The dial tone's doleful echo reverberated in the empty study. Harry replaced the receiver and rubbed his temples.
This is ridiculous.
After a moment, he picked it up again, dialing the number he had memorized in the last ten minutes of failed attempts.
The phone rang at the other end.
Two rings.
Three rings.
Harry thought better of it and started to replace the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Dudley!" said Harry quickly. "Er—hi. It's Harry."
"Harry?" said his cousin. He could hear confusion in his voice. "Oh, hey. Is everything all right?"
"Yeah, sorry. Everything's fine. How're you? How're the kids?"
"Er—they're fine. Shannon's picking up Violet from football practice." He paused. "Er—can I do something for you?"
Harry laughed internally. He and Dudley were on decidedly "Christmas card" terms. This would add an interesting new layer of awkwardness.
"Yeah. I've—er—sort of an odd favor to ask. Do you...do you happen to have a credit card?"
Silence.
"What?" And then, "Of course. Why?"
Harry grimaced. "I'm trying to buy tickets to the London Opera. The woman on the phone said I need a credit card. They don't accept cash through the mail anymore and the ticket office doesn't sell tickets this far in advance. So, I'm a bit stuck without one…"
"The London Opera? Why are you going there?"
Harry smiled faintly at Dudley's unintentionally accusing tone. Something he got from his father.
"I'm going with friends," he said, avoiding further detail. "I completely understand if you can't lend it out. I don't really understand how they work exactly, but I promise I'll get you back through owl post or I can always drop by."
"No—er—it's all right. I don't mind."
Harry released a breath. "Thanks, Dud. I really appreciate it."
Dudley read off a series of numbers that Harry scratched onto parchment.
"And this is all I'll need?"
"That's all you'll need." There was something like amusement in his voice.
"Great. The woman told me it'd come out to about 800 pounds. I hope that's all right?"
"It's all right if you pay me back," Dudley chuckled. "Those must be some good seats."
"Yeah," he said awkwardly, "it's opening night, so I think it's extra."
"You and Ginny going?"
"Er—yeah...When would be a good time to drop by? I'll have to stop by Gring—the bank. I'm out of cash. Would tomorrow be all right?"
"Sure. Anytime after six."
They rang off. Harry stared at the messy line of digits.
What am I doing?
Three weeks had passed since Oxford.
Harry hadn't felt right for four or five days after that conversation. He moved around the house, the Ministry as if a thick metal collar had been strapped around his chest, one that was liable to constrict suddenly and without warning. He felt listless. He avoided people, if he could. He told Ginny he still wasn't sleeping well, which wasn't a lie. He started taking a sleeping potion. It helped.
He still saw her. The Tuesday after Oxford they had lunch together, briefly, in her office. They didn't talk about anything important. She was in the throes of her legal research now—securing affidavits, reviewing Auror performance evaluations, unearthing Hogwarts transcripts, and cataloging it all in exhibits for the court with her meticulous eye for detail, missing nothing.
She seemed better than him. She didn't look tired or sullen. He could see that a hard-eyed animus drove her now, that intoxicating fervor before a case.
This helped confirm for Harry that the events of the forest, the dinner party—they hadn't changed much for her. They hadn't overturned her sense of normalcy. She did not feel his same sense of loss.
After thirty-seven years of getting acquainted with his own brain, Harry knew he was prone to destructive thinking. A younger version of himself likely would have given into that impulse, but he also had a tremendous force of will. With a little distance from her, with a few interesting cases at work, a few homework nights with Lily—he was able to distract himself again, to give himself time to recover from the blow of realizing he was attracted to his best friend, and that she did not reciprocate.
With Gryffindor-esque grit, he reconstructed the scaffolding of his normal life. And he felt better.
But there were moments...there were lapses. They usually happened in the haze just before sleep or alone in the shower, when the blistering water rolling down his back could ease the defenses. He could picture it again. Him kissing her. Her kissing him. The dark chill down his spine. The straining, desperate need to have more. He saw them going further than they actually ever had...
In moments like that, he lapsed. He gripped himself, hard, and felt a release that never really satisfied.
He was sure that would fade with time.
But Wednesday...Wednesday hadn't helped.
It was their weekly dinner. Harry, Ron, and Ginny handled the cooking as Hermione was working late. It was Middle Eastern and Ron had found a rather good recipe for chicken skewers. Hermione arrived close to eight and, together with the children, they enjoyed their small feast.
She was at the far end of the table, so Harry was able to focus on the conversation between Ron and Lily, which invariably related to Quidditch. Again, though, he felt he was looking at her too much. Every time she laughed. Every time she got up from the table. Every time she looked at him, which seemed to happen a lot. Though perhaps he was imagining it.
