Castles

by pebblysand

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

18. out of choice (conditions)

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out of choice (conditions)

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N'oubliez jamais qu'il suffira d'une crise [...]

Simone de Beauvoir

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In 2001, the surprising thing is: Ginny leaves (again). It's (still) not the end of the world.

They've been good. Great, actually - thanks for asking. The end of the honeymoon phase an unexpectedly smooth landing for the two of them. Just a bit more - routine. A bit more focus that they've both had to put on work, a bit more life admin to navigate, a bit less hungry, teenage sex on unlikely flat surfaces. There's been: the lease they renewed on the flat and the cosying up that the autumn of 2000 brought about. The rain and the quiet weekends - mulled wine and cinnamon and hot chocolates. Harry's beloved pumpkin juice, fresh from Molly's garden. The comfort of coming home to Ginny, the certainty that they'll share food and a laugh almost every night. Making love on slow weekend mornings and dark afternoons, tickle wars and the sound of her giggles under the covers. Evenings spent vaguely listening to the Muggle radio; Harry sits on the couch and she on the floor, scribbling long letters to Luna in a notebook set over her bent knees.

Their friend's gone away, that autumn. Travelling. The first in a long series of stops - something about ancient wizarding societies in sub-Saharan Africa. There is talk of them visiting, perhaps in the new year. Ginny smiles whenever she unties envelopes from the legs of increasingly more exotic birds, talks to him about the things she's told: wandless magic and animal gods thousands of years old. Everything in Luna's tales is real, simply by virtue of existing in their heads.

They've been busy, lately. His job, hers, Teddy - it's not like they never have problems. When they do, they still burn quick and bright like fuses in the dark. If one of them yells, the other fucking yells back. Harry doesn't enjoy arguing with her, not particularly, but it's also hard to explain, how there is also a surreal sort of safety in these. They row, but they're not going to split up, you know? Once (just once), things get tense and Harry thinks Ginny actually scares herself. Follows him out onto the balcony, punctuating her words with her wand for a prop pointing at him, a handful of firework-like sparks escaping with hot magical temperament like: 'YOU. DON'T. GET. TO -' and he yanks his wand out of his pocket and aims, without thinking straight. He doesn't say anything and neither does she, but wands drawn: they both freeze. Harry looks down at his hand and immediately put his wand back inside like what the fuck was he doing? But: he's an Auror and he's got reflexes, and -

'No, okay, that was my fault -' she says.

Now, they just have a rule. Whenever things get heated, they lock both their wands inside a drawer, first. It's not that hard. Also, they don't need it all that often, anyway.

Harry's tried to stop the cigarettes again. With - very limited success. Like: he stops for two weeks and then convinces himself he can just have the one, whenever he's feeling stressed. Hermione's still endlessly berating him about it, convinced that Kingsley's actually wrong, that the research is inconclusive at best, that they might kill him like they kill Muggles, just in a really long time. She likes to make those points in front of the whole Weasley clan on Sundays, especially in front of Molly, to make sure he feels real shit about it.

'Well, Harry knows he can't die anyway,' Ginny just says. There is both irony in her voice and a look she gives him that makes him swallow and hold her gaze because: oh, you know. He kind of cringes.

That was - not the wands-raised night, actually. It was earlier, in September, the oh-Harry-decided-to-join-the-Hit-Wizards-without-telling-anyone, how-lovely! era. Perhaps, he should have thought about it more before signing up on a , most people around him weren't all that chuffed with his chosen career. There's being an Auror, apparently, and then there's this. When the words came out of his mouth, that autumn, Molly, Arthur and Kingsley all looked at him like he'd just randomly announced he was quite keen on chopping his own head off. 'Oh, but Harry dear, that is a very difficult position, indeed.' He reckons Kingsley's already making political calculations as to what would happen in the event of his untimely death, undoubtedly already wondering whether he could maybe talk Robards into reversing his decision.

With Ron and Hermione, at the pub a couple days after he officially started with the new job, the former almost came back on his decision to leave the Aurors on the spot, a who's-going-to-keep-you-from-getting-killed? kind of panic that made Harry tell Ron he'd explicitly asked to be reminded never to join the Hit Wizards. Hermione just sort of looked at him with utmost annoyance and contempt in her gaze and said something like: 'Why must you always pick the most dangerous option available?'

'I like a quiet life, you know me.'

With Ginny, they didn't fight, actually. Though: he did come home from that meeting with Robards with his tail between his legs, thinking that they might, so he took her out to her favourite Indian place that night in the hopes that the public setting might make her think twice. She laughed, just said: 'Okay.'

He stared. It was easier (always easier) with her because he didn't need to explain. Why he'd chosen this, why he thought it important, the only thing he could and should be doing with his life, actually. She already knew all that. Back to front.

He frowned, nervously pushing pilau rice around. 'Okay?'

'I asked you something,' she paused, caught his gaze over their lassis. 'In America.'

He smiled. 'If I recall correctly, I did say me "never" dying was a bit of a stretch,' he said.

Ginny snorted. 'Okay, well -' She took her glass and paused for a sip. 'You're allowed to die after me, then. And, I intend to live to at least a hundred and fifty.' That night was the only time - his whole career, all of the teams he worked on, all of the choices he made - that she ever said anything. 'I'm not doing it again.'

He held her gaze. Ginny still sleeps with her hand on his heart. Every night.

So: 'Alright.'

'Promise me.'

It was the way she said it, he thinks. The way she never looked away, rooting him in place, the overhead lights casting shadows over her face. It felt more like a wedding vow than every other vow he ever made. The unbreakable kind. In this incongruous place that smelled like spices and felt of tired tablecloths washed on loop at ninety degrees under his fingers. He nodded once and responded: 'I promise.'

That said, having now been on the job for a few months, Harry also thinks that Hawk was right, that day they first met. He's told Ginny that, if anything. That: there are a lot of myths going around about the Hit Wizards, breaking down doors and putting themselves on the line to save the general public from the most dangerous criminals. It's true, but it's also not all there is to it, Harry decides. Like: the whole Auror department exists in shades of grey but there, it does feel worthwhile.

The day he joins, for instance, is a good one. Hawk isn't displeased. Harry initially feared that after Robards' decision, he'd need to convince him, too, like maybe there was a world between getting on at Quidditch and welcoming him on the team, but out of everyone Harry knows, the (new) boss is actually the only one who is chuffed about this. He does sort of good-naturedly burst out a laugh, looking at Harry, saying: 'Do you have any clue what you're getting into?' but he does also immediately approve his transfer. Simply invites Harry into his office, that Monday morning, sits him down on the chair opposite him and grins. 'I did read your file,' he says. Smiles, and points to it on the shelf behind him. It looked about twenty inches thick.

'You read all that?'

Harry laughs. 'Well, I was in Ravenclaw, I'll have you know.'

Refreshingly, it does turn out that Hawk did do his due diligence, though. Also asked Harry why he wanted to join. At that, Harry felt the pressure build in his chest - couldn't help but wonder what would happen if he gave the 'wrong' answer. 'I just wanna do something good,' he admitted, which, once vocalised, sounded a bit like 'I want peace in the world' from beauty pageant contestants, but for the first time in two years, it actually felt like someone at work was listening to him. Like: talking to Hawk was different from talking to Robards, trying to dodge the mess of flying items in his office while attempting to get more than a couple of words in edgewise, but different from talking to Giulia, too, who did always have a tendency to monopolise conversations like whatever she had to say was most important. That morning, Hawk said that him being Harry Potter wasn't a problem. That they hid their faces during most of their interventions, anyway. And, that everyone on the team had a past. 'This is not the kind of unit people join when they don't know what else to do,' he pointed out. 'That's Patrol and you've already spent quite a lot of time there.'

Harry choked out a laugh.

So: behind the myth and whatever else the wizarding people think, this is what being a Hit Wizard looks like, to him.

First, the team's relatively small. Six girls, ten lads, all in their 20s and 30s (aside from Hawk who is 43) - it's the kind of job you have to be young for. They're all on a first-name basis, sit at the end of the corridor in a room that closes with a real door for confidentiality reasons (Hawk is the only one who has his own office, though) - you have to turn a corner after Robards to get to them.

Harry likes: that he knows everybody. There was a hugeness to Patrol that made it feel like he couldn't ever get past the stage where people just sort of stared at him like: 'Is that The Boy Who Lived?' This feels more like the DA. Like: they work, grab drinks after shifts and it's been a while since he's laughed this much with people from the Ministry. (Come to think of it: he's never laughed this much with people from the Ministry.) Everyone of course isn't as impervious to the Harry Potter effect as Hawk himself initially was, but it's easier for Harry to combat that when he has time to be a real person around people. Once, he makes a complete arse of himself during training, falling headfirst into a pond; Hawk has to pause the exercise because half of them succumb to an irresistible fit of giggles - it's his first week and it's kind of mortifying but actually, it helps dispel the myth.

Then, unlike what most people seem to think, most of their days are actually spent pissing about rather than risking their lives, running after criminals. They sit around making jokes and snacking on shit Ministry food waiting to they're called in on an emergency that falls within their remit. There's a lot of doing fuck-all on the Ministry's dime during his time with the Hit Wizards and when the reality of that hits them, it definitely makes Ginny laugh. 'What do you mean you don't actually do much?' she says.

The fact is that the team's official mandate is to assist regular Aurors in their arrests, discreetly handle crisis situations with Muggles, intervene on behalf of Section B or in terrorism cases, hostage scenarios, human trafficking. When they're not needed, though, well.

They are in training quite a lot, though. That is perhaps also one of those things Harry hadn't really anticipated, but he doesn't necessarily dislike it. Generally, once qualified, there aren't any continuing education requirements for most Aurors. So as far as Harry knows, people on Patrol or even Major Crimes rarely ever see the inside of a shooting range again after their initial induction ends. Let alone participate in exercises. Here, though, Harry's not sure if it's a Hawk thing or a Hit Wizards thing in general, but they're in training almost every day. The gym, the firing range, wandless combat, surveillance techniques. The job may seem glamorous from the outside but to be honest, most of the time, when Harry comes home with bruises on his face, they were inflicted by his own colleagues (Ginny is slowly building a simmering resentment against some of them, to be fair), because a lot of the 'down' time they have is dedicated to making sure they are ready for anything, whenever the time does come for them to intervene. Every week, they go through extensive drills and mock scenarios. The Ministry uses a large area on the training floor; Hawk modifies it with his wand to create fake buildings, parks, Muggle landmarks, anything they need. After a few weeks, Harry notices that he's starting to feel like he did after Giulia began to teach him basic surveillance skills, giving a method and preparation to the things he already knew. It grounds him, eases the panic.

