Castles

by pebblysand

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

17. out of ink (predictions)

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xvii. out of ink (predictions)

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There is a chunk of time between the autumn of '99 and the autumn of 2000. It's not like nothing happens, not exactly, but it's like: they live - just that. Come back from the US like an anchor in the sand. They stop drifting. He stops drifting. Starts to understand what it is all supposed to feel like, once you're no longer worried about simply surviving.

Sunday afternoons at the cinema. Picnics in the park on summer evenings. Pints at the pub. Weekend trips to the Lake District. Plans - loads of them. Like: 'Oh, we could go to Italy, next summer,' and 'We should do at least one trip, once a year.' Like it's not weird: the fact that there will be more years. The weekly shopping. Ginny in the place he lives in. Ginny and her papers and her quills and her trainers and the way she laughs at books, sometimes. Time at Grimmauld spent with people, friends around the fireplace and board games in November, December, when the nights get longer. Turning twenty - can you believe that? He turns twenty. It's almost funny, absurd - almost. Making decisions and figuring out what they want. Smiling, most days.

They move in together early November. After a messy month at Grimmauld - too many people in one place, as far as Harry's concerned. Hermione carefully watches them interact like she is gauging whether or not they are about to explode, and Ron barges into Sirius's room at every opportunity, pretending to be looking for Harry, to have forgot something, anything other than admitting it slightly weirds him out that his best mate and his sister are - well, you know. 'Oh my God,' Ginny tells him. 'You are so embarrassing.'

That afternoon, she and Harry are in the midst of a very competitive game of chess, board slightly tilted against the sheets. Ron inspects the room - the bed is made, their clothes are on - he appears to be both reassured and somewhat disappointed at the same time, which is a difficult look to pull off. 'What? I just wanted to see if I could borrow Harry's -'

A pillow flung across the room. 'MERLIN, RON, GET OUT!'

('I know they're -' he apparently tells Hermione, later. 'It's just odd they're doing it here.'

'Ron, it's Harry's house.'

It's better once they get the apartment, really.)

They try Diagon Alley - they really do. But: people there either shy away from Harry's fame or lean into it in a way that makes him feel uncomfortable. An old man whose flat they view goes and tells the press about their visit the moment they leave, saying: 'Of course, I would never charge them anything! After everything he's done for us. Such a great lad.' Ginny laughs and says: 'They really only give free shit to the rich, don't they?'

She's not entirely wrong.

She takes control of their finances, that autumn. It is a thing that happens, a thing that Harry hadn't necessarily anticipated, not with Ron and his awkwardness around money, but he supposes different people react in different ways. That October, she is attempting to draw up a budget for their rent and shared expenses, when she inadvertently discovers that Harry has about seven million pounds just 'lying around' in the same current account Bill confunded the bank into hastily opening, the day after the battle. Apparently, the mere idea that he's not invested that money is a crime - she claims he's losing cash with every minute that passes because of inflation. So is the fact that, between May '98 and now, he's (allegedly, per her calculations), spent around 'TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND POUNDS!' on, well - nice shiny things like pints and video games, basically.

They still haven't moved out of Grimmauld by then and Ginny sits on their bed and looks at him dumbfounded, shaking her head to herself like she's trying - trying very hard - to look serious and stern. She is surrounded by Muggle bank statements and booklets. 'Do you genuinely think money grows on trees?' she laughs.

He tries to defend himself. Tries. He supposes he did go a little bit overboard. He wasn't really checking the balance, like, ever. 'Well, some of it went to the house,' he argues. 'And C.A.S.H.C.O.W.' (And Mia).

Ginny shakes her head again. Throws him an incredulous look. 'Harry, I'm C.A.S.H.C.O.W.'s treasurer,' she reminds him. That fact had somehow slipped his mind. She also flungs a pillow in his face. 'We definitely don't have two hundred thousand pounds in our bank account!'

As a result, she drags him in to meet with the bank the next day. Commiserates with the bloke behind the desk (who is seemingly very happy to see Harry, given the "portfolio") in what sounds like literal Chinese for two hours. They leave the place with a joint account for their expenses, three investment accounts in his name, a life insurance policy and a Visa platinum of some kind. Harry can't help but think it's really fucking hot when she knows things he has no clue about, especially since she not only seems to speak fluent Banking, but also Muggle Banking.

She smiles. 'Well, part of it was C.A.S.H.C.O.W.,' she admits. 'We had to open a Muggle account because the goblins were a nightmare to deal with, so I reckon I got curious. Plus, I don't know,' she shrugs. 'It's true Dad never made much money. But I also think Gringotts fucked them over with fees and interest rates their whole lives. Bill knows it too, but he says it's just the way it is. Might be the way it is, but I don't think it's the way it should be.' She pauses, looks at Harry. They are walking down the street now, a black cab rushes past them. 'The boys - they're scared of money 'cause of the way we grew up. But, if you don't look into it, they fuck you over. I don't wanna get fucked over.'

It shouldn't be a surprise that Ginny Weasly doesn't like people taking advantage of her anymore.

So: by the time Harry signs all the paperwork, that week, he also gives her full power over his accounts. She's not authoritative, but she draws up budgets for the two of them and tells him how much is "reasonable" to spend on things. The banker strongly advises him against it - 'you're not even married,' - but Harry reckons that if she runs away with the cash, one day, she'll have earnt it. And: maybe, they're just not a super traditional couple. She handles the money and he does the cooking. It works for them, though.

Finding a flat in Muggle London takes a bit longer. The market's ridiculous. And: while they both have Muggle bank accounts, now - on paper, Harry's employed by the Ministry of the Agriculture, and she by Harpies, Ltd - letting agencies are asking for photo IDs. It takes the Muggle Papers Office at the Ministry (yes, there is a department for that, believe it or not) a few weeks to come up with one, creating Ginny's entire Muggle existence from scratch. They wait. They're patient. It doesn't really matter. That year, Harry visits his parents' graves at the end of October; the air is crisp and he lays down flowers but doesn't wish he could crawl in. He almost feels guilty about it.

They land on a one-bedroom flat in a new build in Clerkenwell. The kind of place where every apartment looks the same - Ginny jokes it's where divorced fathers go after their wives kick them out of the house. Harry chuckles but he wanted something reasonably close to Grimmauld, a lift, and no mould - please - so they had to compromise on charm, he supposes. They split the rent 60/40 because he's rich, and the one with expensive tastes.

It has a spacious living room. Carpeted flooring and a small, open kitchen with terracotta-style tiles, separated from the sitting room by a half-wall. Ginny's always leaning against it in the mornings like it's a breakfast bar, sipping her tea and looking out at the neighbours across the street, eating Tesco blackberries straight out of the box. She is fascinated with the way Muggles live, asks him to explain everything on the telly.

They have a small balcony attached to their bedroom, south-facing - she reads in the sun and he smokes cigarettes. When they get the keys, the flat is barely furnished - they repurpose some of the stuff from his old place: the bookcase Hermione made him buy, the Nintendo and the floor lamp and whatever food was left in the cupboards. Two big cardboard boxes they look at in silence for a moment, then decide to shove at the bottom of the closet. Ginny decorates with string lights, photos and postcards from America. An old poster that George gives her. 'I can't believe you kept that,' Harry tells him, and bursts out a laugh.

'Oh, we've several,' George grins. 'They stuck them on the walls after they burned everything down. One of them's framed behind the till. Consider it the Ministry's housewarming gift, from me, to you.'

It's one of those Wanted posters from the war. His face in black and white and ten thousand Galleons. He's not sure why but the idea of it decorating the joke shop makes him smile even more.

They get home and Ginny frames it, too, hangs it up in the hallway. 'To scare off the burglars,' she says.

They do couple-y things. Row about stupid things. Ginny always leaves her Quidditch bag in the hallway instead of putting it away, Harry falls over it whenever he comes back from a night shift. When he complains, she counters with the fact that he leaves his glasses on the floor when he catches an afternoon kip on the couch. She stepped on them once and got a shard of glass the size of a sickle in her foot. He also never closes the doors of the cupboards after he goes in to fish out biscuits, never wipes down the glass of the shower after he gets out (little white chalky residue - everywhere ), and never waters that poor ficus Neville gave them, no matter how many times she tells him to. It is Sunday morning and a rare ray of sunshine is making its way into their bedroom, braving past the winter clouds. He is starting to dose off, head resting on her stomach. Her fingers are in his hair. 'The question is,' she says. He hears a smile in her words. 'Are we going to be the kind of people who argue about these things?'

He smirks. 'Hm, is that something we just decide on?'

'I mean, I could be persuaded,' she adds, matter-of-fact. Their looks cross. 'If there's angry, make-up sex involved.'

He bursts out a laugh.

The sex has been - good. Since Grand Canyon - since they got back. Harry will smile - shyly - if you ask him. (Unless you're Ron, of course, in which case, he'll say and do nothing and get the hell out of the conversation - right now ). But: sure, they've been - practising. Quite a bit. Honestly? It's hot and kind of a lot and these days, he is almost always late for work. He tells himself they should probably reign it in, be more careful, but then she is there and beautiful and in his bed and he'd be fucking mental to say no when she slides her hand up his thigh at seven thirty in the morning, cocking an eyebrow and asking: 'Do you wanna -'

There is a level of comfort with it - with Ginny - that he's never felt before. They talk about it. They talk during it. Harry hadn't quite anticipated it, and maybe they're overcompensating for a summer when they fucked and almost never said a word to each other, but they've got this thing going, now. Like: 'Hey, tell me: does that feel good?' and 'What do you want me to do, exactly? Describe it to me.' It should be awkward, but it's sexy in ways he'd never have imagined. Ginny talks dirty to him, whispers in his ear 'Can I?', and it turns him on like - fuck. His fantasies are not particularly wild, but he feels like he can just tell her stuff, these days, and she'll never judge. Not after everything else they've talked about. It's almost like the letters they used to send to each other last spring - but better. She used to write porn to him, remember? And: sure, sometimes, he'll blush a bit, admitting to things she does in his dreams, but then it makes her smile, her lips to his neck, and - well.