He felt something like resentment towards her, as if she was purposely trying to impose herself on his thoughts, as if she was trying to undermine his progress. He knew that was irrational, but it didn't stop the response.
After dinner, things got worse.
Hermione sent Lily and Hugo upstairs to finish their schoolwork. Whether they would actually do so was up for debate. Ginny led the adults to a lounge at the back of Clymene Court, which overlooked the gardens. After lighting the lamps with a wave of his wand, Harry purposely sat next to Ginny, who'd taken up her favorite topic of conversation: the New Year's Eve ball. He was determined to listen to her.
Halfway through an in-depth discussion on caterers, Hermione stood and walked over to Ron, who'd been preparing himself a drink. She placed a hand on his forearm. She smiled and whispered something. He shrugged.
Unbidden, the resentment flared like fresh kindling on a fire. She touched him so easily. And he reacted like it was nothing! Harry tried not to stare at the way her lips moved as she spoke to her husband, the full and delicate arcs meeting and parting, meeting and parting.
"Harry? Are you even listening?"
"Of course," he said automatically. "I think Wyclffe's is better. Hor d'oeuvres are more important than cakes for something like this."
"I know that," Ginny said shortly. "But what kind of cakes? We have to have some..."
Harry refocused on his wife. The resentment was receding, guilt swiftly taking its place. He must pay attention to her. He owed her that. For the next twenty minutes, he followed Ginny's conversation impeccably, even suggesting they open the formal dining room for the vast array of food the ball would require. He reminded her that many Aurors would not want to dance, so having a separate room for the food would free up space.
At some point, Hermione excused herself to check on the children. Ginny left a minute later for the washroom.
Harry and Ron were left alone.
"Party's getting out of hand," said Ron, tilting his glass of firewhisky to observe the color.
He shrugged. "It's what she wants."
"I know about that," Ron smirked. "I'm regretting those opera tickets. She won't shut up about it. Playing the music around the house constantly. Hugo and I have discussed an intervention."
Harry smiled automatically. For the past three weeks, whenever he thought of the opera, he could only picture Hermione in a beautiful gown, her hair falling in raucous waves down her shoulder.
"You know," said Ron slowly, "have you and Ginny considered coming with us?"
He had considered it.
"What? No."
Ron grimaced. "Look, mate. I wouldn't want to go either, but four hours in a musty Muggle theatre listening to music I can't even understand? You have to help me."
"If you didn't want to go, why buy the tickets?"
"I didn't. Hermione's mum got them for us."
"But you said you used a telephone to get them," said Harry, confused.
"Yeah, I called her mum. It's the only telly-phone number I know."
"So you called her mum and asked her to buy the tickets?"
"No. I called her mum and asked her what she thought Hermione might want for her birthday," Ron said, as though surprised Harry hadn't figured it out. "I usually get her perfume, but I saw an unused bottle in her closet, so I figured I'd be wasting money—"
"So, her mum suggested the opera?"
"Yeah," Ron said easily. "She said Hermione was getting into it and it might be nice to see a live show. Little did I know what I was signing up for. You have to come, Harry."
The words left Harry's lips before he even realized what he was doing. "Sure, okay."
Ron whooped in gratification and Harry couldn't help but laugh.
"What's so funny now?" said Ginny, returning. She scooped up her drink and sat on the arm of Harry's chair.
Harry and Ron looked at each other.
"Oh, er," Ron said, "Harry said you two are coming to the opera with us."
"What?"
Harry glared at him. "It's not like that. He was practically begging us to come."
"Oh, well, that makes me want to go."
"Come with us, Gin," her brother pleaded. "Hermione's all excited now. If it's just me, I'll let her down somehow. It'd be better if we all went."
Ginny eyed him skeptically. "I don't see why Harry and I should subject ourselves to Muggle theatre just because you can't follow-through on a present, Ronald."
"You get to dress up."
Ginny blinked. "Why?"
"Merlin, I don't know," Ron said, exasperated. "Hermione just told me it's white tie. The women wear big, fancy dresses and apparently you get binoculars. I'm going to bring Omnioculars, though."
Harry could read the conflict in Ginny's face. The desire to get dressed up pitted against her dislike of aiding Ron in one of his screw-ups. The choice was difficult for her. Ginny became a dominating force in magical fashion the moment she married Harry Potter. In 2004, images of her wedding dress were printed across newspapers and magazines for months. Fashion houses vied for her favor. She was recently commissioned to redesign the Holyhead Harpies' Quidditch robes. And while the magical fashion community was loathe to admit it, much of their work mimicked Muggle trends. It was one of the few holdovers from that strange pro-Muggle period immediately following the second fall of Voldemort. The opportunity to see the latest styles up close was hard to turn down.
But Ginny rolled her eyes, absently playing with Harry's hair. "Doesn't change the fact that we have to sit through Muggle nonsense."