His hours, too, aren't bad. Another positive. Definitely better than the erratic shifts he used to have on Patrol. They are in the office for a regular 9-to-6, then split the off hours into on-call shifts. Outside of emergencies, Ministry regulations prevent Aurors from entering dwellings between 10 pm and 6 am, so Harry's only called in maybe once a week. It's definitely manageable. To notify them of emergencies, the Ministry used to rely on Ministry owls, he's been told, but it forced everyone on the team to live in London to allow for shorter flight times, and even in the Muggle world, the cost of living has been rising. Patronuses aren't confidential enough and not everyone has a fireplace so Dean's been working with Robards over the past few months to use a blend of wizard and Muggle technology to improve the functioning of certain teams. Point is: they have these little buzzing, blinking 90s pagers, now. 'I'm modelling them on the DA coins but adding more functions. They can display addresses, ETAs, that sort of thing,' Dean says when he brings them over to try out. 'It's also good 'cause you don't have to stay home when you're on call, just in case you get a letter. You can take it with you anywhere you go.'

'Cool,' they say, though Harry does kind of roll his eyes when the bloody thing goes off once when he's at one of Ginny's games (or, once, supremely frustratingly in the middle of something - the kind of 'something,' Ron doesn't want to think about them doing), but overall, he's got to admit that he finds himself not being totally against the technology.

Of course, it's not - all roses and butterflies. Sometimes, Harry looks at his colleagues and it occurs to him that Hit Wizards were sent to arrest Sirius, once upon a time, with a mandate to kill him on sight. Sometimes, he looks at his colleagues and knows that some of them were working for the Ministry during the war. Most times, he thinks there's already been enough purges, none of which really did any good, and he'd actually rather not ask.

Sometimes, though, they do save people. That's - the high. Like: when after two years of investigation, they finally manage to arrest one of the heads of that cursed artefacts and potions trafficking network that's been directly and indirectly responsible for countless deaths since the end of the war. Once the man is behind bars, three bottles of champagne pop loudly up to the ceiling of the Auror office. Like, too: when this young woman gets abducted by a fucking pervert while walking home one night and they manage to find her in time. These are the moments they all live for, the moments Harry changes back into his Muggle clothes in the locker room and thinks to himself that: yeah, that's why he joined the Ministry, actually.

There are shit days, too, of course. He's not delusional, he was ready for those, especially given that the very day he started to be interested in the Hit Wizards was a shit one. Harry thinks there's another parallel between the team and the D.A.: in fact, it's also the hard stuff that bonds them together. The way people who work in emergency services often deal - with dark humour and a shared understanding that sometimes, doing your best doesn't feel like enough. It's failure that's the hardest, when the safety of mistakes made in the shooting range withdraws; they sit there, playing the film on loop in their heads, wondering what could have changed. One night, they're called in by the Patrol team - a fifteen-year-old kid who's gone mad with grief after his girlfriend threw herself in front of Muggle train tracks. He is standing by the side of a bridge, violently retaliating against anyone who tries to approach him, and even Hawk with all of his training can't reason with him. The kid fires a curse at one of their agents that almost blows the man's arm off, threatens to jump if they dare take his wand, and Hawk says: 'Alright, Rory, we gotta petrify him, he's gonna hurt himself or someone else.' That night, Hawk says to just petrify him, a harmless, first-year spell, but with it, the kid loses his balance and falls into the river - drowns before they can get to him.

Harry watches. Watches as Rory sprints down to the river, shouting and howling, but by then three people have already jumped into the water and hauled the body up to the shore. Hawk stops him with a hand on his chest and: 'Listen to me!' he says. 'It's on me, okay? It's on me, not on you.' A pause. 'My decision. You did everything you could.'

It occurs to Harry that Hawk's the best boss he's ever had, actually.

Nights like these, though. Some of them go out running. Or, flying. Or, find themselves at the pub, staring blankly, trying to remember what the normal lives of normal people feel like. Harry likes to come home and breathe. Listen to Ginny tell him about her day, about a Bludger she dodged or a goalpost she hit, and not talk for a while. He thinks she knows when to fill the silence like she did when her brothers were small. And: he likes to wrap his arms around her, feel her weight against his chest on the couch. Sometimes, he remembers the first time they had sex - the first time he had sex, full-stop - hours after Fred and Teddy's parents died. He wonders what that says about them, and wonders if other - normal - people would think they're strange.

So, yeah: he does think about death, sometimes. If there's one thing he's not delusional about, it's that. He doesn't intend to die but through whispers at the office, he's learnt the last line-of-duty non-war-related loss on the team was 1994. It's a long time - they're all highly trained and Hawk's a Ravenclaw, not a Rambo - but it's also not never, you know? And the day Harry joined, when Hawk gave him a quick rundown of the department, he also gave him a hefty bundle of papers to sign. His new contract, and next-of-kin forms and: 'You get a risk bonus, and on-call pay. Other than that, pension scheme's the same, benefits are the same. Oh, except life insurance. You don't get life insurance. EnchanteraGuard won't cover.'

EnchanteraGuard is the company that covers all Ministry employees, he's learnt - every Ministry employee apart from him, apparently. 'They already turned me down as a trainee,' he shrugged. Hawk frowned. 'Said being "Harry Potter" was too "risky."'

'Right,' Hawk laughed. 'Well, then, nothing changes.'

He's still - you know. It's been a few weeks, now, and he's seen more people die, lately, than he had in a while. On Patrol, they used to be called in for dead bodies, but it wasn't the same. Here, people draw their last breaths in their presence. Not necessarily the team's fault (actually, rarely so), but they kill themselves or each other, and suicide by cop doesn't magically stop being a thing.

It's been - a bit hard. He remembers the early days after the war, when Ginny said: 'It's the smell. You remember? It's why I left the Great Hall, helped people out on the grounds. I couldn't take it anymore,' and wishes he could protect her again. Wishes that sometimes, he didn't come home with blood on his clothes and images in his head that he actually cannot just leave at the door. That's a myth, he thinks, and he's not quite sure how other people do it, like work and life don't necessarily have to bleed in. 'Hey,' Ginny says, on those days. 'I don't want you to leave it at the door, you know? That might be other people, but it's not us.'

It helps - a bit.

Harry's got this trust in Hawk, though. Not one that exists from the start, but it develops over months. He's not one to be blinded by charisma but it's been weeks, now, and he's never - ever - seen the man make a choice he couldn't stand by. Like: sure, sometimes Harry's disagreed, but Hawk's capacity to take responsibility while still listening to the team is steadying. There's something safe about it, even when the job isn't.

Still, that autumn, in training, Harry's gone from having said the words Avada Kedavra twice in his life (admittedly, already more than most people), to saying them at least once a week. That's been strange, too. He's even learnt to cast it without saying the words themselves because he might have to be quiet. There's a way the spell no longer feels like anything major, now, just part of the rotation they practise. Just in case. Like when they rehearse Petrificus Totalus for arrests, or get the hang of how to throw stun potion vials to make sure they explode in just the right place.

Hawk said it's rare - when an operation goes that way. And, from Harry's seen so far, that's true. But: 'I'm also not gonna lie to you,' he added, the morning Harry joined. 'It happens. Especially since the end of the war. A lot of mercenaries who used to do You-Know-Who's bidding have had to find other sources of income. The war's made crime more - violent,' he sighed. 'There's times when we've had no choice but to respond in kind.'

Harry hasn't - you know. Not yet, anyway. Rory's their sniper and the rest of them are expected to be ready, and know what they're doing, but not necessarily do. They bust down doors, arrest suspects and organise rescues, return fire on some very nasty spells, sometimes, but again, most times, Rory's just there for 's grateful for it even if sometimes, he wonders, you know? Thinks about that a lot more often than he thinks about his own death, to be honest, and, 'Do you think it's odd?' he tells Ginny, once. 'That I can kill people?'

She is writing to Luna again, that night. He is playing with her hair, fingers fiddling with soft strands, slowly coming to the realisation that regardless of how many times he saw Hermione do it in the tent, he actually does not know how to plait. He looks down at the page but doesn't read. There's this thing, when he sees her write, like he wonders what she's saying, what she's thinking. He knows her words to be laced with a kind of intimacy that can't quite be replicated and she teased him, once, and laughed: 'Oh, I write all about your sorry arse.'

But then again, the pleasure of having her here with him is worth a thousand letters and he finds he's not quite sure he even wants his curiosity satisfied. There's a mystery and an intrigue in thinking of the things about them she might write about. It's almost more interesting than the contents themselves.

With work, he reckons there's a sense of dread, really. Which he knows is stupid because he might not even ever have to actually kill anyone. Also, he's already done it, twice, so what is he even worried about? But: Harry finds that he can't quite flush the thought out of his mind, a bit like he used to think of his own death, not being sure how, or when. Hoping that it would be quick and that it wouldn't hurt too much, that he wouldn't care too much.

He still thinks of Tom every time he casts it. Admits that to her, then. Tried Amycus, once. And, while it worked, it felt less reliable, like the kind of rage he couldn't control. The kind of rage that sent his aim off five inches to the left and made his arm feel like it was on fire with the strength of his spell. 'Harry, what's going on?' Hawk asked, rushing over, concerned - everyone at the office knows how Harry's spells are always so on-point.

'Nothing.' He quickly shook his head. 'I just tried something.'

Hawk laughed. 'Well, maybe if it ain't broke don't fix it, yeah?'

'What does Avada feel like?' Ginny asks.

Her hair almost runs like water running against the tips of his fingers when he drops it. Looks at the TV in front of them, the soft hum of the wireless by the window. They've hung the washing up to dry, it's built condensation against the glass and the dark night. It is November of 2000, now.

'It's like this - rush of rage,' he says. Rage and power at an intensity that feels like it will consume you whole, like everything that has ever existed and breathed in this world will bend to his raw and unadulterated will. Right there, right now. Top of the world with his finger on the trigger - until the curse stops. Until the rat dies. Then, he pretty much wants to peel his skin off. Didn't feel any of it with Greyback two years ago because he was so consumed with grief, but now every day, he does. Like: dirt from the castle, etched into his skin. Maybe that's also why he likes being in Tom's brain, he thinks. It's shit, but it's still nice to believe all of that belongs to someone else.

'Hey,' Ginny says. 'Hey.'

They go to bed and between the sheets, she tugs at his forearm and traces flowers in the moonlight, feels for his pulse point. They haven't drawn the blinds. 'Do you worry?' he asks. She smiles.

'All the time.'

He sighs.

'So, no,' she adds. 'I don't think it's odd that you can kill people. I think it's good. I think that if death's between you and someone else, I'd rather it hit someone else.'

He doesn't love that, but he gets it, he thinks.

Ginny's work itself isn't like that, thank God. Although, hearing her talk about it, lately, Harry's grown even more certain of his decision to join the Aurors over Quidditch, back in '98. Good instincts. Because, outside of the game itself, the amount of politicking on the team is truly unparalleled, whispers and speculation as to who's playing what game and who's getting which sponsors or more of the spotlight, and who might or might not make the national selection, come the World Cup. The girls get on, Ginny says, and she's extra excited to be back now that Demelza, her 'dead body' best mate (as the name indicates, the person she would reach out to in the unfortunate event of having a corpse to dispose of - Harry was a bit offended, like: 'What do you mean you wouldn't call me first?' to which Ginny laughed and responded:

'First, you're an Auror. Second, statistically speaking, you wouldn't be available to help.'