With his mouth, he's mapped out pretty much every inch of her body. He likes the curve of her hip and the way her back arches at the touch of his tongue, and when her moans sound like his name. He likes it when she's loud, like she doesn't care who might hear. When she reminds him that she loves him, says it against his lips. When she tells him what to do, too. She's never pushy, but: 'touch,' and, 'suck,' and, 'here,' and, ' yes, Merlin, Harry, I'm gonna -'

She does things to him that frankly, he only thought were possible in his head. 'Shh, don't touch - close your eyes,' she whispers, playful, pushing his hand away. Her mouth trails - so fucking slow - down his chest; when she takes him into her mouth these days, he's not only forgot about Amycus, he's also forgot his own fucking name.

She likes to tease. Bring him right up to the edge, then back a notch. It's kind of infuriating ('Fuck, Gin, please - ' he begs, like - yes ) but also: his orgasms have never felt like this before. Maybe it's just because it's her (or because he's in love with her) but also it wasn't like that, last year. They have this - understanding, now. It's okay to say things. 'I don't like it when I can't see you,' she confesses, one day.

He crosses her gaze and just says: 'Okay.'

Ginny likes to be in control, he's noticed. Likes to be in a position where she can set a rhythm, take the initiative. He thinks it doesn't take a Muggle Masters in psychology to understand why that is, but it suits him fine. Everyone always expects him to have opinions on things, know about and comment on everything; it's nice to take her lead, like this.

Intimacy isn't just the sex though. Whenever they're together, they're always touching. Like: his hand in hers on the way to the park. Like: her smile against his neck when she laughs so hard she hides her face. When they sleep, he has his chin against her shoulder and his arm over her chest or she is laying on her stomach, half-sprawled over him, her bare leg tucked between his.

After sex, they just stay there, chatting, laughing, doing it again, for whole weekends. Mia used to wear large t-shirts to bed, pulled them on quickly when she got up afterwards for a wee. Ginny is warm and sweaty and after-sex clammy skin pressed to his. Whispers: 'Don't move,' and so he doesn't. Doesn't get to throw clothes back on either. She lays to his right side, her head on his chest, and trails a finger along the lines of the spider's web of white scars above his heart. Sometimes, she counts his ribs, her touch tracing the dragon at his side. It's broad daylight in the bedroom of their new flat and he tries not to tense, not to feel so bloody naked and vulnerable under her gaze.

She smiles. Reads him like an open book, sometimes. A warm sort of whisper: 'You're self-conscious,' she observes.

He shrugs. Doesn't really try to deny it. Looks out the window, then back at her. His eyes follow the curve of her hip, her right leg bent over his. 'You're not?' he asks.

She laughs, shakes her head. He feels her breaths against his neck. 'Oh, I am,' she admits. 'Not with you, though.' She inhales, exhales. 'You feel safe.'

It's not that, he wants to explain. 'I just -' He's not actually sure how to explain. He's never told anyone else. It's not like he'd ever talk to Ron or Hermione about it. Ron would wound up feeling inadequate himself, and Hermione would say something like, 'Oh, Harry. You shouldn't feel like that.' He knows them both - loves them both - but they're not always the answer. 'I just didn't always look like this,' he admits.

It's stupid. He knows it's stupid. And, it's probably not very manly either, maybe he shouldn't even be saying this. 'Saying what?' she mutters. Her voice is delicate, crystal-like, brown gaze on his and he feels shy in ways he hasn't felt in a long time.

He used to be the small, scrawny kid everyone in school made fun of, is all. The one Dudley and his mates tried to drown down the toilet for a laugh. The one with the big scar and the out-of-control hair who slept under the stairs. Now, everyone jokes about how much time he spends in the gym and the press that calls him 'tall, dark and handsome,' whether or not he'll make it to the top of their Hottest Wizards Alive list. Rationally, he knows he's got nothing to worry about. If he ever took his shirt off in public, he's pretty sure they'd even call the scars 'badass' - something along those lines. And yet, in his head, he'll probably always be that awkward, lousy, malnourished kid no one ever paid attention to. 'I didn't start jogging and going to the gym because I wanted to look good,' he sighs. 'I just didn't sleep.'

The words file out of his mouth, that afternoon. He'd never admit this to anyone else, but it's not that hard, saying it to her. Rain starts to fall against their window, the rest of the world chopped up by little clear drops; she listens and never stops tracing patterns against his heart. 'Sometimes, I look in the mirror and it didn't feel like me.' Sometimes, he'd just like for the scars to fade so that he doesn't have to think of Tom or Umbridge every goddamn day. 'Then, I feel fucking vain for caring about the way I look.' He died, you know? There should be more important things he worries about.

Ginny kisses the place where his shoulder meets his neck. He feels the touch of her lips, wet, and the cold air drying his skin when she pulls away. 'You're not vain,' she says. There is a smile in her voice; her words are gentle. She shifts as she speaks and her touch reaches out a little further than his heart. His palm rests between his head and the pillow, arm bent up; Ginny slowly traces the soft skin above his armpit to the underside of his bicep. Traces tiny lines of ink.

They got matching tattoos. In California. A decision that surprises probably no one. A bit of a laugh. Ginny decided she wanted a tattoo, but didn't know what she wanted, and then he went with her to the shop and she said something like: 'You should get one too, you know? My name in a pink heart.' Harry put a finger in his mouth and pretended to vomit which made their tattoo artist laugh. 'Or a toilet seat on your bum,' Ginny suggested, then. 'In honour of Fred.' Harry wasn't drunk enough to agree to that, he supposes, so they landed on 36.2679° N, 112.3535° W instead. On the inside of her left wrist. And, there: under his arm.

He wonders if that's what they've been doing this whole time: reclaiming their own skins.

'Also, I was into you before you got hot,' she grins. 'Just so you know.'

It gets easier, being with her, after a while. Being vulnerable around her. Letting her see him the way she's let him see her. She's not the only one with secrets in her closet. 'I reckon Fred and George tried to throw Percy down the loo once,' she pushes, gently. It's a funny story. Harry smiles at it when he looks up to the ceiling. Thinks of stupid, childhood games and the way Molly probably ran upstairs to yell at them at the top of her lungs.

'It wasn't like that,' he speaks.

'I didn't think it was.'

He breathes in. Out. Traces a line down her arm with his fingers. He thinks of things he'd rather not remember. 'Not now,' he whispers.

She smiles, nods. Slowly and quietly moves to sit on top of him, straddling him. She lowers herself down for a kiss, her palms on either side of his face. His hands settle at her hips; he feels the heat of her against his belly again. 'Okay,' she just says. '"Not now," doesn't mean "never," though, yeah?'

He smiles against her lips. Pulls her so close. ''Kay.'

In other news, they came back from America to a wall of press. Tabloids: Harry Spends Two Months in the US - Does He Think He's Better Than Us? and, The Prophet: Does Mr Potter Hate Britain? They landed in London after eight Portkeys and his stomach in shambles, to: late September, ten degrees and a curtain of rain - Harry dropped his bags on the floor at Grimmauld, an overexcited Kreacher running to carry them upstairs ('How was Master's trip?' 'Is Master well?' 'What does Master want to eat?'), took one look at the headlines on the news rack in the hallway, water dripping down the back of his jumper and laughed: 'You know what? Yeah,' he said. 'I do hate Britain. When do we fuck off again?'

In hindsight, Ginny wasn't completely wrong, though. Having the news of their relationship break when they were away did seem to play in their favour - at least a bit. According to Hermione, the rumours and the chatter have died down in the past few weeks, with the end of the summer and the return of more serious topics, like politics. Kingsley's started work and his government has been enjoying something of a grace period since the elections. A chicken-and-egg sort of situation where winning the popular vote makes you somehow more popular.

He's imposed quotas of Muggleborn hires at the Ministry, began a reform of the Department of Mysteries, and confirmed the progress made in the administration of justice during the Death Eater trials (the presence of defence lawyers, mixing the jury pool with Wizengamot officials and members of the public, etc.). It all caused a lot of talk, some of which Harry had already caught sight of back in LA, but generally speaking, it's hard to argue with a bloke who's been doing exactly what he got elected to do. The economy has been doing better, too (at least according to Ron and George and their assessment of the shop's profits), the results of the Blair loan finally beginning to show through. Harry's received his first ever property tax bill in the mail when they were away; he's not particularly ecstatic about it (they're taxing him for Grimmauld and for the house in Godric's Hollow, mind you, as if he was ever going to live there) but well, he supposes they need the money.

Off his own accord, Kreacher has now decided to stop buying some of the gossip tabloids. Harry makes the mistake of asking about it, a couple days after they get back, and is rewarded with having to frantically run around the place trying to snatch sharp objects before Kreacher can go and punish himself with them. It turns out that: 'Kreacher does not like the vile magazines,' he says. 'Kreacher did not want Master to get upset.'

'Oh, Kreacher,' Hermione coos.

Once Harry does manage to get hold of whatever was published over the summer, he comes to the unfortunate conclusion that: yeah, it's still all the same shite. The fact that the rumours seem to have stopped by now is a small comfort, but the weeks that followed that photo in the club in Misty Village were rough. The tabloids finally relented mid-September, not only because of politics but also because some poor singer from a band called A.M.P.L.E. got caught doing potions in the toilets of a pub earlier this month and it's made him and Ginny seem less relevant. Funny how these things happen, isn't it?

Facts! published a handful of paparazzi shots. Them walking around with his hand on the small of her back, back in Chicago. The two of them snogging on a beach in LA, long-lens camera and all. They've put in the budget, Harry's got to give them that. He sighs and rolls his eyes, that night, magazines spread out on the coffee table at Grimmauld. Hermione tells him: 'Well, what did you expect? It was summer, people had nothing to do, and you're both young and good-looking, so-' He knows she doesn't mean it like that, but it still makes him feel like that.

Then, there's also all the Witch Weekly bollocks. They're obviously the worst of the worst - not just them but all their fucking satellite magazines that exist in the ecosystem. They're owned by this large Australian conglomerate which doesn't seem to hold much regard for people's right to privacy. According to them: Ginny is with him for the money. Ginny is with him for the fame. Ginny is young and talented and beautiful, and the rumours just - sell. She is insane, a drug addict, gave him wandrot (?), was hired by Augustus Rockwood to murder him in his sleep and eat his head like some sort of praying mantis. As of recently, she's also been cheating on him with some rando from the Tornados, who's been harassed by paparazzi all through August because he made the unfortunate mistake of going to America for a week around the same time they did - Harry has never met the poor bloke but kind of feels sorry for him. There is an interview of a "comedian" from a wireless show in one of the papers, who makes fantastic jokes like: 'Well, Ginny Weasley is a fairly good Chaser, you know, so loose we know where she hides the Quaffle.'

