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xii. out of chalk (payable)

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It was Petunia who taught him you needed to settle your debts.

She called it 'being fair,' or, 'being grateful,' which mostly meant giving Dudley firetrucks and blinking trainers for Christmas, while Harry tried not to get caught nicking his cousin's toy soldiers. Whenever he did get caught, he paid for it. And, sure, Petunia was never literal about it, for she didn't know about the mountains of gold laying in her nephew's Gringotts vault, but she did keep a tab. A list of chargeable offences scripted on a blackboard in her head, an arrest sheet scripted in screeching chalk. Petunia liked metaphorical debts the same way the justice system does: sins, expunged for a price.

Harry supposes that is a thing they have in common.

In their world, Umbridge pays for her sins too, that spring. She pays - because she is guilty, because she survived, and because she got caught. She pays for those who didn't and, to tell the truth, Harry feels satisfaction for the first time since the beginning of the trials. Satisfaction in knowing that, when the life sentence rolls around, it is on the basis of fact, not fantasies or mandatory minimums - an actual recognition of crimes. The ones he talked about in his speech.

That spring, he is satisfied with: the wave of press that hits the wizarding world. When the Prophet releases the full, word-for-word transcript of the words he spoke in court, as an add-on to their morning edition. Satisfaction at: the way it is then picked up by the wireless for their six o'clock news; by seven on the 30th of March, the uncontainable press crowds outside Grimmauld don't even bother hiding from Muggle eyes. Reporters have even Floo-ed in from overseas. Harry is satisfied with the fact that this woman's victims have finally been heard, listened to. The dozens of 'thank you' letters he and the D.A. get throughout the next few weeks have to mean something.

He's not sure how he feels, though, when he realises that she will die in jail. Incommutable sentences and all. 'Satisfaction' doesn't cut it. It won't resuscitate those who died. It won't bring anyone their 'before' lives back. It is what it is.

'Are you not even a little bit satisfied?' Ron jokes. 'I think of her rotting in there every night before I fall asleep. It's calming.'

Harry laughs. Peaks out the window, watching the journalists camped outside. 'Yeah, alright, maybe a little bit.'

The Ministry, predictably, is irate. They spent all night trying to convince the Wizengamot to issue a gag order on the press - to no avail. Even the most conservative institution in the country refused to hear them. Now, the headlines read: FROM THE STATE-SANCTIONED ABUSE OF TEENAGERS TO THE KILLING OF MUGGLEBORNS - MR POTTER REVEALS THE MINISTRY'S SINS . The Ministry wanted trials that looked like justice: expedited, quick, guilty verdicts. They got the court of public opinion instead.

Over the next few weeks, countless: press reports, debate shows, interviews and opinion pieces flood their space. Umbridge's role in the Ministry, even prior to the war itself, has certainly raised questions. 'Were they really going to sweep all of this under the carpet?' Harry hears a woman say on the wireless one evening. She explains she lives in the country. That the war and the problems in London always felt far away. 'Now, I keep thinking of those poor people. Listening to their stories, you think - Well, it could have been me, you know?'

Yeah, that's kind of the point, he reckons. It could have been anyone.

Spontaneous protests spurt in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, that week. Slogans like: WE JUST WANT TO BE SEEN! From where he stands, Harry watches the conversation veer into re-trying those who've already been tried, to let their victims speak, and hopefully cater to more 'appropriate' sentences. There's an inkling of vengeful sentiment in these positions, as though the verdicts would have been even harsher had people been allowed to speak. Harry doesn't like it; it makes him want to look down at his shoes and avoid the questions, but considering his own feelings towards Kingsley's administration, he just says: 'Ah, I dunno, maybe? I'm not a lawyer.'

It's enough to send the press into yet another bout of frenzy.

The most active members of Kingsley's political base take their frustration to the media, too. Issue pathetically thinly veiled threats against Harry, claiming he 'is promoting instability,' and 'inciting riots,' (a couple of shops in Knockturn Alley had their windows smashed during one of the protests). A number of old-guard, Wizengamot figures praise the Minister for his handling of the crisis, trying to keep the disruptions to a minimum and promoting quieter roads to compromise. They were against the trials, to begin with, seeing their former respected friends and acquaintances in shackles, but considering more recent developments, have come to the conclusion that peaceful, quasi-confidential hearings and sentences were at the very least better than this. Harry's camp is now slowly sliding, dividing - different brands of rebels who can never agree for too long. Reformers fighting revolutioneers. And, because perhaps, compromise is only a few steps away from the status quo, the reformers are now receiving acclaim from rather unlikely sources. Promoters of The Old Ways. The old ways from before Tom came back, from whenever it was when 'we all got along,' before everyone had to choose sides. Wizards with long beards and money, power and important family seats, whose support Kingsley now seems to feel very ambivalent about. Harry guesses it must be hard to accept the applause and bouquets of those you spent half your life fighting.

At least, the D.A. are united. A single front, temporarily an army again. Interviews in the press from a lot of them, standing behind Harry. Or, with him, more like. The spotlight is shone on the 'Hogwarts kids' like never before - that is satisfying, too. The Americans interview Neville again, as well as Hermione, Seamus and Cho. The latter talks about the issues in St Mungo's, the tight budgets and resources, their endless forty-eight hour shifts which no one should wish on Healers who literally hold lives between their hands. Their faces are on the front page: THE KIDS ARE ALL REBELS.

