Castles

by pebblysand

"To him, the spring of '98 is about sex and funerals." A canon-compliant, post-war tale.

3. out of bricks (off the wall)

CW: self-harm & PTSD

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iii. out of bricks (off the wall)

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When summer rolls in, that year, it fits in like a puzzle, pieces neatly organised, shaping angles and corners before slowly closing in on the middle. May was a blur; June felt like hope. July and August are a series of events that can only, possibly lead to one consequence. It's a shame that Harry doesn't see it coming, doesn't figure it all out before it's too late. He sits on the couch of his brand-new, London apartment and Hermione's weight shifts next to him, her feet flat against the floor.

'Ginny told me,' she says.

It occurs to him that he could speak words but he's also grown tired of explaining himself. Someone else ought to tell a story, for once, or show him where he went wrong, where good intentions blew the bricks off the walls. The summer of '98 is, overall, the one during which he starts drinking, seriously pissing people off and in which the straw finally (finally) breaks the camel's back.

It doesn't start badly. In fact, it's quite the opposite: his summer, that year, starts with Teddy. On one of the very last days of June, Andromeda decides to go back to work and Harry jumps at the opportunity to spend more time with him. They figure out a schedule that works for the both of them and he gets to watch his godson while his grandmother is busy saving the world in St Mungo's. Harry changes him, feeds him bottled milk and sits on the carpet of his room when he sleeps. The 12-week milestone is an odd one: Teddy starts laughing. Like: laugh out loud, belly laughs when his toys make sounds as he moves, or when Harry picks him up from his cot. He begins mimicking facial expressions as well as hair colours and maybe, that's just the thing that forces them all to smile more.

That summer, the Order of the Phoenix is dissolved. Its official purpose has become moot. As they were never properly joined in, Harry, Ron and Hermione attend the last meeting as 'esteemed guests.' Molly half-heartedly attempts to keep Ginny out due to her age, but even McGonagall seems to argue against it. Harry has too much to drink, becomes silent and maudlin, almost Sirius-like, thinking of the picture he once held in his hands of the people in their ranks, left decimated by the first war. The aftermath of the second is not much different.

That night, Hagrid praises him for saving the world, being brave, beating Voldemort at his own game - all the bizarrely heroic things that have made it onto the front pages. Since Harry refused to engage with the Commission last month, the version of events that he initially gave Kingsley is still the one that stands, bearing as little details about the events of the battle as is possible. The Horcruxes (none of which ever crawled under Harry's skin) have all been destroyed, the Hallows never existed and Harry dodged Voldemort's killing curse at the last minute. It's a tale he finds he likes, as Dedalus Diggle raises his glass ('Aye! Aye!') in response to Hagrid's words and Hestia Jones smiles, politely embarrassed next to him. Harry feels Hermione's gaze on them from the other side of the table, her voice suddenly coming back to haunt his thoughts. 'You didn't dodge the curse, Harry,' she said. He tries his hardest to push that truth away. 'You told everyone a half-baked lie about what happened in the forest and I'm not sure that will hold up in court. They've caught some of the Death Eaters. They saw you dead. They'll say what they saw.' Well, Hagrid could say what he saw, too, except -

'Didn' see it meself,' he says, then, quieter, and to Harry alone. Like something to be ashamed of. 'Couldn' look, Harry. Had me eyes closed.'

So, Hagrid saw nothing and Hermione lets out a sigh of relief. She nods at Harry like another crisis has just been averted. Like a warning, too.

By a unanimous vote of those in attendance, the DA later decides to remain in action. There is a world to rebuild and kids who want to keep their minds busy. They become the Conspicuous Army for the Support and Help of Children Of War with an acronym that is, indeed, intentional. Before she goes to Australia, Hermione helps them file in the paperwork with the Ministry, turning the group into an official charitable organisation. Luna's secretary (the minutes are interesting, to say the least), Neville's the Chair (a born leader) and Ginny, as she puts it, handles funds that seem to come from mysterious sources. Harry snorts and claims that he doesn't know what she's talking about but as treasurer, she later reports an anonymous donation of ten thousand Muggle pounds coming into the organisation's bank account the day after it goes live, and no one is fooled.

For Hogwarts, they round up an army of volunteers to help McGonagall and the professionals she's hired for rebuilding. Harry doesn't go, can't imagine facing the castle and the destruction again, so he writes another cheque to ease his guilt. It occurs to him that perhaps, he's becoming the kind of person who throws money at problems but then again, it feels like there isn't that much else he can do about it. Ginny doesn't go either – she says she's too busy with Quidditch – but she does attend every single one of the DA's weekly meetings, hosted by Hannah Abbott who got a summer job at the Leaky Cauldron. More often than not, she comes back to Harry an odd mix of happy and sad, but mostly flirty.

Their relationship stays the way it is, for the most part, that summer, and that makes him happy. They snog and shag, and don't talk about the war, or about what will happen when she goes back to Hogwarts in September. Perhaps, they don't need to. Sometimes, Harry gets mesmerised by the look on her face that feels like she just understands, understands how he doesn't have the words for most of it, how his life has spiralled into that of someone else, that of a bloke who the papers write about, a wizard called Harry Potter who became a hero when he vanquished the Dark Lord. Whoever that guy is, he's not Harry – just Harry.

"Just Harry" is a kid, that summer, a kid with a war in his head. A kid who develops avoidance strategies to get through the days, with laughter, wet, hot kisses and battles of limbs with the girl he loves. Once, Ginny pins him down on her bed and teases him, her lips and teeth steadily trailing over his skin. When he tries to move his fingers up her hips, she grabs his hands and leaves them joined above his head, tied up by the scrunchie that used to hold her hair. Ginger, golden strands cascade down around them and her mouth slowly (very slowly) moves down his chest. There is a moment, a moment like the ones he sometimes has when he closes his eyes at night (he tries not to sleep, still), where he thinks about the last time someone tied his hands up. They'd just uttered a forbidden word and the Snatchers were at their side, took them to Malfoy Manor, and –

'Hey,' Ginny's voice is soft, suddenly, her chocolate-brown eyes boring into his. It's late; the night is dark outside. Harry forces the thoughts out of his head – his smile is fake but they don't talk, so he respects the rules. 'I lost you there for a second,' Ginny observes. He rises up to kiss her.

'Not a chance,' he counters. Thinks the only way she'd ever lose him would be if she wanted to.

Her parents find out about them, that summer, and that's another thing that leaves him feeling a bit odd, like this is the end of an era and the start of another. Harry supposes that the constant state of alert that he was in for the past couple of months couldn't possibly last forever and sure enough, over the first week of July, the penny drops. Between Ginny and her mother, it ends in a shouting match right in the middle of the Weasleys' kitchen. 'You're spending a lot of time with Harry,' Mrs Weasley observes, diplomatically, except diplomacy is, frankly, neither woman's strong suit. The matter escalates into a loud row and Ginny decides to go all in, throws everything into her mother's face. Words like 'shagging,' and 'blowjob,' and 'of course, we're using protection Mum, do you think I'm stupid?' fall out of her mouth in a loud, shout-the-house-down, teenage, provocative tone; Harry wonders (not for the first time) if it is, indeed, possible to die from embarrassment. The girl he loves eventually runs out into the garden and Mrs Weasley chases after her. 'Where do you think you're going, young lady?'

But for the wards, their yells would echo through the entire neighbourhood.

'I'm going to Luna's! At least, she'll understand!'

Harry's not sure what there is to understand, to be honest, but he keeps his mouth shut throughout the afternoon, goes upstairs to pack his bags. His conversation with Mr Weasley, that evening, is much quieter.

'I'll move out tonight,' he says. Has yet to find a flat in London but supposes he can move into a Muggle hotel in the meantime.

'Harry -'

'I'm really sorry, Mr Weasley. I'll be -'

'Harry, for Merlin's sake, will you let me speak?'

