Castles

by pebblysand

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

10. out of mould (wet houses)

.

out of mould (wet houses)

.

.

.

Harry,

Thanks for your letter. Thanks for the honesty. I hate to say it but I'll be honest with you, too: Mia might be a keeper, haha.

I think, even if I wanted to hide things from you, after last year, it would be rather difficult for me to filter my words. So, let's agree to tell each other the truth. Whatever it is, I'll take it. All the things you don't tell, or can't tell anyone else. Maybe that's what we're really meant to be to each other, what do you think? Not lovers, but secret keepers. I'll keep your secrets gladly, trust me.

Talking about secrets: no, I didn't visit the place where the snakes sleep. I also did not kill Amycus, which I believe was your question. I've tried to ask around, but it's not the kind of thing people will admit to. I do wish it was me, but it wasn't, sorry. I don't know who did.

Anyway, tell me how you are. I want to know everything.

Love,

Gin.

P.S.: This being said, I was rather OFFENDED that you'd think I wouldn't remember Snuffles' other nickname. Ask Hermione? Really? You know, I lived for that summer in grimmauld. They're my real childhood memories. Chasing after Fred and George, pulling pranks, spying on the grown-ups. Always wanting to be older than I was. I really wanted to impress you. Funny, right? I suppose I haven't done much of that lately, have I? Impressed you?

I don't know, he answers. I wouldn't say that.

Really, Harry? Poured my heart out to you all of last year and all I get is a one-liner?

Haha. Sorry. No. I just. I don't know. It's complicated.

'Complicated,' that's what it is, isn't it? Everything - so goddamn complicated, that year. It's unfortunate that killing Tom never did solve everything.

You know what? Ginny writes. There is one thing I didn't like about what you wrote. You tell me you blame yourself, but what about me? Do I get any semblance of agency? If that's all you think I am, a girl who does things because of you, then I don't think we have anything to say to each other. Like I didn't fight my own way through. You can hate me all you want for the decisions I made, but don't tell me I didn't make them.

That's not what I said, he observes. It isn't. I just don't always think these were decisions you made. (No. Scratch that last part). Again, it's complicated.

Okay. I suppose I'll just tell you about my boring and uncomplicated day, then.

And, the truth is: they rebuild brick by brick, that year. Like in a diary, like she did last year, Ginny tells him about her days. Harry tries to do the same, though next to the riveting tales she shapes out of the ordinary, his stories often feel lame. I went to work, he declares, or Dean and Luna have started working on the bedrooms at Grimmauld. I like the house now. Sometimes, he looks at the cosy-ness of the new sitting room, the dark green sofa, the plants Neville's put in and the yellow cushions, the faux-Persian rug under their feet, and he catches himself wondering what words she would use to describe it. Her colours - they wouldn't be plain. They would be pine and bumblebee, and the fabrics would be smooth and woven silk. Sometimes, it is as though a layer of her words changes the way the world looks. In her letters, she is the girl he later chooses to marry, not a fantasy or a memory of a couple of months out of someone else's life. Just her. She is funny, and witty, and bright, unapologetic and indelicate and delicate at the same time, and questioning, and certain. When he gets a new owl, a tawny, fluffy thing that, unlike Hedwig, barely goes out unless it absolutely has to, eats all the food that lands in its proximity and seems to have made a best friend out of Mia (every time she comes home from class, it flutters its wings; when she calls it a 'good boy,' it extends its leg to 'shake'), he tells Ginny the story of how he got it as a post scriptum. Went to the shops early to avoid the crowds and there was this kid with his mother there. He started pointing and asked me for an autograph I turned him down but I kind of felt bad you know? So I said I'd name the owl after him. Anyway this is Christopher. Careful he'll eat anything kind of reminded me of Ron. Like the orange feathers and all. Don't tell him I said that.

She writes back: Hahaha. You know, here's a writing tip, free of charge. Put the most important information up first. By the time I got to the end of your letter, that bloody thing had already eaten half my porridge!

So: in her letters, she is her. Funny, witty, bright, unapologetic and indelicate and delicate at the same time, questioning and certain. Hurt. I wish I could see the house. Sometimes, I think I should come to London, you know? So that we could talk to each other. Face to face. But, I keep wondering what you'd think when you saw me. He doesn't tell her about the vision he had, of her lips, her lips crashing against his, sweet and tasting like her lip balm, and those same lips around – I reckon I'm busy with practice, anyway. This summer maybe? Also, completely off topic, but what's happening with the trials? I just see shit in the papers.

He smiles. The house isn't going anywhere Gin. And alright, so -

In February 1999, the Second Wizarding War trials open against the backdrop of Bill Clinton's impeachment - or lack thereof. On the day the United States Senate refuses to pass a conviction against the American President, the former editor of the Daily Prophet faces charges for: collaborating with Voldemort's regime, endangering hundreds of lives, and printing almost a year's worth of propaganda. His defence rests on freedom of expression, freedom of the press, concepts new to most wizarding ears, presumably including his own.

His name is Mr Apollo Burke. He stands trial in front of a jury composed of ten Wizengamot members, and six members of the public. The appointed panel is screened, questioned, and temporarily removed in cases of conflict of interest. When the news is shared with Ron, Harry and Hermione, the latter remarks: 'I thought it was supposed to be half and half.' Memories of good intentions from last summer, when a wave of reform and optimism ran through the trenches. Kingsley diplomatically replies: 'We've had to make compromises.'

At this point in History, it is important to note that the Wizengamot is only a partially elected body. Out of the fifty seats available, almost two-thirds are hereditary, traditionally occupied by the oldest living relative of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. In the case of the trials, some of these seats have been left vacant, like that of Lucius Malfoy, whose conflict is strikingly apparent.

Another twelve seats are awarded for life-long terms on the basis of services rendered to the British wizarding community. That's the kind of seat Dumbledore had. The serving Minister of Magic is given the opportunity to appoint a new witch or wizard whenever the previous occupant pushes up the daisies, as Ginny says.

The remaining ten members are elected per geographical voting circumscriptions: two for London, two for Scotland (the presence of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts has led to a disproportionate concentration of wizards in the area), one for Wales, Ireland, the South East, the South West, North East, and North West. 'I'd say I'm the most progressive of the bunch,' Andromeda jokes, once, though Harry wonders if perhaps, Augusta Longbottom would want to dispute the title. Regardless, Teddy's grandmother is a rather stark departure from the last occupant of the Black seat.

The trials are scheduled to be held in a semi-public forum within the Ministry. A courtroom built for the occasion - for a lot of people, the one that already exists carries bad associations. In it, the jury sits close to the main door, facing out onto the rest of the room. Unlike in Muggle proceedings, there is no judge - just a Head Juror. A member of the Wizengamot elected amongst the panel. They are in charge of presiding over the proceedings, sitting at the centre of the first row in formal robes, next to the witness box. The Head Juror calls witnesses in, arbitrates legal disputes. The barristers for the Magical Prosecution Service (the 'MPS') and for the defence, sit at benches facing the jury, their staff behind them on raised rows of seats like in an auditorium. The accused sits at the very back, high up on the last row and surrounded by a clear, enchanted bubble. It prevents them from escaping. When people are tried together, the bubble magically expands.

The determination of who should be sitting in that bubble was already cause for many debates. There were the remaining Death Eaters, of course, those branded with the Dark Mark on their skin. That identification is easy enough - they seem to stand trial regardless of the offences they materially committed. Belonging to the organisation is already a crime under wizarding law, made retroactive by the Wizengamot, as well as the associated life sentence. Beyond that, there is the question of what to make of the hundreds of people (Ministry employees, shop owners, mothers, daughters, sons) who simply went along. Purebloods, half-bloods who refused to be killed, to give their lives up to defend that of others. On trial that spring, Harry is called to testify against a housewife who gave the Ministry the names and addresses of all the Muggleborns who lived in her village. They found her after the war and charged her with nine counts of reckless endangerment of life, and four counts of murder. She was identified thanks to paperwork someone found in the Auror office about her. Up until then, she was being put up for a medal - services rendered.

When Ginny writes to Harry, that year, she reacts to what the papers are saying about the trials. To what she sees in the world outside of courtrooms and silky gowns. To what he tells her, too. She talks about a radio interview she heard: two of the nine Muggleborns who survived the raid themselves, telling stories of hiding, of suffering, of fear. The same stories she and everyone she knows would have to tell if anyone were to listen to them. I don't know, she explains, then. I wonder if the goal of all of this is to look for the truth or simply to convict. I wonder if I have a problem with it being the latter.

Yeah, Harry thinks, same.