Harry has - murderous ideations.

He and Ginny fight about it. It is the pit of November, by then, and the situation's had time to simmer, the press falling in and out of love with their obsession with them every few weeks. It's stupid. They just have to get photographed together, or Kingsley to say something about Harry, or for the Harpies to win a game, and it starts up again. They fight about it, and not like the sweet stuff about who left their dirty sock laying around, like: they're both hot-tempered, fuses that ignite, and they bite. 'If you think I care about what a bunch of idiots who read Witch Weekly think of me,' Ginny argues, finger pointing at him in the middle of their living room. Her voice is loud and scathing. 'Maybe we shouldn't even be together. Maybe you don't fucking know me.'

He regrets the words that come out in response, almost instantly. 'Your mother reads Witch Weekly.'

He's not even sure Molly still does. She probably doesn't. It doesn't matter. Ginny stills. Her arms cross over her chest. Quickly, she shakes her head like she didn't even pause. Like his comment didn't land. 'My mum isn't stupid,' she throws back. 'She doesn't think I'm going to kill you and eat your head. Sorry to disappoint.'

He is standing with his back to the window, the metallic, vertical blinds, pooled at the right end of the curtain tracks move with the air when he brings his arms down. He does know her, actually. Counter attacks with something he knows is true but he's still a fucking idiot for saying it. 'You're only telling me to let it go because you think you deserve it,' he snaps.

She glares at him, rage radiating off her face like Dittany fumes; she grabs her Quidditch bag from the hallway and slams the door shut on her way out. He supposes that the difference between January and now is: he knows she'll come back. He's not particularly worried.

That autumn, he tries to deal with it anyway, though - kind of. It's a long story but it starts the day Kreacher gets injured, back in early October. Harry's in work when he receives a Patronus from Justin Finch-Fletchley (ugh) and Apparates to Grimmauld in seconds, running up to the lift and out the Ministry Floo like a complete lunatic. It appears that, whilst attempting to "clean the attic" (code for having the chats with Walburga but sure, at this point, Harry will let that slide), Kreacher caught his foot in the mountains of fan mail that they've all been ignoring for months and piling up upstairs, and fell face down the ladder. He hit his head and passed out for a bit, which is when Harry was called. A bunch of people were already there; he heard the conversations as he walked past the threshold.

'Well, I don't know what happened -'

'He's definitely breathing -'

'Maybe we should call a Healer -'

'Healers don't do elves, I don't think.'

'What'd you call then? A vet?'

'What's a vet?'

'Oh Harry, you're here -'

'Yeah, what the fuck is going on -'

'Maaaster -'

Low and murmured and oh, Jesus Christ - the relief.

Afterwards, Hermione wants his head on a stick. Harry pretends she is overreacting like a bloke who didn't Apparate over in seconds, haunted by images of knives and beaches and some pretty devastating it's-my-fault and not-again thoughts. 'You're acting like you want him to sue me,' he rolls his eyes, annoyed - Hermione's on a worker's injury rant that day and she throws back 'Well, in the Muggle world, he could!'

In the end, Kreacher is fine, of course (finefinefine), but that, combined with the Ginny situation, does motivate Harry to try and sort - something, out. By which he means: he sighs and sinks deep into the sofa at Grimmauld next to Ron while Hermione gesticulates, pacing in front of them, and interrupts her. 'D'you reckon I could hire someone?' he asks.

'To do what?'

'Deal with the mail? I dunno,' he shrugs. 'Maybe the press as well?' Hermione's gaze narrows on his face like she is studying a vial of potion, intrigued as to what it contains. 'For the three of us, I mean,' he continues. 'I'm sure there's people who, like, get paid to do that and stuff?'

He's not trying to get out of dealing with the mail, per se. For the record, he tried to do it himself, once. Opened three envelopes, sometime last autumn, after the fact that everyone in the D.A. had moved into Grimmauld Place leaked in the press. The letters started pouring in here, rather than at the Ministry, and they had to put up extra wards - filter out anything that could potentially endanger human lives.

The first letter he opened contained a child's drawing. It was cute, although Harry wasn't quite sure what to do with it. They hung it up in the kitchen. The second read: you should kill yourself (which, frankly, considering the timing, wasn't quite the extra push he needed), and the third was a bit larger. He ripped open the seal and a pair of red, frilly knickers fell into his lap with a note that said: I wore them just for you. He jumped off the chair like it was full of pixies biting his nuts - after the incident, Seamus didn't stop laughing for, like, days.

About a year later, in October of '99, Hermione listens to Harry speak, frowns and says: 'You know what? That's not a bad idea.'

'Always the tone of surprise,' Ron quips.

They put an ad out in the Prophet. Try to make it sound as inconspicuous as possible. Wanted: Secretary/Assistant for private individuals, part-time, 15h/week. Main tasks: responding to mail, keeping track of private calendars and social commitments, and fulfilling other ad hoc admin requirements as the need arises. Communications background preferred. 12s/hour (possibility to be paid in Muggle currency upon request). 'Won't they know it's us if we say that?' Harry asks. Ron shrugs. 'I dunno. George hired this new girl at the shop, she asked to be paid in pounds. The Galleon's been so up and down, lately, people are saying it's more secure.'

It turns out the job posting is so inconspicuous that they only get five applicants. Two of the CVs have spelling errors which Hermione refuses to entertain. Of the three remaining, two applicants nearly pass out upon realising that the job will imply meeting Harry Potter, so they hire the third one.

Truth be told: she's not exactly the superhero he was hoping for. The one who singlehandedly, with charm and gripe, would make All The Press go away. According to Hermione, for twelve sickles an hour, you don't get superheroes. You get normal people at the start of their careers. And: 'If we offer more, they'll know it's you, it'll become a thing,' she adds, before he can suggest spending more of his I-swear-I-know-money-doesn't-grow-on-trees, seemingly illimited funding. So, they settle on this.

Samira is in her late twenties. Muggleborn, a single mum to two boys with big brown eyes and a hijab who stumbles over her words a bit whenever Harry speaks. 'I just - sorry, it's a bit daunting, meeting you like this. I didn't think -' He tries to make a joke about how other people pass out, sometimes, but then she looks a bit queasy and Hermione sends him a death glare. The point is: her CV's not bad. She trained as a childminder before the war, then 'went Muggle' when Voldemort came back. Many people did that, Harry's recently found out. Saved their lives by withdrawing from the wizarding world before it was too late. 'Well, I got a degree in Communications at the Open University,' she says, professionally. Hermione smiles, encouragingly and Harry notices Samira seems to have calmed down - maybe his joke's also worked, a bit. 'And then, I got divorced, so -'

She can't find anything in the Muggle world. A mix of a lack of experience, racism, and a need for very flexible hours. She smiles, hopeful and awkward. It's hard to juggle childcare. 'Well, of course,' Hermione smiles, warm. Hermione already loves Samira - of course. 'Or, you can always bring them here as well, whatever you prefer.' She looks at Harry; he nods - like he'd ever dare tell anyone off for bringing their kids here - if anything, Kreacher will fucking love it. Samira asks what the expectations for the job are, exactly, and Harry realises maybe he and Hermione should have talked about it before this interview.

'Well, the most urgent thing is the mail,' Hermione says, quickly. 'Then, ultimately, I'd love to have someone who we can rely on for press enquiries, that sort of thing? Maybe write communiqués on our behalf? I mean, I'll review them, but -'

Harry adds, interrupting: 'Also, if you could make them all go away, that'd be fucking great.'

Hermione glares at him again but Samira does laugh - he calls it a win.

She's not the miracle cure he was hoping for, but she's something. She does deal with the mail, even puts a filing system in place, and successfully harasses he and Ron into responding to ten letters a week. She works with Hermione a lot, gradually takes over a number of gruelling Golden Trio admin tasks that had de facto fallen on her shoulders after the war, so perhaps that's a win, too. Whenever there's a rumour, or something he wants said, he goes to her. She writes - stuff. Sometimes the press listens, sometimes they ignore it. She gets better at it, after a few months - gains confidence. Learns that Hermione hates expressing an opinion without a full, written briefing including at least two academic sources, preferably contradicting each other, in hand. She learns that Ron will do anything to preserve Fred's memory, and that he's after meaning, rather than fame. And, she learns that Harry prefers to be left alone, prefers the press to leave him alone, unless he has A Thought About Something, in which case it's hard to shut him up about it.

(Twenty years later, she's also Rose's godmother and Hermione's campaign manager, and she's probably the only one who didn't see that coming.)

In the meantime, Ginny comes back, that night in November. He's not surprised either. It's late, the night is dark; sometimes, he's noticed she just needs to leave, go for a fly or something, to process things. He does the same thing with cigarettes and running. It is one in the morning, maybe two, when she crawls into bed with him. Lays her head on his shoulder with her ear against his chest. He's not sleeping, his eyes have become accustomed to the dark. He can see the vague outline of her face and wishes he had his glasses on to look into her eyes. She takes a while to speak. 'They're saying I'm dosing you with love potions,' she tells him.

Her voice cracks with the words. He waits. She explains that a few weeks before Easter, someone in Hogwarts started to feel like they were losing control. With her. Of her. 'I don't know,' she mutters. 'Now, that you said Alecto knew, I wonder if she might have warned him about me. Told him to stop telling me things, that I might be using it against them, you know? She wasn't as stupid as he was.'

She pauses. 'He became more -' There is no end to the sentence. 'There were a few nights when -'

He didn't even hide it, she explains. Showed her. Would empty a vial of something into a mug of tea, then hand it over to her. 'I drank it,' she mutters. Harry stills. 'Not like I had a choice,' she laughs. Shakes her head to herself. 'I thought it would just hurt,' she sighs. 'It didn't. It'd just knock me out for a few hours. I'd wake up and not remember anything he'd done.'

