Castles

by pebblysand

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

5. out of nails (tyre blows)

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out of nails (tyre blows)

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On the 1st of November 1998, Harry stops at Grimmauld Place for breakfast on his way to work. It's just past 6 am and the scones Kreacher's prepared are warm and fluffy between his fingers, just out of the oven. He shakes off the remnants of a light, intermittent drizzle on the doorstep and remembers Seamus joking the other day: 'Well, here we go. It's November, now. Roads won't dry up until March.'

The house is a bit of a mess. They're trying to renovate it. It was all Ron's idea. Harry's best mate tiptoed around the topic for a while over the past few weeks, pointing out that even after Kreacher's quick, summary clean up this summer, there was still quite a bit to be done to truly make the house habitable. 'Well, it's your house, mate,' Ron said and –

'Yeah, because I have so much reverence for the aesthetics of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black,' Harry laughed. Considering Sirius would probably have set the place on fire if he'd been able to, Harry thinks his godfather clearly wouldn't have minded new furniture and a lick of paint. 'Don't touch his bedroom,' Harry just says (if anything, he'd like to take care of that himself). 'But sure, do whatever you want with the rest.'

Since then, their resident artists-turned-decorators, Luna and Dean, have been arguing over colour schemes and house designs while the kids who participated in the Hogwarts rebuilding works over the summer have been trying to find a way to cut Mrs Black off the wall without ending up in the neighbours' sitting room. That morning in November, when he arrives, Harry carefully steps between half-empty buckets of paint on the floor of the entrance hall, powdery, white leftover dust clouding the air when he kicks rubble out of the way. They're slowly progressing through the rooms, are mostly done with the ground floor, and when Andromeda visited with Teddy a few days ago, she even asked: 'Merlin, is this really the same house?'

When Harry steps into the kitchen, that morning, the only light to be seen is the one produced by Hermione's flickering petrol lamp. With all the magic in the house, getting smaller electronics to work is already a bit of struggle (Dean's got his new mobile phone encased in layers of aluminium) but running electricity is certainly out of the question. As usual when Harry finds her, she's surrounded by a mess of books and parchments, buried deep into the subtleties of N.E.W.T.s-level Arithmancy. She says she likes to wake up early, get things done to have more free time to spend with Ron in the afternoons but Harry gets the very distinct feeling that in truth, she finds it just as hard to sleep through the night as he does.

'No run this morning?' she asks, barely glancing up at him. Her tone is slightly sarcastic. 'God, you're letting yourself go.'

He gives her a quiet laugh and pretends to roll his eyes, quickly reaches for one of Kreacher's fresh pastries off a tray. Due to his horrendous sleeping habits (a couple nights ago, he remembers going to bed at 11pm and waking up at midnight, then at one, then at two, then at three, then throwing in the towel at half past four), he's been keeping up with jogging pretty consistently for the past few months, usually clocking in over five miles before the sun's even up. The other day, Hermione joked that with all the exercising he was going to make Witch Weekly's Hottest Wizard Alive year-end list and he almost choked on his tea. 'Hey, weren't you the one complaining about the booze and the cigarettes last summer?' he kind of joked but also kind of didn't and she clearly didn't find it funny.

This morning, he's already wearing a clean set of Auror robes when he stops by, rather than his usual combination of trainers and tracksuit bottoms. 'Meeting with Kingsley before work.' As he speaks, he turns and runs the tap, fills the kettle.

'Decision made, then?' she asks.

Harry nods, leaning back against the worktop, bum pressing against the edge. He sets the kettle on the stove, quickly lights a fire under it with his wand. Within seconds, the water starts quietly simmering. Hermione smiles.

'About time,' she says, sounding like pride and a challenge all at once. 'All of fifth year, I seem to recall you telling your version of the story, over and over, never giving up until people listened.'

'Things have changed -'

She raises a curious eyebrow at that. 'Have they?'

Right before the kettle whistles, he pulls it off the stove.

Perhaps no, they haven't – not really. They've been through a war, made it out alive and yet, Narcissa Malfoy and her people are still spreading lies about him in the press. From Hermione to Ginny, Witch Weekly still seems to believe it's fair game to call the girls in his life sluts for every finger they move. It's only really been a few days but the moment Giulia said 'You used to have a voice, why did you let him take that away from you,' it was like a switch flicked in his head. Things just can't go on like this forever, can they? It's probably time to start fighting back, whatever the hell that means.

For a few minutes that morning, he watches Hermione as she works in silence, rain slowly tapping against the window. Wordlessly, Harry drops tea bags into a couple of mugs and waits for the hot water to infuse before scooping them out. On the table, he lays a cup down for her, careful not to spill anything over her collection of books and parchments. Leans back against the worktop; it strangely reminds him of their Hogwarts days, of Ron and he leaving her to it, escaping to play Quidditch outside, regardless of the lashing rain.

'You alright, though?' she asks him a few minutes later, quietly, in the semi-darkness that encircles them. The dim flame flickers in her eyes. 'Yesterday…'

Harry half-shrugs, half-nods and it's not a lie - not exactly. Maybe, that's the annoying thing about it: that Hallowe'en's just a day. A day that comes and goes every year with his parents still dead and buried. Muggles party in the streets and shout drunken songs, dress like wizards and light fireworks that blow their hands off. The shops fill their windows with pumpkins and zombies, and little, dangling skeletons.

Yesterday, he switched his day off with Ron. Apparated out to Godric's Hollow. The rain fell - endless, all day - skies dark and low like autumn when winter leads the way. Harry walked the streets, grabbed a bite to eat, bought heathers instead of lilies for his parents' grave. He doesn't know how to conjure arrangements up – not as well as Hermione does, at any rate – and there is something more permanent about potted plants, he decided. Perennials, flowers that won't fade or die with the days that pass, with the time that keeps flying away.

In the graveyard, he promised himself that he'd come by every year - no more than that. Every time he looks at their headstone, feels the hard ground underneath the soles of his trainers, there is and will always be a part of him that aches. A part of him that considers he could just sit here, lie here, forever, with them, and be content. It's the part of him that kind of regrets dropping the stone in the forest, the part of him that sometimes still dreams about going to look for it. He pictures himself going insane over it – white, thinning hair and mad-scientist look – combing inch after inch of dirt until Death finally does take pity on him. The fact that he promised Dumbledore he wouldn't go down that rabbit hole doesn't mean that he doesn't think about it, every fucking day, like the shadow of a moment spent wondering why his parents couldn't belong in this world for just a little while longer. Every time he leaves Godric's Hollow, noise rings in his ears like his mother's voice calling him brave.

'You must miss them,' people say and in their mouths, it almost sounds like an injunction, like: you must miss them because anything else would be inconceivable. It makes his breath catch in his throat and he knows that he keeps quiet the fact he doesn't, that it's more complicated than that. You can't really miss something you've never had. All he misses is an idea, an ideal, maybe. Yet, it doesn't mean that his chest will ever stop feeling torn apart every time he looks at the dates, neatly scripted on the white marble, knowing that between the day he was born and the day they died, there was a fifteen-month overlap. The only memory he's ever held from that is a flash of green light.

I wish you were here, is a more accurate statement. I wish you were here and I wish you'd lived. I wish I knew you, and I wish we'd met. I wish we'd talked, I wish we'd hugged, I wish you'd seen the end of the war. I miss you in a weird way, like something that's all in my head.

He looks at Hermione, that morning, and observes: 'They've been dead a long time.'

She bites her lip before asking. Tomorrow, the Battle of Hogwarts will be six months old. 'Does that change anything?'

He sighs. Had never fancied himself as a grief counsellor but here they are, aren't they? Hermione is asking himbecause he knows, knows that there is guilt in that thought, too, in the idea that one day, they might actually heal, stop thinking about it, about them, every minute of every day. They want to feel better, they really do, but then Harry also still remembers the first time he made it through to the evening without Sirius making a single appearance in his mind. It felt almost like a betrayal, like Peter had won. 'Yeah,' he nods. Never wants to lie to her and Ron about the important stuff. 'It does, actually.'

Later that morning, the Ministry's corridors are deserted when he makes it to Kingsley's office. It's a Sunday before seven o'clock and yet, the Minister didn't even bat an eyelid when Harry suggested a meet. They've all been working around the clock these past few months; one very long, endless blur, it sometimes seems. 'What's going on, Harry?' Kingsley asks, quickly. Behind him, the large, enchanted windows of the office reflect the sun rising over London, skies tinted soft blues and pinks.

Harry takes a deep breath, lets the words escape his mouth before he can overthink them. 'I'll do the interview,' he says.

For a second, Kingsley just stares. Yes, Harry thinks. I'm finally doing the thing you've been berating me to do for months – better late than never, eh?

Then, the Minister laughs.

Quickly they turn to logistics. It'll be scheduled this side of Christmas (before the Death Eater trials start in the new year) so as not to 'blur the message.' When they get to the question of who, though, Harry just says: 'Not the Prophet.'

Kingsley smirks. 'Well, not the Quibbler, either.'

For a moment, they stare. Knowing that this is a negotiation, Harry doesn't say that although he understands - water, bridges, and all that – the prospect of spending time with Xenophilius Lovegood also wouldn't be elating.

