Harry swears on his fucking life that he's never seen anyone as beautiful as Ginny. Ginny, with her flowing red hair and her light, porcelain skin. Ginny, with her eyes that probe, and probe, and probe, and Ginny, with her baby-pink lips that know how to kiss him in that perfect way that sets his whole body on fire, and Ginny, whose tongue really knows what it's doing. Harry feels like a simpleton. Even all these years later, Ginny ignites.
"Say, what are you thinking about, Harry?"
The sound of her voice (which he believes to be the sound of a windchime. How it beckons him. Always pulls him back to reality) ejects him from his daydream. He smiles at her and pushes his glasses a little farther up his nose.
"Just about how you're the absolute worst," he jokes. She smiles and rolls her eyes, then reaches over the train compartment tray table to take his hand in hers. God, her skin! Warm and supple against his. A tether.
"I'd think that'd be you, Harry—destroying the Dark Lord? Saving the Wizarding World? How dare you," she replies. Harry grins and brings her hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles.
"Say, you had a good time, right?" He asks.
He is, of course, referring to their honeymoon. They decided to do it the muggle way—they interrailed around Europe, making sure to hit all of the best spots: they'd kissed under the Eiffel Tower, drank themselves half to death in Berlin, and tried some strange drug in Amsterdam that felt suspiciously like Liquid Luck.
"Considering I was the one who planned it, yes. Yes, I did. It was perfect. But I'm so excited to be coming back from it to a home with you," she answers, squeezing his hand reassuringly. Outside, the British countryside whizzes past them. The green melds into darker green, into lighter green, into the sky. It's all rather beautiful. Harry Potter, here, with his wife.
They arrive at King's Cross at half-past six. Ron and Hermione are, of course, waiting at the terminal for them.
"Can you believe Britain didn't implode with you gone for three-and-a-half weeks?" Ron asks Harry after the two share a quick embrace. Harry furrows his eyebrows together.
"With me gone? Why—"
"Because you're the Chosen One!" Ron sputters, already laughing at his own joke. Hermione flicks her hand against his bicep.
"Ronald, how many times do I have to tell you that your Chosen One jokes stopped being funny as soon as you made the first one?"
"Well, I reckon you'll have to tell me plenty more times before your sage advice sinks in, 'Mione," Ron tells her. Harry and Ginny look at the two and shrug. The thing is, back at Hogwarts, back when they were kids, the romance building between Ron and Hermione was a slow burn. Everyone saw it coming from a mile away. And then it came, and oh, boy, did it come like a fucking hurricane, and now there seems to be some sort of unspoken anger (misunderstanding? distrust?) between the two of them. Harry once asked Ron about it, who had then quickly changed the subject. Harry didn't think much of it at the time, supposed it was private business.
"You know, I think the muggles might've really been onto something with those trains," Ginny comments as the two pass the quietly arguing Hermione and Ron.
"Wait till you try a plane," Harry replies. Ginny smiles and loops her arm through his. It's comfortable being here, with her, right now.
Then, just as they're exiting the station, Harry sees something.
He stops in his tracks and looks to his left, where, in a slim-fitting black suit, stands Draco Malfoy. Usually Harry would sneer, or murmur some joke about ferrets or smegma under his breath. But for some reason, he feels a flash. Perhaps flash is an odd word choice, but he supposes there's really no other way to describe it—like a quick, momentary pain deep in his stomach.
He decides to attribute it to the fact that he hasn't seen Draco since the Battle, which was nearly two years ago, and save for a few way-too-loyal-even-after-Voldemort-died-Death Eaters and those who left the country or disappeared into muggle lives after their commencement ceremony, there are very few magic folk Harry Potter has not seen since.
"Malfoy," Ginny seethes as her eyes land on him. Maybe Ginny can still find it in her to be angry with him, but after the Battle, after killing and being killed, Harry's no longer deeply bothered by his schooltime rival.
"He looks different," he notes.
"Oh, you didn't hear?" Ginny asks expectantly. Harry breaks his gaze from Draco and looks down at Ginny.
"What didn't I hear?"
"Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy Manor and an endless supply of Wizarding money and opportunities, married a muggle woman," Ginny says. Harry looks back at Draco and tilts his head at him. He reckons the other man hasn't taken notice of Harry's stares, which is probably for the best.
All of a sudden, a woman exits one of the train cars and Draco walks up to her, wrapping her in a warm embrace.
"She's really quite beautiful, isn't she?" Ginny asks. Harry shrugs. Yes, yes, he supposes she is beautiful, but only in a way that doesn't sit quite right with him. Once again, his stomach twists and contracts. A bolt of lightning in his belly.
"She's no Ginny Potter," Harry replies. Moments later, Ron and Hermione come up behind the two. Hermione's rolling her eyes and Ron looks guilty as charged.
"Ready?" Hermione asks. The three others nod and they head out of the station.
Before losing him in the crowd, Harry can't help but steal one last look at Draco, at how he holds himself as if it is very difficult for him to carry his own weight. Well, Harry hopes to himself that he has a good life. A prayer he wishes will go answered.
Oh, Draco sees him. Potter and all of his Weasley friends.
Ever since Draco left the world of magic, he'd been dreading seeing anyone from that world ever again, and simply hoped it would never have to happen. He knew it would, of course, but go-fucking-figure that the Golden Trio and that other Weasley are the first ones upon which he has to lay his eyes.
Surprisingly, though, the expected anger doesn't come, nor does the practiced exasperation. Rather, a current of something travels down his right arm and settles in his hand. Forgiveness? He isn't sure. His arm is wrapped securely around Natasha and he supposes that for now, that's all that's important.