Harry closes his eyes. Swallows. His grip tightens around her shoulder, pulling her impossibly closer.

She came to, once, she says. 'I don't think he expected it. He was -' she pauses again. There is just their breathing in the quiet. The soft cotton sheets she bought a few weeks ago after they moved in. 'He was inside me,' she adds. Words that she seems to choose. 'On top of me. He had his - hand, wrapped around my throat. I couldn't breathe. I thought - I thought he was going to kill me, you know?' It's the stuff she mostly dreams about, she says. He can't believe he never asked. 'And, I'm trying to push him off and there's just blood everywhere,' she pauses again, says. 'On my hands. And, it's slick and slippery, and I just - I can't get him off, you know?'

Harry's not sure why he asks. Maybe, because he knows the answer, already. 'Whose blood is it?'

'The chickens'.'

Harry inhales and it's like the floor's just collapsed under his feet.

'I-' she whispers. 'I would never -'

'God, Gin,' he murmurs, so quick. 'I know. '

So: they stop fighting, after that. The thing with fuses is that they burn and they explode and then they're done. The energy has been spent. When he kisses her forehead, she smells like broomstick polish and like herself. 'I don't want you to go after them,' she says. 'Not when it's fun for them to write these things. They spend time on it when they don't have much else going on. It's not as bad as it was in the spring. It's tolerable,' she tells him. 'If you attack them, they'll get angry. And, it won't be fun anymore. And, if they get angry, they'll start digging. I don't want them to dig, Harry,' she speaks, quickly. 'Not when there's stuff to find.' Her voice breaks again - it is so very rare that Ginny's voice breaks. 'I don't want them to find out,' she adds in a whisper. 'I never want Mum and Dad to find out.'

'Hey,' he mutters. 'Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.' She breaks into sobs against his shoulder and he hates it when she cries. Not like: he hates it when people cry in general. Like: it does this thing where it twists his stomach and yanks it out and he'd do anything - anything - for her to stop. His fingers stroke her scalp, slow and quiet. 'Okay,' he breathes. 'I won't do anything, I promise.'

Sometimes, they're just eighteen-year-old kids.

So, it's hard and infuriating but he doesn't go to Samira about it.

He jokes, later, in her ear. It shouldn't even be a joke but it is for them; they have a strange sense of humour born out of this. 'Just checking,' he says. 'You're still telling me this was a hundred per cent consensual?' There is a smile and another kiss to her forehead. ''Cause, you do realise that is insane, right?'

She chuckles. A tiny bit. He feels her breaths against his chest again. 'God, will you ever let it go?' she laughs.

'No.'

He'll keep pecking at her like the most stubborn of woodpeckers until he convinces her, he thinks. He hears her giggling. 'Well, will you let it go for tonight, at least?'

He smiles. 'That, yes. '

She kisses him. Her lips taste like the lip balm she wears to play Quidditch in the cold. He kisses her back. They make love. And, it's hard: life. But, it's also easy: like this.

The rest of '99 treats them relatively well, though. The leaves turn golden then turn into wet mush on the pavements, and the air chills with the nights. It is good to be home, too. Ron asks loads of questions about Americans. Hermione lectures them about Muggle healthcare. Luna wonders out loud about beasts Harry's pretty sure never existed and Ginny answers dutifully, making shit up as she goes along. She's been helping her dad at The Quibbler, but is talking about going travelling more, too. It makes Harry smile. Andromeda begs them to space out the mountains of gifts they've brought back for Teddy, for fear that he might suffocate under the attention and Mrs Weasley makes enough food for twenty-five. Mr Weasley frames the plugs. For more money, Samira agrees to watch Teddy. It helps balance Harry's work and his grandmother's new responsibilities at the Wizengamot without relying so much on Molly.

They build a routine, of sorts.

Ginny's parents express a cautious brand of optimism about their burgeoning relationship. Both seem relieved that their daughter appears to be doing better, even if they aren't huge fans of their current living arrangement. Mrs Weasley broaches the topic of marriage inappropriately early and Ginny laughs, declaring that the stress of Hermione's wedding (and Bill's, to be honest) has permanently put her off getting married - ever. The comment doesn't land particularly well with the audience at hand, and: 'You've got to be joking?' Percy also adds, then. Harry is very careful to not look up from his plate.

The thing is: Ginny's not - joking, that is. They talked about it, actually. It's okay. Maybe it's strange that they have talked about it (given that they've only been dating for, like, three months), but Harry supposes they're not good at doing things in order, so: he asked. Not like: he proposed, but like: 'Do you want to get married?' In the abstract, but also, 'to me,' because who else? And, 'I dunno,' Ginny said.

It surprised him. They were cuddled on the couch - their couch - she must have sensed it in the way he held her because she pulled away, turned to look at him, setting her book down on the coffee table. 'I just -' she shrugged. 'I dunno. I used to dream about it, you know?' she smiled. 'Dad walking me down the aisle, the white dress… I'd even dream about getting married to you.' She laughed a bit. He did, too. 'But now, it's like - I just want us to be happy. I don't want the pressure of it all. I mean, we can get married if it matters to you, but -' she paused, shrugged. 'I'm not getting married to please my mother.'

Harry listened. Nodded. Smiled, too. 'Yeah, I dunno,' he admitted. Had never really thought about it, to be honest. Had always assumed it was automatic, like you fall in love and you get married and you have kids. But then again, he'd also always assumed he'd be dead by then, so hadn't really spent much time on it. Ginny sighed, something heavy but understanding. She snuggled back against him, picked up her book again. 'Well, let's just tell each other if we change our minds, alright? Otherwise we can just save money and live in sin.'

Maybe, they'll get married when they're a hundred or something. As a joke, you know?

In the meantime, what matters is: he loves her. She loves him. They become this thing. Harry doesn't have the words for it but in the summer of 2018, Hermione calls it an 'unstoppable force.' 'I was jealous of it. Later, you know?' He sighs and knows and doesn't hold it against her. Didn't even hold it against her back then, to be honest.

He and Ginny say they love each other all the time. When they wake up and before they fall asleep, even when they leave the house in a hurry. It's not automatic - each time, they mean it. Harry just likes the idea of it always being the last thing he said to her. In case he gets hit by a bus or something. You never know.

He is at every of her Harpies' games, that year. Ginny's not even playing yet - she's mostly on reserve - but there is that one time where Therese pulls a muscle and is instructed to sit out the rest of the match; she gets on and scores six goals. After that, Gwenog makes no promises but she tells the press to look out for her, come January. On the way home, Ginny is biting her bottom lip, smile threatening to uncontrollably spill across her cheeks. 'Did you hear that too?!' she asks. He did.

For their first game at the end of October, Harry initially went under the Cloak. He didn't want to distract from the team's performance by showing his face. But then, the press started writing about how their relationship probably wasn't that strong, if he wasn't even showing up to her games, so he reckoned that if they were going to write about something anyway, it might as well be a positive. Gwenog apparently took Ginny's side with their sponsors when the press about her got bad. 'It's sexism, that's all it is,' she said. It allowed Ginny to draw breath and let it pass, again.

She's in training in Holyhead five days a week. Apparates over around nine in the morning, then back to London around six-ish. Sometimes, she stays over at one of the other girls' place, if they grab drinks or something. They get on well, from what Harry can tell, bar a few rivalries that seem to come and go with the seasons, really. Harry had never really thought about it in those terms, but it's been interesting to hear her talk about Quidditch like a job. The admin of it. They have practice but also strategy sessions ahead of games and weekly visits at the team Healer's. Meetings and talks and coaching. Some girls have press, too, although Gwenog has apparently told the board it'd be best to wait, when it came to Gin. Harry thinks she's grateful. There is talk about money and sponsors and merchandising - stuff that would never even have occurred to him.

It's a 'normal' job, too. She has good days (when she gets to play a game) and bad days (when Gwenog makes her throw a Quaffle into a hoop for five hours straight until she almost falls off her broom with exhaustion). She is tough on them. It's her first season as a retired player, Ginny explains - she's coaching, now, and needs to prove herself. 'She said my left throws were "fucking shite,"' Ginny sighs, depleted, that night. She is sitting on their sofa and it is December, her fingers almost froze during practice. Harry sits down next to her, slides her a warm bowl of noodle soup. Her hair is wet; she is wrapped in a blanket. 'Plus, I'm on my period,' she groans. He laughs. She leans into his shoulder; he automatically wraps his arm around her.

'Okay,' he smiles. 'Do you want advice, or do you just want a hug?' He's learnt to ask after he tried to provide Quidditch guidance, once, and she bit back she wasn't asking for his 'fucking opinion.'

This time, she grins. 'Well, you did also say I was shit on my left, Captain, so I think a hug will be fine.'

He laughs, nudges her shoulder. 'That is not what I said. I said you were weaker on your left,' he corrects.

'Oh, piss off,' she hits his arm, giggling.

Her parents and her brothers see her play, too. Not all together but Ron comes to their game against the Cannons (lost by the Cannons, what a surprise) and her parents happen to be at the one she fills in for Therese, along with Percy. Mrs Weasley spends the last hour of the game watching it hidden behind her fingers, terrified that her baby might fall. 'They didn't go that fast in Hogwarts, did they?' she asks, watching Ginny dive down about a hundred and fifty feet at full speed (Harry's still stressed, but he's got used to it - she's good, he knows) and her husband grips the armrests of his chair. They're proud, though, he can tell. 'And, what about you, Harry?' Arthur later asks. (This is after, when they all go to the pub.) 'How are things going with work?'

And, well. Here's the truth: if he's been able to spend this much time enjoying Ginny's - presence, let's say - it's also because Harry has been bored out of his fucking mind, at work. As some sort of payback for fucking off for two months - which: fair, but still - Robards detached him with the Department of Transportation for his second six-month rotation. Per his contract, he had to try out something else after a year on patrol and: 'Well, you weren't here when decisions were being made, were you?'

It turns out that most Ministry employees internal to the Department don't have the investigative powers to hand out fines or make arrests, so there is a small contingent of Aurors providing support where needed. Harry's kind of on-call all the time (in the way that they will call him whenever a situation escalates to a place they can't control), but also actually called in, like, twice a week. The literal wizarding equivalent of a "traffic cop" (they got pulled over once in Illinois, it's a long story) - except that instead of chasing after cars, he's chasing after people Apparating without a licence. A situation deeply ironic considering that he, himself, Apparated without a licence for a good eighteen months, give or take.