'At this juncture…' Kingsley chuckles a bit, finally glancing away. 'Well, there's always the Standard but honestly, I'm not sure they'd have the backbone.' It's still bizarre, to Harry, how much thought seems to have to go into these things. 'How would you feel about foreign press, actually?' the Minister says, suddenly looking up. 'Could be a more neutral perspective. We've had a few requests. I could send you some names.'

When Harry turns the matter over in his head and honestly can't think of a reason why not, he nods. Kingsley smiles.

'Great. That settles it, then.'

At work, that month, Ron and he are still in the training room half the time and working on shifts with their respective partners the rest. After the emergency dispatch at the scene last October, the domestic case that Giulia and he were working on has now escalated into an investigation surrounding cursed magical artefacts illegally imported from South East Asia onto the island. The cursed knife that the husband ended up being stabbed with (he survived, for better or for worse) wasn't officially registered with the dedicated ministerial office. When they question him about it, the man claims that he bought it in a Muggle shop not knowing it was cursed (as if). Where? 'I don't know, somewhere 'round.' Harry and Giulia thus spend the next few days going through pages and pages of Wizengamot voting records (starting with Devon and Dorset), trying to find a Muggle retail shop owner who is either a wizard or might have family in the wizarding world and could possibly fit the generic description given of a 'short, bald paki' (yes, because, of course, on top of beating his wife, the guy's also a racist – Giulia says 'being a dick' often comes as a package). Overall, more than a needle in a haystack, it's a needle in a fucking ocean, as far as Harry is concerned, and combing through feet and feet of lined parchment is also not one of the parts of the job he particularly favours.

It's a couple of days before Kingsley finally comes through regarding the interview. In the interoffice memo that eventually lands on Harry's desk, the Minister apologises for the delay (had to consult with the Department of Information, first) and includes a tidy list of names for Harry's careful consideration. It includes the hosts of an Australian radio show, a solo journalist writing for a German newspaper, and a couple of American freelancers who seem to work for a number of magazines. 'So, you really are doing it?' Giulia asks. She's eyeing him over the mess that their combined desks has become ('One day, they'll pair me up with someone who's actually organised,' she'd said, once), over the pictures frames she's also lined up on her side. Her mates, her parents and her brother. 'Who knew the wizarding world would someday have me to thank for getting the famous Harry Potter to speak up publicly?' Harry rolls his eyes, but also can't help but laugh. 'So, how are you going to pick?' she wonders.

He shrugs. 'Toss a Knut, I suppose?'

If he asks Hermione or Kingsley, he's afraid they'll say it'd better be his decision, which won't be much help. Giulia laughs and, 'Wait a few more years,' she says. 'And you might even get your face on those Knuts if you play the game well.'

Harry grins. 'For killing Voldemort, I deserve my face on a Galleon, at the very least.'

Jokes aside, while he is determined to speak, he's not sure what he wants to say. Kingsley's offered him interview prep that he's declined (after all, he's always been at his best when acting on the spot) and really, how hard can it be? They'll ask questions; he'll answer. Trying to hide from the attention isn't working – clearly - and if he's going to be blamed either way, Harry might as well be blamed for doing something, rather than not. At least, give his version of events. Openly thank Ron and Hermione, talk about Neville, Luna and Ginny's work with the children's foundation. It may not be much but if he can cut down on the speculation that currently surrounds him in the press, they might focus on some of the more important stuff.

As the days pass, that November, he continues to split his time between home, work, and Teddy. On the fifth (the date is now forever carved into his brain), he picks the little one up from the Weasleys'. Molly's looked after him all morning and threatened to force food down Harry's throat if he didn't stay over for a late lunch at the end of his shift. She's picking his godson off the floor while Harry cleans out the dishes ('Please, let me at least do this –') when, while in Molly's arms, Teddy babbles softly.

'Ah-eeeee,' once. Then, again. 'Ah-eeee.'

Harry's still washing the dishes, completely oblivious, when Molly walks over to him. In her arms, Teddy's hair's turned black – he smiles, content, and points, again. 'Ah-eee.'

'I think he's calling you,' Molly says.

(Fifteen years later, on Teddy's birthday, Ron teases: 'Mum says Harry was so happy he cried when you first said his name.'

'I did not.'

Alright, yeah, he totally did.)

Over the next few days, Giulia mercilessly teases him about the smile that seems to permanently reside on his face but in truth, Harry doesn't even care. Hesaidmyname-hesaidmyname-hesaidmyname plays on loop in his head, and Merlin, that little bundle of joy really is capable of making everything in the world go right sometimes, isn't he? The following nights, once he hands Teddy over to Andromeda, Harry just sits on the stairs in front of his building, smokes cigarettes and smiles.

It is a few days later when, on one of those evenings, the front door suddenly opens behind him. He gives a little start but doesn't reach for his wand - hasn't in a long time. Since last summer, he's grown accustomed to the noises that his corner of London makes. There are the ones that belong to the streets (burglar alarms, bin trucks, traffic), or the neighbours, creaking stairs and open windows. This is Mia, he knows, the girl who lives on the ground floor. There's the way she talks (loud, Northern), the way she moves; Harry's got it memorised and doesn't even have to look.

Unfortunately, over the summer, Ginny had encouraged (okay, maybe forced) him to get to know his neighbours. 'It's what people do!' she'd told him. This has turned out to be slightly inconvenient, in the long run, because now, every time he passes them in the corridors, he's stuck chatting to the young couple on the first floor about their new-born baby for a few minutes. To Mia about her fashion studies, or her mum back up in Manchester. A few weeks ago, she'd obviously noted that, 'Ginger's gone, eh?' giving him a slightly pitying smile which frankly hadn't done much to lift Harry's spirits. He'd nodded, sad, and quickly retreated to his flat.

'Well, you look happy,' she tells him, now. A couple of months have passed and while he still misses Ginny like a piece of his soul, it's funny, maybe, that due to Teddy, the last few days have actually not been as bad.

'My godson said my name for the first time,' he says because when it comes to Teddy, pride and love just seem to push the silliest confessions out of his mouth.

When she responds, she grins but doesn't mock. 'Oh, the little -' Harry nods. He's had the baby over to his a few nights so far, must have passed her in the hall. 'That is so cute.'

Quickly, they get talking. She asks if she can scrounge a cigarette off him and sits down on the stairs as he slides over a lighter and pack in her direction. She's early meeting her mates for a pint, she explains, and, 'Me mum's pregnant,' she tells him, rather bluntly. He raises a curious eyebrow. 'She was sixteen when she 'ad me. 'S remarried now, with this lad – I mean, it's funny, all my friends say "that must be so odd," which it is - I s'ppose we'll have what, a nineteen, twenty-year age difference? But, then, I don't know. It's exciting, isn't it? Is that weird?' she smiles.

He supposes it could be a bit weird, yes, but then his own life is such a fucking shit show, right now, that he's not one to judge. A cloud of smoke fills the air between them and it's bizarre how he actually knows, can identify exactly what is happening and still decidedly lets it happen. Harry feels her arm brush against his as she hands him the pack back, notices that she's wearing a rather plain, white t-shirt, a bomber jacket and a long, black skirt that flows over the bare skin of her legs as well as a chunky pair of Doc Martens. Her hair is pulled back in a bun, make-up minimal, and the fact that he notices all these things is certainly worth a mention.

'You working tonight?' she asks him, maybe ten, fifteen minutes later. She's tossed the butt of her cigarette to the floor, gets up to her feet; he notices her skirt rides up and reveals a glimpse of her calf. He shakes his head 'no' and loosely wonders what it would feel like to run his fingertips along her skin.

(She asked what he did for a living, a few weeks back, and hastily put out her joint when he said 'police.' 'I mean, what do you tell Muggles?' he asked Giulia, afterwards, knowing that she mostly dates Muggle women and she puffed out a laugh and said –

'Well, not that.')

So, that November, he finally, properly, notices Mia. She's been a mention, someone hovering in the background of his life for a few months, now, but that night, he sees her. Notices that her smile is generous and kind, that her skin and eyes are dark, that she wears her hair curly and natural. That she's tall, thin, small chested. Does not have long, silky hair, or freckles, or a love for Quidditch and very much isn't his type. That night, a wet, drizzling rain starts to fall over them again and still, when Mia asks: 'Hey, do you want to come to the pub, actually? We're not going out-out, I don't think, just -'

Harry says: 'Yeah, why not?'

He doesn't know why it happens on that particular evening, to tell the truth, but he knows why it happens, in general. It happens because she's nice. Because she's a girl. Because she notices him, too, and because she does turn out to have quite a good sense of humour. Because she's a Muggle and doesn't know that his parents are dead, or that he fought in a war, or that he doesn't really have any idea what he's supposed to do with his life, now. It happens because she's there, and because Ginny's gone and yeah, alright, maybe because he feels rather bloody, fucking lonely.

At the pub, she introduces him as her neighbour and it's probably the most normal thing he's ever been introduced as. Quickly, he realises that Mia is kind of person who will be the life of every party she'll ever attend; there's something almost fascinating about watching her, the way she manages to both always stick to his side but also show interest in what her friends are telling her. When her mates chuckle at her jokes, the sound is loud and genuine, pure, and they haven't fought in wars. Harry sees Mia and the way she loves (everyone and everything, without needing a reason to, from the loud music in her ears to the sticky floors under her heels). In his head, he sorts her into Hufflepuff and thinks he kind of likes it.

