A/N: Hi all, hope you enjoy this one! Reviews are very welcome, thank you so much for all the love! Feel free to reach out to me on tumblr (same username) if you want to have a chat, I always appreciate it :).

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out of brass (rob a bank)

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Ginny doesn't write back.

He didn't expect her to.

They will see each other at the memorial.

She will come, he knows. Come - like everyone else, everyone else who doesn't want to be there but also can't not. She will come, and maybe they will talk, and maybe they won't. This isn't September. It's just – the end of something and truth be told, no one really knows what comes next; perhaps, no one cares. About: the actual end of the tale, about the way all of the pieces of the puzzle are meant to neatly fall into place, screaming: this. This is what it was all about. It's been too many words and there are too many left, too many sleepless nights, and the person who is in charge - well, they wonder: if they got run over by a bus tomorrow - would anyone know? Or, would the story just sit and exist for itself, not abandoned but unfinished. And, is it bad luck, to even think about it?

This is - brass. It's cheap and imperfect, but it doesn't really look or feel like gold but maybe in centuries to come, no one will know the difference, so.

In the spring of 1999, you would think that for Harry, the next few days fly by in a blur, but they don't. On the contrary, the end of April is slow, calm. When Christopher flies back with nothing tied around his paw, on the 29th, the owl taps its beak against Harry's window to get in, and he ruffles the feathers at the top of its little head when it does. Harry lights a cigarette, puffs out smoke into the early morning air. London awakes. The usual coming and going of cars, binmen and delivery trucks. The dawns have been breaking earlier, lately, and the sun grazes the angle above his bed just after six.

Christopher eats his breakfast loudly in his cage, probably in protest. He went up and looked at the mezzanine the moment he flew in, and hooted angrily when he found it empty. Mia's absence hovers like a ghost in his flat, bothers Harry much more than Ginny's silence. There is something unfinished there, a lack of closure of sorts, but there's not much he can do about it. Harry looks at the bird across the room, leaning against the wall, his left arm still dangling over the edge. He drops ash down the street. The sky is blue, clear. Christopher glares at him.

'I'll leave the window open,' he says. Has decided to go for a run. Summons his trainers from the doorway. 'Go downstairs if you want.' He shrugs. 'Maybe she'll let you in.'

That bloody owl was always more hers than his, anyway.

He runs all the way to Kensal Green, that morning. The park is beautiful - quiet. Gates still closed when he gets there; he Apparates inside, pulls the Cloak out of his pocket and over his shoulders, doesn't want guards to come and disturb him. Harry sits down, cross-legged and sweaty, in his tracksuit bottoms and trainers, and thinks.

After the war ended, he promised himself he'd never speak to the dead again, but it doesn't stop him from wondering what they would say. Think: if Giulia saw him here, today, pursing his lips and sighing, what would she tell him? 'Ah, go on, stop the pity party,' - probably. She'd take the piss out of him for showing up empty-handed. Her brother left a picture frame against her headstone after the ceremony and her parents, a bouquet of thirty-six white roses. The plastic is worn, now, and the flowers wilted; Harry wishes he was the kind of wizard who knew how to bring them back to life. He remembers sitting on the hard concrete floor of a factory building months ago, his clothes and hands drenched in her blood, and wishing he could bring her back to life, too.

'So, you fucked up that thing with the Muggle girl, yeah?' she would say. He doesn't want to talk about it. Feels guilty and doesn't fucking understand - how things got this sour between them, this quickly. How they used to get each other, and now they don't. Harry misses Mia, the empty space she's left in her wake the glaring kind, like removing the sofa from his living room. Yet, it also feels like she turned on him out of the blue, like she never said anything until she did, and what was he meant to do? 'Of course, you don't want to talk about it, you've only ever wanted to talk about Ginny,' Giulia would add, reproachingly. She always hated talking about Ginny. Thought he was a love-sick puppy, needed to grow a bit of a pair, or at least, do something about it. And, perhaps she was right because well, he did that, he supposes. 'Do you love her?' she would ask. 'Now that you know her?'

He'd frown. Stare at the quiet. At the sleeping portraits, and the statues, and the tapestries, and the white stones under my trainers and the fact that you weren't there. He would shake his head. 'I always knew her,' he'd want to say.

'Nah,' Giulia would laugh. 'You were kids.'

'I don't reckon people don't change that much.'

Not like that, anyway. Because Ginny, well, she insists she went back, last year, like some sort of unforgivable sin, but she did the same thing in Second Year. She went back and took the diary back, and she knew it would kill her. She thought: better me than anyone else. That is perhaps a thing they have in common, come to think of it.

'So, you're here because Malfoy killed Carrow,' Giulia would ask, then. Because: people who are dead and live in one's imagination know everything, without you having to tell them. And, Harry can almost hear her voice, now, so perhaps, he is going insane. 'What do you want? My blessing as your supervisor to do fuck all about it?'

'No,' he thinks, smiles. 'I already know for a fact I'm going to do fuck all about it.'

'Well, good.'

Malfoy is serving a five-year sentence anyway. There's certainly no reason to seek further revenge and/or compensation for the murder of Amycus Carrow. As an Auror, Harry represents the people, the wizarding people, and if they knew, he doubts the people would be very bothered. What bothers him, though, is that he doesn't feel bad about it. He felt guilt for killing Tom, but six months later, felt none for killing Greyback. Now, this. Perhaps his moral compass has gotten lost in the cogs of adulthood, and Ministry protocols. He wonders what McGonagall would think of it all.

'You've said what you needed to say?' Giulia asks, then. He closes his eyes and she is there, present tense for a moment, not a hypothetical. 'Like I told you to?'

It's a matter of perspective. He did what he needed to do about Umbridge, about the trials in general. With Mia, it's more complicated. He wishes she would open the bloody door, talk. Wonders how the past seven months can just end with one snappy conversation and her headphones shoved over her ears. In regards to Ginny, maybe that's where the peace he feels comes from, though. From standing up and glaring and sayingall the things he wanted to tell her. Writing them even - there's something more permanent about it.

(Read that again. Read that again and tell me it wasn't rape.)

It's hard, but he regrets none of it.

'Well, then,' Giulia smiles. 'Head high. No sirens and shite.'

Right.

Another thing that comes to an end is that Harry finally meets Kingsley, later that day. After he Apparates home from the cemetery, and quickly showers - this has been a long-time coming, too. The kind of meeting that is scheduled before eight, so that no one can witness him going into the office. He waits outside, sat facing the secretary's empty desk. It's a few minutes before the door opens. The Minister fakes a smile, extends his hand. Harry had forgotten how tall the man was.

'Harry.'

'Minister.'

Every time he's been in this office since the end of the war, Harry's had to remind himself that the large, floor-to-ceiling views of the city skyline are entirely fake, solely there to impress visitors. And, sure, yeah, he is impressed. Out of his element, in jeans and a t-shirt surrounded with the dark, polished floorboards, and the library lamps, the Victorian desk, and the shelves lined with leather-bound books that look dangerous to even look at. Glancing out the window feels like falling into London, into the busy streets and the double-deckers, St Paul's Cathedral and the Thames curving behind. Kingsley's desk is large - dark and heavy oak - the morning sun glittering behind him. 'You wanted to see me,' he says.

'Yeah.'

Kingsley motions Harry to sit, which he does. The Boy Who Lived then forces himself to lean against the back of the chair. Extends his legs a bit. Wants to appear - chill. Cool. Cooler than he is. The silence between them stretches.

'So…?'

'I wanted to tell you I'll support you in the election,' Harry declares.

It is a full-stop kind of sentence. One that he's been rehearsing for weeks, long enough that he doesn't need to focus so much on the words, but rather on Kingsley's reaction. There is the slightest (really - the slightest) hint of surprise that washes over the Minister's features. It is gone in an instant. Not like he didn't expect this, but maybe not now. He smiles. 'And, what exactly makes you think I'd even be interested in your support, at this point?'