He still goes into the office regularly, if only to continue the outreach programme with the Muggles. Currently plays intermediary with one of the superintendents in a Serious Crimes unit at the Met, collects and passes information on Robards' behalf and consults whenever there are suspicions that a crime could be a wizarding one. It's the only really interesting thing he gets to do, these days. Took him a while but he's even become quite good mates with some of the younger lads they selected for the outreach, one of them even invited him to drinks for his birthday. He told Harry to bring the 'missus' - it was a big gathering - and when Ginny got there, one of the other lads from the programme had about a million questions about Quidditch. 'My sister said it was like football in the air,' he said. Ginny dutifully explained while Harry vaguely looked around the room and realised half the blokes were eyeing him with envy; it was stupid but he couldn't help placing his palm on the small of her back like: mine. Anyway, now he's pretty sure that they not only think his girlfriend's hot, but also that she's way cooler than him because she plays 'football in the air' - it's great.

At least, the programme's going well.

Ron somehow landed himself in IntoxSubs. According to him, the head of the department is a useless prick and it's not much better than Transportation. Harry sometimes just misses the lads and the fun at the office, so whenever Ginny has a late practice or drinks with the team, he just kind of stays there hanging out on the Auror floor, trying to engage his brain a little. Dean's managed to wire in a Playstation in the breakroom and Harry's subsequently taken out his general boredom on FIFA '98. Dean is of course unbeatable at that bloody game, though, which doesn't help.

'Oh, well, cheer up, it's only six months!' Arthur says. Harry really fucking hopes so.

Hermione's started work at the Ministry, too. House elves. Everyone's been tiptoeing around the subject. She apparently spent half the summer telling people she'd completely flunked her N.E.W.T.s (which only Ron pretended to believe, so as to provide - well, comfort, Harry imagines). Of course, she hadn't. Got offered literally every job on the planet - Kingsley himself even tried to recruit her as a staffer for his new cabinet - but she chose house elves, instead. When Harry found out, he almost choked on a bit of spinach and turned to Ginny, who looked back at him equally confused, so he stole a glance at Ron himself who mouthed: 'Don't ask.'

'What?' she said. 'It's a worthy cause.'

'Of course.'

It's great, though. The three of them can have lunch at the Ministry canteen again, whenever they are all in the building. Ron complains about his colleagues at IntoxSubs ('Swear to Merlin, what I wouldn't give for one day on Patrol! Even with the drunks -'), Hermione tells him to stop chewing with his mouth open, and Harry just sits there, quietly smiling to himself like he can't believe he's here, with them. Can't believe they're all back together - kind of. People take the long route back to the lifts to subtly stare at the table they've claimed. 'Wait, is that the Golden Trio?'

Harry whispers: 'Christ, is that a thing that people say ?'

'Ah yeah, you were in America too long, mate,' Ron laughs. 'You forgot. '

They later Muffliato everybody within a fifty feet radius while Hermione rants about house elves. It's like the Gryffindor Common Room all over again.

Upon getting back, Harry learns that Ron's schedule has been a point of contention between them, lately. When Hermione was still Hogwarts, he supposes it was easier for his best mate to hide how much of his 'free' time he was spending with George at the shop. Now, Hermione's decided that 1) Ron's being exploited ('He's not even paying you!' she argues - 'He's my brother!') and, 2) that him being away eighty hours a week might not be conducive of the best foundations for their new union. Harry reckons she'd never admit it, but he thinks her early career choices might have been motivated in part by the fact that house elves meant they wouldn't both be working around the clock. Harry thinks she's built a bit of resentment over it, and Ron isn't really helping either. He rolls his eyes at her, often, bickering back and forth like they always do - Harry's exhausted just thinking about it. He fights with Ginny once a quarter, always about the same thing, and that's more than enough, frankly.

'Hey, that's not fair,' Ron says, munching on an undercooked green bean. 'Harry works, too, and he sees Ginny plenty .'

Harry's mouth opens to say - something. He's not sure what and gets interrupted by Hermione, anyway. ' Harry doesn't work two jobs, Ron!'

'George needs help, alright?'

'Er, maybe I should just leave you two alo-'

'No!' they exclaim. The both of them in unison. Then, Hermione, alone: 'We need a witness.' (God and Merlin help him). 'Look, Ron, I know. And, I'm not denying that. I understand. I was there, too,' she insists. 'I'm just saying, he could hire more staff now that the shop's doing better, you could -'

'He doesn't trust anyone else! And, you know, I've actually come up with some ideas, lately, and it's been -'

'Well, leave the bloody Aurors, then! You don't even like it! You're always moaning about it!' she snaps back.

That day, Harry sits. He doesn't move. Doesn't know what on Earth he could even say. She quickly hisses something about having a 'meeting,' and storms off. He then stares at Ron, mouth open like a fish out of water and: what the fuck was that? Ron shrugs, unconvincingly. 'It's fine. She's under a lot of pressure, is all.' He rises from their table shortly after (he's got paperwork to do), and Harry finishes his dry vegetables on his own.

And, now: here's the thing. Harry's not - surprised. Taken aback? Sure. Awkward and not knowing what to do? That, too. But, surprised?

Since they joined the Aurors last year, Ron's been - interested. He likes the job, Harry's pretty sure. He was the first one to sign up for it, actually, weeks before Harry did. And, yes, maybe part of it was the promise of a steady paycheck in a very complicated economy, but it was also important work. Ron liked training. He liked being on the big ops they were initially part of, 'rounding up Death Eaters. Even after what happened with Giulia, he seemed to be engaged, willing to do what it took.

But, since then, well. They did 'round up all the Death Eaters. According to Robards, caught the last one this summer. Now, everyone they spent their teenage years fighting is either dead or in jail. Of course, these people only ever made up Voldemort's inner circle - there are and will always be others committing crimes, either base-follower or even people unaffiliated with the regime, but that particular threat has become less of a concern. Harry missed a big celebration at the office, apparently; Kingsley couldn't stop talking about it in the press for weeks. And, now, they're both at this crossroads again, a bit like the summer of '98, asking what to do next.

Ron likes working with the lads. He liked the fun of patrol, even with the drunks and the stupid shite they had to handle, because it was he and Harry, and Seamus and Dean. Now, though, he's in IntoxSubs and Harry's in Transportation, and it's not as fun as it used to be. Hermione's too blunt but she's not wrong: he's been complaining - a lot. And, he's been tired, lately, hardly has time for pints at the weekends. Harry's tried to talk to him about it but the only thing Ron's been willing to say is that it will all get better, once they're together again, in Major Crimes. Which will happen for their last rotation unless one of them majorly fucks up. And, then, Harry imagines they'll probably stay there. Giulia always said she loved that work, so.

He's been having anxiety about that, too, though, lately. Doesn't even want to formulate the thought but: what if Ron doesn't like it? What if he, himself, doesn't like it? What is he gonna do? Patrol was fun for a year but he supposes he's a bit more ambitious than that, to be honest, and he's not really seen any other department that would really interest him. What if they're both making a mistake, choosing to stick to this career for the rest of their lives? They chose this at a time when they were both sleep-deprived and unable to understand the whirlwind they'd been thrown into. Sometimes, Harry can't help but think Ron never really had any real stake in this. He's never cared where they assigned him. And he didn't get suspended for arguing with Robards because he couldn't cope with the idea of a bad man killing more people.

When the two of them have pints, these days, Harry asks how work is going and the Aurors are never what first comes to Ron's mind. George had a hard time, last year, and Ron filled a vacuum. Kept the shelves stocked and the shop running, even tried out a few products which, granted, might not have been worth the twins' level of brilliance, but still performed quite well, all things considered. He helped George get the loan. And, if Harry himself is worried that this might not be what he wants to do for the rest of his life, he can't imagine Ron feels any different. It's easy for Hermione to be here and ask them to make decisions - she's not dealt with the disillusion that comes with working in an office for over a year.

And, who decided it was a good idea to ask nineteen-year-olds to make decisions that would impact The Rest of Their Lives? Like, sure, Harry literally chose to die at seventeen, but that was different, you know?

Ginny says it doesn't have to be their whole lives. Even if she plays Quidditch to the end of her career, that will inevitably end by the time she's thirty-five, or forty. 'You can change your mind,' she smiles. But, she also asks: 'What else would you like to do, though?' and it ironically is the exact - word for word - same question she asked in May of '98. He still doesn't really have an answer, to be honest. He always thought that if he survived, he'd be an Auror - always.

'You could teach,' she suggests, gently. It seems to be the path Neville will take, too. He's been doing research with Sprout since September. 'You were a good teacher.'

He shakes his head. He liked it, but: 'I can't go back to Hogwarts,' he settles. Neither of them can. That fact became painfully obvious that day at the memorial. He also doesn't see himself moving to abroad, so.

He'd like to be sure but it's hard to be sure and he doesn't enjoy being unsure.

Winter rolls around. Damp in the London air and fairy lights everywhere. That year, Christmas is a quiet affair. Everyone's gone. 'It's gonna be me, you, your parents, and the ghoul,' Harry jokes, one night, but he's not that far off. Charlie's stayed in Romania, wants to use his days off to come see Ginny play in the new year. Hermione's in Australia, without Ron. 'He tries to defend me,' she explains. 'Which is sweet. But not particularly helpful.' Bill, Fleur and Victoire are in France and Andromeda and Teddy, who were supposed to come, cancel last minute. Andromeda's face coughs flames into the Floo, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her hair, usually tied back in a neat braid, now flying wild around her face. 'No, no, no, don't come,' she says. The fire crackles. 'We'll only pass it on to you. No, we're going to stay home, drink warm milk, and watch Bob the Builder, yes, love?' Teddy is crying-cooing in the background. 'Oh, you poor thing. He was running a 38.5-degree fever this morning, but I managed to bring him down.'

'Oh, but well, that's such a shame,' Molly says. 'Are you alright, though?' She is crouched down next to the Floo, worry simmering in her voice. As though she didn't raise seven children who certainly all got ill at the same time. Andromeda coughs and laughs.

