Harry stared listlessly at the parchment in front of him, twirling his quill between his fingers. He was supposed to be picking out any odd pattern-breaking activities that had been reported about the ghost population, to try and pin down where the rogue necromancer was hiding, but the letters and words seemed to run together on the page and he found himself having to read the same line over and over.
A touch on his shoulder made him jump and straighten his glasses guiltily. "Sir," he said hurriedly as he recognized Jameson, his direct superior.
"Potter," Jameson said with a nod, helping himself to the seat next to Harry's desk. "Have a good weekend?"
"I've had better," Harry said evasively, attempting to inject some lightheartedness into the words. Jameson raised an eyebrow.
"You are wearing your badge upside down, I hope you realize," he pointed out. Harry glanced down at his chest and grimaced.
"Sorry, sir," he mumbled as he reversed it.
"Evans mentioned that you've been staring into empty space all morning," Jameson continued. "And you look as though you haven't properly slept for a good while."
Harry swallowed. "It was a very bad weekend, sir." Hermione hadn't allowed him another flask of dreamless sleep, lest he grow dependent; he'd spent the night staring at the ceiling and enumerating the many ways in which he was a complete idiot.
"I figured as much. May I also assume that what happened this weekend is not something that will be recovered from quickly?" Jameson gave Harry a look that said, very plainly, I am not going to intrude into your personal life, but I think I know exactly what is happening.
"You could say that," Harry said grimly. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll try harder to focus."
"On the contrary, Potter. You've not taken a personal holiday for four and a half years. I'm going to strongly recommend that you take advantage of the lull in necromantic activity lately and take some time off. Get your head back on right. Your second-in-command can take care of things until you're back in shape."
"Sir," Harry protested. "I really think I should stay at work."
"And I really think you shouldn't," Jameson countered as he stood up in preparation to leave. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I can't have anyone but the sharpest minds in command of this case. You're distracted. Go home and gather your wits. Don't make me remove you from the case entirely because of your pride."
Harry drew in a sharp breath that was not quite a gasp, then composed himself as best as he was able. "Sir, permission to take one week of personal holiday," he said in as even a voice as he could muster.
"Granted. In fact, make it two." Jameson glared as Harry opened his mouth in protest, then nodded as he shut it. "Feel better, Potter." His robes swished behind him as he turned and walked down the rows of desks toward his office.
Harry cast his gaze about his desk, disoriented. He was at a loss for what to do next. He straightened the stack of parchment, corked his ink bottle, set his quill just so. Then he sighed, rose from his chair, pushed it in, made sure his wand was in its holster, and left.
Once he'd made his way into the entrance lobby of the Ministry, feeling almost as though he were sleepwalking, he nearly Apparated to Grimmauld Place by accident before remembering that Neville might not be done moving out yet. He considered Apparating there anyway, on the off chance he might cross paths with him once more to plead for another chance; he shook his head, as though that would clear his thoughts, and made his way to Hermione and Ron's instead.
It was an odd contrast to yesterday. Yesterday, he'd been so full of emotion and grief that he'd felt he would split at the seams. Today, a dull emptiness seemed to echo through his chest and head, and he found it even more difficult to concentrate now he was away from work. He wandered up to the guest room that was his, changed out of his Ministry robes, placed them carefully on the hanger in the wardrobe. He busied himself for a good half an hour with his wand kit, waxing and polishing until the holly shone with a warm glow and the leather holster gleamed like new. He cleaned the smudges from his glasses. He wrote a long, pathetic letter to Neville that he promptly shredded into very small pieces, which he then threw into the living room fireplace and set to blazing with his wand before he got the mad urge to repair them and send them off with Ron's owl.
As he watched his words go up in flames, the door clicked behind him and he turned to look over his shoulder.
"'Lo, Ginny," he said in an empty voice.
"Harry? I thought you had work."
"They sent me home. I was distracted."
"Oh." Ginny slid her purse off her arm and deposited it on one of the kitchen chairs. She crossed her arms, hugging herself, before blurting "Harry, I'm so sorry that I—"
"It wasn't you," Harry interrupted her. "Not just you. I could have walked away any time I liked, and I didn't. It's my fault." He hugged himself, now, following Ginny's suit, and found it to be a poor substitute for an actual pair of arms.
"It's just as much my fault as yours," Ginny insisted. Harry considered that for a moment.
"Okay. Fine. But only for the—for that night. Everything else was my fault. My relationship was failing long before that night, and all we did was shut the lid on the coffin." He was surprised that he could speak of it so calmly. "And nailed it. And shoved it into the grave and dumped about a hundred stone of dirt on it."
"I don't think they nail coffin lids anymore," Ginny said, obviously attempting to lighten the mood of the conversation. It didn't work very well. Harry drew his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around those, and stared into the flames.
He could hear Ginny fidget slightly behind him. "I'll leave you alone now," she said finally, her voice coming from somewhere over where the stairs were.
"No," Harry said suddenly, unfolding himself to turn around and look at her. He hoisted himself off the floor and threw himself onto one of the sofas, patting the space next to him. "Come here."
Ginny hesitated, her face uncertain. Harry beckoned.
