Harry wakes, looking up at the ceiling. Someone is banging around in the kitchen. Probably the Grangers.

He feels like he's barely slept, his eyes gritty and dry. Probably because he hasn't, having gotten in from his shift at nearly three in the morning. He rolls over, trying to get in a few more hours, but despite how exhausted he is sleep eludes him.

Eventually heaving to his feet, he goes to check in on the Grangers. He nears the doors to the kitchen when something clatters again.

"It just all feels wrong," he hears Mrs. Granger say to her husband. "Is it going to ever stop feeling wrong?"

Harry comes to a stop, not wanting to walk in on something. Once everything has been quiet for a stretch, he makes a big show of scuffing his feet before pushing the door to the kitchen open.

"Harry," Mr. Granger says, stepping back from his wife, whom he was apparently comforting.

"Did we wake you?" Mrs. Granger asks, looking embarrassed to be making noise in her own house.

"No," Harry lies. "Not at all."

"Are you hungry?" she asks.

He wants to be anywhere but here, honestly, but she looks so eager to do something he finds himself agreeing. They seem easier around him than their own daughter or her boyfriend, about whom they still seem unsure if they are even allowed to have an opinion. Considering everything that has happened is more Harry's fault than anyone else's, he finds that just as backwards as everything else these days.

As soon as he can, he retreats back to the den and his fold-out bed, but only manages to stare up at the ceiling until Ron gets back.

He emerges to talk to Ron, the two of them hanging about, and at least that is as easy as ever. Hermione arrives a couple hours later. Harry doesn't think he's imagining the way the tension seems to ratchet up after her arrival. There is still an awful kind of politeness in the way Hermione and her parents address each other, and it's so much worse than yelling.

Watching them just makes Harry's gut churn.

Ron pokes him in the arm.

"What?" Harry demands, returning his attention to him.

"Mate," Ron says, looking at him with wide eyes. "What's with you?"

"Nothing," he says, rubbing at his temples. "I didn't sleep that great, I guess."

It's not entirely a lie. He hasn't slept particularly well ever since he moved downstairs to make room for the Grangers, though he can't be sure why. He's slept in far more uncomfortable places in his life.

Ron slings an arm around Hermione's waist, the two of them sharing a totally unsubtle look that does nothing for his mood.

Their level of togetherness is beginning to irritate him. But maybe that's just thanks to the number of times he's wandered in on a snog or even just them looking at each other in a way that makes him feel like he's walked in on something. With Hermione's parents moved in, the house is starting to feel too small, too crowded.

Or so he tells himself.

He feels a slight vibration come from his back pocket.

"Fucking finally," he says without thinking.

"What?" Ron asks, looking alarmed.

Harry shakes his head. "Sorry. Nothing. I, uh, just remembered something I was supposed to do. It was making me barmy." He forces his mouth shut to save them all from his ridiculous rambling.

Ron and Hermione share another look.

"I've got a shift," Harry says, grabbing his stuff and striding out of the room.

He jogs down the front steps, not waiting to see if Barina or Gerard are there today, just walking down the next block and turning into the small play park there. Finding a bench between two shrubs, he sits down, pulling the roll of parchment out of his back pocket. The Ginny Parchment as he's come to think of it. He almost called it that out loud once, when Ron inadvertently picked it up, thinking it was just a spare bit he could use. Ron and Hermione gave him strange looks when he snatched it back out of Ron's hands.

It's not that he ever consciously decided to hide it from them. He just isn't sure how to explain it to them. Doesn't particularly want to. Besides, they have they own thing now, he's allowed to have something of his own as well.

Or so he tells himself.

Their letters have tapered off the last few weeks. Harry's been finding it harder and harder to think of things to write. Ginny's not doing much better herself to judge from the fact that she's down to one letter a week. She still usually writes each Wednesday without fail. Which is when he realizes she's a full day late and maybe that's why he's been a little…on edge.

Harry glances around to make sure he's unobserved, and then taps the parchment with his wand. Ginny's writing spills down the page.

Harry-

Ugh. Sorry this is going to be short, but my completely incompetent Beater managed to bean me in the back of the head with a Bludger while I was working with Martin in the goal. Or so I'm told. Can't say I really remember anything other than waking in the infirmary with Pomfrey frowning down at me. She made me stay the whole bloody night. I think she's punishing me for that time with my collarbone.

I haven't seen Karl yet. Neville reports that castle gossip has it that he quit school entirely rather than face me. Coward. (Karl, not Neville obviously.) He'll have to leave England altogether if he really wants to escape my wrath. I'll have to send you a photo just in case he ends up in your corner of the world.