Strangely enough, it seems that: 'It's what kids do,' Mr Weasley articulates. Molly and he are 'very angry and disappointed,' he explains. Harry looks down to his shoes, still wonders if he should just leave now, spare the both of them the embarrassment of having to go through the motions. 'Ginevra is not of age and regardless, I think we would have expected a bit more honesty from the both of you.' There is a glass of firewhiskey in his hand; he sets it down on the coffee table. 'But, we had seven children, you know? To be honest, I always felt that it was more likely that we'd have to deal with issues of underage sex, at some point, rather than have them all fight in a war -'

Against all odds, Harry does not get kicked out of the house, that evening. Instead, Mr Weasley actually asks him to stay and they chat about other things for a bit, wait for Ginny to tentatively tiptoe back into the house around midnight, desperately trying to go unnoticed. Mr Weasley sits them both down with a stern frown on his face and gives a very severe-sounding lecture about sex, boundaries, consent and honesty. The "kids" remain silent for the most part; Harry's so uncomfortable that he wishes he could disappear into a hole but even that isn't as bad as he imagined it would be. The Weasleys seem to love him, still, surprisingly. 'Obviously, Ginny,' Mr Weasley says, towards the end of his speech, looking directly at his daughter. 'We would have preferred for all of this to happen once you were of age and your mother has explicitly asked me to request that you refrain from –'

Before he even finishes his sentence, Ginny opens her mouth to protest.

'But,' Mr Weasley interrupts, putting his hand up. 'I personally remember what it is like to be young and infatuated, let's say, so I suppose that as long as you promise to be safe and respect each other – both of you – I could turn a blind eye on the things that I don't see…'

They promise. Swear up and down, and back and forth, cross my heart, promise, thanks Mr Weasley, goodnight, Mr Weasley.

Of course, Ginny's brothers are a different matter. To tell the truth, it's the first thing that truly annoys Harry, that summer. He gets various pointed glares and thinly veiled threats for days after the incident which wouldn't be as much of an issue, to be honest, if Ron wasn't also part of their gang. Harry supposes that he's learnt to deal with people's open displays of active dislike quite well, by now, but experiencing it coming from his best mate is an entirely more frustrating experience. Every time the topic is raised between them, Ron lets out outraged exclamations like: 'she's my sister!' and, 'I knew you'd gotten back together but, ew, everything she said, just thinking about it, it's disgusting!'

It is Friday when Harry just throws the towel in, rolls his eyes and blurts out: 'Don't bloody think about it, then!' When Ron doesn't respond right away, eyes open wide in shock, Harry takes advantage of the silence to drive his point home. 'Look, I don't know why she did that, okay?' he just says, honest, arms crossed over his chest. 'Do you think I wanted her to shout out intricate details about our sex life in the middle of everything? I didn't, but I do love her,' he adds, shrugs. 'So, that's that, really.'

And for a bit after that, Ron just stares. Harry counts the seconds, tries to find something to focus his gaze on. When Ron does open his mouth, he thinks that he's in for another string of invasive questions about the fact that he's just accidentally admitted to being in love with his sister but instead, Ron plops himself down onto his bed and picks up on the one thing that Harry didn't think of when he spoke. 'Reckon she just wanted attention,' he says. Harry gives him a confused look. 'Ginny, I mean. Reckon she just wanted attention. You know, Mum and Dad, usually, they'd have been all over this the moment we came back from Hogwarts,' he adds, catches Harry's gaze. 'It's not like you were being very discreet about it, even I had an inkling. But it took them months to bring it up and I reckon maybe that's why Gin said all these things. Maybe, she just wanted Mum to get angry, to care, like things had gone back to normal.'

Normal is an interesting concept, Harry thinks. Reckons there isn't much else to say to that, so again (again, again) he says nothing.

Overall, Ginny is the only person who doesn't seem to be annoyed with him, that summer. Her family is grappling with their relationship, Hermione keeps looking at him like he's about to crash straight into a wall and the rest of the wizarding community frankly isn't particularly happy with the Chosen One's desire not to explain himself in front of their Commission. Alternatively, they call him: traumatised, a hero, a madman, an arrogant prick, a saviour – it's all a bit schizophrenic. The good thing about it is that it refocuses the attention onto him, meaning that Ron and Hermione get to prepare their trip to Australia relatively unbothered. The annoying thing is: for Harry, the entire wizarding world is still taped off as a no-go zone.

Kingsley shows up at The Burrow once or twice at the start of July, mostly to chat with Ron and Hermione about their upcoming trip. On top of going to fetch her parents, the Ministry is hoping that they will agree to meet with the local government in Australia, be the poster people for a healing, post-war Britain. 'There's no sugar-coating this, we're about a billion Galleons into debt,' he explains, one afternoon. Harry can't even intellectually comprehend how much money that is. 'The war's tanked our economy, destroyed our infrastructure and the Muggle PM won't lend us a Knut, even though we're part of his own country,' he sighs. 'Without international loans, we'll go bankrupt before the end of the year.'

Hermione seems to consider the request but doesn't accept right away. She claims that she needs time to think, that she really intended this trip to be about herself and her parents, isn't sure how she can help. To Harry, it looks like she's just buying time. He does the same thing every time Kingsley asks him about the Aurors, so he knows what it looks like.

Her hesitation isn't like his, though. It's not born out of doubt. 'Of course, I'll do it,' she tells him in confidence. 'It's the right thing to do. I've just asked for something else in return.'

Harry soon learns that, using their trip to Australia as a bargaining chip, Hermione's asked Kingsley to make use of his sizable ministerial influence to convince McGonagall to budge on Hogwarts boarding rules. Seemingly unrelated, the two topics have found an odd connection in the Ministry's need for Hermione's help with trans-national matters, and her own desire to commute back and forth between London and Scotland next year, whenever she pleases. 'We're adults, now,' she argues, 'and there's no reason - academically or otherwise - that seventh-year students be forced to remain in the castle outside of classroom hours.' Harry reckons that she's finally accepted the idea that Ron and he will not be heading back to Hogwarts, so he supposes that she needs to find another solution to keep seeing her "boyfriend."

(They're together, Harry knows. He's genuinely happy for them but the concept is still a bit odd.)

Over the last few weeks, Harry's scoffed and laughed every time she's brought the idea of a Hogwarts compromise up. He's convinced that it will never work, can't imagine Minerva McGonagall bending rules on, well, anything. This is why initially, it's not at all surprising when Kingsley comes back with bad news: 'Minerva still thinks you ought to board during the week. Both for academic purposes and for the cohesion of the student body. I don't think she'll budge on that,' he says. Hermione lets out a heavy sigh, but then he holds his hand up and adds: 'I did get you weekends, though.'

Harry's mouth drops before anybody else can respond. 'What?'

A sweet, pink-tinted film materialises before his eyes: Ginny and he moving in together in an apartment in London, spending their days going to museums and cuddling every weekend, going to the Muggle cinema, eating in restaurants, drinking in pubs, living their lives on a wonderful, fluffy cloud of bliss. The film bears the colour of love, smells of treacle tart, broomstick handle and Ginny's flowery shampoo. For a second, he almost forgets that Ginny will have Quidditch, too. Shit, he thinks. Quidditch. Perhaps they could work it out, compromise on every other weekend? It would still be better than not seeing her for four long, winter months.

Hermione smirks. 'Well, I see you're a lot less sceptical about the whole thing now, Harry.'

After dinner, Kingsley pulls him aside. They step out into the garden; it's the only place where you can have privacy in the house. 'You're going to have to give a press interview at some point, Harry,' the Minister simply tells him. 'You know that, right?'

Silent, Harry shrugs. Ever since his no-comment interview, faced with his lack of response to their enquiries, the press have gradually been making wilder and wilder assumptions about his mental state. He hasn't been seen in any formal or public capacity since the award ceremony (and even then, Hermione's the one who spoke) so the Daily Prophet has decided that this is because, deeply traumatised and psychologically unstable, The Boy Who Lived has been living like a recluse, refusing to get out of his bedroom at The Burrow, surviving on beans on toast for the last two months. They say that his hair is long and that he hasn't shaved in months and has (overall) completely lost his mind. This is only partially true: while Harry will admit to voluntarily leaving the stubble at his cheeks grow for a few days, which he imagines may be the basis for these rumours, it's only because Ginny calls it "gruff and sexy." In her mouth, those words just do weird things to his stomach.

'Oh, don't shoot the messenger, Harry. Remus would have told you the same thing,' Kingsley argues, pauses in his speech. Harry looks away, at a gnome hanging out in the tall grass at the other end of the property line. He briefly wonders if it's the same gnome he stared at, that time Scrimgeour came around. 'You can't just stay here and run away from the world forever, you know?'

Now that Lupin is being brought into this, it's only really a half-joke when he responds, laughs: 'Why not? I'm The Boy Who Lived, I thought I could do anything.'