They also named and shamed, in Harry's speech. Mostly touched on Umbridge's wrongdoings but also explicitly mentioned the names of a number of Ministry officials who participated in the implementation of her policies - if not actively, at least by looking the other way. 'Unverified allegations,' the British press called them but still, it made noise. Lots of noise. The lot of them took a vote on it before deciding, and Harry changed his mind at least five times, listening to other people's arguments. 'We don't want a witch hunt,' v. 'They have to take responsibility for their actions' - that whole silly thing.

'If something happens to them, it's not our decision, it's the Ministry's,' Hermione said. 'If we keep the names quiet, we're doing the same thing they did: deciding behind closed doors who deserves to be brought to justice or not.' She paused, looked at Harry. Then, everyone else in the room did. 'Plus, I'm sorry, it is a choice. We chose to fight. Risk our lives. Even you. You could have run away and you didn't. They didn't fight .'

Harry stared at her. Felt everyone else in the room waiting for him to speak. He never wanted to lead - not like that, at least. Remembered telling Giulia about the burden of it all back in autumn, how people like Robards can't get scared (or else, everyone else behind them tips over, a loss of confidence like a series of dominos). He put his hands up. 'I don't know,' he shook his head. 'I don't fucking know.'

He couldn't help but think that maybe, they should have gone with the amnesty law from the start. But then, Umbridge wouldn't have been tried, and - there is just no good answer to give.

Hermione's camp won by three votes. It felt good to not be the deciding factor on that one.

After much equivocation, the MPS finally released a statement, three days after Harry's speech, saying they wouldn't charge anyone. Not enough evidence, they said. Considering the backlash, Kingsley had no choice but to at least sack these people. It didn't exactly help with the Ministry's staffing problems, but the pressure was too strong. And, when Harry showed up to work the next morning and realised a handful of people from patrol were gone, including Thaddeus ('Merlin, I worked with the bloke for two weeks!' said Ron), he wasn't sure how to even begin to feel about it. 'Hey, we didn't kill anybody!' the heaps of law-abiding, keep-your-head-down citizens later declared in the press. 'That kid wants to put us all in jail!'

Harry felt the need to argue that this was precisely not what he said, that he just wanted justice for those who'd suffered, but like with anything, a certain amount of subtlety in his words seems to have gotten lost in translation. So: yeah, sure, he totally wants to put everyone in jail and overthrow the Ministry, rule over his own little kingdom. Fine. Believe what you bloody want. 'You're a public figure, Harry,' Hermione says. 'You can't go correcting everything that is wrong about you in the press or else you'll still be there doing it as a ghost. I think we were pretty clear in our speech about wanting to give space to the victims. What the Ministry does with that is not your responsibility.'

Well, that'll surely help his conscience, won't it?

This being said, Kingsley is an intelligent man, though, so Harry's pretty sure that he - at least - understood the layers of subtlety. That understanding didn't make him any less livid, though . Harry's testimony not only jeopardised his political future a mere three months before the elections, but it also damaged his personal relationships, particularly with the rest of the Order. What he won in support from his right, he lost on his left, so to speak. Molly Weasley, for example, isn't speaking to him anymore, and neither is Hagrid, nor Hestia Jones. Ron's mother and Kingsley even had an actual row at the Burrow, he's been told, which sadly coincided with the day before George's birthday.

Kingsley had come looking for Harry, apparently. To 'talk to him,' he said, though Harry wasn't even there to begin with. Had escaped to the seaside with Mia for the day, a celebration of sorts: she'd finally (finally, finally ) got her traineeship at Gaulthier. The letter had come when they least expected it, after she'd got her soul crushed by a templated rejection from Chanel, the night of Harry's testimony. She shrieked at the sight of the post, the letter she pulled out with shaking hands, and jumped and danced and screamed in the middle of his living room. 'I got it, I got it, I got it!' She kissed him hot and heavy and all over the place. They took the train to the beach the next day, Harry fake calling in sick.

'You know,' Mia said. They were walking down the promenade with ice cream in their hands. It was a nice day. 'I couldn't have done it without you.' She paused and his mouth opened, ready to contradict her. 'It's not just the money -' She shook her head. 'Life's just been… nicer,' she paused. 'With you in it.'

Looking back, he comes to the realisation that he's not sure how he would have survived last winter without her, either. In response, he kissed the vanilla off her lips.

'So, yeah, Mum completely lost it with Kingsley,' Ron later tells him. Mia has always been his escape from reality, but there are many brutal ways he gets dragged back into it. 'Accused him of silencing everyone. Said he was already working with the Aurors when they sent Umbridge to Hogwarts, that he must have known what kind of woman she was.' Ron sighs. 'Kingsley started to explain, said that she didn't understand, that he hated Umbridge too but that, you know,' he shrugs, 'reforms take time and all that. Said that he doesn't think washing your laundry out in public is a good way to get justice. "Harry should have let us handle it," he said, "and, maybe in ten, fifteen years, society will be ready to reexamine this but -"' Ron stops, looking at his shoes. 'Well, then she said: " I DON'T UNDERSTAND?" and reminded him that Fred's dead, so.'

'Yeah.'

There isn't much else to say to that, to be honest.

Harry's immediately called into Robards' office the moment he gets back to work, that week. Had to take the tube to get in, use the Cloak to get through the visitor's entrance - the press has been camping outside the public loos on Horse Guards Avenue, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Robards is not doing anything else when Harry enters the room, his full attention focused on their conversation, which is not a particularly good sign.

'Am I getting arrested?' is the first question he asks. It makes Robards laugh.

'What for?'

Harry observes that, for all of the training they've received about habeas corpus, he must admit he's often had to operate under the assumption that the Ministry doesn't in fact, always need reasons to arrest people. 'That being said,' he adds. 'I could think of a couple.'

Robards eyes him up and down, that morning, and snorts. 'You're not getting arrested,' he confirms. 'That I know of.'