'Well, I'm not sure,' Harry fakes a shrug. 'Maybe something to do with the fact that I'm polling at 20% and you can't win without me.'

That was always the plan, you see.

And, for the record, as an aside: he does resent Kingsley. A lot. Breathing the same air, right now, is difficult. That part wasn't faked. But also, how did Andromeda put it? 'Some conflicts can be engineered to further other purposes.' 'Other purposes' arose, in between their first argument about the Blair bill and this particular point in time. Purposes that were worth adding fuel to the fire, just to gain enough political momentum to end up with a decent bargaining chip. That language is the only one someone like Kingsley understands, and Harry's grown up, too, since the war. He's learnt to look at the world for what it is - not just what it could be. He can play the game when he needs to; it just makes him sick to his stomach to even think about it.

A beat passes between them. Kingsley says nothing until what feels like a full minute later, his mouth finally curves into the slightest smirk. His gaze feels like it is piercing through Harry's skull. 'Right,' he nods. 'Well, one thing I've learnt in the past year is that nothing in this world comes for free.' Kingsley pauses. Harry thinks this might also be a remark to himself. 'So, what do you want, Harry?'

'Immunity.'

It comes first, obviously. And, 'not the shitty kind where I have to testify in exchange,' he adds, quick. 'I want: no questions, no testimonies, on anything, no charges, not ever.' Another pause. 'For myself, Hannah Abbott and Ginny Weasley.'

There, he can see that Kingsley issurprised. The Minister's gaze narrows. He seems - curious. Almost amused. Like: what on Earth do the girls know? Harry just doesn't want them questioned, about anything, ever. Not against their will, for obvious reasons. Malfoy also knows, but Malfoy won't get that kind of deal because he won't ever talk, anyway. Even if he is compelled. Because then, Harry would slit his throat in his sleep, and Draco is more afraid of death than he is of prison.

(Malfoy's always been a bit afraid of everything anyway.)

'Well,' Kingsley finally sighs. 'I won't ask, but I suppose we can live with that,' he adds, extending his hand out to Harry. 'I'll get Legal to -'

'-I'm not finished.'

Well, now, this - this makes the room still. Because: Kingsley isn't stupid. He probably anticipated (or hoped) that this would all end up in a deal, and that immunity would be a big part of it. Now, though, now he is navigating blind, and what just happened was the easy part. 'You know,' he warns, jaw tense. His voice is suddenly a lot less friendly. 'Negotiations can very quickly turn into blackmail, Harry.'

'Funny, I see it as an exchange of services.'

There is a pause. Kingsley glares. Harry shifts, leans forward, forearms at the edge of the Minister's desk. He breathes in, and -

'I want you to bury Alecto Carrow's trial,' he says, next.

Now, look, there's no need to tell him. This - isn't the right thing. He's going to have to live with it for the rest of his life because without a trial, he knows Alecto Carrow's victims will never get what Umbridge's did. They will never get their day in court, the opportunity to talk, and the word 'guilty' resounding against Ministry walls. Carrow's sins will die and go up in smoke, and they will probably never get the recognition they deserve. No one will say: 'You are a victim, and this happened to you. It was her fault, not yours.' They will never get the chance at an explanation, an understanding of why, how another human being could be responsible for the worst.

Of course, Harry isn't doing it to protect himself. If it was just her word against his and the possibility of jail for a Cruciatus curse, he'd take it. Actions have consequences. But: Hannah was right. Ginny isn't ready. And, so: he is putting the fate of the few before the fate of the many, not even because of feelings he might or might not still hold, but because that feels like the right thing to do. He wishes he could have found a better solution, but that is the one he landed on. Like many things in this post-war world: it is what it is.

Kingsley stares at him for a good while, that morning. Harry's own heart is hammering against his ribcage, trying to get out. It's hard to keep his voice steady. 'I can't do that,' the Minister says. 'I don't have that kind of power-'

'-Like you don't have some dirt you could leverage,' Harry laughs. He tells Kingsley to get her to plead. 'In a quiet room with no press and no court reporter. Life, no parole. And, then get her out of sight, somewhere she can't ever talk to anyone.'

Kingsley snorts. 'Harry, we've opened Azkaban to visitors, this is not a totalitarian regime where we silence the -'

'-Obliviate her, then. I don't care.'

Kingsley freezes. For the first time that morning, when Harry holds his gaze and refuses to look down, there is concern, in there, concern not for politics, or optics, but for him. He, the 'kid' who isn't one anymore. And, yeah, in over a hundred years, like Hermione once said, when he will greet Death like an old friend and pass on the Cloak to his first-born, he is pretty sure he will go to Hell for this. That's fine. It also is what it is.

Kingsley speaks wearingly. 'What does she know?'

'Shit that you wouldn't want to come out either, trust me.' He pauses. 'And, yeah, people'll be mad that it won't go to trial, but I'll be backing you, so hopefully, it won't look too bad.'

'If we Obliviate her without knowing what we're removing, we'll have to remove everything. She'll live the rest of her life like a vegetable-'

'-Fine.' He wants to throw up.

At the side of Kingsley's jaw, Harry notices the muscles clench. He waits. Finally, the Minister nods and there is the saddest look on his face that Harry has ever seen. 'So, you did kill him,' Kingsley states. 'Her brother, I mean.'

And, what a bizarre turn of events, in the end, isn't it? Harry will remember this for the rest of his life: how strange it was that when push came to shove, he got out of it with the Minister of Magic, the highest politician in the country, thinking he'd committed bloody murder. It is a pretty logical take, when you think about it. He doesn't fault Kingsley. And, no one else needs to know the truth, do they? Draco killed Amycus but what difference does it make? 'You know I can't answer that,' Harry says.

The Minister nods and later, when his secretary gets in, she brings them biscuits to share, and a pot of tea.

Kingsley also negotiates his terms, of course. Harry's not surprised, knew that he wasn't going to get everything he wanted without caving on anything. He agrees to: a press release that very morning, declaring his unconditional support of Kingsley's campaign. To: a joint interview with The Prophet ahead of the memorial ceremony, and to attending various campaign and fundraising events, over the next couple of months. At the ceremony itself, he will read out a speech written for him by the Ministry. 'I want the time to read out the names of those who died in the battle, though,' he quickly says. 'With Ron and Hermione. I think they'd like that, too.'

Kingsley nods, doesn't fight. 'I agree. It's what people expect,' he confirms. 'And, I want this to sound like you. You can review the speech once we have it written, propose modifications if you want. I don't want to make you into someone you're not.'

Kingsley cares about him, you see? Despite every fucking thing. And, Harry thanks him.

Later, the conversation is actually comfortable between them. Amicable. They laugh, drink and eat, and very surprisingly, Kingsley even asks Harry for a cigarette. 'It was Giulia,' he explains, quick, in response to Harry's quizzical frown. The tip of his wand grazes the paper, and the room fills with smoke as he breathes in. 'You know when she started at the Ministry, after she got out of jail,' the Minister starts. Smoke fills his lungs and he leans back, nodding appreciatively. 'There was this period of time - she called it her "Muggle renaissance,"' he laughs. 'Tried pretty much everything.' (And, she called me a twat, Harry rolls his eyes). 'And, of course, I was in love with her,' Kingsley speaks, shrugs. 'I'd have done anything to make her think I was cool.'

Well, that - is an interesting titbit of information Harry didn't see coming. There must be a confused frown on his face, because Kingsley laughs again.

'Oh, I know she was gay,' he adds with a smile. 'Just spent half my life wishing she wasn't. What is it they say? "Can't help who you fall in love with"?'

'I'm so sorry,' Harry says. Obviously not about Giulia's sexual orientation, just about -

Kingsley gives him a knowing, but also firm look. 'It wasn't your fault, Harry. And, I'm glad you were there. I'm glad she wasn't alone.'

It's a moment until Kingsley stands. He shakes his head to himself and turns around to look out the window. Harry doesn't move, knows better than to. There's a lump in his own throat and he only knew Giulia four months. Kingsley turns towards him again after maybe a minute; he is smiling again.