Around mid-July, Harry finally (finally) finds a flat. That, at least, is another piece of good news. Objectively, it's perhaps not the best he's viewed: it's small and has paint that's a bit cracked at the ceiling but after a good three weeks spent illegally Apparating all over the London in the hopes of finding someone (anyone) who will let him sign a lease without being eighteen, having a job or anyone to co-sign, he'll take what he can get.

The place is in Muggle London, which has the added advantage of knowing that the press won't come here looking for him. More importantly, despite its faults: Harry likes it. It's a studio with a mezzanine acting as a separate bedroom, top floor of an old Georgian house, a fifteen-minute walk from Grimmauld Place. It's bright, south-facing, with high, tall windows that make it feel like the city is at his feet, open, just waiting to be explored. The ground floor apartment is rented out to a fashion student in her third year at uni; she's got chocolate-brown skin and a loud, distinctive laugh that resonates up the walls. She's put potted heathers out on her windowsill, nods and smiles at Harry every time she sees him.

The other occupants on the middle floor are a couple, wife or girlfriend looking about sixteen months pregnant – Harry supposes that they'll move out soon for something bigger than their one-bedroom. When he meets them, Ginny, Hermione, Ron and he are in the midst of dragging his stuff up the stairs after a somewhat eventful trip to a blue and yellow Muggle furniture shop that was clearly designed by the same people who created the maze of the TriWizard tournament, and Harry introduces everybody but himself. 'My best mates, Hermione and Ron,' he says, the both of them shaking the couple's hand. 'And -' he looks at Ron, quick, then thinks: oh, what the hell. 'My girlfriend, Ginny.'

She tenses. Thankfully, Ron says nothing.

The lady is kind when she asks: 'And, you are, sorry?'

He smiles, almost giggles to himself, realises that it's been years since he's met anyone who hasn't read his name spelt out in the scar on his forehead. 'Oh, I'm Harry. Sorry.'

Later that evening, Ginny stays over after the others have left, sits on his couch with her feet propped up on an empty cardboard box. When Harry goes to make tea, he plugs the kettle in and flicks the switch. She laughs. He could listen to her laugh all day.

'Are you trying to live like a Muggle, Potter?' she chuckles.

He laughs in return but frankly wonders if that would be so bad.

That summer, London becomes an endless source of entertainment for the both of them. She hangs out at his whenever he's not at Andromeda's watching Teddy and even Mrs Weasley seems to gush over the fact that Harry sometimes wears suits when he takes her daughter out on proper dates. Ron and Hermione finally grab their Portkey to Australia over the third week of July and Harry begins his alone time by touring the city, enjoying the good weather whenever he can. He wears jeans and t-shirts, survives on burgers and chips, and finds that in London, there are pubs and restaurants everywhere, and museums, and plays, and record shops, and gigs, and everything a human could possibly want. He loves being there.

When on his own, he walks miles and miles around the city, spends hours strolling through Hyde Park, the markets in Camden Town, the government buildings in Westminster, Soho. When Ginny's there, they visit Muggle landmarks. The British Museum, the new Aquarium on the quays, St Paul's, the Tower of London. He kisses her. Everywhere. On the couch in his new flat, in the middle Trafalgar Square, in the restaurants where they stop on the way. He supposes that yes, they should be more careful. That yes, they could run into Death Eaters at any given time, but freedom is a treat that tastes sweet, now impossible to relinquish.

It is startling how easy life is when he's with her. They sit at the table of a café one afternoon, sharing a scone, and he remembers the painful awkwardness of his first date with Cho, the tears and the grief. Ginny makes him laugh, giggles and throws a few crumbs at his face when she realises he's not listening to her. It is something of the few weeks they had in Hogwarts during his sixth year, except that their world now extends well beyond castle grounds.

On his birthday, they Apparate to the middle of nowhere and go for a fly, have a picnic dinner on the banks of a lake. 'I want this forever,' she says. 'Promise me. You, me – nothing else.'

He kisses her with his response, lets his fingers trail through her silky hair. Ginny's smile is large and so is his, and Harry thinks that maybe this is what the summer of '98 is about: smiles and promises.

On her birthday, he teaches her to ride a bike. Not something the Dursleys taught him (obviously), but his primary school had a mandatory road safety course so, at least, that's one Muggle skill Harry did pick up in his early years. Ginny gives a couple of little yelps, laughs as he struggles to run next to her, hanging on to the saddle. 'You're terribly out of shape, Potter,' she giggles (skin and bones, he still is) and tries to charm the bike into compliance because she can do magic, now, she keeps reminding him, she's seventeen. By the end of the afternoon, they both end up with scraped knees as well as stomachs that hurt from laughing too much and overall, it is quite a success. Ginny soon figures that the faster she goes, the more stable she is, so she decides to deal with the problem by speeding downhill like a madwoman without using the breaks, barely avoids collision with a fifty-something Muggle man who happens to be there, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

'Wow, wow, young lady, careful there,' the man laughs as Ginny brakes with the soles of her shoes and narrowly avoids him. She goes a bit red in the cheeks, quickly apologises, explains that she's learning. The man smiles and adds: 'Oh, at your age? That's very brave of you.'

'I wanted to tell him you'd fought in a war,' Harry admits, later. They're sitting on the grass on Primrose Hill with a bottle of wine and a bag of curry chips. Ginny licks a bit of sauce off her fingers before she looks up – Harry's not sure that she knows how mesmerising that is to him.

'Well, I'm glad you didn't,' she says. 'I don't want to think about the war ever again, to be honest.'

You can't help thinking about it in your sleep, though, he almost says (wants to say), but doesn't. Often, when he's next to her, she wakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and although he's not sure, although he's never asked her before, he sometimes wonders if she still dreams of Tom Riddle the way he does. Every night, the darkest wizard of all time is in Harry's head, letting him die alone in a forest. Every morning, he wakes up and pretends that it wasn't real.

'Just kiss me, Harry,' Ginny says, then, and he does. In the end, there is always a physical sense of intimacy in her presence that seems to rob him of his words.

That Thursday, when Andromeda comes home from work, she asks him for a favour. 'I have a guest coming in on Saturday,' she says, pours herself a glass of wine. It leaves a slight tint at the corner of her lips. 'Do you mind watching Teddy?'

Harry smiles, shakes his head. Of course, he doesn't mind watching Teddy. Teddy is the most perfect thing to have ever walked this Earth, as far as his godfather is concerned, and this even though the little one has yet to actually walk. He's a light shone through the mountains of pain and grief that have stalked them these last few months. Even on the rare occasions that he does cry, Harry feels like holding him, loving him, is the one and only thing he was born to do. So, no, he doesn't mind, even offers Andromeda to take him to London for the weekend except -

'No.' Her response is oddly quick. 'I'd rather you stay here. Just in case -' she starts, stops, taps her nails against the stem of her glass. 'In case something goes wrong.'

Her sister is the guest in question, she later admits. 'I'm not sure what she wants,' Andromeda adds, 'but if I try to kill her, I'll need you to stop me.'

Harry laughs, warns that he may not be the right man for the job. 'I once asked her son if she always had that look like she'd just smelled dung or if it was only caused by his presence.'

It is probably an actual minute before Andromeda stops laughing, after that. It's something that Harry's noticed about her: hatred for their respective families seems to have left them with a similar sense of humour. It always seems to leave the people around them puzzled, that they've seen so much death and can still laugh, the both of them.

'Well, you're the only one I have, Harry, so you'll have to do.'

Thank Merlin that Hermione is still in Australia, Harry thinks, or else she'd definitely have pointed out what a bad idea this was from the start.

The next day, Harry owls Kingsley for information about the Malfoys. He's not quite sure what he's after but it is bizarre how little he's thought about them, to tell the truth, since the war ended. There's just been about a million things on his mind and somehow, this ended up at the very (very) bottom of the priority list. Through the Minister's quick response, Harry finds out that Draco and Lucius were arrested and taken straight into Azkaban pending their court dates, being both branded with the Dark Mark. Narcissa is under house arrest, a 24/7 Auror surveillance detail monitoring her every move. The authorisation to visit her sister was one granted by Kingsley himself.

From his jail cell, Lucius has apparently been making a lot of noise, arguing that the family was manipulated into having their house become Voldemort's headquarters. Draco's been quieter, from what Harry understands, though Andromeda says that he's been writing to her somewhat regularly, and that he's decided to turn down his father's offer for joint representation. Selected a different set of lawyers to defend himself, in an attempt to put some distance with his parents. Narcissa's written to Harry a number of times (that he knows), except he's thrown all of her correspondence in the bin without opening it, so he doesn't know what she was after. He gets an inkling that they were littered with yet another round of empty excuses.

