Castles

by pebblysand

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

9. out of bronze (compasses)

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ix. out of bronze (compasses)

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After the incident at the post office, Harry takes two weeks to write to Ginny. It might not sound like much but given the circumstances, it's a lifetime. 'I didn't know what you were thinking,' she admits, months later, when they finally meet. 'If you'd changed your mind.'

The only hesitation in her words, that morning, rests on that last syllable, the word 'mind,' drawn out somewhere in a non-existent space of punctuation between a full stop and an ellipsis. She explains that she wrote to him every night. That those letters, she didn't keep, = binned them to be later vanished by an army of Hogwarts house-elves. Harry's gaze traces the outline of the lake in front of them; they are sitting on the grass, the earth humid beneath their bums. 'I thought it was just me,' he says. He wrote to her, too, but nothing made it out of London until the end of January. Words never sounded like what was in his head. He also didn't like the sound of what was in his head. 'I'm not very good at it. Writing. Not like you, anyway. On top of everything else, it's a bit intimidating.'

'On top of everything else' is probably the greatest euphemism of all but Ginny barely raises an eyebrow at it. 'You seemed to manage fine,' she observes and there is the slightest hint of reproach in her voice, like her mother when she claims that the "boys" have missed a few too many Sunday roasts. Harry's jaw tenses; if anything's changed over the past few months it's that he isn't scared of a disappearing act anymore. If she leaves, if they fight, it is what it is.

He turns his head to see her face. The bridge of her nose and the outline of her lips. 'You left all your shit on my doorstep and fucked off to Hogwarts.'

She takes the hit of his words without a flinch, staring out into the water. They are quiet for a while; the sun high, morning slowly inching into lunchtime. Harry wipes his palms against the fabric of his jeans, rough and thick, listens to the lapping tune of the lake by their side.

'Most days, I didn't even know what I was thinking,' he concedes. 'That first time I wrote to you, it was the adrenaline talking.' It was: Maureen staring him down at the post office and the press on the other side of the door. A sense of urgency, a gut feeling. Not that he doesn't stand by what he said, that is. His gut feelings are mostly right. They just become harder to articulate and rationalise with time.

Ginny smiles. Finally turns to cross his gaze. 'And, now,' she asks. 'Do you know what you think, now?'

'Yeah, I reckon I do.'

It just took him a while to get there, he supposes.

That year, winter starts with foggy and wet mornings, water frozen in a thin layer of ice over hoods and duffle coats, visibility close to nil. There are: moody skies, sleety grounds - grey pavements and dark red bricks. In January, the rain falls over London, chill burning at Harry's skin; once, he heads into work and a woman a few metres ahead of him loudly swears when her heel hits a puddle. It's nine o'clock; dark and tired, and the sun looks like it hasn't even risen yet. Out in the streets, he can see his breath, the way it rises in the air like smoke from a chimney; he tries to steady it, lets it escape in drawn-out, continuous streams and longs for a cigarette.

He remembers how, last winter, Ron was always able to tell North. It used to get on his nerves, watching his best mate look at his watch, at the sun in the sky, outlining shapes of clouds. 'Well, see, if the sun's behind those trees and it's morning, then obviously, East is there and North's that way -' Ron would say, arm hovering in the air from one point to the next. Harry would shoot a rock down the wet terrain, bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from screaming.

His best mate had learnt to tell directions from Mum-and-Dad-at-the-Burrow. Jealousy made it worse. All that Harry had ever mapped out was the layout of Little Whinging – or later, of Hogwarts and the Quidditch pitch; he'd never gone out in the wild like this. When he asked Hermione for help, she said: 'Just instruct your wand to point.'

It wasn't the same. Ron's knowledge was instinctive. This needed: planning, instruments, time. In '99, though, he wishes his wand could just point him.

Initially, his biggest struggle is a sense of disconnect. Harry, who'd already begun keeping things to himself feels like he is now hiding a world of secrets from everybody else. In January 1999, he is concealing: the existence of the Hallows from their world at large (granted, for his own safety, but -), the contents of Ginny's letters from Ron and Hermione, magic from Mia, Mia from Ron, and later on, some of Ron's plans from Hermione. In a news article a few years later, a journalist praises his capacity for resilience and he wonders what the fuck that means. The truth is that he just holds, and holds, and holds like his fingers gripping the ledge of a window, trying not to fall.

The one thing he decides he won't do, very early on, is break Ginny's trust. He may disagree with, or be furious at, a lot of things – the way she dumped it all on him and left, the fact that she didn't talk to him last summer – but just like the way he found out about Neville's parents in Fourth Year and didn't tell a soul, this is clearly not his story to tell. Plus (and that may make him a bit of a coward), he can't imagine being the one to tell Ron.

(And, what would he say, anyway? That Ginny was tortured? Raped? Or that – using her own words – she 'fucked' Amycus Carrow. None of it makes sense, back then.)

He's never been a good liar, though, and Hermione's always said she could see things in the features of his face, so he logically avoids his best mates like the plague. It's easier to keep secrets when you aren't confronted with the people you're keeping them from, easier to convince himself that his best friend don't need him, since they already have each other. This strategy is a familiar one, one that has failed him time and time again in the past, but it doesn't make it less of a default. A default which, predictably, leads to a whole other set of problems, with Ron silently letting his resentment build until it inches towards a wave of anger he can no longer contain, and Hermione setting up camp on Harry's back 24/7. 'Nice of you to grace us with your presence,' she ironically throws at him, once, and he lets it hit and sting but says nothing. Doesn't trust himself to speak - not to let slip: 'Mate, Ginny, she -'

He misses his friends. An undeniable, physical kind of longing that compels him to be near, sit in their company - even when they might not suspect it. Under the Cloak, he follows Ron and Hermione to the supermarket, the cinema, on their way out of a restaurant over a weekend. It feels wrong, like he's spying, some sort of dark wizard on the hunt, but Ron's arm is wrapped around her waist and they look… together. In love. Doing much better than he is (doing well without him). She's holding a single umbrella between the two of them, hurrying up the road back to Grimmauld Place.

'We should just Apparate,' Ron says.

Her voice is half-amused, half-daring. 'Yeah? In the middle of a Muggle street?'

'No one would notice.'

Ron pulls her closer, away from the edge of the pavement. He whispers something in her ear, something that Harry can't hear but which makes her laugh, the back of her head momentarily exposed to the rain. They stop walking; he kisses the side of her neck.

'Well, if you want that, we'd better hurry,' she says with a smile on her lips. She tilts her head up for a quick peck. 'I've got to be back at Hogwarts by 6.'

It's like: the way cold - water, ice, rain - burns sometimes. At first, watching them is warm, like the flame of a cosy, homey fireplace, until Harry remembers the chasm that exists between them and his blood runs cold, a pointless loop through his limbs. In a castle full of people, it's kind of strange to feel so alone, Ginny wrote, last year, and while Harry can't find words for what is going on in his head, that January, she certainly did.

There is one person with whom he might have considered discussing this, at least in abstract terms, but that person is dead. That's the reality of his life as it is: people die around him. And, while Harry doesn't resent Giulia for her own untimely passing, all that she left him with in this case are: half-answers, unfinished lessons, and a hefty dose of self-blame when he sits at his kitchen table with a refill pad and a Biro pen in his hand, unable to string sentences together. Giulia would never have forgiven him, for not thinking straight. She would have lectured him, called Ginny a victim, and she would have said that however upsetting her chosen means of delivery felt to him, it wasn't the kind of thing that he should ever hold against her. 'You know this,' she would have insisted. 'Deep down. Or else you wouldn't have gone to the post office and promised to be here for her in the first place.' She would probably have had a point. 'You're an Auror, she's a seventeen-year-old kid who needs help. So: you help, simple as that. It's the right thing to do.'