"Ignoring what we did isn't going to do anyone any good, and it's childish besides." Ginny looked as though she were having some sort of internal struggle, then almost shrugged and made her way to sit next to Harry. "I never did apologize for leaving the way I did that morning," Harry said, suddenly feeling somewhat awkward.
"Oh," Ginny said. She waved her hand dismissively. "I never saw it that way."
"It was still tremendously disrespectful," Harry insisted. "I'm a better person than that. And..." the concept that had been hiding timidly in the back of his mind peeked around a corner and Harry grasped at it, trying to find words to describe it. "Look. I don't take what we did lightly. And unless you've changed a great deal since school, I know you don't treat sex as just a fun game either. I..."
"Harry, I know what you're trying to say," Ginny said quietly, "And I thank you for looking out for my feelings. And at the risk of hurting yours, it's best to be honest—I was looking for comfort that night. I was looking for a chance to feel wanted by someone. I had thought that you were looking for the same thing. I'm sorry if I misread you." She turned slightly so that she could lock eyes with Harry. "I treat sex as something serious, too. But sometimes it's just something that happens. And that's the long and short of it."
"Oh." Harry had to admit that the tinge of regret he felt was far outweighed by relief.
"That was your first time with someone other than Neville, wasn't it?" Ginny asked softly, as though it had just occurred to her. Harry nodded, grateful that the numbness that was today's theme kept a lump from rising in his throat. "Oh god." She lowered her face into one hand. "I did so much wrong by you," she mumbled. "I'm sorry."
"Um," Harry said, feeling as though he should be saying something, "Well, I did enjoy myself, in the moment, if that counts for anything."
"And was it worth tearing your life apart for?" Ginny asked shrewdly.
Harry didn't even have to consider it. "No."
"Then please let me apologize for treating it as something other than what you're used to." She sighed.
Harry felt very odd. Given the closeness they'd shared, he felt as though he should be holding her right then, or be held by her, but her body language made it very clear that she would accept nothing of the sort. A dramatic little voice inside him sang a tale of woe that he had been dumped by two people that weekend, although that was a ridiculous way to think of it. Knowing it was ridiculous didn't make it any quieter.
"It'll be easier to process if we don't see each other for a while," Ginny said kindly, patting his knee. "I only came here to get my things—my landlord is giving me the keys to my new flat today. You're welcome to come visit, of course, but...give it some time. It takes some mental gymnastics to separate sex from love if you're unaccustomed to the concept." She leaned over to kiss him warmly on the cheek, got up from the couch, and disappeared up the stairs before Harry could figure out anything else to say.
Tuesday morning, Harry woke up after a fitful night's sleep filled with dreams of Neville and Ginny both sadly shaking their heads at him, asking him if he was really so stupid as to think that anyone would want to be with him. It was not an auspicious start to the day.
As he readied himself to leave, collecting the pieces of his life that had somehow become scattered over the two days he'd sought sanctuary, a nauseous feeling of anxiety began to flutter in his chest. The notion of returning to Grimmauld Place to find it emptied of all companionship...
By noon he had no further excuses to stay. He'd said his farewells and thank yous to Ron and Hermione that morning at breakfast; he'd straightened the guest room he'd used and even cleaned the bathroom; his bag was packed. He locked the door behind him, dropped the key they'd lent him through the mail slot, and turned on the spot.
Grimmauld Place didn't look any different, but as Harry opened the door he could swear it felt different. Lonely. Empty. He knew it was just his imagination, but it even seemed as though his footsteps echoed more loudly as he went up the stairs to the bedroom that, for as long as it had been his, had also been Neville's.
Neville had made the bed before he'd left, a chore that Harry had always avoided whenever he could. The sight of the perfectly centered duvet offset by the single pillow on what had always been "his side" struck a wistful note deep inside him. The fights and the time away from home and even the space where Neville's wardrobe had once stood had not managed to hammer home the fact that Neville was gone; the lone pillow on the bed was the final confirming piece.
There was no one to tell him that he was being ridiculous as he snatched his pillow from the bed, a blanket from the closet in the hall, and made himself a bed of sorts on the couch in the living room. He tried to ignore the holes on the shelves where books about plants and herbological theory had once lived alongside the true crime, but they were large gaps, and numerous, mute testimony to the exodus of one half of Harry's life.
Each thing he noticed struck another note within him until it seemed as though his entire body was thrumming with a sad minor chord that went on forever. A new box on the kitchen table labeled "photos" undoubtedly held the framed pictures of them that had been scattered throughout the house; Harry didn't have the courage to open it and look. He'd left the cooking utensils but taken his whiskey glasses, leaving round imprints in the dust on the liquor cabinet's shelf. Harry barked out a sad laugh to see the shower curtain gone; he'd always hated the pink monstrosity that Neville had always insisted was "mauve" and would find a way to smuggle back into the house whenever Harry tried to throw it away. Well, he'd finally won—he could have whatever shower curtain he wanted now.
The thought did not make him feel any better.