'What time is she coming?' he asks, that Saturday. He and Andromeda are having tea in her kitchen while the baby sleeps upstairs. It's the calm before the storm.

'I'd say 3:15.' Harry watches as she fiddles with a paper towel, folding it and unfolding it between her fingers. 'I said three, so she'll be fashionably late.'

She is. When they hear her knock on the door, Harry escapes upstairs and for an hour or so, he thinks he might just get away with hiding out, making no noise and pretending that he doesn't exist. With Teddy, he plays pick-a-boo in Tonks' old room and watches as her baby animatedly points at the different Muggle posters on the walls, smiles as Harry reads out the writings on them. They're all from the Muggle films that Ted and she used to enjoy. Andromeda once told Harry that they used to go to the cinema together at least once a month, eat popcorn and vigorously dissect the pictures' merits until late into the night. The last one they'd seen as a family before Ted had to go into hiding was Men in Black which she says made Tonks laugh to tears.

That afternoon, though, things do not go as planned. Around four, Teddy gets hungry. Harry tries to distract him for as long as he can, knowing that Narcissa's still downstairs with her sister but the idea of a child being starved, albeit for a few minutes, is still unbearable enough to him that his resolve really doesn't hold long. Harry quickly picks the little one up, trekking to the kitchen for a bottle.

Andromeda's house is modern, open-plan with bare, soft, black and white, Scandinavian aesthetics. It is everything that Harry imagines the Black house wasn't: warm, spacious and airy. The moment he makes it to the bottom of the stairs, he has a direct, unobstructed view into the open kitchen and dining room area, spots Teddy's grandmother right away, sitting on a chair at the end of a long, glass table, an untouched mug of tea in front of her. The tension is palpable; Narcissa sits at her side, pale, tired, hair pulled back in a low, conservative bun. She looks like she's aged about ten years (but still looks like it smells of dung, Harry thinks). 'Annie,' she begs. 'Please, listen to me, I need -'

But, the moment he walks in with Teddy in his arms, Narcissa stops talking. Straightens up. Stares, eyes wide and focused. Doesn't say anything. Andromeda throws him a curious look; he supposes she hadn't told her sister that Potter was upstairs.

'He's fine,' Harry shrugs in response, nodding at Teddy in his arms. 'Just hungry.'

Wordlessly, he takes Andromeda's nod and tense smile as an invitation to step into the kitchen, sets out to work on Teddy's meal. With his back to the table where the sisters are, Harry turns, balances Teddy at his hip and makes his way to the other side of Andromeda's fancy, white marble kitchen island, starts pulling Teddy's formula out of the top cabinet. Dosing powder for the bottle while facing the tiled wall, Harry can feel Narcissa Malfoy's stare digging holes into his back but there is an odd sense of pride and determination in him that doesn't want to give her the satisfaction of showing his annoyance. Out of the four of them, Teddy is the only one who really dares make a sound. He's not crying, per se, just a bit moany and fussy, and: 'Yeah, it's coming, tiger,' Harry whispers in his ear.

With the help of his wand and a few familiar tricks, Harry fills the bottle with water and mixes it into milk, his other arm safely supporting his godson. The little one's learnt to support his head on his own about a week ago and that simple, silly milestone has oddly filled both Harry and Andromeda with the purest sense of pride. The first time he did it, 'I can't wait to teach him how to fly,' Harry confessed and listened to her laugh, tiny wrinkles at the corner of her eyes.

'Oh, Dora used to love Quidditch,' she said.

'He's really cute, Annie,' Narcissa finally settles, now, breaking the silence, and Harry bites back a sarcastic smile and a: oh, sorry, you meant Teddy? Something tells him that Narcissa might not appreciate his particular sense of humour, even though her sister does. 'How old is he, now?'

They chitchat politely. 'Four months,' Andromeda says and Harry can't help but count in his head. Four months since Teddy was born means three months since their worlds fell apart. His godson will have no memory of his parents, no memory of the sound of their voices, of Tonks' hopeless clumsiness and of the kindness in Remus' smile whenever someone mentioned James. Narcissa speaks again, mentions something about remembering Draco at that age, something about how this is the nice part, isn't it? 'Afterwards, they start teething, the poor things,' she adds and as she talks, Harry almost (almost) physically feels his heart breaking.

There is a pause in her speech and neither Harry nor Andromeda choose to fill it. Instead, he stops shaking the bottle and casts a quick warming charm on it. (Teddy likes his milk on the warmer side, they've noticed.)

He's about to leave the room again and go feed him upstairs when: 'Can I hold him?' Narcissa asks.

Harry looks up. She's not asking him, he realises, she's asking her sister. Andromeda opens her mouth, about to respond - Harry knows he shouldn't say anything, knows that he shouldn't get involved, is just here to make Teddy's food and leave but –

'Not in a million years,' he just says. He'd like to say that he said that without thinking but, to be honest, he really (really) means it.

An icy gush of wind seems to blow through the room and suddenly, everything stops. Harry notices that instinctively, his grip around Teddy has grown stronger, both his hands secured around him and, 'I won't hurt him, you know?' Narcissa smiles, speaks at him rather than to him, like he's a silly, little, capricious teenager, like I've-held-kids-before-and-I-won't-drop-him, like that even begins to cover the problem. In a blink, Harry sees: Teddy's grandparents held and tortured for information about him. Ted Tonks, murdered by Snatchers for being Muggle-born. Lupin and Tonks, Teddy's parents, and their lifeless bodies laid down on the cold, stone floors of the Great Hall. With a loud clink, he sets Teddy's bottle down on Andromeda's bare, marble worktop.

'You killed his parents.'

'Well, I didn't -'

'Okay, you let your sister torture my best friend inside your bloody house.' The words come out in a hiss, only because Harry doesn't want to scare Teddy with a shouting match. At his neck, he feels blood pumping under his jaw, like he's going to have to close his eyes on her face or else he will have to scream. Something seems to be pulling his insides out and he secures a hand to the back of the little one's head, as though attempting to shield him from his own words. 'Carved the word "mudblood" into her fucking arm. That specific enough for you?'

With his eyes closed, Harry holds Teddy tighter than he's ever held him and, in his head, on the floor, Hermione lies dead in front of him. His breath catches in his throat; in a rush, he opens his eyes again to Narcissa's light, cold smirk. She sets her jaw. 'You know, I read the papers, Potter. Interesting tale you told them, isn't it?' she breathes. 'Perhaps you should remember that I was in the forest, too, before you prevent me from holding my own niece's son. Before Draco's trial, as well. I do suppose you'd prefer I keep your secrets safe, wouldn't you?'

And just like that, it becomes clear to Harry what her visit was about. The letters he threw in the bin, Andromeda's face (Annie, please listen to me, I need -) and the trials this winter. Narcissa's out to blackmail him, isn't she? Her silence about the things that he didn't tell the Commission, against his testimony. For the life of him, Harry doesn't know what she was expecting when she cooked that plan up inside her brain but he's a kid with a war in his head, that summer, so instead of giving in, he just flips. That's how he explains it to Ron and Hermione later, anyway. 'I don't know,' he says. 'I just flipped. In less than a second, I had Teddy in one arm and my wand trained at her face in the other.'

The room goes quiet, then. Even Teddy stops babbling. He must feel it, Harry thinks, nestled against him: the drumming of his heartbeat, the adrenaline in his veins, the way his fingers wrap around his wand and do not shake. Harry (just Harry) plays pick-a-boo in his room and listens to his giggles like music in the night. Harry Potter tortured Amycus Carrow because he'd spat in Minerva McGonagall's face and thinks he might just murder his great-aunt. Bizarrely, they now seem to be the same person.

'If you touch him, I'll kill you,' he says, something dead and ruthless in the way that his look falls upon hers. 'And, I've killed before. Perhaps, you should remember that.'

'I meant it,' he tells Ron, one night, weeks later. Even without a wand, Harry knows, he'd have murdered her with his bare hands if he had to. 'I said that with Teddy in my arms, and I still meant it.' Violence, wars, are the last thing Harry would want his godson to be aware of and yet –

'Mum killed Bellatrix,' Ron just states in response. Their looks cross and Harry supposes that there is nothing to say to that, so he says nothing.

