A/N: A quick note UK criminal procedure (you'll see that it is relevant, I promise). In the UK, "going no comment" would be the equivalent of what Americans would call "the right to remain silent." The police asks you questions and you just say: "no comment," giving what is referred to as a "no comment interview." Now, there are a lot of legal subtleties to this (like adverse inference which iirc isn't a thing in the US/Canada) but generally, that's the idea. As a side note, I will add that contrary to what Hermione says in book 7, the wizarding world actually does need more lawyers and that if Sirius had had proper representation and due process, we probably wouldn't be sitting here.

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ii. out of wood (ashes twirl)

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In a somewhat peculiar turn of events, it's Petunia who gives Harry the idea. He remembers the programmes that she used to watch on the telly when he was younger, the ones with the bizarre colour-schemes, the flashy documentaries shot in the dark. She and Vernon would tut and nod whenever the filmmakers wanted them to, throwing each other looks of solemn affliction as the coppers brought to trial 'all these criminals,' rampant on the streets of Britain. Harry remembers that once, he peaked at the TV instead of doing the dishes and at the police station, the suspect refused to answer questions. 'No comment,' he said. The cops on the screen continued to go through the motions, complaining to the camera. 'Well, that is something these people do. The solicitors tell them it's in their interest, but -'

At the time, Harry thought that considering 'they' didn't get charged in the end, it appeared the technique was actually effective. So: the next time Vernon smirked, asked him if he'd enjoyed his time with Mrs Figg – 'No comment,' he just said.

A big, fat, hand wrapped around his neck and threw Harry into the wall. That day, he learnt two things: one) that no comment isn't always the best response and two), that the rules that seemed to keep the policemen in check did not apply in his household.

In 1998, the month of May ends the same way it started (in a blur), and June rolls around quietly, with roses that bloom around the church, in Ottery St Catchpole. Harry - perhaps foolishly - remembers that when the lot of them were kids (at the beginning of the war, before Dumbledore died, before, well, everything), Ginny told him that June was her favourite month. Their days stretched out into nights, the sky dark and blue but never truly black; when Harry closes his eyes, he still sees her laying on the grass at Hogwarts, head against his chest, watching the clouds as they moved above their heads. Their dusks were seemingly endless, tinted soft pinks and oranges. 'I hate that we have exams in June,' she said, her breath tickling the skin at the neckline of his shirt. He liked that she wanted to do well on her O. . 'It's usually my favourite month.'

Harry shifted to catch her gaze. He'd always assumed her favourite month would be her birthday month. He's not quite sure why. 'Really?'

'Yeah, I don't know, it's just kind of hopeful, isn't it? The start of the summer,' she said with a smile. Ginny had always been a summer girl; he recalled the way the sun would dot freckles on her skin, the Quidditch pick-up games before his sixth year. Back then, he could tell from the tone of her voice and the quick look she threw him that she was a bit embarrassed to admit this, like her words both wanted and didn't want to come out. 'I, er -' she sighed. 'I was a bit afraid of the dark when I was, like, five?' she spoke, quick, her head settling back against his shoulder; she looked up to the sky. 'But the days are so long in June,' she added and Harry could hear a smile in her voice again. 'It was my time to shine.'

His fingers absentmindedly drew patterns on the skin of her arm. 'You're always shining to me,' he said and she burst out a laugh. These were different times.

'Soppy,' she grinned, stole a quick peck from his lips. He tried to deepen the kiss, his hands quickly finding their usual resting spot on her hips – there was something in him that wanted to know her to be close by, all of the time. She pulled away, a hand at the side of his face. 'But true.'

He kissed her again, then, palms finding their way under the rumpled shirt of her school uniform, trailing up to the clasp of her bra. It was astonishing to him how just a few months back, all he'd ever had, had been the prospect of spending his nights dreaming to touch her, like it was surely the only possible way he could ever have her. Reality, as far as he was concerned, greatly surpassed fiction.

'What?' she asked, breaking away for a moment as he smiled against her lips.

'I don't know,' he confessed, amused. 'It's just a bit hard to picture you being afraid of the dark.' She smiled. 'You're not afraid of anything.'

At that, she titled her head. Ginny Weasley was eleven years old when she single-handedly attempted to fight the murderer in her brain. To Harry, she was always so brave, like she embodied the meaning of the word itself (like before he'd met her, he'd never quite understood what it meant). She smiled, whispered in his ear before kissing him. 'If you only knew,' she muttered, so close that he could smell the scent of her shampoo. He breathed in, closed his eyes and thought that: yeah, June's the best month of them all. 'I'm afraid of everything, Potter.'

A year later, roses bloom once again in the gardens of Ottery St Catchpole and Harry's still holding her. Some things in life never change, he muses, although, of course, everything else has changed. They've both fought in a war that should never have been theirs and one of her brothers has died, leaving the start of the summer to mend itself without them, trapped in a combative attempt to shovel the little hope it has left down their throats. When Harry caresses Ginny's skin, the summer of '98, she's naked next to him, the both of them tucked in her small, twin bed at The Burrow. They try to be quiet (always, despite the silencing charms they cast) but they each have a side, now, an oddly domestic habit, and after they have sex, Harry often lies with her body wrapped around him, so close that he's never quite sure where her limbs start and where his end. Her bed's pushed up against her window - along the skin of his left arm, he feels the morning dew build as the night chill leaves the air; it trickles down the single-glazed glass. They watch the sun rise together - early mornings and milky skies.

Here, just like on the Hogwarts grounds last year, reality is better than anything he could have imagined in that mouldy, dingy tent of his. Outside Ginny's window, the night ends and Harry just lies there, looks at her, unable to believe his luck. 'Do you think someone can be both brave and scared?' he asks, whispers.