'She'd have wanted it that way, I think, anyway,' he adds. 'I don't think she ever thought of herself as the kind of person who'd die in their sleep at a hundred and fifty-seven.' He laughs. 'Anyway,' he says, again, then eyes Harry's pack on the desk. 'What I meant to say is: they're not that toxic. From what I gathered. Well, they are,' he amends, 'But as a wizard, your body is able to weed out the Muggle toxins. Trust me, you wouldn't be able to run all those miles every day otherwise. But, they are addictive,' he adds, pointedly. Harry shrugs.

'Well, I guess we all need our vices to get through life, don't we?'

Kingsley laughs, again. 'Well, haven't you grown,' he says and again, extends his hand. This time, Harry stands, too, and shakes it. His cue to leave.

'Never had much of a choice, did I?'

'No.' There is sadness again in Kingsley's gaze. 'I don't suppose you did.'

For lack of something better to do, that day, Harry also gets a tattoo. It is later - early afternoon, and the weather hovers between drizzles and sunny spells. He walks into a shop and gets it the Muggle way; it feels like these scars are ones you ought to earn. They are: flowers on his skin, an elegant fine-line bouquet of lilies of the valley. He requests something to do with May and the woman he talks to, with her full sleeve of shaded roses, pink strands of hair and large, square glasses framing her face tells him that's what the birth flower is. She laughs a little, tells him he doesn't look like the kind of guy who typically wants flowers and he shrugs. 'My mum's name's Lily,' he says. She chuckles.

'Ow, is that an association we want?'

'Yeah, I think it is.'

The needle digs into his skin and he doesn't tell her flowers are what you put on people's graves.

The Ministry sends him a copy of his speech a couple hours after he gets home, that day. They were quick. Harry barely looks at it, forwards it to Hermione, his second-favourite speechwriter at the moment, and asks her to read over it. She'll at least prevent him from sounding stupid, he thinks, or from saying something that will get him in trouble. It's not that he doesn't trust Kingsley, but -

Mia reappears the next day. That was not something he expected. Stopped stubbornly knocking on her door a while back, figured that - well, he wasn't going to force her into something she didn't want, was he?

Perhaps, he wonders if just like the rest of them, she simply needed time to think. Harry's just got home from work that day; it's around eight in the morning and the sun casts a brutal glow against his kitchen worktop, leaving the rest of the apartment seemingly in the dark. She knocks, and he opens the door in his usual outfit - tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt - can hardly believe he's even seeing her face again. She stands in the doorway for a moment, like the act of knocking has sucked all her energy, and she wasn't aware she'd actually be required to talk. 'I -' she starts. Closes her eyes. Opens them. Shakes her head. 'Can I come in?'

He imagines saying 'no,' and closing the door in her face. Saying: 'it's too late,' but too late for what? It's a bit stupid, and the way he feels about her has nothing to do with the way he's felt about Ginny, so why did herclosing the door in his face hurt so goddamn much?

He opens the door wider and steps aside to let her through.

She seems to inspect the flat. Following her gaze, he becomes painfully aware of the fact that the last time he tidied up the place was the last time she tidied up the place, probably two weeks ago. Harry leans against the wall by the window. She stands in the middle of the room.

'They arrested Copeland last night,' she tells him.

'I heard.'

He literally did - a couple of ladies were talking about it on the tube when he got home this 's not sure what to say about it, if anything, especially since the man's last macabre swan song left three people dead in a pub in Soho. 'Is that why you're here?' he asks. Because your war is over, and your world is back to normal, and you think we should go back to what we used to be? ''Cause I don't reckon we had anything to do with it,' he adds. We, the Aurors. The wizards and the magicians and the bloody cavalry. Muggles solved that one on their own.

She says nothing.

'Have you come to pick your stuff up, then?' he asks again.

She's taken her braids out. Her natural hair is pulled back in a tight bun above her head and she isn't wearing any make-up. Her arms are protectively crossed under her breasts. She looks scared, and the moment he sees the fear in her eyes, all he wants to do is apologise. He hates this. What they've become. Whatever it is. 'Is that what you want?' she speaks, low.

'No.'

The ease with which the word comes out startles him. He means it. His gaze follows the lines of her face, her temples and her eyes, and her cheekbones. He wants to shout at her. He also wants to pull her into his arms and hold her, tell her they'll be okay.

'Is that what you want?' he asks her, instead.

She avoids his gaze. The sunlight is grazing her arm, her eyes the darkest shade of brown.

'Mia, if you want to say something, then fucking say it. I'm done with-'

'-I'm in love with you,' she speaks, then. It sounds like words she would say before pushing him down a cliff. She laughs - to herself. 'But it's not a nice thing to say, is it? Because now you'll feel like shit, and you can't say it back, and I don't want you to feel like shit, Harry. I never wanted you to. So maybe,' she adds. 'Some things are best left unsaid.'

He doesn't know what the fuck he's meant to say to that. His stomach feels like it's dropped ten inches and he is glaring at her and she is glaring back. 'I'm not sleeping with Ginny,' he finally blurts out. Won't take his look off her face. 'If that's what you think.' He tells the truth: 'I would never-'

Mia's tongue clicks against the back of her front teeth. It makes a quick, wet sound, interrupting him. '-Well, you do in your head-'

'-I'm not sure that makes it real.'

She laughs. Cold. 'Wow.'

He stands still.

'You're a fucking arsehole, you know that, right?'

She could have slapped him in the face, he thinks, and it would have hurt a lot less.

He imagines her leaving. Slamming the door shut on her way out. Instead, Mia walks towards his sofa. She sinks into the cushions, in front of his TV, with her back to him. The screen is 90s grey, and the landline is on the floor by the fireplace. Harry can't help but wonder if, without her in it, this flat was ever a home, or just another campsite. Her face is buried in her hands. She is quiet until impulsively, he decides that: fuck this, and goes to sit next to her. Close - their thighs touch. She doesn't move away. He watches her. When she finally uncovers her face, he's surprised to find that she's not crying. Just exhausted, it seems. She looks at him.

'This hurts,' she mutters. Her voice is strangled. She looks at the wall, then back at him, like she can't decide. 'I don't think I see the point in hurting you as well.'

He shakes his head. Their shoulders touch. He is tired, too. 'Maybe I deserve it?'

'No.'

He moves to sit on the coffee table instead, the space between them small enough that their knees touch. If this is the end - then he wants to look her in the eye, hear her say it. He takes both her hands in his and pleads. 'Mia, look at me.'

The sunlight falls onto her chest when she shifts to lift her eyes, filtering past the buildings on the other side of the street - magazine cutouts and all that shite. Happier times. Mia is wearing baggy jeans, distressed around the ankles, with a black t-shirt tucked inside. He's never met anyone so simple yet so – put together. He always feels like she's got things figured out in a way he doesn't. Like she's fifteen pool lengths ahead of him. 'I love you, too,' he says. The worst part of all of this is that he fucking means it. 'Not -' he is looking for words, now, and perhaps she is right, perhaps he is a fucking arsehole. 'Maybe not like I should but-' he trails off. She tries to look away but he doesn't let her. They are close enough he could count her eyelashes. 'I care, I really do. I wasn't lying about that, I promise.'

'You know no one else does, right?' she says, then. Looks up to cross his gaze and takes his breath away. 'Not my dad, not my mum, not my friends in school where I'm like,' she speaks quick, rolling her eyes, 'the token black girl with the funny accent from up North when their parents all know people - bloody Vivienne Westwood or something,' she sighs. Her voice breaks. For the first time that morning, he hears tears in her words. 'And, I don't even hold it against them. They've all got objectively more important things than me to worry about. It's just so fucking lonely sometimes.'

'Shit, Mia.'

When she kisses him, impulsively, crossing the distance between them without warning, her mouth tastes like salt. Harry doesn't pull back. This is who they are: imperfect - fake-gold paint.

They pull away a few moments later and it is her turn to look like she doesn't know what to say. Like, she's not sure what she thinks. Like: she is twenty-one and navigating something that is big, and hard; like, she's trying to build a bridge with pebbles, taming a torrent.