Students who swear they won't go 'out-out' on a Thursday night never follow through so at around eleven, they all pile up in a couple of cabs on their way to a club in East London. Mia dances close; Harry mostly watches but around three in the morning, they share another taxi home. The fact that they live in the same building could have been a good excuse, Harry supposes, except that, by that point of the night, they don't really need one. He's already kissed her, trailed his fingers up her thighs in the club (loud music, smoke; he managed to just smile and not think) so it's not exactly a surprise when he follows her down the stairs to her flat instead of going up to his. He kind of hates himself for the thought but to be honest, it's been over two months since he's last had sex and well, she's offering.

It's – nice. He settles on the adjective retrospectively and refuses to think anything else. As though admitting to himself that he properly enjoys it, leans into the feeling of Mia's fingers against his chest, her short breaths above him, the taste of her skin, would be some sort of sin. She's dumped you, you idiot, he tries to remind himself. Ginny's dumped you, so forget about her and stop feeling like you're a cheat. You're not. When he comes, he makes sure she does, too, fingers caressing her clit. Once they're done, he pulls the condom off and throws it in the bin and thinks: right, this is it, then. Move on with your life, mate.

Afterwards, she goes to the loo wearing his shirt and pads back with a glass of water in her hand. 'I'm the first, right?' she asks. 'Since her, I mean.'

Harry looks at her in the dark and isn't sure what to say to that. First, because to tell the truth, she's not only the first since Ginny, she's the first who isn't Ginny, full stop, and he's pretty sure that's something he'd rather keep to himself. Second, because, well, he's still so fucking in love with his ex that he kind of thought of her when he came, and that, frankly, was disturbing enough. He probably stays quiet for too long.

''S alright,' she adds, slipping back into bed. She smiles, empathetic but not sad. 'When I broke up with my ex, it took me a good six months to get over it.'

Early morning confessions, except neither of them is drunk – he's just so fucking tired, these days. 'I don't think I'll ever get over it,' he admits.

'Yep.' Before he can respond, Harry feels her lips trailing down his neck, the fabric of the shirt thrown over her shoulders brushing against his skin – her hand reaches under the waistband of his boxers and God, he's already half-hard again. Lazy, his palm finds the bare skin above her hip. 'That's exactly how it felt.'

It later occurs to him that it could have ended there, with Mia. A one-night-stand that, overall, he doesn't really think was a mistake, no matter how much time he spends trying to convince himself otherwise. It doesn't, though. Instead, after he leaves her flat that morning to head into work, it takes a couple of days for them to run into each other again. When they do, she's taking the bins out and stops next to him in front of their building, black plastic bag in hand. She's wearing a pair of flare jeans and a jumper. Harry consciously makes himself look away.

'Well, this is awkward,' she says.

He finds himself leaning back against the gate in front of their building. When he looks at her again, he finds her smiling. 'Is it?' he asks her.

He asks because he's eighteen and has no experience with this, whatsoever. It may be awkward, it may not be, he can't tell how he's supposed to feel, right this minute. She laughs, hums. 'Yeah, maybe it isn't, actually.'

They don't see each other on a regular schedule. Just sometimes, when they both want to. She's a Muggle so to her, he's just Harry, her cute neighbour, and it's bizarre how liberating that is. She doesn't know about magic, or the people he's lost, or even that he quite literally died, just a few months ago. When she asks about his scars, he says that he got them in a car accident, says that it killed his parents and leaves it at that. 'I'm sorry,' she says and he tells her the same thing he told Hermione.

'It's fine. They've been dead a long time.'

As the days get darker, Mia burns scented candles in her flat - one that allegedly smells like France (like cigarettes, cinnamon and croissants) - and sometimes, the both of them just sit and watch TV together, laughing at old films and fighting over a bowl of crisps. Harry would feel guilty about not being in love with her but, 'I don't know how much longer I'll be here, anyway,' she reminds him, often. She's been applying to internships with all of these fashion brands he's never heard of, in Paris. 'This is just nice while it lasts, Harry.'

It may make him sound like a bit of a dick, but he kind of agrees.

For the first few weeks of them, he doesn't tell a soul. The only people he'd ever consider telling are Ron and Hermione and he already knows what their reactions would be. She would give him a lecture about finding a girl who specifically caters to his unwillingness to commit, which would then spiral into an argument about the fact that he was ready to commit to Ginny, and see how that blew up in his face, so – Ron would just stare, say something along the lines of but, you were dating my sister, and Merlin, Harry's not ready for that either. Also, there's a quiet kind of relief in having a part of his life be just truly his. This thing with Mia – whatever it is – it exists for itself, almost in a vacuum, unpolluted by everything else. It's something he can do, someone he can touch without them instantly becoming public property. The hours he spends with her, they're quiet hours during which he doesn't have to care about anyone else.

Eventually, Giulia finds out. That day, the both of them are in Sussex, chasing a lead on their Class A trafficking case. They're checking out a shop in Eastbourne (frankly, with limited hopes of this being the one) but strangely, Harry notices something that makes him change his mind. The place is filled with random Muggle antiques and centuries-old crap but there's an energy in the air that he can't quite place. Giulia asks the owner a couple of questions, acting as though she's considering buying one of the necklaces, but Harry keeps his fingers wrapped around his wand the whole time.

They make their way out and back to the car. 'I think he recognised me,' he says.

'What do you mean? He barely -'

'Trust me,' he says. 'I know when people recognise me -'

'Ah, the boy who lived - can't stand people not recognising him, can he?'

He half-laughs, half-rolls his eyes at her but stands his ground. She walks around the car towards the driver's side. Over the roof, he catches her gaze. 'I swear, he did the look thing.'

'The -'

'This,' he tells her. For a moment, he just stares into her face, silent, then lets his glance flick up to her forehead.

'What in Merlin's name -'

The palm of his glove is flat against the roof of the car. They're having a dry, cold but sunny morning – closer to winter than it is to autumn. 'It's a thing that people do when they're not sure,' he explains, can see his breath in the air. 'Like, they've seen my picture in the paper and all, but they've never seen me in real life, you know? So, they think: "Oh, this bloke really looks like Harry Potter," then, they glance up at this,' he adds and pulls up his hair to point to his scar, before letting it back down. 'Then, they do this sort of look, like: "Oh, Merlin, it is Harry Potter!"'

For a moment, Giulia stares at him seemingly dumbfounded in the middle of the street. Harry sees a couple of cars pass behind her. Eventually, again, she laughs. 'Right,' she declares and pulls the car door open. The Muggle man coming up the road in his own car hoots his horn and lowers his window, shouting at her to 'bloody look!'; in response, she turns around and throws him an outraged, 'Oi, cretino!' and another string of Italian curse words that Harry hasn't picked up on, yet. The man drives away hooting his horn again and Harry finds her back smiling at him a second later like nothing's happened. 'So, you reckon he's full of shit?' she says.

'I'd say so, yeah.'

She sighs. 'Alright. Let's radio dispatch, see if they can send another unit to tail him. He's seen our faces,' she observes. They've known each other long enough that Harry doesn't bother pointing out that they could probably change their appearances because it's almost noon and he knows why Giulia doesn't want to do that, now. 'Anyway,' she adds, quick, getting into the car. 'I'm fucking starving.'

They stop at a restaurant and sit at a round, metallic table with their orders on a tray. Giulia – for the past two weeks – has been hell-bent on ordering salads everywhere they go despite the truly foul mood this seems to put her in. Her flatmate's getting married over New Year's and from the information that Harry's managed to gather listening one of her many infamous monologues, dresses have been purchased – dresses that do not currently fit. When he suggested enlarging hers with magic, Giulia looked at him like he was a complete nutter so he never made any further comment.

(In the end, of course, she never goes to that wedding, but that's kind of beside the point.)

That day, she glares at him as he bites into his sandwich. 'Why is it that you eat so much and still look like,' she starts, frowns; he throws her a curious look. 'Like, I don't know. All … boy,' she says. 'And muscle.'

She says it like men are a completely foreign concept to her and Harry lets out a bit of a laugh. 'I didn't eat for a year,' he reminds her, pauses for another bite. 'Plus, I run five or six miles almost every day.'

She glares at him, then at her plate. 'There is that, I suppose.'

'Played Quidditch, too,' he adds. It may be adding insult to injury, here, but hey, she does take the piss out of him plenty. He touches his lips to a paper napkin. She glances up from her salad.

'Did you?' she asks, a look of genuine surprise on her face. 'I didn't know that! Why did I not know that?' she grins. He likes that she doesn't seem to read the press much, Giulia. 'Chaser?'

Mouth full, he shakes his head. Swallows. 'Seeker. My dad played chase. Ginny played both,' he adds, not quite sure why. Since he started seeing Mia, her name's become easier to mention. 'Well, mostly Chaser but she replaced me whenever I'd get stuck in detention -'

'-Which happened quite often, I imagine?'

He rolls his eyes and decides not to dignify that with a response. 'It's easier to find Chasers than Seekers, last minute. Or, at least it was for Gryffindor.'