Predictably, Andromeda throws both of them out of the house, that afternoon. Disarms Harry with a simple flick of her wand and throws a glass of water in Narcissa's face. Harry's too stunned to do anything when she grabs Teddy from his arms and: 'That's enough, both of you,' she says. 'You go back to where you came from,' she glares at her sister and: 'Harry, for Merlin's sake, go get some fucking air.' After she's thrown him out onto the street and he's almost broken his foot by shooting into a wall, he realises that he'd never (ever) heard Andromeda swear before.

Harry spends the next two days apologising to her. Pretty soon comes to the conclusion that he's fucked up, badly, and sends letters, Patronuses - flowers, even – to Teddy's grandmother's house. 'Please, don't take Teddy away,' are the first words out of his mouth when she finally (finally) consents to see him again that Monday evening when she gets home from work. Please, please, please, please, please, plea-

'Harry, I would never,' she tells him. Her lips are tinted with wine again; she swallows heavily and smiles a sad smile, the kind of smile people have when they talk to him about his parents. She issues a warning. 'I don't know what she knows,' she says, waves him off when he opens his mouth to explain, like she doesn't want to know, either. 'But, when I was sixteen, she swore she'd never tell our parents about Ted and me, and yet -' she trails off with a slight slump of her shoulders. 'I think you need to get that battleground out of your head, Harry.'

And people say that to him, that summer, sometimes subtly and sometimes not, but always like they don't know how hard it is. How he doesn't sleep at night, doesn't know how to close his eyes and stop seeing his own blood spilling onto the floor, doesn't know how to forget Tom Riddle's face every time he finds himself lying on the grass. Last month, Hermione saw a love-bite that he left at Ginny's neck and: 'You're playing with fire, Harry,' she said. He looked at her and shook his head.

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

To tell the truth, he both did and didn't, that day, and so when Andromeda lets him back into her house after he flips at Narcissa, Harry holds Teddy near, first, then holds Ginny second, after he gets home, shags her but lets confessions of love die before they reach his lips. Opens a new bottle of firewhiskey and lights a cigarette instead, because sex and alcohol are frankly the only two ways he's found to achieve what his godson's grandmother's asked: to get the battleground out of his head.

That week, Ron and Hermione finally grab their Portkey home to England. Harry considers (considers) telling them what happened with Narcissa, then, but he doesn't. The words get stuck at the back of his throat and he thinks: what for? It would just add to whatever the hell happened in Australia because the good news is that they did secure Kingsley's loan ('The Ministry is very grateful,' he tells them) but Hermione's parents never make it home with her.

The issue isn't their memories, Harry's told. They've been restored to their full extent and the Grangers have hugged their daughter tightly, said that they loved her, said that they understood, even welcomed Ron with open arms and yet, they still decided to stay in Melbourne. Hermione gets back to London silent and contemplative and they are fine, they say - 'Absolutely fine, darling,' and yet, they don't come home. Perhaps, that's the worst part.

Hermione says: 'I get it.' She insists on it over a pint at the pub, one evening. Vaguely watches the Muggles at the table next to them – they're all standing outside, in the warmth of the summer night and Ron's arm hangs loosely at her waist, supportive and protective. 'Their life is there, now,' she adds, words slurring a bit. Her tone tells Harry that she doesn't "get it," not at all. 'I'm not really connected to their world, anymore, anyway,' she shrugs. 'I'll see them at Christmas.' It's all very rational, very Hermione. 'They even have mobile telephones, now,' she adds, quickly glances at Harry. 'Did you know that?'

No, he shrugs. He didn't.

And so, at the end of August, Hermione does what she does best: she keeps her mind busy. Attends DA meetings and fundraising events for C.A.S.H.C.O.W., spends her days nagging Ron about revision before his Auror training starts and fusses over Harry to try and force him to do something. 'Anything,' she even argues, one morning. He's meeting the both of them for breakfast at Grimmauld Place, before Ron and she head into Diagon Alley to pick up her school things.

'Does Master Harry want another scone?' Kreacher asks, music to Harry's ears.

'Just do something,' Hermione ploughs on. 'Honestly, Harry, go and sell goodies at Borgin and Burkes for all I care.'

'Goodies?'

'You know what I mean. You need something to look forward to. A reason to get out of bed in the morning.'

And, because Ron's in the shower, Harry deems it safe to give her a mock wink and casually point out: 'I already have a reason to get out of bed in the morning, Hermione.'

'Yeah? Spending your days shagging Ginny and playing tourist around town? What else have you been doing while we were gone, eh?'

'Hey –'

Ron suddenly reappears, running down the stairs to meet them and for a moment, Harry thinks that (thankfully) this might mean the end of the conversation. That is until, however, he (politely, may he add) hands a couple Galleons over to Ron and asks him to pick up an owl for him.

To be honest, as much as it pains Harry to admit, he's kind of recently come to the unavoidable conclusion that he needs to "replace" Hedwig. Or, if not "replace," at least, well, fill her vacancy, so to speak. He didn't want to, at first, but not having an owl of his own just makes wizarding communication a real nightmare, especially because he can't just walk up to the post office in Diagon Alley whenever he needs to, for fear of being attacked by a crowd of reporters. So far, he's managed alright by borrowing Pig from Ron when absolutely necessary, but with Ginny going back to Hogwarts in a couple of weeks, Harry figures that it just isn't a viable solution, anymore.

Again, he can't go into Diagon Alley, so it seems logical that Ron and Hermione could pick one up for him.

Ron shrugs, reaches for Harry's money on the table. 'Yeah, sure,' he starts. 'What kind do you -'

But then, Hermione barks.

By which Harry means: she speaks but there's really no other way to describe her tone. She just turns around, lays her coffee mug down on the kitchen counter ('Oh, thank you, Kreacher,') and barks at Harry, pulling an elastic off her wrist and tying her hair up at the same time. 'Harry James Potter, we are not picking up an owl for you! It's a pet, not a commodity! So, you go to Diagon Alley, and you face the bloody world, face your own grief over losing Hedwig and choose your own bloody pet! I cannot believe this,' she finally breathes. 'You can't just live like this, Harry!'

And: 'Like what?' he shouts back. His tea mug moves as he slams a palm against the table and Ron jumps, steps closer to Hermione. 'Like fucking what?'

For a moment, the room is silent around them. Harry looks at Ron, then looks at her, the three of them, and sighs. Lets his forehead fall against the back of his hand in front of him. Fuck, he thinks. Fuck.

'Sorry,' he says, quick. That's new as well, he imagines, how fast he gets angry and how fast he apologises. Runs a hand across his face, straightens his glasses up. 'I'm sorry,' he sighs, again. 'I haven't slept.'

If he could just sleep, he thinks. If he could just –

Ron lays a hand on his shoulder; Harry closes his eyes. 'We're just trying to help, mate.'

But then, Hermione brushes past the both of them. 'Ron,' she says. 'Come on. We've got to go.'

She refuses to speak to Harry, after that. Ron says that she needs time, 'with her parents and everything,' but there's a look on her face every time they cross paths like she doesn't know what to say, anymore, or what to do to help. Harry isn't quite sure what to do or say either, to be honest, so outside of watching Teddy, he spends most of the last two weeks of August with Ginny. Enjoys her presence while he can, before the summer ends and they have to part again, if only during the week. They spend their mornings lazing about in bed and their nights in pubs with live music; she drags him onto the dancefloor with gentle teases about his two left feet, does all the things that they wished they could do at Bill and Fleur's wedding. There is a way in which she fits in his arms, fits in his life, like it could never be anyone else. She's the one, he's pretty sure, and he wants her to be everything. Like a new identity, like those couples who only exist with one another. He doesn't want people to think of Harry Potter, anymore. Just of Harry and Ginny.

One night, he confesses: 'I really like who I am when I'm with you,' he tells her. You and me forever, he thinks. She's snuggled in at his side on the couch in his flat and Harry feels like they're the truest words that have ever come out of his mouth. She smiles.

'Well,' she says. 'I like who you are when you're with me, too.'

It's not I love you, he thinks, but he sees it as pretty damn close.

A few days later, though, unfortunately, another penny drops. Not one like when her parents found out about them, no, a much more serious one, in hindsight, a much more destructive one. Around nine, that morning, Harry is awoken by the consistent tap of a bird's beak against his window. He's slept about two hours and when he finally rolls his eyes, gives in and slowly makes his way down the ladder to his mezzanine, he notices that the owl is a barred one, a Ministry breed, and frowns. At its paw is a simple, folded note, rather than a letter. It reads:

Floo into my office directly, I've set up a secure connection. The Prophet is already in the Atrium. Do not talk to anyone.