"Gin," Ron started, but he was cut short. They all heard footsteps in the hallway. "Shut up. Don't tell her about this."
Hermione appeared a moment later, looking concerned. She glanced at Harry and Ginny on the chair before she turned to her husband. "Ron, we need to talk to Hugo about his maths marks. He showed me some of his quizzes and—"
"When did we ever use maths at Hogwarts?" he said drolly.
"Potions. Arithmancy. Astronomy. Transfiguration. Even Divin—"
"All right. I got it," Ron winced, as if she was shouting. "We'll talk to him tomorrow. For now, shouldn't we get him in bed?"
They all agreed it was late and they moved back to the foyer. Ginny climbed the stairs to see after Lily. Hermione was about to follow but Ron stopped her.
"I'll get him," he said. "He'd rather see me after the telling off you gave him."
"I didn't—"
But he'd already gone. Harry and Hermione were left alone.
They glanced at each other, then looked away. The silence stretched out like a taut string.
"I didn't tell him off," she eventually said, quietly.
"I know."
She watched him a moment longer. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah."
"You look tired." She took a step towards him. "You were quiet at dinner too. At least you didn't talk to me..."
"Oh," he said lamely. "Was I supposed to talk to you?"
Her brows drew together. "You certainly don't have to talk to me if you don't want to."
He grimaced. "That came out wrong. I meant, did you want to talk about something?"
"No, not really." But she paused, worrying her lip. "Maybe...I—er—I thought you might like to know that Ron and I are working on things. We've been talking through how things have been since Rose left."
"Oh. That's great." He owed her more than that. "That's really great," he said, holding her gaze for the first time in what felt like weeks. "I'm glad."
She nodded, though she seemed to search for something in his face.
Ron and Hugo appeared a moment later and Hermione helped her son into his coat.
They said goodbye and Ron, taking Hermione and Hugo's hands, disapparated.
It was with Hermione's searching look in his mind that Harry bought opera tickets with Dudley Dursley's credit card. He hadn't told Ginny what he was doing. He could only hope she would believe Ron had gotten to him.
At work the next day, Harry reviewed an incident report on a particularly egregious case of underage magic. A flying broomstick had been spotted in a highly populated Muggle area. The incident had required eighteen Obliviations and the child's parents would be fined, though it looked like they would appeal.
As Harry signed off on the report, Gwen knocked on his door.
"Chief? Counselor Granger for you."
The band around Harry's chest tightened. "Send her in."
She came through, dressed somewhat casually for the Ministry in a pale blue cardigan and black trousers. With a start, Harry saw she was wearing his necklace. The sapphire glimmered just below her throat.
"Hey," she greeted. "Free for lunch?"
A part of him wanted to say "no." A considerable stack of files sat on his desk awaiting his review. Gwen had politely reminded him about it three times.
But she looked at him, her full lips curving into an expectant smile. Consent was instantaneous.
"Sure," he said, reaching for his cloak. "Where'd you have in mind?"
"Diagon Alley all right?"
He nodded, holding the door for her. Gwen gave him a slightly exasperated look as he took the steps of the dais and he smiled apologetically. Following Hermione down a row of Auror cubicles, several pairs of eyes flashed in their direction, not all of them friendly. As they approached the lifts, Harry saw Yvain stand up at his desk. He looked unsure whether to follow.
"Just stepping out for a bit, Yvain," Hermione said almost smugly to the young Auror. "You and Cassy enjoy your lunch hour."
Yvain looked to Harry, who nodded.
Alone in the lift, Harry smirked. "You really take too much pleasure in ditching them."
She didn't deny it and primly pressed the button for the Atrium.
"I actually really like Ken Doll and Emo Barbie—"
"God. I hope you don't call them that to their faces."
"Of course not," she laughed and Harry felt his heart hammer faster. "Besides, they wouldn't understand. They're both purebloods, I think. Do you know, more than anything, I'm just self-conscious that I'm a very boring person to follow around? I'm sure they were hoping for someone more exciting..."
Harry released a low chuckle. "You're handling it very well. I'm proud of you."
She blinked and looked away as the lift came to a stop.
In the bustling Atrium, they pushed their way towards the fireplaces along the left side of the hall. Reaching one, Hermione took a handful of Floo powder from a large basin near the grate.
"Give me your hand," she said and she placed half the silvery dust in his palm.
She disappeared a moment later in a flash of violent, viridian light. He followed after. Since his first use of the Floo twenty-five years ago, Harry had never enjoyed the sensation of being shunted through the sooty network of fireplaces. When Harry spotted the Leaky Cauldron's grate, with Hermione's legs just in view, he gratefully stepped into it.
When he opened his eyes, coughing, he found his glasses were coated in soot.