'Sacked, then?'

It was always a possibility. Which would obviously suck, but -

Robards tilts his head to the side, gaze narrowed. He straightens up. 'No,' he says. Harry feels his muscles relax, ever so slightly. 'But I've had a chat with our bosses at the DMLE,' the Head Auror adds. That can't be good. 'They believe you're under a lot of pressure with the trials at the moment.'

Well, they're not wrong , Harry thinks. They're also kind of responsible for it, aren't they? For a moment, the boss takes his gaze off Harry to look at the sheet of parchment topping the mountain of files on his desk.

'They've asked me to carry out a psych eval, see if you're fit to work,' he declares. Harry frowns and when Robards looks up, crossing his gaze again, it feels like there is some sort of subtext he is not getting, in this conversation. Feels like the candidate on one of those Muggle game shows, trying to read the right answer on the host's face. ('Are avocados considered fruit, or vegetable?' 'Er…'). 'So, are you?' Robards asks. 'Fit to work?'

Harry scans his gaze. There is not much there. He takes a leap. 'Yeah?'

In front of him, Robards immediately grabs a quill and dips it in ink, ticks a box on a piece of parchment as he steals a glance at his watch. 'Good. 8:36 AM, 3rd of April 1999, eval completed,' he states. 'Now, fuck off and get back to work.'

'Sure ,' Harry says.

A couple days later, a brief article appears in the Standard about Harry 'passing' his psych eval. 'They'll literally report my every breath, these days,' he says, shrugging. Hermione calls him 'an idiot with very good instincts,' before hitting him on the head with the newspaper.

Over the next few days, though, Robards and he do rehash a much more controversial conversation in his mind: Auror protection. Section B claims to have picked up 'renewed chatter' about Harry's person, you see? Apparently, exposing the Ministry and Dolores Umbridge isn't what you should do, if you wanted to keep a low profile. Being a bit of a smartarse, Harry asks what part of that chatter is 'renewed,' exactly, considering he's had a price on his head for years now, but Robards sadly refuses to indulge. 'You know what? You want to risk your life, fine , you know the risks. But I'm putting a detail on your girlfriend.'

Harry looks up. Wha-

'Mia Jalissa Williams,' Robards recites, holding his gaze. Harry's jaw tenses. '21, studies Muggle fashion. Mum lives in Manchester, Dad's a London tech guru. Been living at yours for, er… four months now? She clearly knows about magic, which is something you could be arrested for, come to think of it, if only I had enough staff to even attempt to enforce the Statute of Secrecy, right now. Owns a vintage green men's race bike which she uses to commute to -'

'You've no fucking right -'

Robards laughs, holds his hands up. Harry's fingers are clenched around his wand. 'Potter, my point is: if I know this, they will too. Sooner, rather than later. Now, you do whatever the fuck you want when it comes to your own life, but I'll be damned if another, single Muggle dies under my watch. That's the end of this discussion. Now, piss off.'

So, yeah: Mia gets protection, that April.

She never notices, but Harry does. They're followed when they go to the shops, to the cinema - he makes it a game, to try and spot the couple of Aurors who tail them, as quickly as possible. It reassures him. If he can spot them, he'd probably be able to spot attackers, too. And, when he manages to make them out in less than a minute, he wonders if Giulia would be proud of him. That and to be honest, while Harry continues to pretend to be annoyed with it in front of Robards, when he sees them depart after Mia leaves for class in the mornings, it's actually comforting.

Kingsley comes out with a statement about the upcoming memorial ceremony, later that week. And, in a litany of fake praise aimed at smoothing the angles between the Ministry and Harry (at least in the eyes of the general public), the Minister's office professes that of course, Mr Shacklebolt and Mr Potter are great friends. (Nevermind that they've not seen or spoken to each other directly in weeks ). They may have had certain disagreements in the past, but Harry is of course a great supporter of the administration's general policies, thank-you-very-much-for-your-concern-everyone. 'Mr Potter is young and full of ideas,' Kingsley is directly quoted, a phrase so full of generational contempt it drives Harry up the wall. 'And that is, of course, something our society deeply needs. But, the Ministry also knows that durable peace can only be reached through a steady stream of reforms, rather than by exposing our collective suffering and pointing fingers. This is an enterprise that will likely take years to build. Mr Potter knows this, and our relationship has never been better. He will, of course, support me in the upcoming elections and indeed, he will attend the remembrance…'

'Remind me, we never did respond to that invite, did we?' Ron asks, rhetorically.

The next morning, The Prophet publishes Harry's response. In a rather hilarious turn of events, it occurred to him that the one time he did want to speak to journalists, he didn't know how. Had to resort to stepping out of Grimmauld after work and shouting 'Oi!' in the general direction of whoever was camping out there, ready to listen. They recorded his statement out on the street.

Having spoken with Mr Potter, the article reads, The Prophet can now report that the Minister's position in this matter is strikingly different from his. 'Sure, I like Kingsley,' Mr Potter told The Prophet in a much awaited exclusive interview, yesterday evening. 'He's done good things. And, of course, I will attend the memorial ceremony taking place at Hogwarts next month, that goes without saying. But, I don't think my disagreement with the Minister is about potential reforms, here, it's about justice. Justice for people who have been spoiled, imprisoned, tortured and sometimes killed under the last administration. We've received hundreds of letters at the house since last week, thanking us for the work we did, and asking us to insist that these stories be told. It's not about revenge, I don't care if anyone gets charged, but these are stories that need to get out there. The Ministry were the ones who chose to have trials, not us, but now, let's have them. You kind of wonder: why was the Ministry so keen on silencing these people? I'm not really sure. Is it because they don't want to offend those who used to be You-Know-Who's followers? Is it because they just want to convict, move on, and hope we all forget? I mean, as an Auror, one thing I can tell you is that some investigations can sometimes take months, years. What is it about this whole thing that feels so amateurish, and rushed? It's not even been a year. Or is it because they're afraid people might seek monetary compensation from the Ministry down the line?'