'Ah, me, yes,' she smiles, 'I'm made of tougher stuff, dear.'

Molly still borrows the Lovegoods' owl to ship over a potful of chicken broth.

Kingsley's invited. 'Mum's idea,' Ginny whispers to Harry who raises an eyebrow. 'He doesn't have any family to speak of and she's trying to, I don't know, mend bridges or something.' Harry thinks Kingsley is seemingly trying to "mend bridges" too, come to think of it, because he actually shows up, despite an undoubtedly busy schedule. 'Oh, I wouldn't miss your roast for the world, Molly,' he says - Mrs Weasley beams - it's funny how far flattery gets politicians in life, Harry muses.

He and Arthur talk shop at the dinner table, Ministry budgets and reforms; Harry hadn't realised how involved Mr Weasley had become. He listens to their conversation, curious, but for a long time, doesn't chime in. The Ministry seems to have decided to make the strengthening of wizard-muggle relationships the focus of next year. Kingsley won't stop talking about Blair - they seem to have weekly meetings, now, on the way to becoming best mates. Arthur ( Arthur? ) is now the one most preoccupied with the Statute of Secrecy.

'Well, it is an international agreement we signed centuries ago,' Kingsley notes. Smiles a campaign kind of smile. 'But, I feel like we, in the United Kingdom, are in a very unique position. Due to our History, and more than anywhere else, we need to foster those relationships. We never did that, after the First War, and look where that led us. I've been paying a lot more attention to Muggle politics, recently, of course, and I think they've accomplished truly admirable things, building with the European Union for example. Making countries who were at war for centuries so interdependent, through culture and the economy, that there wouldn't be any point to war, anymore. Isn't that an inspiring thought?' He pauses for a sip of wine. 'We need to make sure wizards and Muggles understand each other. Respect each other. I would never want to do away with the Statute of Secrecy entirely but surely, more transparency at government level can't hurt, can it?'

Harry finally opens his mouth. He can't fucking stand this. Kingsley has this tendency to speak in paragraphs of political speeches, it gets on his nerves sometimes. 'Why not, though?' he asks. The entire table stares at him. 'Do away with the Statute, I mean?'

It's been weird, these past few months, working with Muggles so much. Harry's been surprised at how many of them actually know about magic. It's far from being a majority, of course, but after spending years being told that casting a single spell in public would land him in jail, seeing the reality is strikingly different. It might not be a majority, but it is a critical mass, surely. And, the more he's thought about it, the more it made sense. Hundreds of Muggleborns transit through Wizarding schools across the globe. Most wizarding villages are mixed with Muggle population, and of these people would meet, marry, and have kids. Just taking himself as an example: his Mum's parents knew. So did Petunia, and her husband, and their son. Out of his small gryffindor dorm, only Ron and Neville could be counted as having no Muggle "impact" to speak of. A minority out of the five of them.

And, what about Seamus's and Dean's families? Aunts and uncles as well, maybe? Where does the circle end? What about ex-partners? Grand-parents? Harry told Mia about it and in hindsight, he can't have been the only person to ever tell someone he was in a serious relationship with. Humans break rules (or else, he wouldn't have a job to speak of). To him, it sounds more and more like one of those laws that are completely unenforceable. One bloke from the Met he spoke to a few days ago even said, 'Ah, yeah, my ex-wife's sister was one, too.' If that's not a tenuous link. Enforcement of the Statute is mostly based on something going wrong and the Ministry becoming aware. But, what about all the shite they're not aware of?

'Oh, Harry here is an agent of chaos,' Kingsley (and everyone else around the table) laughs.

Christmas is nice, though. It falls on a Saturday; Harry has volunteered to cover a patrol shift in the evening, but it's great to have the rest of the day with the Weasleys. Before they even make it to the Burrow, he and Ginny wake up around nine and laze about in bed, in the lull of slow touches and kisses. 'Merry Christmas,' she whispers against his lips, and Harry smiles to the scent of her hair, watching the rain fall out the window. The London skies are a cushion of low, white clouds, that morning, and he wonders what the weather will be like in the west.

'Merry Christmas to you, too.'

Ginny smiles. She is warm under the covers and so pretty. 'You know what's odd?' she wonders with a smile in her voice and he waits for her to speak again. 'The quiet,' she grins. 'No one's screaming. No one's drumming on kitchen pots at eight o'clock in the morning,' she laughs. 'It's - peaceful. Us and the trickle of rain.'

He smiles like laughter is about to spill out of his mouth, too. 'You like it?'

'Oh, yes.'

It's not just her, though. He is happy to be there, that morning. Grateful for the quietness and the domesticity. The last few days were - a bit shit, to be honest. Nothing to do with work, or with her, just - the fact that the sky was dark when he woke up on the 23rd and he couldn't stop thinking about it. Ginny sighed and ran her thumb over the back of his hand, offered to come with. He shook his head, didn't feel like ruining her day, as well. Kind of wanted to be alone, with his flowers and his frustration and his grief. Laid in bed feeling her bare skin against his side and remembered the way he collapsed in her arms, that night. The blood on his shirt and under his fingernails. 'I'm still so fucking angry,' he admitted, then.

It's not that cared more. About her rather than Tonks, or Remus, or anyone else. It just felt even more unfair. Unfair and mostly, unnecessary. He's turned it around over and over in his head, trying to give it meaning. The war was over. There was no meaning. They should have lived in a peaceful world, filled with boring salads and weddings. That morning at the cemetery, he ran into her brother who looked to the ground and said: 'Our mother hasn't really left the house in a year, you know?'

Harry didn't know what to say.

'I didn't know what to fucking say,' he lets out, the next day. It's not Christmas yet and everything is raw and confused and he hasn't slept. Last year, he was standing outside of The Burrow with Hermione, promising he'd stop the cigarettes. He breathes in, now, and sounds out of breath; Ginny traces the line of his jaw. 'Hey,' she whispers, low. He doesn't know how she knows, to just listen and not insist it wasn't his fault, not try to make him feel better with empty chatter about how they caught the bad guys. He killed one of the bad guys. Avada Kedavra came out of his wand. It didn't make it better, but it didn't make it worse, either.

'Sorry, it's just fucking shit,' he whispers.

She nods: 'I know.'

But: things are better, though. On Christmas Day, they give each other their gifts before heading to her parents' house - Ginny's is big and she doesn't want to drag it back and forth to The Burrow. Harry's seen boxes like these before, has an inkling as to what it might be. 'You didn't have to,' he tells her, grinning from ear to ear and using a severing spell to open the box.

'Hey, you're going to need one,' she smiles. 'If you want to make the Auror team.'

He blushes. It's the latest Nimbus. 'You must have spent a fortune.'

She shakes her head, grinning. 'I just got my first bonus. Let me treat you, for once, alright?' He is working, later tonight, but - 'We can try it out tomorrow, yeah?'

He is relieved that when he gives her his gift, no one else is looking at them. It's a moment. Her fingertip traces the velvet of a rectangular jewellery box. A discreet, golden chair and a garnet stone. Bill found it in Harry's vault when he cleared it out, that May. It came in a small pouch that contained a man's watch, a wallet with a few Galleons and Muggle notes, and the picture of a dark-haired, newborn baby in one of the folds. Keys, gums, two golden bands and a diamond ring. He looks out the window. 'I think it was -'

'Your mum's,' she smiles. He is glad she doesn't say: what they had on them, that day.

He got a nice box for it. Ginny caresses the gold pressed to a white cushion. Harry babbles something about how she doesn't have to wear it, isn't sure if it's creepy, or gauche - he just wanted to give it to her, is all.

She asks for his help closing the clasp behind her neck and never takes it off again.

He knows the Muggles expect a big computer bang but truth be told, there is healing and no chaos as the new Millenium breaks.

Later, Harry starts playing Quidditch again. Beater - it's kind of a story. The Ministry League is - very relaxed, to say the least. There are two Auror teams, one for Patrol, and one for everyone else, and the captain of the Everyone Else team is a bloke who goes by the name of Hawk, and oversees the Hit Wizards as a day job. He is the other Beater on the team, 6'6" and fifteen stones of pure muscle; Harry doesn't dare ask if it's a last name, first name, or some sort of nickname.

He's a pretty chill lad, though, once you get to know him. Mid-forties - a wife, two kids, the job, and Quidditch on the side. There's a tattoo sleeve running up his arm and he jokes that he's a bit of a cliché - 'You know, everyone thinks Hit Wizards are just a bunch of big blokes busting down doors, and here I am, a big bloke who pushing Bludgers in people's faces,' he laughs. 'It's like I'm trying to prove them right, or something,' he pauses, grins as he introduces himself to the group. 'For the record, I would insist we don't just break down doors, we save lives, actually, that's what we do, but the wife's always telling me I need to stop talking about work all the time,' he smirks, 'so I won't bore you with it.'

The pitch is an outdoor one in South London; they have it booked every Tuesday from 6 to 8 pm for practice. Games are at the weekends or on Thursday evenings. There are five other people trying out that day; they advertised a Seeker's position in the breakroom, as well as the Beater one. Harry flies around for about ten minutes and quickly determines he's probably the best flyer of the bunch but also, the standards are pretty low - it's not that hard. Hawk has a decent poker face, though, and tells people they will be 'contacted,' if they make the team; Harry hopes it's a good sign. Hawk invites everyone for a pint at the local, afterwards, as if to make up for his own indecision.

Frankly, not to sound too full of himself, but Harry's pretty confident he's got the role, that night, until Hawk catches up with him on the way to the pub and sighs. 'Look, I don't actually have a Seeker's position to give you,' he says. Harry is - confused. 'I'm hoping it'll become available soon. Look,' Hawk's voice - the conspirational tone and all. 'Larunda's nice but -' he looks ahead, obviously making sure the woman who Harry knows plays Seeker is out of earshot. He'd assumed she was resigning or something. 'Well, you've seen her play,' Hawk sighs. Harry tries to hide a giggle. He… has. 'Don't laugh,' Hawk counters, but he is laughing himself. 'She's that bloke's daughter, you know, the one who runs IntoxSubs? Whatever his name is,' Harry nods. This man seems to be a drag that keeps resurfacing. 'I can't sack her. But,' Hawk's voice lingers on the end of the word. 'She did get married just last summer. I'm hoping she'll get pregnant soon and … gracefully go away,' he adds, cringing. 'I do feel horrible saying that, by the way,' he laughs, 'but you know, at this point, I'll take what I can get. We finished last, last year, just so you know. Don't get your hopes up or anything.'