He took a bit too long to clock on, then inhaled half of his water when he choked out a loud laugh. 'Oh, so you two are planning to murder me, now? Says the woman who says I'm just not allowed to die?!' And, jokes aside, Demelza has been a bit frosty with him since he and Ginny got back together, apparently loyal to a fault and still in the process of forgiving the Great Break Up of '97 - Ginny said it might take five to ten business years.

'Hmm,' she hummed, handing him a bunch of napkins. 'I like to keep my options open,' she laughed.)

So, yeah, extra excited to be back now that Demelza's made the team on second try (the reserve squad, but still). Yet, it's also hard to form a productive work environment when all of them are so often pitted against each other by the wider establishment as soon as they leave the stadium.

Ginny has been doing well, though. Loved by Gwenog - she hasn't spent a single match on the bench since September. Better still, she's now statistically the Harpies' top scorer, and one of the brightest rising stars within the League. During their opening game against the Wasps, she came on halfway through the match and scored ten goals in under fifteen minutes - just like that. Watching her from the crowd, Harry felt like he'd forgotten how to breathe, unable to contain the grin spilling over his face and the next morning, so did the rest of the country. After a few months of the press more or less neglecting her existence, her face was overnight plastered on all the Quidditch programmes.

It's been - strange. Navigating positive press. Bit surreal. After it all happened, the owners of the club immediately pressured their coach to let go of Ginny's sheltering, throwing last season's cautious policies to the wind. 'We can't have our star player not answering journalists!' they said, and quickly started pumping up the orders of Harpies t-shirts and mugs with her face on it, running adverts with excerpts from her games, and 'Why not get yourself season tickets to see Weasley, next?' The strategy definitely paid off in Diagon Alley, where Ron and George also relentlessly milked unlicensed Ginny merch for weeks, until Hermione found a solicitor's letter from the Harpies left to rot in a messy drawer at the shop, and told them to stop. Ginny's become so popular that at work, Harry once interrogates a teenage suspect about a stolen wand and the kid says: 'Well, I dunno, me mate just weasley-ed it,' like that is supposed to mean something. It's embarrassing that he has to ask around; Taya, one of the Aurors on the team, just does not stop laughing for ten minutes straight. 'God, it means "destroyed." Of all people, Harry, seriously -'

He feels like a thirty-year-old trying to understand 'The Young.' (But, also, he's really fucking proud, you know?)

There's been drawbacks. Of course. Like: she's slowly started to attend the Harpies' press conferences after matches, doing more promo and a couple interviews with Quidditch specialists, which obviously also hasn't helped the rising envy amongst other players on the team. She gets on with most of them but things have been a bit harder with a couple of the reserve Chasers who clearly wish they had her talents or her spot on the team. Once, after a game, a reporter comes to ask for her first impressions as she leaves the pitch and Ginny overhears one of them, behind her back but also loud and clear enough so that everybody in the changing rooms can listen in. 'Well, you know they're only asking her 'cause she's blowing Potter, right?'

'Sorry to hear the only thing you're blowing these days is shit out of your arse, Melody.'

The next morning, the cover of Witchy Whispers (shockingly owned by the same conglomerate as Witch Weekly, who could have guessed) reads: Melody Featherstone's exclusive interview! 'Ginny Weasley is a bully!'

They end up having to set up a meeting with Samira. Finally. A cold, late October afternoon; the wind unceremoniously crashes dead leaves against the tall windows of the study at Grimmauld. The management of the club have grown a bit restless again, worried about their revenue streams at the possibility that hints of the 'old' Ginny coverage could resurface. A couple blokes she slept with (well, one of them, to be honest, because the other one, 'it's all lies, I fucking swear, we went to one party together, once, I can't fucking believe -' 'Hey, I know. It's okay.') have recently gone to the papers, telling their stories for a quick buck, which seems to have reopened a whole other can of worms. She was always Gwenog's gamble, her 'wild' card, but now every rumour, every accusation, every speculation on the strength of their relationship, is allegedly 'blurring the message.' Quidditch people like her, young people love her, but the sponsors aren't sure about associating their product with her. 'You don't have to please everybody,' Gwenog says. 'That's impossible. But you need enough people to like you so that you're not a burden on the team's image, you know?'

The strategy they come up with, that afternoon, is Samira's. Ginny agrees to it immediately and it's later approved by the board, put into place all throughout the season. Harry isn't exactly fond of it. An understatement, really, because this is the wands-drawn fight between them, that autumn.

To be fair, the conversation actually doesn't start that badly. Ever the good communicator, Samira puts all the good and easy things first. She's already a bit nervous, though, Harry can tell, has got notes and graphs and figures drawn, keeps shuffling and accidentally knocking her papers down, it puts him off guard. Ginny, she claims, is loved - 'adored, even' - by those who actually value the sport. 'Fans of the Harpies were sceptical, at first,' she smiles. 'But, you definitely won them over.'

Additionally, the wizarding public generally seems to hold she and Harry - as a unit - in relatively high regard, that year. 'You're war heroes,' Samira smiles. 'And two, very good looking young people,' 'clearly in love with each other.' 'For people in your age bracket, even older, seeing you two like that, it makes them believe in love, you know?' Harry raises an eyebrow. It will never not be strange to him that other people are impacted by his life. 'You're cute, hot, there's something almost aspirational about you. Especially since, you know, Harry's own brand isn't doing too bad at the moment -'

'Gee, thanks.'

'All I'm saying is -'

Ginny smiles. She is considerate but firm when she interrupts. 'Look, Samira, I -' She pauses. This is really where it all starts. 'You're very kind but I don't need you to tell me I play Quidditch well, or that my boyfriend is attractive,' she laughs. 'It's the slut-who-fucked-half-the-wizarding-world part we need to sort out.'

Harry sighs.

'Sorry, I -' Samira starts again, quickly. 'Yes. That is the more difficult part, you're right.'

That day, it all feels a bit surreal, to him. The way Samira speaks, like she's studied Ginny, like the press has studied Ginny, like there is something wrong with her 'image' (with her?) that needs to be fixed. She's brought her old school books with her, as though higher Muggle authorities in the art of Communications were somehow going to convince him, and he's got this icky feeling like she's just taking an exam with this, or presenting a theoretical thesis. 'What you need, here, is a story,' she says. 'The problem you're having is that you're a lot of things, right now, but you're also none of them. You're a Quidditch player. You're Harry Potter's girlfriend. You're a war hero. You're a party girl. You're a -' Samira seems to hesitate. '"Slut" - per your own words.' (Ginny's hand firm on his knee.) 'But notice how none of this tells people who you really are, what you think. It's dehumanising and allows reporters to just pick and choose anything in that list to "prove" whatever they've already decided about you. So, now, you need to take back control of your narrative. Tell them who you are, or choose to be. Your story.'

In hindsight, he thinks: of course. Of course, that resonated with Ginny. He personally thinks her fucking personality and opinions shouldn't have anything to do with the sport.

They talk for about two hours. By which Harry means: Ginny does most of the talking because he really doesn't enjoy most of it. She explains what she needs, what she doesn't want to do. 'I don't want to fight them,' she says, 'I don't want to make them angry.' And, when Samira asks why, Harry is surprised by the words that come out of Ginny's mouth.

'There's just stuff during the war. I don't want them to dig and find out,' she explains. He frowns at her but says nothing. It's just the first time he's ever seen her be that transparent with anyone else.

When Samira declares: 'Can I ask? It would be better if I knew. We could prepare, do damage control if it ever gets out.'

Ginny just responds: 'No.'

It's awkward. Samira waits for more and nothing comes, the harshness of Ginny's word seems to have knocked the poor girl's confidence off a bit. She does collect herself quickly, though - this way of doing it like someone trying to fill shoes too large for them, like: be confident, now. This is your job. You're allowed to be here. You know what you're talking about. She sits up straight as though to compensate and Harry gets some uncomfortable flashbacks of his own first suspect interviews with Giulia.

'Well, if you don't want to fight it or deny it, then you have to own it,' she ploughs on, then. He supposes they have that in common. 'And with that, either you ask for forgiveness for your past behaviour, show that you're a changed person and hope they buy it, or you say "fuck it,"' Samira claims. 'And you lean into it.'

(And, well: is it really a surprise? Which option Ginny picks?)

It's the root of their argument, that night. This bizarre excitement he sees in the two of them, talking themselves into yet another task, like he and Hermione in the tent. Samira takes notes and speaks like she is talking to herself a bit, but Ginny's just edging her on. 'Okay, so let's say, for the sake of the argument, you're party girl, right? What if you just said: "So what?" I mean, they would never do that to a man, right? Perhaps, that is the line you need to push: female empowerment. You're sexy, you're funny, you're a rebel. One of the leaders of an actual rebellion, a very successful one at that, you can use that,' Samira points at Ginny in a shared understanding before writing something down. 'You're a free spirit, that's something I can sell. You slept around because …' she's thinking out loud. 'Because - same thing. You're of age, you're free to do what you want, you don't care what people think. This is the twenty-first century and you don't have anything to prove.' Samira smiles, nods to herself. It's odd, like they're building a person that is Ginny but also not Ginny, putting up a front and hoping to seduce the rest of the world. Harry studies the hem of Samira's hijab, the way it falls down her front with the movement, soft ruffles at the base of her neckline.

'All these people, they - they want you to apologise. Be ashamed. They want your past to be a problem in your relationship, something that will ultimately break the two of you up. Because a "slut,"' Samira's hands move in the air with inverted commas. 'Can't possibly be in a loving relationship with the nation's favourite, troubled war hero, right? Well, obviously, that's not right.'

'You're charismatic,' Samira insists, 'Be unapologetic. But also: you're excellent at what you do. And, you're hard working. So, let's say: you get caught drunk off your mind at the pub with your girlfriends on a Wednesday night? Doesn't matter, you're at practice, putting in the work regardless the next day,' she adds, then. 'So, make sure you go out. Gret photographed, get dolled up, stylish, if brands want to dress you - even better. That is what matters. That is what you want them to focus on. You like partying, you have a past, yes, but you're also damn good at what you do. And, you're confident because of it. Again, you don't have anything to prove. You need people to look at your confidence and your friends and all those things the sponsors give you and secretly think: "God, I'd like to be her," you know?

'And then, you need to do interviews. Be yourself, be honest, show them who you are, what you think. You're funny! Make them laugh! Think: Gosh, I wish I had her wit. Be everywhere. Use the fact that Harry,' she points to him. 'Your gorgeous, famous boyfriend, is nowhere. He is a bit of a recluse -' she laughs, 'You - in contrast - are outgoing, lively, relatable. You're young, you care! You "tell it like it is." You're cool, you're nineteen, you've got cheek, you talk back, make journalists a little uncomfortable when they ask invasive questions - never too much, though. Just enough for most people to see where you're coming from, think: "Yeah, she's right, that lad was being an arse."