Kingsley.

Immediately, Harry looks out the window. The first thing that occurs to him is: this is it. Someone's ratted him out, the press's figured out where he lives.

They haven't, though. His street is quiet, eerily so, like it should be. On Sunday mornings, he's found that people tend to sleep in.

He concludes that whatever it is, it mustn't be that serious. The owl flies away and for a moment, Harry actually briefly considers going back to bed. That is until, in a rapid succession, his fireplace bursts alive and Ron tumbles out into his apartment, followed closely by Hermione. He looks horrified. She looks furious. Strolls the three steps that separate her from Harry and starts hitting him in the face with the Sunday edition of the Daily Prophet. The words that come out of her mouth with each smack as Ron tries to pull her away tell him everything that he needs to know.

'Why. Did. You. Pick. A. Fight. With. Narcissa. Malfoy?'

Ah, fuck, Harry just thinks.

So, on Sunday, the 23rd of August 1998, Harry spends the day at the Ministry instead of blissfully wasting it away snogging Ginny in his apartment. Sits in Kingsley's office while important officials use words like 'comms,' and 'optics,' and 'damage control.' Narcissa's done things well; he's got to give it to her. She didn't just give the Prophet her version of events (which, admittedly, would have been bad enough), she did so with ridiculous, thinly veiled accusations that add even more flavour to her tales.

For example: she doesn't say that Harry walked to his own death. She says: 'Well, he did pass us in the forest but I'm not sure where he was going when he got caught. I suppose he could have been running away, for all I know.' The curse did hit him, that much is certain. She admits that he didn't defend himself but adds: 'You'd have to be pretty insane to do that, wouldn't you? I mean, even if he wasn't running, was he trying to kill himself? Would you want someone with these, er, issues to have a prominent role in our world?'

At length, she talks about how he threatened her. 'In my own sister's kitchen, mind you. Oh, yes, I do worry about Teddy's safety, I really do.' She claims that if the Ministry wants to treat all those who fought in the war fairly, conducting equitable trials across the board, they should probably look into the things he's done, too. 'I mean, I don't like it, but I understand letting Granger and Weasley off the hook. After all, they paid their dues, signed an agreement and engaged with our institutions. Potter didn't. How can they let him off like this?'

In the end, Harry tells Kingsley the whole story. The real story. He has to. Not only the one about what happened in Andromeda's kitchen (why Narcissa Malfoy is so irritated with him, it seems) but also: Snape's memories, the Horcrux inside him, the fear at the pit of his stomach, his parents' ghosts and the Hallows. A stone-cold tale. Harry doesn't cry or express any regrets, it just kind of is. He played with fire and lost, he guesses.

'We'll put out a statement,' Kingsley settles. 'We backed you up when you lied, so it makes us look bad, too. I think it's best if the Ministry takes this on, puts out the facts and rides out the storm. There's going to be some very nasty things being said about you over the next few weeks, Harry.' He pauses. 'You'll probably have to give an interview, perhaps when things have quieted down a bit. Explain why you lied.'

Kingsley blames himself, it seems: 'Oh, I knew you weren't telling the truth, Harry, I shouldn't have -' he says, and it seems odd, to Harry, because it was his own decision and no one else's to keep things to himself. It's not like Kingsley could ever have coerced the truth out of him and there are many reasons why he lied, not all of them noble. It just felt nice to believe in fiction for a little while, think he'd had a plan all along, one to outsmart Tom Riddle, dodge the curse and make him believe in inexistent Hallows. Nicer than the fact that he walked into a forest unarmed and did not expect to come back. 'Sometimes, I forget how young you are,' Kingsley just says and Harry doesn't have the heart to tell him that they were never really kids, the lot of them, were they?

In the end, Harry just regrets that his life (and death) have now become public property. 'I didn't run,' he insists, tells Kingsley, because, through everything, it's somehow the only fact that matters. You've been so brave, his mother said, didn't she? And, I didn't run, I didn't run, I didn't –

Kingsley almost laughs. 'I know, Harry.' He lets out a heavy sigh, sits against the angle of his desk. You're so young, again, his look says. Harry's always hated these kinds of looks. 'We all do,' the Minister adds. 'That's kind of the issue.'

When Harry makes it home, that night, he finds Ginny in his living room. She looks almost as tired as he feels, dishevelled, dark circles under her eyes and her hair loose over her shoulders. He thinks that this is it: the moment when they'll talk, when she'll decide that she hates him and leave. Instead, when she sees him, her mouth crashes against his and he can't believe his luck. Suddenly, they're not apart, anymore, and when he bites her lip; she lets out a loud moan – her fingernails dig into his back. They're rough, that night, rougher than they've ever been before; she takes as much as she gives and they fuck against the wall of his flat with the windows open, her head hitting the frame of one of Luna's paintings when she shouts out his name. 'Make me forget, Harry,' she whispers in his ear. 'Please, make me forget everything I've read.'

The beauty of it is that she almost makes him forget everything he's ever said, too.

'Sex can't be the answer to all of your problems, Harry,' Hermione tries to reason with him, a couple days later. He's standing with his back to her, facing the mirror in his living room, applying Dittany on a bruise that Ginny's lips left at his neck. They're heading out to another meeting at the Ministry.

He turns around, satisfied with his handiwork (the mark's disappeared) and breathes: 'Right.' It's stupid, for about a million reasons that he doesn't have time to get into but he lets the words leave his mouth anyway, simply because he knows that they'll annoy her. 'So, sex, freedom or firewhiskey, which one should I give up first, Hermione?'

Wordlessly, like Andromeda did with her sister that day, Hermione throws her glass of orange juice in his face and doesn't wait for him to Disapparate.

A lot of back and forth ensues, that last week of August. With Ron and Hermione, first, who do their best to help, still, even when, by all standards, Harry knows that he's being a complete dick to them. With Kingsley, next, who, after responding in substance to Narcissa's accusations in the papers, agrees with the three of them that there's probably no need to tell the world that the Hallows were real. No one saw Harry's parents' ghosts and he, at least, manages to protect The Boy Who Lived's privacy and mastery of the Elder Wand. For that, Harry is infinitely grateful.

Then, there are Mr and Mrs Weasley. He tries to explain everything to them, with Ron and Hermione at his side, he really does. The forest, the Horcruxes. 'But, Harry –' Mrs Weasley starts, one night. She stops when her husband lays a hand on her shoulder.

'Could you leave us, please?' Mr Weasley asks. Ron, Hermione and Harry all file back up to Ron's room. Around one in the morning, Harry assumes that they must be done talking so he slowly makes his way back down to their fireplace with the intention of Flooing home. Instead, he stops dead in his tracks when he hears Ginny's mother say: 'I swore on their grave, Arthur.'

'Molly -'

'They picked Sirius - Merlin knows why - but when he died, I -' she breathes out a sob. Harry stands, like petrified, hiding behind the wall at the bottom of the stairs. 'I wanted them to know that there would still be someone looking out for their son, you know? I promised I'd protect him like my own,' she cries. 'I trusted Albus, Arthur. And all the while he was raising that kid to have him die at the right moment? Messing with his head so much that he gave himself up and doesn't even question it. Arthur, what did we do?' she asks. 'How did we allow this to happen? I should have -'

'Shh,' he says. 'Molly, shhh.'

Again, there is nothing to say to that, so Harry says nothing, waits, making no noise and pretending that he doesn't exist.

On the 31st, Hermione invites the DA over to Grimmauld Place. It's the last reunion of the summer so she's decided to turn it into, if not a party, at least a festive gathering of sorts, to say goodbye to those who will be in Hogwarts for the foreseeable future. Ron passes the message onto Harry, says: 'Well, she did kind of roll her eyes,' he explains, 'But she said you could come.' Harry also kind of rolls his eyes in response, and Ron shrugs. 'Be there at 7, yeah?'

In truth, it may sound odd but for the most part, he does have a great time, that evening. The press gets wind of the reunion sometime earlier in the day, sets up camp in front of the house (will they ever leave them alone? he wonders), but Hermione swiftly arranges for everyone to Floo in instead. They all pile up into the big house's dining room and drink a bit too much, laugh a bit too loud. Kreacher has been working relentlessly to make the house more habitable all summer – it's not perfect, yet, but it really shows improvement. The dead house-elf heads have gone from the walls, and so have the rest of the remnants of the place's pureblood heyday, safely stored away in the attic. There are still things to be done but at least, the air is breathable. Ron and Hermione have officially moved in (much to Mrs Weasley's despair) and Harry must say that he strangely finds the place almost homey.