His shambling tour of his home over, he felt sick to his stomach and an oppressive weight seemed to bear down on his chest. It had not been gutted of possessions, as he and Neville had really owned very little, but it only accentuated the absence. Knowing he was being foolish, he dumped a drawer of clothing into a laundry bin and took that with him to the living room, closing the bedroom door firmly behind him. He had no intentions of going back into that room for a good while.
Time passed, as time is wont to do. Finally driven stir crazy by the walls of his own house, Harry returned to work and threw himself into his investigation with such gusto that it drew remarks from the hit-wizards and other Aurors under his command. He came in to work early and stayed late, went out into the field personally to investigate, and could be heard cursing a blue steak a mile wide when he arrived in Wakefield mere hours after his quarry had packed up and left for elsewhere.
Involved in the case as he was, it was with surprise that he regarded Hermione's note left on his desk one Monday afternoon, delivered while he'd sipped coffee in the breakroom and listened halfheartedly to the intern's tales of her weekend.
Harry,
Hope you're doing well. We haven't seen nor heard much from you, but Ron says that you're making real headway on your case, which is brilliant, I know it was giving you problems.
I'm writing to let you know that Molly's invited us all round to their place for Christmas, and I thought I'd give you fair warning that Neville was invited too. He's not responded yet. Molly told me she wasn't going to play favorites, that you two are both like her sons and she's not going to exclude either of you.
Let me know by owl if you'll be coming so that I can make your dish for the potluck. I know you're a horrid cook.
Love,
Hermione
Harry glanced at the calendar on his desk in surprise. Was it really the end of December already? It seemed like just last week he'd been watching Neville sweat under a heap of parchment, planning his first lesson...
His throat constricted warningly and his mind shied away from that line of thought, but was brought back forcefully as the full import of what the letter had said connected in his mind. If his calendar was correct, then he might be seeing Neville on Sunday. His body and mind didn't seem to be able to come to terms with that piece of information. His heart gave an odd little lurch as his inner thoughts began listing the things he should do before then—a haircut, definitely, and he'd have to shave—before he knuckled down and gave himself a mental shake.
There was very little point in the charade. Neville had made no effort to keep in contact, and Harry had followed his lead. The break had been painful but clean. If—if—Neville was there on Sunday...
He quailed a tiny bit. Now that the floodgate was open, it was difficult to close again. The longing and heartbreak he thought he'd shut away for good was just as raw and fresh as when he'd first felt it, and he was glad he was sitting down because had he not been, he'd have needed to collapse into a chair. He knew, without a doubt, that were he to walk in to the Weasley kitchen and see Neville, he'd break down. That's all there was to it. Not only would be embarrass himself in front of everyone whose opinions he cared about, he'd also be proving beyond a shadow of a doubt how badly he was taking this breakup, and he refused to let Neville see that.
He scrawled a quick memo to Ron, letting him know to tell Hermione that he wouldn't be attending, sent it off toward his desk, and sat back in his chair, his heart thudding oddly for no particular reason.
"Crisis averted," he said softly to himself, picking up his quill again for the sake of having something to hold. He wasn't sure why he felt so empty, and set to reading the latest report on his desk to distract himself.
The week passed in odd dollops of time, during which Harry constantly second-guessed his decision. He was a man, now, wasn't he? Surely he could hold himself together in front of his ex-boyfriend for the span of one day. He went so far as to pen a note to Hermione telling her he'd bring his own potluck dish, thank you very much, before his nerves got the better of him and he crumpled the parchment.
He sent his squad home early the Friday before Christmas, intending to get some work done while their corner of the floor was empty but finding that the quiet was really more intruding than listening to Henkle wax poetic about his girlfriend's fig pudding. Well aware that the rest of the Ministry had also ducked out early aside from the few dozen workaholics like himself, he decided to give up and head home. It was quiet there, too, but at least he could read a book and not feel guilty about getting paid for being useless.
It was that odd gray-blue light of winter twilight when he lit a lamp and settled down into a chair in the living room with a mystery novel and a glass of whiskey. A tumbler, as he'd never gotten around to buying new whiskey glasses, but the whiskey wasn't good enough to merit a special purchase. He'd just taken his first sip and thumbed to the first page when there was a knock at the door that nearly startled him right out of his chair.
He checked the clock on the wall. It was a quarter past five and last he'd checked it was snowing outside. Everyone he knew would be descending upon the Weasley household for the holiday weekend. Who on earth would be at his door?
The knock sounded again and Harry tossed his book on the chair as he stood up. It sounded again, more impatient this time, as he made his way across the hall.
"I'm coming," he shouted as he unbolted the door and swung it open. Red hair and snowflakes filled his vision and his mouth dropped open in surprise. "Ginny. What are you doing here? I thought you'd be at your parents'."
"I'm heading there, but I need to talk to you first," she said in a very no-nonsense tone. "And you should probably be sitting down."
"Sure," Harry said slowly, a horrible realization starting to take root in his brain. "Come in."
He led her to the living room where she pointedly ignored the pillow and blanket on the couch, opting for the chair across from the one Harry chose. Harry took a deep breath, steeled himself, and looked across at her. "Okay. Go."
"I've just left the Healer," she said in a voice that shook just slightly. "I'm pregnant. You're the father. He's due in June."