'You didn't want to play pro?' she asks, then bites on another mouthful of rocket. She hides it well but he knows he's just caught her interest - rarely ever volunteers information about Ginny, or his family. This is nice, though. Harry trusts her.

'Considered it,' he shrugs. 'But honestly, it was a hobby. I mean, I love Quidditch, don't get me wrong, but Ginny wants to play pro and I've seen how much she trains. Never wanted to put that much effort into it.' Giulia laughs like: how surprising? True, he's never been the most dedicated pupil in the world. 'I don't know, it was just fun, you know? Once McGonagall mentioned I could become an Auror, that was it, I suppose.'

'Yeah, I get that,' she says, nods. Pushes a piece of beetroot about her plate. 'I think I'd quite have liked to play, maybe, at least try,' she tells him, shrugs. 'Slytherin didn't allow girls onto the team in my time, though, so that was kind of that.'

He catches her gaze, then, and although he's had suspicions about what her house might have been, it's the first time she's actually acknowledged it out loud. It's funny how, just a few years ago, it would have been huge, to him, to be friends with a Slytherin. Now, he barely finds it strange, how little he cares.

A war's come and gone, he supposes.

That is when, out of the blue, Giulia asks: 'So, tell me,' she pauses for a sip of water. 'What were you doing in a bar in Soho, yesterday, anyway? And, most importantly, who's the very attractive Muggle girl who had her hand on your arse the whole time?'

Ugh. Oh, God. Between an embarrassing blush, a coughing fit and the fact that he almost does choke mid-bite, it takes Harry a while to even recover enough to talk, let alone answer her question. While he busies himself chugging down his glass of water, she explains that she was on date when she saw him and is very curious as to who Mia is. For a moment, he rolls his eyes, then sets his glasses down in an attempt to hide his face in his hands.

To be honest, Giulia finding out probably wasn't his worst-case scenario. She's clearly not going to go and sell his secrets to the Prophet (or else, she would have done so a long time ago) and out of everyone he knows, she's probably the person who, beyond a general desire to take the piss, gives the least amount of fucks about who he's decided to shag. When he concedes defeat and admits that the girl is his Muggle neighbour, though, Giulia disgustingly winks at him and says: 'Well, now, that's convenient. Just have to walk down the stairs for a quick -'

She makes a rather obscene gesture, then, and Harry just groans and hides behind his palms again.

'D'you like her, though?' Giulia later asks. Harry sighs. 'Right, let me guess,' she smirks. 'Getting a bit of attention feels nice but you're not in love and she's not Ginny Weasley, and you're feeling guilty that you even like it, am I wrong?'

Harry says nothing but considers that no, Giulia is not wrong, as a matter of fact, it's a pretty accurate picture of the current situation. She chuckles again at the look on his face.

'You don't have to marry everyone you sleep with, Harry. It's called being young.'

They pay for their meals, make their way back to the car. A thought occurs to him and suddenly, it's like Harry can't get it out of his head. He follows Giulia, crosses the road almost on autopilot and tries to run through his memories of last night. He remembers the pub quite clearly, there was a large sign behind the bar that spelled out the word 'beer' but his surroundings are blurred, and –

'What is it?' Giulia asks.

They're in the car, now. 'I didn't see you,' he admits. 'Last night, I -'

At first, she chuckles. 'I mean, I'd be offended, but –'

'No, I -' he says, quickly cutting her off, the muscles tense in his jaw. He remembers: the month of June, hotel lobbies and Hermione calling him jumpy. 'You could have been anybody,' he adds. 'I didn't see you.'

And, for months, his ability to survive was contingent on his ability (and that of Ron and Hermione) to identify threats. To watch emergency exits, shop windows, be hyper aware of his surroundings at all times. A bar filled with innocent Muggles – Mia – and someone he knew, someone magical came in, and he didn't notice. They could have been attacked, could have –

'Hey,' Giulia interrupts. 'I'm a crap legilimens but even I can hear you thinking.' For a moment, he sets his jaw, says nothing. 'Harry -'

'Fuck, I should have -'

'Hey, you can't blame yourself for not knowing something you've never properly been taught,' she sighs. 'I mean, that kind of high-level surveillance stuff, they don't even teach it to you unless you make one of the high-risk units. Major crimes, hit-wizards, trafficking, that kind of thing,' she pauses for breath. He opens his mouth to object, but - 'Maybe, you're right, though. You being you, you might want to learn,' she adds. 'And, you know some of it already, don't think I haven't noticed. I've seen the way you watch people, the way in, the way out, but you're messy, self-taught; that is how you miss things. You noticed that man recognising you, earlier, but you didn't see me yesterday. You're right, that is a bit worrying. So, now,' she smiles, catches his gaze. 'Either you sit here and panic or …'

For a moment, he's not sure what to say and -

'You ask, Harry. Because in case you haven't noticed, you do happen to have a partner who's the highest ranking Auror in the building and actually knows all that shite. Funny, eh, how these things happen,' she laughs. 'I mean, if you want me to teach you, of course.'

She holds his gaze. For a second, he can't find his words. Then, he can't say yes fast enough.

Around the 20th of November, that year, Kingsley starts harassing him about the interview again. Three different memos land on Harry's desk over the course of that week, urging him to 'just pick someone or I will.' In a desperate attempt to get the man off his back, Harry, rather reluctantly, resorts to owling Hermione. In response, she sends him a five-foot-long essay on each of the reporters' careers and achievements to date, as though that was going help him choose (he's seriously considering simply tossing a coin, now). Ron, who seems reluctant to be pulled into this debate helpfully states: 'I don't know, mate. They all sound fine,' and Harry kind of rolls his eyes but also thinks the same. Over lunch on the South Bank that Sunday, he looks at Hermione across the table and says –

'Alright. Wand to your face, who would you choose?'

Ron immediately looks up, clearly scandalised by the sudden, suggested threat to Hermione's life but Hermione herself just sighs. 'Well, again, I think it should be your decision but -' she says, pushing the bit of lettuce that came with her burger around her plate. 'Wand to my face, I'd pick the second American, Laura Gellman. She said in her letter she'd negotiated a contract with The Owl for this, and they're a good magazine. She might be tough. From what I've seen, she really does her research.' She catches Harry's look. 'She'll probably come with Ed Trappoy, her photographer, but he checks out, too. Plus,' Hermione adds, 'She's the only Muggleborn on the list.'

That is an interesting factor to take into consideration, Harry thinks, but one that he kind of agrees with. He looks at Ron. 'What Hermione said?'

'Brilliant, then. I'll tell Kingsley.'

They spend the rest of the afternoon just the three of them, Apparate back to Harry's flat with a pack of Muggle beer and Harry's insistence that Ron at least try a sip out of his can of Coke ('It tastes like dragon pox potion, I swear!'). Hermione launches into an explanation of Coca-Cola, cocaine, Muggle medicine and father Christmas and all Harry can really think is that God, does he love the both them.

The interview is scheduled for the 14th of December. Until then, the only change Harry notices to his daily life is that Giulia's intensive surveillance training now sets his fucking teeth on edge. He knows he's asked for it, knows it is necessary, but it doesn't mean he likes it. She teaches him practically, through hypos, questions, profiling and rooms full of people. 'Here,' she says. 'Who's most likely to be a threat?' Who's really a Muggle, who's pretending to be? Who comes in, who comes out, how many people around them at any given time? Quickest exit? Quickest response, spell, way to evacuate? Everywhere, every day. Sometimes, they'll be entering a café for a snack, and she'll say: 'Okay, the man sitting at six o'clock, behind you. What does he look like?'

It's taxing, exhausting and at first, incredibly frustrating. Often, he's got no fucking clue. Then, slowly, she teaches him to observe. Mirrors, windows, wards, spells. At the Ministry, in the breakroom, even. 'Say, the woman over there attacks you, right now, what do you do?' Harry follows her look and –

'She's the mail lady,' he frowns. 'She's here every day.'

'Yeah, great cover, no one would ever suspect her,' Giulia laughs. 'Now, what do you do?'

For weeks, she's so relentless with him that he starts running facial recognition spells in his sleep. Strangely, however, Harry finds that for all the paranoia it should entail, the whole process actually calms him. Gradually, he feels more in control of his surroundings, less nervous about the world and the people who occupy it. Knowing what to do, who to trust, how he would act in an emergency steadies the tremors in his hands much more than the empty reassurances he's sometimes heard. For the first time in his life, he actually feels prepared. Wishes someone had taught him all this before he had to go on the run. Things might have been slightly easier for them all.

Of course, it doesn't mean he doesn't snap at Giulia. She pushes him like he's never been pushed before, so he supposes it comes with the territory. One Sunday afternoon, Ron, Seamus and the both of them are grabbing a late lunch at the Ministry, the only ones left in the cafeteria. When Seamus leaves the room for the loo, Ron gets up to refill their water. Giulia throws Harry a look. 'Go on, now. Who's the threat?'

His glance finds Ron's back, best mate oblivious, before finding hers again. 'No,' he says.

She smirks. 'Right, you're a Gryffindor, you stand up for your mates, appreciate it, thanks. Now, again, who's the most likely threat?'

Arms crossed over his chest, Harry just shakes his head at her. Ron is heading back towards them, now, so he hisses: 'No. I trust him with my life. I trust you with my life. No.'