'You'll have fun in Paris,' he whispers, then. Wants her to go as much as he would like to peel off his own skin, but what kind of a dickhead he would be if he just said: stay. And, you know, sometimes, when people talk about hearts breaking, it isn't just an image. He feels it, there, in his chest. Be okay, he thinks, please -

'-Come with me.'

Fuck. 'Mia-'

She says things, that morning. A lot of things. Harry mostly listens.

She talks about the trials coming to an end. About the elections coming to an end. About: criminals behind bars, deals being struck, and his world slowly shaping back up. He thinks about Ginny and he doesn't tell Mia about the way these days, that feels like it's done, too. Like he's done all he needed to do, and: 'You still think I'm in love with her,' he counters, at one point during their discussion. Counters because Mia has always talked about that with a level of absolute certainty that's mostly been baffling to him when it's been four fucking months since he and Ginny last saw each other and the world feels like it's ended and come back to life at least four times, since then. 'Yeah, of course, you're still in love with her,' Mia laughs. 'I'd argue you're actually even more in love with her now than when we met.'

'So, why would you want me to come, then?'

'Many illogical reasons, I guess,' she sighs. 'And, I dunno. I just think - I think maybe you deserve to get out of here, after everything. Get lost somewhere no one knows you. Don't you think?'

He stares at her, then. Her fingers are soft against his hand. 'You don't have to decide now,' she shrugs. 'There's a couple months left.'

He asks her whether, if he decides to stay, she'll call him an arsehole again. 'Probably,' she says. Then: 'Just kiss me, will you?'

He'll take that, he guesses.

They leave the flat eventually, later that afternoon. After she's commented on his day-old tattoo, still red and raw - he's taken the bandage off and cast a repelling charm around it - didn't want it to brush against anything. 'It's pretty,' she said, trailing her finger next to it; it tickled against his skin. After a bit, Mia asks him about tomorrow.

To be honest, he tells her the more he thinks about it, the stranger the concept feels, to him. This exact time, a year ago, he was robbing a bank. Isn't that wild? They were about to escape, fly across the country on a fucking dragon. Now, the flat is quiet and he's climbed down the mezzanine to get himself a glass of water; Mia's lying in bed on her side, smiling at him through the balustrade. Time is an odd social construct, sometimes.

Tomorrow, McGonagall will shut down the Floo. During their last staff meeting at the Auror office, Robards matter-of-factly declared there wouldn't be a better place to bomb in the whole of the wizarding world than the castle on the anniversary of the battle. All the new establishment will be gathered, celebrating their victory and mourning their dead - an attack in a place like this would be quite the sight. So, there will be a lot of security.

Arrivals will all be concentrated at a single point of entry, which will be easier to monitor. Everyone will Apparate into Hogsmeade, then walk up to the gates. The press will be parked at the entrance, take pictures as they approach. An uncomfortable sort of red carpet. As far as Harry knows, hit-wizards will be deployed all around the place, overlooking the stage on which he will stand. 'We're expecting over fifteen hundred guests,' Kingsley said.

Harry's seen the plans they've drawn. Twelve large, square blocks of twenty-by-twenty rows of seats, separated by aisles, spread out over 350 feet, on the flat ground that exists between the side of the castle and the lake. They've had to restrict the list of attendees at an event where, sadly, all the Slughorns and Lockharts of the world will want to show their face. They've invited: Hogwarts students, families of the deceased, select personalities, press. Harry, Ron and Hermione will all sit with the rest of the Weasleys, until it's their turn to speak. There will be a speech by the Minister himself and by a few members of the Wizengamot, McGonagall and Neville (who will talk on behalf of C.A.S.H.C.O.W).

Mia asks if he's nervous about it. He reckons 'nervous' isn't quite the right term for it. Nervous is: Hermione, who has sixteen names to read off the list of the dead and has been rehearsing the pronunciation of every single one of them all weekend. Nervous would be having to give a speech to an audience of fifteen hundred under - literally - any other circumstance. There will be screens and projections of their faces for those at the back - the logistics of it all have blown his mind. Yet, this still feels a bit like Dumbledore's funeral. Like a whole bigger than any of its smaller parts. Truth be told, Harry doesn't even mind the speech and the ceremony, and the publicity that the Ministry is hoping to gain from it because nothing else would feel right, anyway. Nothing is right about all the bodies they've had to bury.

'What are you gonna wear?' Mia asks.

She is probably the only person he knows who could ask this without looking like she is cheapening the stakes.

Harry's got formal robes, he shrugs. But, now that he thinks about it, they look a bit too … party-ish, for a ceremony to remember a battle that killed fifty people. He's also still got his old suit from the funerals last spring, but he's put on, like, two stones of food and muscle, since then. He could do an expanding charm, but -

'Stop.' Mia rolls her eyes. She seems to take his lack of fashion - if not sense, at least care - as a personal affront. She's said 'I love you,' and he didn't say it back yet this, this is what she gets the most mad at. 'You can't honour the dead, in a suit that doesn't fit,' she claims.

So, when they leave his flat, that afternoon, it's to go into Oxford Street. Strange - how calm and domestic.

Over the span of the next few hours, she drags him to half a dozen different shops. Makes him try on more clothes than, to be honest, he's ever tried on in his life. Most of his shit is still half Dudley's. Of course, he's seen her draw before, design, but never actively work like this. He kind of gets it, now. There is something rather impressive about the way she looks him up and down, coming in and out of changing rooms and authoritatively says: 'Yes, this,' or, 'No, not that. Yes, next.' Even the salespeople seem to defer to her judgement. One even giggles, nodding, when Mia shakes her head, laughs: 'Oh, no, for the love of God, don't tie your tie like that, you look like a schoolboy. Here.' She bats his hand away when he tries to intervene.

On second thought, Harry reckons that this time last year, he should have stolen a bit of extra gold from Gringotts for his troubles, because he ends up spending a literal fortune. Shirts and trousers, new pairs of shoes - they leave with two suits (one for the memorial, one for the wedding), but also: two pairs of jeans, a handful of t-shirts, new trainers, socks, underwear, the whole deal. Last summer, he'd bought a bunch of stuff from M&S, quick, after he'd burnt the clothes he wore on the run in the back garden of the Burrow (couldn't get the stench from the damp out, no matter how much he tried), but hadn't really paid attention to much else. He mostly just wears his work uniform these days, anyway, so why bother? Mia - obviously - does not let him get away with any of this nonsense. 'The way you look matters,' she says. 'People write articles about it! It's how they perceive you.'

He does like the idea that, like Hermione in front of the Commission last June, he'll be wearing Muggle clothes. It seems - fitting. Also, has to admit that when he looks at himself in the mirror all dressed for the occasion - Mia wasn't wrong, you know? He does look better like this.

He doesn't sleep much, that night. They watch TV for a while and when he tosses and turns for two hours next to her, Mia gives him a blowjob in the hopes that it will help him calm down. 'Just relax,' she whispers, which isn't something he feels he does particularly well. He must doze off around two or three because he wakes up a bit later with a start, bolt upright, thinking that he's slept through his alarm. His heart hammers in his chest like it's trying to get out again and his hand blindly pats the bedside table for his glasses. His alarm clock reads: 4:37 AM. He stares back at the ceiling, briefly wonders where he was, this time last year, and -

He rolls out of bed around five. Quiet, careful not to wake Mia, he grabs his jacket and goes to sit out on the front steps of their building, with a lighter and cigarettes. The sky is indigo blue, another delivery truck driving by, undoubtedly filled with Muggle papers and fresh fruits, and everything in life that can't wait. It will be hot and sunny today, t-shirt weather over the country. In the cars that pass by, the Muggle radio won't stop talking about it. Harry avoids the very thought of what the wizarding news might be saying, this morning. Just sits and smokes, and watches the end of the sunrise.