It's the last night they have together before Ron, Hermione and he leave for London for a week of depositions in front of a Commission that Harry's still not sure he feels entirely comfortable with. Ron and Hermione have both signed their immunity agreements. He's yet to decide what to do about his. Ginny tilts her head to the side again, a little bit like she did last year – there's something in her look that Harry can't quite identify. 'Is this you being nervous about tomorrow?' she asks.

Sometimes, he wishes that she weren't so blunt. He feels conflicted about that wish, though, because it's also one of things he likes best about her. 'Yeah,' he admits.

Ginny's fingers trace sleepy patterns over the bruise at his chest that has yet to fade (Harry has a strong inkling that it never will). She does that sometimes, he's noticed. Never asks about it, of course (it's one of those things that they do not talk about) but one night when she did it, he looked at her and raised an eyebrow. Ginny was on top of him as they kissed, hand just placed on his skin, motionless. 'I like to feel your heart beat,' she explained, her gaze locked onto his as her other hand made its way down between them, slow and teasing. Harry's breath caught in his throat when her fingers wrapped around him. A sharp intake of air; he closed his eyes and opened them, still finding her right there – she moved so tantalisingly slow it drove him almost mad – even he noticed his own pulse quickening with every stroke that she gave. Her mouth and teeth trailed down his neck and: 'Yeah, like that,' she said, dropping kisses at his pulse point. 'Now, I know I'm doing something right.'

He wanted to tell her that as far as he was concerned, she always did everything right..

That June, she simply looks at him and nods. Ginny Weasley closes her eyes and Harry watches as her eyelashes contrast against the pearly skin of her cheeks. Something moves in the bushes outside her window, a gnome going about its business. It's almost daylight, now, almost time for him to reluctantly leave her bed and head back to Ron's room before anyone finds him places he definitely shouldn't be. Sometimes Harry runs into Hermione on her walk back to her room; she always looks half-awake and barely says hello.

That night, Ginny drops a lazy peck on his lips, pulls him close and says: 'No one's entitled to a story you don't want to tell, Harry,' she pauses. 'Not even me.'

He remembers the way Uncle Vernon's hand wrapped around his throat, back in the day, thinks that that has not always been true.

The next morning, in London, Harry, Ron and Hermione are up early. They sit, drink what feels like litres of coffee and tea in the empty breakfast room of a nondescript, Muggle hotel. They're staying there for the length of their depositions and it's odd for the three of them to be by themselves again, after weeks spent in the overcrowded Burrow. Harry spots a tired-looking Auror in Muggle clothing guarding the entrance at reception, pretending to read a magazine.

Even on his best days, Harry's jumpy. The fact is that the simple act of existing in this world makes noises that he can't really cope with. At night, he still sleeps with his fingers wrapped around his wand, underneath his pillow. There are things about him that people didn't see back in May (perhaps when their minds were overrun by their own struggles and worries) that they seem to notice, now. When the three of them select a table at the hotel, Harry chooses the one where he can have a direct view of the entrance - even then, he can't help but turning around to check the emergency exit, every once in a while. Hermione's look is kind when she lays a hand on his arm. 'Stop it,' she mutters. 'You're setting my teeth on edge, Harry.'

That morning, they barely manage to swallow any food. For the other two's sakes, Harry tries to hide the knot in his stomach, can tell that Hermione is anxious enough for the three of them - she keeps tapping an annoying rhythm against the table with the tips of her fingers, doesn't even seem to realise she's doing it. Her make-up is minimal, the varnish on her nails a plain but shiny transparent. His mind drifts back to Ginny, how she always painted her nails in bright colours in school, reds and oranges, and golds, performed complicated charm work on them so that it would stick. 'If I don't, it always chips with Quidditch,' she said.

The moment the receptionist exits the breakfast room and leaves them alone, Hermione quickly scourgifies a couple of bread crumbs from Ron's lap, straightens her own collar. Her suit is impeccably ironed, black pencil skirt hanging a bit loose from her hips, falling just below her knee. She's lost weight again. A shirt is tucked under her dark jacket, the two top buttons conservatively undone, revealing a thin, discreet and elegant, golden chain. Ron raised an eyebrow when she came out of her room this morning, eyeing her up and down.

Hermione shrugged, let the door close behind her with a dull thud. 'I want them to see I'm Muggle-born,' she said.

When the cleaning lady threw a questioning look at Ron and Harry's robes, Hermione let out a mock-excited gasp.

'We're going to a convention,' she almost squealed. Her voice was childish and out of place, if Harry hadn't seen her lips move, he would have sworn the words were uttered by someone else. The cleaning lady shrugged, indifferent, and Harry suddenly had a bizarre flashback of that summer when Dudley got obsessed with Star Wars.

He sits in his chair, now, watches his two friends interact in silence. None of them can legally Apparate - Harry never took his licence and the Ministry executively revoked theirs last year due to their 'association with an undesirable wizard' - so the plan is for the three of them to take the Tube, first, then Floo into the Ministry from one of the Auror safehouses, a couple streets out from Covent Garden.

'It's almost eight,' Hermione declares, collecting her purse from the floor. It's the infamous beaded bag, Harry notices, and he wonders if she's still ready for them to take off and run at any moment if they have to, even now that the war's over. Harry takes one look at her outfit again and grabs his old Gryffindor scarf from the back of his chair, slides it to her before she stands. Hermione's hand instinctively settles on it, feels the wool beneath her fingers. She throws Harry a curious look.

'You're going to want this,' he just shrugs.

Hermione raises an eyebrow again, gaze studying his scarf suspiciously. It's bright red and, Harry guesses, does not fit in at all with the rest of her rather conservative attire. He sighs, drains the last drops of his third mug of tea.