Kreacher is over the moon with the idea of the party. People to serve, mountains and mountains of canapés and desserts to cater – his idea of a night well spent. The elf gets a bit annoyed that many members of the DA tend to thank him for his work, Harry notices, but overall, the evening goes smoothly. Neville makes him laugh, Ginny lightens the mood by performing impressions of Hermione behind her back; it kind of works. The DA all know him, anyway, know how private he can be, so everyone tactfully avoids the subject of everything that's been in the press these past few days. It's funny how, when they were in school, it was often him against the rest of the world - the way people stared when they thought he was the heir of Slytherin, or that he'd made up Voldemort's return. Now, they're all adults and that night, they don't even talk about the war. For the first time in his life, Harry feels like he actually belongs somewhere, regardless of what could or could not be said about him in the outside world.

They're friends, he realises. Not best friends, not like Ron and Hermione, but friends nonetheless. 'I'm sorry I didn't come to the reunions,' he tells Hannah, that night. 'This spring – this summer,' he amends. 'It's just been -'

Busy is perhaps the word he had in mind. She smiles, pats him on the back. 'No one expected you to, Harry,' she reassures him. 'We all survived for a year without you, you know?' she laughs. 'But you're always welcome. Whenever you want.'

It's nice to think that this – the DA – has outgrown him. That they're all perhaps stronger than he is.

Cho, it turns out (and now, Harry would be lying if he didn't admit this feels a bit weird) has a new boyfriend. He's tall, blond, a bit awkward – a Beauxbatons boy she met in St Mungo's, back in June. She introduces him to all of them. 'Paul, this is Luna, Angelina, Seamus.' They all shake hands. When she gets to Harry, she giggles: 'And, I suppose, this is the only one among us who doesn't need an introduction.'

Paul seems positively impressed; Harry barely suppresses a cringe. 'It's an honour,' he says.

Harry quickly manages to change the subject. 'This is Ginny,' he announces, because it seems that Cho has conveniently forgotten to introduce her. 'My girlfriend.'

Ginny tenses next to him but thankfully, consents to politely chat with Cho and Paul for a few minutes. She then nods at their empty glasses and volunteers to get a refill. Harry smirks, thinks: some things never end.

To tell the truth, it's a while before he realises she hasn't come back. Fifteen minutes, maybe? He listens to Dean tell a joke, watches Angelina try to cheer George up. At first, he thinks that she might be helping Kreacher in the kitchen. 'Have you seen Ginny?' he asks the elf, passing by.

Kreacher is all smiles when he answers. 'Miss Weasley has gone out, Master Harry. Thank you for entrusting me with this gathering, Master Harry. This house used to -'

Harry doesn't listen to the rest. Probably something about all the elaborate parties that the Blacks used to host in their day, torturing a Muggle or two for entertainment. It doesn't really matter: by the time the elf has stopped talking, he's rushed out of the house.

Harry lets out a sigh of relief when he sees her still there, on the landing. For a second, he'd imagined: a kidnapping, a murder, her body in a pool of blood. Instead, she's standing there, facing a dozen journalists at the bottom of the stairs, cameras at the ready. It is bizarre, Harry thinks, watching them and knowing that they can't see through to their side of the fence because of the Fidelius charm, hiding them from view up to the top step. 'I wish I was like you,' Ginny just says when he closes the front door behind him. She's leaning against the wall to her side, looking down. 'You'd stand there like a cool kid, observing them in silence while smoking Muggle cigarettes, like some sort of people study.'

He chuckles a little. She's probably right, he thinks. There is something sad in her voice, though, and he wants her to laugh, so: 'I am a cool kid,' he jokes. She chuckles. Closes her eyes right afterwards, stays silent for a while.

'I can't do this, anymore, Harry,' she says.

In hindsight, it seems ridiculous, but at first, he thinks this is about Cho. Ginny refuses to look at him, eyes focused on the floor and they're standing just where Ron got Splinched that one time, Harry recalls. 'I'm sorry,' he apologises, again, like he did with Ron and Hermione. 'I know she's just -' he rolls his eyes. 'I know it's not ideal but I'll speak to her, I'll -'

Ginny's crying, though. He realises that as soon as she looks up at him. He hasn't seen her cry in a long, long time, Harry thinks, not since the funerals, since – Ginny quickly smiles through her tears, though, something sad, and for a moment, he thinks that she does seem pleasantly surprised that he's picked up on the girls' old rivalry. Well, I'm not a complete twat, he wants to joke, but – 'It's not that, Harry,' she just says. 'I mean, I can't do us, anymore, Harry.'

Something drops at the pit of his stomach and he's pretty sure his heart stops. For a moment, there are about a million things he wants to say but there also isn't any air in his lungs to push the words out. In the end, he can't even speak, like the ground is collapsing under his feet.

'I'm sorry.' More tears, on her cheeks. She wipes them off with the sleeve of her jumper and looks down to the floor again. Her red, Converse trainers against the grey stones. 'You didn't see that coming, did you?' she shakes her head, almost chuckles to herself like it's ripping her soul apart. 'It's my fault, I'm sorry. It's not you, it's me, I -'

He sets his jaw. 'Ah, don't give me that -'

They're the first words that are out of his mouth, that night, and hers feel like a punch in the gut. 'I look at you and I see you dead, Harry,' she tells him. His mouth opens, closes. 'You know, sometimes, I wake up in the night and I put my hand on your chest just to make sure you're still breathing. I can't do this anymore, Harry. I'll go crazy.'

'Gin -'

'We don't talk. You can't call me your girlfriend all the time if we don't talk. In front of your neighbours, in front of everybody – For Merlin's sake, Harry, this isn't a relationship. It's not -'

He crosses his arms, insists: 'Hey, I'm not the one who doesn't want to talk, Ginny. I've tried to bring stuff up but every time you just –'

'I don't want to talk!' A hand runs over her face and the fairy lights that Hermione's bewitched to decorate the front porch reflect in her eyes. Harry feels like he can't breathe, like – no, no, no, no, no, please - like he'd give away everything he has for a time turner, right now, everything he has just get back into her arms last night. 'You don't get it, I - I thought we could get away from it,' she tries to explain. 'You and me, away from the world. No war, no grief, no past, all future,' she smiles and he feels her hand, soft against his cheek. She's stepped forward, close – so fucking close.

'But you're you, Harry.' And, it's not his fault, she adds, it's just: 'You are this war. And, you did all these heroic things that you're too shy to even brag about and it's why we all love you,' she breathes; he can feel it against his skin. 'But, I can't keep waking up every morning thinking that the boy next to me almost died, Harry. I need to move on. I need to forget about the war, forget about ever being worried sick about you, about Ron, but I can't do that if all the Narcissa Malfoys of this world keep doing interviews about you. And, you can't stop them – neither can I, - but every time I hear something, it's like I'm back standing on Hogwarts grounds with you dead in Hagrid's arms. I can't ignore it, but I also can't live with it, Harry. I can't do this anymore.'

He tries to kiss her. She lets him. Bittersweet, the taste of salt on her lips. He begs her: 'Please, I love you, please -' and the end (the end of them), is a mess: she pulls away, he tries to grab her hand, tries to keep her there, to talk. She misses a step, he goes in to catch her, accidentally makes it past the Fidelius charm. The press get their pictures – oh that, they do, don't they, in the end? And the cameras start flashing ('Harry, over here! Is she leaving, Harry?') and fuck he thinks to himself but also wonders if, when the whole world finally knows about them, it'll mean that at least, she'll have been officially his, even for a short while.

That night, it's a testament to their friendship that when Hermione sits next to him in his apartment, later, she says: 'Ginny told me,' rather than: 'I told you so,' and doesn't insist on what a tosser he's been with everyone, lately. He kind of wants to thank her, maybe, but instead, he decides to down the firewhiskey that's left in his glass, first. 'She said I should check on you, was worried how you'd,' Hermione continues, looks down at his coffee table. 'How you'd react. I guess she was right.'

There's an empty bottle of firewhiskey on his coffee table and a fresh one just opened, a broken glass, cigarettes and ash dropped against the edition of the Daily Prophet that had Narcissa's face on it. Harry tries to reach for the whiskey, tips the bottle, Hermione catches it and: 'I think you've had enough, Harry.'