They all gather at Grimmauld by seven. There is a strange, quiet buzz in the kitchen, people coming up and down the stairs, grabbing tea, coffee, rarely food. 'Hi'-s and, 'Hello'-s, and eyes downcast - 'You okay'-s, and 'Sorry, I'm in your way'-s. They all got the day off work, bar from Opal. Like many other Aurors, she volunteered to work as part of the security at Hogwarts, so that 'the kids' didn't have to. Harry makes his way upstairs, that morning, passing Seamus and Dean in the corridor, knocks on Ron and Hermione's half-open door.

'Hey,' Ron says.

Hermione hands him his speech. She's corrected it, re-wrote it clean; he recognises her handwriting. It's not very long, just five pages. 'Here,' she mutters. 'Feel free to change whatever you want. I won't ask what changed your mind about Kingsley,' she sighs.

'Thanks.'

Hermione is doing her hair in the mirror. She's straightened it, the bottle of Sleekeazy still resting on their dressing table; it falls down soft to the middle of her back and Harry can't help but think she looks like herself, but also not. From this time last year, he remembers the cut at her lip, and the blood on her shirt, and the dirt sticking with sweat to her skin, the burns down her arms from the break-in. He can't help but watch the hours go by and think of: vomiting, showering, poking Tom's dead body in the dark, lighting candles with trembling hands, and her. Her - after and before everything at once.

'It'll be fine,' Hermione speaks. She is talking to them, but also to no one in particular. Harry's gaze is focused on the flimsy tulle curtains she's framed around their windows to let the light in. Their bedsheets are white, the duvet covered with large pink and red faded roses. 'Come on,' she says.

Ron hasn't made another sound since his greeting when Harry first knocked.

'We've got to go.'

They are walking up a cobblestone path fifteen minutes later. All Harry can focus on is Hermione's clammy hand in his - he and Ron on each side of her. They are greeted by a chaos of shouts and camera flashes, crowds contained behind fragile barriers. It's not just the press, he realises - it looks like half the wizarding world, all those who weren't invited coming to get a piece of them, see them, or just pay their respects. Flowers are thrown at their feet, papers for autographs shoved in their faces - a woman even throws out her bra. Harry's old Gryffindor scarf is wrapped around Hermione's neck. He didn't bother.

'Harry! HARRY! Look over here, Harry! - Lovely dress, Hermione!'

They walk on for a minute when suddenly - a deafening silence. Harry looks around him, panicked, but they've just passed through the gates. He glances up and there are the stones and there is the lake and there are the installations for the ceremony already up and running and -

Suddenly, they are in.

With regards to the ceremony, that morning, there are about a million things Harry reckons he could talk about. He could talk about the walk from the gates to the front of the castle, following Hermione in a daze. Her voice, when she looks back at the two of them, frozen outside on the steps. Harry feels eleven and small again, eyeing the big, wide, wooden doors in front of them. It's still early; a group of students - maybe third or fourth years - are chatting amongst themselves a few yards away, whispering animatedly. They haven't even noticed them - the guests aren't due for another hour, so why would they be looking? Harry wonders if he is now invisible, merged into the walls. 'Come on,' Hermione says, quick. 'We're going to be late. I promised McGonagall we'd be there for eight.'

Ron hasn't moved. 'Hermione, we've not been here since -'

'Oh.' Her mouth opens, just slightly, enough to show the bottom of her upper front teeth. 'Yes, sorry.'

He could talk about the castle. The way it stands tall, effortless. Hasn't moved, hasn't changed. The stones under their feet are clean, and the walls polished, and there are the hourglasses filled with the house points in the hall. Ravenclaw is leading. There are the sounds of kids turning ants into butterflies at the far back, chatter on the way to breakfast. Hermione is talking to someone and Harry's gaze is rooted to a spot behind Ron's head. Is that a crack in the stone? Harry looks around - at the portraits, and the statues, and the tapestries and it is like there is something missing - like blood. He can't see the castle - the castle hidden behind the crack in the wall. The only change is a big block of sandstone at the side of the door, and the plaque that, he supposes, McGonagall's had installed. There are no names on it, just two words and a date.

ad meliora

II. .

'Come on, let's go,' Harry says, shaking his head.

He could talk about: the complimentary breakfast buffet, that morning, the one that feels so fucking comical and out of place. The one that no one eats, too, because truth be told, none of them can swallow food. There are: the embraces, and the greetings, and the upsets, and the silences. Andromeda is already there with the baby ('he wouldn't sleep, I thought I'd come early'). Teddy wobbles towards Harry until his godfather picks him up with a hug, 'How are you, tiger?' and Andromeda is kind enough to look away; there are tears in Harry's eyes and his stomach is in his throat, that day.

There are, also: the autographs he signs for the younger students, because it is something to do. McGonagall is running around the place, hardly has time to greet the three of them as more and more guests keep turning up, she still does her best to organise some sort of disciplined queue. I'm sorry, Potter, she mouths at him. He forces a smile - she does, too. Later, Peeves bursts in amidst the growing chaos and takes advantage of the confusion to throw a bucket of water on Hermione's hair. She bursts into tears, like First Year and, 'Don't tell her but I prefer it frizzy,' Ron whispers at Harry under his breath.

She runs to the bathroom. 'You know, I reckon you actually should tell her,' Harry says.

So, Ron goes after her, then.

He could talk about the interview, too. There are a couple of reporters from The Prophet already there, McGonagall kindly lends him and Kingsley her classroom for a quiet space. Harry could talk about: going up those stairs, for the first time in a year. He blinks and in his head, the wall explodes next to him; he almost ducks. Later, he imagines Malfoy, running down trailing blood after him with Pansy in his arms. Harry wants to throw up. Doesn't want to be there.

'It's been a year, now, Harry,' Philomela - or Donna, or Martha, the journalist, whatever her name is - speaks at him. 'How does that make you feel?'

Like I'm dying again. Like I can't breathe. 'Well, I'm good, you know,' he says. 'I'm not here for myself, anyway. I'm just here to support where I can. And to honour the ones we've lost.'

'Oh, what a fantastic quote,' she observes. Her voice is sickeningly sweet, posh, charming. 'And, what about your political ambitions, Harry? These past few months -'

He wants to ask who the fuck gave her permission to call him 'Harry.' That headline in the American press, probably. Instead, he fakes a smile. Forces himself to remember why he is doing this. 'Look, I've no political ambitions,' he laughs. 'I'm an eighteen-year-old with no N.E.W.T.s, I think our future is much better looked after by someone like Kingsley, who -'

'Oh, Mr Potter, I'm sure you are selling yourself short.'

'I promise you, I am not.'

Kingsley smooths the angles, whenever Harry gets a tad too snappy. His hand is on his shoulder, always, looking friendly. 'Well, Karen, if you'll allow me, I will say that Harry is very humble. He is one of the most brilliant, talented, young wizards, I've ever had the chance to meet.' He sounds sincere. 'This being said, of course -'

Harry looks around them and thinks he made the right decision not to come back last summer. Hogwarts was home, but it - isn't. Not anymore. Time and life washed the whole thing away.

Harry supposes he could (should?) also talk about this: Neville coming down to the Great Hall, half an hour after they arrived. The ceremony doesn't start until 10:30, so they've all got a bit of time. Harry's already signing autographs, by then - they've found him a desk to sit at, and there is the queue - but his gaze continuously drifts to the end of the Gryffindor table. Neville comes to sit on the chair next to him as he keeps signing. 'She won't come down,' he says.

Harry crosses his gaze, then. The quill in his hand frozen mid-air. The boy in front of them is looking at the exchange - Harry feels bad when he notices Neville cast a silent mufflialto at him.

'I mean, she will, but not for another while,' Neville adds, shaking his head. Harry signs his name. The Hufflepuff prefect shouts: 'Next!'

'I saw her going for a fly this morning. She's probably showering and getting ready.'

Harry doesn't say anything. Notices that Ron and Hermione have now escaped the attention to chat with Hagrid at the other end of the Hall and wishes he could join them. 'I'm just that fucking transparent, aren't I?'