Back in '98, a number of voices within Ministry ranks advocated for an amnesty law to be passed, to no avail. Most people were against it, including - surprisingly - the Muggle government. They too suffered unspeakable losses as a result of this war and in the late nineties, the main assumption is that justice should be served, regardless of what the victims themselves think (or even know about). In its press communiques and releases, the MPS insists that what the wizarding world needs is a fair, independent process, aimed not at personal redress, but at outlining the very real consequences of crimes committed against society as a whole. Actions have consequences. 'It's about the values we, the wizarding people, believe in. They are the ones that have been attacked.' Harry remembers his conversations with Giulia last autumn, the guilt and disgust at the things he'd done that clung (and still clings) to his shoulders. Very often, in the spring of 1999, it feels like those who stand trial are the ones who got caught.

Sometimes, I wonder if they got lucky, Ginny says - an interesting perspective. It almost sounds comforting, the thought of going to jail and be done with all the guilt, you know? You come out absolved, you can rebuild your life, move on. We live with these things in our heads. But then, I remember that we were right, and that they were wrong. I remember that they killed Fred. And, I want them to be punished, I want them to burn. You say that if we stay angry, maybe that's how they win. But, I've never felt as alive as I did when I was furious, fighting for something I believed in. It's like the petrol that feeds muggle cars and I don't dislike it. They can spend the rest of their lives crying in jail, I'm not going to go and hold their hand.

It just doesn't feel like justice, Harry responds. But then again, he's not even sure what justice does feel like. Righting wrongs? In the end, the prospect of "just" putting people behind bars and moving on like nothing happened is almost unsatisfying.

I didn't say it did.

In the Ministry's courtrooms, the accused, their lawyers, and the MPS are allowed to watch the trials, as well as members of the press who have been granted a special authorisation from the Department of Information. They sit in and surveil the proceedings from a balcony hovering halfway between the floor level and the high ceiling. The restrictions imposed on attendance are aimed at guaranteeing security - that of the audience and of the witnesses, of course, but also that of the accused themselves. 'I know we like to think we're on the side of the angels,' Kingsley says, 'but I can't guarantee that someone from our ranks who's lost someone in the war won't take a wand to Rabastan Lestrange's throat, for instance. We all know how it is.' Hermione's sigh is audible but she doesn't object. 'Obviously, there is also a concern that some might use a public trial as a forum to spread their agenda. Which is why we're only allowing mainstream press in,' the Minister says. 'The Prophet, the Quibbler -' she raises an eyebrow. 'People who we know won't spread their lies,' Kingsley clarifies.

The accused have lawyers - as many or as few as they want - though according to the Ministry itself, finding people willing to do the job was a rather difficult task. In the wizarding world, most of the solicitors and barristers who've set up shop in Diagon Alley do conveyancing work. When they don't, they defend the financial interests of their clients, drawing up magical contracts and capitalising on an extensive client list to lobby for less trade regulations and taxes. Until the end of the war, they only rarely ever appeared in court - with most of their clients sitting on the Wizengamot themselves, it was unlikely anyone would ever press charges against them.

'You didn't have a lawyer in fifth year,' Hermione observes, her gaze finding Harry's across the kitchen table at The Burrow. 'Neither did Sirius, nor Barty Crouch Jr for that matter. Didn't you ever think that was odd?'

From her tone, Harry deduces that while he didn't, he probably should have. A non-committal shrug raises his shoulders. Funny how that never crossed his mind at the time. You'd almost think he had more pressing matters to worry about.

These days, the grounds have shifted. When Lucius Malfoy is tried at the start of March, he shows up with an army of wizards in shiny, silky black robes, sporting shoulder-length, curly white wigs and pointed hats. It would be hilarious, if only Hermione didn't consistently spoil the fun by reminding everyone of how half of the lower-ranking Voldemort followers who were caught either struck plea deals, or are showing up to trial without anyone to represent them. She says that in their world, there is no cab-rank rule, or legal aid.

(In his next letter to her, Harry makes Ginny detail to him her entire game plan for the upcoming match against Hufflepuff. She kindly asks him if he wants to talk about the trials and: Honestly, I'd rather go back to Snape's Potions class than spend another minute talking about these bloody hearings.

Haha. Fair, she says.)

Against the accused, in 1999, the majority of the evidence gathered is the result of Auror investigations, as well as testimonies in front of the Commission last summer. Transcripts of depositions from members of the Order, Ministry officials who signed immunity agreements, people who saw the offenders first hand. There will be no opportunity for cross-examination or any retesting of material evidence found by the Aurors. The defence has been permitted to ask questions, and to present their own case at trial, but they probably very rarely will get answers.

Hermione plays devil's advocate for most of February, though even Harry can tell she's conflicted. 'Think about Sirius,' she says, once, and a shiver runs down his spine. 'He never had the opportunity to question the "evidence" they had against him. We're doing the same thing -'

'But Sirius was innocent!' Ron insists. And, 'The investigation was botched.' They are in the kitchen at Grimmauld for this particular row, and he throws The Prophet open on the table in front of her. 'Look at the people on that list, do you actually know any one of them who's innocent? Kingsley's done the job well, we -' he points to himself and Harry, there, because yes, of course, they were on the arrest squad for a lot of these people. 'We have done the job well! Do you not trust us?'

The accusation seems to physically pain Hermione. She opens her mouth, closes it. Harry shakes his head. 'Sirius felt guilty,' he says. 'He thought he was responsible. He didn't want anyone questioning the evidence against him.'

She tells him that is beside the point, which in itself feels, to him, beside the point. 'Plus, we've communicated to them all the evidence we've gathered. So that they can "prepare themselves" or whatever. It's not like they'll be surprised,' Ron adds. In response, Hermione just sighs.

And, in 1999, Harry stands in the middle of it all. Rather reluctantly, if he's completely honest, because courtroom proceedings have never felt like they truly concerned him. His job was to be "The Chosen One" and stop Tom. Then, it became to arrest people, prevent them from doing bad things. That's mostly been achieved.

Yet, that year, he is the witness everyone wants to hear from. Called to testify in more than half of the trials – sometimes almost on the off chance he might say something interesting. It seems that last December, he told the press just enough to redeem himself and show he hadn't gone completely cray, but not enough to satisfy the public's curiosity. He's starting to realise he probably never will. At the time, thinking that he'd do one interview presenting his version of events and be done "speaking up," like Giulia said, might have been slightly naive.

Now, he's become the only variable in a trial where most of the evidence will be static. The MPS acts as an independent body, and Harry is told that they alone have a say in what they choose to present against the accused. To them, having 'Potter' on the stand isn't about establishing guilt (they often already have enough material to do that convincingly), it's about legitimacy. He's become a star witness regardless of what he actually has to say.

This is even more frustrating because while he is called to testify, most of the people he knows aren't. To call Harry, the MPS has traded down the talking time of plenty of other, perhaps more relevant witnesses whose words apparently won't be needed, not when guilt is already so easily established. And, like with the Commission last summer, all the underage witches and wizards have simply been written out of the list. According to Seamus (who is probably right), it's an attempt to sweep whatever happened in Hogwarts under the carpet.

'No one from the DA has been called by the MPS to testify against Carrow, even the ones who were of age. And, you know what Professor they chose to call? Flitwick,' he laughs. 'It's like they want to get enough to convict her, but not enough to expose her. And, fair play to them: no one wants to think of the shite these cunts might have done to their children. Merlin's sake, did you notice they only listed her trial for two days? And then, she calls you to testify for her defence like she intends to make a fuss about her brother? Please. Your man had it coming. I mean, I don't know who did kill him but I'd send them flowers if I could,' he grins. Harry blinks and an image flickers before his eyes, Seamus lying bleeding on the ground. Ginny's words: Hannah tended to him, got Pomfrey to sneak in. I was shaking so much, Harry, I couldn't even hold his hand when they patched him up. 'Fuck's sake, I'll be there anyway,' Seamus added. 'Fecking chain meself to the witness box if they try to throw me out.'

I wish they'd given those who wanted to talk the ability to. I want her to go to jail like I'd want a silver medal. It's … fine, I suppose. But, to testify, I – Ginny crosses her next sentence out which is interesting in the way that she almost never does that. No. I'd have too much to say or too little.

Anyway, as soon as the official list comes out, Ron also makes a very fair, observational point: 'Mate, do you even know these people?'

