Castles

by pebblysand

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

19. out of faith (paper planes)

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xix. out of faith (paper planes)

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They buried Fred in church, in '98.

Harry remembers: the exposed wooden beams and the stained glass in the small wizarding chapel of Ottery St Catchpole. It had never occurred to him that wizards could have religion but the place was packed - benches upon benches of family members and Hogwarts students and staff, everyone from the Order and everyone from the DA, and virtually everyone and anyone who'd ever walked down Diagon Alley. Harry sat at the back, feigning a conversation of great importance with Kingsley ahead of the ceremony - couldn't imagine sitting next to the Weasleys.

Hermione did. Her hand wrapped tight around Ron's and Harry watched them afar. He wondered, not for the first time, that spring, what would happen if he just disappeared. Not died under spectacularly loud Avada Kedavras shot by dark wizards, but just evaporated, quietly, like he never existed.

For Tonks and Lupin, they had a gathering at Andromeda's. A burial at a graveyard without much fuss. Teddy crying with colics. When it came to his father, Andromeda asked. 'I reckon he'd just want them to be together,' Harry shrugged. For Tonks, she smiled and shook her head, the saddest thing imaginable. 'Ted raised her into a Marxist,' she said. 'The "opium of the people," you know?'

He didn't. Not then, anyway.

Samira says things are harder, in '01. Not just the way people glare at her in the streets for no reason, but: 'It's difficult to believe when you think He let this happen. All those poor people.'

Harry spends a lot of time, that year, wondering where train stations lead.

They get back to the Ministry quickly, he and Hermione. There is a bit of confusion, first, at the pub, and 'Oi! Can you turn the volume up?' The second plane's just hit - an uncanny tone of disbelief in the presenter's voice on Sky News. 'We, er, we just saw another plane fly by, we're waiting to see it come out the other side -'

Harry's phone rings - one of those indestructible Nokia 3310s, like: the end of the world could come and they'd still all be buzzing, a loud choral in the pit of a black hole. Tadada-tadada-tadada-dadaaaaah. Alex-from-the-Home-Office screeching in his ear: 'TELL ME THIS ISN'T YOU FUCKING PEOPLE -'

So: he fishes a couple tenners out of the depths of his pockets, grabs Hermione's hand, and runs.

It's not - thought-out. Or particularly heroic. Just - instinct; the very lack of thought, actually. For years afterwards, he becomes known as the bloke who ran the Auror department on 9/11 and in a lot of people's eyes, it's a badge of honour. The day that Muggle/Wizard relationships took their true, post-war turn, for better or for worse - like some sort of accomplishment. Years later, it's even in the press release that announces his nomination as Head Auror, people asking how he knew it would matter. He bursts out a laugh. 'You think I knew?'

It's: inch after inch, that day. Minute after minute, hour after hour. Just: a couple streets down to the public loos, first. Then: a sprint through the Atrium and towards the lifts with Hermione at his heel. It is '97 again, or '96, and they are running down Ministry corridors, hearts hammering.

Soon: the Patrol open space. He sees: ten - maybe twenty people - slugging back to their desks after a heavy canteen lunch; he shouts and claps as they both storm in, making as much noise as he can to halt ongoing conversations. 'HEY! SOMETHING'S HAPPENING -'

No idea what, though. Quickly, he finds - 'Dean!'

With Seamus and Neville, mid-laughter around one of their desks; there must be something in Harry's voice because they all turn around immediately, hand on their wands.

'That TV in the break room, can you get Muggle channels on it?'

They all pile up in there. It's - quarter past two, maybe? People just - follow him. There is the small kitchen and the sofas - maybe two hundred and fifty square feet crowded with the curiosity of a couple dozen young, Patrol Auror agents, trying to gauge the source of the Boy Who Lived's excitement. Harry ousts two lads from whatever video game they were playing on the sofa with nothing but Harry-Fucking-Potter clout, and gets the TV rolling. Hermione's voice is a low drone in the background, this hubbub of multiple conversations ongoing, asynchronously covering Kay Burley's words. They're repeating the same thing, showing the same live footage of the towers burning. A loose thought hits his brain, one that he doesn't really have time to dwell on. Didn't he and Ginny go? Like: two years ago?

Harry looks around the room. It's mostly the kids from Neville's intake; he recognises some of their faces from Hogwarts, but not all of them. They're all staring in confusion, either at the TV, or at him - the Muggleborns clearly identifiable with the added concern in their eyes. Harry just - improvises.

'Okay.' The hubbub slightly subdues around him. 'I need a corkboard we can pin stuff to, I need - info.' In his hand, his phone is ringing again. He glances quickly at the Caller ID - it's David, one of the superintendents he's been in contact with at the Met. He hung up on Alex but he needs to take that one. 'You -' he points at a uniform-wearing lad standing at the door. 'Get me someone from Section B - literally anyone. And -' he looks around, quick, finds her gaze, too. 'Amber!' (She's the girl he's been working with on the Muggle outreach thing.) 'Alex's been ringing me non-stop for the past fifteen minutes - I don't think he knows what's going on. Ring him back, calm him down, see what he wants. I reckon he thinks it's us -' A quick, stolen glance at the TV again. They are doing a close up on people at the windows. Harry averts his gaze. 'Tell him I don't know, but I don't think it is -' He pauses just as she nods, to finally pick up the phone. 'Dave - yes?'

It lasts - ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Harry's got flashbacks of the bombings in Brixton. Bombs going off in London, Mia's glare, and them just sitting on their hands for weeks on end. In his ear, Hermione mutters: 'Harry, this is America. They haven't had a war. It can't be wizards, can it?' like he's got any fucking clue. Quickly, he instructs the other agents around them, a constant shuffle in and out of the break room. Information appears on the corkboard - the very little amount of things the girl from Section B is willing to give them ('Our work is highly confidential, you all don't have clearance -' 'Ah, fuck off -'), and what the TV is saying - 'Al Qaeda - what is that? CAN SOMEONE FIND OUT?'

The racket eventually attracts The Powers That Be. He's on the phone again, to some other bloke from the Met that Amber's put on when Elias Fabius, the Head of IntoxSubs, walks in.

'What on Earth is going on, here?'

'Sorry, Dan, I need to call you back -'

Before Harry can even begin to explain, though, a real silence falls across the floor. Whispers and quick steps down the Patrol open space, muffled by carpet. Fabius is standing in the doorway, looks out. 'Oh, Minister,' he says.

Awkwardly, a group of agents shuffle out of the way to let Kingsley into the room. It's tiny. Tinier with the Minister of Magic's aura and the man himself, who probably stands at 6'5" on a bad day. They've pushed the sofa to the side and the corkboard is up on a wall to Harry's right when he faces the door, with all kinds of sticky notes. Dean's been to Grimmauld and back; they have two TVs, now, Sky and CNN on flat screens, one of which is precariously balanced on the kitchen counter, wires running across the room. It's all embarrassingly makeshift. Harry wonders if he will get sacked for suddenly pulling all Auror resources to go off a bizarre Muggle expedition. The chatter around them stops, bar from the TV, and the Minister finally crosses his gaze.

'I have a meeting with Blair in ten.' His glance over Harry's face. 'Talk to me.'

Lists of facts. Quick - two minutes, maybe three. Two aeroplanes, they're fearing more. Probably a Muggle religious group, unconfirmed. The Americans are closing their airspace, Downing Street's wondering about doing the same. 'They're shutting down City Airport, definitely -' Harry says. 'Washington is evacuating the White House - the press don't seem to know where Bush is.' A short breath. 'I've been trying to get a line of comms with MACUSA but owls are too slow and not sure Patronuses go that far.' He switches to London. 'Number 10 thinks there might be other global attacks. They're not sure yet. There's a lot of confusion at the Yard, they're receiving conflicting instructions. Evacuate, but also get officers out in the streets. They're thinking of clearing out Canary Wharf and Westminster, maybe Buckingham. They're not evacuating Downing Street yet - they have no clue where else they could go - Blair's not there, anyway, he's in -'

'- Brighton,' Kingsley nods. 'Yeah, I know.'

Okay. Moving on. 'I reckon we help them,' he chances. Nothing to lose sort of thing. 'Likely, it's like Brixton, it's not us, but everyone at the Home Office's running around like headless chickens. We need to show them we're with them, or else the entire Muggle outreach just - tanks. They're not gonna keep giving us money to rebuild or intel if we're not pulling our weight. Even if it is just the US, they're gonna need - manpower, more than they have, and we have ways we can secure locations much quicker than they can. They're going to want to pull up high alert everywhere. Airports, train stations -' he adds. 'We help them in the middle of a crisis, they'll remember. We fuck them over -'

'Folks,' it's CNN that interrupts him. 'We are getting reports of an explosion at the Pentagon, our reporter is -'

There is another stunned moment of silence. Kingsley opens his mouth, closes it. Some girl by the coffee table is crying.

'Minister.' Fabius speaks again for the first time. Harry just stares at him. It somehow feels disrespectful to speak right now. 'With all due respect, this is a Muggle attack, on Muggle soil - this is a Muggle problem. The Statute of Secrecy -'

Kingsley raises his hand, palm high in his direction to silence him. 'Harry,' he turns back. 'Where is Robards?'

Harry suddenly freezes. Like: the floor opens under his feet. He'd - forgot. Hadn't paused to think. And, for the first time that afternoon, there is a flicker of fear in Kingsley's gaze when he looks at him. Harry supposes he must have approved the trip himself. It explains Fabius's lone presence at the office - must have drawn the short straw, an unfortunate designated driver instructed to stay behind and keep the place running while all the other Auror leads went out on the piss to 'foster international law enforcement relationships.'

'Well, that's what I'm saying,' Fabius insists. 'They're all over there, they'll know what's going on. We just - try and reach someone. See what they think. There's no need for us to do anything here, nothing's happening anyway. I think -'

Harry opens his mouth to counter. Kingsley cuts him off with his palm. He watches, as the Minister closes his eyes and draws in a breath, like summoning a decision out of thin air. Finally, he looks at Fabius. 'You're right,' he says. Harry's shoulders slump. Hermione catches his wrist to stop him from yelling. What was the fucking point of insisting they build good working relationships with Muggles if -

'Elias, I'm putting you in charge of establishing a connection with MACUSA. Try and get Gawain, somehow. At best, they'll have more information than we do. At worst, well, we need to know if -'

A shake of his head. Like: he doesn't want to think about it. Harry is grateful for that, at least.

That said, the last thing he expects, then, is for Kingsley to turn to face him again. A diagonal in the middle of the room - everyone in the office fucking staring. Harry awkwardly stands by the TV, his mobile still in his hand. The Minister's voice is matter of fact when it comes out. 'Harry,' he says. 'You're in charge of everything else.'

In a millisecond, Fabius straightens up, ready to pound - the Minister raises his hand again, blocking him, forefinger pointing with the kind of glare that reminds Harry of why the man was chosen to lead the Order in the first place. 'Do not openyour mouth.' A pause. 'Harry, get everything you have and meet me in my office, I want you on the call.'

'I need Hermione.'

The words just - file out. Hermione looks as surprised as he is. But, he needs her. Because: she caught his wrist, just then. And because, like McGonagall's before the battle, her panic just - steadies him. Kingsley's gaze bounces between the two of them.

'Alright, yeah.'

They don't - sleep. Not really, not for days. 'I chose you because Robards wasn't there,' Kingsley once says. They are in his office, much later, overlooking the city skylights. 'You had more information than anyone else I'd spoken to, that day. And -' he smiles. Head cocked a little to the side. 'Leadership. You're good in a crisis.' A pause. 'Plus, with the Muggles, you knew what I was trying to achieve. Between you and that idiot, it wasn't a hard call. Not that many people vying for the role.'

He owls Ginny - quickly. I'm alright. Won't be home tonight. In actual fact, he doesn't come home for another five days. Once they do decide to help, there is just too much to do. Securing locations on Day One and Day Two turns into intelligence gathering on Day Three, calls with the Americans, with the Muggles - countless landlines that Dean has to set up, frantically running around the office because wizarding means of communication are now too slow for this. The confirmation that this was indeed a Muggle attack comes rather quickly, grainy videos of Bin Laden in Afghanistan broadcast all over the Muggle TV. At the end of that first day, MACUSA's Auror department finally sends them a message through an old portrait. We're up and running again. They all breathe a sigh of relief.

Harry's able to talk to Hawk and Robards the next day. They are staying in New York for the time being; Portkeys are not happening - the Muggles don't understand what they are and POTUS allegedly yelled at their president when she suggested the idea - and Muggle aeroplanes are all grounded. MACUSA have also decided to help wherever they could, securing buildings and discreetly joining rescue efforts, despite rather chilly relations with the Bush administration. On a secure line, Hawk says: 'It's bleak, Harry, I don't know what to tell you,' and Robards: 'Ah, Shacklebolt put you in charge, did he?'

Harry sort of incoherently babbles that he can try and see with Kingsley if they could find someone else, but Robards laughs. 'I'm not saying it wasn't a good decision, Potter.'

It all feels fucking surreal.