"Oh, Harry," said Hermione laughingly. "You're covered. Here."
She removed his glasses, her fingertips brushing his face. There was a swooshing sound and she returned them, impeccably clean.
"Thanks," he muttered. "Cauldron's fireplace is always the dirtiest."
"You're just a magnet for soot," she said teasingly.
Ten minutes later, Harry and Hermione emerged from the Leaky Cauldron with two sandwiches wrapped in paper. The pub had been far too crowded so she suggested they walk and look at the shops. Stepping into the fall sunshine, they carefully unwrapping their sandwiches, taking periodic bites.
A few minutes later, they settled themselves on an empty bench near a patch of green in front of Gringotts.
"Finally. Sun," Hermione said, tilting her face upwards.
Harry smiled. Her curls gleamed brilliantly like polished bronze. In this light, however, he could also see faint circles around her eyes.
"How's the research going?" he asked quietly.
Imperceptibly, Hermione glanced around the square.
"I think we're on track," she said lowly. "We have upwards of twenty affadavits now. Have secured four people for testimony, not counting experts."
"Find anything interesting?"
"Well, I understand why the Auror Department hired him. He was an ideal candidate on paper."
Harry nodded. Callahan joined the AD three years before Harry was made Chief.
"He's also very clever. Did you know he graduated at the top of Slytherin? He was a prefect too."
"Is he a pureblood?"
Harry normally wouldn't have asked. It was not a question for polite company. He'd worked with Aurors and Ministry officials for years without really knowing their blood status. Yet, wizarding society was quietly obsessed with sussing out people's blood origins, almost like a parlor game. There were really only a few tells. If you came from one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families, pureblood. If you ever mentioned the Queen, the NHS, or knew what an "app" was, Muggle-born.
Hermione shook her head. "Half-blood."
"Had to ask. Slytherin."
She nodded, understanding. Beginning in 2001, Slytherin House was forcibly integrated. For the first time in eight hundred years, the Sorting Hat's underlying spellwork was modified so that Muggle-borns were chosen to fill half the seats in Slytherin. A handful of pureblood families withdrew their children from Hogwarts in protest.
"According to some of his school friends," Hermione smiled, playing with his necklace, "his favorite subject was History of Magic. Can you believe that?"
"I cannot," Harry laughed, crushing his sandwich wrapper into a ball. With a flick of his wand, it shot into the nearest bin.
"And he's not married," Hermione continued quietly. "Unusual for someone his age."
Theodonus Callahan was thirty. Most wizards and witches married between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five.
"He always showed up to functions alone," Harry remembered. "I felt a bit bad for him."
"And there's one more strange bit," she said, her voice barely audible now. "He didn't immediately enter an apprenticeship after Hogwarts. He traveled for two or three years. In Europe mostly. I'm having trouble finding anything about his time there. No one seems to have known him during that period."
Harry considered this. "Do you want me to reach out to some contacts? I've friends in the French and German ministries. I can do it quietly."
"No. No," she said with surprising forcefulness. "I—er—I already have someone tracking it down. Besides, I wouldn't want Bruton catching wind of what we're doing."
His green eyes searched her face, but she failed to meet his eyes.
"If that's what you want."
"It is," she said stoutly. And then, she did look at him. There was something tender, but also calculating, in the brown depths. Harry momentarily lost track of what they were talking about.
"Oh, I almost forgot!" she said suddenly. "I heard back from Hogwarts about Daniel's niece. Remember he asked if we could look into her magical status?"
"Is she?"
She nodded.
"How'd he take it?"
"He wasn't surprised, but he wasn't exactly happy either." She shot her wrapper into the bin after Harry's. "He's going to tell his sister this weekend. He reckons it's going to take her some time..."
She paused and pulled her cardigan more tightly around her. A cloud had passed over the square, sending a chill through the wind. Wordlessly, Harry shrugged out of his cloak and passed it to her.
"I tried to tell him how things have changed," she said softly, pulling his cloak over her shoulders. "When I went to Hogwarts, there were no programs to support my parents. I told him about the orientation camp the month before term starts. I said parents can now visit at Easter and other important holidays. There's a telephone and internet station in Hogsmeade reserved specifically for Muggle-borns and they don't have to wait until their third year to use it. And then there's the quota in Slytherin." She sighed. "I have to imagine their mother's experience has impacted him and his sister. They saw how she was essentially shut out of her world. I'm sure there's many things they still don't trust about us."
"What did he say to all that?"
"Nothing really," she said, leaning into him as a stronger wind tore down the alley. "He said something strange at the end, though. He said he hoped Margot would let Claire go, like he wasn't sure. Hogwarts has had a hundred percent acceptance rate for over fifteen years now, especially since the new measures were put in place."