'Oh, come on ,' he later argues with Hermione. 'Someone had to say it.'

She crosses her arms over her chest. 'If only it was the only thing you'd said!'

'As for my support in the elections,' Mr Potter also told us, in an uncharacteristically candid declaration. 'We don't even have a final date, yet, and I'm not sure who else would be in a position to run. As I said, I like Kingsley, but I reserve my right to see who might present a better alternative.'

When asked if he would consider running himself, Mr Potter declined to comment.

'ARE. YOU. OUT. OF. YOUR. MIND?'

'Hermione -'

It's been days. Harry's barely opened his mouth since, and he's already polling just seven points behind Kingsley. He doesn't even have candidates lined up - it's as though people have forgotten how parliamentary systems work. And now, it seems that the wizarding world would rather elect an impulsive eighteen-year-old to govern them, rather than someone who, despite Harry's grievances, is actually qualified for the job. It would be bizarre, if it wasn't so bloody typical. Hermione glares at him in an if-looks-could-kill sort of way, and hisses. 'I sure hope you know what you're doing, Harry. 'Cause if Kingsley doesn't win, that'll be a loss for all of us.'

He glares back. That, he knows .

For Teddy's first birthday, later that week, they all have cake at Andromeda's house. The little one took his first steps just a couple of days before, a series of firsts that has sketched out a rare smile on his grandmother's face. After the party ends, she drinks expensive Bordeaux, sat at her marble kitchen counter, manicured nails playing music against the glass. Her grandson has been put to bed, finally - too much sugar, probably - and she watches Harry as he wipes a splash of Teddy's fruit compote off his shirt.

'I'm going to run for a Wizengamot seat to back Kingsley,' she announces. There isn't much preamble.

He sets his jaw. 'Don't you already have a Sacred Twenty-Eight seat?'

She nods, but: Kingsley wants the Wizengamot to become more diversified, she explains, more representative of the population. It's not been announced, yet, but in ten, maybe twenty years, he'd like to see the end of non-elected seats - hereditary, and lifelong. Or, at least, add enough elected representatives to the Chamber so as to eventually dilute their power. 'In the upcoming elections, the first step will be for us progressives to give up our seats,' she adds. 'Run for them if we want to. Kingsley isn't forcing anyone yet, it's on a voluntary basis. But, I believe it is the right thing to do.'

Harry stands in silence, holding her gaze, Teddy's dirty bib thrown over his shoulder. It feels like she is trying to tell him something without actually saying the words. 'Okay,' he nods. Andromeda steals a sip of her wine. 'Why are you telling me this?'

He watches as she softly puts her glass back down on the counter. The edge of the liquid dances with the movement of her hand. 'Because, I don't want it to be an issue between us,' she says. 'For Teddy.'

He shakes his head. 'It won't be.'

Shrugging it off his shoulder, he scourgifies the dirty piece of cloth and lays it down on the counter. Teddy's grandmother seems to study him for a moment. Her gaze trails over his face and Harry wonders how good of a Legilimens she could be. 'You remind me of her, you know?' Andromeda almost smiles, then. 'She wanted to blow everything up, too,' she sighs, looking down at her glass. 'I remember even when she was little, every time we'd tell her she couldn't do something, she'd ask why. "Why, Mummy, why?" It used to drive me insane.'

Harry stares. He is usually the one who talks to Teddy about his parents. Andromeda isn't against it, of course, but it's been almost a year and he can count on one hand the number of times she's said Ted's name, let alone her daughter's. Every time she does, it seems to rob her of her breaths. Now, there is the tick-tock of the clock on the wall and the tightness in his throat. That's what April is, he thinks, that year: the month that exists before May. 'I reckon you questioned the rules, too,' he says. Speaks before thinking. 'Or else, you wouldn't have married a Muggleborn.'

Her lips curve. She sighs through it. 'I suppose I did,' she concedes. 'Though, I do also know that some conflicts can be engineered. In order to further other purposes,' she suggests.

He holds her gaze, too nervous to avoid it. He wonders how much she knows. Maybe, he's just being paranoid. Or, maybe, when she asked whether her support of Kingsley would be a problem, he just answered a bit too eagerly.

'Other purposes like what?' he asks, quick. She laughs.

'Oh, that I don't know. You'd have to tell me.'

He doesn't. Hasn't even told Ginny. It's not lying, it's - if he tells her, she ask: what if it doesn't work, though? And, while he does have a plan B, one that allows him to not be worried about what will happen to her, should plan A fail. But, she probably wouldn't like plan B very much, would she?

Calmly, that night, Andromeda gets back to her wine. The leftovers she's began preparing for the both of them are starting to slowly heat up in the oven, a roasted smell of poultry and potatoes. Harry walks over to the sink to wash Teddy's dishes. When Andromeda speaks again, her voice is intrigued, almost amused.

'Has anyone ever told you you could have been in Slytherin?'

He puffs out a laugh.

When he gets home that Monday morning, though, Harry is surprised to find the flat empty. Not empty like: Mia's gone to class and will be back in a couple hours, but more like: the curtains are drawn, the lights out, and the place smells like the windows haven't been opened in too long. Harry frowns, knows that if anything had happened, he would have heard, by now, so: where is she?