On Day Three, Ron shows up with fresh pastries and a change of clothes; he and Hermione hug tight but are a bit awkward around each other and Harry is so engrossed in work it takes him a few minutes to even remember why. He's just got this yearning, looking at them. Wanting to hold Ginny close. They've watched the images, all day and all night since Tuesday, those towers falling and people jumping, clouds of ash and smoke and bodies - he can't get it out. It's easier just to keep his head down and work, that day.

Hermione finally goes home that evening. At Ron's encouragement, no doubt. The immediate emergency is over, the part where she could help, coordinating with Muggle administrations - she does know a lot, Hermione - but she's not an Auror. The Muggle police have started rounding up everyone on their watch lists, trying to get intel that may help Americans or themselves, try to get some certainty on whether a similar attack is being planned on the UK. A decision was made to discreetly send Aurors alongside Muggle officers on tougher arrests and interrogations and everyone's methods started to make her feel uncomfortable.

Harry's never spent this much time in Kingsley's company. This much time in the company of Muggle politicians, for that matter. Some of Blair's closest staff are expeditiously told about magic, that week, as well as some other higher-ups in police forces. They all agree to sign iron-tight NDAs, the general consensus being that the need for emergency cooperation overrides any sort of scepticism. All throughout the crisis, Harry is expected to give Kingsley quasi-hourly reports on the department's progress, on top of all the decisions everyone else expects him to make. What to do, what not to do. What leads to drop, which ones to pursue. Where to help the Muggles, where to let them do their thing. What level of tolerance to have for other criminal activities in the wizarding world that might still be ongoing. Where to pull resources from, where to put them. He syncs with Robards at the end of each day, and: 'Yes,' 'No,' 'Yes,' 'No,' - constantly, to everyone and everything. The way Harry just wishes he could say: 'I don't fucking know.' Just once.

On TV, on their calls, the Americans (Muggles, but even MACUSA) keep using the word 'war' like they know what it means. Harry can't help but wonder if he's being uncharitable, thinking that they don't. Thinking that the attack's abhorrent, sure, but that Bush's speech that night seems to have created an armed conflict with sides to be taken out of thin air. Child-like terms like 'good' and 'evil,' like they're all stupid kids - by Day Two Afghanistan is already on everyone's lips. 'We will make no distinction between the terrorists who committed these acts and those who harbour them.' And, even Blair: 'We therefore, here in Britain, stand shoulder to shoulder with our American friends [...]. We, like them, will not rest until this evil is driven from our world.' Evil's fuck all as far as Harry's concerned; it's just made of people, and he wonders, that day, what would happen if the Muggles ever came to know the true extent of past wizarding crimes against them. He wonders if they would the take time to distinguish between Mr Weasley, their biggest fan, and the Death Eaters who killed a hundred souls, bringing a bridge down for sport.

In those days, whenever Harry finds a few minutes to stop, he leaves the building and goes out for a cigarette. On his third pack in four days - let's just not talk about it. There is something eerie about the streets of London, that week, the quasi-normalcy of it. The wary but steady daily churn of office workers and students and tourists now that everything's reopened, moving around central relatively unbothered. It reminds him of how he, Ron and Hermione used to look out the window at Grimmauld. Like: are we really at war? Perhaps, they'd just dreamed it. Every time he closes his eyes, there are images of rubble and smoke, and a body count on the other side of the world that keeps rising. GCHQ have gone completly insane, channelling up anything and everything that sounds like a remotely plausible threat. The Muggle police are asking Aurors to sort through this minefield with magic, and they keep raiding empty buildings on the basis of unreliable evidence, entering the private dwellings of people who clearlyhave nothing to do with anything. They're all so exhausted.

One of the lads picking up the post in the office building next to him knocks over a metal trolley. Harry jumps - like '98 - reflexively pointing his wand. He wonders if God really had anything to do with flying aeroplanes. He wonders how that idea didn't occur to Tom. He wonders if it really isn't power that blinds people, rather than faith, and wishes he didn't understand rage.

Robards comes back that Sunday. Muggle aeroplanes; managed to get a bit of sleep, he explains. There are still no Portkeys. He shakes Harry awake when he finds him, lying hidden behind a desk in a corner to get just a few momentsaway from people, with a crumpled up jumper for a pillow and a mat he fished out of the gym between him and the carpet. 'You're going home,' he says.

'I'm fine -'

'You're not.' Robards laughs. 'Take the Tube. Your adrenaline's crashing, you're in no state to Apparate,' he smiles. 'Down a vial of sleep potion and you knock yourself out for the next twelve hours. Trust me. You can come back tomorrow if you want.' Robards pauses with insistence until Harry relents and nods, once. 'And tell your girl you love her, yeah?' he adds. 'Loads of people out there wishing they could do that, right now.'

He does.

Barely makes it past the threshold before collapsing in Ginny's arms. Sat on the fucking kitchen tiles after his legs give out and he slides down the wall with exhaustion, her arms wrap around him so quickly. 'We were supposed to go to Greece -' he somewhat incoherently says.

'Hey,' she whispers. 'Hey, it's okay.'

It's just so fucking strange, that autumn. That year. (That fucking decade, frankly.) The whole, bloody thing.

The new Quidditch season begins rather undisturbed. A bit dystopian. The Harpies win their first match against the Tornados; there is a bit of post-game banter between Ginny and Josh Hathaway, an Australian Chaser who she'll likely be playing against at the World Cup; that makes the wizarding headlines. She nicked the Quaffle right from under his nose and when he sees her walk by as he gives a quick interview on the pitch, he shouts at her: 'Hey, Weasley, see you next summer!'

She laughs: 'Love how you think you'll even make the qualifiers! Great spirit!'

The press eats it right up.

The news of the attacks make the third, maybe fourth page of the wizarding newspapers. The event is not completely ignored - they don't do that with Muggle stuff, anymore - but there is a sense of disconnect between the importance it was given within Ministry walls, and what the outside world seems to think. The Weasleys briefly touch on it over Sunday brunch ('These poor people,' Ginny's mother says) but Harry doesn't read or see much commentary. It is a story, but a secondary one at best, relegated behind the English Quidditch team's chances at the World Cup, and the awkward, recent reshuffle of Kingsley's government. The Head of the Enchanted Commerce Bureau, Honorata Tang, got exposed by the Standard for 'forgetting' to declare half of her artistic and real estate portfolio to the Tax Office. She admits to it right away but blames it on carelessness rather than ill intentions, claiming to have 'administrative phobia,' and hoping it will go away.

The next day, the Standard publishes another article showing how it wasn't actually taxes she feared, but the fact people might find out half the art she owned was stolen from the homes of dead Muggleborns during the war - the Aurors are called in when a gang of angry wizards try to break into her home, seemingly to get back what they're owed. It is yet another government scandal broken by the Standard, that year, to which Hermione says: 'I don't know what they're on these days, it's like they're channelling the Guardian or something.'

Harry must say he doesn't dislike it, actually.

He works, that autumn. Like: a lot. Probably too much. In the office before dawn most days, and rarely home before ten - if at all. All-nighters and falling asleep at his desk become regular occurrences and at the weekends, he brings work back to the flat, misses a whole array of Ginny's games, sat reading and drawing up reports at their kitchen table. There is still his day job with the Hit Wizards, but also the Muggle stuff that eats up everything else. He remains the Yard's main point of contact with the Ministry of Magic as they all slowly come to terms with a state of high alert that becomes the rule, rather than the exception.

That year, Muggle police forces and intelligence services find themselves under a deluge of calls and reports and investigative leads needing to be explored expeditiously. The law enforcement higher-ups they decided to tell about magic in a time of crisis are now constantly asking for their help. Fears are heightened, not only for the safety of the British public but for that of regular police officers participating in terrorist investigations and arrests. Blair seems to believe it best to use all the weapons in their arsenal to fight against the world's new, greatest evil, and Kingsley and he are now in daily meetings, discussing joint policies. It turns out that putting Aurors in plain clothes, patrolling airports and strategic locations where they can intervene much quicker and more efficiently than Muggle law enforcement, is a great way to redirect Muggle resources to investigative tasks. This with the added advantage that wizards don't have to obey Muggle laws regulating silly things like surveillance or illegal searches, and are rapidly able to Petrify anyone who looks vaguely suspicious. Simply Obliviate them if they got it wrong.

Harry doesn't always love the job, these days. But, perhaps, it is necessary to keep people safe.

Obviously, the press doesn't know. The Muggle press certainly not; the Muggle Liaison Office has a mandate to do anything they can to avoid that, including Obliviating journalists as a last resort. The wizarding one - well, Harry's not sure that it's a lack of interest, as much as the fact that within the Ministry itself, the amount of people who know the sheer extent to which they're working with Muggles, these days, is rather limited. Robards had a bit of a fit when the Tang scandal broke, convinced that there must have been a mole leaking the details of her file to the Standard, which drew him to keep his cards close to his chest. As a result, Harry really hasn't had much opportunity to delegate the work.

These days, when he sees Hermione, it is mostly (genuinely) to talk about work. As an 'expert' in Muggle relations, Kingsley has promoted her to some sort of adviser position within his team, in charge of helping him convince the Wizengamot that pushing this many resources into their cooperation with Muggles will pay off in the long term. They are still operating under the umbrella of the agreement signed with the Muggle government at the start of '99, promising mutual assistance. Kingsley isn't doing this for free, obviously, he's hoping for a renegotiation of the interest on their loans, as well as better rates when they lend their resources to the Muggle government. Hermione's beliefs are sandwiched between a genuine sentiment that making wizards and Muggles interdependent is the only path forward, and her uneasiness at the things the Muggle government actually requires them to do. 'Just because they have more protective laws doesn't mean they should call on us to avoid them,' she claims, but Harry feels like late 2001 is a time when most people are willing to put their principles aside.

She and Ron seem better. From the little he knows. They are still living in separate apartments but see each other multiple times a week. Harry tries to maintain one pub night with his best mate every Thursday, even if that sometimes means he only has the one and goes straight back to the office afterwards. Some nights, Harry rocks up late like he's literally dragged himself to his stool and Ron says: 'Mate, you look like shit.'

He's just - tired. In early October, Taya, one of the Hit Witches on the team, takes a Muggle bullet to the chest during an arrest where they supported SO19 - it's not the end of the world, she's in St Mungo's for a couple days, but it is a bit of a strain on morale. Harry's had to give up Quidditch practice which just sucked, but trying to balance two full-time jobs was hard enough. It worried Hawk, not necessarily for the future of the team (frankly, with or without him, it's unlikely they will ever win the Ministry League), but because: well, he dropped Quidditch. 'You alright?' the boss says, that morning.

Harry runs his hand over his face. He doesn't have the energy to lie. 'Fucking wrecked,' he sighs.

He doesn't want to drop the Hit Wizards. It's the only job that's ever felt useful, since the end of the war, and especially now - If Taya hadn't been there to divert that bullet, a twelve-year-old kid could have died. But: he also can't really pull out of the Muggle stuff. The thought of it gives him the ick, like he and Robards are sometimes the last sane people in the office. Last week, MI:5 asked them, out of curiosity, if Veritaserum would work on Muggles, and Kingsley almost said yes.

Hawk gives him a bit of a stern, Ravenclaw lecture, that morning. He points out that Harry's missed a good few training exercises since September, and: 'You miss another and you're out,' he says, harsh. Harry opens his mouth. 'Not permanently. Just until things quiet down. I can't have you be a liability. You're Rory's back up, now, for fuck's sake,' he sighs. It was a bit of a promotion last August, a level up in terms of salary band and an official position as alternate in case something happens while Rory's sick or on PTO. 'I need you to show up in training because if there's an issue with your focus, that's where it'll come out first,' Hawk tells him. 'And I'd rather it come out in training than out there. You kids all laughed off the bullet incident but if she'd been shot in the head, her magic wouldn't have had time to kick in and self-heal, Harry.' Hawk is quiet for a moment. 'If you're too tired, your reflexes are down and you're not just a danger to yourself.'

'Sorry. Won't happen again.'

So: even exhausted, he does try to show up to drills.

With Ginny, it's been harder, lately. Not that they've fought (she's never been the type to berate him about his hours, sitting there waiting at the flat like a nice, docile housewife) but - well, he misses her, is all. Grateful for the few months of bliss they had after she came back from New Zealand, but they were short-lived. That autumn, that winter, it's a bit like they're ships in the night. She with two separate teams to train with, on top of all the press and the events and the interviews, and he with all the post-9/11 mess. By the end of October, it's been weeks since they've had more than a Sunday afternoon to themselves.

They do what they can. Late evenings or early mornings when the world relents, quieter sometimes. Discreet smiles and kisses and words of reassurances whispered to each other. 'I love you,' and 'I'm here.' Still here. Ginny's started writing in the evenings again when he's away, not just letters to Luna but also stuff in a notebook with a fancy-looking, hard leather cover, ink on soft and expensive lined paper.

She writes her thoughts. The things she's done, that day, the people she talked to, those she liked and those who annoyed her. Harry knows because after a couple weeks of her just leaving the thing wide open on the kitchen table, he asked her if he could read it. 'If I didn't want you to, I wouldn't leave it there,' she laughed.

He does, sometimes. Whenever he comes home late and is too wired to sleep. After a while, she starts writing him stories, with characters and plots she makes up in her mind. They're never very long, often funny, and once, she describes a crew of swashbuckling buccaneers and he can't help but pick up a pen, scribbling in the margins: bold word choices.