Giulia speaks in his head like Dumbledore did back at King's Cross. She speaks questions but not answers, because all Harry wants to do, then, is to look into her eyes and say: 'Alright, but how?'

Because, yes: the truth of the matter, the reason why he sent that letter (I'm here and no caveats), the reason why his gut reacted the way it did when he finished reading Ginny's tale, is that he doesn't completely come to the issue from nowhere. Sure, he's not an expert in the field, by any means, but he's been, like, trained, at the very least. Enough to know that digging a knife through someone's skin, or threatening to kill their entire family before having sex with them is a criminal offence, that there is a wrong and a right way to go about this (and maybe, that's what also terrifies him: getting this wrong, isn't it?).

The first time they talked about it, he and Giulia were working. Driving to an address following a radio dispatch. 'Ah, go on,' she said, laughing. (He can still feel the heat of her blood on his hands). 'Your entire sex education was Madam Pomfrey pulling all the boys from your year out of class one day and taking the better part of an hour to teach you how not to get a girl pregnant. She showed you spells and Muggle condoms and you and your mates then spent the next thirty minutes giggling in the back around a banana.' She raised an amused eyebrow at him. 'Am I wrong?'

At the time, he laughed, red in the cheeks. Kept to himself the fact that Seamus and Dean had later peeled off the banana and spent the afternoon throwing bits of fruit at the back of Malfoy's head across the room. Great fun, it was.

'Right,' Giulia went on. 'So: sexual assaults. That's maybe, what? Ten per cent of the reports you'll get if you're on patrol? Of course, they teach you nothing in Hogwarts and close to nothing but legal definitions in training. That's probably why most Aurors are shit at handling these and why so many reports never even get to us. I read somewhere that Muggles have similar issues so at least, it's not just us being cunts,' she shrugged. 'My point is: you're a bloke, you're eighteen, chances are you hardly know what to do with your dick when a girl is willing,' (he coughed, loud, and opened the window out onto the freezing, autumn air), 'So you let me handle this, okay? This is when you shut your mouth, you learn, and you listen.'

(He wishes there had been more time to learn and listen.)

That day, Giulia downed the rest of her coffee and slammed her empty tumbler into the mug holder between them. The car took a sharp left; Harry held onto the roof handle for dear life and did not dare open his mouth to complain.

'Also, by Slytherin, if you make so much as one comment that makes our girl feel uncomfortable, I will cut your balls off, understood? That's a fact, by the way, not a threat.' She was always the queen of pedagogy, Giulia, wasn't she? In hindsight, he sometimes wonders if the reason he took so long to write to Ginny wasn't also because his former partner put the fear of God into him. 'If you've got questions, that's fine. I want you to ask questions. I want you to be a better Auror than 99% of those pricks out there. But, you ask me. Afterwards. In the car. Understood?'

By then, he was frankly too mortified to do anything other than nod.

So: that night, they went to the pub. Not because they'd scheduled it or because they had something to celebrate but because about five minutes into the drive back to the office to collect their stuff, Giulia said: 'Alright, Potter, but if you're going to quiz me like this, I'm going to need a drink.'

He was... interested. Not quite sure why, it's not like he ever could have imagined what was to come but he just… wanted to learn? Be a good Auror? Like: feeling a mix of curiosity and confusion; Giulia had asked their victim an array of questions that he'd never even have thought of. Things about the woman's friends, her family - she hadn't been able to identify her attacker. In the car, Giulia explained that statistically, it was probably someone she knew.

'Merlin,' Harry had let out, words escaping his mouth before he paused to think about them (a character trait). 'How could anyone do that to someone they know?'

Giulia's foot had hit the break in the middle of the country road so hard the safety spells that prevented them from going head-first into the windscreen activated, pushing Harry back into his seat and making it rather hard to breathe. He looked around in a panic but all he saw in the fields around was a flock of sheep. Pink ears and muddy paws. 'What the -'

'Think very carefully before you say anything else, Harry.'

It took him an embarrassingly long time to understand what she was on about, but he'd like to highlight the fact that they'd almost just died in a car accident of her own making, so that might have slowed down his brain a bit. 'Fuck,' he said. 'Of course, it's awful to do that to anyone, you know that's not what I meant.'

Giulia smiled and nodded, silent, restarted the car. 'See? This is why in cases like these, you never say the first thing that comes into your head.'

(Well, now, because he didn't say the first thing, he doesn't know what the next thing is.)

Later, at the pub, Giulia gave him a crash course on the definition, enforcement and legal boundaries of sexual assault. They veered in and out of other, broader topics, too, like the functioning of the wizarding justice system, pleas and trials and burdens of proof. 'I told them putting you lot on that accelerated course was stupid,' she sighed, shaking her head to herself. 'No offence but according to the Ministry, because you all hunted and fought Death Eaters last year, you don't need to be taught things. It's infuriating. Like, pureblood shit is the only kind of offence you'll ever see. Wishful thinking, if you ask me.'

She wasn't wrong. Even with the trafficking case they were working on - no one had ever brought up any of the associated offences in training. All that Harry had ever learnt about cursed artefacts and smuggling, he'd learnt from Giulia, not class. And, maybe that suited him fine, given that he'd never been the kind of person to fare particularly well in a school environment, but still. The only topics they had ever really discussed were: the faces on the wanted posters in the office, or how to combine and cast offensive and defensive spells, as well as combat techniques. It was useful, but never felt like the full picture.

That night, Giulia talked about potions, alcohol, power imbalances, and consent. A litany of things he'd give anything to be able to ask more about, now. 'Right,' Harry remembers asking, before paying for her second mojito. 'Okay, but ultimately, it's just yes or no. It's not really that complicated, is it?'

They waited for their drinks. He watched her toy with the straw of her empty glass, pressing mint leaves against crushed ice. 'Right,' she nodded. 'So, you've never let anyone hurt you because, say, they were in a position of power and you didn't have a choice.'

Her gaze travelled to the glass of Coke he was nursing, a couple of ice cubes and a slice of lemon. I must not tell lies - still scripted at the back of his hand. 'Okay, but I don't walk around blaming myself for it. That girl, she kept saying it was her fault it happened because she forgot to lock the door. That's absurd,' he frowned. Giulia smiled like she would indulge him just a little further. 'I mean, whoever he was, he's the one who did it. It's his fault, not hers.'

'Hm,' Giulia caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow. 'So, you're trying to tell me you've never blamed yourself for something that - objectively - was not your fault? 'Cause I've known you two months and I can already show you receipts.'

So: on the one hand, in '99, there is that. There are Giulia's words and the fact that intellectually (a big word that makes him think of Hermione) Harry knows that his gut instincts were right. That he needs to be there for Ginny, not because he wants her back or because he wants to be her friend - those considerations have gone out the window, now - but because he wants to be a good person. And, maybe, if he just saw her again, if she came to London and if he could look at her, reach for her, then all the right words would tumble out of his mouth without him having to think about it.

But then, on the other hand, whenever he lies in bed staring at the ceiling at three in the morning, he imagines the both of them in a café. They sit at a table and share tea and milk and fucking biscuits, and Harry imagines himself finally being able to cross her gaze, let his look trail down the bridge of her nose, the tint in her cheeks and the outline of her mouth, notices a glossy layer of lip balm covering slits left by hours spent playing Quidditch in the cold. He remembers the sweet flutters in his stomach every time he sees her, and how warm her mouth felt pressed against his until, of course, his brain conjures up the image of it wrapped around Amycus Carrow's dick. The words I hardly ever fought him resonate in his head and all the Right Things he'd ever meant to say get flushed down the drain. 'You fucking let him,' Harry shouts in her face before he can stop himself and that, ladies and gentleman, is the fucking conundrum, in a nutshell.

Those are the bad days.

He continues to see Mia, that winter. Not out of spite; it just often feels like she is the only person in his life who doesn't drive him nuts. You'd think with what happened to Ginny, he would have been put off sex altogether, but the reality is, as always, slightly more complex.