Neville laughs. 'Just a little.'

He supposes he could talk about: leaving McGonagall's classroom with Kingsley, about an hour later. They are standing, now, setting up for pictures, the interview done - it was a quick one. Still, Harry whispers in the Minister's ear: 'I don't know how you bear it. I couldn't, I'll give you that.'

Kingsley bursts out a laugh, then, a real one, loud and open-mouthed, and The Prophet's camera flashes in their faces. That'll make a good photo. POTTER AND KINGSLEY - THE NEW ALLIANCE, or something. 'We can give you coaching,' Kingsley suggests, genuinely. They are in the corridor, now, and Harry wonders if this is the one Ginny ran down, that night. 'It's a learned skill, you know. It's good that it doesn't come to you naturally. It shouldn't.'

'Yeah, nope,' Harry answers. Thinks he'd rather die, actually.

'Come on, cheer up,' the Minister smiles again, jokes. 'It's only ten weeks 'til election day.'

Harry rolls his eyes and thinks he might actually start a countdown.

He visits Dumbledore's grave. A half hour of free time between the end of the interview, the growing guests crowds and the beginning of the ceremony. Harry escapes. He stands and stares, hands in his pockets. Is pretty sure the old man would have said something about his posture.

They buried Snape next to him. He's the one who insisted. Told McGonagall what Snape had done and said: 'He was dying. You saw his hand.' She wasn't sure.

'I understand what you're saying, Potter, but last year…'

Harry didn't know. Not really. About last year. He couldn't possibly have understood the depths of the Carrows' cruelty. What Snape probably suspected (knew?) and did fuck all about. And, come to think of it, even McGonagall herself never learnt the full tale. But, the man is there, now, and although Harry isn't quite sure what to think, it's not like they're going to move him.

'He doesn't have family anywhere else, Professor,' Harry pleaded. 'Dumbledore would have wanted to make this a home for him.'

And so, they did. Buried Severus Snape with an audience of two.

It is five minutes before the start of the ceremony when he, Ron and Hermione finally sit at the right end of one of the middle rows in the first, centre block of seats, right in front of the stage. They were offered the front row with Kingsley and McGonagall and a bunch of high-ranking Ministry officials, but Ron wanted to be with the rest of the family. Harry sits on the aisle - he'll have to get up first - Hermione sandwiched safely between the two of them as per usual. He looks up; there is a microphone set up - the ceremony is also being broadcast on the wireless. He glances up to the Gryffindor tower, then quickly catches Ron's gaze, angles his head slightly ahead. His best mate follows his line of sight, then looks back. They've seen the same thing, Harry knows: one of the Hit-Wizards laying low between the arrow slits.

'Well, we know they're there,' Ron observes.

'Yup.'

Ron is sitting next to Percy, that morning. Percy next to George who, himself, is next to an empty space the size of a fucking black hole, only partially filled by Angelina Johnson. Her older brother and her parents are there, too, as well as Andromeda and Teddy. There are the Delacours and Fleur, who leans close to Bill's shoulder and sits with someone else inside her. Then, there is: Charlie, who's reappeared, and Mr Weasley. Mrs Weasley. When the whole clan trickled in, past the gates this morning, Ron's mother pulled Harry into a hug between his interview and the visit he made to Dumbledore's grave and he wanted to disappear inside it. Be swallowed by her arms until she was the one breathing for him. 'Oh, Harry, son, we've not seen you in too long,' her husband observed.

'We were over at lunch two weeks ago, Dad,' Ron rolled his eyes.

She arrives just a couple minutes before the ceremony starts. She - Neville, and Luna, and most of the D.A. The press snaps pictures - they call them the Silver Trio, these days. Seamus is with them, as well as some people Harry doesn't recognise - Kingsley has reserved them some seats in the front rows, left of the stage. Harry watches as they settle down, Seamus sitting next to Dean without sparing a look for his mother in the back - she nodded at Harry earlier in the Hall.

It takes Harry a moment, after he first sees Ginny, to realise he's forgotten how to breathe.

She is wearing her school uniform. Most of them are - some kind of statement, Harry's not sure. Her hair is in a low, conservative bun, a couple of loose strands framing her face. She is - far, he can't see the details of her features from where he sits, though his eyes keep getting drawn towards her, like magnets. Look at me, he thinks, then: pathetic. No, actually, he fucking deserves a look, at the very least.

Shestops to talk to her friends, but stays standing as they all sit down. She isn't the only one, there are still a few people taking off their cloaks and rearranging their belongings in Harry's field of vision, the last few moments before it all starts. They are speaking words that Harry can't hear, especially with all the latecomers rushing past. He notices: at one point, Seamus takes her hand - she seems to squeeze it.

Then, she walks. And, as she gets closer - so much closer - bizarrely closer, for someone he hasn't seen in months - she is strangely tangible again, occupying a material space that makes it impossible for him to look away. Hermione notices, tenses; Ron doesn't. Harry follows Ginny's every move, down to the moment she finally stands, next to her mother. An empty seat was left next to her. Molly looks up but doesn't move, like frozen in her seat. She and Ginny haven't spoken in weeks.

The first to stand is Bill. Without an ounce of doubt, he takes one look at his sister and goes to greet her. This forces half the row to stand up, too, including Charlie and their father. In the grass, on the Hogwarts grounds, the eldest Weasley brother says: 'Ginny. Come. Sit with us, please.'

There is a look between them. A second of everything at once. Then: a cascade of tears and hugs, all of a sudden.

Molly, of course, breaks down the loudest. She stands on shaky legs and hangs onto her daughter like she will let go again. 'Ginny, love, it's so nice to see you,' her father later says and his voice is warm, and kind, and forgiving; he eventually pulls her close, too. It is then Charlie's turn - an awkward half-hug over their mother who is still sobbing on her daughter's shoulder. Ginny says something in her ear, something Harry can't hear, but that makes Molly laugh out loud, through her tears. 'Like I'll ever let you disappear again!' she says.

While still holding her mother's hand, Ginny manages to stretch herself over the rest of the row to say 'hi' to Angelina, and pull George into a long, heartfelt hug. Unable to move much further up, she shakes Percy's hand - he nods - then manages to touch the very tips of Ron's fingers. She is smiling, large and bright, when her gaze flicks up.

She stills. A second. It's another second of everything at once.

Her eyes are brown, slightly wet. She has a small nose and freckles in the sun; she is beautiful and looks the exact same.

She nods at Hermione, smiling again. Steps away and sits back down at her mother's side.

'What was that?' Harry's 'sister' says.

He looks away.

There is: his speech, later still. The words both sound like his, and not - Hermione seems surprised he doesn't go off script. The whole time - the whole ceremony, actually - Andromeda stares straight ahead from the fourth row, Teddy in her lap. His hair goes dark the moment he sees his godfather on stage and unfortunately decides that now is the time to throw a tantrum to go see him. Teddy's cries echo all through the grounds as Andromeda tries to soothe him, "proper" people tutting from their seats until after a moment, Harry stops reading. 'Just let him come,' he says, quick, into the mic. She sends him a confused look. 'Really, I don't mind.'

So, he finishes reading his speech off the lectern with Teddy balanced proudly at his hip. The little one's eyes grow wide when he notices the size of the audience before them; it's kind of funny. 'As I was saying,' Harry quips. People laugh. He casts a quick glance at Kingsley; the Minister is beaming. Well, that'll look good in the press, won't it?

Mrs Weasley cries. So does her husband. George gets up mid-ceremony, followed seconds later by Angelina, and never comes back. When they read out the list of the dead, Hermione reads the end of the alphabet, because she is braver than the both of them.

After it all ends, Harry shakes hands. It feels like three hours but it's probably thirty minutes - most guests have been invited to stay for lunch in the Great Hall, the tables magically expanded for the occasion, so they take the opportunity of a few moments to try and get Harry's attention. He stays outside, exchanging a few words, expressing condolences, saying his 'thanks,' his 'Yes, sir's and 'of course, that is a very legitimate opinion you have there, Sir.' Ron and Hermione are by his side, as well as Neville and Kingsley, but also McGonagall, responding to their own levels of unrequited attention, so the whole experience isn't as bad as it could be. They share discreet, amused, sad, or sometimes just odd looks at all these people and frankly, Harry likes the company. He isn't that hungry, and is just glad it's all almost over, frankly.