And, that is perhaps the hardest element of it all, that February, because no: Harry doesn't. Not for the most part, anyway. The fact is that because of his own reluctance to talk in public since the war ended, the MPS (and the British public at large) seem to entertain a lot of fantasies about the amount of information The Boy Who Lived actually has about the war, considering most of his time last year was spent hiding in a tent with Ron and Hermione. Sure, he knows some of the accused, like Lucius Malfoy or Umbridge (Merlin, how he would like to hammer a nail in her coffin) but out of the fifteen trials he's been asked to attend, most of what he'd have to say is: 'ten other Aurors and I entered a building and arrested so-and-so.' He and Ron are patrol kids, not Major Crimes. Of course, there's another handful of people like Rabastan Lestrange whose name he knows, but he'd certainly have more to say if his sister was on trial. It so happens that most of the people he did have a grudge against wound up dead.

Then, of course, there is the matter of the legal implications of what he could say. Hermione's tone hovers near a stage of a constant panic, that spring. 'You could go to jail, Harry!'

From what he understands, the testimony he is expected to give will be under Oath. The Ministry has sworn off magical means of compelling statements but nevertheless, if Harry lies and gets caught, the penalty for perjury is twenty years. He obviously doesn't know what questions will be asked, but it seems unlikely that he will be able to avoid topics like: the Elder Wand, the Gringotts break-in, or the Amycus Carrow incident (don'tthinkaboutit, don'tthinkaboutit, don'tthinkaboutit). To be honest, it's not even like the MPS or the defence would have to actively try to trip him up (which, according to Hermione, is also a possibility – 'Not everybody loves you, Harry,' as though he needed a reminder). How would he ever testify against Umbridge without admitting to committing a crime, breaking into the Ministry?

'But doesn't everyone know about that?' he shrugs. To be fair, it's been months, Hermione and Ron have told the story in front of the Commission - it's not like anyone would be surprised.

'Yes, but you've never admitted to it, Harry. There is a grey area of plausible deniability,' Hermione explains, impatient. 'If you admitted to it and the Ministry didn't bring charges, that would be a very awkward place for them to be in. Especially with Narcissa Malfoy still breathing down their necks.'

'And, since when is the Ministry looking awkward my problem?'

Which is when Hermione hisses - again - 'You could go to jail, Harry!'

As a somewhat unfortunate consequence, she and Kingsley both insist he sees a lawyer to "review [his] options." A Muggle one (a Squib, to be precise) because, 'They tell you it's all confidential but if you go to a wizard, we all know everything you say will end up in the press the next day.' So, one criminally (no pun intended) early morning in February, Harry reluctantly takes the Tube to Temple station to meet an aging, Muggle barrister. The man's office is cramped, bookshelves threatening to collapse under the weight of heavy casefiles but outside, the streets are blissfully quiet - an island of calm in the middle of central London.

Both the Muggle lawyer and Kinglsey (though he pretends to "not get involved" due to his role as Minister of Magic) believe Harry should go "no comment" on every question he is asked. 'The only thing you have going for you is the right not to incriminate yourself, which surprisingly is guaranteed by wizarding law,' the barrister tells him. 'If you just don't answer any of the questions, you eliminate the risk of slipping up, saying something that might implicate you in any way.'

When Harry tells Ron and Hermione about the advice, she rages: 'But that'll make you look guilty! Remember when you went "no comment" in front of the Commission - the press went insane!'

Ron shrugs, speaks, then shoves a slice of Kreacher's apple pie into his mouth. 'Well, Kingsley thinks -' he starts but Hermione immediatly silences him with a death glare.

Harry smirks, catches her gaze, then, and raises an eyebrow. 'Are you, Hermione Granger, questioning the Minister of Magic's motives?' he teases. She crosses her arms, says nothing.

The fact of the matter is that since the end of January, Harry's refused to apologise. On the surface, of course, his relationship with Kingsley has gone back to a functioning state. They interact - cordially. Harry's signed the press release Hermione wrote about Kingsley's reform bill and it (albeit narrowly) passed through the Wizengamot. Weasley Wizard's Wheezes has applied for a government grant and the paperwork is currently being processed, which has lately made for a very happy and hopeful Ron. But under the surface, well. Let's just say that Harry's unwillingness to cooperate has rather strained his relationship with the Minister. While they've been polite to each other, the days of the both of them sitting in a room, lighting a candle and bonding over Giulia's death are long gone. Harry can't tell the other two what he has against Kingsley but it doesn't mean he himself can't hold a grudge. I don't like that you're mad at him, Harry, Ginny says, which earns her a: Well, I don't like that you aren't, and he doesn't write back to her for two days, afterwards.

As he talks about it with Ron and Hermione, Harry observes that making "The Chosen One" look guilty might not be in Kinglsey's best interests either - by association, when Harry is popular, so is the Ministry. But, Hermione retorts: 'It may be if the alternative is to make the Ministry look stupid. You don't realise the position they're in. Either they're bringing charges against The Boy Who Lived,' she says. 'Or they're not, which means not everyone is treated equal. Regardless, it's a bad look.'

Harry sighs.

In the end, the whole thing seems like an inextricable situation that has been under constant debate for much too long. 'Okay,' Harry settles. 'Umbridge and Lucius Malfoy aren't scheduled until March, and they're the first ones on the list I do know. So, I suppose I can testify to the fact that I don't know any of the others. That shouldn't be too risky, should it? Plus, I'd be telling the truth and I'm not admitting to any crime, am I?' Hermione glares in disapproval but seems unable to find a counterpoint. 'I guess for the rest I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.'

(Ron seems much more supportive of this plan than she is.)

So, the first trial Harry testifies in, that year, is also the first hearing overall - Apollo Burke. He sits in the witness box and: 'Please, state your name for the record -'

'Harry James Potter.'

'Mr Potter, do you know the accused, Mr…'

'No, I don't, actually.'

There is a raucous, that first time. A gasp that echoes through the jury up to the press balcony - he sits there and waits until they finally come to the decision to 'excuse' him. Robards is rather happy at this turn of events - Harry's short testimonies mean that he can actually work almost as normal. The Prophet has a field day with the whole incident in its next edition, because while criticising Harry is and has always been one of their favourite pastimes, questioning Kingsley's government also ranks quite high. These are some of the magical world's most dangerous criminals, one of their editorials insists which, frankly, sounds rather hyperbolic when you think one of the men Harry is asked to testify against is only being tried for trying to hide his Voldemort-supporter son from law enforcement after the war. A bad move? Certainly. But likely not the most dangerous criminal the wizarding world has ever known either - and this government shows us, once again, that it is not up to the task of calling the appropriate witnesses to the stand. Despite Mr Potter's undeniable role in the war … Harry lets the wave of press wash over him and stops reading.

I'll still testify for Narcissa and Draco though, he reiterates to Ginny, apropos of nothing, really. It is the kind of relationship they have, that year, where they tell each other stuff.

Like you said you would, she comments. I think that's honourable. Quick scrolls on the page. Her letters are parchment and dark ink; his are cheap refill pads and Biro pens. Though, like I told you before, I think "honourable" is for people who deserve it, she adds. It makes him laugh. He thinks the Malfoys deserve it, though he doesn't think he should be telling her why. He's not sure what her reaction would be; it's probably best everyone thinks he owes Narcissa for saving his life – which he does, anyway. But, that's probably why you're a war hero and I'm not, Ginny adds. Heroes forgive. Us ruthless commoners just sit and watch by the sidelines.

Thankfully (or perhaps not), later that month, Ron and Hermione are the ones who become the main headline news. It amuses Harry more than anything else, really, because truth be told, for someone who's been so intent on telling him to ignore the unwanted press attention for months (if not years), Hermione is rather comically annoyed by it. For days, she menacingly flicks her wand at the wireless the moment the gossip shows come on, and sighs at copies of the magazines that find themselves on the news-rack that Dean and Luna have installed in the entrance hall of Grimmauld Place.

The house is now cluttered with even more fanmail than before, as well as bouquets of lilies, roses, different flower arrangements that Kreacher regularly picks out of the bins as though they landed there by mistake. The elf himself appears conflicted between the excitement he feels at organising and catering for a big party, and comments that Harry may or may not have heard him mutter under his breath, alluding to the fact that: 'Still, what a shame this is, with Mr Weasley's bloodline…' Hermione flings the glossy pages of The Magical Bride onto the kitchen table one Saturday afternoon; it makes a loud thunk when it hits the hardwood. 'This one got my birthday wrong,' she protests, sitting down on a chair at the end of the table. 'It's public record! You'd think it wouldn't be that hard for them to issue correct information!'