'Be a rebel,' she says. 'Show a bit of "accidental" boob, give them something to talk about. Make sure you can do all of that and still be with Harry. You're free - your own person. He loves you just the way you are. And, sure, you're not going to be liked by the average, conservative, fifty-something, pureblood witch, but is that really something that matters to anyone? The team's asked you to find a niche, right? I think your niche is - young people. Teenagers. People who will look at you and say: "Sure, she seems good fun, I'd like to grab a pint with her!"' she laughs. 'People who don't care that you've slept around because really - who cares? They're rebels, too! Wannabes anyway,' Samira smiles. 'They grew up in a war during which the establishment lied to them for decades, they don't like the conservative press any more than you do. And, they will buy merch because having a t-shirt with your face on it will annoy their mother,' she grins.

'And, then, I reckon that by doing that, you can probably attract some of the adults, too. Because the issue with young people is that they don't have much money, but their fathers do. And, well, we all know why, when it comes to the Harpies, half the stadiums are always filled with middle aged men,' she sighs, shakes her head quickly. 'Right now, they don't like your past because they think it makes you look easy. But a rebellious, sexy, Carmen who doesn't care what they think? That'll make them want what they can't have. And, they will be the ones who will buy most of the tickets, the ones who will fill up stadiums to bet dozens of Galleons on you. And, that will be because you're hot and young and you're a rebel and they will just wish they could have you. You could do photoshoots, you know? I've received a couple of requests and I think -'

He yells, that evening. Like: at Samira, first, who later admits: 'I wanted you to get angry then. So that you wouldn't do it later in front of a hundred journalists.' And, at home - it's worse. Front door slammed and 'YOU FUCKING TWAT,' chasing after him and into their bedroom, and -

'AND YOU'RE AGREEING TO GOING OUT THERE, FUCKING WHORING YOURSELF OUT TO PLEASE THE PRESS AND THESE FUCKING PRICKS WHO HARRASSED YOU FOR YEARS - TO PLEASE SORRY BLOKES WHO JUST WANT TO WANK OFF TO PICTURES OF YOU IN THEIR BLOODY BASEMENTS -'

He storms out onto the balcony, shuts the bedroom door in her face; she follows him anyway, yanking it back open because Ginny fucking Weasley has never walked away from a fight her whole life, and 'YOU. DON'T. GET. TO -'

Fuses, they are.

But: in the end, like always, they end up side by side. There is a half-wall made of bricks that makes up the railing on the left side of their balcony; they sit on it, facing in. Ginny's legs dangle off; Harry's feet are flat on the seat of the metal chair of their little table, the one Ginny sits on to read in the sun in the summer. They've got the same trainers. Dirty raised Chucks - his are black and hers bright red; they don't look that different in the dark. It's cold, now, and they've both thrown their wands to the floor, out of reach, so he can't cast warming charms. He pulls off his jacket and wraps it over her shoulders. 'I'm going to do it,' she tells him, then.

It's not a surprise. He knows, from the moment Samira opened her mouth. That's why he yelled. Got jealous, yes, at the thoughts of sorry blokes oggling his girlfriend, but mostly scared. Samira already had a request, she said, the UK edition of a high-end American fashion magazine. From what Ginny says (Harry supposes that was information she was given after he stormed off), they want an interview and a photoshoot, the Harpies'-t-shirt-and-high-rise-Quidditch-boots, overpriced-frilly-lingerie kind of photoshoot. When the pictures do come out, a few weeks later, there is one with Ginny on the floor, on her knees, in a bodysuit in the colours of the Harpies, hair wild and cascading down, a deep plunging v-neck onto her breasts, her palm resting on the Quaffle. That kind of photoshoot. 'They want it to be about "the new generation of post-war female celebrities,"' she quotes from memory. '"Influential, brave, beautiful, talented, comfortable with their bodies and sexuality. Challenging the status quo for what it's like to be a young woman in the wizarding world." Samira thinks it would be a good fit.'

He is silent for a bit. Tired. Ginny bumps the shoulder of his Levi's jacket against the fabric of his jumper. 'I mean, I'm sure we can keep yelling about it but we both know what this is really about.'

He breathes. In, out. Feels the weight of her head drop against his shoulder. There's stuff they don't even need to say, anymore. Like: the fact that the idea of her using sex to get what she wants out of a world that's so fucked up it considers 'sexy' to be a currency will always make him want to retch. That: he regrets his choice of words, 'whoring out,' but. That he loves her - so much, and wants to protect her, and what if this all turns sour? What if she's not okay, again, like she wasn't on those nights she woke up next to strangers and didn't know where she was?

He knows what she'd say as well, though. That time's passed, that she's better, that it's her life and she feels ready and she gets to choose. That Samira's right, too, that it's time for women to be treated differently and if that's something she can contribute to by adopting this persona, that's not even that far from the truth, then the end justifies a little bit of self-sacrifice for the greater good. That, after him, it took ages for her to feel like her body was her own again, and that now, she likes people looking. That it makes her feel good - powerful. That because of the things she's done, they'll always talk about it anyway, so she might as well take the conversation somewhere useful. Control it and take anything she can gain from it. That, also, she doesn't care if some sorry bloke wanks off to pictures of her in his basement because that's all he's ever going to get. That: she prefers Samira's plan to the alternative, which would be to hide and apologise for herself, and which makes her want to retch.

Under his shoe, Amycus Carrow's like this piece of gum they can never quite get rid of, Harry thinks. Ginny smiles at him. 'If that's all he is now, a dirty piece of gum, then that sounds lovely, actually.'

'I still don't like it,' he admits.

There is a smile in her voice when she says: 'Does it make it easier if I tell you that apparently, I get to keep the lingerie?'

He laughs.

They don't have sex, that night. He's not in the mood but when Ginny suggests a fly, afterwards, he nods. They Apparate to the middle of nowhere and fly so high that at times, fields become indistinguishable from the sea. In the dark, they watch sparkles flash under their feet like little islands of life beneath.

The interview comes out a few weeks later. It is what it is. He still doesn't love it, but it's fine, he supposes. Ginny's happy with it, which helps. She leaves a courtesy copy inside her bedside table and - well, they do at least let her keep the lingerie. People talk about it. Some random bloke on the wireless dials in to call it 'disgraceful' on air which makes her laugh. When Ron calls it the same thing, it earns him a hex that gives him rabbit ears for a full week. Her parents call it, 'A bit much, Ginevra.' Soon after, though, letters start to arrive at Grimmauld from a sub-category of people Samira hadn't quite considered, in her early assessment. Women Ginny's age, sometimes a bit older; they call her 'inspiring.' They're the ones with disposable income who fill up the stadiums at most of her games, that season.

In Diagon Alley, kids continue to wear t-shirts with her face on them to irritate their mothers. Some of them read: SPITE - capital letters, a slogan painted white on black. That is because when the journalist asked: You've been very successful lately, and you seem to harbour a lot of ambition for a woman your age. What is it you think drives you? Ginny laughed and said: I don't know. Spite, probably, you know?

And, perhaps, Harry thinks, there are sorry blokes out there wanking off to pictures of his girlfriend in their basements. He supposes maybe they don't matter all that much, anyway.

The Muggle world slowly descends into a new and unhinged brand of chaos later, that November. America fails to decide who its President should be and on the wizarding side, Kingsley's government soon becomes one of the many legs of an international, multiplayer waiting game. MACUSA are on tenterhooks (their relationships with Republicans who think magic is the Devil incarnate aren't great), andBlair's people find themselves in a mild panic at the thought of a potential change in the Special Relationship. A new head of government on the opposite end of the political spectrum across the pond isn't the best of news at any given time, but it's worse now that they've already bet against the Eurozone. No one in government will take responsibility for decisions as to new protocols, alliances, loans or information exchanges with the magical world anymore. They haven't gone back on past progress yet, but further credits are put on pause. The day of the announcement, the exchange rate offered by Gringotts plummets to £8 a Galleon, and their adjustable interests on all private wizarding loans skyrocket. The claim is that without Muggle money pumping through the economy, people won't be able to make good on their obligations and the whole country will come crashing down on them.

That same day, everyone in the wizarding world turns to the Ministry's new, state-sponsored bank to try and get their Galleons out at the £15 rate they guaranteed - Kingsley has to shut down the system for a week for fear the Ministry might go bankrupt again. People start screaming about the government stealing their money; there are protests in Diagon Alley until a deal is finally signed with the French and German Ministries, vouching for the strength of the British wizarding economy. In the end, the crisis resolves without much long-term consequence bar the instability that has driven up people's fears again. Ginny calls the Goblins 'utter and complete cunts,' and no one around them disagrees. Hermione comments that when Kingsley initially decided to bypass them in '98, everyone feared a violent uprising but it turns out that centuries have taught them they don't actually need violence to get what they want. Holding the strings to people's purses hostage seems to be a much more effective bargaining chip.

To compensate for his own allegedly 'mental' decision to join the Hit Wizards, that autumn, Harry spends a lot of time with Ron. They have pints at their local at least twice a week, to the point that Ginny takes the piss and says: 'Are you having an affair with my brother?'

He raises a playful eyebrow. 'Wouldn't you like to know?'

It's just that - well, with everything, Ginny's at practice a lot (and doing interviews, and signing autographs, and all the other stuff he has absolutely no patience for) and Harry feels like hanging out with his best mate is a better use of his time than sitting around the flat feeling sorry himself. Ron's acclimated to working at the shop full-time well enough, although Hermione hasn't yet stopped complaining about his hours. 'It'll calm down,' Ron shrugs. 'Shop's just busy. Christmas and all.'

Harry reckons the situation isn't helped by the fact that Hermione herself has been under a lot of stress lately. The press has been vindictive. She's taken most of the heat for her department's decision to push for legislation preventing the very lucrative breeding and trading of house elves by wizards. She and Kingsley decided to use her status as a beloved public figure to persuade the wizarding people of the necessity of the reform, which in turn has made her the main target of everyone's vitriol. Ron and Harry obviously came to her defence in a communiqué Samira was kind enough to draft for them, supporting the bill and condemning the hate she'd been receiving, but it frustratingly did nothing to lessen the amount of threats coming through the Grimmauld mail. Envelopes filled with: I know where you live-sand We ArE gOiNG tO SKIN U n RaPE u IN YOuR SlEEp. Harry went to Robards one morning, demanding she be put under Auror protection but Hermione yelled at him when she found out, saying: 'I already live in a house full of Aurors! It's fine, Harry, honestly!'

Ron's tried to get her to back down from the reform, let the 'bloody house elf thing go,' which spectacularly backfired against him when she made him sleep in Sirius's room for a week. Harry and she work in the same fucking building but even he feels like he hasn't probably seen or talked to her in weeks. The rare glimpses he's caught have been of her with her hair wild and all over the place, bags under her eyes like she hadn't slept in days. She still acts as though he is the one with the dangerous occupation but from what Harry can tell, Hermione seems to have lost at least a stone in less than two months, and he has to drag her down to the cafeteria one afternoon to try and get her to listen. 'Everyone's glaring at me,' she notes, which he tries to promise isn't true despite quite irrefutable evidence to the contrary.

'Just eat something,' he says, 'please.'

Ron's been worried sick, too. These days, it's almost his only topic of conversation, every time they meet. 'I just don't fucking know what to do!'