"Claire's only six," Harry reasoned. "Her mum's got time to adjust. I reckon it's not just about Hogwarts though, right? It's about losing your kid a lot earlier than you expected."
She glanced at him. A moment later, she tucked her arm through his.
Harry knew she was thinking of their conversation in the library. It felt like ages ago, another time. But he remembered how she'd called him an "exceptional father." How she'd understood his sense of dissonance—of loving Hogwarts but resenting how it took who he most loved. But at least Harry was a wizard. In an emergency, he could apparate to see his children. The faculty frequently invited him to give special lectures. And Harry knew the school like the handle of his first Firebolt—every hidden passage, every trick step, every traitorous painting. He knew what subjects James and Albus studied, what food they ate, what sport they played.
A Muggle father had none of that. Only the word of strangers that their child would be safe, that they'd receive the best education for their talents. For himself, Harry knew a stranger's word would never be enough. Not when it came to the protection of his sons, and soon, his daughter.
Harry and Hermione were silent for several minutes. The streets were quieter now, people returning to work, though neither of them seemed in a rush to leave.
"How would you feel about seeing the Camerons tomorrow?" she asked, her fingers absently tracing patterns on his arm. "I got an owl from Healer Waltham this morning. He says there's an update on their condition that he'd like to talk through. I hope he means it this time. His staff hasn't exactly kept the Camerons informed."
"Sure," he said faintly, staring at her fingers as that familiar heat ran down his spine. "I'd like to see Duncan again."
"Great!" she beamed. "I'll bring him more books. I'm sure he's finished the ones I gave him. Do you want to give him one? I was thinking of bringing one of Ron's Quidditch books, but he said they're 'collector's editions.'"
Harry laughed. "Yeah, I'll find something. It'll be better than Hogwarts, A History or whatever you've given him."
She removed her arm and Harry immediately regretted his comment.
"You and Ron so easily forget how often that book saved our arses."
Harry chuckled. He always liked it when she cursed.
"Should we head back?" she said, standing reluctantly.
"Yeah. Do you mind if we step into Gringotts? Got to get some Muggle cash," he said without thinking.
"Why?" she said curiously.
"Oh—er—I've got to pay Dudley back for something."
Her brows drew together, noticing his evasion. "What would you need to pay him back for?"
He looked at his feet. What was the point in hiding it? She'd find out soon enough.
"Opera tickets."
She stared at him. "Would this be the same opera Ron is taking me to?"
"Yeah..." he grimaced, remembering Ron's admonition not to tell her. "Ron asked that Ginny and I come."
She released a dry breath. "He's unbelievable. I knew he was having second thoughts. I'm sorry. If I had known he was trying to drag you and—"
"Don't apologize," he interjected. "It could be fun, right?"
"Well, I certainly think so!" she said, straightening Harry's over-large cloak on her shoulders. "But...are you sure you want to come? Ginny...wants to?"
"Yeah," Harry lied. Ginny knew nothing about it, of course.
"All right, then." She still looked worried.
Together, they made their way up the white marble steps, the afternoon sun shining weakly through the clouds.
After work, Harry landed on the pavement in front of Dudley Dursley's home. He removed his Invisiblity Cloak once a nearby car reached the end of the street.
Dudley's home was a fine, well-appointed little house with a Tudor-style roof and a red door. The brick path leading up to it was cleanly swept and the leaves in the yard were pushed to a corner.
Dudley and his wife, Shannon, had moved to this house in Watford several years ago. They had two children: thirteen-year-old Violet and nine-year-old John. Dudley made a reasonable living as a life insurance broker. His wife was a very successful hospital administrator.
Aunt Petunia, always one to dote on her only child, lived in a nearby condominium. Uncle Vernon died six years after the war. Heart failure. Harry attended the funeral.
As Harry approached the door, he touched his wand inside his Muggle jacket. Whispering an incantation, he watched the air shiver. He examined it carefully, nodding to himself. Dudley didn't know Harry had placed wards on his home. Still the target of death threats, he felt compelled to provide whatever magical protection he could for his cousin's family. His closest blood relations.
When Harry rang the bell, a dog immediately started barking inside. Harry rolled his eyes. One of Aunt Marge's broods had come to live with Dudley four years ago and, much like Aunt Marge, the dog despised Harry.
Dudley cracked the door open, holding the dog back with his foot.
"Hi, Harry," he said. "No Marley! Come in, come in."
Harry stepped inside, looking down at the bulldog. "Still doesn't like me, does she?"
"Yeah, well," said his cousin, scooping up Marley before she could charge at Harry. "Honey! Harry's here!" he called out. "Kids! Your uncle!"
Even though Harry was technically the children's second cousin, they still called him "uncle."
Shannon emerged from the kitchen as Dudley put Marley outside.
"Harry!" she cried happily. "So good to see you! It's been a while, hasn't it?"