He refuses to ever think about it again until a couple of nights later. They're on the rota for the Sussex stakeout (they've found two other stores selling magical contraband, fronting as Muggle shops – it's a whole operation, now) and Giulia keeps eyeing him. She says nothing, of course, knows she's planted the fucking seed and she bloody well keeps giving him looks about it, and –

'Fine,' he almost groans, throws his hands up in surrender. 'You. You're the threat in that scenario.'

She giggles, then smiles, delighted. 'Good answer. Why?'

For something to do, he pulls at the fabric of his jeans. 'I've known Ron longer.'

She hums, nods. 'That's a good place to start, you're right, but there's more.'

Harry snaps, rolls his eyes. 'Look, I don't know, he could have killed me at any given time during the last seven years.' He doesn't particularly like this conversation. 'Don't think that he will, now,' he adds, sarcastic. 'Do you?'

And, 'No,' she laughs, but pushes. Always pushes. 'Your point's irrelevant, though. We've been alone often enough, over the past few months; I could have killed you any time, too.'

In the dark, Harry finds her gaze. He knows what she wants him to say, what she's pushing for. It doesn't mean that he wants to say it. For a moment, he focuses his look on the back of the car in front of them. 'Your past,' he concedes. 'You were associated with Death Eaters. He never was.'

A beat passes; she says nothing. The warming charm that they've cast around themselves is starting to build fog on the windows of the car. Harry reaches to wipe it off with his palm. 'Good,' she finally smiles. 'Taught you well.'

A couple of days later, Robards gets hit by a curse while out shopping with his family in Diagon Alley. It's a coordinated attack, plain and simple - whatever's left of Voldemort's followers claim responsibility through a communiqué to the Daily Prophet a couple hours later. The caster of the curse itself is a kid, barely fourteen years old, probably imperiused. The next day, the headlines read Are We Truly Safe? and even if Harry tries not to think about it too much, he finds himself purposefully kissing Mia long enough, a couple nights later, that she forgets about going to the restaurant and lets him order in. At Grimmauld, the young Aurors amongst them check and re-check the wards on the house three times a day and Hermione writes that even McGonagall has told people to keep an eye out. Their last training classes with the Head Auror get pushed back to the start of December until he gets out of hospital and in the meantime, they all have circular conversations that ask: will this ever end?

Harry spends a lot of time with Mia during those days. She's studying for exams and preparing to go home for Christmas, jokingly assures him that his presence is excellent stress relief. He tends to think the same is true about her. Whatever they have works even better, then, because she seems to be on a sleeping schedule that rivals his – they sometimes arrange these odd dates for sex at three o'clock in the morning and in the end, while it means that Harry does go jogging a bit less, that winter, the rain now turns into sleet and burns at his cheeks whenever he does, so he can't imagine himself complaining.

'You alright?' she asks him, once. It's the night before Robards gets back to work.

Harry nods, the low glow of her bedside lamp casting shadows over her curves, skin warm against his. 'Yeah,' he mutters.

Their last class gets postponed again the moment the boss is back, though, because the Aurors' 24/7 Christmas schedule turns into a fucking shit show. Harry's told this happens every year. That week, people in the department – people he respects – suddenly lose all sense of restraint, going completely mental over their allocated PTO. There are those who want Christmas Day off, those who want New Year's, those who absolutely have to go to their cousin's mate's wedding on the 29th (what are people who get married in winter thinking, for the love of Merlin?) In the end, Harry thinks that honestly, Ron and he come out pretty lucky. Ron's working the 24th but only in the morning and gets the 25th off through random allocation. This means that he can spend both the evening of the 24th and the 25th at The Burrow, keeping his mother (and, secretly, he) if not happy, at least content. With that part of the issue sorted, Harry, like most people, decides to just walk up to Robards' office the moment the man gets back from medical leave.

'Oh, for the love of - you too?' Robards asks with an exasperated sigh, shutting the door behind Harry with a wave of his wand. 'It's the tenth time I have to change the schedule, Potter, this better be good.'

'Er,' Harry starts. He looks down at his feet, then back at Robards. 'I was just going to say I can work through Christmas and New Year's, if it's needed.'

Robards wordlessly gapes, for a moment. 'Oh -' Then, he frowns. 'Are you sure? You haven't taken time off since you started.'

A shrug. What's great about Robards is that he doesn't care. Not really. 'Yeah, I'll take some in January,' Harry claims, which he supposes even Robards knows is an outrageous lie. 'I mean,' he adds. 'Not like I have a family, you know?'

Robards gives him a look like, fair point, and leaves it at that. This is a relief because now, with the new rota that comes out a few minutes later, Harry can go talk to Ron and say, 'Yeah, I'm working the entire time. Yeah, I know, it's shite, isn't it?' thus avoiding his best mate's dreaded invitation to The Burrow.

It's not that Harry doesn't want to go, per se. He assumes he'll pop over at some point if he has a free afternoon, like he's been doing since September - often when Teddy and Andromeda are there. He loves Ron's family (of course, he does), but being left alone with Molly and Arthur since his break-up with Ginny and the Narcissa apocalypse last summer has become less than ideal. Christmas dinner will likely be a meal of tiptoeing around everyone and silently mourning Fred while desperately missing Ginny (despite the fact that she'll be right there - within arm's reach – yet, so fucking far away). Hermione, he gathers, is spending the holidays with her parents in the Muggle world, so considering all the Burrow's got to offer is a Christmas of heartbreak and grief, Harry decides that he'd rather be working.

Giulia, of course, disagrees with his analysis. 'Ah, you too?' she asks when she notices his name now down for the 23rd, 24th, 25th, 26th and so on. She's working Christmas week but managed to trade her days off in late December with a couple of people to be able to attend her flatmate's wedding. 'I imagine they'll keep us partnered up, then,' she sighs. 'D'you know what, Harry? This is just fucking outrageous. Why is it always the people who have families and kids who end up having a good Christmas and all I always get, every year, is this fucking shite?'

In the moment, he doesn't really dare tell her he volunteered for this, because then she would certainly ask why, and it would become a thing. (Later, well, he wishes… a lot of things.) Ultimately, the whole scheduling predicament gets (somewhat) resolved over the first week of December, which brings the new Aurors' last lesson with Robards to Monday, the 7th.

That day, Harry makes sure to sit at the back of the class. Ron barely mutters a 'Hello,' when he sits next to him and with that, Harry becomes pretty sure that Hermione's had him look over the curriculum in advance, too.

Their last module spreads over a full day: a theory lecture in the morning, followed by a four-hour practice slot at the spell-casting range in the afternoon. Over the past few weeks, Harry's learnt that there are spells that they have to learn to resist (Imperio), spells that they are simply never authorised to cast (Crucio), and spells that they just can't practise on each other without running the risk of inflicting serious, bodily harm. This obviously falls into the last category.

Sometimes, it's silly stuff: setting fire to mountains of crap, controlling and increasing the power of the flames at will. Sometimes, it's inflicting pretty unfortunate injuries to rats. Once, Parvati boldly asks why they don't just fire them at dummies and Robards just glares at her and snaps back: 'You really think that would teach you anything?'

Harry almost counters him on principle, but then Ron sends his best mate a warning look like the fate of lab rats isn't one particularly worth getting fired over. Perhaps, it is a sign that he's grown into an adult, now, that Harry reluctantly lets that one slide.

For their last lecture, Robards writes two words with his wand, in capital letters, onto the blackboard, and Harry stares straight ahead, motionless, because he can tell the man's gaze is on him. What honestly feels strange, that morning, above all else, is that there even is a theory to the spell, something to be learnt. 'It's a bit like a Patronus charm,' Robards explains and the comparison makes Harry feel sick. 'Except, instead of hope and happy memories, you summon fury, or hate. All the anger you can come up with is welcome, here, ladies and gents.'

They go through the strict conditions upon which the spell can be cast:

an immediate risk to your life or the life of others

other methods of restraining the individual have been materially attempted, to no avail

fleeing or retreating through Disapparition or any other means is either unsafe, or not available

Harry kind of listens but also kind of doesn't, like the whole lesson happens behind one, big cloud of smoke.

At the range that afternoon, he can't take his eyes off the rat. Usually, they use two sets of targets: an enlarged rat to practice the spell itself, first, then a bunch of tiny ones that magically appear out of thin air, running around in an enclosure, to practice their aim. So, this is it, Harry thinks, staring as his rat. It stands there, looks back at him, bound to a table, about eighty feet away. There's something in its gaze that Harry can't quite shake off, like it already knows what's coming to him. He loosely wonders if the rat is actually a thing transfigured into an animal or if the little guy had little rat parents, once upon a time, siblings or – God forbid – rat children. You're being ridiculous, get a fucking grip.

In fairness to her, Opal is the bravest of them all. She's the first to actually say the words. In the silence, there's almost an apologetic tone to her spell, though, and her wand produces absolutely nothing.

'All right!' Robards bellows out from behind them, walking up and down the range. 'Now, the lady's shown us all where it's at, will you lot stop fucking about and get on with it? We don't have a whole month, here!'