At first, yeah, sure, it is a disaster. Mia's unlucky in her timing: she gets back to London on the 17th of January, the day after Harry finishes reading the letters. He only notices her coming home because he's spent hours just staring blankly out the window, a thin layer of water trickling along the seal of the wooden frames, mouldy paste almost coming alive as his glance follows the glistening stream of droplets down the glass. A taxi drops her off; she exits and walks around to the boot. By then, it is dark outside, and Harry realises he's not sure where all of the hours before that went.

The cab driver helps Mia carry her stuff out to the front of their building before getting back into his car. The lashing rain has morphed into an intermittent drizzle that falls in slanted lines, pencil strokes on a canvas and the yellow glow of streetlights. Two floors below, Mia is surrounded by packing boxes, IKEA bags filled with clothes and hangers, colours and fabrics. She stands there for a moment, lights herself a cigarette. Looks up. When Harry goes down to help her, it's only because she's seen him and smiled, and he likes to think he's not a complete dick.

'I had to pack all my things,' she sighs the moment he walks past the front door, stands on the top step, surveilling the mess. Her jeans are 90s-baggy, boyish and wide-legged, damp halfway up her calves. Harry can't help but notice that when she stretches, a glimpse of skin shows at her hipbone, and the hem of her underwear. 'Mum's turning my bedroom into a nursery for the baby,' she explains.

Her words ring amidst the ambient noise of the street, amidst the passing cars and a group of chattering uni students. She shrugs like the Hufflepuff she is, like: 'Well, she's right it'll be a lovely room for him.' Like she isn't being asked to move out of the only place she's ever been able to call home and Harry doesn't really have the brain space to call her out on it.

(A few weeks later, he tells her: 'You're allowed to be angry, you know. Doesn't mean you don't love them.'

She sighs, shakes her head. 'I know. It's not very nice, though.')

They spend the evening on his sofa. Not with a particular purpose but that day, he is functioning on autopilot and by the time they're finished bringing her stuff in, her flat is so cluttered with boxes and sketches, yarn and sewing machines ('Why did I go to fashion school?') that navigating from her front door to the bathroom is a rather impossible feat. 'Do you want to grab dinner at yours?' she suggests. 'We could get takeaway.'

He nods. It's not like he's going to say no, is it?

They do: a pizza and a VHS tape from the Blockbuster down the road. Push the tape into Harry's TV and vaguely gaze at Harrison Ford, a hijacked plane and scary communists for a couple hours. Harry lies down on the couch after they're done with the food, head over the armrest and knees bent up against the back pillows. His feet lie flat over the fabric of the cushion tops, socked toes tucked under Mia's right thigh as she faces the screen. He falls asleep.

The film's still on when he wakes, what looks like the final standoff. Over his tracksuit bottoms, Mia's hand is wrapped around his calf, thumb moving in small circles, absent-minded and automatic. Her gaze is still focused on the TV; she doesn't seem to realise she's doing it.

Harry's not sure what time it is, by then, but it feels late, like winter when eight in the evening is like the middle of the night. The ceiling light casts an aggressive glow over the kitchen; it reflects into the sitting room. His glance traces the outline of Mia's jaw, a beauty spot on the right side of her chin, the curve of her neck and the outline of her collarbone, the distressed hem of a green cotton jumper that spells BRUYERE in bold script. He's no idea what it means and doesn't care enough to ask. He shuts his eyes again, breathes in, out.

Over the next few minutes, as the plot slowly inches towards its resolution, Harry starts to notice that her movements are gaining purpose. He wonders if she's just come to realise what she was doing, noticed he didn't pull away, and is thinking that maybe, he didn't want to pull away. Mia's not pushy, of course, but her fingertips tap along the back of his calf in a rhythm, now, the pressure still casual, but definitely intentional. Steadily, her palm moves to trail over the back of his leg, up and down from his knee to his foot a couple of times. 'Harry?' she asks.

He opens his eyes to find hers. Her hand slides again, slow, now reaching up to the bottom of his thigh. He swallows; she bites her bottom lip, shows a hint of her front teeth before she speaks.

'Do you want to, er -'

Her hand trails up; his breath catches. She smirks.

'I'll take that as a yes.'

It's a fair assumption; he doesn't turn her down. He could, of course - they've both certainly done it before ('I'm tired,' or 'Just not feeling it tonight,') – and, had he said those words, Harry knows Mia would have shrugged and gone home - no harm, no foul, no hard feelings. That's been the core principle of whatever this is, these past few months, so there's absolutely no reason that she would have acted any differently.

Which perhaps, why he doesn't turn her down, that night. Might not really want sex but what he wants even less, is for her to leave. He doesn't want: the empty flat and the hum of the fridge, and the sound of cars driving past. Grimmauld isn't an option - Ron and Hermione are there - and while he supposes that he could leave the house and go for a run, it's pouring rain outside, so maybe sex is just marginally better than any of the alternatives.

He extends his legs; she moves to rest her calves on either side of him. They've got this routine down on the couch, by now, because when they're at his place, climbing up the ladder to the mezzanine is always a bit of a trek. He prefers hanging out at her flat, not only because she has a proper bedroom but also because he is always afraid he might have left something magical lying around his apartment that she shouldn't see. Continuously having to hide his wand from her is getting rather tiring, actually.

Mia doesn't kiss him. Rarely does, he's noticed, unless she's a bit drunk and they're in a pub or in a club with her friends and they escape to snog at the back. Instead, he feels her trail her mouth down the line of his jaw as his hands settle at her sides, leaving a flurry of wet kisses against his skin. He runs his hands under her jumper, the curve of her hip and up her back. She hardly ever wears bras, Mia, and when she does, they're flimsy, lacey bralettes that seem to serve little function outside of simply existing for his benefit. She laughed when he commented on it, once. 'I mean, they're not huge,' she smiled, shook her head. 'They kind of support themselves, don't they?'

She smells like her perfume, like wildflowers and citrus, orange and grapefruit, jasmine tea. It's subtle, nothing like the roses of Ginny's shampoo.

She wraps her right hand around him. There are a few quick strokes; his breath catches again and: 'Can you, er-' she asks then signals him to move towards his end of the couch.

He mumbles an absent-minded, awkward, sort of apology and scrambles further up the sofa to give her enough space to lower herself down and - fuck, yeah, okay, maybe sex wasn't such a bad idea, after all, was it? Her lips are hot and wet against him; he bites down on his forefinger, trying to suppress a rather embarrassing moan. Harry focuses his gaze on her, wonders if it's weird that he really likes to watch this - her bending down as he feels her tongue, warm and slick; it makes the blood pump faster in his arteries. 'Like that?' she mutters, pulling away for a second and he can almost hear a smirk in her voice. They've done this enough times by now that he knows she's not actually looking for guidance, teasing.

'Yeah, fuck, exactly like that,' he lets out in a breath.

Snaking his hand through the maze of her hair, he makes a fist and pushes her down, ever so slightly. It's an odd one, that: he did it involuntarily a few days before they both went home for Christmas, caught in the moment, and apologised profusely afterwards, embarrassed and staring down to his feet. Ginny used to hate it and of course, it's not like he's got a lot of experience with these things in general, so he assumed it would apply across the board. Mia flushed, though, and bit her lip. Said: 'No, don't apologise, I – er, kind of liked it.' And, quick: 'Fuck, you're making me bold, admitting that,' she laughed.

That January, she gives him a low moan of approval when he tries it again and it's maybe a bit stupid but Harry smiles to himself, thinks that at least, he's doing one thing right. Mia takes him deeper into her mouth and by then, with every movement, he can feel his orgasm building. Vaguely, he reckons he should probably tell her to stop before this all ends much too soon for anyone's liking, but then, it feels so fucking good, and he catches himself wondering how wet she is, right now, and he tries to focus on the maze of her hair around his fingers, and -

Ginny used to hate it. Ginny used to hate it. Ginny -

He pulled at my hair the entire time. I thought I was going to -

Oh, fuck.