Harry grins, leaning back against the worktop. Their surroundings have drastically improved since the both of them started having impromptu breakfast dates back in autumn, the ones during which she tries to get some homework done before Ron wakes up and Harry stops over for Kreacher's pastries and tea after the morning runs that keep him sane. For the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, Dean and Luna have kept the aged, rough wood of the worktops and the large kitchen table as staple, aesthetic pieces (from what they've told Harry, anyways, he just vaguely nods when they speak at him about these things and signs the cheques they say they need), but chose to repaint the walls a warm, off-white shade that's already made the room look barely recognisable. The cabinets stayed in, with their traditional, somewhat vintage look, still sporting golden, intricate handles, though the 'kids' have decided to colour them a light, soft shade of green that nicely (Harry has to admit) sets off the quarry tiles beneath their feet. They all have their own fancy glass jars for storage, now, and plates that don't exhibit a nasty frown when used by Muggleborns. They bought the dishware from John Lewis, you see, like normal fucking people.

'Hermione,' he reminds her, 'last week Worldly Witch claimed I was dating Kate Moss, I think we're past the point of correctness, here.'

She glares. 'That's not funny.'

He tries to hide a smirk: 'I know, I'm not joking.'

Given that he had the unfortunate idea to tell the Americans he was dating a Muggle last December, the British wizarding press has shown a striking amount of determination in finding out the identity of the "lucky girl," as they put it, this even if when Statute of Secrecy forbids them from actually going anywhere near her. Of course, because he is "famous," they have all but decided that his girlfriend must also be "Muggle famous." (Merlin forbid he date anyone who doesn't make the headlines.) At this point, they've speculated through half a dozen Muggle celebrities who unfortunately for them happened to be within the vicinity of Grimmauld Place, from that blonde Spice Girls woman whose name he can't recall, to that American actress from that sitcom with the song. All of it, frankly, feels like a gross overestimation of his sex-appeal.

Hermione frowns at him, then, arms crossed over her chest. Before she can say anything, though, 'Who's Kate Moss?' Ron asks as he enters the kitchen and makes a beeline for the leftover sandwiches on the worktop. 'She good looking?' he articulates through a mouthful and Harry bursts out a laugh when Hermione glares daggers at him in warning. Before he can answer, though, she actually raises an eyebrow at him and challenges: 'Speaking of which, Harry, when are you going to introduce us?'

'To Kate Moss? Sorry to disappoint but-'

He never finishes his sentence for fear that she might actually hit him in the face.

All of this being said, the fact of the matter is: Hermione says 'yes.'

Harry isn't present when the proposal happens. Not that he wants to be. To tell the truth, at this point, he's not sure what his role is in Ron and Hermione's relationship: there is no rulebook for what to do when the two most important people in your life start dating each other, let alone when one proposes to the other. It's obviously not like he has a passion for third-wheeling under any circumstance, but at the same time, refusing to do so would mean not seeing his best mates together ever again, which sounds even more unreasonable. So: he's just had to draw the line somewhere. That somewhere happens to be the marriage proposal. (Good. Fucking. Call. Ginny jokes.) And, while he's been kind enough to help Ron plan the whole Valentine's Day weekend trip, booking the hotel and the restaurant on the "telleephone" and having the inevitable last-minute, emergency talk with Hermione when she almost cancelled the whole thing to focus on her N.E.W.T.s revisions ('It's just a commercial holiday, Harry, I don't see why it's so important to Ron that we go!'), he actually didn't want to go to Bath himself, thank you very much. As the date approached and Ron started almost shaking with nerves ('Maybe you could come, mate. If she says "no" then you can try and talk to her'), Harry shook his head violently: 'Absolutely fucking not.'

When Hermione tells the story, later, she sniffles, cheeks crimson and Ron's hand wrapped tight around hers like he's still concerned she might take off and leave. Harry gets the sense that the event went mostly according to plan - up to a certain point. They had dinner at the Italian restaurant he booked, candlelight and tablecloths; Hermione calls it 'delightful' and 'marvellous' - Harry gave Ron the money for it ('If it works, we'll call it my wedding gift. If it doesn't I suppose we'll have bigger problems.')

His best mate was initially supposed to propose there, between mains and desserts, ring concealed at the bottom of a flute of champagne. But, 'I don't know, I just couldn't do it with all the posh Muggles watching. I was so convinced she'd say "no,"' Ron confesses later, Hermione out of earshot. In the end, they walked down the path to the river looking at - the bloody stars, constellations, romantic things or whatever - and Ron was fiddling with the jewellery box in his pocket so much it fell to the ground. 'I went to pick it up, but then she turned around and noticed so I just, you know, improvised.'

'Oh, it was perfect, Harry,' Hermione says. 'So sweet.'

In the press (and sometimes politely unspoken amongst their friends), the prevailing question is: why, though? Harry feels it around them, sticky like wet dough. To the pureblood purists, the fact that a Weasley would "settle" for a Muggleborn is, while not surprising considering the family's reputation, still "unfortunate." To the intellectual elite, it's the fact that the most brilliant witch of their generation would choose such an "unremarkable" party that is worth gossiping about. And, this is not even taking into consideration people like Ron's mother who - while well-intentioned and clearly in support of the union - seemingly cannot help but comment on the fact that the both of them are 'so young to make a decision like this,' as though she hadn't herself married at the age of nineteen. 'But we were in the middle of a war, Ron,' she reminds them.

'Yeah, and we've just been through one,' her son counters. 'How's it different?'

That is when Ron's mother starts tearing up before hugging her son, then Hermione, then Percy, then her smiling husband, quickly moving through any and every person within a ten-feet radius. 'Oh, my children,' she adds, utensils and pans all laying forgotten on the kitchen table at The Burrow. In an uninterrupted flow of words and teary observations that make everyone in the kitchen laugh, she tells them again that they are young ('Oh, Merlin, maybe I am old!'), that she 'always knew,' that they ought to treat each other 'right,' that 'well, you'll know this, Hermione, but you've always been family,' (which, to be honest, hasn't always been obvious) and that they can have the ceremony at The Burrow if they want to save money ('Oh, it's very fine for a young couple. It'll be like Bill and Fleur's wedding!' 'Hopefully not!' Bill interrupts from across the room). The Weasley matriarch is spinning, that day, in the middle of the kitchen, between tears and hugs, and 'Oh, let's toast!' It takes her a remarkable five minutes before she turns around, eyes finally focusing on Harry who all this time has been careful to hide in the corner. 'Oh, and Harry,' she calls, crosses the kitchen to also pull him into a tight hug. 'Best man! Oh, we'll have to see for your robes, I think -'

'Mum! We're literally just back! I haven't even asked yet!' Ron shouts, outraged.

Well, yeah, anyway. Harry's best man. Says 'yes,' too, once Ron actually does ask. And: Congrats, Ginny says.

Overall, Ron's reasons for proposing are known: the war, Giulia's death, wanting to spend the rest of his life, however long or short, with the only girl he's ever truly had eyes for. Hermione - however - never explains. Within their small circle when she is asked by George - 'Are you sure? I mean, have you met Ronald?' he jokes, she just shakes her head and says: 'I love him,' or, 'I can't imagine life without him.' For the people who do know and love them, that's obvious and enough.

The following Saturday morning, though, she Apparates and knocks on Harry's apartment door. He's been waiting for her. Lets her in and offers to give her space, go for a run or something, but she shakes her head. On the hardwood floor, Hermione sits by the landline, the one he only got because it came with the TV. Absentmindedly, she tangles the cord between her fingers. 'Are you sure you don't mind?' she asks. 'I'll pay you back.'

He shakes his head. Unlike Ron, she doesn't insist.

She dials the two zeros followed by the 61 country code and closes her eyes while the phone rings. Harry tries to busy himself. He makes the bed, does the dishes the Muggle way, attempts to tune out the fight that inevitably ensues. Jean Granger's voice rises through the receiver at the other end of the world and in contrast, her daughter's words are icy and crisp, like they were after Ron left in the forest. 'He's a nice boy, darling,' her mother says. She claims that they raised their only daughter to "think." 'You are nineteen. You're getting married, you refuse to go to university… Your father and I are worried and I just don't understand -'

'Well, you never did understand any of it, did you?! Not a bloody thing!' Hermione snaps. The line goes dead only moments afterwards.

She holds the telephone in front of her like she can physically see the dial tone. Harry stands by the window. He wants to disappear like the awkwardness is a physical bag of coal he has to carry between his hands. 'Hermione,' he says in a breath; she places the receiver back onto the base and pushes herself off the floor.

'Thank you,' she says. She is crying, or about to cry; her eyes glassy – a thin layer of water reflects the sunlight. She turns, eyeing the door. 'I'll just –' The corners of her mouth twitch like someone had to reach out, size them and pull them up into a smile. She takes a step back.