He waves his wand. The curtains slide, light pouring in. There is a handwritten note on the kitchen table. His mouth curves into a smile.

He calls her. Awkwardly stutters when her stepdad picks up the phone and asks him who he is. 'Mia, your neighbour's on the line!' the man's muffled voice calls out. Seconds later, Harry hears steps coming down stairs, a bit of shuffling. 'I thought you left everything in order.' 'I did. I just -' 'You know, you're going to have to be more careful with your stuff, going over there when you don't speak the language -' A shushing sound. 'Okay, okay. ' Then: 'Hey.'

Her voice is hushed but warm, resting on the vowels at the end of her words. It makes him smile. 'Sorry,' she adds. 'My stepdad. They're "concerned" about me going away.' He can hear an eye-roll. 'Thanks for - I've not told -'

Harry shakes his head. 'No worries. How are you?'

Her little brother was born a week early, it turns out. Strangely enough, he will share a birthday with Teddy. He has: ten fingers, ten toes, all very healthy - 'just a bit eager to meet the world,' she says. 'I'm good - great, yeah!'

Mia speaks quick - low, he can tell, probably so that her parents don't hear. ' Tired,' she laughs. 'Zach's not stopped feeding since we got home. Poor Mum.' She pauses; he can hear like sugar in her voice. 'He's brilliant though. I mean, he doesn't do much but he looks so, I don't know, small. And, cute . I've taken loads of pictures with Mum's disposable camera, I hope they don't turn out too bad. They're not moving pictures,' she jokes. 'But, you know.' She seems to finally stop for breath. 'Sorry for running off, by the way,' she adds. 'You were with Teddy and I realised I didn't have their number. I mean, now that I think about it, I probably could have sent Christopher but I just got the call that Mum was in labour and I jumped on a train. I left you a note, I reckon you found it? I'm still not used to thinking of owls as the post,' she laughs. 'Also, that poor owl. I don't think he likes you very much.'

Harry snorts. She's not wrong. Christopher isn't Hedwig - he likes the comfort of his cage and all the treats, hugs and strokes Mia gives him. Not so much the quasi-daily trips to Scotland. Mia's begun to regularly lecture him about it.

Sadly, they don't talk for long, that day. Or at least, to Harry, it feels like the blink of an eye. He congratulates her, they exchange a few jokes about him giving her some tips he's learnt from Teddy, and, 'I was an only child for twenty-one years, but I've a little brother now,' she confirms, almost to herself, in quasi-disbelief. 'It doesn't feel real, you know? But then I see him and he's, like, there , so.'

When she whispers she has to go, it surprises Harry that his heart sinks a little. She must sense it in the silence between them, quickly asks: 'Miss me?'

For some strange, inexplicable reason, he feels like he's been caught with his hand in the till. It's just that, well: finding the apartment empty, that morning, without music, or bits of fabric everywhere… It was unusual. It's made him realise they've not been apart for more than a couple days in almost three months, now. ' Maybe? '

She laughs. 'I feel like a housewife saying this,' she pauses. 'But, I'll be home soon, I promise.'

He grins.

It's a blessing and a curse, though, Mia being gone, that week. Ginny is busy, too. Recruiters attended Gryffindor's last game against Hufflepuff; now, they've seen all four teams play, and callbacks season has started . The next trial rounds are all over the place, between mid-May and mid-June, I just feel so overwhelmed, you know? she writes to him. It's like I'm going to have to choose, if I want the slimmest chance of also passing my N.E.W.T.s. I can't possibly do everything. But then, you get into all these calculations about what team recruits the most and what my chances are, and it's just, I don't know what to do. I got the Magpies, the Tornadoes and the Harpies - these three I'm definitely going to. Then, I got Puddlemere and the Arrows, but only to try out as seeker so I don't know. They have these ridiculous requirements, apparently you have to be 5'6" to play chase - George said he could get me an illegal growth potion, can you imagine? haha. Jokes aside, no offence but I'm not really interested in seeking, you know? At the same time, I feel like if I say no, I'm just limiting my options? It's infuriating.

I also got the Cannons, but forget it. Then, there's Lyon and Amsterdam which, I don't know. Foreign League is interesting and the Dutch are excellent but I can't imagine going to recruiting sessions abroad. I mean, how do they expect us to just uproot our lives and come all this way with no guarantees? Plus, I'd probably have to pay to stay overnight and how am I going to get the money? (I know what you're thinking and I appreciate it, but no ). Ugh, I feel like I'm just rambling here, what do you think?

He gives her his best take, feels like at least, this is an area where he can help. So, yes to: the Tornadoes, the Magpies and the Harpies, he tells her. But: foreign League , it depends. Would you actually move there if you got it? (He tries not to think too much about how, strangely, the mere idea of her moving that far seems to twist his insides. He thought he was over this?) You wouldn't know anyone there, he says instead, and to be fair, he's not sure moving away from everyone she knows is a good option for next year, considering, well - everything else. Plus, why is it that everyone he cares about seems so keen on leaving the country, these days? I reckon Puddlemere and the Arrows, maybe go, but with no pressure. Just to try it out, get the nerves out of the way before the real deal? You can just Apparate there so realistically it won't cost you more than a Saturday afternoon.

She replies that evening: Yeah, that's true. I hadn't thought about it like that, thanks. Maybe I just panicked. I tried to ask Hermione but she was just horrified when I mentioned I might have to miss class. D. only got a couple of callbacks (she got the Harpies too, though!) so it's a bit hard to talk to her about it, it's like I'm moaning about the attention, you know? I don't want to sound like an arsehole either. Anyway, got training at five then a party in Glasgow at eight. Got invited by this guy I went on a date with a couple weeks ago. I'll write more this weekend, sorry.