He explains that whenever he's tried to offer advice or a strategy, Hermione's just shut him down, claiming that 'this matters!' and 'You don't understand!' This, in turn, has driven Ron up the wall, almost causing him to avoid his own wife for the past few weeks. 'People are making shit tonnes of money breeding house elves,' he says, one night. It's his third pint. 'She needs to leave it. She's gonna get herself killed.'

Overnight, the word 'MUDBLOOD' appears in red paint on the street in front of Grimmauld Place and the Muggles around wonder what it means.

Harry almost feels guilty about the good news he and Ginny receive, a couple weeks before Christmas. Well - Harry thinks it's good news, although when he mentions it to Ron, his best mate claims he's gone completely 'mental' again. The fact of the matter is that Ginny sits him down on their bed one night as he comes out of the shower, biting her bottom lip to stifle a grin like she can't possibly hold her words in any longer. She sits cross-legged by her pillow, makes him settle at the opposite end, nervously scratching the nail varnish off her thumb with her index finger. 'I need to tell you something,' she says. 'I don't want you to get too excited 'cause I'm not sure yet.'

He frowns and raises an eyebrow. Thinks of something - then dismisses it quickly. 'Okay…'

It's work again. There's been rumours, she says. Her smile spills anew like she can't contain it. 'Well, Gwenog's been hearing rumours,' she corrects. 'And, other people too. And, well, me. I've been hearing rumours. Basically, everyone has been hearing rumours.'

He laughs. Good God, rumours about what again -

'Oh, Merlin,' she says, smiling wide. 'I can't possibly say it out loud.'

So: the answer is childishly scribbled on a page in her notebook: England - 2002.

'You mean the Worl-'

He is under the strictest NDAs of all, that winter, to not tell a soul.

It's not a done deal yet, apparently. It's just rumours. Talk. Except, lately, it's been the kind of talk that's been coming from different directions close to reaching a critical mass of - something. That night, Harry is already grinning - against the finger she put to his mouth to keep him quiet; he pushes himself up a bit. His feet are on the floor and she sits in his lap, her calves on each side of his thighs. 'I just - I don't know,' she speaks quickly again. 'I've been meaning to tell you but then you get like this,' she grins, pointing at his wild grin - she's one to talk, he thinks, 'and I just -' She breathes out.

'Okay, so you know how we didn't play in '98, right?' she asks. He nods, quick. 'Didn't even have a team - I mean, Scotty Paget died, and - well, anyway. Apparently, the Fed's been on the lookout for a new coach and you know how the Prophet announced they'd signed Matthews in, right? He's said he's looking for new talent, giving the team a fresh start, and -'

'You are joking -'

She beams, then tries to contain it immediately, he laughs again and she hits his shoulder with her hand. They've both been - daydreaming about it, really. She's only been playing for a year, though. It's always been a long shot. They thought she might have to wait until '04 to make the Euros, and then maybe, the selection for '06. 'I don't know,' she tells him, then. 'I don't want to get too excited but Gwenog said -'Ginny stops talking, rather abruptly. Her mouth twists. 'Well, that's kind of the shit part, actually,' she sighs. 'She says there's two things that might go against me. First, I don't have an international profile. Apparently people outside of England don't know me.' He rolls his eyes. 'And, well, she said they don't like that I've only ever played for the Harpies. They're worried about how I might get on playing with another team. Also playing with men, you know?' He opens his mouth. 'Hogwarts doesn't count.'

'Well, you can transfer -'

'That's the issue, though,' she interrupts again. 'Like, I don't want to leave the Harpies.' He sighs. Thinks loyalty's sound but also it's the World - 'I mean, they're not perfect every day, but, well, the devil you know, right?' Plus, she adds, she really enjoys working with Gwenog. Feels like she has a lot of things to learn from her, still. 'And, anyway, qualifiers are in a year.' She looks depleted, then. Harry braces for the rose-tinted film of going to watch her play in the most important Quidditch competition in the world to turn sour. 'Meaning that they'll be announcing the selections sometime next summer. So, even if I did transfer in September, it would be too late,' she sighs. 'Fuck, I wish I'd known this last summer. Maybe I'd have taken the Tornados.'

He sighs. 'Well, can't you do anything?'

She looks away. The little figurine of her on a broomstick floating on their chest of drawers. It was a gift from the team for her birthday. 'Gwenog's suggested something but I'm not sure,' she says.

Problem is: there's no guarantee. It might not even be enough. He prepares himself for what could have been the coach's suggestion, another half-naked photoshoot or even (God forbid) a joint interview. Something that has nothing to do with the sport she plays, but -

The team's management don't just own the Harpies, Ginny explains. They own an array of other teams around the globe. One of which's in New Zealand, where the local League grouped with Australia. Harry's never followed it himself but he knows Ron kind of does, Charlie as well. It's known for being extremely demanding and high-level because the season only runs for half a year, so they're playing two, sometimes three games a week.

'Gwenog says she can get me into Queenstown,' Ginny sighs, looks down. Oh. 'That we're not gonna win this year anyway, so she can spare me, sees it as a long-term investment. But, I don't know, I just -'

'- Ginny. Go.'

The words slip out of his mouth. Instinct - he doesn't even think about it. Ron later says he's barking mad but this is A Chance At Playing The World Cup (which he can't tell Ron, so perhaps that's why he doesn't understand). 'Harry,' Ginny hesitates. She looks - concerned. 'I really don't -'

'Oh, no, you're going,' he grins. His hand over his mouth to hide a disbelieving grin. Then, he shifts to look her in the eye, his palms finding the sides of her face, forcing her to look back. 'Gin, this is too big -'

'It's not even a guarantee, Harry. And being this far away from everyone, for months -'

'We'll figure it out,' he smiles. There's actually a degree of certainty and ease in his voice he's rarely ever heard before. This is fine. Her family will bloody have to deal. And, they will - work something out. He'll take PTO, Portkey over as often as he can, whatever. They'll deal.'Gin, it's the World -'

Her palm comes crashing down against his mouth and they tumble back onto the bed, laughing. He can tell there is apprehension in her gaze, still, but she's also beaming. It's weird. 'Oh, shut up,' she tells him.

Maybe, they're both just fucking 'mental,' he thinks.

That evening, they celebrate. Clothes off and in bed, her skin clammy and warm against his, he lays down and rests his face against her stomach, afterwards. She giggles at something stupid he says - it doesn't matter, just the way he feels the shakes beneath his cheek. It's almost revolting, how happy they are, that year, despite everything. 'You know it's weird,' she points out. 'You make such a scene about pictures, but you're cooler about this than I am?'

He shrugs. It's different. This is genuinely about her work. About how fucking amazing she is. Not about - the press and public perception and all that bollocks. This is proving her worth to the world. And, sure, he supposes there may be an argument to be made about how all the other stuff was also about that, in a way, but it is not an argument he currently feels he can make. With this, he's not scared. They're strong enough anyway. And: he's not concerned about her finding some hot, New Zealander and running away with him in the sun.

'You're not?' Ginny challenges with a smile. She is so close against him.

'Not with that accent, no,' he laughs.

She giggles again. 'Hm, I don't know. I quite like it. Every vowel is a surprise, you know?'

They tell her family over the holidays. Her parents and Charlie on Christmas Eve - the information inevitably spreads around the house the next day. Hermione is feeling a bit under the weather so she and Ron head home early; Harry, Ginny and Charlie stay downstairs with her father, excitedly discussing the news. They don't tell Charlie about The World Event That Must Not Be Named, but the man knowsQuiddicth, so Harry has an inkling he also understands what the move is really about. 'You're right to go, you know?' he says with the tone of overconfidence brought on by a good few glasses of Firewhisky. 'The Harpies play too aggressively - oh come on!' he exclaims when Ginny tries to interrupt. 'You just don't have a good defence, that's why you place third or fourth every year - tell me I'm wrong!'

The reactions vary, over the next few days. Mr Weasley cautions her against job-hopping. Ron, says: 'That's fucking far.' Charlie bows out of that conversation like: 'I've heard all of this before,' and George asks if she can also scout the area for potential business opportunities. Percy quietly sits on his hands: 'Well, I suppose it is her choice, isn't it?' and Bill just sort of shrugs like: 'It's only five months.' Mrs Weasley panics about her daughter's safety like all places that aren't England are inherently unsafe and when that fails to faze her daughter, she adds: 'And, Harry's letting you leave like that, is he?'

Harry doesn't think Mrs Weasley means it like that, exactly, but Ginny hears it exactly like that, which leads to: 'Okay, so first of all, Harry is not "letting" me do anything! I am just doing things and he's got no say in the fucking matter, I'm not his bloody property -'

'I know, darling, that wasn't -'

He sinks into the couch in a warm, post-Christmas food coma, and steers clear of that one.

Her Portkey's on the 6th of January 2001. That morning, they get a bit caught up by reality, you know? Like: okay, this is real. She's leaving. And: Harry realises that all of this ostentatious bravado he's been flaunting these past few weeks - like: this is FINE! - may actually have been a bit of a lie. He actually didn't think - and well, it's not great, you know? The air's cold and the night still dark; they walk down a forest path. The Portkey's in the middle of a clearing and from a distance, Harry can already see half a dozen people waiting. They stay hidden behind the trees to say goodbye, not wanting the Harry-Potter-and-Ginny-Weasley thing here.

These past couple weeks, they've spent most of their time together. Doing fun, London, bucket-list sort of things, eating out and having lots of sex, staying in bed until at least 11 am - a short resurgence of the honeymoon-phase. Ginny doesn't cry that morning (and neither does he) but there's a strange sense of something tough in the air, like: well, you know. She's got a large duffel filled with all of her summer stuff at her feet. They've pencilled in a couple weeks he could come over mid-February, work allowing, and he keeps repeating the same mantra in his head: itsonlysixweeks, itsonlysixweeks, itsonlysixweeks. He can't help but feel a bit jealous, thinks that at least she's going towards sunshine and new, shiny things whereas he's just fucking stuck sitting at home in cold, old London town. So, yeah, this sucks, he reckons, all things considered. He can't remember why he encouraged her.

She is holding onto his hand. 'Shit,' she says. It is just gone six in the morning. They both barely slept. 'We're gonna be okay, yeah?'

He smiles. Grips her hand back, tight; it's bloody hard, physically letting go. 'Yeah.'

There is no Floo connection that stretches that far, so they've practised telephone calls. They've talked. The way one night she confessed: 'I wasn't well, last time we were apart,' and of course he could tell what she meant. He shrugged, trying to convince himself as well as her, ran his thumb over her cheekbone in the dark.

'Yeah, me neither.'

He's told her about that, too. About how the bouquet of flowers down his left arm also hides a scar he doesn't quite like to think about. 'It wasn't just about the break-up, though,' he said and hated that it hurt her, that she felt responsible for his own poor decisions.

'We're not there anymore, though,' he smiled again, then

Deep down, although this is a bit shite, he also knows it will be fine.