The next day: Ah yeah? You've got feedback now, Potter?

He grins.

Whenever he is with her, like stolen hours, he tries to think of nothing else. They walk down to the South Bank and eat churros and watch the golden light of autumnal sunsets grazing the shape of Big Ben. He tries not to talk about work. She talks all about her work, but that's just because he could discuss Quidditch strategies for hours. It takes his mind off things. They lean against the stones of the railing and dip sticks of sugar, cinnamon and fried batter into warm, liquid chocolate. She tells him about the press. 'I'm having an affair with Josh Hathaway,' she says. 'By the way.'

Harry rolls his eyes. Tiredly laughs. It's probably his fault. He's missed so many of her games and she had one recorded exchange with a man that could maybe somehow be conceived as flirty banter if you squint and suddenly: HARRY AND GINNY - TROUBLE IN PARADISE? Magazines headlines. Perhaps, it's a good thing he barely has time to skim the Prophet, these days.

Her shoulder presses against his, that evening, and he wraps his arm around her. Pulls her close and drops a kiss at her temple. It's funny, he muses, how reporters are never there to pap them whenever they're being cute and snuggly. Doesn't sell the same papers, he imagines.

'Samira said to ignore it,' Ginny adds, shrugging. 'If we deny it, it's like spitting in the wind. It would have more weight if he denied it but I've spoken to him and he's not budging. Would rather they think he's having an affair with me, than them claim he's secretly gay.'

Harry frowns at that, catching her gaze. Is it really what they're saying about Hathaway? He's never seemed the … type, to him, but, well -'Is he?'

Ginny bursts out a laugh. Warm and loud at his side. She makes him smile. 'Harry, I've spoken to him literally twice in my life. Shockingly, I don't know.' She raises an eyebrow. 'Why, you interested? 'Cause I can ask -'

'Ah, piss off,' he groans.

It is nice to smile, though, sometimes. Have a laugh basking in her warmth. On top of the weather, at the end of October, it just feels like the world just keeps getting darker. They've now invaded Afghanistan alongside the Americans. A move that surprised exactly no one, with the blessing of everyone. Even MACUSA decided to help, likely also in the hopes of bettering their awkward relationships with Republicans. They haven't sent manpower but they're agreed to help speed up the manufacture of arms with magic, and to provide new and improved weaponry to Muggle soldiers. Stun potion vials and explosives, wizarding artefacts for enhanced interrogation techniques that Harry would rather not think about. When the British army came to them and asked the same thing, 'We can't say "no,"' Kingsley said. Not like: we don't want to. Like: regardless, even if we wanted to, which we probably don't, we cannot. 'There's a defence clause in that agreement we signed in '99.' The deal promising more cooperation on a wide variety of topics including education, culture, the economy, policing matters and defence, Harry suddenly remembers. They naively signed thinking they'd be protecting themselves from another war. Instead, it brings this one to their front doorstep.

The news come out in the press as the Wizengamot votes on budget allocations, and the Standard labels it as a good thing. A strengthening of trust and partnership between Muggle and wizarding communities on what is most essential to a country: defence and security.

It's all just - bizarre. That year, that decade - that fucking century, even. The way the papers are like: Ministry government scandals of spoliation and tax evasion, and look, also, baggy-jeans-are-out-this-winter, and these-two-celebrities-are-splitting-up-or-fucking-or-neither-of-these-things. Bombs. People dying. Carbs-are-out, and proteins-are-in, and here, just eat fucking cornflakes for dieting. Politicians arguing, either for or against Muggles, with very little room for: well, perhaps we should help them, but maybe not to torture each other. Nail art trends and cat videos. Blaming it all on terror, also known as religion. Bombs. People dying. Rinse and repeat.

That night, they get home and before they fall asleep, Harry lays on his back on top of the covers and she climbs above him. Wearing nothing but an old t-shirt of his and a pair of knickers, her calves on either side of his thighs; he trails his fingers up her skin, playing with the hem of the underwear at her hips. His gaze studies her face. The pink of her cheeks and the golden strands at the ends of the soft curls that mutinously cascade down her shoulders. All those little freckles at the bridge of her nose like stars on a canvas; the mischievous quality in her brown eyes, lashes long at her eyelids. Ginny isn't wearing any make-up, her lips slightly chapped by cold broom flights. She is beautiful, he thinks. They've been together two full years and he's not once thought anything other than this.

Tonight, so pretty in the low light, and he just wishes the world would stop, leave them alone more often. He wishes he had the energy to make love to her more, rather than just crashing into bed and hoping his absurd sense of duty and desire to save the world would just fuck off, just for one day. Wishing they could get away, the two of them, for a short bit, disappear two, maybe three weeks to a sunny beach where nothing else exists, where their only concern would be to decide whether salt water and sand sticking to their skin is or isn't an uncomfortable feeling. They would talk and laugh, and sleep and eat, and have sex, for days on end. His hands still and he crosses her gaze. She smiles.

'You do know you've just said all that out loud, right?'

He bursts out a laugh.

Hallowe'en is a Wednesday, that year. A week or so later. Harry's taken a rare day off. In the morning, he doesn't want to go. He wants to go. He doesn't want to go. Can't make up his fucking mind, you know?

It's turning twenty-one, he thinks. And, the whiffs of war in the air, albeit thousands of miles away. The Muggle journalists out there interviewing soldiers and their families, all gearing up for battle, standing up to fight evil on behalf of Queen and country. 'Do you want me to come with you?' Ginny just asks, that morning. A pause and a look over breakfast tea. 'I can skip practice.'

They walk around Godric's Hollow, that Hallowe'en. The church and the little streets and the school and the Muggle shops in relative silence under the autumn drizzle. It took him a while to bring her, maybe too long, and he's not sure why. Lingering whispers of '98, perhaps, wanting to protect the sweet thing that is them from whatever this is.

They go and look at the house, first. The front steps have been tidied up now, there are no more letters or messages - Samira's collected them all, restored what had been damaged by the elements and stored everything in the attic at Grimmauld, little individual files neatly arranged by date and category in a large cabinet: children's drawings, and encouragements, and personal letters. With elaborate spells, she protected them from the damp, from fire hazards and from the sunlight that could do any further damage. Harry offers to open the front door for Ginny, and: 'No,' he says when she asks. 'Never been in. You can if you want, though -' She shakes her head. Admits it creeps her out, too.

They continue on to the graveyard itself. She is wearing: leggings tucked inside furry winter boots; he's got the Chucks on again and the mud and the rain seep through the fabric to wet his socked feet. There's something about it all that feels like Christmas '97, he and Hermione alone in the cold and the snow and the snake - Harry shakes his head to himself.

They don't say much, that morning. Lay down the flowers they've brought. She asks if he wants to talk to them, if he needs privacy, but: 'It's fine,' he shrugs again. 'I don't really do that.'

It sounds a bit silly to admit. There is the rustle of the wind in the trees and the wet ground beneath their shoes and she probably thinks he's insane, just coming here every year to stand and do nothing and say nothing. Just breathe in the air and look. Remind himself of how much he'd like to rip that fucking headstone off and - the last enemy that shall be destroyed is death means absolutely nothing. Sometimes, it's better to listen to music, headphones blasting.

'I used to want to crawl in,' he admits. 'I thought the feeling would never go away.'

And: 'I've never been to see Fred,' she says. He squeezes her fingers and says nothing again, just leans into her warmth, the puffiness of her winter coat and the way her foot plays with the stones on the path. 'Even the funeral, I wasn't there.'

He frowns. Confused, at first, but -

'I mean, I was,' she quickly amends. 'Technically.' Her gaze leaves the headstone to look out to the church, the fences and the trees. Peeling black paint on wrought iron railings. 'We buried him quickly,' she reminds him. 'I didn't know they'd found Amycus's body.' For a moment, she says nothing. Just breathes, not looking at him. 'One minute, I'm burying my brother and the next, I'm out there writing letters to everyone I know, asking if they heard anything. Trying to make it sound inconspicuous, you know? It was the only fucking thing I could think about.' An angry sort of smile. She pinches her lips. 'If he's alive, what is he gonna say? What are my parents gonna say? What's Harry gonna think?' She shakes her head, quiet, shivers like trying to will the memory away. 'My own brother's funeral, he managed to take it over. That fucker.'

Something clenching his throat, that day. Time's washed some of the dirt of their war away, and they don't talk about it as much as they used to, but when they do, he's felt that lately, she's been more angry. Like: fury at the things they missed and the years it hijacked from them.

'Then, I couldn't look at George for months,' she adds. He pulls her closer, arm wrapped around her. And, 'I haven't been to the shop since -' She stops again. Her father and the boys visit Fred all the time, she says. 'Mum cried. I just - ran away. I wasn't there. I'm not good with grief,' she admits. 'I don't think.'

That morning, he kisses her temple again. Looks out at his parents' grave. Thinks about coming here and not speaking to them. About Cedric and the fury running through his veins. About Sirius and trashing Dumbledore's office, but also the summer he spent, playing Quidditch and falling in love at the Burrow like nothing ever happened. He thinks of Lupin and Tonks and Fred and the guilt that also kept him 'out' of the funerals themselves. Like her: there but also not. 'I don't think anyone is,' he admits.

'You know I don't blame you, right?' she says, then. Harry feels her shift, her head moving to look at him. He stares ahead. Doesn't want her to read too much into the look on his face. 'Mum and Dad don't either.' Her voice is strong, more matter-of-fact than intentionally reassuring, in the quiet of the cemetery. 'Certainly not Ron. It's all in your head, you know?'

He sighs. Shrugs. 'Yeah. I know.'

He's not lying. On an intellectual level, of course, he isn't. Everyone's always said they didn't blame him. Molly and Arthur and Kingsley and Andromeda, and Ron himself. Ginny, now. But, still. He pulls her into his arms again, this time facing the grave. Reads the last enemy quote on loop, chin resting above her head, his arms wrapped around her midriff. Her hair smells like drizzle and flowers. Sometimes, it's easier telling things without crossing her gaze.

'George does, though,' he says. 'George blames me.'

In his arms, Ginny stills. He smiles. Breathes in.

That, he also knows, isn't his conscience playing tricks on him. It's fact. Neutral and guilt-free. Harry's known for a while - since that May, really. George talks to him. He makes jokes, the same way he did before, like his brother's not dead. Like he wants Harry to forget his brother's dead. Subtle, like: forced banter and outpours of solicitude that never feel in character. George gives him funny t-shirts as Christmas gifts and, 'You always were our biggest fan,' but without any further conversation or context. There are: stupid posters when he and Ginny moved in together, going as far as to frame his face above the till of the shop, but never a mention of Fred. He's trying too hard, Harry knows. George is a good person. And, he blames Harry the way Harry blames himself: irrationally, knowing that he shouldn't, and in spite of everyone, including the rational part of his brain, telling him he's wrong. To Harry, George is too nice. Too chipper. Overcompensates. Pretends all is well while knowing he involuntarily assigns blame. Hell, probably feels guilty about it, but can't help it. George blames Harry for things that don't even make sense. For not knowing. For not dying sooner. For being there when he wasn't, for not impossibly stopping the explosion with his bare hands. For coming back from the dead, when Fred didn't.

George's never asked him over to the shop, you know? And, Ron hasn't either, because although he doesn't approve, he knows, too.

For a while, in his arms, Ginny says nothing. Which is also confirmation enough, actually. Harry smiles.

'Do you mind?' she finally asks.

He does pause to think about it, that day. Looks out to his parents' grave again. The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death. 'No,' he says. 'It's easier when you've got someone to blame.'

And: 'Can I talk to them?' Ginny asks, then.

She tears herself away from his embrace and he watches her kneel. The damp of the path painting circles into the fabric of her leggings.

'Hi. I'm Ginny,' she simply explains. 'We've never met. But, your son, well -' she smiles. Her voice soft in the autumn air. 'He's the best thing that's ever happened to me. And, I love him.' She pauses. His throat is tight again. 'So, you know, if he ever starts wanting to crawl in, you chuck him right out, yeah?' And, it's funny, how quickly she's able to make him go from tears to a chuckle, that day. 'He's too old to be squatting at his parents' place anyway.'

She grins when she looks back at him, proud of herself. 'They said "okay."'

That year, as per usual on their side of the world, 2001 comes to an end in the pit of winter. They watch it die a slow and sleety death for all of December; yet on Christmas morning, there is a low and milky sunrise over London and they laze about in bed, giggling and making love like the rest of the world can wait. It doesn't snow in the city but it does at the Burrow and Teddy gets all excited about it - they make Mr Snow and Mrs Snow and little baby Snow - their noses carrots they steal from Mrs Weasley's roast. Teddy announces proudly that when he is big-like-Harry, he wants to do the job of the Muggle people who 'move the snows on the roads.'

Andromeda laughs. Genuinely.