'We got quite a few donations,' Neville says a few minutes later before bowing out, voice filled with enthusiasm. Harry congratulates him; it is about 12:45, by then, and next to him, Ron is getting hangry. There is still a rather long queue waiting by the time Kingsley starts - gently, but firmly - herding people in. 'Come on, everyone, you can talk to Harry later,' the Minister smiles. 'The poor boy needs to eat.' A couple of middle-aged ladies in front of them chuckle. Touch Harry's shoulder in a way that makes him flinch.

'Of course! Apologies, Minister!' one says. The crowd begrudgingly starts moving.

'Harry, you coming?'

He looks back at the rows of empty, plastic white chairs that stretch out for what feels like miles, not too far away from them. The kind that you stack up, like a wedding or a school assembly. The elves haven't gotten to clearing them out yet, though most of the ones Harry can see are now empty. Kingsley follows his gaze. So does Hermione. Ron opens his mouth.

'We'll meet you later, Harry,' the Minister interrupts, ushering the rest of them in.

It is strange, isn't it, that he feels like he wants to thank Kingsley, that morning?

When Harry sits down, the sun towers over him, slightly angled to the right. West or East, he's never been bloody certain. She is silent; there is a book in her hands. Under his weight, the chair uncomfortably squeaks.

She closes the book, but doesn't look up. Harry glances at the cover, broken spine and bent out of shape. Like it's been drenched in water, then dried again. Love in Salem, the title reads. He wants to ask if it's any good. He wants to ask why he's been feeling her stare against the side of his face from two hundred feet away for almost an hour, now, but he can't fucking find the words for any of it.

'It feels like something's missing, doesn't it?' she finally speaks. She was waiting for him. He realises he hasn't heard the sound of her voice in four months. 'I used to think if we ever were in the same place again, we'd explode,' she adds, smiles to herself. He thinks he is holding his breath. 'But now, we're both just… here, aren't we? Do you think they knew when they decided to have this on the grounds that the Carrows used to make us stand out here in the snow last winter, in our underwear for hours, in this exact spot? The way the wind loops in around the castle, it's always the coldest – spot.'

'Fuck, Gin.'

These are the first words she says to him, that spring. They make him forget all the other words he wanted to say. He looks at the castle, at the stage, at the grass under their feet. Stands. It's a move that must surprise her, because she finally looks up. Their gazes cross. He looks and there's her face, not just the side or a distant glimpse but the whole lot of it, and there is the space of her and the space between them and all of a sudden, it is May. Again.

'I'm getting out of here,' he says.

So: he could talk about all the rest but what he will talk about is them, that day.

They walk down to the lake, sit in the shade of a willow tree. Their old place. It is almost unbelievable that it still exists. Gin sits to his left, maybe three or four feet away, shielded from the sun. He sits closer to the edge of the water; the light is warm against his right forearm. Her legs are crossed, pleated skirt falling over them; he has: one leg down, one leg bent, his right elbow balanced over his right knee. His left palm rests on the grass, balancing his weight. Ginny eyes the castle and he eyes the water next to them.

'Nice speech,' she says.

'Yeah, I didn't write it.'

'I know.' He must look alarmed because she quickly adds: 'No one else noticed. I spoke to Mum, she said it was beautiful. It was just… polished, you know?'

He snorts. 'And, I'm not polished?'

'No.'

That is when he chooses to apologise, that day. For taking so long to write to her in January. Old conversations coming back from the dead; it feels like the one thing he wants to apologise for, these days. 'I didn't know what you were thinking,' she admits and her voice is clear, crisp, and the haze in his brain is gone. 'If you'd changed your mind.' He spends the whole time staring at the freckles on her cheeks. The minimal coat of mascara on her lashes. Her hair, pinned up. She catches his gaze for a second, before looking down at her hands.

Now, though, now he knows what he thinks, he tells her. She looks down at the grass.

'I suppose that was in your last letter, wasn't it?'

So: they are jumping right into it, he thinks. It's fine - they do have things to talk about.

Before responding, he eyes her cautiously. The belt of her skirt, her school shirt tucked in; they feel like them, but from years ago. Like the wizarding world's strange, anachronic take on things. Like they're half in school, still, and half not. Harry sighs, feels trapped in his suit. Shrugs off his jacket, loosens his tie and rolls up his sleeves to his elbows. She smiles until he says. 'Yeah, that letter. That's what I fucking think, Gin.'

She spent the two hours of the ceremony avoiding his gaze, but now her brown eyes are everywhere he looks. The rest of the space around them isn't that interesting, anyway: the view on a castle he'd rather not remember, the lake, the grass. He's been here many times. His gaze trails down her face, the bridge of her nose, the tint in her cheeks and the outline of her mouth, the glossy layer of lip balm she wears that covers slits, left by hours spent playing Quidditch in the cold. He remembers the sweet flutters in his stomach every time he sees her, and how warm her mouth felt pressed against his until, of course, his brain conjures up the image of it wrapped around Amycus Carrow's dick.

He had nightmares about this happening when he saw her. Not being able to take Amycus out of his head. He thought it would suffocate him but instead, he just averts his gaze. After a while, the thought passes, and he's able to look at her again. She's just - her. There. He knows her. Bloody loves her, still.

She must know what he is thinking about, then, because she says: 'Well, I did read that letter again,' she pauses. 'Many times, actually.'

'And?'

She looks straight into his face. 'And,' she starts. Sets her jaw and says nothing else.

They are quiet for a long time. That is something he didn't anticipate - the way the moment they did see each other, they wouldn't even want to talk all the time. That he would feel comfortable in her silence, because that in itself is perhaps an answer. His gaze trails down her blouse and he remembers the scar he saw last summer, the one he now knows Amycus dug with his knife in her stomach. When he looks back up at her face, she is looking at his arm. 'That's new,' she smiles, then.

He must look confused because she laughs (are they in another fucking dimension, he wonders, that they can somehow still laugh?), then obviously points at his forearm. He looks down and - ah, he thinks. With all the numbing charms he's cast, he'd kind of forgotten about it. Harry shifts, bends the underside of his arm towards her. Her gaze trails over the fine, dark, inked lines for a moment. Long stems and delicate, bell-shaped flowers. It's still a bit red. 'That's gorgeous,' she notes. He grins, shifts back to his original spot.

'Yeah, given it's permanent, I did tell them to try not to fuck it up.' She chuckles.

Ginny's gaze finds his. She bites her lip. Her smile fades, a bit. 'He had the snake there,' she says.

'Yeah.'

He wanted flowers where they had death. He wanted life to grow.

Ginny is silent again. It feels like a full minute. She does that now, and perhaps he needs it, too. They watch an owl zoom in and turn around Ravenclaw Tower, disappear from view. 'I meant to say I followed your advice,' she adds. 'I've six Quidditch trials lined up.' He smiles. Can't wait for her to be a star. 'I even convinced McGonagall to let me go.' She looks down. 'Doesn't like me out of the castle much these days, you know?'

He smiles. Had wondered about that, actually. Had a feeling she wasn't telling him - everything. Not big lies, just - about her day-to-day. All of her sneaking around can't have gone completely unnoticed.

'I feel like this term, I've spent more time in detention or outside the castle than in class,' she adds.

The sun has turned since they first sat down; it now very slightly grazes her hair. Harry imagines foreign hands in it. Foreign hands on her body and the way she would wake up in the middle of the night, not knowing where she was. He opens his mouth -

'I fucking hate it here,' she speaks again, before he can. He looks up at her, watches her eyes shut against her own words. 'He's in there, everywhere,' she explains. 'And, everyone wants me in there, too. Mum, McGonagall, Bill - you. They want me inside but inside I can't breathe.' She pauses. 'And, I know you get it now 'cause you can't either. I saw you earlier.'