Blast. And now Dean has just arrived giving me puppydog eyes. Doubtless I will regret agreeing to whatever new troll-brained scheme is heading my way. I must say my life was far more restful before I started hanging around Gryffindor. You lot are a trying bunch. Anyway. My concussion and I are off. Hope all is well and things with Hermione's parents are going better than my week did.

-Ginny

Harry sits back, feeling no less jittery for having read the letter. He skims it again, but a second read doesn't reveal anything. He's not even sure what he's looking for, just feels vaguely…let down or something. Which is stupid.

She's busy and doing really well, and if that means her letters have started feeling more distant…well.

He shoves to his feet, crumpling the parchment as he carelessly jams it into his pocket, only to immediately pull it back out again and methodically roll it, smoothing out the wrinkles.

He's going to be late for his bloody shift.

He tries to write back to Ginny during his breaks, but nothing sounds right and he just ends up siphoning off the ink despite his long-standing pledge not to do that.

He's elbow-deep in dishes and scalding water when Cass wanders her way back through the kitchen for a cigarette break.

"Hey, Harry," she says.

"Hey," he says, not even looking up.

"Fair warning, you may want to watch out for Marina."

"What?" Harry asks, looking up with a frown. He barely knows the dark-haired waitress.

"She's got it in for you," Cass says, hopping up to sit on the counter with a smile. "I may have told her you are delicious in the sack."

"You told her what?" Harry says, rounding on her.

She shrugs. "Just extrapolating from a very hazy memory, mind you. But I feel like as your fake ex-girlfriend that getting you laid would be the kind thing to do."

"God damn it, Cass," he says, feeling his temper spike. He knows she's still lugging around this warped idea of gratitude, like she needs to even the scales or something, but this is the last thing he needs right now.

"No need to thank me," she says, jumping back down. "Might make you less of a grumpy arse."

Harry sucks in a breath. "Just do me a favor, will you, Cass? Stop doing me favors," he yells after her.

"Right," she says, winding her way towards the back door. "God forbid you actually have a little fun."

Harry really wishes people would stop trying to make him have bloody fun.

The rest of the night is fairly calm, nothing more than a morose pair of older gents who drink way too much to get themselves home. Harry thinks how convenient a couple of Pepper-Up potions would be.

At closing, Harry waves off an offer of late-night drinks with the rest of the staff, instead walking the two drunks home.

Outside, Barina falls into step with him, holding the arm of one of the sots. "Save us from Potter the endless do-gooder."

"You could always go back and tell your boss that babysitting me is pointless," Harry says, voice hard.

"Nah," she says. "This is practically a vacation. No one's tried to hex me in weeks."

"I'm going to hex you one of these days."

She looks both unimpressed and unconcerned about talking about hexes in front of the drunk Muggles. "Grumpy today, are we?"

Harry sighs. "That seems to be the consensus."

After depositing the drunks back in their respective flats, Harry doesn't immediately head back for the Grangers' no matter how exhausted he is.

Walking through the empty early morning streets, Harry lets himself wander without a destination. He's walked through most of the modest-sized town at this point. It usually helps clear his head. After about an hour, he ends up on a quiet street with a bakery. The baker already has the ovens working to judge from the smells wafting out over the street.

Harry walks another few blocks before abruptly coming to a stop, staring into a low-lit shop front, a red neon sign blinking morosely overhead.

"Thinking of going on vacation?" Barina asks, leaning a shoulder against the wall. "Hopefully somewhere tropical. I could work on my tan."

Harry ignores her blithe comment. He isn't looking at the cut outs of palm trees or the pictures of white sand beaches with girls in bikinis. He's staring at a picture of Big Ben. There's a garish red star stuck to it emblazoned with the word SALE.

Stepping over to look at the travel agency's front door, he notes their hours, glancing back down at his watch. Without giving it thought, he drops down to sit on the steps.

Barina doesn't ask, just paces down the street and up the other side before settling on another stoop.

When the bakery opens, Harry goes in and buys coffees and Danishes, delivering half to Barina. Settling back on his stoop, Harry eats and drinks and watches dawn crawl across the cobblestones.

The travel agent arrives at 7:30. She stops when she notices Harry, like maybe she's wondering if he's a hobo or something.

Harry gets up, brushing crumbs off his lap and giving her room to reach the door. "Morning," he says, trying to look like he has any idea what he's doing.

"Waiting for me?" the agent asks.