Harry smiled, embracing her. "It has. That's my fault. I'm sorry."
"Oh no," Shannon said, patting his back. "We know how busy you are. Violet keeps asking about her cousin Lily, though."
Harry nodded but said nothing. His children were not exactly fond of Violet Dursley, though they did like John.
The back door slammed and Dudley returned, coming to his wife's side. Harry briefly took in the pair of them. They were well-suited. Dudley, who had lost considerable weight in his late teens and early twenties, had gained much of it back. He was large, but nowhere near the colossal girth of the late Uncle Vernon.
Shannon was short and curvy. She had cropped blond hair and Harry rarely saw her out of a pantsuit. Her eyes were bright, crystal blue and she was one of the nicest people Harry had ever met. He had no idea how Dudley found her.
He also credited Shannon with bringing about the most remarkable change in his cousin's disposition. Dudley was still brusque and awkward with Harry, but he was never hostile and, at times, Dudley seemed genuinely content to be in Harry's company. Seeing his cousin with his children had also revealed that Dudley was a far gentler man than Harry ever realized.
"Come sit down, won't you?" Shannon said, bustling to Harry's side and taking him by the arm. "I'll fix us some tea and you can tell us what you've been getting up to."
"Er, all right," Harry said, letting her guide him to the sitting room. Harry had never been able to say "no" to her. She ordered people around in such a cheery and friendly fashion that no one ever realized they were doing exactly what she wanted.
The sitting room looked very much like the old parlor at Privet Drive. Indeed, Aunt Petunia had a heavy hand in the decorating. There were white doilies along the mantelpiece and meticulously-aligned pictures on the walls. Most of them were of Dudley and his family, but a few stuck out to Harry's eye.
There was one from Harry and Ginny's wedding reception. The Potters stood next to the couple, Harry looking vaguely surprised to be in a picture with Dudley. Ginny looked standoffish. She'd heard the most terrible stories, of course.
Further along was another picture: Dudley, Shannon, and Aunt Petunia crowded around a hospital bed, where Uncle Vernon lay holding a small baby Violet in his arms. She'd been born a week before Uncle Vernon passed. Though Vernon had tubes under his nose, and his skin had turned a mottled grey, he was still smiling ear-to-ear as he held his only granddaughter.
Dudley had settled into an armchair. A muted football match was on the telly. Harry rifled through his jacket and removed a pouch.
"I can't thank you enough, Dud," he said, pulling out several notes resting atop his wizard currency. "Sorry I couldn't find another way to buy them…"
"It's no problem," he said, taking the pounds.
There was a soft clattering sound and Shannon entered carrying a tea set.
"Oh, what's this now?" she said, catching sight of the money in Dudley's hand. "I heard you're taking Ginny to an opera, Harry? Is that right?"
"Er, yeah," he replied awkwardly. "Dudley was kind enough to help me out in buying the tickets."
"Well, of course he was," Shannon said, smiling fondly at her husband as she laid down the tray. Looking at the pouch, she asked, "What's that in there?"
"Just some of our money."
"Oh!" Shannon said again. "Can I see it?"
"Sure," Harry chuckled, amused at the childlike expression on her face.
He spilled several coins onto her hand.
"Wow," Shannon sighed as Dudley stood to join them. "This gold one's huge!"
"That's a galleon," Harry explained. "The silver ones are sickles and the bronze ones are knuts."
"Oh, I see. Such funny names…" she mused, flipping over a galleon in her hand. Dudley, in turn, picked up a sickle. "And what's the exchange rate, Harry?" she asked jokingly.
Harry laughed. "There actually is one. I know that galleons are worth five quid each. Don't really know about the others…"
"But, my goodness! They're so heavy! How do you carry this around all day?"
"Oh. I use a Lightening Charm on the bag. They weigh barely anything then."
"Really now?" Shannon said, impressed. She slipped the coins back into the pouch. "We'll have to call you next time we're going to Majorca then. Maybe you can put a little Lightening Charm on our luggage so we can get out of the fees?" she laughed, slapping his arm.
Harry laughed as well. Dudley was smiling softly at his wife.
Dudley had once been quite opposed to telling Shannon that his cousin was a wizard. But, as it turned out, Shannon already knew about the magical world. Her sister-in-law was a witch and she'd been quite ecstatic to learn about Dudley's magical relative. She treated magic like a charming and quirky anomaly, like learning there were people who attended Renaissance festivals year round.
That said, Dudley's children did not know about magic. Dudley and Shannon said they were saving that information for when they were older.
Just then, the children themselves appeared. Harry tucked the pouch into his jacket.
"Uncle Harry!" cried John.
Harry knelt down and embraced the boy. "There he is! How are you, mate?"
Violet gave him a brief one-armed hug. "Hi."