And: 'Fuck,' he jokes, right before they say goodbye. 'I swear if you don't get to play it after all this, I'm gonna punch someone.'

Her laugh is still ringing in his ear when she catches her Portkey.

So, yeah. Ginny leaves, that year, and it's not the end of the world.

Harry works. That winter, that spring. There's not much else to do, anyway. He works and he goes running almost every day and his resolution to give up smoking kinda goes out the window. The flat's so empty without her in it, his bed is so empty without her in it - he can't sleep - and her absence this sort of glaring light that's just flashing in his face every time he closes his eyes. He tries to spend as little time there as he possibly can. After a few weeks, the time difference becomes second nature - there's a long window between 5 am and 12 pm where he can get her in her evenings after practice, and another, shorter one between eight and ten at night. It sucks, but ultimately, it's also fine.

They're okay. He misses her. At the weekends when he wakes up, in the evenings after work when he needs to vent and it's too early or too late to call, or when he listens to the commentary of her matches on the wireless and he gets somewhat jealous of all those other people who get to see her play. Whenever they talk, she peppers most of her anecdotes with fits of laughter and: 'Merlin, I wish you'd seen this,' or 'I wish you were here'-s. Perhaps he's being a bit pathetic, but he's started counting the days. Like: marking them off the calendar, you know?

She's sharing a flat with a couple of her teammates. A Muggle building - they have a view of the lake if you stand on your tippy toes and squint. He likes hearing about it, about the team, about them - it gives her life a realness that calms him.

On the phone, she talks about all the things they'll do - once he visits. About animals he's never even heard of before, and the food scene that she honestly finds a bit shit and the clothes and how she hates the local brands of loo roll. The water in the syphon that turns the other way around. 'The lake is gorgeous, though' she says. 'And, the mountains -' The summer is warm, she explains, but not too hot, not America-hot, just perfect - it's a hard concept to grasp when he looks at the lashing rain out his own window. 'May'll be autumn, though,' she pouts. 'Maybe there'll be snow already? I dunno. I'm just glad it won't be - May, you know?'

She writes to him again. There is that at least. Couple times a week. At first: pretty, landscape-y postcards that materialise the fact that she misses him in writing. Then, a couple weeks in, she phones him just to say: 'I wish we could - you know.' He swallows and awkwardly chuckles but like, yeah, he knows. 'What are you wearing?' he responds and she laughs and it doesn't feel as good as real sex but it's a wank to the sound of her voice in his ear and he'll take what he can get. Helps with the distance, though it does feel a bit silly at times, him with his hand around his dick and her on the other side of the world. In hindsight, he's glad for the phones because he's not sure fire is something he'd want involved anywhere near this. She's about to hang up once when he blurts out: 'Write to me.'

Silence. He almost wonders if she's heard him. 'You mean…'

'Yeah.' He remembers those. And: they weren't even together, back then. She giggles a bit, like proud of herself.

'Oh-kay, Potter.'

God, he misses her laugh.

In '01, they both let themselves sink into their careers, on either side of the globe. It's why they've agreed to do this in the first place, so Harry figures they might as well give it all they've got. Ginny plays impossibly well that season, her stats skyrocketing, and for the first time in her (albeit short) career, she is part of a team that actually stands a real chance at winning the local league. She gives the game her everything, gives the press and the commentators her everything, from being Harry-Potter's-sexy-and-cheeky-girlfriend to up-and-coming-Quidditch-player to outspoken-and-free-spirited-female-celebrity. She does everything that Samira suggested. Plays with the journalists, goes out with her teammates, short bodycon dresses that the paps try to get under and never hesitates to pepper in some hot, political takes. 'How the fuck are you so calm?' Ron asks, himself the opposite of calm, but Harry shakes his head, sighs.

She calls him when things get hard. Regardless of the time. She and Samira are doing well controlling the frenzy but her image is and will always be polarising. It's not effortless. She and her teammates go to some sort of fashion event. 'This bloke tried to put his hand up my fucking skirt, I swear -' she pauses. 'Samira said I actually should hex him if it happens again, that it might play well with the whole female empowerment thing we're trying to showcase with the interviews and she's bloody right, you know, it matters, that's why I'm doing it in the first place, that and my career, I just -'

'You okay?'

'Yeah.'

'Really?'

A smile in her voice. Then, certainty. It steels him. 'Yeah. I promise I'll tell you if I'm not.'

So: they do their job, and they hold.

Ginny sells papers and paps their photographs - it's almost funny (and somewhat good?) but she's got fans, now. They call themselves the 'Weaslies'. And, it's true that she'll probably always be a bit of a divisive figure, the way some people just cannot get over the thought of a girl being unapologetic about who she is, but it's also great: seeing her radiant, in the spotlight. Ironically, even Witch Weekly publishes a positive write-up, once, about her outfit on a night out, and Harry laughs on the phone, that night. It's all a bit wild.

In left-wing newspapers, opinion pieces call her the 'voice of a generation.' She challenges the old guard, the Ministry, with the added bonus that her increased international profile gives C.A.S.H.C.O.W. more visibility. Neville, Seamus and Opal start talking about branching out - more lasting issues like equal opportunities for wizarding kids from working class backgrounds, and reducing the burden on families to provide primary school level education themselves. Harry can't help but chime in with the fact that Teddy is turning three in just a few months and honestly, neither he nor Andromeda would know what the fuck to do with him if Samira couldn't look after him. Still, though, the woman's job with them is becoming increasingly more time-consuming and Harry's grown wary of the fact that she won't be able to do both forever. Ted's been getting better at controlling his Metamorphism, lately, but although Harry has tried to explain he shouldn't do it around Muggles, the Terrible Twos have meant he just seems to think it's yet another fun, coy way to test boundaries. Putting him in Muggle school still isn't really an option.

On a Saturday morning at the start of February, they all meet at Grimmauld. Luna Portkeys back from Africa for the occasion and Dean manages to get a landline to work and put Ginny on speakerphone. Neville reports on the current state of affairs, the goals they'd set for themselves at the end of the war. The charity is currently in charge of awarding subsidies to 287 minors who lost one or both their parents during the war. They are all in the care of family members or foster families, under the supervision of the Ministry. Funds have been awarded for their education, health and psychological wellbeing.

They also supported over three hundred Muggleborn or mixed-blood families who had fled the country to relocate. Most of them are now settled into their new lives and jobs, though they're still actively handing out financial aid to around 50 of them. They've also managed to win most of the cases involving people who were wrongly imprisoned by Thicknesse, and their legal expenses have finally begun to decrease. 'We're still sponsoring half a dozen appeals,' Neville finishes, a figure that gives Harry chills. It's almost been three years and the thought that there are people out there still in jail is hard to fathom, to be honest. Especially when it seems that most of the news, the world (and even themselves) have all more or less managed to move on. 'There's also a few civil suits we're still sponsoring, people suing Snatchers for the stuff they stole when they came to arrest them. I don't know -' he sighs, looks up from his papers to catch Harry's gaze. 'I don't know if it's worth it to be honest. I mean, it's right, but that stuff's been sold, money spent, I don't reckon they'll be able to get anything back, really, it's more of a point of principle.'

Ginny's voice is slightly distorted through the speaker. 'We spent just over 440,000 Galleons last year. I've budgeted around the same amount for '01, because there's always inflation, although I do anticipate our expenses to decrease with all the legal stuff coming to an end. We may also be able to decrease the amount of help we're handing out as the kids get older and people get more settled in. If we maintain the programmes as they are, we should be good.'

Harry opens his mouth.

'I know -' she interrupts, 'Harry's said he reckons we shouldn't be cutting financial support off the kids the moment they turn seventeen, which I get in theory, but shockingly, we are not made of money.'

Harry closes his mouth.

'Now, in terms of funding,' Ginny continues, 'About 2%'s interest on what we've invested. 15% are Ministry grants, 60% come from private contributors and - this is its own category considering the numbers - 23% is Harry.' She snaps the last word and he kind of rolls his eyes - they've been over this before - Ginny thinks he's giving too much, like: 'Harry, I know it's your money but -'

Everyone is eyeing him like there's context he needs to provide on this particular brand of bickering, which he doesn't. 'Harry's not giving more this year than last year,' Ginny adds, oblivious (or perhaps not), 'so, if we want to do all those things you talked about and maintain what we're already doing, we need to branch out. Fundraise more. Maybe target businesses instead of private individuals. Before I left, I heard that Kingsley was thinking of introducing this Muggle thing where you don't have to pay taxes if you give to charity? We could talk about it in the press, pressure them into adopting it sooner than later. People hate paying taxes, they like to know where their money goes rather than let the government decide - we could use that to our advantage.' She pauses. 'As someone who was taught on cookbooks and children's tales and barely anything beyond basic maths, I do think more standardised schooling might be a good thing.'

9 votes in favour, 3 votes against, 1 abstention - lobbying it is. Harry nods. 'I'll have Samira draft something.'

Harry continues to play Quidditch with the Ministry. Larunda does get pregnant (hallelujah), and they convince Sarah, one of the girls from Major Crimes, to take Harry's Beater spot. It's fun and low pressure, and everything Ginny's version of Quidditch isn't. There's recurring post-game chats at the pub where people try to weed need-to-know information about Ginny's career out of Harry ('Is she only staying the season?' 'Where else is she considering?' 'Is it true that she's received an offer from the Bats?') and complain that he's remaining so tight-lipped. It's thrilling that people see her as more than his girlfriend now.

The lads at the office take the piss out of him, too - a bit. It's all in good spirit. At work, Niamh and Alex have a running joke that Harry is either 'always there' or 'never there,' because he's picked up, like, half a million Patrol shifts at the weekends on top of the Hit Wizards, in the hopes of claiming the days back. He's counted it up and if he works at least two sixteen-hour shifts a month, plus the on-calls, he can probably get away with at least a week off for 'free,' which will help if he and Gin ever want to take 'real' holidays this summer.

It's not too bad, though. He's not been sleeping well anyway and it's been fun working on Patrol again - they're still short-staffed enough that he even gets to mentor a bit and Neville's generation of Auror ducklings have just hit the ground running. Nev's actually quite good, Harry reckons, once he gets the hang of things, and it's nice to have people he already knows to work with. He's also still putting in overtime on the Muggle outreach programme Kingsley and Robards are pressuring him to grow into other agencies (he's in contact with over fifty agents spread out over thirty police stations in the country, now - it's a Thing), and 'It would be nice if we had people in Intelligence too, wouldn't it?' The first Monday in February, Ginny's been gone four weeks and Harry throws a particularly heavy punch into one of Sett's mitts during boxing practice; it makes the other lad stagger a couple steps back and laugh: 'Wow, someone needs to get laid.'

Well, like, maybe, yeah.

They're managing, though. They're okay.

In '01, it's Ron and Hermione who don't talk to each other for six months. There is a Fight. Harry sides with Ron. Does so sat at the back of a cab under the disapproving glare of their Muggle driver, praying that his hammered best mate won't throw up on the seats as he slurs through his story. Hannah was the one who called, too afraid to Floo or Apparate with him, after Ron drunkenly tried to punch another patron in the face, and she said: 'Oh, Harry, thank God, I was afraid the press would show up next.' Harry sides with Ron but also, Ron kicks Hermione out of the house, that night, and she shows up on his doorstep with a suitcase and tears rolling down her cheeks at two in the morning and he can't bring himself to throw her out. She camps on his sofa until the end of May.