He nods, giving her a sheepish smile.

She returns his smile, looking him over, and he wonders if she can tell that he's been out all night. "Must be an important trip."

"Yeah," he says.

She holds the door open, gesturing for him to go inside first.

He takes a seat out of the way while she moves around the tiny space, turning on lights, booting her computer, and setting coffee to brew.

"Okay," she says once her morning rituals are complete. "What can I help you with?"

"I need an airplane ticket," he says.

"To where?"

"London," Harry says.

She types away on her screen, green text sliding by on a black screen. "When?"

For the first time, he falters. "Uh, can I see a calendar?"

"Sure," she says, pulling one down off the wall that has a photo of icebergs on it.

Harry looks down at February. There's only about a week left. He flips to March. Ron's birthday is the first. He should be here for that. His eyes fall on the second Saturday of the month.

He points to the square. "I want to be there before then. I'm not picky other than that."

"Okay," she says. "I can see what kind of flights are available. Give you some options. Do you have a return date?"

Harry shakes his head. "Just one-way, please."

She smiles. "Going home?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "I reckon so."

He sits back in his chair while she works, for the first time in weeks feeling perfectly content to wait.

In early March, Ginny sets up a chalkboard in an empty classroom for an after-dinner Quidditch meeting.

Karl is the first to arrive, a full five minutes early. He slinks in, giving her a sheepish smile. He's been very well-behaved the last couple weeks. Not that it will last, Ginny knows.

Vaisey and Rosier are next, with Nettlebed and Reiko following a few minutes later. They are left waiting on Martin, who wanders in five minutes late with a plate of pudding in his hands.

"Hey," he says when they all turn to stare at him. "Me starving to death isn't going to be good for the team."

"You're an arse," Reiko says, arms crossing over her chest.

He shrugs like he can live with that and shoves a bite of tart in his mouth.

Ginny sighs. "Anyone else have anything completely ridiculous to say or can we get started?"

They all look expectantly at Nettlebed, the Chaser usually the source of most ridiculousness. He shrugs. "Fresh out."

Everyone laughs, a few more playful insults getting tossed about.

While their decisive victory over Ravenclaw a few weeks back may have doomed Ginny's short-lived relationship with Michael, it certainly helped with team morale. A more than fair enough trade in Ginny's book. They don't have another match until two weeks after Easter break, but Hufflepuff is no pushover this year and they need all that time to prepare to deal with their impressively stubborn defense.

"Okay, listen up," Ginny says. "This weekend, Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff."

They spend nearly two hours talking about their most common plays, brainstorming a few new ones to work on. Each player gets assigned specific things to study and watch for during the match this weekend.

"I want to know every strength and weakness," she says.

They nod, almost automatically at this point, more than a few failing to hold back yawns.

To judge from their glassy-eyed stares, they aren't going to be of anymore use tonight. "Okay, get out of here."

They perk up and scatter with impressive alacrity considering their earlier torpor. "But if I see any of you messing about during that match, Reiko will make you wish you'd never gotten your Hogwarts letter!" she shouts after them.

They laugh, even as Reiko starts detailing her preferred punishments.

Cleaning off the board and shoving her things back into her bag, Ginny hurries out into the hall. She gets waylaid a few times on her way to the common room, especially after she has to take an unexpected detour to avoid Michael. It's cowardly, she knows, but there are only so many ways to tell a bloke that you are broken up and have no intention of changing your mind, and he just keep pressing. It's bloody exhausting.

By the time she gets back to the common room, she's sure she'll be too late, but fortunately the person she is looking for is still up.

"Dorinda," Ginny says, crossing over to stand behind her chair.

The third-year witch looks up at her, her friends all not so subtly nudging each other and giving each other wide-eyed expressions.

"Hi, Ginny," one of the other girls says, probably hopeful of being noticed.

Ginny gives the girl a brief smile of acknowledgement before refocusing on Dorinda. "Can we talk for a minute?"

"Sure," Dorinda says, perfectly polite but still managing to clearly communicate her lack of enthusiasm.

They've spoken a few times over the last few weeks, and while Dorinda clearly respects the power Ginny supposedly wields, she definitely isn't overly impressed by it. Ginny bites back a smile, knowing it wouldn't do to show how much that amuses her.

Retreating out into the hall for a bit of privacy, they fall into step next to each other.

"I'm going to invite you down to The Parlor," Ginny says.

Dorinda doesn't look surprised by the news, only nodding like she's been expecting it.

