione objects, but I ignore her, and instead rise from my chair.

"Oi, Ginny," I say, leaning forward and planting one hand on the table so I can be heard over the din. "I've got to go."

"Already?!" Ginny is far more incredulous than I expected. "Why?"

I lean in further, lowering my voice. "There's cameras in here."

"So?"

"So it'll all be in the Prophet tomorrow unless I go."

"I don't care," she says baldly. "Let them say whatever they want. You can't go yet, we've barely got started." A smile flashes across her face, and then she turns to face George, who's seated next to her. "Budge over," she demands, pushing on his shoulder. "Go sit with Ron."

George pulls a face of mock annoyance. "What, and watch him snog Hermione all night?"

But, to my amazement, he rises and slides out of the booth, and Ginny pats the small patch of polished wood beside her. Heart leaping into my throat, I slip in next to her. It's small and cramped and her leg - bare, since she's wearing shorts - is pressed against mine.

Another flash goes off.

"So what do you reckon they'll write about us?" asks Ginny around a sip of her drink.

"Oh, the usual," I reply as Ron slides a beer across the table in my direction. "Probably something about how I'm betraying Ron's friendship by being sat here with you."

"I thought you were betraying him by having a torrid love affair with Hermione," she deadpans back.

"Well, I'm a really bad friend."

Her head tips back as she laughs, and my stomach flips. Lately I've been making her laugh more and more, and it's the best feeling there is.

"Yeah, you're the worst," she agrees, still grinning.

I hazard a glance over at Ron and Hermione, the latter of which meets my eye and holds up her beaded bag in suggestion. Discreetly, I shake my head. Now's not the time; I just want to enjoy this.

"So it's my turn to ask," I go on, eager to keep this energy between us alive. "Have you had a good birthday so far?"

"So far I have," she replies. "I thought it would feel more exciting, though. It's a little anticlimactic, turning seventeen."

"You can do magic outside of school now, though," I remind her.

"Well…" The redness in her cheeks deepens. "I've been doing that all summer, actually."

"Have you?"

"You're the one who told me that they can't tell who's cast what spell," she goes on. "There's already so much magic going on at my house, they'd never be able to figure out if it's Mum or Dad or me or anyone else."

"You little rebel." I don't even try to hide the admiration in my voice.

"Maybe I shouldn't have told you. You're an Auror now, aren't you? You could arrest me."

"I think I'll let this one slide," I reply, opting not to remind her that I'm not fully qualified and lack the authority to arrest a house elf, let alone an actual human being. "Just for you."

Her eyes connect with mine, brown irises dark, pupils wide. I have to bite down on my lip to keep from kissing her.

Luna's the first to leave ("the Nargles are worst for Dad at night"), followed closely by Neville, and then Hannah Abbott. One by one, Ginny hugs her guests goodbye, but always returns to the space in the booth beside me. Up until now, I've had only shreds of time to spend with her. Even our little bout of captivity in the scullery last month lasted hardly an hour, and that was only because Hermione was reluctant to release us. I've had bits of conversation here, stolen moments there, but this is the most time we've had together since last spring. The minutes and hours race by, and before I know, last orders are being called, and only Ron, Hermione, George, and Angelina remain.

George jumps up from the booth. "Last orders! What does everyone want? It's my treat."

"Nothing," replies Ginny, holding up a nearly-full glass of gin and tonic. "I still have this left."

"So what I'm hearing is you want a double Firewhiskey," says George. "Anyone else?"

"No, seriously," Ginny objects, reaching out to swat her brother on the arm. "I'm done, I've got to Floo home without accidentally ending up in Wales or something."

"Double Firewhiskeys all around, then?"

Before anyone can argue, he's darted off to the bar. I have the distinct sense that George will end up drinking all of these Firewhiskeys himself, and then the pub will close, and my remaining time with Ginny will dwindle down to nothing.

Across the table, Hermione is speaking directly into Ron's ear. "Hermione," I attempt, only to be plainly ignored. "Hey, Hermione?"

Plainly oblivious to everything around him, Ron turns and locks his lips onto hers, and beside me, Ginny lets out a disgusted groan. Picking up a coaster, she chucks it directly at Ron's chest.

"Oi!" Ron turns, red-faced, to scowl at the pair of us. "What's the matter with you?"

"You're being disgusting," says Ginny. "You've got to get a room, seriously."