The words come out of his mouth in a tumble. 'Stop. Just fucking stop.' He panics, pushes her off him so fast that she falls off the sofa in confusion. The mood goes from, well, sixty to zero, in a matter of seconds and fuck, he's going to throw up. Harry turns to face the wall, dry heaves over the coffee table but his legs can't possibly carry him anywhere, let alone the bathroom. 'Oh, shit,' he repeats. 'Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.'

Mia, well, she never asks what happened. Not then but also, not ever afterwards. It is an incident that exists between them that he knows she'll never tell a soul about but which, also, she doesn't feel compelled to explain. Hermione would have hounded him with questions. Ginny would have gently whispered 'Harry, what is it?' once he'd calmed down. Mia, though, she says nothing. Once she recovers from his sudden manhandling, she climbs back up on the couch and just sits next to him. Her palm is cautiously laid against his shoulder and days later, when he asks her why she isn't curious, she just shrugs: 'I'm not that kind of person. I don't like imposing on people.' He's not sure what she means, then, but in the moment, he's thankful for it. When he grits his teeth, it feels like wood and splinters in his mouth, she just says: 'Hey, you okay? Just breathe, yeah?'

She offers to call 999. He shakes his head.

'Do you want me to leave?' she asks. Harry can't help but think of what he told Hermione, that morning after Giulia died. 'We shag, that's what we do.' He shakes his head. The thought of being alone in his apartment only makes the panic worse.

There is a reassuring smile in Mia's voice when she says: 'Okay. I'll stay.'

They sleep in his bed, that night. Don't have sex or even touch but there is the slow rise and fall of her chest, the warmth of her breaths on the pillow next to his. Harry watches. Doses off for a bit. When he wakes up, the sky is white, a low glow filtering past the top of his window, behind the buildings on the other side of the street. Her skin is a pale shade of chestnut next to his.

A loose strand of hair escapes the silk scarf she wraps around her head at night. 'Hey,' she opens her eyes.

On her arm, he notices an imprint of five, purple bruises, just above her elbow. 'Oh, God, I'm so sorry,' he mumbles. Is that the kind of person he is, now? He touches her skin as though his fingers themselves have the power to soothe it (he's not that good at magic, unfortunately) and – 'I didn't mean -'

'You had a panic attack, Harry,' she states, quick. 'Or something. It happens.' He frowns, then, and given that she isn't asking him any questions (given that she also stayed the night when she really didn't have to), it feels wrong to pry; he struggles to hold his tongue – she laughs in response, a low, morning chuckle.

'Does it?' he asks, like that day on the steps of their building when she said: 'Well, this is awkward,' after they first had sex and he wondered: 'Is it?' like all the things that he's never had time to learn about what being eighteen and lost is supposed to be like.

Mia smiles, jokes: 'Well, usually not when I'm giving head, but -'

So: against all odds, they laugh about it, that morning. She explains what she meant: her mum used to have them, too ('I mean, she was twenty, raising a kid on her own with no money and no education, that'd give anyone anxiety -') and it doesn't make sense but maybe that's why he keeps seeing Mia, in '99. Because of happenstance, warmth, and accepting that the world around him is so fucking chaotic that he might as well not be totally alone in it. 'Do you want to grab breakfast?' he asks her.

(Months later, he looks to his feet and says 'I'm so sorry,' again; they're on the front steps of their building and she is all packed, waiting for her cab to St Pancras – she says: 'Don't be. I just wish I was her, is all.'

He never means to, but he does break her heart, in '99, doesn't he?)

In January, though, it's almost like he's living two separate lives. There is the bubble he creates with her, something quiet and painless, and everything else he can't tell her about. In the wizarding world, there is Ginny, his friends, and the Death Eater trials that become omnipresent. Ron, Hermione and he are made to slug through dozens of summons and meetings, attempting to clarify legalese, the beginning of the hearings themselves looming in the distance like Lord Denning's infamous long-winding cricket digressions. Harry wishes they could just get it all over with but both Kingsley and Hermione insist that there is a thing called 'due process' that they need to follow, so.

In total, twenty-six trials are scheduled between February and May 1999. Some of the Death Eaters are still at large, but the small number of public hearings is mostly the result of numerous guilty pleas. 'Trials are expensive,' Kingsley explains. 'In time, energy, money. For the witnesses, it's another ordeal. It's really not in anyone's interest. The instructions my office gave were to avoid them as much as we could.'

And, that, the Ministry has done quite efficiently. Since September, Harry has been on enough Death-Eater-related ops with the Aurors to know that the DMLE's interpretation of Kingsley's directive wouldn't exactly be to Hermione's taste, so he keeps quiet about it. The fact of the matter is that on top of the death toll from the battle, many of Voldemort's former followers have now died resisting arrest. He wouldn't go as far as to say that they were executed (they weren't - they resisted arrest) but for example, despite the mess with IA, the death of three of their attackers last December hasn't been particularly upsetting to anyone at the office. Ron - who killed two and seriously injured a third - is now something of a celebrity. Harry's also been patted on the back - literally, people have let their hands make contact with his shoulder and he's tried not to flinch too obviously - and: 'Good job, Potter. Another one down!' the Head of Intoxicating Substances (IntoxSubs) even said to him. It was the same day Giulia's brother came to pick up her picture frames and her coffee mugs, and the blonde wig she'd worn last Hallowe'en, so the comment may or may not have fallen a bit flat, in light of everything.

The desk facing Harry's is now sickeningly tidy, (which is probably why he avoids it like spattergroit), but the point is: no one he knows is going to go and lay flowers on Fenrir Greyback's grave, you know?

As a witness, Harry is called to testify in fifteen of the twenty-six hearings scheduled. Robards, who is still in charge of putting together the Auror 24/7 coverage schedule, is obviously over the moon with this development. 'I can work nights on those dates,' Harry suggests in an attempt to keep the peace. Robards asks him if he's gone completely insane, then instructs him to shut the door on his way out.

For Ron and Hermione, the situation is different. All those who testified in front of the Commission escape summons; the Ministry has agreed to use transcripts as evidence in the upcoming procedures. When she finds out, Hermione is outraged: 'That isn't right. Their defence lawyers ought to be allowed to cross-examine us!'

Ron just stares at her and asks if she's gone 'mental.' Harry can't help but laugh.

Obviously, this means nothing to Harry, who did not, in his great wisdom and with very little regard as to the consequences of his actions, engage with the Commission in any way, shape or form. The news of his upcoming testimonies thus throws the press into a fresh bout of frenzy, wondering: 'Will Potter testify?' Or: 'Do you think he will go "no comment" again?' 'Well, unless the Ministry brings back that immunity deal, I don't see how he could…'

For the record, they do - bring back the deal, that is. The Ministry offers him the exact same conditions as they did last summer: full immunity for all and any chargeable offence committed between August 1997 and May 1998, in exchange for truthful, complete answers given under oath. To which Harry says 'thanks but no thanks,' because while his perspective has changed since last June (he's talked to the press, for starters), he only wants to contribute to the ongoing debate on his own terms. The Hallows are still a story kept under wraps between a chosen few, and: 'Narcissa and Draco Malfoy have called you as a defence witness,' Kingsley announces, which isn't quite the surprising part. 'So has Alecto Carrow. I am assuming that she will try to use the allegations that you used the Cruciatus curse on her brother to ask for a more lenient sentence. I can't advise you, Harry. You might want to talk to a lawyer.'

He doesn't know where he even would find a lawyer, to tell the truth, and anyway, at the sound of Kingsley's words, his heart attempts to jump out of his chest, seemingly surprised to find ribs and skin aggressively holding it back in place. He doesn't want to be bound to tell the truth at Alecto Carrow's trial for Very Obvious Reasons, so: yeah, no, thanks but no thanks.