Each girl is so spectacularly different, each needing their own approach. Ginny used to think Antonia was just annoyingly oblique, but only understands now that was what she herself needed, not Antonia. Ginny needed the struggle to figure it all out, to grasp how little she knew and understood. But what Dorinda needs is blunt honesty. Something she gets far too little of in her life if Ginny's suspicions are at all true.

"Before I do," Ginny says, "I need you to understand why."

"I know why," Dorinda says, her chin lifting with pride despite the sullen note in her voice.

"Do you?"

"I'm beautiful," she says. Not a boast, just a fact.

She is undeniably that, perhaps the most beautiful person Ginny has ever seen—Fleur included. Dorinda's dark brown skin is smooth and flawless, her eyes dark enough to be nearly black. Her features have a perfect sort of symmetry that seems unnatural or otherworldly. The frizzy mass of her hair is pulled back from her face with intricate braids and twists.

The common room has buzzed with less and less subtle comments about the girl this term, like her body somehow says something about who she is or what she owes people.

"You are," Ginny says. "But it's not of particular interest to me, to be honest."

Dorinda turns to look at her, eyes narrowed like she's trying to decide if she's offended by the complete dismissal of what she has no doubt always been told is her greatest asset, or just unbelieving of her sincerity.

Ginny shrugs. "Beauty is just a weapon to be wielded like any other. Either against you or for you."

The girl still looks suspicious and unimpressed, but Ginny can tell she's listening. If she's to become a sister, it's not going to be because of her beauty. No, Ginny is more interested in that shrewd look in her eyes, the sort she knows is far too easily hardened into brittleness. The Parlor can give her the space to just be, to be soft and bend when it benefits her, when she needs it, and maybe learn to hone that shrewdness into a fine sharp edge to be exerted as she chooses, not as it would be chosen for her.

"This isn't about collecting you," Ginny explains, knowing she already graces the table at Slughorn's little parties. "It's not even about what you can bring to The Parlor. This is about what it can mean to you. If you can accept that, there's a place for you whenever you want it."

This seems to sound far too much like an ultimatum to Dorinda, her shoulders stiffening. "And if I can't?"

Ginny smiles at her.

Dorinda seems to deflate. "Right. No one ever turns down a chance at The Parlor," she says, like she has no choice.

It's Ginny's turn to bristle. "That's a stupid reason to do anything."

"Aren't you supposed to convince me?" Dorinda asks.

Ginny shakes her head. "This isn't about me. Only you'll know when you're ready or if you ever will be."

She turns and walks away, leaving the girl standing in the hall.

As she passes back through the common room, she sees Astoria doing her best to not look interested in what is happening. Ginny keeps looking straight ahead, disappearing down into The Parlor.

Tonight she isn't greeted with silence, but rather the murmur of voices and machines.

Nicola and Gemma are across the room, fiddling with something as Dale looks on with interest. Ginny settles on the sofa where Hestia and Flora sit.

"Thought you were going to bring us a new sister," Hestia says.

"We'll see," Ginny says.

"Well, either way, it's already starting to look better in here," Flora says.

"It is," Ginny agrees, watching as Dale laughs at something Gemma says, hand pressed against her mouth as if she's trying to catch the noise. Like she's still trying not to draw too much attention to herself. "It's good to hear her laugh."

"Yeah," Hestia says. "She finally seems to be settling in."

Meaning she's finally stopped looking like she expects them to change their mind and kick her back out. To tell her it was all some sort of cruel joke.

She'll believe it eventually, Ginny hopes. There's time.

Flora nudges her, pulling her back from her thoughts. "So are you seeing Ernie Macmillan now?"

"What?" she asks, thrown by the question. "Merlin, no."

"But you were walking around Hogsmeade together this weekend." Flora presses.

"Yes," Ginny says, leaving the unfortunately off out of tact. When he asked her the week before, she'd said yes, mostly because there was no reason not to, but also because Michael was not taking the hint, and she thought that might help.

It doesn't seem to have worked on either front.

"Just a one-time thing then," Flora says.

"Yes," Ginny says. "Definitely. One hundred percent." Ernie is just as certain, both of them very content to never speak of the afternoon ever again, it was so awkward and painful.

Ginny frowns as it occurs to her that Flora isn't usually one for idle gossip. "But, wait, why do you care?"

"Just curious," she says, the lie given away by the pink tint to her cheeks and reinforced by the loud derisive snort her twin lets out.

Flora smacks Hestia's knee, but she just laughs. "Someone has a bit of a crush."

"Well," Ginny says, smiling at her. "Don't let me get in the way."