There is honestly nothing he hates more than being stuck in the middle. There are very few things he fears more than a divorce. Ron's quite bang on about it, that winter, swearing up and down and back and forth that he is done, that they are done; yet, he never tells his parents. Never finds a solicitor. To the contrary, he goes to stupid (like: truly stupid) lengths to hide the split from his family. Says to Harry: 'I can't tell Mum what happened. She'll never forgive Hermione.'

Aside from him, Ginny's the only one who knows. She refuses to take sides although Harry gets the sense that she at least has sympathy for Hermione. Ron claims he doesn't mind Harry telling her. Hermione begshim not to, that first night, for fear the she might tell the rest of the Weasleys (she wouldn't) and Harry is furious enough on Ron's behalf anyway that he doesn't think she gets to express an opinion on the matter. He offers her tea and when she asks for something without caffeine, he fishes out two-year-old, stale, Jasmine bags from the depths of his cupboard (from the depths of his mind, really - neither he nor Ginny drink Jasmine tea) and says: 'I'm not lying to her.' Hermione winces, sat on his couch, her hand on her stomach, and he pretends not to see it. 'We don't lie to each other.'

'You know he overreacted,' Hermione tells him, then. 'You'd never have kicked Ginny out of the house if -'

'Ginny would never have done that without talking to me first -' He's got absolutely no doubts about it although she does confirm when he asks, later. 'If it'd been us, though -'

'Ah, yes,' Hermione bites back, quick. 'You two and your perfect, little relationship -'

On the phone, he talks to Ginny about that actually, that winter. Like: years later, if you ask him what remains in his brain of those bizarre six months where his girlfriend was away and his best friends pretended to hate each other's guts, that's the quote that's somehow stayed. His mouth fell open like: I'm sorry, what?! And Ginny laughed when he told her, twisting the phone cord between his fingers with silencing charms set to the door so that Hermione, now living in his sitting room, wouldn't hear. 'They're the ones who never had any problems! Like, after the war, got together like it was the easiest fucking thing in the world!'

It takes him a while to understand. Understand why Hermione snaps, that night, like he and Ginny are so fucking perfect, almost flaunting it in other people's faces. He resents her, even, because for Heaven's sake, of all people, she should know that the picture-perfect romance they project, the ease with which the press now depicts them, the rose-tinted glasses, means fucking nothing behind closed doors. Tell nothing of the months of work and patience and talks and of what the raw, excruciating year that directly followed the war was like for the two of them. He remembers her in her fucking perfect wedding dress when Ginny was writing letters to him about how she got raped, and for fuck's sake, Hermione was on his bloody couch the night he almost cut his fucking veins open. How could she ever think he and Ginny were perfect. Even now, does she genuinely think they never fight? Never have problems? He accidentally fucking drew his wand at her barely three months ago.

So: yeah. It takes him a while to understand. Understand that, in truth, what Hermione is envious of, that winter, isn't a lack of problems. What she bites back against, that night, is the certainty that transpires in Harry's voice when, faced with the eventuality of the same issue occurring with Ginny, he just fucking knows they'd have worked it out. Like: no questions asked. Like: they also worked out the photoshoot and the risks he takes with the job he chose, and the fact that she had to go live on what feels like another planet for months. The certainty that they just would not, ever again, end up like this, because it turns out that "perfection" isn't a lack of problems, it's an ability to get past them.

He rolled his eyes at her, that night, exasperated. 'Ron's not gonna bloody disappear, Hermione,' he said. 'He's left the Aurors, he's not gonna die, and I know you think he works too much but you could fucking have -' Given him the opportunity to make his own decisions, he wants to say, rather than make them for him and only tell him after the fact. 'Ron's not some one-night-stand you met up in a bar. He's Ron. He would have been there for you. He's your husband. He's not gonna up and leave -'

'Isn't he, though?'

Harry stares at and stills.

'Like you don't ever think about it,' she says.

'I do not.'

The saddest of smiles in her brown eyes. 'Well, good for you, then.'

So, yeah. He gets why Hermione had the abortion, in the end.

The truth: she went to Muggles because she was too afraid of someone in St Mungo's leaking it to the press. Took a pill and told Ron, took the second in Harry's bathroom, that night. Bled and wept all the tears she held and he wanted to be a dick, then. He wanted to be a dick because Ron's anger felt justified, because she'd lied, but he brought her more tea, instead. Tiptoeing into the bathroom and awkwardly walking backwards to give her privacy. She grabbed his hand right before he left, from where she sat on the loo, cheeks blotched with all the salt in her eyes.

'I don't care,' she whispered. 'Can you stay?'

And, so, he held her hand, then.

(There's stuff to say about this. So much. But: it's not his story to tell. It might eventually be hers.)

So: it's a relief to reach Queenstown a couple weeks later. Harry feels a tad bad for leaving, but Hermione insists he should go ('You know, what I said about you two, I didn't mean -') and Ron's also secretly relieved to see him gone from the flat, Harry thinks. Ginny pointed that out to him on the phone the other day, like: 'Do you not think out of all places she could have gone, she also kind of picked your flat to fuck with his head a bit?'

Harry cringed.

Ginny's still got practice but they spend evenings by the pier in the golden light of another summer's end, looking out on forests and mountains. His arms wrap easily around her frame, his chin resting in her hair. Seeing her that winter feels like coming home in a place he doesn't even know and he could swear he feels Ginny's giggles in his own stomach, warm and bubbly. They get out of town his first weekend, fly around in places where no one can see them and he asks her, joking, how she can still want to fly with him. 'I'll never get sick of flying,' she grins. 'I might get sick of you if you keep going so bloody slow, though.'

He gets to watch a couple of her games. There are some reporters but it's manageable. The papers seem happy that they are still together, thank you very much. He gets back to England and their faces are everywhere: Harry and Ginny in Queenstown! (And our consultant's advice on coping with the distance!). It's fine - he even manages to laugh at the press, now, which is saying something.

'Maybe I could just stay here,' he suggests the morning before he needs to get back to England. 'Be a stay-at-home boyfriend. Do nothing.'

She bursts out a laugh. 'You'd last a week.'

He looks at her so pretty and although he knows she (repeatedly, now) said she didn't want one for another five years, he can't help but wonder what it would be like, if they had a baby.

Back home, he and Hermione take turns on the couch. Spring is protesting March vehemently; it's lashing rain and five degrees all month - the longer days their only solace. They can't really ever be arsed to cook so at night, they eat crisps and popcorn in front of the TV. Hermione drinks white wine; there is something posh and expensive but also so very young in the way she holds the stems of her glasses, uni students in their first ball gowns.

At work, there's a bad night, once. They are called in for an emergency - an idiot wanting to make a name for himself, threatening to bring down a Muggle bridge like it's August '97 again. Harry drags himself out of bed and tiptoes through the sitting room so as not to wake Hermione, and Rory's off on holidays. During their briefing, at the edge of the road, preparing to go in, Hawk looks around, eyeing Harry and Katja and Sarah and Nett, and Cary. He lists positions and says: 'Harry, you take the hill.'

The hill and its perfect, vantage point.

Harry nods.

He's fine. He expected: to shake. To slide down to the floor like he couldn't breathe again. Have to show up at Andromeda's to restore his faith in the world and in himself. But: it's half-three in the morning when he gets home and he can see Teddy tomorrow. It's also too early for a phone call and Ginny'll still be at practice. Hermione's asleep. He imagines waking her up for a bit. Shaking her awake. 'Hermione, I killed someone today.'

It sounds stupid, even in his head.

He feels numb. Like: in his bedroom, the lights are on and they're too bright but he can't imagine turning them off either. He lays on top of the covers, stares at the ceiling. Fishes his old GameBoy out from Ginny's bedside table. He's not agonising, but he also doesn't feel like sleeping. And, when he reaches down, his fingers graze the glossy cover of a magazine. God, how much time has passed that he almost forgot about it.

That night, he studies the cover for a bit. Traces the line of her jaw with his index finger, wishing she was here. She is smiling, wearing a Harpies t-shirt that stops just below her bum, throwing the Quaffle at the camera. There is text floating around her - something about a dead fashion designer and: TEN HANDBAGS FOR THIS WINTER! Harry opens the magazine, goes straight to her interview. Pages of little lines of small print. He flicks again. That picture of her in the bodysuit. She winks at him. He looks down. The way she breathes in and out, the depth of her cleavage in front of him.

Is it pathetic that his thumb eventually grazes the top button of his trousers? Yeah, maybe, a bit. He does call to tell her afterwards and she bursts out a laugh. 'What did you say again?' she teases. 'Creeps wanking off in their basements?'

'Ha-ha.' He wonders where the statement 'I killed someone today then had a wank to sexy pictures of my girlfriend' ranks on the 'stupid' scale.

'How are you feeling?' Ginny asks, though, then.

'Weird,' he admits.

Perhaps, a bit shit. Like: he wishes he could sleep so that at least, he wouldn't be half-dead for the debrief tomorrow. He wishes things had turned out differently. He replays the fucking thing over and over in his head. He looks at his wand a bit funny. He misses Ginny.

She says he did the right thing. He points out that he followed orders. She laughs. Like he'd ever just 'follow orders.' 'No,' she says. 'You did the right thing.'

Before hanging up: 'I love you,' she tells him. He smiles, turns out the lights.

'Me too.'

He does tell Hermione eventually. Just because: although he is alright, he still feels a bit weird over the next couple weeks, like his skin sits rather uncomfortably around his body, and she knows him well enough to notice. She gasps and says: 'God, Harry, are you sure you want to do that job?' and he smiles, nods: 'Yeah.' Because, it was that bloke's life against that of all the innocent people crossing the bridge, and he'd do it again in a heartbeat.

He remembers that other night, sitting on his couch at his old flat, hammered and so fucking sad. She told him he might have PTSD and he thought: yeah, maybe. 'D'you still have nightmares?' Harry asks, now. He is laying across the unfolded sofa bed, staring at the ceiling and popping popcorn in the air, catching them in his mouth. Hermione's annoyed with him for buying junk food in the first place because she spent half her food budget on almonds and shit, last week, in an attempt to get them to eat 'healthy,' and now, she sits at the edge of the mattress with the TV on, tells him it's 'disgusting.'

'All the time,' she admits. There is a pause. He thinks she's not sure she wants to ask. 'You?'

'Sometimes.' It's true. Ginny does, too. 'Not all the time, though.'

Then: 'I feel like I'm fucking sinking,' she tells him.

Harry watches, sitting up. Watches as she finishes her wine in one large gulp and it occurs to him he's not quite sure how much she's had. 'It's not just that I wasn't sure he'd stay,' she whispers, then. 'It's also that I know he'd have wanted to keep it.'

Her fingers press under her eye, wiping off a tear, that night, like she wants it to leave a mark.