'When we get there, it'll be like the craziest circus you've ever been to,' he speaks, quick, before he runs out of words. There is an urgency to the things that he needs to tell them both, ones that they don't necessarily want to hear. It's not a war, but it's certainly another battle, out there. 'It'll be dozens and dozens of people standing in a crowd, clapping and screaming, and wanting a piece of you. They'll want to thank you, insult you, ask you questions, tell you personal stuff about themselves. They don't mean anything bad by it, they just don't really realise you're a person. The press will be there, too, and they will be flashing their cameras just about five inches from your face to try and get a good shot,' he adds, raising his hand close to his own cheek, showing them the distance. 'They'll want to touch you, have you sign stuff, and they'll keep talking to you from the moment you step out of that fireplace to the moment you get into the lift. We'll have an escort of Aurors around us to try and hold them back but I honestly doubt that they'll be able to do much. It'll feel like you're in the longest tunnel you've ever been through and you can't see the exit. At least, wear that scarf over your head, it'll hide your face and your eyes from the cameras, protect you a bit. Ron, you can use the hood at the back of your robes.'

Both of Harry's hands lay flat in front of him. The other two stare, blank, for a few of seconds, like there's a magnitude to the words that he's just said that he's not sure he really comprehends. Hermione finally picks up the scarf from the table and ties it around her neck. She looks up at him. 'You?' she asks, her glance finding his robes. There's no hood at the back of them so she must realise that he'd packed the scarf for himself. Harry just shrugs.

'I'll be fine,' he says, breathing in deep as he pushes himself up from his seat. 'I'm used to it. Let's go.'

Hermione's deposition lasts two full days. By the end of it, she looks washed out, exhausted, but oddly relieved. She tells them everything. From their decision to go to Godric's Hollow to the specific curses that Bellatrix performed on her at Malfoy Manor. Harry somehow wishes the woman was still alive so that they could convict her. Mrs May Kelly, the President of the Commission, thanks Hermione for her service to the wizarding community. 'You're a very brave witch, Miss Granger,' she tells her in closing remarks. 'We'll recommend you for an Order of Merlin, First Class.'

Later, Hermione whispers to Harry and Ron that Mrs Kelly used to be the UK's wizarding ambassador to Australia, before the war. 'She said she might be able to help,' Hermione explains and there's a glimmer of hope in her voice, for the first time in a long time. 'I could maybe go in a few weeks, once they're located. Can you imagine?'

Harry smiles. To be honest, he feels like it's the first real piece of good news they've had in an eternity.

Ron deposes next, for a day and a half. They thank him, too, with similar recommendations, offer condolences for Fred. 'It wasn't that bad, actually,' he tells Harry after they leave the Ministry at around three that afternoon. 'Kind of cool to sit in front of all these important people and have something to say.'

That night, he goes out to celebrate over a pint with his brothers. They invite Hermione and Harry, of course, but although he'd never admit it, the mere idea of being out in public at the Leaky Cauldron buries The Boy Who Lived in crippling anxiety. Hermione claims: 'I'm exhausted, Ron,' and the three of them graciously pretend that she's not only just saying that because she would never, ever, leave Harry alone on the eve of his deposition. Ron himself seems hesitant about going (this regardless of how many times Harry insists that: it's all right, really) but Bill's in London on a mission for Kingsley and George has decided to go in and sort out the shop, so it's just one of those occasions that can't be missed.

A few days before they left for London, George pulled a prank on Ron with an enchanted spider, made everyone laugh around the dinner table. Later, he bluntly announced that Weasley Wizard Wheezes would be reopening on the 1st of July. Mr and Mrs Weasley looked up at their son with a mixture of pride and apprehension in their eyes.

'Are you sure, dear?' Mrs Weasley asked in a voice that seemed caught up in her throat. George just shrugged.

'People need a laugh, Mum.'

So, the afternoon after Ron's deposition, as soon as they're dismissed, Harry and Hermione make their way back to the hotel on their own. Harry likes Hermione's company. They agree to walk back to the hotel rather than take the Tube and the silence is comfortable between them, only ever interrupted by the random hoots of cars stuck in traffic, or quiet chatter about directions. Hermione switches her short, conservative heels for a pair of old, dirty trainers and Harry changes into jeans and a t-shirt. They both effortlessly blend into the Muggle world. As busy as London can be, it feels like a reprieve, a place where they can get lost without the madness that encircles them at the Ministry. The contrast is almost unbelievable, at times. In Muggle London, they're just a couple of nobodies.

They stop at a café on their way up to Islington; Harry sits at a table by the window, gets tea and a KitKat. Hermione smiles down at her cappuccino as she watches him eat, says: 'Sorry, I always forget you grew up with Muggles, too.' She points to the snack in his hand. 'I kind of miss M&Ms, you know?'

Harry grins before he nods, almost laughs at the memory that suddenly hits his brain. 'Dudley used to eat about three packs a day,' he recalls with a smile, leans against the back of his chair. 'That was before they put him on a diet, obviously.'

Hermione does genuinely laugh at this – he sees it in her eyes, the little lines at the corners - and it occurs to Harry, watching her, that in an odd turn of events, he's not quite sure when, exactly, they both grew up. On the other hand, come to think of it, he can't really remember a time when they didn't act well beyond their years, either. Hermione and Ron used to send him food to Privet Drive, pieces of cake hidden under the floorboards.

Every time Harry looks at her, he thinks that Hermione will always be eleven in his head. The bushy-haired girl with large front teeth who cried in the loo and faced a troll. He wonders, sometimes, if she still sees him as the lost and skinny boy he used to be, the one who knew nothing about magic, least of all the reason why everybody always seemed to be staring at him all the time. He also wonders if, really, he's even changed at all. By all standards, Harry's still rather lost, and definitely skinny.

When he looks at her, across the table, Hermione's also the girl who loved her parents so much she made them forget she even existed. Sometimes, the two are almost impossible to reconcile. Harry remembers Lupin and Sirius a few years ago, how they justified his father's actions in the Pensive. 'He was fifteen,' they said, and it occurs to Harry, now, that he can't remember ever just being "fifteen."