"No excuses now," Hestia says, waggling her eyebrows at her sister.

Flora pushes to her feet, lifting her chin. "I am going to check on the girls," she declares haughtily, as if she is above such teasing, and crosses over to join Nicola, Gemma, and Dale.

Hestia just rolls her eyes and goes back to her book.

Shaking her head, Ginny pulls a stack of letters out of her bag. The one on top is from Tilly.

Ah, what marital bliss! I highly recommend it to all my sisters. Drop out of school immediately. You too could inhabit a small space with a near stranger and not speak to each other for days on end. Bassenthwaite's cousin is still single, I understand. He probably snores just as loud and leaves his socks everywhere too. Though he wouldn't have the excuse of being a depressed squib. Just let me know and I can set you two up. We could get a small house in the country together and contemplate drowning ourselves in the picturesque duck pond. Or maybe we should move out to the moors instead. Going down in a bog is probably more poetic.

Oh, stop fretting. I'm just kidding. Lord, I need whatever amusement I can these days, and today, that's you. I managed to finally get a little copper still set up in one corner of my room, but I'm sure McGonagall would confiscate any sample I tried to send on. (Or drink it herself. I'm certain she's a bit of a tippler. She'd have to be to with that job.) All the same, it's nice to be working again in my spare time.

What I wouldn't do to be back there with all of you right now. Bugger, I've burnt the bloody roast again.

-Tilly

Ginny sighs, rubbing at her eyes. She's torn between admiring Tilly's refusal to back down and wanting to scream in frustration over the situation she's put herself in. Tilly may have felt she won the battle with Bassenthwaite's family, but they layered on so many archaic wedding traditions and stipulations as to make her life nearly unlivable. Most of which Ginny hadn't even realized were real laws.

One year. If Tilly can manage to keep her sanity for one year of being stuck in close quarters with Bassenthwaite day in and day out, the marriage will be legal and binding and then nothing short of Tilly calling it quits herself can undo it.

Ginny just hopes that is really the freedom Tilly seems to think it will be.

"Sounds a lot more like prison if you ask me," Bassenthwaite said to Ginny at their wedding. "But then, no one is asking me, are they?"

Ginny spent the entire day just wanting to hex people.

The feeling hasn't faded any in the months since. Seeking to distract herself, she shuffles through the rest of her letters. At the bottom of the stack is her charmed parchment. She's surprised to see that the runes have darkened. Harry isn't quite as regimented with his letters as she is, but he's still a few days early which is uncharacteristic. Two letters back to back without a response from her in between is unheard of these days.

She tells herself she should finish her Transfiguration essay before reading it, but then it occurs to her that maybe something has happened. After all, Ron's birthday was only a few days ago and he has a habit of being poisoned around this time of year. She pulls the parchment out, letting herself be undisciplined just this once.

Ginny-

Ron's birthday is officially over here, so I can safely say he managed to survive it again. So there's one less thing to worry about. He barely even made an arse of himself at the pub. He's nineteen now after all. A tried and tested adult, he keeps telling us.

I managed to track down some Chocolate Cauldrons to give him like you asked. As you predicted, he looked really alarmed, but found them hilarious by the time he was halfway through the box with no side effects. Hermione questions your sense of humor. (Yes, I put all blame on you for the idea. What can I say, Hermione is scary.)

Hermione's parents are all settled in now, and door-slamming rows seem to have tapered off, but all the same, no one seems ready to bring up the topic of moving back to England quite yet. Ron and I just try to stay out of the way. It's fun.

Speaking of England, I've bought a plane ticket. Ron and Hermione are going to stay, probably another month or so, but I'm going to come back. Had my fill of Australia, I guess. I arrive on the 11 th . Just wanted to let you know.

Looking forward to hearing about how the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match goes and if Karl has managed to maim anyone else. Have you considered wearing a helmet?

-Harry

Ginny sits back, the parchment falling to her lap as Harry's words thunder away in her head.

Almost seven months he's been gone now, seven bloody months, and he just sandwiches it in there like an incidental anecdote. Oh, by the way I'm coming back, but in more important news, let's talk about Quidditch! Not a big deal or anything.

Because maybe it isn't?

Merlin. March 11th. Just eight days away.

She glances back down at the parchment, like she can somehow read between the words, make meaning out of the punctuation and spaces. Giving it up as a lost cause, she instead tries to work out what she feels. If she is at all ready for this.

"Ginny?" Hestia is regarding her. "Are you okay?"

She doesn't have a clue.