Harry chuckles, walking next to him.

It'd be good to play again, though, he admits. Hawk nods. It's great: their captain seems to be one of the few people on this planet impermeable to the Harry Potter effect. He's nicer than Robards, too, less scary. They can actually have a conversation and everything. 'Well, we do have that open spot for a Beater, if you want,' he shrugs. Harry laughs.

'I've never played Beater in my life,' he says. The small and scrawny kid he used to be couldn't have. Hawk shrugs. He's got short, salt-and-pepper hair, slightly on the curlier end, a beard and very dark brown eyes that look Harry up and down like: you know what? You'll do.

'Honestly, at this stage, you were the best flyer today,' he adds, 'and that's all I care about. Can't do worse than last year anyway. I'll teach you; it's not that hard.' Hawk pauses, looks at him. 'You take the bat and you swing it hard. Your girlfriend's that new girl at the Harpies, isn't she?' Harry nods, taken aback by the sudden change of subject. 'Fuck, she can play.'

Harry bursts out a laugh. Ginny's been playing - for real - since the start of January. The Harpies have had three games so far, won two and lost one. It's kinda nice, the press has been talking about things she's actually done and accomplished, for once. 'I'm not her,' he clarifies. 'Plus, I haven't really played in two years. Obvious reasons.' Hawk chuckles. 'But sure, yeah, okay,' he shrugs. Really just wants to play.

They get to the pub; Hawk pushes the door open and it is warm inside, full of beer and chatter. He smiles. 'We do have fun, though, I'll give us that.'

Harry grins. 'That's all I need.'

'Then, welcome to the team.'

They do lose a lot of games, that year, but they don't finish last, so that's an improvement. The pints afterwards are always class.

In the spring, his six-month-long detention with the Department of Transportation finally ends. Robards has a smirk on his face when Harry walks in, quill already in hand. 'So, last rotation, eh?' he says. They are being fully sworn in as Aurors in September. It seems wild, the idea that eighteen months have already passed since his first day. Harry waits. He really fucking hopes Major Crimes will be it. He's not idea what he'll do if it's not it.

Robards smiles. 'Gonna be tough, you know? Working again.' Harry looks up to the ceiling. It's not like he's done absolutely nothing these past six months, either. 'Transportation's gonna miss you. They really liked you.'

'I'm sure they did.'

Robards' blue eyes and a playful twinkle. 'Alright then, Major Crimes. Go on. Next!'

Harry works, most of that spring and summer. It's not as much fun as last year, and not as much time spent just pissing about with Ginny as he did in the last six months, but he supposes the holidays had to come to an end, at some point. They still find ways to make time for each other outside of his shifts, and she's got the summer months off, which is always a nice thing. The Harpies don't win the League but they place fourth and that is also better than last year. Samira suggests they attend the British Quidditch Association's Annual Charity Function together, the last weekend of March (something about their image); the press takes their picture on the red carpet and Harry is shocked that they don't say anything bad. He wears a nice suit and Ginny, a form-fitting, deep blue dress and jewellery lent to her by some designer - people say they look in love, like nothing ever happened.

Not for the first time, he can't help but feel that it's all a bit vapid, a bit sirens-and-shite-ish, the way they spent months smearing her in the mud (smearing him, too, right after the war), and now, it's all just - stopped. Like a magic spell except that would be more satisfying, actually, because at least, it would have meant they did something. Instead, it seems that people just got bored of reading shit about them, moved on to something else. Ginny flips the glossy pages after the articles come out; he is smiling in the photo and kissing her cheek - 'We clean up nice,' she smiles, her eyes like: everything's possible if you've got enough nerve. He laughs. In June, her contract is renewed with a decent salary bump and she gets sponsorship money from a brand of trainers that change colours. ' Cool,' Harry says. She giggles.

But: she also gets one of those Quidditch Hopefuls nominations, and honestly, when the news come out, Harry's never felt pride like that, in his life. They call her 'up and coming,' and it makes them laugh - it is summer by then and they sit out on the balcony; he kisses her - she tastes like Prosecco and sweets.

He takes a week off in April. Babysits Teddy while Andromeda is away. It is her first real holiday since the war. She is going to Greece with a friend from school, something about visiting old ruins. He and Ginny play house in their little one-bedroom; Harry is exhausted by the end of it, but it's also infinite amounts of fun. Teddy is two, now, and babbling away (although not everything is always understandable); he likes the noise that Muggle firetrucks make, as well as to pull out all the toys he owns and scatter them around him, just so that he can have them all on display. Harry takes him to see Victoire at Shell Cottage, for a playdate.

When Andromeda comes back, she looks refreshed and slightly tanned; it is hard to describe but to Harry, she almost looks like saltwater personified. Teddy grins and shouts with excitement when he sees her and when they leave the flat, Harry closes the door and collapses on the couch. Doesn't speak for a few minutes. The living room is in shambles, with just - stuff everywhere. Ginny laughs. 'We need to be more careful,' she says.

It takes him a second to clock on to what she's saying. His head drops against her shoulder on the couch.

'I'm fucking serious, Harry,' she laughs. 'I'm going on potions. We are not doing this, ' she points to the living room. 'For another five years. Minimum.'

He chuckles. Teddy's great. But, yeah, that sounds about right. They have time, anyway. They're not going to die tomorrow. 'I thought you didn't like the potions, though?' he frowns like an afterthought. Remembers she said they gave her headaches and mood swings. But, also, he supposes the only time she ever tried them was when she lied to Madam Pomfrey about sleeping with Neville, so.

'Well, it's better than how we forget to do the spell half the time,' she rolls her eyes.

He inexplicably feels the need to defend himself. 'Hey, I pull ou-'

Her incredulous, highly sceptical look stops him from finishing that sentence. She raises an eyebrow. He says nothing. 'Harry, I'm going on potions,' she declares.

Matter closed.

He still goes to all of her games, that spring, now dressed head to toe in Harpies merch because the press talks about it and it makes him laugh. They visit her parents on Sundays and joke around the lunch table with her brothers, play games in the orchard in the afternoons during which she obliterates them all. At home, they watch telly in the evenings; Ginny claims she finds it 'sexy,' when he explains Muggle stuff to her again. 'It's like you're speaking a foreign language or something.' They go on trips - shorter than last summer because he wants to stay in Robards' good books, but still. Three days in Lisbon in early June. A week in Italy in July. They have all these plans about exploring Roman ruins but end up spending the entire time moving between their hotel room and the beach. It's really not that bad.

Major Crimes goes well, too. Or, at least, Harry thinks it goes fine. It's not what he expected. The way most people talked about it, it sounded like this elite team doing all the important, investigation work at the Ministry. And, maybe they are, to a certain extent, but there are a lot of agents, there, and paperwork most days. The cases he and Ron are put on are interesting (and most definitely more engaging than whatever he was doing at the Department of Transportation), but it still feels a bit like they're just cogs in the machine.

Ron's growing frustrated about how much time they spend behind desks and Harry's not far behind him. He's not really ever the one calling the shots, or even deciding what direction an inquiry will take. He knows Giulia would say: 'You've not even been working two years, just fucking relax, will you?' But maybe, that's not in his nature. They work murders and human trafficking, and unforgivable curses and major robberies and it's rewarding, sometimes, when people thank him for catching the bad guys, but he wishes he could do more. He wishes he could prevent some of this stuff from happening in the first place. He became an Auror to save people, not just to put them in jail. And, there's something so fucking irritating about being at the bottom of the ladder, these days.

There is an incident, late April. The air in London is scorching hot for the season; Harry feels like he can't even breathe and Muggle police is all over the place; they're too on edge for his liking. The lads he knows at the Met told him they've been hounded with criticism by the press as of late, something about a young girl who was abused for years up to her death, and everyone, from social services to the police, ignored obvious warnings. Now, some bloke who's lost custody of his kid has entered a school building, brandishing a wand. He demanded the staff surrender his kid to him - the kid wasn't even in the building to begin with (the mother kept him home sick) - the Muggle staff laughed at him. They laughed at him, then decided he was a lunatic, and threatened to call the police. That was until he sent a stunner to one of the women's chest; she flew into a wall and fractured her skull, died on impact. In the panic, he took a couple of counsellors and a handful of kids hostage, threatening that he'd kill everyone if they didn't hand his son back.

Muggle police showed up, as well as the lads from SO19. The resulting rush of adrenaline at the Yard caused David, the Superintendent Harry's mostly been talking to, to ask around and - well, here they all are. Harry spoke to Robards immediately, who decided to bring Hawk's team in with them, as well as he and Ron to liaise with the Muggles. When they arrive, they are presented as an elite tactical team to Muggle law enforcement, which obviously causes SO19 to kick up a fuss. It's a massive headache where Harry has to confund people right, left and centre - he wonders, not for the first time, if it wouldn't just be easier to tell everyone the truth.

Muggle police has been unable to get a visual. The bloke's taken everyone to the basement; there's only one window, and it's unfortunately tinted. He's been hysterically crying to the Muggle negotiator on the phone, and: 'I never wanted this, I just want Jamie, please .' Harry asks Ron to Apparate over to St Mungo's - he doesn't come back with good news. The bloke's been in and out of their psych ward since the end of the war, critically unstable.

That day, Harry reckons that everything that could go wrong, does go wrong. It's just one of those. SO19 get restless, being told to wait for some 'elite team' who say they're better than them, and decide to do their job anyway - who can fault them? Two of their lads try and get closer, with the goal of breaking the window to finally see in; they get blasted out by a white spell that knocks them both out in one go. Their supervisor is enraged, ready to knock down the whole building if he has to; Harry runs to where the Hit Wizards are stationed across the road to let them know. 'They're gonna go in,' he tells Hawk. He already has a terrifying vision of the bloodbath that could result in the fight between a desperate man with a wand and ten Muggle officers with guns pointed at his head.