'He's -' She closes her eyes again. For a moment. Reopens them and looks out the window. 'He's doing well. Jesus, even his parents are coping,' she sighs. 'And, you and Ginny are -' She pinches her lips into a smile like something inside her hurts. 'You know, I used to sit there and tell myself: "well, at least you're not doing as bad as Harry."' He winces. 'He's ready to have baby and I'm just fucking - sinking.' She functions and mothers everyone around but still shakes and sees Bellatrix when she closes her eyes.

'Hermione,' Harry says, then. 'Hermione, you need to tell him.'

At the start of April, he visit Ginny again. A breath. He gets back on the 17th and Hermione's house-elves bill finally passes through the Wizengamot. At the pub, Ron pretends to roll his eyes and Harry snaps: 'Mate, if you wanted a divorce you'd get one.'

To be fair, it's the last time Ron ever brings it up again.

May - he's the only one showing up to the Ministry thing. The anniversary of the war is becoming increasingly more of a political event, meant as a photo op and a reminder to the wizarding public that their Minister also isa war hero. Alongside Harry, attendees are mostly Ministry people, and others engaged in rebuilding or in advocating for the victims in some capacity. Neville and Hannah represent C.A.S.H.C.O.W. Andromeda and the Weasleys are invited, of course, but they all decline. On the phone, Ginny suggests his lack of attendance last year gave everyone permission to skip something that isn't really serving any of them, anymore, and if she's right, then he's quite glad. Some bloke from his office whose face looks vaguely familiar officiates and Kingsley gives a nice speech about the damages of war and the hopes for the future - the whole event lasts about an hour. Afterwards, Harry stays for a bit, because there are a few families still there, and he shakes people's hands and listens to the stories they want to tell him. That, strangely, seems to be the thing that helps him.

Later still, faced with the seemingly inescapable reality that neither of them are truly ready to give up on the other, Ron and Hermione thankfully begin to see each other again.

Slowly. Not right away. In April and May, Hermione's still too stubborn and hurt to make the first move, but she does blurt out, apropos of nothing, once: 'I'm going to therapy.'

Harry stares, like: what do you mean, you're going to therapy?

She explains she's found someone. Sister of a witch, with an office in Exeter. She can Apparate. 'I want to minimise the risk of it leaking to the press, though obviously, you can never be sure. I've drawn up an action plan with Samira, in case it comes out.' She pauses, looks at him as he brushes his teeth, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom. 'At the same time, I wanted to find someone to whom I wouldn't have to explain magic and the war, you know? Who I am? I thought: if Harry's managed to find fifty coppers with ties to the magical world and he didn't even have to look that hard, I can surely find one therapist,' she smiles. 'She's sent me her references, they seem very good.'

He turns around. Spits toothpaste out.

'I've got my first appointment at eleven,' she adds. Then, she shows him a bundle of papers a few inches thick on the kitchen counter. 'I've prepared research.'

Harry looks back, wiping his face with a towel. She takes one look at him.

'Oh, don't laugh,' she smiles.

Hermione's always been the clever one.

At work, the Muggle government (by way of Kingsley, then Robards) finds some bloke from the Home Office they want him to liaise with. In the spirit of "cooperation," they say; they may, in the future, need help from wizards with some 'sensitive operations.' The programme is starting to become a little bit too political for Harry's liking but now that it's working, it's also not something he wants to stop.

The lad's actually nice. Late-thirties, the notable thing, here, is that he's the first Muggle official Harry's assigned to work with who's actually a full Muggle. They don't only cooperate, they disclose magic to him, for the sole purpose of this. Unheard of, Kingsley admits, but 'let's see how it goes,' seems to be the position from the Ministry of Magic. 'Worst case scenario, we can always Obliviate him, you know?'

Surprisingly, if Harry's honest, they actually benefit a lot more from this relationship than the Home Office does. Major Crimes has a bunch of high-level investigations going on at the time Harry makes contact, most of them involving the trafficking of illegal potions in and out of the island - the Home Office helps them find out that the culprits are using Muggle boats to cross the Channel undetected by Aurors. Even Robards cannot praise the Muggles enough for the tip. 'Oh, well,' Alexander - his contact - says to Harry on the phone. He's even got a mobile to talk to the Muggles, now, one that Dean's managed to make work within the Ministry. It's all a bit crazy. 'I don't see why we wouldn't help.'

'Well, still,' Harry adds. 'Cheers.'

A few weeks later, at the canteen, Harry's chatting to Neville and a Muggleborn girl named Amber starts asking him all sorts of questions about the programme. Who are you talking to, and how, and why, and: 'Wait, can I help?'

Harry shrugs. 'Sure, yeah.'

Officially, Robards even allocates her eight hours a week to the project, reporting into Harry.

'Look at you, being the boss,' Ginny laughs.

Hermione likes that he's doing this, he knows. Every time he is home, in '01, it's a good thing to talk about, take her mind off certain things. The ins-and-outs are confidential, of course, but she's got clearance, and Harry likes that she thinks of him as a good guy, strengthening relationships with Muggles. 'I was thinking,' she tells him, once. It is already almost mid-May. It's nice out. 'Maybe, I should transfer.' He frowns. 'To the DMLE, I mean. Wizengamot admin. Help Kingsley push policies.'

Harry smiles. He would be so glad to see her leave the house-elves behind. 'Oh,' she smiles again. 'Don't laugh.'

She does move out, eventually. Once Ginny comes back. They've made it! Hallelujah, praise the Lord - Harry's ecstatic! And, even if Ginny herself insists Hermione can stay, Harry's best friend shakes her head and says: 'You need time together, just the both of you.' Harry does feel a bit shite for virtually kicking her out (but, like, only a bit) so he helps her move into another soulless Clerkenwell flat, this time shared with Susan Bones who decided she was now 'too old' for the crowd at Grimmauld. The girls decorate and give the place a tad more warmth, like he and Ginny did back when they first moved in. 'Oh, it's alright,' Hermione smiles.

He carries the last cardboard box into her bedroom. They didn't want to levitate anything for fear they might encounter neighbours; Harry is exhausted and drenched in sweat like he's just been through a full-body workout. Hermione takes pity on him and offers a glass of water from the kitchen afterwards. 'You know Ron's been on a date?' he tells her, then. The horrified look on face says enough, that day. He waits a bit before putting her out of her misery. 'It was a disaster,' he laughs. There is a sigh of relief. 'Talked about you for two hours, the girl went to the loo and never came back.'

She chuckles. He can see it makes her happy, though. Ron was miserable and asked Harry how on Earth he managed to pull Mia after the war and honestly, he had to admit it's not like there was a technique or a vision to it.

'Please, just sort this out,' he begs her on his way out.

In the end, Harry never quite knows who makes the first move. He doesn't know if Hermione's therapist finally manages to convince her, or if it's Ron who sees her moving out, settling into this new life and state of things, and realises that he better step up before it's too late. All he knows is that Ginny and he host a small celebration at Grimmauld when she makes the English national team in July (YES! THANK GOD!), they both come and don't yell at each other once. Harry does think Hermione's talked to Ron, though, because one evening in August, over drinks, Harry's best mate says: 'She said she thought I'd leave again.'

His fingers are wrapped around his pint leaving imprints on the cold glass. 'She said that -' he swallows, looks away. 'That with me spending so much time in work, at the shop and all - she wasn't sure I even wanted to be with her anymore. She said that she felt like everyone was moving on and she wasn't. She'd started casting silencing charms at night so that I wouldn't hear her screaming. She didn't feel normal.' He sighs. 'Then, she chose the house-elves to make it easier for us, but I guess I kept berating her about it. Which -' he pauses for breath, looks at Harry again. 'Yeah. I mean, how was I supposed to know?She says she knows she should have told me. That we would have done whatever she wanted. She just got sort of caught up in her own head,' he sighs. 'I reckon we've all been there.'

Ron later concedes: 'Then, I suppose I was a bit of a dick. I shouldn't have yelled and kicked her out of the house. I didn't even try to question it. So, I dunno, maybe we were both kind of right and kind of wrong, you know?'

Ron and Hermione go on a date, at the end of August. A first date. From what Harry hears, it goes well.

And, finally, a couple weeks later, in September, Hermione starts work at the DMLE. The next day, she's already inviting Harry to lunch, to tell him about All The Things That Are Wrong with the department. He listens (sort of) over a burger and chips - they went to a pub a few streets away from the Ministry because she didn't want them to be overheard. There are a few men at the bar watching a boring blend of golf and BBC World News on the TVs at the back; Harry faces the door, pretends to pay attention as he watches the crowds walk by outside. The weather's autumnal again, drizzling English rain.

Hawk, Robards and almost all the other department heads are over in MACUSA for the week, some big international law enforcement summit hosted by the Americans. Frankly, everyone's doing fuck all at the office. Harry himself only has four days left until he and Ginny finally go on holiday, draw in the last breaths of a European summer before the start of the new Quidditch season. On Andromeda's recommendation, they've picked Greece. He's not sure they're going to visit that many ruins, but they'll try some, he guesses.

They've been enjoying each other's presence again, lately. Just basking in the post-New-Zealand glow. It was good for both their careers but he really hopes they don't have to do it again anytime soon. Ginny's had a few meetings about the World Cup already, and things seem to be going smoothly. Namibia is hosting and he's already wondering how much time off work he'll be able to take - again.

'Harry,' Hermione glares at him. 'Are you listening to me?'

He smirks. 'Not really.'

But, see: 'Okay,' he tells her. First of all, she's invited him under the guise of a work thing, when he knows damn well that all she really wants, is to talk about is Ron. There have now been on three (3) dates thus far, the fourth scheduled for Saturday. She's stayed over at Grimmauld - once. And, whilst she does get on with Susan, Hermione has no other friends to talk this over with, so at this point, she's literally begunasking him dumb questions on stuff like what she should wear at her birthday dinner, next Wednesday. When Harry desperately points out that shockingly, this is not his area of expertise, she throws back. 'Then, why did you help me pick my wedding dress?'

For God's sake.

And, second: he did (sort of) loosely listen to what she had to say. Auror procedures aren't standardised enough, and there is actually no reason for them and the MPS to be part of the same department. Susan seems to also have convinced her that everyone in the DMLE would be in much better positions making sentencing decisions, if they had opened a law book at least once in their lives. To which Harry responds that, frankly, this is well (well) beyond his paygrade (and hers, for that matter) and also that, yes, okay, not all Aurors adhere to procedures to the strictest standard, but most of them do try to do their jobs semi-decently. 'And, anyway,' he adds, looking down, picking at a chip with his fork. 'I just think it's a bit early for you to -'

'Harry -' Hermione says.

He looks up. It's: her tone. The look on her face. Something goes cold like ice in his chest. Like: snatchers in the forest. Instinctively, his hand wraps around his wand.

'No,' she says. Her voice - like Dobby on the ground at Shell Cottage. Her hand against his wrist. 'Turn around. Look at the TV.'

It is September, that year. 2:03 PM British Standard Time.

They watch the 21st century start.