Love, Ginny.

Oh, well. That also is what it is.

Over the past few weeks, Ginny's compulsive dating habits have given way to a partying streak. She's made friends, funnily enough, through the blokes she met on dates. A group of young witches and wizards a few years older than her, who've taken up to crashing Muggle nightclubs and music festivals in their spare time. In '99, it turns out the Muggle world is bigger, louder, wilder than theirs. Exciting , Ginny says.

In Europe, these are the late 90s. The time of electro raves and clubbing culture, semi-spontaneous weekend parties occurring at various locations linked by the M25, linking London to the Home Counties. English youths want to let loose, have fun - especially those who, unbeknownst to the rest of the Muggle population, have just gone through a war and come out on the other side. 'Well, at least they're interacting with Muggles,' Hermione sighs one morning, looking at the disapproving reports in the press. Breaking! Witch Weekly reads, Are Your Children Out With Muggles? 10 Dangerous Trends You Should Know About. Ron observes that perhaps the reason why the three of them are so uninterested, unlike many people their age ( certainly, Harry's heard some stories at Grimmauld) is that the prospect of camping out in the mud for days remains rather… unappealing.

'That, and I'm so tired, ' Hermione says.

The Auror department (like every other wizarding institution and, frankly, most people over the age of twenty-five) has been growing increasingly disapproving of this new 'trend,' and just not because of prejudice against Muggles, or anecdotal instances of magic being performed in front of them. No, the fact of the matter is that, with the economic crisis they've been experiencing, many witches and wizards have resorted to - well, alternative sources of income, to make ends meet. And, with all the partying going on, Harry's new colleagues in IntoxSubs have been busy tracking down beverages much stronger than contraband Firewhiskey, let's say. Homebrewed, unmonitored, potions slipped under the counters and in the pockets of people's jackets, ingredients readily available in any decent herborist in the country. Amortensia - but not just that. See: if you mix alihosty and Befuddlement Draught, and you'll get to dance with aliens - in your head. Mix Asphodel and Armadillo Bile, and you'll stay awake all night. And, mix that with Muggle ecstasy and -

With each Muggle overdose, they pray it isn't due to one of theirs.

Yeah, I've seen them, Ginny confirms. He rolls his eyes. From what she's written, she mostly goes out there to dance. Drink. Jump around. Have a laugh. These are the years of electronic music, the French House, two lads behind silver helmets, Homework and its Da Funk. She's the one introducing Muggle music to him, now, a strange turn of events. It's fucked up they're selling to Muggles, she adds. Harry sighs. We shouldn't be inflicting more harm than we already have. But the thing is: they do have their own drugs, but ours are better, So they chase after them and if it sells…

He grits his teeth. How do you know ours are better? he asks.

Wow, how's the view from your high horse, Mr Auror? (Oh, piss off, he thinks). You know Mum's been on potions ever since Fred died? Depression and anxiety, a drop every day in her tea. I'm not blaming her, we all need it. I'm just saying: suddenly you get a healer's prescription and that makes it legal. Allow me to say I find the excuses overwhelmingly feeble.

Ginny for fuck's sake, be careful with that stuff. Some of it's not-

Oh, for the love of Merlin, Harry, eelax, I am careful. I'm not an idiot. He rolls his eyes. That wasn't what he was saying, he just meant - Honestly? I tried a few times but I don't know. Maybe this makes me sound boring but I don't think I like losing control like that. It reminds of me of - the rest is crossed out, too, but so dark he can't distinguish the words anymore. It's nice to get out of your own head in the moment, but the next morning's not worth it. I kept wondering if there were things I didn't remember, you know? I mean, I'm not blaming anyone. I get the appeal but … Not my thing. I just don't think I'm one to judge other people for the way they cope, you know? Considering he almost tried to cut his veins to get out of his own head, he supposes she might be a little bit right about the high horse thing. The selling to Muggles thing though, I agree, that's crossing a line. Do you me to keep an eye out? I can send a Patronus if I see them again?

Harry stares at her sentence. He doesn't want her to take any risks. At the same time, these fuckers have been playing cat-and-mouse with IntoxSubs for weeks now, and the Aurors have been unable to catch them in the act. No, we'll find another way, he says.

Harry, I spent three months surviving Amycus, I'm not scared of three idiots with a cauldron in their back garden. I think I'll be fine just sending a Patronus in if I see someone selling. Please, let me help.

Well, there is that, he supposes. Gives her the name and contact of the Head of IntoxSubs with two inches of pleas to please be careful, though ; they arrest the lads five days later. He thanks her, in his next letter, smiling. You know, you and I would make a good detective duo, she responds. Like Purdie and Rey, the flying Aurors?

The WHAT?

Hahahaha, your wizarding culture is very much lacking, my dear.

He's… intrigued.

And, the thing is: this is something that's also changed between him and Ginny, these past few months. He's not sure when it happened, or how, but it did. The banter was the first thing that came back, between them, and he was so used to it he didn't even notice. The teasing, the one-liners, they make him feel like before, like quick jokes, firing back and forth between them like spells in a duel, and laughing - laughing with her again . Letters she writes full of 'goss,' she calls it, and excruciatingly detailed retellings of Slughorn's dinner parties. To the point that Mia even rolled her eyes as he read, once, and asked what on Earth he was giggling about. Harry read the letter to her, wanting to share, but she didn't know most of the people involved, so there was a lot of explaining to do.