He shakes his head, clumsily tries to grab it from her again – she laughs and vanishes it with her wand. 'Tough luck,' she just says.

Fuck, he thinks. Leans back against the cushions, looks up to the ceiling. The world spins around him and that's exactly what it is, he thinks: tough luck. 'I told her I loved her,' he says. 'You'd have been proud,' he smiles, shakes his head. It was right before the press saw them, right before she slipped, when he was trying to convince her to stay. 'She said that she did, too,' he sighs. 'That it wasn't enough. Why wasn't it enough, Hermione? Dumbledore said it would always be enough, he said -'

'Oh, Harry.'

He cries on her shoulder, that night, like she did a couple of months ago in a Muggle hotel room. In the dark, she just notes that it's the first time she's seen tears on his face since Godric's Hallow. He didn't cry at any of the funerals, not the way the others did. All he could hear, he remembers, were Dumbledore's words in the back of his head after Sirius went through the veil. You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.

Well, he decides that's what it feels like, now, too, losing Ginny. Ginny, the girl who used draw patterns over his chest with her wand whenever he'd get cold, leaving a trail of her warming charms down his skin. Harry fiddles with his wand, now, next to Hermione. Moves it in the dark, mindlessly traces similar lines on his skin. Against his forearm, the wood feels oddly soft and soothing and he wonders what it would look like if he drew blood, here. Albeit a few small cuts and bruises from the battle, his wounds have mostly been bloodless, this year and Avada Kedavras don't leave open gashes or cuts like Umbridge's cursed quill did. Neither does heartbreak, to tell the truth, and Harry catches himself wondering what it would feel like, warm blood against his skin. He wouldn't even have to say the words – just think the spell hard enough. Diffindo. His wand hovers, against his skin, caresses the burn that Vernon once left at his wrist when he "accidentally" held the gaslighter too close. 'Be careful, boy,' he said, as Harry screamed out in pain. 'It could burn you.'

In a split second, Hermione grabs his wand from his hand and throws it across the room. Harry's startled, like jerked awake, realises that he did draw blood, just a bit, the tiniest cut by the side of his wrist. 'Harry, what the fuck?' Hermione says and he can hear the fear in her voice. I'm sorry, he thinks. I'm sorry, I'm – 'Don't you dare.'

I'm sorry, I'm just shite at everything, these days, he wants to say. It's what it feels like, right now, as he tries to close his eyes because maybe if he's this drunk, he'll be able to sleep, dream of Ginny, something sweet and hopeful, like June. Instead, all he sees is still blood on the tiles before his eyelids snap open again. 'What do you see when you close your eyes, Hermione?' he kind of slurs, kind of asks. She smiles, sad, her shoulder touching his.

He expects: good things. Ron, her parents, people who love her. He gets: 'Bellatrix.'

Doesn't know what to say to that, really. Lets out a sigh, sinks further into the couch. 'We're all going mad, aren't we?'

He's dismissive when he speaks, is almost surprised by how categorical her answer suddenly is. 'No, we're not, Harry.' He feels Hermione move, slowly, turning sideways on the couch so that her back is against the armrest, feet tucked under her bum. 'Harry, look at me,' she says. He doesn't know what else to do so he does turn, sits with one foot on the ground, the other flat on the sofa, elbow resting against his folded knee. 'What you're feeling – what we're feeling - it's got a name,' she says. 'The Muggles coined it.'

And so, that night, the 31st of August 1998, she tells him about the thing that they will all struggle with, their whole lives: the thing that she calls "PTSD." She read about it, she explains, which almost gets him to laugh again because of course, she did. 'They first diagnosed it in Muggle soldiers when they came back from war. You know, the first world war?' He vaguely remembers that from Muggle school. 'They said they were "shell-shocked;" that's where the phrase comes from.' She quotes, visibly from memory: '"It's a mental health disorder that develops in people who have experienced a shocking, scary, or dangerous event."'

That, the sound of that, does make him laugh. 'Oh, please, don't laugh,' she says, so he stops.

'There are different symptoms,' she adds, after a beat. 'I have: an inability to trust people,' she says. 'It's like: there's no one I want to talk to, no one I can relate to, no one who understands, apart from you and Ron. I think that if McGonagall hadn't given in on boarding, I wouldn't have gone back to school.' Harry looks up, surprised. 'Couldn't have done it, not without knowing if I'd see the two of you. I have: nightmares, flashbacks, what they call intrusive memories. Sometimes a door opens and suddenly, I'm back in Malfoy Manor, and it's hard to get out of it. You have that, too, I think,' she tells him.

He looks down at his foot on the couch. Neither confirms nor denies it.

'You've got irritability as well, obviously,' she adds. He shrugs, thinks: I've always been irritable but Hermione cocks her head to the side. 'More than usual, Harry, I've noticed. It's like after Cedric died.' He opens his mouth to protest but she catches him off-guard when she says: 'Really, why on Earth did you pick a fight with Narcissa Malfoy, Harry? Think about it.'

For a moment, she lets it sit.

'You and Ron feel guilt, too,' she states, 'and I see self-destructive behaviour in the two of you. You smoke cigarettes, get into fights and relationships that are doomed from the start, like you're trying to punish yourself for something. He helps everyone to the point that he forgets about himself. Me with my parents, you with dealing with the press, Ginny with Quidditch, George with the shop, like helping everybody in the world will somehow make up for the fact that he couldn't help Fred,' Hermione sighs. 'Ginny's –'

'Pretending it doesn't exist,' he says, nods. The words roll off his tongue but now, they make so much more sense.

'The technical term is avoidance,' Hermione corrects (can't help herself, he smirks). 'But, yeah.'

And, for a long time, they stay silent, that night. He asks her to give him answers on a silver platter, asks when this whole fucking thing will end, what the Muggles do about it. Hermione laughs, shakes her head. 'They go to therapy, Harry,' she says. 'For, like, fifteen years.'

They burst out a laugh, that night, the two of them. The kind of if I didn't laugh, I'd cry laugh that still somehow manages to warm his heart. Hermione shifts on the couch until she's next to him again, pulls him into a hug. They look at the old article with Narcissa's face on it - after The Boy Who Lived, following the battle, the new headline reads: The Boy Who Lied. 'What do you think they'll go with tomorrow?' he smirks, nodding at the paper in front of them. 'The Boy Who Got Dumped?'

A soft chuckle escapes Hermione's lips like you're unbelievable, Harry, but still, she asks him if he'll be okay, in the short term. 'About Ginny, I mean. I can't go back to Hogwarts if you're -' Hermione trails off, clearly doesn't want to finish her sentence but just points at the mess on his coffee table. The booze and the cigarettes, the lot of it.

It reminds him a bit of what Andromeda said a few weeks ago, after she threw her sister out of the house and allowed him back in. He tells Hermione about it. Remembers the way Teddy's grandmother's smile was sad, twisting at her lips. 'I'm sorry, too,' she said. 'I should have known. I should have asked someone else to be there.' Harry shook his head, thought: no, this is my fault, but – 'It's what she does, Cissy,' Andromeda just went on. 'Was always clever, the cleverest of the three of us. A lot of times, I've actually wondered who was worse, her or Bella. Bella was always the wild card, the one you pointed at people, our mother used to say. But at least, she believed in something. Cissy doesn't. She was clever and married well because that's what you did. Stuck around because again, she thought that way, she'd have power and – well, everything she wanted, really.'

It was a moment, a fleeting moment where Harry wondered what must have been worse. Being born with that kind of family, or no family at all. 'Which one were you, then?' he asked, catching her gaze. 'I mean, if Bellatrix was the wild one and Narcissa, the smart one. Which one were you?'

Andromeda laughed, blushed slightly, and shook her head at him. 'The one who fell in love, I suppose.'

Harry used to think that out of the three of them, Ron would be the funny one, Hermione, the smart one, and he – well, he hoped - 'I need to see who I am without either being with her or dreaming about being with her, I reckon,' he admits. Two years of his life and this is where they're at. From his sixth year onwards, any future that he dared think about was Ginny's (theirs) but there was something before that, he remembers, now. 'I'll sign up for the Aurors,' he says.

'Oh, Harry, you don't have to -'

'No, I want to.' Hermione was right, he thinks, that day when she said he needed a purpose in life. 'It's the only thing I've ever really wanted to do, actually.'

And, if it's the last thing he does, he thinks, he's going to do that. Make sure that this, whatever it was that happened to them, doesn't happen to anyone else.