'Hermione,' Harry repeats but it occurs to him that there is absolutely nothing else he can think of saying. Not a day has gone by since last year without him thinking the whole situation with her parents was his fault. He wants to apologise (to her, to them) but her father just glared at him all through Christmas dinner and -

Hermione spins on her heel, quick; the words tumble out of her mouth like burning water. 'Will you walk me down the aisle?' she asks. He can't do anything other than stare at the features of her face – she looks: like she's just cried, but also like she is surprised by her words in the way that they came out, but not by the idea itself. Fuck, he thinks, she's thought about this. 'If they don't come, I mean -' she adds and in that moment, all he can think about is that her voice sounds like a time from before Ron came back, like the nights she would spend watching the deer and wild boars pass their tent hoping she'd see him appear in the dark and: Harry, please, will you hold my hand if we die here alone? 'Actually, even if they do come,' she corrects. Her voice is coated with the resolve of her eleven-year-old self, hiding the fear like it is nothing but water and she can swallow it. 'Don't be stupid,' said Ron. 'We're coming,' said Hermione. She stares straight into his eyes. 'I want it to be you. You're my family. No one else.'

He can hardly speak. 'Jesus, Hermione.'

She chokes out a laugh, then, makes him swear he won't just say "yes" because he doesn't want her to cry. He shakes his head and smiles.

'No,' he says. 'I mean: yes, okay, I'll do it, and not just because of that.'

She pulls him into a hug, then, and cries onto his shoulder. 'Oh, Harry!'

(And, for the record, the reason he says 'yes' is this: when Ron and Hermione set their wedding date for July, Hermione also refuses to pick a maid of honour. 'I'm getting married in the back garden of The Burrow, it's not like there's a lot to plan,' she declares, though Harry suspects that anything that does need to be planned, she will refuse to delegate. 'You're my best friend, anyway. And, Ron's already picked you.'

'I think she just doesn't have that many friends,' Ron later comments. It is just the two of them, quick words at the pub while his fiancée is in the loo. 'You know how she is. It's you, me - that's kind of it.'

So, that's why he says 'yes.' Without even having to think. Because it is and will always be: he, Ron and Hermione. He says 'yes,' because it would never occur to him to say 'no.')

She never asks him for a reason but she does give him hers. Eventually, when she's calmed down, he sits with her on his sofa, a mug of tea and a pack of chocolate digestives. She wipes tears from her cheeks with the sleeve of her jumper. 'It's just that, he loves me for who I am, you know? He knows me better than anyone and he loves me, the full me, and I just… You get it, don't you?'

Harry nods, smiles. A fleeting thought suggests that there is one person in this world who knows everything about him and still – writes. He shakes off the idea. Though: 'Yeah, I do,' he does say.

Later, February curves into March. Like: the end of a mountain road, the slowing ahead of a steep, hairpin bend, snow melting into dark water at the edge of the grass - the image reminds him of Scotland - Hogwarts. In London, Mia's skimmia flowers bloom at her windowsill, jardinières that add colour to their miserable courtyard.

Over the first week of March, she and Ron celebrate their respective birthdays in quick succession. Harry's best mate turns nineteen on a Monday - she turns twenty-one the following Thursday. Harry takes her to see The Cranberries play at Shepherd's Bush - she smiles large and bright and kisses him to the sound of guitar riffs and loud drum beats. She is happy, dizzy with the music, buzzing, like he felt when he was eleven and discovered magic for the first time.

For Ron's birthday, they have dinner at Grimmauld, the night of. Hermione talks McGonagall into letting her spend the evening in London after class. As a proper 'party,' they organise drinks at the pub the following weekend and invite everyone from the house as well as George, Percy and Bill. Fleur turns the invitation down ('She's been very tired with the pregnancy,' her husband adds which prompts everyone to send her love and flowers and chocolates to Shell Cottage the week after). At the house, Dean asks if he can bring the new girl from the Department of International Magical Cooperation he's been seeing and Ron shrugs: 'Sure, the more the merrier.' Next to them, Seamus's glass crashes against the floor and he pretends he knocked it over like accidental magic has nothing to do with it.

Hermione sets her fork down by the side of her plate. 'Speaking of which,' she starts. 'Harry, I was thinking -' (unfortunately, as she keeps talking, he realises he can't make the same Kate Moss joke twice).

He agonises over it for a couple of days afterwards. Bites his lip and stares down at his food and goes running hoping it will clear his mind. He even writes to Ginny to ask what she thinks. It's up to you, really, she responds, which Harry finds annoyingly off-handed for someone who usually shapes novels of poetry out of thin air. In the end, he lies in bed next to Mia after her birthday gig, their clothes scattered in a messy path from the door to his bed, and says: 'You remember my best mate's birthday's this weekend?' She hums, eyes half-closed and her right forefinger tracing lazy patterns over his back. 'Do you want to, er, come?'

Her gaze narrows on his; there seems to be a question on her lips that she doesn't ask. He's no idea what the fuck this is, really, and maybe she is his 'girlfriend' and maybe not, but what he does know for certain is that he holds his breath until she answers and genuinely smiles when she says: 'Yeah, alright, why not? I'm kind of curious.'

The thing about Mia is: generally, she's taken the news about magic in a rather unexpected way. Granted, Harry's model for Muggles reacting to the wizarding world has either been: Petunia - a spiteful hatred of everything from his mere person to the word 'magic' itself - or he and Hermione - an endless fascination with the glitter and the spells, and cool things. By contrast, Mia is rather… indifferent. Not in a disrespectful way but more like: to her, magic isn't the most interesting or even notable thing about him, as though it is something that he can do but not an all-encompassing identity where the word 'wizard' replaces the word 'person.' He frowns at her reaction one morning when he summons his jumper from the sofa downstairs and she only looks marginally impressed. 'Cool,' she says. 'You know I can blow rings out of cigarette smoke?'

He bursts out a laugh.

'I'll admit, not as useful,' she grins.

At the beginning of February, he gave her a general rundown of the wizarding world. Hogwarts ('Right, I never pictured you as the boarding school type. Again, this explains so much,') his job, the Ministry, the Statute of Secrecy… She isn't yet familiar with all details and intricacies, but she's got the basics. He didn't give her a sit-down lecture (again, he's never been good with those), but he fills her in, one question, or one spell at a time. 'What is the Floo?' And: 'What is a Patronus?' And: 'How does your money work again?' On that last one, he shrugs and explains: 'Well, my money doesn't work like that 'cause I'm banned from Gringotts, so I'm using a Muggle bank.' She raises an eyebrow, jokingly asks if he robbed the bank and he says: 'Sort of? The Goblins think I did, anyway. It's complicated.' It's her turn to laugh.

'I bet.'

That year, as they get to know (really get to know) each other, Mia spends most of her free time at his place. He's got the Aurors, politics, the trials - she's got school and a part-time job and intense family drama. They meet in the middle. Hours they choose to spend existing in the same space, laughing, playing video games or attempting to bake chocolate cakes that always finish in a flour and egg fight all over his kitchen floor. They have sex. When they venture out - to the cinema or to the art exhibitions at the British Museum she insists on dragging him to, they hold hands and kiss in public, his palms over her hips and her arms around his neck.

It's not like she moves in. It's more like: the days pass and she is there and every night, it feels like there is little point in her leaving. Her flat has been in such a state since her mother sent her on her way that it's basically been turned into a storage room. There, she keeps her stuff: her school notes and her sketches and her fabrics - she goes to class and comes back, mostly works downstairs but always comes up to sleep at his. Sometimes, Harry works the night shifts and comes home around 6:30 in the morning; they sit and fool around and have breakfast before she goes to uni. Part of him knows he should feel annoyed at the invasion of his personal space but it doesn't feel like an invasion so much as her filling an empty space. It's nice not to come home to a cold bed and echoey walls.

Ginny also filled his world, last summer, and perhaps he's spent enough time in his life feeling lonely without her.

During Ron's birthday party, Harry can't say he's surprised to find that everyone he knows ends up loving her. He's seen her charm her own friends before; out of the two of them, she is the only nervous one. Mia moves effortlessly between groups, cares and listens - even Ron gives Harry a look that means: thumbs up. She makes subtle jokes at Harry's expense which land perfectly with the audience in front of her and when Percy questions her views on magic, she is candid and straightforward about her relative lack of interest. 'I care about the things Harry tells me,' she admits. Despite the couple of people who sit between them, Harry notices the way Hermione's hand momentarily halts on the way to pick up her drink from the table, an awkward second before she moves again. Percy appears to find Mia's indifference rather startling until Bill laughs and says: 'Just because she doesn't think like you doesn't mean she's wrong. Try and marry a foreigner and you'll see what I mean.'

Mia quickly pivots the conversation by asking where Fleur is from, soon embarking on an excited conversation with Bill about France. He promises to ask Fleur for recommendations and pass them on, wishes Mia good luck with her applications before he calls it a night and goes back to his wife.