So, yes: things with Ginny are complicated, these days. And the post-war world they're living in is not all roses and butterflies. The road to 'better' isn't a linear one. But: it's still a road they seem to be on. And, sometimes, even when he looks at the pictures the press takes of her that they mean to be unflattering, he smiles to himself and thinks a) she will always be the most beautiful girl he's ever seen and b), he is so fucking lucky to have her in his life, really.

But then, of course, there's been this . That's the part he's not sure what to think about.

Perhaps, he thinks, it all started when he told her about the wandrot incident, at work. It was to make her laugh, mostly, around the same time she brought up the fact that she missed the summer of '98. You want to know something funny, she wrote. Now the prophet are switching gears and taking your side again with the trials but last year, they kept reporting these mad stories about you - I honestly can't imagine having no backbone like that. They talk about politics, sometimes, too. I mean, who are these people? I remember there was one about how you'd been seen on an island near Malta, full of veelas. That you'd deserted us to live a life of sin, haha.

He puffs out a laugh. I wish.

She writes back: Do you?

He bites his lips. Twirls his pen between his fingers. Dudley could never manage to do it when they were kids, it's a habit that used to infuriate him. Ginny's bold, he'll give her that. No. Veelas scare the life out of me to be honest. Ron though…

Hahahaha. Hermione wouldn't have tolerated it, she tells him. Would have killed him before it came to that. It's probably true. Then, without warning, Ginny adds: Was there anyone else, though? Last year, I mean.

It feels like: he is standing on top of a dune, trying to determine whether he really wants to slide down to the bottom. Mia's at her parents, that night, and the flat is dark, quiet and lonely, heart hammering in his chest. He supposes that if he gets to ask Ginny questions, she does, too. Between living in a tent with Ron and Hermione and being hunted down by Tom? Surprisingly no I didn't have time to date.

She answers the next morning. Well, you never know. So, I really was your first then?

Fuck. He looks up at the ceiling. Not sure why he's so nervous about answering this. There has to be a rule, he thinks, about not talking about sex with your ex-girlfriend. He ignores it. Why would I have lied about that?

I don't know. I did.

That's not the same, Gin.

Isn't it? It's not like he raped me or something.

What if he did?

She takes hours to answer, but they feel like days. He is starting to get frustrated at the distance between them, to tell the truth. Sometimes, he thinks he'd rather see her, even if it doesn't go as planned, rather than this. He's not scared of losing or offending her, anymore. Sometimes, it feels like you want this to be bigger than it is. He rolls his eyes. So, it's just been me and Mia, then?

At this point, he would tell her what he thinks, if he knew what that even is. Yeah I reckon I'm not as exciting as the press makes me out to be.

Haha, I don't know. Sometimes, I'm with other people and I still close my eyes and pretend it's you.

He closes his eyes, too. Opens them. What the fuck are they doing? It's the middle of the night and the only light he's turned on is the halogen next to the TV; it fills the place with a tired, yellow glow, and leaves his mezzanine dark. He looks up at it, the empty space on Mia's side. He feels like: butterflies in his stomach, and vomiting at the same time. Can we fucking talk about something else?

Sure.

Flirting - is that what it is? He can't even tell. Why is this all so fucking weird?

In a bizarre turn of events, later that week, Hermione drags him wedding dress shopping. He's nothing else to do, Mia's still not back; his best friend calls it a 'distraction' so that he doesn't 'get bored.' For real. Hermione talks about expectations and 'tradition,' when he asks why she can't just go with Ron. Ginny is busy, her parents are still in Australia (and anyway, very reluctant to help); famously, Hermione doesn't have friends who aren't him. Harry stares at her when she asks, paused mid-bite, mouth wide open like a screenshot from a Muggle 1920s film entitled: 'Surprise!'

'What ?' he asks, setting his sandwich aside.

She skips class to come to London, then spends the entire day stressing about it. The fact of the matter is that all the shops she rang were already booked out months in advance at the weekends and, from what she tells Harry, the various sales assistants all acted different stages of horrified when she mentioned that she did not yet have a wedding dress, a mere two months from the ceremony - a sign of utmost neglect and the height of a state of emergency. 'I mean, I don't understand, it's just a dress,' she sighed which logically caused Harry to ask why he needed to go with her, then. 'Because it's the kind of thing that if I go alone people are going to give me strange looks ,' she dismissed. He asked her why she wasn't trying out wizarding shops, suggesting that perhaps they might have less of a waiting list, but she is (understandably) reluctant to end up on the cover of every wizarding magazine in the country. 'They're already all saying I look fat.'

' What? '

Impatiently, Hermione (who, by the way and for the record, barely put back on the weight she lost due to months of starvation) rolled her eyes and shook her head at him. 'Please, Harry , just come, okay? You only have to, er, sit there.'

' Fine,' he said.

People still give them very strange looks. As soon as the first shop, it becomes clear to the sales people that Harry isn't the groom, which leads to: puzzlement, whispers, and tonnes of speculation as to why Hermione brought this random bloke with her to look at wedding dresses. She introduces him as a 'friend' which leads most to assume they must be secretly fucking; Harry ends up on the receiving end of some of the most persistant death glares he's ever had to edure (and there have been a number of them).

In the second shop, the employees label him as the gay friend, which wouldn't be so bad if it didn't come with the built-in assumption that he then must have an opinion about the dresses Hermione tries on, some sort of innate knowledge of clothes and fabrics, and he bitterly regrets not listening to Mia talk about her work more attentively, lately. In the third shop, Hermione introduces him as her brother, which at least causes the sales people to leave him alone.