In January, Harry works. Again. A bit less than in the autumn. There is still chaos, palpable around them, and the Muggles are still on edge, the paranoia gaining people on Tube, gawking at every bearded man who has the audacity of carrying a backpack. But the processes are in place, at the very least. Harry gets most of his evenings and some of his weekends back - sort of. Still misses a good bunch of Harpies' games, but makes it to all four of England's qualifying matches. They get through to the main competition by the skin of their teeth, to be honest, but given that the team's barely six months old, it's something. Being in the crowd to see Ginny play in an English jersey is unashamedly one of the top five moments in his life, hands down. Ron and his brothers are all dressed head-to-toe in merch, white and red flags on their cheeks, and even Hermione consents to come see the games they play at home.

They move back in together in May, she and Ron. An apartment - just the two of them; Hermione claims they have outgrown Grimmauld Place. Ron grumbles about rent but not too loud; he was the one who asked her to move back in, so he doesn't want his luck to run out. They look better, Harry reckons. Healthier. He doesn't want too many details, feels like there is stuff about relationships that is meant to stay private, but Hermione is still going to therapy and claims it's helping her 'reframe her mindset.' Things with her parents are still fraught, but civil. She and Ron have booked two weeks off to go see them in late July.

New people move into Grimmauld. Some who Harry doesn't know (well, not from before, anyway). It's a first - Neville asks him in person. A few kids from his Auror intake are looking for a place to stay and London's more expensive than ever. Harry feels somewhat strongly about keeping Sirius's old bedroom off limits, but when it comes to the rest of the house -

'You could means-test it,' Hermione suggests. Harry purses his lips. The idea of meddling into people's finances feels a bit gross. 'Well, it doesn't have to be you. You could put the house in a trust, let C.A.S.H.C.O.W. administer it. They could come up with criteria, you could get insurance, put everything in writing, make it a house for people who need one -'

They hash it out with Nev, Luna, Ginny and Hannah. Protect Sirius's space and Kreacher's, his memories in the attic off-limits, and make the house a forever home for young witches and wizards. Harry reckons his godfather would have approved.

In the Muggle world, Afghanistan slowly turns out to be a more difficult territory than they originally thought. No one's found Bin Laden, yet; there are rumours that they dropped bombs in the wrong place, that he's actually in Pakistan or Bagdad, or somewhere. In April, Blair meets Bush in Texas and most of the conversations in the Muggle press start veering towards Iraq. The Americans had a first war there, Harry's told, which they never finished, and somehow, in the interim, 'weapons of mass destruction' have appeared. Or, perhaps they were always there, it's not really clear - there were UN inspectors but they got kicked out and allowed back in. The press don't seem to know what these weapons are, to be honest, somewhere on the spectrum between nuclear enrichment programmes and anthrax. The Iraqis aren't complying with previous UN Resolutions about their disarmament, and watching TV, Harry tries to understand what they're saying, exactly, like: did Saddam help commit 9/11 or not - it's all a bit confusing. Bush talks about an 'axis of evil' which sounds to Harry like an expression taken out of a DADA textbook but analysts are saying these are two different countries, two different versions of Islam even, but it's too complicated and no one is really paying attention.

That August, they all Portkey out to Namibia. Ginny's parents, Bill and Percy to see England's first Group Stage game and visit the country - Luna's been living there for a few months now, carrying out some sort of research project in the desert; she is an unusualbut fascinating tour guide, Harry will give her that. Ron gets there a bit later, travelling straight in from Australia, but only stays for one game. 'George'll have my head,' he says, looking depleted. 'He wants to come for the last match but someone's got to look after the shop,' he sighs.

Ron leaves. George arrives a day later and it's alright. They flatten Argentina (750 to 40; it's one of those); Charlie and Harry remain the last ones standing until the bitter end, camping out on Luna's floor (Ginny doesn't want him in her hotel room because he is 'distracting') and attending the whole thing from start to finish. He does the return trip to England a few times whenever she isn't playing, expeditiously sorting things at work for a couple days, before rushing back. The match against Belgium - which Ron is there for - lasts an excruciating ten hours; they get a thirty-minute break three hours into it during which Ginny ostensibly changes strategies. She flies by Harry's VIP box on her way down and gives him a look that says: 'We need to talk,' but the moment he finds her outside of the Harpies' changing rooms, she grabs his hand and almost runs down a couple empty corridors down the basement of the stadium to pull him into a closet. 'We have fifteen minutes,' she says, coming up for air as he stands there a bit shell-shocked, her lips hungry against his and her hands already pulling down the zipper of his jeans.

He catches up quick.

She comes biting hard on his finger with exactly four minutes to spare, balanced on a shelf with her legs wrapped around his waist and him hoping to God that no one heard them, or else they'll be truly and utterly fucked if this ever gets out in the press. It is not the sweet and slow Christmas-morning, lovemaking vibes they've had lately but this suits him Just Fine, pulling out of her still a bit high from his orgasm as a quick spell cleans them up. Her forehead falls against his shoulder and she bursts out a laugh.

'I can't believe I've just had sex with Harry Potter, in a closet in the middle of a World Cup game,' she says. 'Fifteen-year-old Ginny would be dead.'

Harry snorts. Sixteen-year-old Harry also has no complaints.

Later, up in the VIP box, Ron asks: 'What was that about?' and Harry mumbles something about the Belgian defence, hoping his cheeks don't look as red as they feel.

The team astonishingly makes it to the quarters, then the semis, where they get obliterated by South Africa. They lose by ten points, which is Worse Than Anything, and when Harry finds Ginny after the game, she kisses him and says: 'Let's just not talk, okay?'

As is the rule, it does not, in fact, ever fucking 'come home.'

Another core memory of that World Cup, though, as far as Harry is concerned, is a rather extraordinary quote Ginny delivers at a post-match press conference in Windhoek. He is not in the room, that day (he avoids press conferences for obvious reasons), but hears it live on the wireless in Ginny's hotel, where they agreed to meet to go to dinner after the game. It's the quarters against New Zealand; they've won by a mile and everyone is in high spirits - a couple days ago, he and Ginny attended a charity function organised by FIQA as a couple. They were photographed on the red carpet; Ginny in a black designer dress that Harry's wouldn't even know how to describe, other than the fact that it didn't have much fabric and was still surprisingly difficult to take off, afterwards. It was a bit of a statement, not going to lie, which he assumes is why that day, at the post-match press conference, a journalist asks:

'Hi, Sandra Darmon for Witch Weekly. This one is for Miss Weasley. Ginny, you've, er, certainly showed us you know how to put a good outfit together this week -' A low, sort of knowing laugh escapes from the audience. 'You must know many people thought the English jerseys were a bit of a miss, this World Cup. Do you have suggestions as to what the designers could have done better?'

Sat on her bed, Harry rolls his eyes. There's a bit of silence on Ginny's end, which he initially attributes to the microphone being passed around. But then, Ginny lets out: 'Wow. You really have no shame.'

He freezes. Head stupidly turning towards the wireless as though to see it better. The Witch Weekly woman babbles. 'I -'

'No, you know what? I'm done with this,' Ginny's voice speaks again. His hand covers his mouth. 'Your bloody paper has been harassing me, on and off, for years. Everyone at this table knows it - hell, everyone in this room knows it,' she laughs. 'You called me names, made "jokes" I wouldn't even dare to repeat at this hour when kids are listening, and recently, because my boyfriend was busy with work - defending us from fucking terrorists, might I add - you've accused me of having an affair. But now - now that I'm scoring goals for England, I'm supposed to pretend like none of this ever happened? Answer your little questions about my wardrobe? No. With all due respect, go fuck yourself.'

Later, at the hotel, she takes one look at him and one look at the wireless on the table. 'Samira's going to kill me,' she cringes.

He bites his bottom lip to hide a smile. This is Really Not Funny. 'I'd say: bit strong but definitely in line with the opinionated rebel strategy.'

Ginny's giggles spill like water out of her lips and his mouth crashes over hers before she has time to worry about it further. They don't go to dinner until much, much later.

In the end, Ginny's case is helped by the fact that they did win the game, in great part thanks to her. A lot of people even say she was 'kind of right.' To the point that Harry wonders if the kids in Diagon Alley are going to upgrade their SPITE! t-shirts to say: WITH ALL DUE RESPECT, GO FUCK YOURSELF next.

That said, after much negotiation and hesitation, that year, Ginny makes the difficult decision to leave the Harpies. It's a big move, reported everywhere in the press - even Hawk comes to not-so-subtly ask Harry about it, that September. It all originally started over the summer with a money dispute when, whilst training with Callum Woohouse for the English team and Captain of the Magpies, Ginny found out that their players were getting a much bigger cut of the club's sponsorship deals than the Harpies. 'I'm not doing this for the money,' Ginny said to Harry, enraged, that day. 'But it's fucking bollocks. We do the same work as them. Why is it that they get 10% and we only get 5%?'

Unbeknownst to Ginny, amidst her conversations with the Harpies' board of directors - who, that summer, contemptuously stated that club finances were 'not to be compared,' - Woodhouse had a word with his bosses. The Magpies discreetly invited Harry and Ginny to a weekend in a five-star Muggle hotel by the coast with a room facing the beach, a spa on the top floor and a jacuzzi on their balcony, topped by a suite honestly larger than their flat, just so that she would hear them out. Harry slept and ate and soaked while she attended her meetings, then pulled her in to have a truly inordinate amount of sex in the jacuzzi. Judge him all you want but besides all the chaotic back-and-forth to Namibia, it's the only 'holiday' they really manage to take, that year, so yeah.

'I think I'm gonna say yes,' she says, annoyed - not only at having been lowballed for close to three years, now, but also at the way the owners of the Harpies basically dared her to fuck off if she wasn't happy. And, to be fair, the thing the Magpies are a) currently much better ranked than the Harpies but also b), while they did turn Ginny down in '99, she's always felt like it was more because of a poor performance, that day, rather than because of the bad press. Somehow, to her, it's always seemed more fair.

She is sitting between his legs, by then, her back against his chest in the hot tub, bubbles and soap and heat grazing their skins. He's already taken the top of her bikini off, breath tickling her neck as he played with her nipples; his hand slides down and under the polyester of her bikini bottoms. He caresses her clit, kissing the skin behind her ear - she draws in a breath. 'Do you think you could milk it?' he whispers, then. 'Ask them for another one of these weekends before you say yes?'

Ginny giggles against him. 'Is sex really all you think about?' she teases but judging by the way she's been, this past couple days, he'd argue he's not the only one.

'Right now? Yes,' he laughs. And, look - most of the year, they don't always have the opportunity to be a hot and heavy mess as often as they'd like, so he's genuinely happy to take the opportunity whenever it presents itself, you know?

'I'll see what I can do,' she grins. Turns around to kiss him.

So: she plays with the Magpies, that year. It's made official on the 10th, all over the wizarding press, and on the 12th, Bush addresses the UN General Assembly again, outlining a catalogue of complaints against the Iraqi government. He claims that they 'support terrorist organisations that direct violence against Iran, Israel, and Western governments…' and that 'al-Qaeda terrorists escaped from Afghanistan are known to be in Iraq.' Known by whom, Harry's not sure, but the United Nations Commission on Human Rights in 2001 found 'extremely grave' human rights violations to be taking place, under Saddam's rule. The Iraqis are also accused of continuing to produce and use weapons of mass destruction, in violation of previous UN resolutions.

A couple months later, in November, the UN votes yet another resolution. It all seems a bit pointless. A 'last chance,' they call it, to force Saddam to disarm. They send the inspectors back and it's a bit of a strange one because at the same time, they insist this resolution contains no "hidden triggers" and no "automaticity" with respect to the use of force. Harry kind of wonders how one's supposed to depose a blood-thirsty dictator with a 'last chance' that might or might not be one.

Right before Christmas, on the 21st of December, the Magpies play their last game of the year. Harry's had to upgrade all of the merch for his outfit but apart from that, it's been great to see Ginny play in black and white, that autumn. The team's good and seems to have a bit less drama than the Harpies - it's easier; she seems happier. 'It's funny,' she tells him, that day. 'You see a team from the outside and you get all sorts of ideas about what it's gonna be like, playing for them. But once you're in it -' She dreamt to play for the Harpies for years but now, doesn't seem to regret her decision one bit. He supposes it was the same thing with him finding himself with the Aurors - those first couple years.

On the topic of his job, actually, they have had a bit less drama with the Muggles, lately. As though things are finally slotting into place - they've even started to take a look at wizarding cases again - imagine that. Saying it's 'nice,' probably wouldn't be super appropriate (Harry supposes that as a law enforcement officer, he should wish for the end of all crime), but it does help brighten the team's mood - tackling bad wizards again, instead of alleged Muggle terrorists.

It's especially true because that week, the case they're on is a rather 'feel good' one, all things considered. There was a small uprising in the Kingdom of Mongolia a few months back, some disagreement about Chinese borders that don't align between Muggles and the magical world; it's driven a few hundred people to leave their homes in a haste. As a result, the Hit Wizards are currently tasked with protecting a Mongolian wizard and his family from harm after he reported on and aided in bringing down an appalling human trafficking network in and out the country, which obviously fed on people's desperation and misery. They are looking after him, his wife, and their two kids in an Auror safehouse in North London until Major Crimes are able to locate and arrest everyone. Harry's Secret Keeper on the place - Hawk's just back from holidays - and he volunteered to come check on the family at the weekend, bring them food and make sure they're all okay.