When they leave Kingsley's office, Hermione rushes and follows Harry out, calling him an idiot for cursing Amycus Carrow in the first place. 'I should have killed him,' Harry quickly objects and Hermione almost falls on her face in shock. She later goes on one of her rants, repeating information he already knows ('They found him dead in the Slytherin common room. Avada, never could tell who did it,' she declares), before asking him if his intention, making such bold statements, is to get into 'real trouble,' with the Wizengamot. Considering Harry died last year, it seems bizarre that anything else would ever rank to the level of 'real trouble,' and the whole lecture barely registers in his brain until Hermione pauses and says: 'Wait, it wasn't you, was it?'

It is the tone of her voice that gets him. Like: she's not actually sure what the answer is. He stops, dead in his tracks. 'Why would you say that?' Harry asks.

For a brief, flickering moment, he wonders if Ginny's said something to her, maybe. If there's a small chance that Harry won't have to hide everything from at least one of his best mates, anymore, but then Hermione bites her bottom lip and looks to her feet. 'Oh, I don't know, Harry. Your tone when you say these things, it just - sometimes...'

Right. Ginny hasn't said anything - the war's just made him so ruthless that his own best friend thinks he's capable of murder. Another one of Ginny's phrases comes back to him, then, and it's bizarre how, even when they're not talking, she's still there, everywhere. I ambushed him in an empty corridor this morning, set a cruciatus on him. Just like that. Fucking hell, who am I, Harry?

He looks at Hermione and thinks: yeah, who am I? Or: who do you think I am?

He jokes his way out of it. Annoys Hermione but at least, it's in character. 'Yeah,' he agrees. 'Sometime between destroying Horcruxes, duelling Tom Riddle, and, oh, also dying, I took a stroll into the Slytherin Common Room and killed Amycus Carrow for absolutely no reason. Sounds likely, doesn't it?'

Hermione rolls her eyes but that's about it.

(And, for the record: sure, Harry didn't kill Amycus Carrow, but if he knew where in the Ministry that array of time turners is hidden, he'd certainly go back in time and do it. He might not exactly know how he feels, or how to talk to Ginny, but with regards to the man who tortured her for months on end, that decision's actually the easiest. 'Revenge's never been what I was after,' might have been what he told journalists in December, but that's now thoroughly burnt to the ground.

He wishes you could kill someone who is already dead. He wouldn't use Avada, though. He's had dreams, lately, about gutting the man, cutting off his dick and watching him drain.

Sometimes, Ginny said, keeping the anger in almost physically hurts, Harry. I dig my fingernails into the inside of my palms and it feels like the blood that comes out is already boiling.

Well, that is perhaps the kind of person that he is, now.)

At work, aside from trial prep, Harry's mostly been covering people's sick days and PTOs since Giulia's death. As a result, his shifts have become wildly unreliable, either patrolling with random strangers at an hour's notice ('Don't ever call my last name in public, okay?') or conducting rather mind-numbing tasks like scanning wands and checking people in and out of places. Given that he doesn't currently feel capable of logical thinking, Harry has to admit he hasn't minded it much. Dean's got his Walkman to work inside the Ministry, so Harry's just spent a lot of afternoons clearing out boring Auror paperwork whilst listening to - alternatively - Nirvana, The Clash or The Cranberries.

(Has he mentioned he's not in the best of moods?)

By the end of January, their promotion of Aurors is only six weeks shy of passing probation. They've been assessed periodically, ranked based on theoretical knowledge tests, in-class training results, as well as feedback from their mentors. Mid-March, they'll be assigned to the first of their three, half-year rotations, on a first-come, first-served basis. The higher you are on the scoreboard, the more likely you are to have your favourite pick. The system will repeat every six months until they hit the two-year mark and choose their permanent postings. On their first day, Robards explained that this ensures they can acquire a wide range of experiences before making their final decision. Some departments are in high demand, like the major crimes investigation unit (Giulia's when she wasn't mentoring) or the hit wizards - the bottom-ranking new Aurors usually end up on patrol, where there are a lot of free spots and low demand - everyone finds it boring.

When, last November, Harry spoke to his former partner about this, he shrugged. 'I like patrol. It's not boring. I like being -' he paused, pushing about his plate a handful of oily penne pasta from the Ministry canteen. 'Outside. Plus, it changes all the time.'

Giulia looked at him like he'd grown a second head and laughed. 'I mean, the choice is yours for your rotations and patrol can be a good option, you'll see loads,' she amended with a smile. 'But I bet you ten Galleons that in the end, you'll choose the hit-wizards.'

Harry snorted. At this point, all he'd seen of the hit-wizards were a bunch of balaclava-wearing cowboys, laying low atop office buildings and taking shots across the street, or busting down doors. 'You don't have ten Galleons,' he joked.

Ron awkwardly looked down at his food but Giulia barked out a laugh: 'If I gave your address to Death Eaters I would.'

Harry remembers: how uncomfortable everyone looked and how he almost choked on his water - the two of them were maybe the only ones to appreciate their own morbid sense of humour. 'Yeah, but then I'd be dead,' he suggested, 'and you couldn't gloat in my face.'

'Shame.'

(God, there are no words for how much he misses her, these days, are there?)

All of this being said, despite the memories of light-hearted banter, as the end of their first six months on the job continues to approach in '99, even Harry isn't able to ignore the fact that the competition between some of the new Aurors has morphed into an increasingly cutthroat battle. At Grimmauld, as early as November, Opal began locking herself up in her bedroom to study for hours before work, eager not only to secure first place but to also be awarded enough points to stay there until the final deadline. This - of course - wasn't to the taste of Justin Finch-Fletchley who contemptuously noted: 'She didn't even go to Hogwarts!' At which point Harry considered asking him to move out of the house until Hermione argued that: 'You can't kick someone out just because you don't like them, Harry.'

'It's my house,' he countered. (Sirius would certainly have approved.) 'He's being a cunt and he's not even paying rent.'

'No one is paying rent.' An annoyingly correct statement. Harry followed Hermione's gaze until it landed on the wall where her list of house rules still hung. 'You can't kick him out,' she added, unappealable. 'He hasn't broken any rules.'

The sickening irony of it all is that the events of last December awarded both Harry and Ron enough points to make them respectively second and fifth on the scoreboard. Justin was bumped down to third place and has been breathing down Harry's neck ever since. The bloke's been talking behind his back for the last few weeks, hinting that perhaps an op during which your partner died isn't the kind of thing one should be praised for, and - 'I swear, Hermione,' Harry hisses, one afternoon. 'If he makes just one comment to my face, keeping his room upstairs will be the last of his worries.'

Hermione opens her mouth, then, likely to lecture him about his abundant use of threatening language, lately, but then Luna's dreamy voice interrupts them both, her face dressed in a quizzical frown. 'But, I thought you also disagreed with Robards awarding you points, Harry,' she says, an unnecessary reminder of the angry fit he threw when he found out Giulia's death had come down to a pat on the back and twenty points on a fucking leaderboard.

'Yeah, Harry doesn't always make sense, Luna,' Hermione comments. He glares back until he notices Luna frowning again, her thin lips in a slight pout.

'I don't understand,' she says. 'You make it sound like it is a problem.'

Hermione sends him a murderous look but he doesn't think he's laughed this much since reading Ginny's letters.

Which leads them to Saturday, 30th of January. That day, Harry, Ron and Hermione are called in for an early morning meeting with Kingsley; this time, it's politics he's requested their help with. 'The Blair government's finally agreed to lend us funding,' he announces once his secretary has left the room, leaving them with a platter of tea and biscuits. There is a genuine smile on Kingsley's face. 'It's going to be part of a larger reform bill.' Hermione nods, grabs the plate off the coffee table, holds it in front of Kingsley, Ron, then Harry. She and Ron are the only ones who take any food. 'I hate to ask but I could really use some "Golden Trio" support on this one,' Kingsley adds, his glance anxiously flicking towards their end of the room. 'If you're able, of course.'