This does seem to shake most of the trainees around Harry into action. It's easier that way because at least, it's a hubbub of voices shouting stuff around him, rather than just one, very distinct spell repeated over and over again. In his head, he cuts the noise out, focuses on his rat. When, later, Robards goes around the room, correcting posture and shouting instructions at people over the tumult, Harry notices that he purposefully avoids his booth, going from the person to his right to the person to his left. Supposes that since he's probably the only one who hasn't uttered a word since they came in (has Ron? he wonders), there's not much to be said.

The first to actually produce something of substance is Seamus. His booth is right next to Harry's and suddenly, to his left, there's a flash of green light and a loud, 'Fecking hell!' Harry figures that Seamus must have dropped his wand in surprise because his spell adopts an odd upwards curve and hits the ceiling. 'Oh, fantastic, Finnegan! Great one!' Robards' voice echoes somewhere far in the fog that seems to surround Harry's brain but all that he knows, right now, is that he needs to get out of there.

Shoves his wand into his back pocket and practically runs out the door. It's only then, safe, between the white walls of the empty corridor outside the range that Harry realises that his hands are shaking. That his legs are shaking, knees threatening to give out, breaths coming out staggered and ragged, heart racing and pumping adrenaline through his veins, and fuck, he hasn't had one of those in a while. Suddenly, he closes his eyes and all he can see is Tom. Not Voldemort, just Tom. Handsome and sixteen, and the moss of the forest underneath his fingertips, and –

Breathe, a voice whispers, in his head. It sounds like wind in the trees and last summer. Breathe. In and out, and in, and out. Slow, Harry, breathe.

It's a good ten minutes before the panic truly recedes. By then, Harry realises that Ron's also come out of the room, sat next to him and said nothing. He sets his jaw, feels his body tense next to his. 'I can't get it out either,' Ron says.

'No, you can,' Harry quickly interrupts, his voice much steadier than he feels. He knows that.Is actually more confident in Ron's ability than in anyone else's, knows that his best mate is a much better wizard than he's ever given himself credit for. There's no reason why he couldn't get it out. It's a spell, just a spell, and the both of them have had enough anger pent up in them for years, now, to tear down fucking walls.

'Maybe physically, yeah,' Ron sighs. 'But –'

'That's all it is, though,' Harry speaks, then. The words ground him. 'It's physical. Your heart beats, then it stops.' And so, it is physics – only physics – that he has nightmares about, isn't it? Could have been as simple as formulas that calculate the speed at which the Earth rotates. 'They're right, though,' he adds. Tries to think rationally, like Hermione. Ron usually lets himself get convinced by Hermione. 'Being able to get it out, out there, it could save loads of people.'

'Harry -'

'I'm fine,' he says. He is. 'And, I do think that. Really.' Because, truth be told, while he did cast Expelliarmus at Voldemort back in May, Harry also knows that he would have strangled the man with his bare hands if it'd been needed to save his best mate. Or, for that matter, save anybody else.

When the both of them re-enter, the room goes quiet. Everyone's stares are on Harry as he walks back up to his booth. Looks at the rat in front of him and mutters: 'I'm sorry.'

Shuts his eyes. Opens them. In his head, Tom Riddle murders the mother who called him brave.

'Avada Kedavra,' he just says.

A flash of green light, the rat falls dead. The target table turns and three more rats appear, running around it. Harry's aim has always been on point so really, once he's mastered the spell, that part's not really a challenge. 'Avada Kedavra,' he repeats and this time, his father falls, wandless, at the bottom of the stairs. It's seconds before the rats all lie dead.

(Later, people tell him that he's the first trainee in history to ever master the spell on first try, to ever kill all four rats in under thirty seconds with a methodology and focus that rivals that of Tom Riddle himself. He's not sure what to make of that.)

Robards materialises behind him, faded blue eyes set on the dead rats. All the noise around them muted, Harry hears the Head Auror inhale, exhale, like steps echoing against the marble floors of an empty cathedral. He waves his wand - in front of Harru, the rats vanish.

'Alright, Potter,' Robards breathes out. 'I heard you're a good teacher. Help the others.'

Harry pockets his wand and nods.

That evening, most of them file out of the changing rooms quickly. They're exhausted, Ron's got to help George close up the shop but somehow, Harry can't imagine going home. He heads back to his desk, pours over the admin of the Sussex case until well after it gets dark.

It's past eight when Giulia stands next to him in the candlelight. 'I spoke with Kingsley,' she states. 'Who spoke with Robards.' A pause. 'Who said good things,' she adds. 'He was very impressed.' She sits at the edge of the desk. 'Do you want to talk about it?'

'No,' he shakes his head. A pause between them - she sits against the edge of his desk. Dark composite wood under cheap, low lights. 'You know why they tried to take down Robards, right?'

She looks down to her black leather Ministry-issued boots. 'Yeah,' she nods. In the dark, her eyes are almost grey when Harry finds them set on his. It's a scare tactic, the last bullets of a war fought in dark corners rather than battlefields. Robards is someone who leads by example, and leaders can't get scared (or else, everyone else behind them tips over, a loss of confidence like a series of dominos). 'He's fine. He came back,' she observes.

The words are choked from the back of his throat. Harry shakes his head. 'He is scared. He's just not showing it.'

'Yeah, you would know.'

He finds her gaze again and between the two of them, the only sound that escapes is the regular tip tapping of a typewriter in the back of the room, charmed to type up reports on its own. He opens his mouth to say - to say nothing, effectively. There is her hand, heavy and steady against his shoulder; she doesn't apologise, doesn't say 'sorry' for all the things that happened to him, isn't the kind of person to apologise for what isn't within her control. A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. 'Come on, get your coat. Let's go to the pub, tell jokes and get pissed.'

He sort of sighs and sort of laughs at the same time. 'Yeah,' he says. 'Okay.'

It's not one of his best decisions, probably, and he pays for it with a hangover the next day, but as he's about to talk to the press and shoulder his responsibility as The Boy Who Lived once more, most likely, it's the last time he can actually let himself be the irresponsible kid who makes it.

On the second Monday of December, the interview finally occurs. After a quick conversation with Kingsley, they decide to have it at Grimmauld Place. The Ministry is too much a gossip mill and Harry prefers to keep his own flat – and its location – private. By then, a thick, freezing fog has taken over London; he has Kreacher light all of the fires in the house in an attempt to keep the damp out.

Hermione was right: Laura, the journalist, shows up with her photographer. Harry heads downstairs to open the door for them, curses loudly when he stubs his toe on a bucket of paint on the way, offers them the tea and biscuits that Kreacher's prepared for the occasion. The both of them are warm, polite as they settle in; Harry notices the way Laura looks at the house as they walk into the study, the magic in the air, like she's taking everything in. Twenty years after she probably started school, there still seems to be a part of her that thinks all of this might not be real. Harry isn't Muggleborn but he knows what that looks like, sometimes feels the exact same.

For the sake of completeness, it seems that he should also present her version of events. So, once it comes out, this is what the article reads:

Meeting Harry Potter, these days, is already an adventure in and of itself. Since the end of the Second Wizarding War in the United Kingdom, on May 2nd, 1998, the eighteen-year-old has been notoriously discreet. To our knowledge, he has turned down all other press interview requests over the past few months – both domestic and international - and his constant presence in the headlines overseas has mostly been due to the work of third parties (for our recap on the Malfoy controversy, see page 10) rather than his own. For this interview, we made our inquiry in July and only received a response in November. When I ask Mr. Potter about this, he smiles and concedes, "It's been a weird few months."

After going through an extensive security clearance process with the British Ministry of Magic (see also, our interview of Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt at page 30), we meet Mr. Potter at his house on Grimmauld Place, in the No-Maj borough of Islington, London. The address, scribbled on a piece of paper in Mr. Potter's handwriting, is shown to us by the Minister of Magic himself, before being burned. The day before we are allowed in, we meet some of our British colleagues out on Mr. Potter's doorstep.

"It's a Fidelius charm," Miss Eleanor Fforde explains; she writes for the British magazine Witch Weekly. "Means that unless you've been expressly told the location, you can stand out here all you want, you won't ever be able to see the house," she adds. "We think Potter's Secret Keeper, possibly [Ronald] Weasley and [Hermione] Granger, too. They're all definitely in there, that we know, along with the other Hogwarts kids that Potter's welcomed in. We get glimpses, sometimes – they'll Apparate from the top step or something. A few months ago, Potter and his ex sort of tumbled out of there, after a party. Now, that was exciting. Since then, though, nothing."

When we later ask him about this, Mr. Potter does not hide his smirk. "Well, she's not wrong," he tells us, and laughs. I mention the other rumors we've heard according to which he, himself, does not live at the house but in another secret, undisclosed location in No-Maj London. He smiles. "I'm not going to tell you where I live. Believe it or not, regardless of what Mrs. Malfoy seems to think, I've not gone completely mad, yet." For what it is worth, per our own impression, he actually seems anything but. "That being said, yeah, they've tried to tail me a couple of times. Always manage to lose them, though. Auror training and all. It's a bit of game, really." I note that he seems rather relaxed for someone who still has a twenty-million-Dragots price on his head. He quickly ironizes: "Merlin, it's gone up, hasn't it?"