"Don't you worry, we will-"

"Hermione," I interrupt, "can I have your bag?"

Eagerly, she nods and passes it to me over the table. As Ginny watches, intrigued, I reach in up to my elbow and fossick around until my fingers close over the small paper-wrapped parcel.

"So," I begin, shifting in my seat to face Ginny and trying to push down how monumental this feels. I've never given her a gift before. "I've actually got a birthday present for you-"

Her jaw drops. "You have?"

"It's nothing special, really-"

Hermione's foot connects with my leg for the second time that day. "Don't say that!"

"All right, she helped me with it, so she's very invested," I explain. "But really, don't get your hopes up too high."

I place the parcel onto the table in front of Ginny and do my best to ignore the thumping of my heart in my ears. If she hates it… if she gets the wrong message…

Her fingers slip under the fold and lift up the taped corners, then pull the paper away completely to reveal two rectangular mirrors, each about the size of a small book.

"They're two-way mirrors," I say before she can become too puzzled. "It's something my dad and, erm, and Sirius came up when they were in school, it's a way to communicate. You look into one, and whoever's got the other one will be able to see and hear you. I used to have a set, actually-"

She looks back and forth between me and the mirrors, mouth slightly agape. "You told me."

"Right. Well, anyway, you can keep one and give the other to whoever you want to talk with while you're at Hogwarts. Luna, maybe."

Ginny furrows her brow at me. "Luna's going back too."

"Then - then your mum and dad, or one of your brothers, maybe. It's up to you."

"These are incredible," Ginny says softly. "You just made them?"

"Hermione helped me with the spellwork," I'm quick to say. "Actually, she basically did the spellwork, I can't take credit for that. I just figured that it might be really strange to be back at Hogwarts, I can hardly imagine what it'll be like, and I thought it might make it… easier. If you could talk to your parents, or - or I don't know, Neville-"

"Neville?!"

"Or whoever you want," I say again. "It'll be a lot better than writing letters."

She sets the mirrors down. Shifts in her seat to face me more fully. Her gaze connects onto mine again, and the ruckus of the pub recedes into the background. Something's there in her eyes again. I wouldn't quite call it blazing, but it's definitely… smoldering.

It's not nothing.

"Thank you," she says, and then her arms are encircling my neck and I'm hugging her back, holding her, breathing her in. It's over in seconds, but I can still feel her touch burning into my skin.

"It's nothing much-"

"No, it's brilliant. And I feel so bad," she suddenly laments as George returns to the table and plunks a heavy glass filled with smoking amber liquid in front of her. "You've just had your birthday and I didn't get you anything."

"You didn't have to. I just thought you might like these."

"I do."

"Besides, you're naming my owl, aren't you?" I grin at her. "That's more than enough."

Ron leans across the table, so close that his chest is nearly touching the smooth wood. "You better hurry up on that," he tells Ginny, eyes glassy. "Or he'll end up calling him Agamemnon like I've said-"

"No, no, no, you can't do that," Ginny says with such urgency in her voice that I can't help but laugh. "Don't give him the satisfaction."

Ron lets out a gurgling chuckle. "Nah, Hermione's got that covered - oi!" For the object of his affection has just swatted his shoulder. "What? I give it right back, don't I?"

"We'd better get you home," Hermione says, tugging on the sleeve of Ron's shirt. "You need a sobering potion."

"I'm fine," Ron protests, even as he allows himself to be pulled from the booth. "George just brought last orders."

"You need to go to bed."

He smirks. "You joining me?"

With a roll of her eyes, Hermione leans over to give Ginny a quick hug. "Happy birthday again, Ginny. We'll see you soon."

Ginny waves them off, watching as Hermione leads Ron out of the pub. "They've got the right idea, honestly," she says, disregarding George's incredulous protest. "I don't want Mum and Dad to worry."

"They'll worry no matter what," George tells her. "You may as well finish your drink."

"Nice try."

We do, however, keep George and Angelina company while they finish their drinks, and as the last drops of Firewhiskey drain from George's glass into his mouth, he rises from his seat. "Well," he declares with a meaningful look in Angelina's direction, "I guess I'm headed home."

Angelina gets to her feet as well. "Yes, me too. I'm going to go too."

"How are you getting home? The Knight Bus?" asks Ginny, and I know she's thinking, as I am, that Angelina lives all the way in South London, and has perhaps imbibed a bit too much to Apparate safely.