That morning, he still takes the time to indulge in his and Ginny's new pre-game ritual. Whenever she plays in London, the Quidditch stadium's Apparition point is always crowded with press and photographers, so she usually prefers to Floo inside directly. Clémence, one of the other Chasers on the team, now has a chimney. Harry and Ginny have taken up to Apparating to Camden in a small alleyway near her home, which seems to generally be free of Muggles. They walk around a bit, sit at a little café and have breakfast there, chat and laugh as Ginny tries to shake off pre-match nerves, before she goes to meet Clémence and Harry heads back home. Sometimes, if he's able to go to the game itself, he'll perhaps go for a run and change before heading to the stadium for eleven. On days like today, though -

'I might still come,' he sighs, over eggs and toasts. Not going to lie, he's a bit annoyed with Hawk for pushing this onto him, which he knows is unfair and stupid. 'I have to meet them at quarter past. If Hassan doesn't catch the Snitch before noon, we should be good.'

Ginny laughs. 'You don't have to. It's fine, you don't have to come to every game -'

It's the last match of the year, though. He'd be kind of annoyed to miss it. So: 'I'll try,' he promises.

They walk to Clémence's place. He kisses her out on the front steps. 'Break a leg, yeah?' he says. Ginny bites her lip. She is nervous - it's a big game against Ballycastle; they're not the favourites.

'Will you still love me if we lose?' she quips.

He bursts out a laugh. 'Yes, I love you,' he grins.

'Me too.'

He watches her get inside the building, that morning. Then walks back to the alleyway. Yawns - still a bit rundown with work, might catch a quick kip before heading out again. When he reaches the end of the street, though, he turns a corner and wakes up in the grass.

Harry recognises the texture, tingly under his fingertips. It's soft and deep - the tall kind, fluffy and comfortable. Almost cloud-like. He's a bit sleepy. A bit cold. Something's pressing into his chest - slightly uncomfortable. He's got that old Muggle, Bee Gees song from the 70s stuck in his head for some reason. It's like someone's counting the beats to it or something.

Inexplicably, he finds himself thinking of Ginny. Of what the fire in her gaze must have looked like the day she told that journalist at the World Cup to fuck off, and the feeling of her lips against his -

He wakes up in hospital..

Loud buzz. His head like encased between metal plates. Voices behind a bubblehead charm.

'We're pulling out. They didn't show, I'm calling it. We'll get them another way.' (Robards, maybe?)

'Well, I could have told you that.' (Ron, definitely.) 'In fact, I did.'

'Weasley, I know he's your friend -'

'It was me.' (Hawk). 'It's my fault. I got it wrong. It should have been me. Kingsley'll want someone's head for this - it should be mine, Gawain.'

A bitter laugh. 'Merlin, I can see why you and Harry get on - it's like a competition of who'll jump on that sword the hardest -'

'Weasley's right, Will. And now's not the time to assign blame anyway -'

Harry. Something's stuck in his throat. He tries to pull it out. He is choking. He can't breathe -

'Oh, no, no, no, Mr Potter -' a female voice he doesn't recognise. 'You can't wake up now -'

He wakes up in hospital. Take two.

'"What kind of tea?"'

'Well, they've normal and lemon, I thought -'

'Why would I want lemon tea?'

'You drink those weird teas -'

'Yes, at night. When I don't want caffeine. It's ten o'clock in the morning -'

'I'm just asking -'

The voices are clearer this time. Closer. The regular, undisturbed beeping of a monitor. His eyelids feel like lead, too heavy to lift, but he seems to be breathing again. Mouth dry, mind foggy. 'Sop -' he groans. Mutters. Something.

Silence.

'Oh God, Ron, I think he's waking up.' A pause. 'Harry? He's saying something, I think.'

Swallow. Throat burns. Try again.

'Sop ickeling.'

'Mate?' Another pause. 'What's he -'

Then: a laugh. Hermione's. Exhausted and filled with tears and a smile at the same time, like that morning after Giulia died. There is pressure around Harry's forearm and the weight of someone's head lightly dropping, then rising. '"Stop bickering."' Hermione repeats. 'He's saying "stop bickering."'

Another laugh. Ron's - louder. Voice closer still. 'Ah, mate, you'd get bored if we didn't.'

Is that really what they think? Harry breathes. Focus. '-i-hm-y?'

'Oh, God, yes. GINNY! She's in the corridor -'

More shuffling. Running, quick footsteps. A halt. 'He's coming to -'

'Oh, Merlin -'

Her hand in his, in an instant. He recognises it. Cold and tiny - the softness of her palm and the slight dryness of her knuckles in the winter. He tries so hard to open his eyes, tries to sit up a bit - 'No, no, no - don't move.' Her voice like a sigh of relief. 'I'm here, I'm here. You're in St Mungo's. You're okay. I'm here.'

Harry supposes that finding himself in St Mungo's, that morning, does sort of hint at the fact that he is in fact not okay.

He was out cold for almost two days, he later finds out. A nurse rushes into the room a couple minutes later and unnecessarily aggressively flashes her wand straight into his eyeballs - he sees all blurry and groans. 'What's your name?' she asks, which isn't a question that many people ever ask, actually, then: 'What day is it?' He racks his brain to the twenty-first and there is a smile in her words. 'Well, it's the 23rd, actually, but you were out for a couple days, so good enough. How old are you?'

That's - harder than it should be. '22?'

'Good.'

He falls asleep shortly after, again. Tries to open his eyes for a moment and sees a blurry, red-headed shape in front of him and mumbles, 'I love you,' but then there's a big chorus of laughs - it's too loud - and George's voice, booming. 'Yup, he's high as a kite,' he says.

He wakes up in hospital - again.

It's dark outside, this time. He sees it through the window, the moon and twinkling buildings in the distance - it's blurry, pretty. His vision is a bit off, now that he thinks about it, but nothing like before - and someone seems to have gingerly placed glasses on his face. They're not his, they have a weird shape. God, he is so sleepy. He just wants to doze off again. Tries to focus - the silence of nothing but his breaths and that relentless beeping in the background; he blinks once, twice, and thinks he is hallucinating when he sees a lone red trainer and an ankle on the chair by his bed, and nothing else. But, also: he feels short fingers wrapped around his. Can you hallucinate feelings? He tries to move his head a bit, looks down at his hand, it appears to be - gone? He feels like he's going to throw up.

A whisper. He jumps a bit. 'Shhh, it's me. I'm under the Cloak. They tried to chuck me out.'

Oh. Right.

He leans into her touch and lets the painkillers whisk him away again.

The next day's better. They take the dose down a little. Enough that when the nurse comes back into his room, the following morning, he manages to mumble he wants off the fucking potions completely. There are a couple of people in the room, then, he vaguely recognises Hermione's voice - 'Harry -' but he wants his fucking brain back, wants to know what the fuck is going on. Have one conversation without falling asleep in the middle of it. The nurse bites her lip. 'I can half it,' she says. 'But that's it. You're not strong enough yet.'

'Fine, yeah.'

He's woken up by the pain, later that day. From the light in his room, he figures it must be around noon. There is chatter around, Mr and Mrs Weasley's voices, but a bit far. The sun is shining, this time.

Surprisingly, it's actually - fine. More uncomfortable than proper painful, just like he's run a marathon or something. 'Thirsty?' Ginny asks, next to him. He jumps a little again, hadn't noticed her there, but it's nice to see her for real, this time. Being able to focus, see her smile - a bit teary. Her parents seem to be in the corridor; they're alone. 'The Healers said we could give you water now,' she tells him.

He nods. She places a straw between his lips. He tries not to choke.

It is that afternoon, in the winter of '02, that year, he finally starts to piece the details of what happened together. There is what the Healers say, first, when a whole team of them come visit him, at around half past two. They make everybody get out of the room - Ron and Hermione and Ginny and her parents and Percy and everyone who came to eat lunch in St Mungo's pretending everything is Fucking Normal when it clearly isn't, and 'Harry, you look good,' (he doesn't; he knows that). Harry feels, from the look on their faces, that everyone actually expects him to shake his head, say: 'No, it's fine, they can stay.'

He doesn't. Lets them begrudgingly leave. His brain feels super groggy, still, but he's not - well, stupid.

The door closes. Broken bones, they tell him, the moment it does. Internal bleeding. Knife wounds - a flesh-eating curse they've managed to contain but he shouldn't move too much, the cuts are taking a while to close up. A fractured skull. Bruises and a few burn marks on his chest. Details. The way one of the Healers inspects his hand, suspiciously eyeing his fingernails. 'Oh, well, that's all grown back nicely,' she observes.

There are also the things the Healers don't say.

That's - Robards and Hawk when they finally show up and around four. Ask everyone to leave, again, classified investigations and all that - Harry doesn't even give them a second to sit down. Musters as much authority as he can for a bloke who's lying in a hospital bed and throws: 'You two are gonna fucking tell me what the fuck is going on, now?'

Hawk looks to the floor. Sits in Ginny's chair, next to him. Robards stands, arms crossed at the foot of Harry's bed. There are flowers on a little table behind him, sunflowers and lilies - sent by the team. The DA also sent some yesterday.

'You really don't remember?' Hawk says.

Ginny's apparently the last person who saw him, that morning. They think someone (probably multiple people) jumped him in the alley. 'The Healers said you had a lot of defensive wounds. Bloody knuckles, broken jaw. You seem to have put up a decent fight. We reckon they knocked you unconscious and quickly Apparated you somewhere else,' Hawk quickly adds. 'Ginny's showed us the place - it's discreet, but not that discreet. If they'd lingered too long, some Muggle could have walked in pretty easy.'

He asks how they found him. Hawk hesitates. 'Her teammate's new "boyfriend,"' he finally sighs. 'Hooked up a few times. Ginny said she always Floo-s from her place before games, that you two have this little ritual… Apparently, a few weeks ago, bloke started asking Clémence questions. She didn't realise -' Right. 'They couldn't get you at your place, there's too many wards. Had to find another way, you know?'

'Weasley and Longbottom gave the alert,' Robards jumps in to explain, then. 'They knew you had a work errand to run before coming to the game, so no one worried right away. The match started at eleven. Around twelve, Weasley started thinking it was weird that you hadn't shown. He said you'd had to skip games before, but this was the last one of the year, against the Bats, you know?' Hawk gives him a look. 'Asked Longbottom if he knew what you were working on, but Longbottom obviously didn't. They waited another half hour.

'Longbottom took off proper around quarter to one. Weasley stayed, he said, because he didn't want his sister to think something was up. Longbottom Apparated to the Ministry. Came to find me in my office. It was Saturday - I was stuck doing paperwork,' Robards sighs. 'I - er - probably took some convincing,' he reluctantly admits. Somehow, Harry can imagine. 'Finally caved in and Floo-ed Hawk around one. Thought he'd probably know where you were.'

They exchange another gaze. Hawk again: 'I knew you were supposed to visit the Ganzorigs at the safehouse. I remembered you'd got on quite well, played with the kids and all, so I reckoned you'd just decided to stay there a bit longer. But then, when they said you'd never showed. Well, that's when -'

They tried to page him, Hawk says. No response. They found a Muggle phone and rang his. Still no response. 'We called Amber. She said Muggles might have a way to locate it. We got on to the Met; they tried but said you weren't "picking up a signal,"' Robards quotes. 'Not sure what that meant, but - well, at that point, I felt we had to tell Shacklebolt. We wouldn't, normally, but you being you -'

It was around two. They found him around five. An all-out search the moment Kingsley got involved, but by then, whoever had taken him had a five-hour lead on them, and Harry could have been anywhere. 'Then, one of your friends at the Met had an idea frankly none of us would have had,' Robards smiles, something grateful but also sad. He leans back against the table behind him, pushing the flowers to the side. 'Started ringing Muggle hospitals.'

It took a while. To find someone who matched his description in a trauma centre all the way up in Yorkshire. 'They, er -' Hawk crosses Robards' gaze again, quick, before settling back on Harry's. 'We gave them a picture but they couldn't -' Hawk trails off. Shakes his head. 'Anyway, they gave the right numbers for that tattoo on your arm, so we knew it was you,' he settles. Harry glances away. The sun setting out the window.

'That's where we're not too sure what happened,' Hawk admits. 'The Muggle man who found you said he was driving his granddaughter back from her dance lesson. Four o'clock, maybe 4:15. He claimed he saw fireworks erupt from behind a bush. Was intrigued 'cause the season's sort of over. When the Muggle police took his statement, they thought he was just in shock, a bit old, you know?' He stops for breath. 'We know they were cast with your wand but in the state you were in…' Again, Hawk stops speaking. 'Maybe it was them. You weren't far from the road. They left you with your wand, they shot fireworks - it was a message. They wanted us to find the body, and ID you quickly. Well, anyway, that's my theory.'

Robards takes over. 'We found an empty barn further down, maybe five hundred yards from where you were. We searched it and -' But then, Hawk turns, sharp. He eyes Robards with the darkest, cautioning glare Harry's ever witnessed. Robards never finishes his sentence. 'We think that's where they held you,' he just says. 'They seemed to have pictures of Mr Ganzorig - what?' he barks. Harry watches as Hawk stands.