Behind her smile, Hermione studies his face and Harry knows, instantly, that she's thinking about how, in his memories, it was Dudley who ate the three packs of M&Ms a day, not him. She shifts, her knee bumping into his; he feels the fabric of her tights against that of his jeans. 'Why were we never kids?' he suddenly asks, both an attempt at distracting her from her own thoughts and a genuine question; it tumbles from his lips before it can be stopped. They were kids, Harry thinks, once upon a time, but also, not.

Hermione looks up, catches his gaze and almost instantly, he sees the tears prickling at the corner of her eyes. 'Oh, Harry.'

They leave the café at about six in the evening, walk the next thirty minutes back to their hotel. Hermione explains what the Ministry's plans are to help with her parents. Ron has already agreed to come to Australia, she adds, once the Grangers are located. Harry gives her a smile, knows what she'll ask before she even speaks, like a testament to how well he knows her. 'I'd love for you to come, too,' she says as they cross a street up towards the British Museum.

Harry smiles, shakes his head. It's time they all spent some time apart, he thinks. He needs time to think about Kingsley's proposal for the Auror job, really, and Ginny, and –

Harry catches Hermione's look, playfully bites his lip. 'I think it'd better be just you and Ron,' he teases with a tell-tale if you know what I mean rise of his eyebrow. 'Thousands of miles away from his parents…'

Hermione turns bright pink. Chuckles and looks to the ground at the same time, the colour in her cheeks mirroring the red of Harry's scarf around her neck. She never gave it back to him, after that first day, but he finds that he quite likes the look of it on her, it reminds him of those afternoons she'd spend huddled in the cold, pretending to study on the terraces as she watched Ron and he try to win Quidditch matches. 'Actually, I don't know,' she sighs, seconds later, refusing to cross Harry's gaze. 'We haven't,' she stumbles over her words, almost trips into a pothole. Her face is scarlet. 'I mean –'

Harry bursts out a laugh, loud, in the middle of the street. She shoots him a glare that only makes him laugh harder, lips stretching into a large grin. That's a lot more information than he's ever wanted to know about Ron and Hermione's private business, to say the least, and yet the embarrassment on her face is what makes him laugh, more than anything else - how very Hermione. She shoots him another look as they walk on, pass a Tesco Express at the corner. 'Well, I don't know, I just assumed,' he explains, shrugging, hands thrown up in the air like it's not his fault. 'I mean, I hate to ask but what have you two been doing every night when I'm with Ginny?'

'We sleep!' Hermione tells him, indignant. Her glare forces him to stifle another round of giggles.

That evening, the both of them eat Pad Thai takeaway and sit on the floor in front of the muted hotel telly. They laugh at funny Hogwarts stories of Romilda Vane and crazy things that Harry remembers Luna saying. They drain a few cans of bitter and wait for Ron to get home.

'So, you and Ginny, then?' Hermione asks (or states, Harry's not quite sure), curious and a bit tipsy; he kind of rolls his eyes in amusement but also suspects that he's in for another earful about how he should open up to his girlfriend about the war, open his heart and help her mend his wounds. Harry just shrugs, drinks another sip of his drink.

'Yup,' he says. 'Me and Ginny.'

'Ah, come on, Harry, don't be like that,' Hermione sighs, shakes her head at him. 'I promise I won't tell. Who else are you going to talk to, anyway? Ron?'

Harry lets out a snort in response but upon reflection, he guesses that yes, she does have a point. As she pretty expertly pointed out last month, Harry thinks that Ron probably knows about him and Ginny (and he's pretty sure that Bill suspects, too, from the few glares Harry's received from the eldest Weasley brother over Sunday brunch) but it's just the worst kept secret of The Burrow, these days. One that is sort of harmless and that no one really ever talks about because there always seem to be bigger fish to fry. Harry lives in a constant state of alert, though, wondering when the penny will drop, waiting for the day when Mrs Weasley (or, Merlin forbid, Mr Weasley) will finally wake up to the fact that he's been shagging their only daughter under their own fucking roof every night since they got back from Hogwarts and promptly decide to – probably rightfully – kick him out of their house. For now, they haven't so Harry remains in an endless state of nervous apprehension which, bizarrely, seems to suit him just fine. He's not sure what Ginny thinks about it all beyond the fact that she still seems to welcome him into her bed every night so he'd be a pretty stupid git to say anything and jeopardise the fragile equilibrium they've found.

Looking at Hermione now, sitting on the floor of her hotel room, he flicks open another can of beer, hears the pressure fizz out like a light sigh before he speaks. 'Ginny's, er,' he starts, thinks, steals a sip. He's not quite sure where to even begin. 'She's funny,' he acknowledges with a shrug. Hermione smiles. 'And, er – well, she's perfect, really.'

Hermione bursts out a laugh, shakes her head at him, almost disbelieving. 'No one's perfect, Harry,' she corrects. Talking about the one thing that kept him going last year, that seems rather inaccurate. Right this minute, Ginny is perfect to him. 'But you're happy,' his best friend adds, smiling. 'It's a new look. Kind of suits you. You're in love, aren't you?'

And, yeah, he is. Of course, he is. He's been in love with Ginny Weasley ever since he was sixteen and felt torn apart at the very sight of Dean kissing her in The Three Broomsticks. She's the first thing he thinks of when he gets up in the morning and the last thing he thought of just before he died. That has to mean something. Every moment he spends away from her feels like his body is missing an integral part of it, something like his heart or his conscience, something that makes it almost impossible for him to function. In his head, he has entire conversations with her. They talk about the war and the future they'll have; she wants kids, he knows, and he imagines her pregnant in a few years, a fiery look in her gaze and his hand caressing her belly. Of course, he's in love, and he can barely remember what it was like not to be.