"Just walking," says George. "I'm only a few minutes away, aren't I?"

"Well, yeah, but-"

"You two stay out of trouble," George says, tossing a wink in our direction. He and Angelina depart the pub together, their bodies so close as they walk that their hands brush.

"Subtle," Ginny laughs once they've stepped through the door. "Really subtle."

"Are they…?"

"Not together," says Ginny, shaking her head. "Not properly, anyway. I think they're just… you know."

Playfully, she grimaces.

"I see."

"Ugh," she groans suddenly, slouching down in her seat. "Fuck's sake, look at the Floo. It'll take ages to get home."

There is, indeed, a long queue forming in front of the fireplace on the opposite end of the pub. The portly gentleman currently standing inside it keeps sprinkling his Floo powder on his hair rather than throwing it into the grate, then gazing around in confusion when he hasn't gone anywhere.

"That could be a while," I agree. "And you haven't got your Apparition license yet, have you?"

I regret the words the second they leave my mouth, because instantly Ginny tenses. "There weren't lessons last year."

"Oh, right, I - right," I stammer, even as I realize that I didn't know that until just now. "Well, if you don't want to wait, I can Apparate you home. By Side-Along, I mean."

"But you haven't got your license either, have you?"

"Doesn't stop me Apparating," I say with a grin.

She doesn't smile back. "Well, I suppose you do get away with things, don't you?"

Guilt grips my stomach again as her words from last month, sharp and aimed to wound, cut through my mind again: I reckon Harry thinks he can just do whatever he wants, doesn't he? The chasm between us, which I thought I had made progress on closing, feels split wide open again.

"But it's a good idea," she relents. "If you don't mind the extra trip."

"Not at all."

The smile she does give me then is hesitant and close-lipped. "Thanks."

There's an Anti-Apparition charm over the whole of Diagon Alley, so we make our way out of the pub and into Charing Cross Road. The summer air around us is muggy and hot, so heavy that it's difficult to take a deep breath.

"You haven't had too much to drink, have you?" asks Ginny as we make our way down the crowded sidewalk in search of a private place to Apparate. "We're not going to end up in Bristol or something?"

"No, I only had a couple. It'll be fine." As we pass by an alley, dark and narrow, I beckon to her. "Here, this should do."

"Ooh, it's creepy," Ginny says with a touch of relish, taking in the dented rubbish bins and the flickering streetlight above us. "Seems like a good place to get murdered."

"I'll do my best not to murder you." Taking my wand out of my back pocket, I offer my forearm to her. "Ready?"

She nods, and reaches for me, but she doesn't take my arm. Instead her hand, small and warm, closes directly around mine. Like an instinct that I didn't know I had, I adjust so that our palms are flush against each other.

"Hang on tight." My voice comes out in a breath.

"I am."

There's a good chance I won't be able to Apparate properly at all, the way she's doing my head in right now. I very well could end up in Bristol or Inverness or not be able to do it at all, just be an idiot turning on the spot in an alley.

But I squeeze her hand a bit more tightly, bring the image of the Burrow to the forefront of my mind, and twist in place.

I open my eyes to utter darkness. Above us is a inky-black sky glittering with stars and a big, glowing, almost-full moon. In the distance stands a tall, ramshackle house with oil lamps illuminating the windows.

"Ugh." Ginny drops my hand to push her long hair away from her face. "Not exactly pleasant, that, is it?"

"You do get used to it, but I'd still rather fly."

"Yeah, I would too."

We stand there, the long grass tickling our legs, and regard each other. I know the night has to end. I know she isn't going to invite me inside for a late-night cup of tea and a chat. I know we've had sticky moments, little reminders that we're not who we used to be anymore.

I just want to be with her a little bit longer.

"Thanks again for my gift," she says, sounding almost shy.

"You're welcome."

"I should probably get inside." She glances over at the house. "I think Mum's waiting up."

"All right, well then, I'll, erm… I'll see you…"

"Soon," she finishes the sentence.

"Soon."

I watch until she's all the way inside the house, just to be absolutely sure she's made it there safely, and then Apparate back to Grimmauld Place. Despite the late hour, there's a buzzing in my veins, and my skin is still warm where Ginny held my hand, so sleep is a very, very long way off. I go instead down to the basement kitchen, intent on a cup of tea to ease the racing of my mind. I'm barely watching where I'm going, my mind still on Ginny, her arms around my neck, her leg pressed against mine, and at first I don't even register the sight before me when I enter the kitchen.