His mouth falls open. It all clicks. 'Shit, Gin,' he starts, quick. 'You didn't have to go back, you could have-'

She shakes her head, like it's fine, actually. It's all fucking fine. '-I wanted to play, I-'

'-Gin, you were raped.'

He holds her gaze. She glares daggers at him. Time stills. For a moment, he wonders if she'll leave. Again, he's not sure he would mind if she did. It is what it is.

'I'm not going to take it back,' he says. Catches the daggers and pockets them. 'He almost killed you. I should have said it from the start, actually.'

She closes her eyes. Shakes her head when she opens them again. 'Yeah, almost,' she counters. 'He didn't do this to me, Harry. I did it with him. I can agree that it's complicated, but I don't-'

His jaw is set. All things considered, he might be the one who leaves, actually. 'You know what, Gin? I'm fucking sick of you pretending you can just change the facts at will.'

She rolls her eyes. 'You think I'm this weak, small, defenceless, little -'

'-No. I think you're the strongest person I've ever met.'

Well, at least he's got her attention with that, he can tell. She looks so stunned she doesn't know what else to say and the fire in her eyes has died, he notices, like a cold bucket of water was thrown onto it.

'I think he raped you, and you went back for him to do it again. For weeks. And, I think we'd both be dead if you hadn't. That's what I think.'

She studies him, then. Her look narrows on the features of his face; he doesn't move. He feels the Scottish breeze on his arm and sees it caressing her hair. She speaks again, smiling to herself. 'You think that's hot,' she says. He expected anything but that, to be honest. 'You think -'

'Don't you fucking dare,' he snaps. She looks surprised but he is pointing a finger at her, now, and his temper is there, simmering in his voice - she doesn't move. The fire must have transferred to his gaze. 'For the record, yeah,' he adds, then. 'I've always been attracted to the fact that you're the bravest fucking person I know, I don't think that's a secret.' Amongst many other things - it's all coming back to him, now, he thinks. 'But don't you fucking dare make this,' he points at the space between them. 'About that. Because it's got nothing to do with that.'

After a moment, surprisingly, she nods. Doesn't apologise, but there's something like it in her look. She turns back towards the castle. In the very far distance, Harry thinks he can see a couple of elves clearing out the stage. 'I hate May,' Ginny suddenly says. 'And, I hate this fucking memorial, and I hate Fred not being here.' Harry feels a weight in his chest. 'I hate how sometimes Tom is still in my head, and I hate him.'

And, finally, Harry hears her voice break. Just - on that last word: him. Suddenly, Ginny inhales and the defiance she previously held seems to falter. It is no longer strong enough for her to hide behind it. When he glances down at her hands, they are shaking, and - 'I hate me, sometimes,' she whispers. She speaks so low he barely hears her. 'I hate the war and I hate this hole, in me, like no matter what I fill it with it's still there and - and I hate this fucking castle,' she says. 'And, I hate crying.' She breathes, sniffles, aggressively wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. 'Especially in front of you.'

He looks at her. 'Do you hate me, too, Gin?'

'No.'

'Well, then.'

He shifts his weight. Turns to extend his left hand out to her, palm up. Ginny seems to think about it for a second before she takes it, warm, clammy; he squeezes hard and she squeezes back, pressing their skins together. The whole time, he refuses to take his eyes off her, no matter how many times she looks away. Go on, then, he thinks. Cry me a fucking river. I'm not moving. He cried in her arms after Giulia died and she is crying now, holding his hand and there has always been something physical, something tangible and solid, between the two of them.

It's a long time before she pulls away. When she can breathe again. Harry leans back. She smiles, shy, furtive. He says: 'I found out how he died, by the way.'

Mia said there are things that are better left unsaid, in life, so he wasn't sure Ginny would want to know. But, she nods when he asks so that morning, Harry hands her the whole story. She listens, doesn't say much but sighs like exhaustion at the end of it. Tells him: she never expected to ever feel compassion for Pansy Parkinson ('I know, right?' he smiles and ponders over how strange it is, how much easier it is for her to see the abuse, when it's directed at someone else). Ginny says she isn't surprised. That there were always rumours; it was what she banked on in the first place, when she suggested -

He tells her about Hannah as well. And, finally, about Kingsley. 'They'll mail you the immunity agreement Monday.'

The truth is: he feels so much anguish about the whole thing that he expected to see the same disappointment on her face, the way he is disappointed in himself. The guilt he feels for putting her welfare before everyone else's; he tries to defend it. 'I didn't just do it for you,' he adds, then. 'I mean your mum and dad, after Fred, I -' Ginny's look is hard, set, but her mouth is shut. She just opens it to ask: 'What will happen to Alecto?' and Harry looks away. Can't force the words out.

'Hey,' she says. He feels her hand against his again. Her fingers are soft, her nails painted red with gold glitter. She is reaching to touch him, trailing up the inside of his wrist, the bottom of his new tattoo. He bites his lip and just wants to stare out at the lake and the castle but she moves her face and doesn't let him. 'Don't do that. Don't hate yourself for impossible decisions you've had to make.'

He wants to laugh. Like you don't. She must read it on his face because she gives a half smile, showing just a hint of teeth, like she's only barely conceding a hard-earned point. Harry sighs. 'I just didn't grow up thinking I was gonna be that guy.' He shrugs. 'I don't like him very much.'

Ginny nods. Her grip on his skin is strong, her thumb over his pulse point. 'Well, I do,' she says. Harry chuckles, quick and quiet, in the back of his throat. 'Don't laugh,' she smiles. 'It's true. He's -' she pauses for a second, looking for words. She is looking straight into his eyes. 'Complicated,' she concedes. 'Kinda like me. I think I'm still desperately in love with him, actually.'

Well, he really wants to laugh, now. Like: what the fuck? Like - he can't stop the words before they make it past his lips. 'That why you fucked half the wizarding world in the past six months?'

She pulls back. Her fingers leave his skin and he feels like she's somehow just peeled it off. She gives him a look, jaw tense. 'You have a girlfriend -'

'Ah, don't give me that. I've never written to you at three in the morning, crying because I don't know where I woke up. You don't know what being on the receiving end of that feels like.' She opens her mouth, but he doesn't let her speak. Is kind of done with this. 'I get that you don't want to stay in the castle, but I don't think this is making you happy either, Ginny.' And, he wants her to be happy, genuinely. 'You're using sex like a weapon, but it doesn't have to be this… thing that you use to punish yourself. It wasn't for us,' he insists. 'And, it's fucked up,' he emphasises, his index finger pointing at her, then at the castle. 'That he made you think that.'

They don't talk - for maybe a minute, after that. It feels like a long time. He wonders if she will leave, or cry, but again, he doesn't regret the things he's said. It's true. Perhaps she knows it, deep down, because she stays. Just closes her eyes, swallows heavily. He tears his gaze away from her, focuses on the lapping of the lake, on the song of the birds above their heads. They should probably go back soon, he thinks, people will start wondering where they are.

'-Mia said that too,' he adds, when she reopens her eyes and crosses his look again. He doesn't give her more explanations, but she doesn't need any. What is he going to say, anyway? We had a fight, then she told me she loved me. 'She wants me to come to Paris with her,' he adds. Ginny does look up, quick, at that. 'I honestly think I might.' The idea of getting lost somewhere no one knows him is appealing, he adds, still. He knows she'll be okay, eventually, and there's nothing else holding him back, here.

Ginny nods, smiles to herself. There's something like a challenge in her gaze. 'You know that gives me six weeks to change your mind, right?'

He bursts out one loud, genuine laugh.

It is later that day, after they've gone back to the Great Hall and pretended to eat that Fleur is taken to St Mungo's to have the baby. It is born with ten fingers, ten toes, blond hair and blue eyes, and they name her Victoire.

Some twenty years later, Alecto Carrow dies in jail. She hasn't recognised the sound of her own name in over two decades.