'Maybe that's enough, Gawain -'

Harry surprises himself, then. In how he finally finds enough energy to sit up, lit by the lights and the night now pitch dark outside, pointing out to the corridor - 'They regrew my fucking fingernails -' he spits out in anger. 'Do you not think I know what that fucking means?!'

Hawk is white as a sheet, that evening. Ghost-like, he leans back against the wall for support, by the side of the window, and runs a hand over his face. Runs it through his slightly curly, unruly, salt-and-pepper hair and looks at Robards, who is now glaring at him, then back at Harry. 'I told you,' Robards says.

Hawk swallows heavily. Pinches his lips, then looks back at Harry. 'We found three sets of prints, one being yours, so we think it was two of them,' he finally says. 'There were vials of Veritaserum but, well - we've all had the same training.' Harry leans back into his pillow - his abs are screaming from having had to pull him up like this. Aurors, he knows, and particularly Hit Wizards, are trained to resist the effects. It's like Imperio, it's not actually that hard when you know how to go about it. 'So, we don't think it was about you being you,' Hawk concludes. 'Although that probably didn't help. We reckon they were probably just hired by Darkthorn. -' The bloke Mr Ganzorig grassed on, so. 'We haven't caught them yet, but we're looking. We will.' Another pause. 'We reckon they wanted - well -' A breath. 'The location of the safehouse, you know?'

There is just the sound of the monitors, in his hospital room. Harry looks up to the ceiling. Then, straight at the opposite wall.

'Are they safe?' he asks. 'The Ganzorigs. They're okay?'

Hawk knows what's really asking. He nods. A reluctant sort of look. 'Yeah, they're fine. We moved them right away. Upped security and the wards.' But then: 'We monitored the old safehouse but no one ever showed up, anyway.'

There are the things that Hawk also doesn't say, that day.

Late that night, Cho visits. Harry isn't surprised. She is an intern, now, and he's seen her name on some of the forms they've handed out to him. Had an inkling that if he persuaded Ginny to go to her parents' for dinner at least - it is the 24th, after all - she might show. The moment she appears. 'Take me off the potions,' he says. It's ten, maybe half past ten at night.

She rolls her eyes. 'Harry -'

'Come on, I feel like a fucking sitting duck, here,' he snaps. 'I need to be awake.'

'There's Aurors in full gearoutside your door 24/7 -'

'It's not just that, it's -'

He's found that Hermione went to get Ginny right at the edge of the field, that day, the minute the game ended. She probably meant well but when she explained he'd gone missing, Ginny let out this blood-curdling howl and it didn't take the papers long to figure out what was going on. They're camping in the fucking lobby, now, and - Cho sighs.

'Look,' he adds, pointing to the stuff in his arm. 'I'm all hooked up to God knows what. If something happens, you'll know. Please.' He pauses, catches her gaze.'I really am sorry about that stupid date.' It's a lame joke, granted, but it does make her - smile, at least. She sighs again, heavier this time.

'Alright.'

It's the next morning that the cramping starts.

Ginny's there when it does. It's early, maybe seven - Christmas. She came back from her parents' just before midnight, slept on that chair again - all night. The Cloak's wrapped around her like a blanket, her head lolling back and forth, gently floating in the air. He grits his teeth, that first time, trying not to wake her up. But: everything fucking hurts, first of all - the knife wounds and mended bones and torn muscles and the migraine in his head, like he's been hit by a truck just yesterday - but with the cramps, it's -

Like: all his nerve endings have been set on fire. He wants to scream. Bile coming up his throat - most of the magical monitoring around him starts sounding out the loudest alarms - that's what ends up waking her. She blinks herself awake and jumps up to his side, dropping the Cloak at her feet - Ginny takes one look at him and she just knows.

'Hey, hey, hey, hey, look at me,' she points from his eyes to her face, quickly. 'Breathe. Like this.' She shows him. In, and out, in, and out. Like that summer after the war. It was just panic attacks, back then, but now - 'I know. I know it hurts but you need to lean it into it, okay? I know, I know, I know -' His hand firmly clasped between both of hers. 'Relax,' she says. 'Don't let it cramp - yeah, like that, yeah -'

He just - listens. To her voice. Closes his eyes. It's easier like that, feels less like his eyeballs are trying to run out. By the time all his tribe of Healers rush in, the pain's almost gone. They look at Ginny in puzzlement (he supposes she's not supposed to be here, technically), then at him. 'He's fine,' she says, turning around. They're all awkwardly standing with all their emergency equipment in their arms. It occurs to Harry that they probably thought he was having a heart attack. 'He's getting Cruciatus cramps,' she explains.

The next one - it hits less than thirty minutes later. By then, they've put Cho in the room to monitor it, a little bit like: you break it, you own it, because Harry will still not consent to go back on the painkillers again. So: not only does it hurt like fuck but now, it's also awkward. She has a small sensor wrapped around his finger and a small box in her hand. It flashes numbers and curves all throughout the cramp, like holograms. 'Ginny, can I talk to you for a second?' she says.

Ginny motions him to stay there - as though he had a choice. He listens to their footsteps; they walk down to the entrance of his room, hidden behind a wall. Cho's not very good at whispering, though, it seems. 'This thing only goes up to a ten. He's at a ten. I'd say if it went up to a fifteen he'd be at a fifteen.' She pauses. 'If he doesn't want the painkillers, he's gonna have to learn to control them quick, 'cause his heart's gonna give out.'

'Everything alright?' he asks, when Ginny comes back.

She nods. 'Yeah.' Tight smile.

Ron and Hermione are doing Christmas with the Grangers, that year. He had to persuade them not to change their plans for an hour, yesterday. Later, Ginny tells her parents not to come. I know it's Christmas but Harry's just a bit tired, she sends her Patronus. Oh, of course, Molly's robin responds. Let us know if you need anything, darling. Andromeda drops by unannounced at the end of her work day, in scrubs and a lab coat - it's an odd combination. He's never actually seen her in work before. She, like Ginny, also takes one look at him and knows. 'I can bring Teddy tomorrow,' she suggests, 'Might cheer you up a bit.' But Harry quickly shakes his head.

'He'll get scared.' He's only four. Shouldn't have to fucking deal with this. Andromeda bites her lip. Harry tries to put on a reassuring smile. 'We've loads of gifts. Ginny can bring them over to yours -' He crosses her gaze. 'I will live if I'm alone for two hours.' He doesn't mean to snap but there, another cramp comes, and -

That evening, Ginny stays. Again. Doesn't even bother hiding under the Cloak - they have Cho and Andromeda's blessing, anyway. Ride out the cramps - all night. Harry hates this. Hates being useless like this, hates, too, that she's the one talking to him, knowing how to guide him through it because he can never quite forget why that is. He had them after Tom in Fourth Year, a couple times, like a burning sensation in his limbs - but not like this. Not this long, certainly not this strong. It's like it never stops. Maybe, it's the other wounds making it worse, or the curse, or -

'It depends on the degree of exposure,' Cho says.

He wonders if perhaps, she shouldn't have said.

He asked the Healers about his memory, too. Wanted to see if there was any chance he might remember anything that could help Hawk and Robards catch the guys. 'Well, it's possible it will come back,' the Healers said. 'Sometimes, with the pain, our brains just prefer to, well -' It's not an answer, Harry thinks. 'You might get something in a few days, a few months, years. Flashes or the full thing. With Muggles, there's been some good results through hypnosis. But -' A smile. 'You know, it's probably best you don't remember, isn't it?'

Everyone says that, that year. It's drives him fucking insane.

On Boxing Day, the whole Auror office comes down around Darkthorn's ears. Thirty coordinated arrests in ten different locations - it's almost a bit much. 'Sorry, we couldn't tell you until we were sure,' Hawk admits. He looks - relieved. 'Everyone's fine. A few broken bones but we'll live.' They've compared the prints of those they arrested to the ones found in the barn. 'One of them died,' Hawk adds. 'Resisting arrest.' Harry looks away. 'The other took a stun potion vial to his head. They're saying it's 50/50 if he'll make it.'

The thought that the bloke is also lying on a bed somewhere in St Mungo's makes Harry's skin crawl. He's not sure why the words just leave his mouth. 'If he does, tell the MPS to plead it out. Whatever they can get. No trial. I don't want a spectacle.'

Hawk's jaw sets but the situation with the press is just starting to make Harry more and more nervous. Yesterday, a reporter tried to make a run for it to get a picture and got stunned by Taya, just outside. 'Fucking arsehole!' she shouted, pushing him back down the corridor.

They've been circling around like wolves. Talking to doctors and nurses and patients, trying to get quotes in print. Harry can't help but think he's lost a stone in less than a week. That a nurse comes in three times a day to syphon his bladder for him. They said they might try a first trip to the loo tomorrow. The thought of a trial where the details of every curse and every injury done to him would be broadcast for everyone to hear makes him want to retch even more than the idea of whoever did it getting twenty years instead of a life sentence.

Hawk hesitates. 'You sure?' he asks. Then, when Harry nods: 'Alright, I'll see what I can do.'

Because of the press and everything else, really, and against medical advice, after that one successful trip to the loo, Harry discharges himself the next day.

He doesn't deal with it very well, it turns out. The whole being sick thing. The whole being off work thing. The turn of 2003 is -

Even leaving the hospital is an ordeal. Might be why the Healers don't want him to leave. He can't fucking walk more than a step without being held, or else he falls over. Muscles clenching - dizziness, pain. This isn't a couple broken ribs and a bit of soreness in his leg, or a hectic night spent regrowing bones in the hospital wing at Hogwarts. This is bad.

In his head, the wheelchair's a categorical no. 'The press is outside,' he stresses, when the Healers suggest it. He is too weak to Apparate or Floo, so they will need a car, with no idea how to get to it.

'You men and your stupid pride -' Hermione snaps. He wants to ask her what the wizarding world will think, seeing their hero in a fucking wheelchair. 'You look like shit anyway. Just so you know.'

He keeps the beard that's overgrown at his cheeks - it'll hide how gaunt and drawn his face is. 'There's a tunnel,' Cho suggests. 'We used to get patients through it during the war. Patients they - er - didn't approve of. It's full of ghosts, though.'

'Fine,' Harry decides. Ghosts, he's not afraid of. So: they wheel the wheelchair down the creepy tunnel to get out. Like a fucking war escape.

The rest is just - him on the sofa of their apartment, really. For weeks, in early 2003. The Healers come for regular check-ups, insist that he is getting 'better,' and it never feels like it. Everything just - hurts. All the time. The frequency of the cramping gradually slows to one every hour, couple hours sometimes if he's lucky. But, when they do happen, the cramps themselves just seem worse. Everything is worse. Harry can't keep food down without vomiting half of it. They say it's the knife wounds, the pain, maybe, remnants of the flesh-eating curse. He forces Ginny to go to her Quidditch practices and matches as normal, in an effort to make it sound less terrible to the wider public. 'Yes, Harry's very good. Doing better everyday,' she tells journalists. Strained smiles. 'Just taking a bit of time at home to recover. Yes, of course, I'll pass on well wishes.'

They fight. All the time. About the cigarettes ('I've never been on your back about it, Harry, but right now, I really don't think they're helping'), and about the fact that for weeks, he can't be arsed to get off the couch. 'I fucking can't - alright?'

He's got crutches, but they barely take him as far as the bathroom. Ginny helps with lowering him onto the toilet, with showering, changing out his tracksuits a couple times a week. The migraine feels fucking constant, never as searing as the Tom ones but beating his heartbeat at his temple relentlessly - there are days when he wakes up but doesn't even bother pulling the curtains open.

Hawk visits, a couple times. Harry tries to sit up for those ones because for some reason, he doesn't want the boss to worry. Each time, his side feels like it's been sliced open with the motion. Harry finds out that after they found him and moved the Ganzorigs, Robards had Hawk put together an ambush at the old safehouse, hoping Darkthorn and his crew would show. 'Your friend Ron said it wouldn't work. I knew it wouldn't work,' Hawk sighs. 'He said it's how your parents died. That you'd never -' He shakes his head. 'I'm sorry.'

Harry toys with the pack of cigarettes in his hand. Turning it upside down, and up again. The ruffle of the contents, each time. 'They had me seven hours. It was a good idea.' They're all taught it. Everyone's supposed to have a breaking point, Aurors say.

The bloke they arrested survived, Hawk tells him. It is early January. Condensation at the edges of the windows. The MPS have managed to plead it out, he adds. Fifteen years. 'We had to take the Unforgivables off the table or else his lawyers wouldn't take it.'

Harry digs his fingernails into the heel of his palm and nods. 'I'll sign the papers.'

Hawk says he should rest, take his time. That, even when he feels, if Harry never wants to come back to work, it's alright.

When Ron comes over, he tries to make suggestions. 'We could go to the game against the Cannons this weekend,' or, 'Maybe you could help me test some of the products from the shop. I could take some samples over?' Harry says no to the former and yes to the latter because he reckons he needs to say yes to something. The afternoon is quite fun, actually, he does smile a few times, until Ginny comes home from training and badgers them about the mess. He doesn't fucking talk to her, that night.