Despite Ron's positive feedback, Harry is surprised when Hermione doesn't lecture him. He reckons she knows he writes to Ginny almost every day – she'd see the letters come in at breakfast - and –

'You like her,' she just states. So much for: we shag, Hermione, that's what we do. Shit, now, he's got no idea what the fuck he's doing.

He smirks, sarcastic against his mug of tea. 'I'm glad we've established that, yeah,' he says. 'I know the Dursleys made it seem like I enjoy living with people I hate, but strangely, it turns out I actually don't.'

Hermione smiles, strained and fake, then, but says nothing else. Harry brings his mug to his lips, swallows another sip of tea - her eyes are already trained back on her school notes. In the middle of the table lay a handful of newspapers and magazines; Kreacher buys and brings over to the house the day's press every morning. Harry sighs when his gaze finds the cover of Witch Weekly. He leans back against the worktop, his usual spot in this ritual they've built, except that today, it feels like he is sinking into the wood itself, almost willing it to swallow him. Hermione catches his gaze. 'I know,' he just says. Now, he understands she probably didn't lecture him because she didn't want to add insult to injury.

'Ron's this far from launching a full blown intervention,' she admits. 'I doubt it'll do any good.'

'No,' he shrugs. That much he knows. 'It won't.'

She nods.

The fact of the matter is: since mid-February, not one week has passed without Ginny ending up on the cover of wizarding tabloids. Of course, Harry's testimonies at the trials were worth a couple dozen articles in The Prophet and equally, Hermione and Ron's engagement headlined a few glossy pages here and there, but generally, it turns out that gossiping about a happy, loving couple is apparently not as fun as the vitriol they can spread with regards to Ginny's dating life. Even Harry's alleged affair with Naomi Campbell has now been relegated to page 5.

It's escalated since January, when Ginny broke up with Matthew. The reporters had tailed them into Hogsmeade and perhaps understandably, the poor lad flipped. 'I knew you'd been seeing someone last summer,' he apparently told her. 'I didn't know you'd been seeing Harry Potter!' Merlin, I thought everyone knew, Ginny tells him in one of her letters. He said I'd hid things from him but I just didn't think I had to tell him, you know? You and I were all over the papers! I thought he knew!

She was hurt, Harry knows. Never phrased it that way (it may not exactly be the way she sees it), but: At Christmas, you asked me if I loved him, she says. Now, I know I didn't. It's not like heartbreak, it's more like loneliness. It's like: maybe he was right, she adds. Maybe, I'm so fucked up I'll never find anyone.

(Harry read that once, twice, and the more he turned the words in his head, the more he couldn't help but wonder who the 'he' in that sentence was.)

So: logically, she went out to test that hypothesis. By March, it's been six weeks and she's been on more dates than Harry can physically count. For every one of them, she's seemed intent on Witch Weekly or some of the other comparable outlet getting pictures. Restaurants, bars, parks, Hogsmeade and Liverpool, and Manchester (never London), sometimes to the point that Harry seriously wonders if she's not taking the pictures herself and sending them to the press.

The gossip pages have eaten the stories up regardless, headlines turning gradually more salacious with every article and picture published. It sent Mrs Weasley into a number of crying fits or shouted threats of howlers (sometimes, both at the same time) until Bill finally volunteered to intervene in lieu of Ron and George who wanted to catch the next lad and punch him in the face. The eldest Weasley brother ended up sending Ginny a polite but direct letter to which she replied: Bill, it's Witch Weekly. They're tailing me all the time. I'm just fucking with them, alright?

Harry is told that Mrs Weasley did send her a howler, then, telling her off about using that kind of language and to think about the kind of 'reputation' she was building off the stupid game she's been entertaining with the paparazzi. Harry hasn't told anyone (and certainly not Ron) that having now grown accustomed to Ginny Weasley's talent with words, he immediately noticed that there were two ways to interpret that third sentence.

It is also one of the things that she tells Harry about, as winter slowly merges into spring - Harry, but no one else in her family. It's not like it all happens at once, like she just suddenly starts sleeping with all these boys and gloats to him about it - it's a lot more subtle than that. It seeps in, slow, in a lot more layers than the bright, tacky colours Witch Weekly's headlines suggest. At the beginning of February, from what she tells Harry, it actually is about getting back at the press, having them chase the stupid leads of her dates because clearly, they don't have anything better to do. She sends them anonymous tips about meeting boys in three separate places and waits for them to mobilise whole crews to follow her around. She Disapparates from one place to the next, laughs at the scrambles it creates. It's like being the snitch in a game of quidditch, she jokes. I mean, they harassed me for months, took pictures of my very private break-up, called me a slut, then fucked up my rebound relationship. I'm allowed to send them teasers and get them to follow me into the strangest Muggle places, aren't I?

And, to be fair, Harry doesn't necessarily disagree. It's even kind of funny. When, as a reaction the press starts speculating about who he is seeing, just like with Ron and Hermione, he also laughs about Kate Moss with Ginny. To be fully honest, he also doesn't think he gets to be righteous about the ways in which she takes out her anger at the media, not when he spent weeks taking his own out on, you name it: Kingsley, his best mates, or the world bloody world. She tells him mildly entertaining stories about the horrible dates she does have with these people, one of whom moronically almost sets his own hair on fire with a Muggle lighter. I swear, sometimes I wish I was attracted to girls, she says, once which not only makes him chuckle when he reads it but then also gives him some, well, interesting dreams, to say the least.

But then, a couple weeks later, she writes: This one wasn't that bad, actually. Kept looking at my tits the whole time we were at the bar, but well, no offence but I do remember a couple of instances of you doing that, too. He cringes. Anyway, I promised I'd be honest with you so here it is: I went home with him. (Well, okay. He supposes that he has a girlfriend, that she even lives with him, so it's not like he's got any right to be feeling… whatever he is feeling, right now, has he?) It was… fine, I guess? It's occurred to me that if they're going to write all these things about me, I might as well live a little.

So, on weekdays, she sneaks out of Hogwarts in the evenings, through secret passages like candlelit labyrinths. On weekends, she prefers Apparating to Muggle clubs in Edinburgh or Glasgow. Funnily enough, she writes, quick. Matt seems to be the only wizard in the world who's not interested in shagging Harry Potter's ex. It is late February, by then, and he almost sets the piece of parchment on fire until it occurs to him that this is exactly the reaction she wants. He is getting more and more frustrated with having to show up to testify at the trials when better qualified people (victims) are not being called to the stand and Hermione tells him: 'They just want to get a rise out of you, Harry' - it clicks in his head. If he flips at her, it only proves her theory that she is too 'fucked up' for anyone to truly care. She never used to talk about herself like that before –

In the middle of his next letter, he writes back: Mia blew me last night and it was the first time since I read your letters that I didn't think about you and Amycus, you know? like: 'You want to be crude, go on, try me.' Sorry, she scribbles at the end of her next parchment. I was angry.

That, he understands. Obviously.

In early March, at Grimmauld , Hermione sighs and observes. 'Her grades are plummeting. The only thing that she seems to enjoy these days is Quidditch and the hour she spends every night writing to you. I haven't told Ron but I'm worried.'

He snaps: 'And, you think I'm not?'

Because, truth be told, while he knows that as Ginny's ex-boyfriend, the main emotion he should be feeling right now is anger and resentment, perhaps jealousy (and, sure, he is feeling a lot of that) more importantly, these days, there is a persistent knot in Harry's stomach that he can't seem to let go of. The more the weeks have passed, the more ashamed he's grown of that first letter he sent in February. It was all about him, asking her, trying to figure out what his own bloody feelings were about an incident that was – while dramatic - also months in the past, while there was the beginning of a much more current crisis, right here before his eyes.

After a night she spends at one of the boys' place, she says: I woke up in there at three in the morning, I was naked and couldn't remember where I was. I mean, I did, but it took me a few seconds, you know? And, I don't know why, I got scared. I walked back to the castle in the middle of the night, crying for no reason. It's like I'm turning into my mother or something, haha.

Gin, he responds, quick. Can't help it. That's not funny.

No, it isn't, she agrees. But, what do you want me to say? That sometimes, still, even though I was the one who broke up with you - I know that - when I close my eyes, I think of you and – she then proceeds to give him a full, very explicit rundown of all the things she does with him in her dreams and he gets hard, reading, then feels guilty when he looks up to his mezzanine to see Mia there, sleeping.

Why are you doing this? he asks and isn't even sure what he means by "this." I don't know, she answers. Sometimes, he would like to get angry, but what for? So, he holds onto his grudge against Kingsley instead and some nights, pulls out the map at three o'clock in the morning, just to make sure she makes it home safe.