Hawk is calm, though, Harry notices. Calmer than Robards and the Ministry reps and frankly, most of the Muggle officers around. It's strange - seeing him outside of the Quidditch pitch. Harry had never really thought of him as someone other than the bloke who taught him how to hold a bat.

'Okay,' he says. His words are cool and articulate. He sighs. 'We take him down, then.'

Tinted windows don't prevent Hit Wizards from looking in, it seems.

It's one shot, a hundred-metre distance, approximately. There is a small park adjacent to the property; one of their lads crawls through the high grass and takes it. They have tools the rest of the Auror corps don't have; the man's entire arm is wrapped in a sort of harness. 'It allows you to get a better aim when lying down,' Hawk supplies, when Ron asks. 'It's just a quick flick of the wrist. Rory,' he adds into the wireless. 'You in place?'

When the spell shoots up from the ground, it is the colour of leaves. Ron gasps.

In the car, on the way back to the Ministry, he says to Harry: 'Fuck, remind me to never work for them, will you?'

The Ministry makes it look like a suicide. By this point, Harry's not even surprised. Obliviators come in for the kids and the school personnel. The woman who died did so from a bad fall. It's a tragic accident. Robards takes one look at his face the next day. 'Oh, don't start,' he says. 'I know.'

In his defence, the whole office seems to agree it was a fucking shit show. Hawk himself, even. He doesn't say anything but on Tuesday, at practice Harry notices he's not very focused. He shouts at Larunda the Snitch is 'just fucking there!' - the usual empathy is gone from his voice. With Robards, Harry almost feels bad when he asks: 'Can they just kill people like that?'

It was strange. He can't stop thinking about it. On the one hand, he'd rarely ever seen anyone this calm, during a high-stakes situation. It strangely reminded him of that time when McGonagall's panic steadied him, before the battle of Hogwarts. There was the way Hawk assessed the ground, the tension with Muggle law enforcement, the desperation of someone who was never going to surrender. Yet, it felt cold and detached, not like the funny and chill bloke he's known for months, now. Harry wonders if there could have been another way. If petrifying the man wouldn't have led to the same results, if -

Robards sighs. Shakes his head. 'Hit Wizards can cast Unforgivables more liberally when Muggle lives are at risk. Because then, the Statute's at stake,' he supplies. 'They have different protocols. You know, it's not often ordinary Aurors find themselves in life-or-death situations.' He pauses. 'We do investigations, we interrogate suspects, we get to plan our interventions, our arrests. Sure, sometimes things go wrong, but -' he trails off. Reconsiders. 'For them, they're only called in when the situation's already dire. And, you have to remember, every situation's different. So, yeah, sometimes, it's just - choosing the best of two very bad outcomes,' Robards sighs. 'Hawk's been here twenty years, he's good at his job, Potter. They don't just kill people "like that."'

Harry isn't sure what to say. Isn't sure how to explain that he kind of gets it - because he's been there. But also: he wonders if maybe, there shouldn't be some sort of counter-power, somewhere.

'Would you take the risk?' Robards asks, then. There's something incredulous in his tone. 'With a room full of Muggles? After the man had already killed once?'

Harry sets his jaw. Air escapes between tight lips. 'I don't know.'

'Well,' Robards smirks. 'Hawk's paid so that you don't have to know.'

Harry runs seven miles, that night. Can't stop thinking about something Giulia said, once upon a time.

Later still, May is shit. That's never a surprise. There is a small-scale event at the Ministry; Harry doesn't go. He plans to, of course, but he wakes up with some sort of food poisoning, which might or might not be originating in his brain. Ginny gently crouches next to him by the side of the loo, her hand on his forehead. 'You can't go like this,' she whispers. 'You're burning up.'

He's Harry Potter, he reminds her. He can't not go.

'Yes, you can actually,' she just - tells him. 'People didn't die for you, you know?' He opens his mouth, feels bile at the back of his throat. Swallows. It's hard to argue when he can't even speak without throwing up. She takes advantage of his silence. 'You're not going,' she states. Another decision made, it sounds like. 'I'll speak to Samira, she'll spin something. You know,' she sighs, quick, shaking her head. 'Maybe we don't all always fucking have to go.'

She reappears around lunchtime. A bag of chips and a bottle of Lucozade. Harry's been staring at the walls for the last three hours. 'You've got to eat something,' she says.

'How was it?'

'Well, you know.'

They go for a walk, in the afternoon. Ginny gets ice cream in the park; he still doesn't trust his stomach. She gets one of the Muggle ones on a stick; they sit on a bench. There is sun and a light breeze rustling leaves. 'Feels odd how it was a year ago, doesn't it?' she asks, between two bites of chocolate and almonds cracking under her teeth. 'First time we talked,' she pauses. 'For real, I mean.'

Harry nods. Thinks out loud. His brain's just fucking tired, right now. 'Does that make it our anniversary?' he asks. He doesn't even know what would count. Sixth year or the memorial, or that time they had dinner on the terrace at Grimmauld, or maybe Grand Canyon. She laughs. All he knows is that he loves to hear her laugh on a day like today.

'Merlin,' she smiles. 'I don't know.'

Maybe, they just make it so.

That's the thing, that year. Harry tells himself that not much happens, but it's not entirely true. They get tattoos. They move in together. Watch Ron and Hermione bicker. Listen to and chuckle at George's jokes, sometimes. They laugh and cry and commit. They don't get married. They decide they might have kids - in a bit. They make their anniversary a day that will always be a bit dark, so that they can also make it a bit light. They hire help. They trust each other and don't let the world bring them down, even when it tries. They have fights they resolve. They have all these conversations in bed because they learn to make that space feel safe. Come to think of it: he might only be nineteen, but Harry does like them - those decisions they make.

And, that September, the Auror office at the Ministry wins an agent, and loses one. Surprisingly, Neville joins them. Or, well: Harry's not surprised, actually. During his birthday party at Grimmauld, Neville cornered him, asked what he thought. 'I want to do something that matters, you know?' Harry nodded. He does know more than a little bit about that, at this stage. Neville looked at his shoes. 'You think it's stupid,' he said.

'No, Neville, I don't think it's stupid.'

Bright and hopeful smile. 'Really? '

'Yeah, really.'

On the other hand - well. It's not a surprise either, is it?

'Mate, I just -'

'I know,' Harry says. 'I get it.'

It sucks. It's the first time in years he ever does something without Ron, and it fucking terrifies him. To not know that his best mate will have his back, all the time, to have to trust other people, too. Harry says one thing, that day, but he's not actually sure he gets it. But: maybe that's the point. Different people react in different ways. Ron himself doesn't get why this job, this life, feels to Harry like one of the most important things in this world, even though he doubts, so much, every day. After that incident back in April, it was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to watch and yet, there was nowhere else he would have wanted to be. He's not doing it for Giulia's memory, or for anybody. He's doing because it matters - to him. But, for Ron: 'I just feel like we're either doing paperwork or jumping in front of curses,' he sighs. 'Like there's no in-between.'

Ron's his best friend. And, Harry doesn't understand, but he kind of does, too.

He enters Robards' office, that September in 2000, and he can't believe it's already been two years. Two years since he and Ron started with ghosts in their heads and shaky hands, and now, here they are. Harry stands, in the middle of the Robards' office and its perpetual state of chaos, smiles.

'So,' Robards says. A wet sound escapes his lips. 'You know, when you came in here, I really wasn't sure,' he adds. Harry snorts. Robards used to take the piss in training, he remembers. Still kind of does. He thinks that's what he likes about the man, actually. How he never took him seriously until he was given a reason to. And, then he did. 'Now, you finish second in your intake,' Robards smirks. His stint in Major Crimes has helped, and Justin Finch-Fletchey got in a lot of trouble with Section B, when he started telling everyone he knew he was working for them. 'So, anyway, you've spoken to Weasley? Is there really no way to change his mind?'

'I don't think so,' Harry shakes his head. 'Hermione wants him to stop anyway.'

'Women.' A bit of an eye-roll. 'And, what about you then? You're the only bloke I've ever met whose preferred assignment was patrol.'

Harry laughs. It's true. He liked patrol. He liked the way each day felt stupid and crazy and novel. He liked that they could be called on anything and everything and had to react, right, on the spot. Do the best they could, amidst the imperfections. It was hard and sometimes boring, and sometimes gruesome, but he liked it better than Major Crimes even. He liked that he talked to people every day. Wasn't trapped in an office looking at Floo records for days on end, trying to tie up a robbery investigation bigger than himself. He liked being out in the field more. He liked the stakeouts and ops and the way his heart raced in his chest, sometimes. He misses helping people. He misses the variety. He misses the adrenaline.

'Oh fuck,' Robards suddenly lets out. His gaze narrows. He knows. Harry tries to hide a smile. 'You're gonna take that spot with the Hit Wizards, aren't you?' He says nothing. 'Oh, for fuck's sake, I can see it in your face,' Robards adds. He sighs loud, like a whale finally coming up for breath.

On a whim, in light of current circumstances, Harry decides not bother with the arguments he'd prepared. Hawk likes him. They work well together. His physical's good enough, so's his spell work. The Hit Wizards need someone with a conscience in their ranks. He - clearly - handles stress well. He doesn't have a problem - casting certain spells.

'You know I had a bet with Scquicciarino about that, right?' Robards speaks again. He is chuckling, shaking his head to himself. 'She fucking called it. "Harry wants to save people," she told me. "It's the only department where you get to save people." So, is that it, Potter? You want to "save people"?'

Harry shrugs. He feels heat in his cheeks. But: yeah, maybe. That, and also, he looks at Robards, holds his gaze, says: 'You know I can be Hawk,' he suggests. His voice is steady again, certain. 'In five, ten years. You know I'm the only person in our intake who can make the decisions he makes. And, live with them, too.'

Robards looks him up and down, seems to inspect him for a very long time. Harry doesn't move, just holds. 'You're following a hunch, there, Potter. You didn't even work there.'

'And, you don't have to give it to me,' Harry counters. 'I'm just asking.'

'Hit Wizards like people who can follow orders, you know?'

'I can follow orders if they make sense.'

Robards bursts out a laugh, that morning. Then, he looks at Harry again. The Head Auror would never admit it, but he's the kind of person who follows hunches, too. 'Oh, fuck it,' he says. 'On Scquicciarino's head be it, then. Next!'