He doesn't sleep in bed. First, because that would imply moving away from the sofa. Second, because he's been having nightmares again. Tom and forests - again - and he screams and thrashes and wakes himself up and if she sleeps in another room, it's easier to hide behind silencing charms. Once or twice, she goes out flying in the middle of the night and when she comes back, Harry pretends to be asleep. Feels her sit on the coffee table next to him, like feather-light in the dark, and she wraps her cold hands around one of his. He's not sure why but he starts praying for her to do it every night. It makes him want to cry.

They fight about how much time he spends in front of the TV. It's probably one of the worst periods in History to be sat in front of the Muggle TV. January 2003. Saddam. War crimes. Footage of that 1979 Ba'ath party conference, played on loop on all the channels. Nuclear enrichment programmes. Weapons inspectors and press dossiers - Brits 45 Minutes From Doom! Moving lorries driving across Iraq filled with chemical weapons, designed to evade the detection of UN envoys. 9/11. Saddam. Saddam promoting terrorism. Saddam and his axis of evil. Saddam and maybe - maybe Bin Laden is actually in Iraq, who knows? Saddam, ignoring the UN Resolutions. Saddam, refusing to disarm. Saddam had his own brother-in-law killed. Saddam murdered journalists and informants. Saddam committed genocide against his own population. A woman refugee telling the press about helicopters unleashing hell from above, a yellow smoke that atrociously killed everyone in her village. Iraqis abroad begging for an intervention. The Blair government arguing the merits of a 'regime change' in front of Parliament.

Hermione visits. They fight, too. 'You're getting brainwashed.'

'So, you're telling me he's a nice guy?'

'I'm telling you they don't care if he's a nice guy or not, all they care about is petrol. That and making someone responsible for 9/11 to hide the fact that Afghanistan's turning into a shit show. Do you trust the government? Do you trust Republicans? Did you not see the chaos in Florida?' She is bitter when she laughs. 'Do you trust the American military? They torture people, Harry -'

The thinly veiled - something - makes his blood boil, that day. 'You think Kingsley cares about petrol?' he throws back. 'Avenging 9/11?'

Kingsley's said it, now. In an interview in the Prophet, a few days back. In light of the circumstances, if the Muggles go to war, they will help. Same terms as for Afghanistan. Nothing changes, he argued, not much of a fuss to make about. Still following the same agreement, from 1999. But now, the press has woken up, it seems. Wizarding Conservatives haven't quite digested the fact that their now skyrocketing taxes will go towards helping Muggles fight their stupid wars. There are concerns that Kingsley's government is really getting too chummy with Muggles, now, and they and Hermione have ironically landed together on the same anti-war side. She is working for a Ministry she strongly disagrees with, these days, and tells him: 'You don't know what it's like in there, Harry,' then pauses. That also infuriates him. It's not like he's got a choice not to know, is it? 'I can't believe you would be pro-war.'

'Oh, fuck you,' he bites. 'Saddam's like, fucking Voldemort, but ten times worse and you know it. Kingsley's right to help them. It's the right thing to do -'

She claims that 'liberal interventionism,' whatever that is, doesn't work. 'It sounds nice on paper but they haven't prepared this, every analyst with a brain's saying it's gonna turn into a bloodbath.'

'It worked in Kosovo!' Harry actually has no clue. It's what they're saying on TV and it sounds convincing.

'You don't even know where that is on a map,' she snaps. 'And, since when do you believe Kingsley's good intentions?'

There is a march to oppose the war scheduled for mid-February. She wants them to go. Ron's already said yes. Because he wants to continue having sex, Harry supposes. It's in a month's time and Harry reckons that if he's able to make it to the fucking kitchen without falling over in pain, by then, it'll be a win. Let alone march for something he doesn't even believe in. He calls Hermione a coward when she brings it up, that morning, and she tells him the only reason he won't go is his fucking pride, not wanting people to see him like this. 'You wanna oppose the war?' he throws back. 'Go to the fucking Prophet and tell them you're against it, yeah? Instead of going into work every day and rolling over and then complaining to us about it.'

Ginny's look is murderous, that day. Harry reckons if they'd all been having this fight on equal footing, she might have actually slapped him in the face for what he said. But: he's lying on the couch uncomfortably with three pillows behind his back, trying to help with the strain in his kidneys so she just crosses her arms. Hermione's eyes fill with tears and Ginny steps closer to her, away from him. 'You're a fucking arsehole,' she tells him.

'Look,' Ron tries to tune it down a notch. 'There's no need to call each other names either. I reckon -'

'Oh, he fucking knows -' Ginny snaps. She takes Hermione's arm and leads her down the corridor. 'Come on, let's go get lunch, yeah?'

It lasts six weeks. Until the 6th of February. A random Thursday when it all ends, in a way.

In the grand scheme of things, Harry supposes he is better, by then. Has regained enough muscle to move around the flat a bit more, stand (even if not upright), leaning heavily on a pair of crutches. But also, he isn't. New 'issues' have emerged. About three weeks ago, the Healers began getting really concerned about the near-constant Cruciatus cramps he is still getting. It could have long-term consequences on his nervous system, they said. And the pain and the never-ending strain on his body might send him into cardiac arrest, they added again. Ginny was in the room and Harry couldn't even bring himself to look at her.

He's still refusing painkillers. According to them, it would be a better solution to give his body a rest. So, instead, they've had to come up with a bespoke potions cocktail he's been taking to slow down the cramping. They've now completely shot his liver and kidneys. Everything hurts again and getting up is a struggle; it's like he made progress only for it to get twenty times worse. His nerves might be marginally better (and even then, given the cramps he's still having, he's not even sure it's working), but his insides now constantly feel like they're on fire. A nurse comes in every week to help him filter his own fucking blood with intricate spell work that leaves him weak and in-and-out of consciousness for hours on end. She tells him he needs to eat more, like he's still not vomiting anything that's not soup. She tells him he needs to drink more water, sleep better.

He hasn't seen any of the other Weasleys since they got home. Hasn't seen Teddy either. He doesn't want to worry people. Sometimes, he finds himself wishing Ron and Hermione away. Wishing Ginny away, too.

She's still doing the whole press thing. He's began to hate her for it. Going to galas and gallery openings, and fancy dinners without him. Giving interviews. Some pap even got pictures of her knickers up her skirt. There are pictures of her all over the press, same as before - all smiles and sexy outfits. She is winning games for the Magpies. They all love her. The both of them don't even talk about Quidditch anymore, because it keeps reminding him that he has got nothing going on. That he doesn't know if he'll ever fly again. He's not sure what they do talk about, in fairness, except for when she reminds him to take his meds. She leaves the flat, sometimes late in the night, and he hears her get her broom out of their closet but he's now managed to convince himself she's just going out to fuck someone else. Not like: really convinced himself; he's not actually confronted her about it or expressed any concerns, but he just turns it over in his head now and then. Likes to turn it over, weirdly, because it makes him feel even worse. Also makes it easier to blame how shit he's feeling on something that is within somebody's control. He likes to think she is sleeping with Josh Hathaway. He thinks about what they would look like, together, fucking, bent over a table. With their nice lives and functioning bodies, and painless limbs.

She tried a handjob once - with him. Kissed his jaw and muttered: 'Harry, come to bed, please.' Sex - like, actual sex - has just been totally out of the question, but she kissed his cheek and slid her hand in his pants and he just - froze. She stopped after a few strokes, probably feeling the awkwardness radiating off him, and never tried again.

That evening, in February, the night is dark. She gets home from work and they have dinner in awkward quasi-silence. The nurse's been in today and he can hardly move, needs her help to get to the toilet. That's always fucking humiliating. Half his weight on a crutch, the other over her shoulders; that night, they hobble. The corridor's at an awkward angle; it's hard to squeeze through.

They arrive in the bathroom and he starts pulling his tracksuits and pants down before she helps him lower himself onto the seat. His foot slips. There is just a bit of water on the floor tiles that she forgot to wipe off when she showered after practice and he loses his balance on it. They both try to hold onto each other - Harry grips the edge of the sink and sends an array of make-up items flying; she holds onto his chest to try and keep him upright but he is too weak and heavy for her small frame. He hits the floor at an angle, his head dropping onto a pile of woollen jumpers left by the side of the laundry basket. The shock sets the entire side of his body on fire again, and 'FUCK!' he swears.

He runs a quick inventory. His side feels like it's probably bruising, but nothing's broken. His head didn't hit the floor directly - he supposes it's a blessing Ginny hasn't been keeping up with laundry. She is crawling over him the moment he opens his eyes. 'Oh God, Harry, I'm so sorry -'

They try to pull him up, but he keeps slipping. Swearing. Every time they fail, it hurts more. Even with the couple stones he's lost, by now, he's a dead weight on her hands, unable to even help her by pushing on his hands. He's just laying there useless, on the tiles with his fucking pants down, with his fucking dick out and she tries a spell to help him up that doesn't work and when he slips back down, hitting the bruises against bony hips hard for the third time, she leaves his side.

He's not sure what is happening, at first. His eyes are glued to the ceiling and to the underside of the porcelain sink; he has to awkwardly turn his head to find her again. At first, he wonders if she's gone to get more help, get the other crutch. But instead, she is sitting on the floor. Her back against the door. Her knees pulled up to her chest; she is hugging herself, forehead dropped and eyes facing her lap.

He tries to move again. Can't. Wonders if she's hurt herself in the struggle, if she's okay, if -

But then, she looks up. And, he gets it. She's just - sat there. Sobbing.

Hot tears. Mascara tracks down her cheeks. He's never seen her like this. It shakes her entire body and she is heaving, like she can't breathe, and he can't fucking do anything. The pain in his stomach is of a completely different kind, that night, the visceral snake that literally eats him alive every time he sees her cry. He wants to get up, wraps his arms around her, and he tries to, tries to, but he keeps slipping back and, 'FUCK!'

She crosses his gaze. Her look trails down to his half-naked body, limp on the white tiles of their rental flat, and it's the worst thing. Just - ever. The helplessness and the fear he sees in her face, like he hasn't seen since the war, since -

She just - leaves, that night. Wordlessly. Just - pushes herself up from the ground. The front door opens and closes, and suddenly she's gone.

At first, he reckons she might be coming back. With help, with a plan, but fifteen minutes pass, half an hour - he's got his watch - but she doesn't reappear. He decides it's actually fine. He's fine. Bruised, probably, but the pain's not that bad. He can sleep here tonight. The floor's hard but it's actually serving his back, it seems, and he's got the woollen jumpers for a pillow. His bum's cold; he manages to gingerly pull his tracksuits back up - better.

It's forty-five minutes before the front door opens.

It's not Ginny. Instead, it's a tall, strong, 6'4" ginger lad Harry's known for quite a while. Ron takes one look at him, on the floor. His little makeshift pillow and the towel he's managed to grab to use as a blanket. 'So what?' he asks. 'You're just gonna sleep here?'

Harry finds that he kind of wants to cry.

'Come on,' Ron sighs. 'I'll help you up.'

They make it to the couch. After a few groans, carrying Harry's weight across the room. Ron doesn't say much. Finds a bottle of Dittany in one of the drawers - Harry applies it at his side rather liberally. His best mate brings him a glass of water, sighs. 'She was sobbing,' he just says. Before leaving.

That February, Ginny doesn't come back until the next evening. By then, Harry feels a bit better, has managed to make it to the loo by himself twice even, though he feels like he reeks from not having changed or washed in three days. At lunch time, he ate a couple boring slices of white bread with nothing on them but did manage to keep that down. Watched telly. The sun set around five. The front door reopens around nine.

He hears her walk down the corridor, first. Pull her shoes off in the hall like she always does. Drops her bag in the closet. A few minutes later, the shower runs. Thirty minutes, she takes her time. Until he looks up and suddenly, she is there, standing in the doorway in tracksuit bottoms and an old cotton Harpies jumper, the drawing of a witch on a broom moving over her chest. She crosses his gaze.

Harry is laying on the sofa facing the door, the back of his head to the window. He absentmindedly runs his nail over the seam of the fabric of the cushion under him. Looks away when she tries to catch his gaze.

Ginny sits on the couch, too, that evening. Her bum on the armrest, feet next to his. She is right in front of him, then, a couple of cushions helping him sit up. He wants to turn his head but the position's awkward, his neck sore.

'I don't sleep,' she tells him. 'I dream that you're dead. All the time.

A break.

'When Hermione came to get me, that day, they'd just found someone fitting your description in that Muggle hospital. The first time I ever meet Hawk and he's asking me to confirm the numbers,' she says. Pulls her sleeve up to show him the tattoo at her wrist. 'He wouldn't tell me why. Then Robards said they'd beat you up so badly they couldn't make an ID. When you got to St Mungo's, the Healers, they -' she bites her bottom lip, chin quivering slightly. 'They wouldn't tell me but I knew. From the look on their faces. They thought you wouldn't make it.'

She closes her eyes for a second. When she opens them again, Harry feels transparent. Not solid.

'The Healers said you did die, you know? The first time, they're not sure. Before that Muggle man did CPR, maybe? Then, they put you in the ambulance and that one's recorded. You flatlined for one minute and thirty seven seconds, exactly.'

Ginny speaks slow, that night. Swallows. He didn't know that, he muses, isn't sure why it matters. He's here, now. His gaze trails over her face. The lights are low around them, just the floor lamp by the side of the couch behind him, the dimmer switch pushed to a minimum. It casts shadows rather than light over her face; she looks tired. Purple darkness under her eyes like flower petals.