From the look on Hermione's face when he glances back at her, Harry's pretty sure this isn't news to her, either. He wonders how she'd react if he pointed out that she's very obviously in love with Ron, but decides not to risk it. Instead, he bites his lip when she follows up and asks: 'Have you told her?'

The words roll off his tongue with a shrug. 'Timing's not right.'

And to Harry's surprise, when Hermione looks up from her spot on the floor, her back against the side of her bed, she nods. Shrugs in agreement as her hand absentmindedly pulls at the carpet of the hotel room. 'It's odd,' she says. 'The war. It's like it's made you more reckless with the things that don't matter, and more cautious with the things that do.'

There is a pause in her speech when she catches his gaze. He knows what she means. You smoke cigarettes, Harry, but you don't tell Ginny you love her, do you?

He answers with another shrug – it's quickly becoming a bad habit, these days. 'People died,' he says, something that's both an explanation and not. People died and with that, he learnt to be reckless with his own life but prudent with that of others. When he crosses her gaze, Hermione nods, something sad in her smile when she lays her head against his shoulder, closes her eyes. He gets the distinct impression she doesn't want to look at him.

'So did you,' she observes. Her voice cracks. 'I almost lost my brother, too.'

Her tears damp his shirt, that night, and Harry's not quite sure what to do other than hold her through it. 'I'm sorry,' he mutters in her hair under the bright, hotel lights. And: 'I love you.'

(Love in its million different forms, the way Dumbledore preached it. Harry loves Hermione the way he loves Ron, like the boy who introduced him to chocolate frogs and the girl who cried in the loo and faced a troll.

He loves the both of them so much that his life depends on it.)

Eventually, Hermione falls asleep with her head on Harry's shoulder and her feet tucked to the side, that night. Harry's not sure if it's the exhaustion that plagues them or the alcohol but when he shifts and looks down at her under the soft light of the bedside table, her breathing has tamed like the soft lull of a quiet animal and her tears have stopped. Carefully, he lifts her limp form in his arms, lays her down on the bed and pulls the covers up to her chin. He's about to retreat to his own room when she hangs on to him, loosely reaching for his shoulder. 'Stay, please,' she mumbles in the dark. 'Until Ron gets here.'

A couple hours later, when his best mate does so, Harry's playing with Dumbledore's Snitch under the moonlight, the quiet flutter of its wings covering Hermione's slow, sleeping breaths. Harry catches the Snitch and pockets it as Ron opens the door to Hermione's room and throws him a questioning look; Harry brings his forefinger to his lips, mouths: she's asleep and points to the door that connects to his own room. With difficulty, he extricates himself from Hermione's grasp, follows Ron through the threshold, leaving the door slightly ajar.

In contrast with Hermione's, Harry's room is brightly lit. Ceiling lights cast an aggressive glow on the general mess of his stuff, quills and parchments and dirty clothes. Ron throws an amused look at their surroundings – Harry guesses Hermione makes him clean up after himself, these days.

In a series of hushed whispers, Harry tells him about their night. The laughs they shared, Hermione's tears. Ron sighs, sits at the foot of the bed as Harry stands against the wall and kicks off his trainers. 'She keeps having nightmares,' Ron speaks. 'I tried to tell her to talk to a Healer, but I guess if they knew, the press would never leave it alone.' His best mate's shoulders slump - Harry hates how it's probably true. 'I don't know what to do. Her parents, Bellatrix; she says sometimes she dreams I got killed by Snatchers. Can you imagine, me getting killed by Snatchers?' he adds and throws a mock-insulted look at Harry who pretends to laugh, as though that's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. 'I wish they'd just let us live a little, you know? It's what Fred would have wanted.'

Harry nods. 'It'll be fine,' he says, not quite sure who he's trying to reassure: Ron, or himself. 'We'll all be fine.'

Ron shrugs in response, silent for a moment, looks up and, to Harry's surprise, also chuckles a bit. 'You know, come to think of it, I don't know what's worse: being you and having walked to your own death or being me and knowing your best mate was enough of a git to walk to his.'

They laugh, that night. Drink a bit more from Harry's minibar before they finally go to bed, well after two in the morning. Ron talks about his brothers and his overwhelming sense of worry for George that seems to swallow up his own grief. He doesn't put it in so many words, of course. Harry doesn't judge – they all have their own ways of coping with whatever the hell this is.

For the first time in, frankly, as far as Harry can remember, they actually talk about the future. It had never occurred to Harry that there would be something after the war, and it's odd to navigate through the fog. He supposes that even if they had wanted to, they probably wouldn't have been able to plan for this, since all their plans always went to shit anyway, but it's funny to be thinking about what they'll do, now, and where they'll live and who they'll be. Ron speculates that Bill and Percy will stay at the Ministry and George at the shop, Charlie with his dragons, Ron with the Aurors.

'Ginny will play professionally,' he says and for the first time ever when it comes to Quidditch, Harry notices that there's pride in Ron's voice, rather than envy. 'I'm sure of it. She's been training so hard, anyway, I'd say she'll even have her pick of teams.' Ron shrugs, throws a look at Harry. 'Whatever you do, don't ever die on her again, by the way, or I swear I'll kill you.' There is a fire in his best friend's eyes - for the life of him, Harry doesn't doubt it. He wonders again if his best mate knows, and exactly how much he knows, but doesn't ask. As Hermione so graciously pointed out, Ginny isn't something that he discusses with Ron. 'When she saw you in Hagrid's arms, the look on her face,' Ron notes, a bit later. 'I thought the ground was going to swallow her.'

That night, after Ron re-joins Hermione in their room, Harry doesn't sleep. He stares at the walls, plays with Dumbledore's empty Snitch (if he still had the stone, he'd probably ask for his parents' advise). Instead, he comes to a decision that he blurts out over breakfast the next day. 'Do you guys want Grimmauld Place?'

He wants to do something for them. Something gratuitous that has nothing to do with the war, but everything to do with their future. Hermione's sharp look quickly finds his. Her eyes are still red and puffy; she looks a bit hungover. Ron almost spits out orange juice in surprise. 'What?'