He finally tells Mia about the war, that week. It's a cold, bright late morning, the kind that's lined with hope, like the end of winter is nearing. He's wanted to talk to her for a while, especially since Lucius Malfoy's trial is hovering dangerously close (next week, for Merlin's sake) and he still doesn't know what he is going to do about it. Their relationship is mostly based on having fun together and there never seems to be a right time.

That day, Harry comes home just before lunch from running an errand for Ron and Hermione's wedding (namely, he needs to book a place for Ron's stag-do - 'I'm not organising a hen night, though,' he pointedly said once, making sure Hermione was within earshot. 'You think I want a hen night?' she replied), and finds Mia passed out unconscious on the floor of his kitchen.

Granted, it is a rather dramatic escalation of events.

In the moment, Harry forgets literally everything he's ever learnt in the past six months of Auror training: checking the place for intruders, recasting the wards. Instead, he rushes to Mia's side and places a hand on her cheek - thankfully, she's just coming to as he kneels against the floor. (Not dead, he thinks. Good.)

Words come out of his mouth, he thinks, though he's not sure which ones. Jesus fucking Christ are you alright? or something along those lines. She looks around (the bottom of his breakfast bar, the chair, his kitchen tiles, him), her eyes roaming and confused. His heart is on the verge of collapse until eventually, she musters a weak smile. 'God, sorry. I'm fine, I think I just fainted.'

His stomach appears to be located somewhere inside his throat. 'You fainted?' he barely articulates. 'That's all?'

The adrenaline washes over him, a rush that leaves his brain blank for a second. It was not what he expected. People die in his world. Or they get tortured, or - 'Sorry,' she apologises again. 'I'm fine,' she sighs, slowly pulling herself up to sit against the cupboard under his sink. 'I just haven't really eaten since yesterday.'

Which then begs the next obvious question: 'What?'

After the fact, considering the first eighteen years of his life, Harry can't help but think he should have noticed. The few pounds she'd lost over the past couple of weeks on an already thin form or the way she'd shovelled down food every time they'd gone out, because whenever they did, Harry was the one who picked up the tab. He's not sure why, in all the time they've spent together, it's never occurred to him to ask her how she could afford to live here. Their building might be dingy and mouldy but she is still a student who grew up in a council estate on the outskirts of Manchester and now lives in her own one-bedroom in the middle of central London, with no flatmates. As far as Harry knows, her only source of income is the clothes she designs and sells to her friends, which can't be bringing in more than a hundred quid a month. 'My dad's paid for all of it,' she tells him, later that day. They are sitting on his couch; he's helped her up and made her a cup of tea with three spoonfuls of sugar and laid in front of her all the biscuits Hermione didn't eat. 'Then, he stopped.'

It's a personal bias, perhaps, but considering she never did talk about her father, Harry had always assumed he was dead. All she'd ever said about him was that he and her mum were together when they were teenagers, and that he'd left not long after she was born. 'To be fair, it was mum who wanted to keep me. After he left, she never asked him for money or anything because she always felt it wasn't right to force her decision onto him, you know?'

She was sixteen when they reconnected. 'It's not like he'd completely disappeared, I suppose. I'd get Christmas cards, birthday cards - he never forgot my birthday.' She sighs. 'Anyway, once I get a note from him that he'll be in Manchester that week, and he'd like to meet. I was kind of curious, so I went. That's when I found out, anyway.'

It turns out her father is loaded. Not the born-into-it kind - he grew up in the row house next to her mum's along with four or five siblings - but the kind who sold a piece of software to Microsoft in the middle of the dot-com boom. 'He used to have this job, he told me, doing inventory at a warehouse. They had a computer there and he just learnt to code during his lunch breaks.' Later, she fishes out a number of magazines and articles about him from the stuff in her flat downstairs, pages and pages of a glamourous, probably romanticised, rags-to-riches story. Harry skims the papers; it would probably all sound more impressive if a) he had any knowledge of computers and b) he actually trusted what the press wrote about people. 'He's married, now,' Mia adds. 'Got a house in Kensington and everything. You should see it, it's a bloody mansion.'

(From sounding fortunate, her living situation suddenly starts to look strange. If the man's that rich, why is his daughter living in a mouldy, cold, ground-floor apartment, then? Harry doesn't ask, wants to hear the rest of the story first.)

According to Mia, it goes like this: before she took her A-levels, her father offered to pay her university fees, and her living expenses. 'I think he felt a bit bad, you know? Leaving Mum and all. And, I was like - well, I couldn't believe my luck, really.'

From what Harry understands, the only issue was that he wanted her to pursue what she calls a 'proper degree.' 'Business or law, you know? Not fashion. He said he wasn't going to "fork out all that money" for a passion project that wasn't necessarily going to pay out.' To Harry, that seems ridiculous, but it's not like he's got any actual clue about how the Muggle economy works. 'So, we compromised,' she shrugs but there is a bitter tone to her words. 'I said I'd do both.' He raises an eyebrow. 'Yeah,' a tired chuckle escapes her lips. 'Not the most brilliant idea I'd ever had. Basically worked myself into the ground. I mean, I even broke up with my ex because we barely ever saw each other.' (She never did mention that, did she?) Knowing what he knows now, though, Harry can anticipate where this is going before she even adds: 'Then, I dropped out of business school in autumn.'

She didn't tell her father. Thought that if she managed to get her internship in Paris by the time she graduated, it wouldn't matter, anyway. 'And, I don't know, I don't mean to brag but I'm good at this,' she says, loosely pointing back to the few sketches she left on the kitchen table. 'Like, really good.

'Anyway, I'm not sure how he found out,' she sighs. 'The moment he did, he called me to say I wouldn't get one more cent out of him. That was just after Christmas. Happy Holidays, right? So, anyway, I haven't paid rent this month. Or last,' she speaks, quick. 'And, I've tried to explain it to him but he won't budge, says that if I want to choose a dead-end career, I might as well face the reality now. And, I mean, I can't ask Mum. God, she and Noel have finally bought a house, and with the baby... I never wanted to be a burden on anyone. And, now I'm unloading all this shit on you, I just - I've a trial shift at the pub this weekend but even then, I don't bloody know how I'm going to pay rent, it's not going to bring in enough money, and -'

Harry glances at his watch. It's one o'clock in the afternoon; there's only an hour before his shift and about a million things he needs to tell her. 'Mia,' he stops her with the most important one - his fingers against her wrist. It occurs to him how alone she is. How both her parents are alive and well, and young and yet she's had to bloody faint on his fucking floor for someone to notice. Surprisingly, it seems that other people - who aren't him - have problems too and he, of all the blokes living on this fucking planet, should have noticed this before. 'Mia, you need to eat.'

She opens her mouth, closes it. Opens it again. 'Seriously, I'm fine, I -'

He shakes his head. 'Mia, believe me, I know what that's like. I'm ordering you pizza.'

He showers, gets ready for work while they wait. She sits on the sofa, curled up in his Gryffindor jumper and sweats; he can see the embarrassed look on her face and wishes he could just wash it all off. When the delivery knocks on the door, Harry eats a slice of their margherita as a snack and she eats the rest. He hesitates before the next words come out of his mouth, thinks of Ron and the Weasleys, but then, this is actually an area of his life where simply throwing money at the problem will help. 'I'll cover your rent,' he says.

'God, Harry, I -'

'No, you don't understand,' he insists. Fuck, she might or might not be his girlfriend but the one thing he knows for certain is that no one deserves to survive on cans of beans alone. 'I -' he starts, then shakes his head to himself. This is going to be hard to explain. 'Look, I've got money, okay? Like, loads of it.' She frowns. 'I mean, it's not really mine, but -'

Understandably, after that last sentence, she looks even more confused, but there is a part of him that knows that if he tried to tell her, explain it all to her, he wouldn't know where to begin and she wouldn't believe him. It's not like magic where he can simply wave a wand and show her - the kind of story he has (the Harry Potter one) is hard to sell if you haven't lived or grown up with it. Harry himself hardly believed Hagrid at the age of eleven - and at the time, it wasn't even the half of it. So, instead, he motions her to stay where she is as he stands. Her puzzled look follows him when he moves across the room and reaches into a storage box at the top of his bookshelf. He taps it three times with his wand, thinking of the password he set. (That's also where he hid Ginny's letters after he finished them).

'Here,' he tells her. His last courtesy copy of The Owl between them on the coffee table. 'Look, I'm sorry, I've to go to work,' he adds. It's true, but he also doesn't really want to be there when she finds out. Mia opens her mouth, gaze narrowing on his face. 'I swear this will explain a lot of it,' he says.