Hermione's sat on the counter, Ron standing between her legs, and they are snogging as furiously as if this is their last night on earth. Fortunately, snogging is all they're doing, though I expect that if I'd spent a few more minutes talking to Ginny, I'd have encountered a much different scene.

Normally I'd just turn and leave, but I really do want a cup of tea. Pointedly, I clear my throat. When this does nothing, I change tactics.

"Oi!"

Ron jumps back, startled, and Hermione's face goes a deep, boiling crimson.

"Oops," Ron chuckles. "Sorry, mate."

Hopping down from the counter, Hermione grabs Ron by the wrist and drags him out the door, carefully not making eye contact with me as she passes.

But as their footsteps pound up the staircase, the tea kettle on the stove lets out a sharp, high whistle, so at least they've done one thing right.

•••

I barely sleep that night. When I do manage to doze, it's fitful and disjointed, marked by stressful dreams that I cannot recall upon waking. The trilling of my alarm in the morning comes as a welcome relief from tossing and turning in bed, and after a shower, I make my way back down to the kitchen. From the hallway, I hear quiet voices and the sizzle of frying bacon.

"Is it safe to enter?" I call, laughing to myself as I approach the doorway. "What am I about to walk in on?"

"Yes, Harry," comes Hermione's slightly exasperated voice. Internally I bristle at this: if anyone should be exasperated, it ought to be me, the constant third wheel.

It's quite a different scene in the kitchen this morning. From one of the stools at the island worktop, Ron's slumped forward, face pale and clammy, staring at a phial of a murky green substance that I recognize as hangover potion.

"All right?" I grin, helping myself to a cup of coffee from the French press. He merely grunts in response. "I thought you were supposed to take a sobering potion."

"Got distracted," he mumbles, and despite his pallor, his ears go pink.

"Just drink that," I tell him. "It works fast, you'll feel loads better."

He lets out a truly pitiful whimper and lets his cheek press down on the worktop.

"I told him to take the sobering potion last night," Hermione says to me, shaking her head disapprovingly, her hands clasped around a steaming mug of coffee. "Of course he never listens. At least you seem like you're doing all right. How did things go after we left?"

"Fine," I say warily. "We left pretty soon after you."

"We?" repeats Hermione, alight with intrigue. "You mean, you left together?"

I shrug. "I Apparated her back to the Burrow-" At Hermione's delighted gasp, I scowl. "It wasn't like that, there was just a really long wait for the Floo at the Leaky, and it just seemed faster - stop looking at me like that-"

From the island worktop comes a strangled gag, and we both turn in alarm to see Ron holding a now-empty phial, his face screwed up in disgust. "That is foul," he moans. "That's it. I'm never drinking again."

"Mmhmm," says Hermione skeptically before turning back to me. "So what happened?"

"Nothing," I say firmly. "Seriously, nothing. All I did was-"

"Oh, Harry," pipes up Ron from the worktop, looking significantly further from death than he had thirty seconds ago. "You got some post earlier, it's over on the table."

"Really?"

"Yeah," says Ron as I walk over to the kitchen table and Hermione starts tending to the bacon again. "You know, you had better starting sending some post instead of just receiving it all the time, or little Agamemnon-"

"Don't call him that-"

"-is going to start taking it personally."

Ignoring this, I pick up a folded sheet of what looks like newsprint and flatten it out against the table.

My lungs lose all function.

POTTER'S NIGHT OUT, reads the headline of the Daily Prophet in big black letters, and beneath that: Boy-Who-Lived cozies up to best mate's sister in shocking betrayal

The accompanying photo is massive, taking up what I have to imagine is the entire front page. Ginny and I sit close together in that booth at the Leaky Cauldron, turned towards each other, our faces close. Even in the grainy image, the smiles on our faces are plain as day, and in the photo, her head tips back as she laughs. I watch it play on a loop, frozen, my heart in my throat… and then I notice the red ink at the bottom of the page.

We were right!

I know this handwriting, these smooth, round letters. It used to appear on notes slipped into my hand between classes inviting me to the common room at midnight, on the study guides that lay abandoned in favor of snogging behind the greenhouses. I'd recognize it anywhere.

And just like that, I can breathe again.

"Harry?" calls Hermione from across the room. "What is it?"

I tuck the paper into my pocket, wanting to keep it safe, special. Just between us. "Nothing."