The dress she ends up picking isn't one he'd have chosen in a catalogue. Short, lacey sleeves cover her shoulders, bust weaved with sparkling pearls and a conservative v-neck cut. The skirt falls around her feet in a full circle, like a halo of lace, tulle, silk, and beads. A Princess dress, almost meringue. Harry can't explain it, he'd have found it heavy and excessive on anyone else but she lights up. Likes it. So, it fits.

'What do you think?' Hermione says. Her eyes are slightly teary, voice strained but smiling. 'Will Ron like it?'

He's not sure how to put into words how much he knows Ron will like it.

It's above budget. Hermione almost didn't want to try it, didn't want to be disappointed, but the saleswoman pushed her and now, this . Harry doesn't think twice about it. Doesn't let Hermione begin to argue. She clearly thinks of trying to hex him when he gets his cheque book out, which makes him glad they're in a Muggle shop, after all. 'You just look -' The word doesn't come to him, not immediately. It's hard to describe her like this. 'Happy,' he settles. 'You look happy in that one, Hermione.'

She catches his gaze and in a single glance, with all the salespeople curiously looking at them, tells him things neither of them can put into words. She pulls him into a hug, too, and cries on his shoulder.

'Oh, Harry,' she says. But, they're happy tears, you know?

When he later tells the story to Ginny, she laughs at his awkwardness and swears she would have loved to be a fly on the wall. What he doesn't tell her, though, is about the mermaid dress Hermione tried on, earlier that afternoon. The one that didn't fit her - at all - she asked his opinion but the look on her face already said she wasn't convinced, so he didn't feel like saying 'no' was much of a risk. Lacey bust and the very low v-cut down the back, smooth fabrics, almost to her bum - he doesn't tell Ginny about the way he shook his head and said: 'No, it's too -' Couldn't explain it. 'It's not you.'

Hermione laughed. 'Yeah, makes me look like a clown, doesn't it?'

She is his sister for a reason, though. And, when for a couple of minutes, the sales assistant left them alone to go fetch her colleague, Hermione caught his gaze and said: 'It's not me but it's someone else, though, isn't it?'

He observed her reflection in the mirror behind her, the line of her back, like he could see a sophisticated up-do of soft, ginger hair and a stippling of freckles on her skin. He looked away and said nothing.

Which is how they get to Narcissa Malfoy's trial, the 15th of April. That day, Harry's ready. Like, actually ready. And, it's interesting: how insignificant she's become, how her actions, once so relevant in his life, now barely raise to eye level. With her threats and her scandals, he just wants to be done - with her and the Malfoys in general. Let them sail away - he's got much bigger things to worry about, these days.

So: at her trial, he tells the truth. Like he always said he would. Not because he's scared or worried about what she might or might not say about him, but because it's the right thing. Because, why would he lie? He tells the court that Voldemort - they flinch, still, for fuck's sake - that Voldemort instructed her to check: 'Is he dead?'

'Did she ask about her son?' the prosecutor says. Harry is called by the defence, this time around, and the other side wants to make Narcissa's heroism look like a blatant act of self-interest. Which, in fairness, it probably was.

'Yes.'

'And, do you think she could have thought you were dead?'

He scoffs. 'Sure.' Sarcastic. 'Like maybe we all collectively hallucinated that Voldemort even existed. I mean, at this rate, anything is a possibility. Earth could be flat, who knows?'

The jury laughs. Narcissa doesn't.

That spring, Hermione says watching the Malfoys, is like witnessing the fall of the Roman Empire. She explains it to Harry and Ron like: they used to be powerful, respected, frightening, brutish. Admired, feared. Aspirational even, in some circles. You could hate them, despise them, but whether you liked it or not, they held the keys to a significant portion of your life, of your rights as an individual. 'Romans did that,' she said. 'They conquered, and ruled, and influenced. Like an octopus: three hearts and tentacles everywhere.' Now, the Malfoys are neither hard-liners, nor rebels. The downside of trying to hit the middle line too many times. Their own clan has deserted them and the rest of the wizarding world would throw stones in their faces, if they could. Harry doesn't know much about Roman Empires, but he knows this: there is a morbid sort of interest in the glee that people around him seem to feel, watching this wizarding TV series, wondering how low the powerful can sink. With Umbridge, it felt fair. With the Malfoys, it makes him feel sick. What he wants is for the facts to be out, the truth to be known, for the guilty to pay their debts. That is all.

'Mr Potter, you're saying this now, but last December, you told the press, and I quote: "They also allowed Narcissa's sister, Bellatrix, to torture my best friend under their own roof." You seemed pretty adamant about it. Forgive us if we don't give much credit to your recent change of heart.'

'It's not a change of heart,' he snaps. Hermione will later tell him he needs to keep his arrogance in check. 'I never said they were saints,' he shrugs. 'I just don't think any of us were.'

In the end, Narcissa gets three years of house arrest. No hard prison time. She was never officially a Death Eater and, surprisingly, as per the results of the investigations carried out by the Aurors in her case, never actually did anything. She could never have anticipated it, but the fact that her trial followed Umbridge's probably played in her favour: the juries are more afraid of public backlashes, these days, of convicting without listening to the evidence. The Ministry's satisfied with the verdict: she doesn't seem to pose a particular threat to society and with the most recent rulings, combined with Kingsley's refusal to use Dementors as prison guards, Azkaban is becoming dangerously low-staffed, and over-populated. There's no point in locking her up. She will simply face a seven year ban from owning a wand. The criminal fines imposed on the family wipe out most of their remaining assets.

You happy?

He eyes Ginny's letter. Here, 'happy' doesn't cut it. 'Happy,' is Hermione grinning, twirling in her wedding dress, not this. Justice has a cost, he finds.

I'm just glad we're learning to live with it all, he responds.