For the first time, she actually seems to look at the magazine; his face from last December curiously eyeing her. 'Is that -'

'Me, yeah,' he smiles. She looks at him, then at the magazine, then back at him. 'I know, it's kind of a flattering picture, but -' He shakes his head at his own, half-hearted joke. 'Look, just read it. Please,' he insists. 'I'll explain when I get back.'

(Funny how when it comes to telling her things he doesn't have words for, he gives her a book to read and fucks off. Just like Ginny did. He guesses it was a bit rich to call her out on it.)

Harry does come home that night, though - that is perhaps the difference. It's after ten and the sky is dark and starless again; he Apparates directly in front of his door after picking up food from the chipper. 'Hey,' he says, stepping in. Finds her sitting at his kitchen table, surrounded by Canson paper and coloured pencils and pastels, and the open magazine in front of her. She's brought her music player up from her flat, soft music humming a low tune in the background. One minute there was road beneath us and the next, just sky.

He toes off his shoes, hangs up his cloak on the hook by the door before going to stand next to her. Glancing over her shoulder, Harry can't help but smile: these are not her usual sketches. 'I thought I'd, er, overall wizard fashion a bit,' she explains, her voice shy at the edges. The glossy pages in front of her show people in cloaks and robes; she's redrawn them in flowey materials, light and colourful, airy. He thinks Madam Malkin should consider hiring her if she doesn't get the Dior or Chanel internship or whatever else. 'You don't dress like that,' she also observes. He walks around the breakfast bar and into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

'God, not you too,' he jokes, smiles. These days, he mostly wears his Auror uniform: grey, cargo trousers, a black t-shirt and heavy boots - they wear dark jumpers, jackets and cloaks when it gets colder. The rest of the time, he's got two pairs of jeans between which he rotates, as well as a few more non-descript tops. He doesn't think he's worn a tie since the funerals last summer.

Mia gives him a quick, curious look; the water in the kettle next to him begins to simmer. 'It's just, after that came out,' he explains, smirking, pointing at the magazine. 'There was an article in the Prophet that read: "Why does Potter dress like a Muggle?"'

She bursts out a laugh. 'So, you really are a pretty big deal, then,' she grins. 'Setting fashion trends and all?'

They talk, that night. More. With their fifty-page-long special edition on the UK's Second Wizarding War, The Owl laid out all the basic facts about the last few years in his world, not just his interview. Mia says: 'I'd ask if it's all true but I reckon it's not the kind of thing anyone could actually invent.'

He doesn't tell her everything, that night. Not that he doesn't want to, it's just strangely hard to explain all of it at once. Harry talks about what comes up in conversation: the important stuff. The war, his parents, Dumbledore. Tom. 'Why you?' she asks. He shrugs.

Eventually, he also tells her about Sirius and where all the money comes from. 'The stuff that's from my mum and dad, I'll keep it, you know?' he's not sure what he'll do with it, yet. Maybe just … live. 'But all of that, Grimmauld, the extra million, I don't need it. Plus, it feels, I don't know, wrong, considering all the shit his family did. They got all that cash from exploiting their power. It's like profiting off…' he tries to find an analogy. 'Nazis or something.' She nods. 'So, for now, I've just been using it to renovate the house, so that it's liveable for everyone, plus giving to C.A.S.H.C.O.W. when they need it,' Mia works hard to contain a giggle, a look that's like laughing with liquid in her mouth, like she's choosing between choking or spitting it all out. He figures she hasn't gotten used to the acronym the DA chose yet. 'And, I reckon I could pay your rent with it, you know? And your fees and stuff. If you want to pay me back, fine, just pay back the charity whenever you can. That's where it's all going anyways.'

'So… A loan from a wizarding NGO,' she raises an eyebrow. 'That's what you're proposing.'

Her glance focuses on the wall and the black screen of the TV in front of them. He sighs. 'Look, do you need the money or not?' he asks. 'Because if you've got a better plan in the short term, I'm all ears.'

For a while, she says nothing. 'I just don't like the idea of depending on someone, you know?' she finally admits. 'After…'

Okay, that he understands. If he was in her position, he's not sure he'd trust himself. 'Then, I'll give you everything you need to finish the school year. Cash, not instalments. Whatever happens, you'll have the money.'

'Harry -'

'Please,' he says. 'Out of all the problems in my life, right now, this is the most solvable one.'

A beat passes between them; he traces one of the cloaks she's drawn with the tip of his finger on paper. She smiles, gives him a discreet nod. A reluctant one, maybe, but a nod nonetheless. 'You know,' she finally says, after a moment. They drink tea in silence. 'I didn't think the first time I'd ever be mentioned in a newspaper would be a wizarding one.'

He frowns; she laughs. And -

'"I ask Harry if he's been seeing anyone else, recently,"' she quotes, reading off The Owl. Oh, fuck, he thinks, wants to hide his face in his hands and be swallowed up by the ground. '"He seems to consider his answer. "Yes," he finally concedes,"' by then, he's pretty sure he's gone bright red in the cheeks and nothing will ever give him his original colour back. '"She's a [No-Maj] - is that their word for Muggle? Funny how they always have to do things different, eh?' she smirks. 'Now, is that me or do you have another secret Muggle girl under your sleeve you need to tell me about?'

And, so, that night, they also laugh, the both of them.

It's well after two in the morning by the time they end up in bed. Mia comes in short gasps under him as he makes love to her, and it's bizarre that he thinks of it in those exact terms. Spontaneously, without wondering what it means, or what it doesn't. There is a moment and the moment is this. Her skin is warm and smooth against his, breaths tickling his shoulder. When he rolls off her, he pulls her close and bites his lip with the words he's been wanting to say to her all night. He discovers that he is scared of what this might mean for them, that he doesn't want her to leave. 'You know there's a risk, right?' he whispers in her hair. 'Being with me?'

Mia shifts, her palms crossed over his chest; she tilts her head up to look at him. The only light in his flat is the one from the street outside. Under the covers, he sometimes feels like they are hiding from the rest of the world. 'I can read.'

'It's…' he sighs, words hushed, like they're too loud for the night. 'There's still a price on my head, you know? There will always be a price on my head.' Mia's eyes are black in the dark; he can't distinguish her pupils. This is as far as he'll ever go, he thinks. Telling anyone else. 'Gin, they -' he swallows, looks away. 'They did some pretty horrible things to her, during the war.'

'Because she dated you?'

'Yeah.'

She probably wouldn't like him saying that, he knows, but she isn't there. Mia pauses, seems to consider her next words. Her head is cocked to the side. 'Is that what you wanted to help her with?' she finally asks. 'What you've been writing about?'

'Yeah. Kind of,' he nods. Then, answers the question in Mia's glance. 'We've been talking about a lot of things, kind of that, but also not.' It almost feels like looking at the symptoms, but not the cause. Like she's being honest (honest, honest, honest) but it's been months and she's written Amycus's name. Harry doesn't think she's actively lying to him; she's just lying to herself. 'I just want you to be aware of the risks, you know?'

And, that night, Harry thinks Mia really considers it: leaving. There, right before the crash of that car she's been driving, right before anybody gets hurt in the fall, before the moment in that song that explains the world insists that love is like falling and falling is like this. Harry wouldn't like it, of course, but he wouldn't begrudge her if she did. Everything about him - it would be a lot for anyone.

Instead, though: 'Look,' she just sighs, turns to rest the back of her head against his chest again, her eyes focused on the ceiling. 'I smoke weed, I gave up on business school, I'm about to accept cash from a literal wizard, who I'm also in a sort-of relationship with for reasons I can't really explain.' He frowns, opens his mouth but she interrupts. 'I'm just saying: I'm not completely risk-averse.'

She tells him she could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Or die from a brain aneurysm. She talks about a girl who she was in school with, who went to bed with a headache one night and never woke up. 'Are brain aneurysms a thing, in your world?' she asks - he is too baffled to do anything other than shrug. 'Look, even if you shut yourself up in your house, you're not safe. Six thousand people a year die from home accidents. That ladder you have to the mezzanine in here, now that's a hazard. And, there's mould in my flat,' she breathes. 'So.'

She never finishes her sentence (or perhaps, that is the end of it). Harry reckons she might have a point, all things considered, but there is also a tightness in his chest at the thought of someone he cares about getting hurt because of him that will likely never go away. Especially not after -

Mia's lips move against his, later, and he lets himself get caught up in the kiss. It feels like the present moment again. She smiles at him and whispers: 'My mum always said I had a thing for bad boys.'

He huffs out a laugh, then, and her hair moves with the flow of the air that exits his lungs. 'Is that what I am?'

She catches his gaze, brown on green, seems to actually consider it. 'No,' she says, and kisses him.

(Gin, he writes, later. Tell me about Amycus. Tell me how you feel. For real.)