"How are you both? Keeping up on your schoolwork?"
"Yessir," said John. Violet barely looked up from her mobile.
"Well, good," said Harry, raising his hands behind each of their ears and magicking some chocolate. "That calls for sweets."
"Wow!" John yelled, taking the candy. Violet rolled her eyes, but took the gift. She saw Harry as that uncle. The one who thought he was a magician.
They settled down to tea. John squeezed in next to his mother while his sister sat by the door, texting. Dudley filled Harry in on Arsenal's chances this year and Harry nodded, understanding twenty percent. He vaguely remembered liking football when he was able to watch a few scant minutes when Uncle Vernon wasn't looking.
As inevitably happened when Harry was around Shannon, however, tea turned into supper. He protested he needed to get home to help Ginny with the kids, but she flatly denied him. This, combined with the fact that Dudley was actually a terrific cook, convinced Harry to stay.
As Harry helped himself to a second helping of pork roast and red potatoes, he watched Dudley out of the corner of his eye. Sometimes, it was difficult for him to forget the Dudley he'd grown up with. His cousin defined a large part of his hellish childhood. Even now, as Dudley slagged off on Chelsea and cut John's meat into smaller pieces, Harry still felt that primal stirring of distrust.
He supposed that might never go away…
Yet, he knew this Dudley was different now. Harry had seen the beginning of that transformation on the front lawn of Privet Drive nineteen years ago when his cousin had shaken his hand and wished him well. Now, a combination of the absence of his father and the influence of his wife and children had completed a two decades' long transformation. How different this man was from the pudgy boy who had sprouted a pig's tail in a distant, sea-soaked cabin.
"How's Ginny, Harry?" Shannon was asking.
"She's good, thanks," he replied. "The paper keeps her busy. She's also planning this massive party at our house for New Year's." He inadvertently rubbed his temple. "Of course, you're all invited."
Shannon shared a small smile with her husband. She knew the limits of what Dudley could take in terms of magic.
"Oh, that sounds lovely, Harry," she said kindly. "But we'll probably have a quiet New Year's at home. Petunia will need looking after and the kids like to stay up for the fireworks."
Harry smiled, expecting this answer. "Of course. We'd love to have you, but we understand."
"And Hermione?"
Harry looked up. Dudley had spoken.
"What?" Why was his face already warm?
"How's Hermione?" Dudley repeated. "Isn't she one of those friends of yours?"
In another context, Harry might've rolled his eyes at Dudley calling the woman Harry had known for twenty-six years—the one who'd saved his life on innumerable occasions—"one of those friends." But Harry was too distracted by his own thundering heart.
"Er, she's fine too. She's working on an important case..."
"Well, I hope she's not working too hard," Shannon said, concerned. "Did I tell you we've started seeing Hermione's father for Violet's teeth? It turns out she needs to wear headgear to bed…"
"Mum!" Violet shouted, finally looking up from her phone.
"Oh, I'm sorry, dear," Shannon said offhandedly. "Harry doesn't care, do you Harry?"
"Nope."
"Anyway, ever since Hermione mentioned her father was a dentist, we've been going to him. He's an exceptionally kind man."
"He is," Harry agreed quietly.
There was silence for a moment. Harry could feel Shannon watching him.
"Mum, is there dessert today?" John piped up.
"Of course, dear!" Shannon cried, scooting back her chair and shuffling towards the refrigerator.
Harry briefly caught Dudley's eye as Shannon removed a tub of ice cream from the freezer. At least the Dursley appetite had not changed.
Harry returned to Clymene Court at ten that evening, his stomach bursting. Hanging his jacket, he wondered if anyone was home. The kitchen was dark, the library empty. But then, the sound of laughter reached him. His brow furrowed. He didn't remember Ginny saying they'd have company.
The laughter came from the lounge at the back of the house. As he stepped into the doorway, his heart picked up its frenetic pace. Hermione was sitting with Ron and Ginny. The latter two were engaged in a lively discussion while Hermione looked on, a glass of wine held in her delicate hand.
"Harry!" Ginny called, running towards him. "We were wondering where you were."
He was about to explain, but she pulled him down into a kiss. "We were just debating what sort of music to have for the ball," she said excitedly, leading him towards the couch. "Ron's in favor of a live band, but I think we should try for someone famous."
"Oh?" said Harry, trying to ignore the long series of numbers that flashed through his head.
Hermione laughed. "I told you," she said knowingly to Ron and Ginny. "Sticker shock."
Harry blinked, surprised she'd read him so easily.
"It's not like we do this every year," Ginny said defensively. "What d'you think, Harry?"
He was distracted, however. On the couch across from him, Hermione sat with her legs casually draped over Ron's knee. They were holding hands. Harry couldn't remember that last time he'd seen them do that.