'I'm moving to London,' Harry declares, matter-of-fact. He finds that he likes it here. There are things to do, everywhere, all the time, things that keep his mind busy without overloading it with thoughts of grief. Bright lights, distractions, theatre shows and Muggle shops to explore. A degree of anonymity that makes him feel almost comfortable in his own skin. He doesn't need to Apparate miles and miles away to random villages across the West of England to be amongst Muggles. The only thing he needs to do is simply to steer clear of Diagon Alley. 'I'm going to look for a flat, though. I can't stay in that house.'

The other two nod, and Harry realises that this, right there, is the reason why he loves them: he can just say things without the need to explain.

'I thought you might want to stay there, though,' he adds, fiddling with the handle of his mug. 'I can have Kreacher clean up – Hermione,' he stresses when he catches the look on her face, before she even opens her mouth. 'He'll be glad to have something to do, honestly.' Harry watches as she purses her mouth, rolls her eyes a bit, but doesn't voice any of her objections. 'I know the house is,' he pauses, at a loss for words to describe it. 'Well, it is what it is but you could probably move in by the time you get back from Australia, at least get yourselves out of The Burrow.'

Ron and Hermione are silent for a while. Ron turns to look at her, an eyebrow raised, trying to figure out what she thinks. Harry surprises himself with his ability to decipher their wordless conversation. Hermione is hesitant, it seems, returns Ron's quizzical look. Ron, however - clearly - thinks it's a brilliant idea. The two of them, away from the overbearing aura of his parents, what's there not to like? Harry can tell that Hermione isn't convinced, thinks that it's Harry's house, not theirs, and that even if he says he wants nothing to do with it, he might very well change his mind. She doesn't want to intrude. 'We can just move in until you're back at Hogwarts and see,' Ron suggests, out loud.

Hermione nods, somewhat shyly. 'I guess we could, yeah.'

'Brilliant. That's settled, then,' Harry announces after another sip of tea. He'll try to find a flat around City University, he imagines - they could all be close by.

'Thanks, mate,' Ron says. Harry pretends not to find it cute when his best friend's hand reaches to touch Hermione's thigh under the table.

Later that morning, for his deposition, it is without any plan or preparation of any kind that Harry goes no comment. He always does best under pressure and his mind has been so clogged up with thoughts of Ginny and Ron, and Hermione, lately, that he walks into the courtroom and realises that he still doesn't know what he'll do.

He states his name for the record (Harry James Potter – it echoes in the amphitheatre) and he considers: Ginny's words (No one's entitled to a story you don't want to tell, Harry), Hermione's tears, the sound of Ron's laugh last night, his plea for them to "live a little." Harry's not sure how to end battles other than by making them stop. With the first question the Winzengamot ask, the first no comment flows past his lips. A distant memory creeps back into his head and he just grabs it, holds it tight – surprisingly, the phrase feels natural and right in his mouth.

Oh, of course, the Wizengamot officials aren't happy. After he speaks, it's another ten minutes before the President of the Commission manages to get the room back to order. When a particularly raucous individual shouts: 'But you've got to tell us the truth about Dumbledore!' she calmly asks a couple of Aurors to escort him out of the building. He continues to vociferate insults all the way down to the lift.

'Mr Potter, I understand it is your intention to give a no comment interview,' Mrs Kelly says. Her quill moves on its own against her desk, taking notes as she speaks. 'Is that correct?'

Up until this point, he hadn't considered it. It's bizarre and remarkable that in the end, she's the one who gives him an out. 'I guess, yeah.'

'All right, then.' Mrs Kelly speaks again, looks around at the rest of the room before turning back and giving him an apologetic shrug. She doesn't sound upset. 'We'll still have to move ahead with our questions, I'm afraid.'

In retrospect, in the days, months and years that follow, Harry's never truly sure he did the right thing. For once, he thinks he put his own personal interest and that of those he loved ahead of those of the Wizarding world. There is no guilt in that. And, could he even have given the answers people wanted? The truth about Dumbledore, really? The man who gave his life for Voldemort to be defeated but also raised Harry like a pig for slaughter. These people, Harry realises, the Ministry and the institutions, they want The Boy Who Lived to make their struggles worthwhile but it isn't something that any human can do. Harry can't tell them what the solution is to rebuilding a world that's so broken you can't find most of its pieces, where all the wood of the frames has been burnt down to ashes. He can't tell them how to heal and make peace with events that he's still trying his hardest to push out of his head. Harry himself barely sleeps, most nights, so how on Earth could he help them?

In his mind, the only thing that he can do, right now, is make sure that Hermione and Ron's words are heard and not forgotten, or swept away like dust under a rug. That what they had to say (were brave enough to say) isn't drowned out by the sound of his own words. If he talks, Harry knows that all they'll ever remember (the media, the Ministry, the History books) is what The Boy Who Lived told them. And that shouldn't matter, not as much. Harry's just a piece of this puzzle, not its key.

So, for what feels like an eternity, he just sits there as the Wizengamot presses on with their questions. Out of spite or protocol, Harry's not sure. 'No comment,' he goes. 'No comment.' He feels drained and exhausted when one of the wizards at the back of the room asks: 'Did you give yourself up in the forest?' and Harry curses his own voice for breaking as he swallows and responds: 'No comment.'

(If he spoke, he knows what they'd ask. He's been wondering the same thing for seven years. Why him? Why twice? Why not Fred, or Lupin, or whoever they loved and lost? Sadly, he doesn't have the answer to that question.

He'd give anything to have the answer to that question.)