Over the afternoon that we spend with him, "Harry," as he insists we call him, appears much older and more grounded than his years would suggest. He takes us through the house and into a study, telling us about the renovation works we notice around him. "I inherited the place from Sirius. His family was quite keen on the whole pureblood décor." He is right: above the top shelf of the bookcases that sit behind him, we notice the family's motto still carved into the wall. "It translates as 'always pure,'" Harry explains. "We've been trying to clean the place up, make it more breathable, but it's a bit of an ongoing project at the moment. Obviously," he laughs, pointing at the mess around him.

By "Sirius," Harry means Sirius Black, his late godfather. Once accused of having betrayed Mr. Potter's parents, Mr. Black passed away when his godson was only fifteen, after two years spent on the run, following a prison breakout. At the end of the war, Harry insisted that he be posthumously cleared of all charges. "It wasn't him," he tells us. "It was another one of my dad's friends, Peter Pettigrew. He even helped Voldemort* return." By then, Mr. Potter was fourteen. He was held captive, tortured and almost killed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named before fighting his way out. When he told the world about it, no one believed him. "Though, to tell you truth," he quickly adds. "I'm not sure it really matters who betrayed them, in the end. Sirius's dead, Peter's dead, Riddle's dead, and it hasn't brought them back. Revenge's never really been what I was after."

Through our later investigations, we also find that our colleague from Witch Weekly was correct. Since last September, Mr. Potter has indeed opened the house he owns up to a number of his former Hogwarts classmates, free of charge. Most of them were members of a once illegal organization called "Dumbledore's Army," started by Harry in his Sophomore year and named after the well-known, but now slightly controversial, former Headmaster of the school, Albus Dumbledore. The students who belonged to this organization have all since been recognized by the British Ministry for their invaluable role in defeating You-Know-Who during the 1998 Battle of Hogwarts (for a note on the organization and our editorial on the significant role played by child and teenage soldiers during the UK's Second Wizarding War, see page 2).

Together, Harry explains that they now have not only begun renovating his house as side-hustle, but also formed C.A.S.H.C.O.W, a charitable organization aimed at providing support to children affected by the aftermath of the war and by You-Know-Who's authoritarian regime. Together, they've raised funds for a variety of projects, including the housing and care of orphaned children, and the financing of remedial classes for No-Maj students who were not able to attend school, last year. Harry's own eight-month-old godson, Edward Lupin, lost both his parents in the final Battle in May. We understand that Mr. Potter regularly gives large amounts of his significant family inheritance (currently estimated over a hundred million Dragots) to the charity. While he refuses to confirm a specific figure, a source within the Ministry has assured us that he has contributed for over half of the charity's total expenses for the year of 1998.

Overall, when Harry reads the final product of the four-hour interview, he thinks it's quite… fair. Laura is careful, she takes her notes by hand (bit peculiar, but why not?) and uses a Muggle tape recorder as a back-up. 'There are two tapes,' she explains, early on. 'One for me, one for you. So, we're all on the same page.'

At the bottom of the first page of the article, a note even reads: *We note that over the course of our interview, Mr. Potter refers to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named alternatively as "Riddle," or "Tom Riddle," (his birthname) or simply as "Voldemort." While we understand that this might hurt some of our readership's sensibilities, we have decided not to alter Mr. Potter's words in our article. Using these names is a conscious decision on Mr. Potter's part, and a reflection of his beliefs.

It's a lot more than the The Prophet's ever done with any of his past declarations and generally, Laura seems, like Hermione had anticipated, to be willing to do the work. Harry doesn't particularly like a lot of the questions that she asks, but maybe that's also part of it.

Her photographer takes a number of pictures, throughout the afternoon. Harry's asked to pose for some of them, sometimes looking straight into the camera and sometimes not. He complies but does momentarily wonder if he maybe should have dressed a little better than jeans and a non-descript, grey t-shirt. Can already anticipate the Prophet writing a detailed analysis entitled: Why Does Potter Dress Like a Muggle?

When she talks, Laura's accent has something of a warm, slow drawl to it; it calms him. She grills Harry about his childhood in the 'No-Maj' world, what he thinks it brought him. 'It might have shielded me a bit,' he admits. 'But, overall, it wasn't great. Not because they were Muggles, I mean, I think it was just the particular circumstances they were in. Petunia – my aunt – she had to grieve my mother three times. First when she lost her to our world, then when she lost her to my father, and lastly when she actually died. As a result, she hated magic. It builds up a lot of … resentment.'

They also talk about Dumbledore ('I'm not angry,' Harry answers. 'I'm glad I believed in him. But, yeah, he was complicated'), the Horcruxes, Ron and Hermione.

'You three seem really close,' Laura observes.

'They're the only reason I'm still alive,' he responds.

Eventually, they do get to the topic of Narcissa Malfoy. Harry's honest about it. Admits that he did threaten her, that she used his godson to try and blackmail him and that he overreacted. 'I understand you didn't want to talk to the press about what happened in the forest?' Laura asks. He nods. 'So, what did happen in the forest?'

As an answer, Mr. Potter points us to the British Ministry of Magic's most recent press release on the topic. I ask if he'd be willing to tell us more. "Everything that's in there is the truth, there's not much else to be said," he argues. "Even Narcissa's acknowledged that I gave myself up, walked down there unarmed. It was the only way to ensure that Riddle could be killed, that the others would stand a chance to win the war. Then, she says I was running away. And, then, in the next breath, she says I was suicidal. She can't even make up her mind, it seems." I try to ask Harry about what it felt like, going down there, thinking that he was going to die, but he immediately closes off. "All the facts are in the press release," he says. When I question him about why he doesn't want to elaborate, he laughs and asks: "I don't know. Would you want to?"

(The real answer to that question forever stays with Giulia, he thinks. The only other person who ever really knows is Ginny - but that's later. She knows because she does, because she understands, and he never even needs to tell her with words.)

At one point, Laura asks Harry a question, that he does find interesting. 'Allegedly,' she starts, glancing down at her notes. 'You were seen casting the Cruciatus Curse on a Death Eater by the name of Amycus Carrow, ahead of the Battle of Hogwarts. Miss Granger and Mr Weasley have also confirmed that a goblin was imperio-ed during your Gringotts break-in and have both refused to identify the person who cast the curse in their depositions, simply stating that it wasn't them. Do you have a comment to make?'

'I can confirm that it wasn't them.'

'Are you confirming it was you?'

'No,' he laughs. Again, he thinks, I've not gone completely mad. 'I'm simply confirming that it wasn't them.'

Laura smiles. 'There were only three wizards at the scene.'

'Well, then, like I said: "no comment."'

She huffs out a bit of a laugh, too, then asks: 'Okay, regardless, what do you think of Mrs Malfoy's arguments? That the Ministry should have investigated and possibly charged you for any wrongdoings. Same way that she and her family were? She argues that because you refused to cooperate with the commission and did not sign your immunity agreement, there is no reason for you to be given special treatment.'

At that, Mr. Potter responds: "I don't know, honestly. Maybe, she does have a point. I'm not the Ministry. It's not my job to tell who's guilty and who's not. I'll testify at her trial, say that she and her son, at different points last year, did save my life. That's the truth. They also allowed Narcissa's sister, Bellatrix, to torture my best friend under their own roof. That's all I can do, really, at this point, tell the truth. I regret not doing it earlier, giving her ammunition, lying about what happened in the forest and all that. But last spring, everyone wanted answers and all we needed - me, Ron and Hermione - was quiet, really." I ask him if he feels guilty. "About any of the things you've listed?" he smiles. "No, not really." About other things, then? Here, he sighs. "Yeah. I feel guilty for every single person who died before I went and gave myself up, last year. That's not something I think will ever really go away, or something I can change."

She asks him what he thinks of the Death Eater trials that are starting in the new year. 'As a concept?' he asks. 'I don't know. Not a fan of it considering how it turned into witch hunt, last time around. But at the same time, you do have to get people to own up to the things they've done, don't you? Honestly, I stand with Kingsley on this. I do think that with the popular juries, the accused having a right to their lawyers - they're really doing their best to make sure it's as fair as it can be. Azkaban also isn't what it used to be.'

Before leaving, we ask Mr. Potter one last question – about his love life. We understand that his recent break-up with former classmate, Miss Ginevra Weasley (Ronald's younger sister), was largely publicized in the British, tabloid press. At first, Mr. Potter seems quite reluctant to talk about it. Then, despite the rumors we'd heard about his notoriously quick temper, it is the first time that day, that we see him genuinely angry. "Look, they can write whatever they want about me," he tells us. "I'm a public figure, apparently that's fair game; I'm used to it. But the stuff they wrote about her, especially Witch Weekly, it's just appalling. Ginny and I were together, then we broke up – well, she broke up with me; everyone knows that – but the fact that it was accidentally caught on camera does not give anyone the right to abuse her the way they have. Some of the things that they've written about her, how she was just after me for money or fame, making lists of all the boys she's dated before, it couldn't be further from the truth. It's despicable and insulting, and outrageous."

I ask why he thinks such comments have been made. "Well, because she's a girl," he tells me. "They would never write that kind of stuff about me. You know, Hermione once told me: 'When a girl dates lots of boys, she's a slut. When a boy dates lots of girls, he's "great fun" or "one of the lads."' That's true, and it really shouldn't be. And, don't get me wrong, I wasn't happy we broke up. I love her." When he reads that line in the article, Harry actually has to put the magazine down and go play the tape Laura gave him again, cringing at the fact that yes, right, he did use present tense, there. "But she had her reasons. If I can respect that, so should Witch Weekly."