The "Golden Trio" phrase is a relatively recent one. As far as Harry knows, the Americans were the first to use it when they published his interview in The Owl. They'd asked for a photo of the three of them - which Ron's mum was more than happy to provide - the one taken in July '97 at Bill and Fleur's wedding. From left to right, the legend read, Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter, otherwise known as "The Golden Trio." Known by whom, Harry's not sure, but in less than a month, the phrase became so popular that it could now be an entry in the wizarding dictionary. The last Harry's heard, mugs and t-shirts were now being sold in Diagon Alley with their faces printed on them, reading: The Golden Trio, which Ron claimed was 'kind of cool, but also weird,' until George decided to search the Weasley's attic for the worst possible photo of three of them he could find. Fifty t-shirts of Ron looking white as a ghost next to Hermione with her eyes half-closed, Harry snoring open-mouthed next to them, are currently on sale for a couple Galleons at the shop (a limited edition, George said) which Ron argued was enough to threaten to resign. For a laugh, Harry ordered one over Christmas; George gave him a rare smile before saying: 'You always were our biggest fan.'

At Grimmauld, the office that is stocked with piles of fan mail, which the three of them have stubbornly been ignoring since last May, now has a bunch of letters officially addressed to "The Golden Trio." On the one hand, Harry is glad that Ron and Hermione are finally getting the attention and recognition they deserve but on the other, he wishes the press bothered to use their actual names, rather than this.

That morning, when Kingsley defends his request, he explains that while the emergency loan from the Australian government did help, last summer, without proper investments and reforms, the funds have already begun to dry out. For years, income tax was waived for all Wizengamot members and their extended families (mostly old, rich, purebloods) and estate tax was non-existent. Meaning, as Kingsley puts it: 'There is a lot of money going out, but nothing coming in. No offence, Harry,' he notes, 'But you didn't have to pay anything when you inherited from Sirius, did you?'

Frankly, it had never occurred to him that tax could be a thing.

Kingsley's government is now plagued with catching up on decades of unbalanced finances. 'The only reason we managed to keep going for so long was that we maintained rather cordial relations with the Goblins who agreed to keep printing money at will. That is no longer an option,' he adds. The three of them look down to the carpet under their feet. 'And, all of this isn't even mentioning the damage done by war. To give you an example, the Ministry can barely pay the salaries of staff at St Mungo's, but even when we do give them a budget, they can't buy what they need. Before the war, they bought all of their supplies from a wizarding factory near Glasgow, but that place was torched by Death Eaters because the owner agreed to ship goods to the Order. When Mr Sowards tried to borrow money from Gringotts to restart his business, the Goblins offered him an interest rate of 23%. They're in a situation of complete monopoly, obviously, with no government regulation, so they can charge whatever they want. It's nothing short of extortion. And, then, you've got people like your brother, Ron, who can't even apply for Gringotts loans because of what Gringotts refers to as "unsavoury associations." Muggle banks won't lend money to anyone without guarantees, which is understandable, but hard to provide when you're a wizard-owned business. We can't keep going around the place confunding Muggles as we please, so people are resorting to selling all kinds of things on the black market to make ends meet. Harry and Ron, I'm sure you've both seen this through your work.'

Harry nods. The trafficking case he was working on with Giulia now makes a lot more sense.

During the meeting, Kingsley further adds that the Blair government's loan is the first in history that will be administered directly by the Ministry, completely away from Goblin hands. 'Many people fear an uprising,' he says. Harry can't blame them. 'And getting this through the Wizengamot will be a real challenge, which is why your support would be much appreciated.'

Harry's best mates are obviously in favour. For Ron, it means being able to hire more staff at the shop and making their schedules - especially his - a little less hectic. For Hermione, it means potentially more time to spend with her "boyfriend," but also better Muggle-wizard relations going forward. Indeed, in exchange for financial aid, the deal also promises more cooperation on a wide variety of topics including education, culture, the economy, policing matters and defence. 'In general terms, we're promising to help each other through rough patches, ensuring that if we're ever involved in another crisis, neither side will be left to fend for itself.'

Hermione nods, smiles. 'Well, I think we'll be more than happy to support you, Kingsley,' she says.

To which Harry abruptly responds: 'Support him? Like he supported us last year?'

He only realises he's said the words out loud when he notices the look of horror on Ron's face. Hermione's mouth is open like a fish out of water but shock on that scale rarely occurs on Harry's best mate. And, Harry can't even explain it. Explaining the root cause of his anger would only lead to the following shouts: YOU KNEW! You asked Ginny if she was the one writing those articles in the Quibbler because you knew. Because her alias was Penny Gitrot and how could you not know? And, with all the informants and intelligence you had, how much did you know? About Hogwarts, about kids - fucking kids. You knew she was lying to you and you went with it and sent her back, part of your neat little plan, like a pig for slaughter, like -

He storms out of Kingsley's office. It's that or sectumsempra. Harry runs out and into the lift, through the fireplace of the Atrium. He can't breathe. Doesn't realise Ron's followed him until, out in the middle of the Horse Guards Avenue, he hears his best mate shout at his back: 'What in Merlin's name was that?'

He stills.

They're in the middle of a Muggle street. It's 9AM on a Saturday. This is an area most people only commute to on week days so granted, there aren't many people around, but perhaps, that is why Ron's voice carries so loud, like they're standing in the middle of a tunnel, the both of them.

'Look at me!' he shouts. Then, calls Harry a coward.

A car passes. The Spanish couple on the other side of the road shoots a panicked look in their direction before hurrying out of sight. Harry spins to face Ron. 'What did you just say?'

In the hit parade of their shouting matches, this one probably reaches second place, only topped by their fight in the tent, and solely because of the consequences it had, back then. For the next fifteen minutes they spend roaring at each other for the whole world to hear, Ron says things like: 'Do you even care about us, anymore?' and: 'You hardly ever speak to me! When you talk to Hermione, it's almost under duress! You're rude, and you're careless, and you're angry about stuff you won't tell us about. No wonder why you're so, bloody alone! What the –' and Harry retorts: 'You're so fucking jealous, every time I say something, I never know how you'll react! This is proving my fucking point!'

'Jealous?!' Ron's hands are thrown up in the air. 'Of what? Of your pathetic little life, keeping everyone at arm's length? You won't even help Kingsley? You've no idea what that money would mean to George!'

'Oh please! I could give you the fucking money! You have no idea what it's like!' Harry roars back. 'It's not my fault, I've tried –'

'Of course, it's your bloody fault! You know where Hermione is right now?' he asks. Harry glares. 'She's in Kingsley's office, no doubt apologising for your behaviour, as always! She shouldn't have to, I'm sick of it! Do you have any idea how many times in the past few weeks we've tried to talk to you and you just stay silent or make jokes? It's fucking rich of you to -'

'Fine!' Harry shouts. It doesn't quite sound like a word - almost sounds like a sob or a howl – a strange fact because he doesn't typically cry in anger, not since Sirius died, anyway. Ron is panting in front of him, his mouth already set to counter whatever Harry says with another scream and: 'Fine!' Harry settles, then. 'You're right, all of it's my fucking fault. Everyone I love gets hurt.'

They've made it to the front of a government building; Harry leans against the stone walls. Ron closes his mouth. A beat passes. He opens it again. 'So, I don't know,' he continues. He's not screaming anymore. 'We've won the war. Maybe you should go and live your life. You and Hermione, you don't owe me anything.'

Ron's feet are planted firm into the ground. He sighs, doesn't move an inch, crosses Harry's gaze. 'I left once and I'll regret it for the rest of my life. I'm not leaving you ever again, mate.'