Tearing his eyes away, he said, "I dunno. There are good live bands I'm sure…"
Ginny sighed, exasperated. "If you're worried about the cost, we could always see who'd perform for free. I'm sure plenty of artists would love the exposure. You are you, after all. They'd consider it an honor."
Harry's jaw tightened.
"It's getting late," Hermione said lightly. "Should we head home?" she asked Ron.
He nodded and released her hand.
"Mum's been watching Hugo," Ron explained to Harry. "She can't stay up as late as she used to. Wished she'd been like that when I was younger..."
The Potters lead the Weasleys back to the entryway. Ginny briefly hugged them both and turned towards the stairs. "Sorry, got to run. Waking up early to brief the team on the coverage tomorrow."
Ron nodded, understanding. Tomorrow was a national Quidditch semi-final.
As Ginny disappeared around the top of the stairs, Ron turned urgently to Harry.
"Did you get the tickets?"
"Er, yeah."
"Thank Merlin," he sighed with quiet jubilation.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes. You got your wish."
"It'll be better with the four of us," he said to her, draping a long arm over her shoulders. "Like celebrating your birthday all over again."
He kissed her hair. Harry stared at the intricate carvings on the banister.
"Have you told Ginny yet?" Ron asked.
"Not yet."
Hermione turned to Harry, upset. "You said at lunch—"
"Don't worry about it," said Ron easily. "She won't put up a fight if we're all going."
She shook her head, but said to Harry, "I'll see you at St. Mungo's, then? Is noon all right?"
"Sure," he said. He wanted to be very far away. "I'll see you both later."
The Weasleys nodded and moved towards the cloakroom as Harry took the stairs.
Out of sight, Harry leaned against a wall and closed his eyes. He was breathing hard.
There was no flash of resentment this time. Only disgust with himself. He thought of her tracing patterns on his arm that afternoon. Why had he let himself enjoy that? Why did he lose track of himself when she laughed, when she held his gaze? None of it—none of it—meant anything to her.
In his mind, he saw her legs draped over Ron's. How relaxed and happy they'd looked. They were coming together again, Harry realized with a sickening burning in his chest. She was fixing things, like she said she would.
What an idiot he was.
Harry had turned, unseeing, towards his bedroom when he heard laughter in the foyer. Hermione's laugh.
He thought of going back, but stopped himself. But then...
"We have to go," she whispered, insistent. "Stop, will you?"
His feet carried him to the stairs before he knew what he was doing. He stopped at the top, shielded by a pillar.
Ron had pushed Hermione against a wall. Arm wrapped around her waist, he tilted her face towards his. Their lips touched. A familiar and practiced kiss. It was the untwisted pantomime of what he and Hermione had done three weeks prior.
Harry turned and quietly moved away. Halfway down the corridor, he heard the front door close. They'd gone.
He felt very cold then, like a frigid poison had flooded his veins. He paced into his bedroom, which was nearly dark, the lamp by the bed giving off a warm glow. Harry heard a gentle rush of water in the washroom. Ginny was showering.
Arms shaking, he moved towards the curtains and shut them, almost violently. The room grew darker. He undressed and, for what felt like ages, sat on the edge of the bed, staring blindly at the floor.
Finally, Harry heard the taps switch off. Ginny emerged a moment later in a white towel. Perhaps due to the darkness of the room and Harry's stillness, she didn't notice him until she had unwrapped her towel.
"Oh!" she said, partially covering herself, though her breasts remained visible. "Did Ron and Hermione leave?"
He said nothing and held out his arm.
"What?" she said, her fine brows crinkling as she approached him.
He pulled her to him, pressing his face to the taut skin of her stomach. The towel slipped to the floor.
"Are you all right?"
He murmured something against her skin, already trailing his lips towards the V between her legs.
"Ah," she sighed as they reached their target. "I do have to wake up early, you know."
"I know."
He didn't think. He took her hands and brought her to the bed. Kneeling on the floor, he dragged her legs over his shoulders.
"The door," Ginny breathed. "Lily."
Raising his hand, a dark pulse of magic shut the door with a satisfying click. He returned his fingers to the nest of curls, his tongue encircling her clit in the rhythm he knew she liked best.
Ginny came with a shuddering sigh several minutes later, her hands buried in his hair. When she'd recovered, she pulled him up and kissed him.
"What was that for?" she murmured.
"I need a reason?"
She smiled languidly. "No. And I'll return the favor when I'm not so bloody tired."
Reluctantly, she sat up and found her night clothes. After setting her alarm, she moved to his side of the bed and held him tightly. Harry stroked her hair until she fell asleep. It took only minutes.
Staring at the silken canopy above him, Ginny's soft breath in his ear, Harry felt the resolve grow.
Enough now.