I ask Harry if he's been seeing anyone else, recently. He seems to consider his answer. "Yes," he finally concedes. "She's a [No-Maj] so I suppose that at least, thanks to the Statute of Secrecy, no one can go and stalk her, can they?"

After the interview, he asks when they will go to print. It's scheduled for the 20th of December, just before Christmas, they say, and promise to send him a couple of courtesy copies. Because of the way mail's transferred across continents, Harry can expect everyone in England to be able to get a copy by the 21st. He's off work that day and the next, he remembers, so at least, there is that.

Before then, the one thing he does is to write to Ginny. The whole quote about dating someone else kind of escaped him, so did all that stuff about bloody Witch Weekly. He's trying to prevent another disaster from happening.

Harry writes about fifty drafts. First, he can't settle on a greeting: Hi? Hey? Dear? Then, it's: Gin, or Ginny – not Ginevra – maybe no name at all? There are a handful of letters in which he admits that yes, he does love her, still – but he quickly burns those. Sometimes, he finds he almost wants to tell her that things with Mia aren't serious, that she'd just have to lift a finger and he'd come back in an instant. Then, it occurs to him that Ginny might not think very highly of that, either. He gets a bit bitter towards the end, asks why the reasons she gave for their break-up don't make any fucking sense. The last draft he tosses out randomly asks if the Quidditch season is going well.

In the end, he settles on:

Hi Gin,

I hope you're doing well.

I just wanted to let you know that I did an interview with an American magazine (not much, just a few questions they had about the war and all). They asked about us(he strikes that hard and hopes she won't be able to read). They asked and I told them I was seeing someone new. She's a Muggle (he considers telling her it's Mia, the neighbour she encouraged him to befriend, but quickly decides against it). I understand if you don't want to write back but I expect it'll be in the article so I just thought it'd be best if you learnt it from me first. It should be out by the 21st.

Anyway, again, hope all is well.

Yours,

Harry.

He spends the next fifteen minutes obsessing over his use of the word 'Yours,' (he's not hers, technically, not anymore, although in his head he kind of still is -) but Merlin, fuck this, he finally sighs, throws in the towel and Floos over to Grimmauld Place. He ties the letter around Pig's paw and watches him fly away, already regretting every word.

Harry finds the bird on his windowsill when he gets home from work the next day. Her response is not even a letter; it's just a note (he supposes she didn't agonise over this as much as he did, did she?). He unties it with fumbling fingers.

Cool, thanks for letting me know.

Gin.

He has no fucking response to that.

On the morning of the 21st, a gorgeous, Northern Hawk owl taps at his window, gives him a little bit of a fright, at eight o'clock in the morning. Mia's gone home for the holidays so he expects to be spending the next two days in his pyjamas, watching something stupid like East Enders on his brand-new TV, and generally avoiding the rest of the world. Granted, he's changed, grown and learnt since last summer, but not that much.

To complement the interview, Harry sees that the magazine's decided to run an entire special edition dedicated to the British Wizarding War. Flicking through the pages, he sees a number of investigative pieces on Voldemort's reign, his followers, collaborators and facilitators. A number of their staff also seems to have talked to a few people on Harry's side (including Neville as the spokesperson for C.A.S.H.C.O.W), Kingsley, Narcissa Malfoy (nothing new there, Harry sees that she's still playing the same tune) and a number of other ministry officials.

His own face is obviously on the front page (ugh) and it feels a bit weird: the way he recognises himself, but also doesn't. The picture is a black-and-white portrait. In it, he's looking straight into the camera, a somewhat neutral but strangely determined expression on his face. It moves, of course, but only, very barely. Just a breath, a few seconds; his gaze subtly goes to his left, then refocuses. The angle accentuates his jaw line, the three days' worth of stubble at his cheeks. He looks like himself, but also not. Like a kid, but also not.

The other photos are more like the ones he's used to. They're coloured - bit of a change from The Prophet – but it's generally him, at different points of the afternoon in Grimmauld Place. On the couch, by the bookshelf. In one of them, he's absentmindedly petting Hermione's cat. In another, he's talking animatedly about something (he remembers this was the point when they asked him about why he felt so strongly about C.A.S.H.C.O.W.), the soles of his trainers balanced at the edge of the coffee table.

"Please, Call Me 'Harry,'" the title reads.

He rolls his eyes at that, a tad, but he does suppose that it must be how these things sell.

When it comes out, Ron thinks it's 'Brilliant!' and, a bit shyly, thanks him for giving he and Hermione so much credit. Harry didn't even think that he had – again, he just told the truth, didn't he? His best mate also says: 'Good one, making them think you're dating a Muggle,' which Harry, all things considered, decides not to correct.

Hermione's not so easily charmed. She sends him another five-foot detailed critique of his every word, highlighting strengths and weaknesses ('You do come off a bit arrogant there, Harry'). Overall, though, she seems to conclude the whole thing is well-written, truthful, and generally what she was hoping it to be. I think it was good for you to do this, Harry, she writes. It sets the record straight before the trials and makes you sound a bit more… human. Someone people can get behind. He thinks of that night when he got drunk with Giulia when he reads that, then tries not to think about it. I also liked what you said about Witch Weekly. They're probably going to come at you for being a feminist, now. Is that what he is? Oh, and objectively, you do look very handsome in that front-page picture, too.

He bursts out a laugh at that, mostly because of her use of the word 'objectively,' like there's a metre to fill or boxes to tick. He certainly wouldn't call himself 'handsome' by any means but he does have to acknowledge the fact that this particular high-quality, professional photo of him is more flattering than the usual shots the paps manage to get here and there.

Hermione, in her letter, has the courtesy not to mention the 'Muggle girl' situation. For that, Harry's grateful.

Kingsley's generally satisfied, too. He's not quite over the moon about the part where Harry practically dares the Ministry to charge him with multiple counts of Unforgivable curses ('We are obviously not going to do that, Harry,') but overall, the interview seems to have driven both the Ministry's and Harry's approval ratings up by ten points. When it's just the both of them in the room, Kingsley also says Remus would have been proud and Harry decides not to question it, to just take it as it comes and simply believe.

Neville thanks him profusely for drawing so much attention to C.A.S.H.C.O.W., which occupies nearly a page of the article. Harry raves about the good work that they're doing, encourages people to donate. It's actually the part of the whole operation that he's happiest about, and something that he doesn't really think he needs to be thanked for.

When he makes it back into work on the 23rd, Giulia, himself, Ron and his new Christmas-period partner, Thaddeus, get the Ministry cars out at the crack of dawn on a report of a couple of Dementors, allegedly spotted loose in an abandoned factory on the outskirts of Birmingham. Thaddeus grumbles all the way down to the car park about the report being bogus and Ron keeps repeating that he 'fucking hate[s] those bloody Dementors, anyway.' Harry thinks it's way too early to express (or even have) any opinion on the matter and Giulia, it seems, can hardly keep her giggles to herself.

She sits in the passenger seat of the car and, with her wand lit up, reads the entire interview out loud back to him. Harry believes that he might one day murder her in her sleep, but also has to admit that part of him can't stop laughing at her sarcastic commentary. '"Revenge's never really been what I was after." Saint-bloody-Harry, aren't you? I mean, do you listen to yourself sometimes?'

'It's true!' Harry counters and gives her a half-hearted eye-roll.

She laughs. 'You know what? The worst part is: it probably is,' she mocks. 'Which is why you're the hero of the wizarding world and I'm, like, your nasty Aunt Peggy.'

He snorts. 'Petunia,' he corrects. 'Her name's Petunia.'

'Same thing. Merlin, you should send a copy of that magazine to them, you know? Shove it right up in their face.'

They laugh all the way through the twenty-minute trip up to Birmingham but when they land just outside the factory, she puts her hand on his left arm before he goes to open the door. 'I'm taking the piss and all but you know it's a good thing, right? What you did?' she asks, genuine, like she wants to know, ensure that someone (anyone) has actually told him. She's his trainer, his mentor, one of the best Auror he's ever met and it's strange, how much this suddenly means to him, coming from her. She's clearly never had any issues calling him out on his shit in the past so now, he knows she's telling the truth. 'This is good stuff,' she adds. 'Stepping up. Telling people the truth. Being you. Promoting the charity and all. It's things to be proud of. Not sirens and shite, yeah?' she laughs.

He nods, once. They're going in to capture Dementors and Merlin, he thinks that (right there) might actually be Patronus-worthy. He remembers wanting to tell Hermione he was shite at everything, after Ginny left, but perhaps, he isn't. He just needed time to figure it out.

'Thanks,' he tells her. She smiles, shows a bit of teeth and little lines at the corner of her eyes.

(In the grand scheme of things, though, very little of that matters, that day. Not the press, not the trials, not the sarcastic commentary, or even the Dementors. That is because there are no Dementors.

Harry doesn't know that yet, not at this precise moment, but they're walking into an ambush, aren't they? And, because Giulia dies, that day, it's the last smile she ever gives him.)