So: that is when they stop shouting, that morning. Start talking. Overall, that's maybe the one thing that Ginny's letters accomplish that year: Harry gets his best friend back. And, not through awkward, passing, non-conversations outside the firing range, or quick chats to make sure that they're both alive, rather than okay. They talk, seemingly for the first time since the end of the war. Walk down to the river, overlooking the construction site for the London Eye on the South bank and Harry sighs. 'I almost cut my wrists last August,' he admits, starts with it because it's the first thing he probably hid from Ron. There is a long list, now, and Ron's look is sharp at the side of his face. 'I mean, not really. I don't know. I thought about it,' he shrugs. 'Fuck, I just thought killing Tom would solve everything.' Ron lets out a short laugh at that, something that sounds like: 'Yeah, same.' 'When Ginny and I broke up,' Harry continues. 'She said it was because I reminded her of the war, that she wanted to forget about it. Move on, you know?' he sighs.

'Shit, that's harsh.'

'I kind of get it, though,' he sighs. Especially knowing what he knows now. If that's what he reminded Ginny of… 'I'd leave me if I could.'

Ron nods, but: 'Doesn't look like it worked, though,' he observes. 'She looked every bit as lost as the rest of us at Christmas.' Ron pauses - a Muggle jogging past them. 'You know Narcissa tried to off herself last week?' Ron adds. And, shit, Harry thinks – how long has it actually been since he last talked to Andromeda, rather than just picking Teddy up at Molly's. With everything else going on, he must have also missed it in the papers. 'The Aurors guarding her house found her. I heard some people say it's a ploy, 'cause they've moved her and Draco's trial dates back now, and they released him on bail, for "emotional support." Makes you think, though.'

Harry guesses that yeah, it does, but there isn't that much more to be said, is there? Floating below their feet, a plastic water bottle slowly moves past the both of them. Harry wishes he could just Accio it into the bin – not that it would make much of a difference in the grand scheme of things, considering the general state of the Thames, but, well, he's trying to think of the fish. 'Look, there's something I've been meaning to show you,' Ron says.

And, whilst Harry does let go of certain secrets that morning, Ron unloads one more onto him. It's a good one, though, and like Ginny's story, it's one that he can keep. Unceremoniously, Harry's best friend pulls a square, black, velvet box out of the pocket of his jeans, the size of a post-it note. It's the kind of square, black, velvet box that only means one thing and Harry quickly raises a confused eyebrow at it. Ron hands the box over to him regardless, looks up expectantly. 'Open it,' he says.

Harry does. Flicks the lid open, then stares for a second.

'What do you think?' Ron asks.

'I think you might have interpreted this whole relationship the wrong way.'

Ron loudly snorts, then, a startled pigeon takes off next to them. 'Good one,' he acknowledges, before launching into an explanation on the what ('I've been to, like, fifteen Muggle shops since we came back to London; I obviously couldn't get anything from the Goblins, you know?'), and the how ('I'm thinking we'll go away on Valentine's Day. Brighton or something. I'll ask her there'), as well as the why ('I mean, it sort of occurred to me after what happened with Giulia. I just thought, well, bit grim but I'd rather be married to her than not, if I have to die, you know?') Harry nods, even catches himself smiling, against his best judgment. 'Do you reckon she'll say yes?'

I fucking hope to God she does, is what Harry thinks, briefly wonders in a panic what would happen otherwise. 'Why wouldn't she?' he asks. 'I mean, you love each other, so why not?'

'I don't know. You know Hermione, she'll say we're too young, or that we haven't been dating long enough… Plus, I haven't asked her dad.'

'You've known each other half your lives,' Harry frowns. 'It's not like she doesn't know you. And, why would you ask her dad?'

Ron stares. Then, laughs. 'Shit, you've really no notion of tradition, have you?'

So, in turn, Harry tells Ron about Mia, that morning. It seems a bit ridiculous, hiding it from him now, and Ron's reaction is exactly that: a frown and, 'Why didn't you tell me?' Harry tries to explain, 'Well, with Ginny.' Ron shakes his head. 'So, what? Because you dated my sister, you thought I'd think you'd never date anyone else?'

And, it's funny because Ron, that year, is the first to call it that: 'dating.' And, just a few weeks ago, Harry would probably have corrected him. Would have said that whatever was going on with Mia was something he didn't have words for but now, well, Mia's been at his every day for the past two weeks. They've hung out and cuddled, and played video games (he got an N64, a glorious fuck you move against Dudley) but haven't even had sex. They've joked and hung out; he thinks she's been waiting for him to signal where this is going, after last time, and if Harry's being honest, it's felt a lot more like dating than anything else they've done so far.

Ron asks if 'she knows. About magic, I mean.' Harry shakes his head. That's the annoying part, to tell the truth. The constant hiding. 'But the statute says you can't tell Muggles unless you're married, so…'

'So, what?' Ron laughs. 'You're Harry Potter. What are they going to do?' (Well -) 'Plus, I mean, that girl, is she going to tell?'

Harry smiles. Almost to himself. God, he's missed his best mate.

Before they go their separate ways, that morning, Ron makes Harry promise to apologise to Hermione. 'I will,' he says. It doesn't cost him as much as he thought it would. And: 'Will you help with Kingsley?' Ron also asks. Harry closes his eyes, opens them again. Sighs.

'I don't know.' His voice is low enough that the sound of a car driving next to them almost covers his words. 'Don't you think he's just acting out of self-interest?'

The Wizengamot is to organise elections, next summer. No date has officially been set but you'd have to be living under a rock not to know about it. Kingsley's term as interim Minister for Magic will be up for grabs and while awarding struggling businesses extra money isn't exactly the same as buying votes, considering form, Harry's grown wearier of the new Minister's opportunistic tendencies, recently. 'Maybe?' Ron shrugs. 'But his self-interest and everyone else's sort of the same. I mean, I hate to sound like Hermione, but maybe if our lives were a bit more mixed with Muggles, people wouldn't hate them so much? And, have you seen all the closed shops in Diagon Alley? Hermione had to order dragon scales for Potions the other day, do you know how much that cost?' Harry shakes his head. 'Eight Galleons. For dragon scales. They shed four times a year but you'd think it was unicorn blood or something,' Ron laughs. 'That ring I bought, I'll be in debt for centuries over it. Though, I did confund the Muggle salesman. Don't tell Kingsley.'

Harry almost offers to pay for it until he remembers that Ron hardly wanted him to buy the Omnioculars in Fourth Year, let alone his girlfriend's engagement ring. A beat passes between them; Harry looks ahead at a group of school kids running down the river in front of them. 'Okay,' he says. 'Just put my name on whatever you and Hermione write to The Prophet. I just can't deal with it right now,' he admits.

Ron nods, smirks. 'You know, it's the first time in eight years I hear you admit you can't deal with something. I'm not sure whether that's a good thing, or the sign of an upcoming Armageddon.'

Harry laughs. 'Yeah, I'm not sure either,' he says.

They part in front of the Ministry's personnel entrance. Ron says he's 'going to try and find Hermione, I suppose she's still down there with Kingsley.' Harry nods. They hug. He can't truly say that everything between them has magically slotted back to normal, but at the very least, it feels like they're on the right track. 'You know,' Ron says. 'Sometimes, I have this feeling that we'll look back on all of this in ten, twenty years and it'll all make sense.'

'Hmm. You think?'

They laugh before he Apparates home.

(When, a couple days later, he apologises to Hermione, she sighs, hugs him. 'Promise me one day, you'll tell me what this whole thing was about,' she says. 'If you ever can, I mean.' He nods and simply holds her tight.)

Mia's sat on the front steps of their building when he gets home, that morning. It's close to eleven; she is wrapped in a big, black puffer jacket, a cigarette dangling off the end of her fingers. It is cold but bright outside, the sky blue and cloudless, sun casting an orange light onto the red bricks of the building next to theirs. When she sees Harry, she smiles, nods a greeting as he comes up towards her. A man and his pug walk past them ('Come on, Noodles, please.') The dog stops, sniffing the base of a lamppost before peeing against it.