That afternoon, after they dismiss him too early for his deposition to have been what the wizarding world expected it to be, Harry disappears. The air around him is suddenly quiet, even just for a few hours. Outside the courtroom at the Ministry, Ron and Hermione leap out of their seats in the corridor the moment he comes out. 'Harry, it's not even noon – what happened?' Hermione asks. He never answers. Feels kind of guilty for dodging his two best friends, Kingsley, the crowds of reporters, but still makes it to the fire and Disapparates out of sight the moment he's through.

Deliberation, Determination or whatever the fuck it was. There's only one place he wants to be, right now.

He Apparates on a side street. One of the ones that border the main square, the monument to his parents. When Hermione and he came last Christmas, it had been dark and cold, lights twinkling with the wind, oddly homey and secretive at the same time. Harry hadn't noticed: the Muggle elementary school down Shepperd's Row, the town hall to his left, the shops on Merchants Road. Despite the overcast skies and the light, intermittent drizzle, there's life in Godric's Hollow, something that didn't even occur to him before.

That afternoon, he sits at the table of a Muggle pub for a while, with a pint that he doesn't drink and a pack of cigarettes. Later, he makes his way down to a quaint, little shop that sells record players and CDs, buys a Walkman and whatever the sales guy recommends. 'Have you been living under a rock?' he asks when Harry admits to never having heard of Noel Gallagher.

Later, Oasis plays in his ears while he walks around the village (Harry's not too sure about the band, finds them a bit moany). Once or twice, he walks by a few wizards dressed in Muggle clothes who recognise him. No one's ever too in his face, though, and later, a couple passes by: she's walking a pushchair up the road and his arm is wrapped around her waist. Her glance quickly flicks to Harry's forehead and she gives her husband a nudge. Harry's hand automatically wraps around his wand and he fucking hates himself for it. Hates what this war has done to him, hates that it seems to be a reflex that he can't let go of. Strangely, he kind of wants to stop them, sit down and ask about their kid's nursery and time at the playground, and whether he or she gets along with the Muggle children. He wants them to tell him what it would be like, to raise a child here.

His parents' cottage is the same it was at Christmas, except that the number of flowers and messages on the outside seems to have doubled. Cards and thank you notes, childish drawings piling up against the little fence.

Harry's not sure what possesses him to do it but this time, he opens the gate. Slowly, he walks up the stairs and imagines his mother handing him over to his dad while she levitated the pushchair up into their house. He imagines Tom Riddle storming in through their door (has actually seen Tom Riddle storming in through their door – it's not so much his imagination as a recollection, these days) – closes his eyes immediately, trying to shut out the memory. As Harry's hand rests on the handle, he's almost surprised to find it both unmarked, and unlocked.

He could go in, he guesses. At least take a look through the window. It would show their sitting room, maybe, a glimpse of their kitchen. Would anything still be in there? An empty container of his mum's favourite coffee beans, Muggle CDs in a player she'd have saved from her teenage years. Would he have introduced her to Oasis, had she lived? It's the kind of thing that he wishes he knew about them. What they liked: eating, drinking, doing. They were so, bloody young, he thinks.

Yet, he doesn't - go in, that is. There's a sense in his heart that if he did, he'd never come back out. It does not do well to dwell on dreams and forget to live, Dumbledore told him. Instead, Harry sits on the steps outside the house, almost guarding it as he sorts through what feels like his parents' mail. Most of it is addressed to him, though, most of it from children. Clumsy, glittery handwriting. 'Keep faith, Harry!' and 'United, we stand.'

There's a letter in the lot that makes him laugh. He knows he shouldn't laugh (not here, not where they died) but shit gets funny that way. It's the tone of it, the inelegant, yet oddly effective prose. Hermione would have been mortified if she'd been here, but Harry thinks it'd have made his mother laugh (in time, maybe).

Dear Harry,

You don't know me but I'm writing to apologise about all the nasty things I ever said about your Mum. She never knew it but I used to watch her that summer, about a year after you were born. You were barely walking and she'd manoeuvre your pushchair into town with a discreet flick of her wand like she was shoving her Outstanding Charms N.E.W.T. in everyone's face. She'd wear those insanely tight, Muggle jean shorts that make her bum look fabulous and if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I'd never have believed she was ever pregnant. Where did all that baby weight go? She'd always be eating these Cadbury chocolate bars, as well – you know, the Muggle ones? I kept cursing and calling her a bitch behind closed doors because I was jealous of her metabolism. I'm so sorry.

I hope that you are well, wherever you are. I'm sorry they died, that must not have been easy. We've cast protective charms on the house, you should be the only one who can get in, in case you ever want to. My husband and four children are all Muggles so I'm trying to protect them the best I can. It was scary when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named came, a couple weeks ago. People weren't sure why he did it, on Christmas Eve of all times, but I think he was after you. I went to visit my brother's grave the next day and I think you left flowers on your parents'. I didn't tell anyone. He must have been waiting for you – that's such a shit thing to do. Everyone should have a right to grieve in peace, even if they're Harry Potter. So, anyway, I'm really rooting for you. I hope he dies.

Oh, Merlin, now you must think I'm a horrible person. Again, I'm sorry.

Kind regards,

Alma Neuruppin

That afternoon, Harry reads the letter over a dozen times. It explains why the house is immaculate, kept intact by the respect the people of this village showed his parents. He wishes there was a way he could thank them. Isn't sure he'll ever want to get in but it's a small comfort to know that no one else can. There is everything in this letter. It's a slice of life, his mum's life. The Cadbury chocolates and incredible metabolism. Something that she carried over from her Muggle life, too.

He wonders what brought his parents here, to Godric's Hollow. Was it just convenience? The place where his dad grew up? Was it the quiet or the good Muggle primary schools? Did his mum care about that? Did she care about (maybe wanted to) be away from her family? Did Harry ever get to meet his grandparents before they died, even when he was just a baby?