Mia extends her hand towards Harry, a pack of cigarettes open in her palm. 'Want one?' she asks. Usually scrounges hers off him, not the other way around.

Harry shakes his head, smiles and drops to sit next to her on the steps. This is how they met, back in November and perhaps, the spot has now become theirs. 'I quit,' he explains. 'I shouldn't.' In the air, she puffs out a white cloud. She raises an eyebrow. 'Since when do you do what you should?'

He smiles, looks out at the street. 'It's early,' he comments. Not outrageously early but he's rarely ever known Mia to be up before noon on a weekend. 'What are you up to?'

She smiles, tosses ash onto the floor. 'Thinking about you, actually,' she tells him. There's always been something disarmingly candid about her. 'You know, I was wondering,' she starts. 'Have you ever felt like you're driving a car straight into a cliff? And, I mean, you know the cliff is there, and that you're going to fall, hard, into it, but you don't stop? You keep going on the off, very naive chance that you might fly?'

Harry only thinks for a second before he laughs: 'That sounds like my entire life story.'

A soft chuckle escapes her lips; she shakes her head to herself. 'Why am I not surprised?'

She talks about Paris, that morning. Reminds him that she will probably leave London soon. He isn't really sure of what she's saying until she adds: 'And, there's clearly a world of things you're not telling me.' A statement of fact, not a question. 'Which is fine but – well, you're also still in love with your ex. So, yeah, I should probably stop this car before it's too late.'

In front of them, a couple of uni-aged girls walk briskly up the street – glittering dresses and inappropriately high heels – remnants of last night. Harry shrugs. 'You seem a lot more certain of how I feel about Ginny than I am.' Mia looks up when he speaks, but doesn't interrupt. 'She just told me something,' Harry concedes. It's not that he doesn't love her anymore, it's that love and Ginny are like foreign concepts, right now, not lost but estranged. Like: there would be a thousand more pressing concerns to address, before it even got to that. 'Something really shit. And, I promised I would help, because I think deep down I want to help, I just don't know what the right thing to say is.'

Mia looks out to the pavement, the square lines of the manhole cover by the lamppost. 'Maybe, tell her?' she suggests, then, chancing a look at him. It's ironic that Mia's the one who hands him the key, there. She'll later laugh and say she shot herself in the foot. 'I mean, if she's been honest with you, maybe just be honest with her? Maybe, she doesn't even need your help. Maybe, she just wanted to tell you.'

They have sex, that morning. Harry offers her to come up once she's finished her cigarette and they kiss in the morning light, with the sun pouring through the top of his window. He takes his time. Lets go of their usual routine, the way they both always hurry to get what they want, quick orgasms half-dressed on his sofa, or up against the door of her bedroom. That Saturday, he calls in sick to work and she skips her brunch date with friends, and he pulls her t-shirt over her shoulders long before he pulls down her jeans. He kisses her mouth and the skin below her ear, and the sharp edges of her collarbone, her breasts and the line of her sternum.

Her lips part, soft sighs and hot breaths; her eyes open like she's making herself look, be there. He feels her fiddle with the hem of his t-shirt, tracing her fingers over his skin, and he lets her, unhurried. It's not like the scars on his chest are a secret - she even commented on his tattoo that first night - but there is a slow pace to her touch as she outlines each mark, now, like she is paying attention to them - actually noticing them, for the first time.

Later, his mouth finds its way down to her belly button and he goes down on her even though he's asked - specifically - for her not to return the favour. Truth is, he's still not sure what's going on in his brain, most days, and he'd rather not spoil this. She pants in soft, low moans, her fingers fisting the sheets when she comes and as he buries himself inside her, later still, she digs her fingernails into his back. It is cold outside, humid as always inside his apartment, but her naked skin is so, very warm against his. She comes again in a moan that sounds a lot like his name whispered and out of breath, he swallows it in a kiss and it's mere seconds before he follows her over the edge.

Maybe they're dating, now, and maybe they aren't. The one thing that has changed, he realises, is that he doesn't feel guilty when he's with her. Not anymore.

A couple of hours later, he tells her about magic by levitating food up to them. Her first response is to say: 'Er, the last joint I smoked was two days ago,' and he bursts out a laugh.

'You're not high,' he supplies.

These are the explanations, for that day: Hogwarts, spells, Quidditch, the Aurors. The good parts; it's a good day. 'Oh, so you're a wizard cop,' she says, then. 'That makes so much more sense.'

'Does it?'

She catches his gaze, so close to him, laying on their sides in his bed, that he could probably count her eyelashes. 'Why do I feel like there is a lot more to it than that?' she eventually asks.

'There is.' Voldemort, the war, his parents – the bad parts. 'I'll tell you in a bit,' he promises. She nods, a quick peck against his lips. Later, he thinks, on a bad day.

When Mia goes home, that night, for a shower and a change of clothes, he finally sits down at his coffee table and writes.

Gin,

I'm sorry for taking so long to write. I still don't have an owl but it's a Saturday so I'm hoping I can borrow Pig from Ron before Hermione floos back tomorrow. I'll get one next week.

I reckon I just didn't know what to say. I think I don't want to blame a dead person, but Giulia said some things when she was alive and it made me think a lot, like what you told me was a work case or something. Maybe I just wanted to put some distance with you. and with it. But I saw Mia today and (I haven't told her anything really, don't worry) but she said that if someone is honest with you, you should be honest with them and so maybe I should have just trusted you with what I was thinking from the start. Maybe there is no right thing to say. Anyway I'm here now.

Sometimes I blame myself for what happened. And, I don't just mean Amycus I mean if we hadn't dated, you know? Would any of it have happened? When they got to you in the great hall and afterwards, they were clearly after me. Because of us. I thought I could protect you but clearly that didn't happen. And, also, some of the stuff you said when we broke up and things I was thinking. I'd ask but I don't know what to ask, exactly. I reckon we can probably chat about it later. I'm sorry if none of this makes sense, though Luna said something funny about how not everything has to make sense the other day so I'll take her wisdom on that. She's your best friend, after all.

I do blame Amycus, though. And, I blame Tom. I'm so bloody furious Gin. Hermione's been telling people I'm "irritable" lately. And the thing is I remember that before the war it never felt like it mattered when she said that kind of thing because I was angry, and I was ready to shout it from the rooftops, you know? But now, it's like. I'm tired you know. And if we stay angry for the rest of our lives, maybe that's how they win? I don't want to be that person anymore. Are you angry, still, or have you found a cure?

Now, regarding Amycus, I don't know Gin. Sometimes you make it sound like he forced you and sometimes you make it sound like you did it off your own accord. Back when she was alive, Giulia said something to me about how that can sometimes be the same thing. All I know is that he threatened your family and whatever you did, you did to protect those you love. I can be annoyed at you for other things, but it would be pretty rich of me to judge you (or to hate you, like you said) for that. I think deep down that's why I wanted to write to you. I don't like it, but I get it, you know? I'm sorry it took so long for me to make sense of that.

I'll ask you something, but please don't feel like you have to answer (especially not in writing) but did you happen to visit the place where the snakes sleep during the battle? I'd understand if you had (I've kind of thought about it myself) but I'm just curious, I suppose. I hope the question makes sense.

Also, not sure if it's been printed yet but I've been called a witness for Alecto. I obviously won't say anything but Kingsley says I've got to go see a lawyer now, which is probably another can of worms. The thing is, I do want to testify for the Malfoys, I said I would in that interview anyway, I just need to see how to go about it.

I hope you're well,

Love,

H.

He encrypts it, for obvious reasons. At the back of the envelope, he writes: the password is Snuffles' other nickname. If you don't remember, Hermione will know.