Later, he lays lilies on their grave. He does so in silence, isn't exactly one to speak with dead people if he can avoid it. The only other times when he's ever talked to his parents were he was the edge of death himself. Instead, Harry sits cross-legged on the wet grounds, smokes a cigarette. Lights it up with his wand and wonders if this isn't the greatest irony of all. The questions that people have for him, Harry can't answer. The questions that he has for people, no one can answer.

At least, there's that letter - a tiny bit of something that gives him hope, like the month of June against Ginny's lips or that other letter, the one from his Mum that he found in Sirius' stuff last year. In the evening, before Harry makes it back to The Burrow, he raids the local Tesco and buys enough chocolate bars to make up for at least of third of Cadbury's 1998 profit margins.

As is to be expected, the moment he Apparates in Ottery Saint Catchpole, his return is not as peaceful as he would have liked. He's only just landed when noise starts rising all around him. George's voice shouts back at the house. 'He's here, he's here!' Harry opens his eyes and his best friend's brother is glaring at him, arms crossed over his chest, obviously in charge of the surveillance of The Burrow's Apparition spot. 'You're in for an earful,' he says, the moment his look lands on Harry. 'Mum's -'

Ron comes charging at them before George manages to finish his sentence. There is an anger that Harry's rarely seen burn in his best friend's eyes and his wand is aimed high while Hermione, Ginny and Mrs Weasley all run after him in various states of disarray. Hermione's hair is wild and her eyes red. 'Ron,' she shouts, but Ron's quicker, screams at Harry.

'Alarte Ascendare!'

'Protego!'

The force of Harry's shield charm sends Ron flying ten feet back into the grass but the moment he gets back up, Harry sees that his best mate is ready to have another go at him. Both Mrs Weasley and Hermione have to physically restrain Ron. 'I'm going to bloody kill you!' he shouts and, in the commotion that Harry's return seems to have generated, Harry figures that Disapparating off to the other side of the country without telling anybody probably wasn't the idea of the century. It's a good hour before Ron consents to stop making death threats and while she lets Harry into the house, Mrs Weasley throws him a very stern look as she tells him that Kingsley was about to send Aurors out looking for him. Harry thinks he might actually die of embarrassment. The words 'disappeared off for hours,' and: 'so bloody worried,' and: 'you could have died,' seem to fall from plenty of people's lips that night. He looks to his feet in contrition for a number of minutes until the whole tumult finally abates. Thinks he really needs to move out soon.

At the dinner table, it seems that Ginny's the only one who's not glaring at Harry with more than a mild degree of annoyance on her face. It's a nice reprieve until she says: 'I knew you'd turn up eventually,' and shrugs as she pours herself a cup of tea. 'It's just what you do. You run off and don't think of anyone else.'

It stings, almost physically (because, all things considered, it's probably true), takes the words out of his mouth – for a moment, he stays quiet, unsure what to say. 'Where were you, anyway?' Mrs Weasley glares at him, later, and he looks down to his feet, studies the rust-coloured tiles of The Burrow's kitchen.

'Godric's Hollow,' he admits, barely above a whisper. Suddenly, all stares are on him. At least, Mrs Weasley's tone has softened a bit when she finally speaks again.

'Oh, Harry, dear, you should have told us,' she tells him, pulls him into a warm hug.

That night, Ginny and he each have a shot of firewhiskey in her bedroom. It's the first night where he just falls asleep next to her without sex being involved. She says she's too mad at him to 'just give you what you boys want,' and he keeps his mouth shut about what he told Hermione, about actually wanting more than sex, about it all being complicated – about everything. It's been a week since they last saw each other so he still lies in her bed and holds her in the dark, feeling the touch of her skin against his. 'To your mum,' she toasts, in the dark. She takes a bite out of his chocolate bar, chews and shakes her head to herself a bit. 'Who inexplicably seemed to love these Muggle treats.'

Harry laughs, glance finding hers. The next morning, on the wireless, some Healer who pretends to be an expert in "people who have dealt with that kind of thing" and tells the world that: 'Well, if you want my two cents, I'd say Potter's not talking because he's traumatised. I mean, who can blame him?'

Ginny makes a dramatic entrance at the breakfast table, slumps down next to Harry and steals a sip from his tea. 'Ugh, more milk?' she breathes quickly before she hears the radio and barks back at it. 'Merlin, of course, he's bloody traumatised you fucking idiot! We all are.'

'Ginny, language,' is all that Mr Weasley says in response.

Harry, as per usual these days, doesn't know what to say, so he chooses to say nothing.

By the end of June, the Commission for the Investigation into the Second Wizarding War as mandated by the current Minister for Magic, Mr Kingsley Shaklebot, recommends, amongst other things, that the lot of them be given awards. Everyone who fought in the battle gets an Order of Merlin - Hermione, Ron and he get First Class. Through the entire ceremony, Harry feels sick to his stomach - 'I'm not sure what I ate,' he tells Hermione – she's smart and eloquent when she speaks at the podium in his place.

'You all have behaved to an unbelievable standard of bravery,' Kingsley tells them as he pins the award onto their robes and a few hundred people applaud. 'And for that, we are grateful.'

Ron keeps his and looks at it from time to time, his wand lit up in the middle of the night, the metal of the medal in its box reflecting a low glow past the large grin on his face. 'Wicked, isn't it?'

Harry exchanges a smile with his best friend, nods and pats him on the back. 'You deserve it,' he says. 'A hundred times over, mate.'

Hermione hopes to show it to her parents, one day. She hopes that it will help them understand, understand why she did what she did, why it mattered, even though they never seemed to truly get why it rested on their seventeen-year-old daughter's shoulders to save the wizarding world. 'I'll tell them he was kind of like Hitler, I think.' Harry nods, silent, still.

He throws his own medal in the river that runs through Ottery St Catchpole, one weekend afternoon, before either of them can stop him.

May 1998, to him, is a blur. A blur of firewhiskey and tears at The Burrow. Yet, he thinks Ginny was right about June. It's a good month, full of long evenings and hope.