'You promised,' she tells him.

Something - sinks.

'And, you worry about war in the Middle East,' she smiles. Bitter and sad. 'You worry about what people will think of you if they see you in a wheelchair. You say you don't want the painkillers because they make you groggy. I sit and lie, and make excuses to my parents, to my brothers, to Andromeda because you haven't seen Teddy in weeks.' She glares him down. He tries to look away. 'You won't sleep with me anymore.' A breath. 'And, I don't mean -' she trails off. 'I mean that I wake up and I see you dead every night like I did five years ago and it's worse, because I can't feel your heartbeat when I reach out because your side of the bed's cold as ice. All the time.'

Her voice cracks.

'And, I'm dreading coming home, every night, because I keep thinking I'm going to find you dead. On that couch. Either because you'll have had a heart attack, which you don't seem to fucking care about, because of the pain, or because -'

She closes her eyes. Stops, like her breaths have ran out.

'Should I be hiding your wand?' Her gaze is cold. Piercing. 'Or the kitchen knives, Harry?'

He says nothing.

Eventually, in the silence, Ginny pushes herself off the couch, that night. Stands by the foot of the sofa, arms hugging her chest. 'Last time, I broke up with you. Because I knew - I know - that if you died again I wouldn't survive it. But now, I can't even do that. I love you too much.' Broken and cracked and tears in her voice. So: 'I don't fucking know what to do, Harry.'

And - yeah. It takes him a while, that year. To get off the bloody sofa. The anger and the hurt boiling in his veins, more painful than anything else. The fucking wheelchair eyes him reproachfully from its spot in the corner, hidden behind their kitchen table.

He Accio-s it. Laboriously heaves himself onto it. Sit up right, first. Move it with a spell to line it up with the sofa. All the strength he still has in his forearms to move his bum onto the seat. The stakes are high, he feels. If his weight makes it topple again to the other side and he falls back, he'd be truly fucked.

He navigates to their bedroom. Bumps into a couple of walls and doorways - the lights are out in the corridor, makes it all the more complicated. Finally, Harry finds his side of the bed. She is laying on her back in the darkness, under the covers. Quiet tears again. He pulls the sheets off and just sort of lunges himself awkwardly onto the mattress, shifts to lay parallel, next to her; the motion is fucking painful, but fuck this.

He feels her turn, next to him. Feels her on her side, looking at the edge of his face, probably frowning - probably confused. He wishes he could do that too, look directly into her eyes but if he does, the pain will just shoot up again and the old knife wounds will tear him apart, so this will have to do, he supposes. Extends his arm and pulls her towards him, close until her head is a weight over his shoulder and her body is pressed to his. It hurts a bit, the weight of her, and she fights him, pushes him away, a bit hysterical, but he takes her hand places it over his own fucking heart - like she used to do.

'Okay, so,' he speaks out, in the dark. 'I don't use the wheelchair because I'm scared of it,' he admits. He feels her shift, slowly calming down against him, looking at the underside of his chin. He can tell it's not what she expected, just forces himself to keep talking before he can stop to wonder what she'll think. 'I know it's stupid but it feels like if I sit in it, I'll never get out of it.' He sighs. 'And, everything just fucking hurts, Gin. Like, all of the time. And, I don't know how to deal with it. I've never been in that much pain. And, I know the Healers are saying it's getting better but I swear to fucking God, it just keeps feeling worse,' he adds.

'And, I don't want to take the pain meds because I know that if I do, I'll never stop taking them. You know that, too.'

He feels her move, impossibly closer. The side of her mouth wet against his t-shirt.

'And, I don't sleep at night either. I have fucking nightmares all the time. And, I thought sleeping on the couch would help because at least you would be able to sleep without me screaming and thrashing about. But, if you're not sleeping either, maybe we should just -' he sighs, speaks quick. 'Wake each other up. Like we used to.'

'And, for the record,' he adds, then. 'If I died, you'd be fine.' He forces a smile. 'I mean, you'd be sad, yeah. And maybe, it would be like Andromeda. Like, maybe the grief and the pain would make you into a different person. But, you would survive it.' He pauses, his arm pressing her closer again. It kind of hurts his side, but in a good way. 'And, I reckon you actually know this,' he smiles again, more genuinely, this time. 'But I think you don't like it because I said to you that I'm not scared of dying and you think that if I knew you'd be okay, I'd start being more reckless. That I'd just take more risks because I'm not scared and you'd be "okay" and I wouldn't care.'

He sighs. Closes his eyes for a bit. Stops to decide how to put this next bit. Maybe there is no right way to put it. 'Look, I'm not gonna tell you I'll never throw myself in the line of fire again. It's just - who I am, Gin,' he admits. 'If there's a cause that's worth it - like protecting the safety of that family was - I will. But, what I can tell you is that it won't be an easy decision to make. And, that I'll fight it. That I'll fucking fight it, and try to stay alive as long as I can. Not accept it like I used to. And, I'm not just saying that,' he adds. Suddenly, his throat is tight, tighter than a microscopic hole, it seems, and fuck, he thought he was done crying about this. Hot and ugly tears in front of the TV when no one's home. 'I'm telling you this because it's fact,' he says. 'Because that's what happened.'

They said it might come back. Then, one day, it just - did.

Ginny freezes, against him. Then, quick, he feels her escape his grip to sit upa bit, try and look at him. He glances out to the side. Can't say this and look at her at the same time. 'I should have told you. I just - I didn't know what to say.' He shakes his head. 'But, that's not the point anyway.' He does look at her, albeit at an angle, then. 'My point is that I was fucking scared. And, angry. I didn't want to fucking die, Gin. I've never wanted to live that badly, actually. It was like -' He pauses to think.

'Like I was trying to focus on the pain to stay conscious, because if I wasn't feeling it anymore, it meant I was dead. And I - I didn't tell them anything but I remember - I remember between two of the Cruciatus curses - of which there were twenty-nine, and I counted because that also kept me conscious - I thought: fuck, I don't wanna die now. Not after we won the fucking war,' he laughs. 'Not now that we're happy.' Maybe it's stupid, he wonders, maybe it's funny. 'And I was like, I don't wanna die before Gin and I have kids,' he adds. 'And, I don't wanna die before we get married. 'Cause, yeah, by the way, I reckon I do wanna get married, actually, I don't really care when, we can do it tomorrow or in ten years but consider this to be me proposing to you, officially.'

He smiles again when she lets out a short, strangled laugh.

'And, I don't wanna die before we buy a house and grew old together, until we become a real strain on the healthcare system. Until our kids have kids, and we get to see Teddy grow up. And fuck, like, Gin, it was - bad. But I tried to stay awake the whole time, and I remember laying on the boards with blood in my throat - like, choking on it, and wet and cold all over 'cause I'd pissed myself and that made them laugh - and I felt my heart slow down and I felt myself going and I remember thinking, just - not now. Please, not now, that I've real shit to live for.'

He's not sure if that's faith, too. Not the religious kind, just - faith in them. In life. He hung on. Played dead. So dead they actually thought he was dead. Panicked a bit, like: fuck, we're a bunch of low-life idiots and we've just killed Harry Fucking Potter. A Patronus told them to dump the body and get out of there, so they did. It was firing the fireworks himself, once he'd heard their Disapparating cracks, that stole his last heartbeat, that night.

'I'm sorry I lied,' he adds. 'And, I'm sorry I've been such an arsehole. I'm sorry I did die. I'm sorry I scared you. I get it if you leave but I really, really don't wanna lose you.'

She is sobbing, into his shoulder again, onto the fabric of his shirt.

'And, I'm sorry I didn't get down on one knee but then I'll fall and never get back up again and it's a bit of a shit show.'

She hits his chest. Laughing and crying at the same time, that night. It hurts, but in a good way, you know?

They don't talk about it. Not really. Kind of agree not to. Not like after the war but more like: she asks if he wants to talk about it and he just puffs out a heavy sort of sigh. Isn't sure there is much to talk about. Much value in telling her that Cruciatus curses hurt like fuck. That getting your fingernails ripped out by severing spells doesn't feel very nice either. Ginny inspects: his hand in hers by the side of the couch. 'Well,' she says, one night. 'I quite like the new ones.'

It hurts his chest a bit: reluctantly laughing.

He does tell her about the nightmares, though. The nightmares he has about dying. It's strange: that being a thing he's afraid of, now. The forest and the grass, always, a creepy coincidence. At least, now, it's just him dying. No one else.

He phones Hermione, later that week. 'I'll go to your march,' he says.

She tries to talk him out of it, surprisingly enough. 'Oh, Harry, I thought you wouldn't, I -'

She told the Prophet she was going, she tells him. Samira suggested plausible deniability, stolen pap-like pictures of she and Ron at the demonstration, to get the conversation going while still being able to argue she went as a private citizen, and maybe not get fired. 'If I tell them not to, now, I'm sure they'll still come -'

He supposes he's got a week to learn to look half-presentable on crutches. 'I can't walk too long -' Harry tells her, then. Or - well, at all. They agree he'll meet them towards the end.

'Do you think I'm right?' she asks.

He sighs. Isn't sure. Of anything, these days. The pain and the accident kind of shook the confidence he had in his own brain. Saddam is a ruthless dictator. Yet, half the press is saying the claims about the weapons are fake. 'I think you're right that what I care about, and what the British government cares about, and what Kingsley cares about, are three different things.'

That Saturday, a million people take to the streets. The largest demonstration ever recorded in British History. Ron's arm, discreet around his waist, helps him stand upright in front of the cameras.

Harry supposes that in the weeks that follow, the press is all over it. The Golden Trio standing up to Kingsley's administration - officially. But, frankly, he doesn't see much of it. Doesn't care for much of it. His health's still a bit - you know. There's ups and downs. By the end of February, he can walk to Tesco without the crutches, albeit very slow. The Healers have found the right dosage of potions, one that allows him to recuperate and get the cramps down to an unpleasant tingle without destroying actively valuable internal organs.

With Ginny, things are better, though. They've made it to her parents' once or twice. Mr Weasley tried to avert his gaze, hide the shock from his face when he saw Harry's frail frame. 'Well, I'm glad you're doing better,' his wife said. They decide not to tell them about the wedding - yet. 'I want to elope,' Ginny says, in his ear. 'Just us. Spur of the moment when we feel like it.'

He chokes out a laugh. 'They will kill us if we elope.'

She kisses him, open mouthed. He leans into it until she pulls away. It's been a while. 'We can have a party for everyone afterwards.'

He smiles.

They have sex again. At first, it's awkward. Not the teenage-not-sure-what-he's-doing-never-seen-a-girl-naked-before kind of awkward, but more like: on his back and 'Wait, sorry, your hand -' 'Oh, sorry -' 'No, it's fine, just maybe put your weight -' 'Like this?' A smile. 'Yeah.' 'Can I kiss you now?' Another smile. He holds her afterwards. Naked and clammy skin against his, and that's good. It helps.

They laugh again. Just the two of them, like they used to. She is heartbroken (like, literally, she won't get off the couch - in mourning) when the Weird Sisters announce a split. He takes the piss - a bit - but the next day, the press asks her how he's doing ('We haven't seen him in months!') and she playfully answers: 'Well, I don't know, actually. I'm a bit worried. He seems to be getting into Muggle rap, lately.'

That, of course, makes the headlines.

'Oh, come on, it's one song!' he laughs. They're at home; she is making food - he is on the sofa, smelling a bit of burnt - he needs to make the effort to cook again; Ginny is … not very good at it. He catches her gaze - she is smiling.

'One song?' she snorts. 'You've played like three whole albums on loop all month.'

And: maybe? There's something a bit cathartic about the anger, being honest. Like, sure: Kim and '97 Bonnie and Clyde are vile. He listens to them once and skips because he's pretty sure this lad should be in jail. But - Stan. The Way I Am? Those two hit, somehow. And, Without Me makes him laugh. It's just a good time for Muggle rap, you know - the beginning of the 2000s. What with Eminem and Dre; soon, The Streets and Plan B. The anger and the chaos and the laughs. He relates.

At the beginning of March, he can walk again. Proper. Not for miles, but still. Once they've found the right meds and he can keep solid food down, rebuild muscle that takes him further than the bathroom, it gets significantly easier. He is still - tired. From doing random stuff that used to be no-brainers, like standing up for twenty minutes to make pasta or cleaning out dust from under the bed, but it's good-tired, not doing-nothing-barely-able-to-sit-up tired. Every day, he's getting a bit further.

On the 12th, he finally meets Hawk at a Muggle café. The war's looming. They're pretending to have last-minute peace talks and UN resolutions; the French are refusing to be bullied and Harry knows an army gearing up when he sees one The two of them sit in the sun outside; a side street not far from the boss's family home in Primrose Hill.

'You look better,' Hawk says.

'Yup.' A sarcastic grin and shrug. 'Managed the Tube all by myself.'

They talk shop, and: 'I'm coming back next week,' Harry announces. Just sort of decided. Yesterday. He needs to make something out of his days. There is an alarmed look on Hawk's face; Harry bursts out a laugh. 'Not for you.' He is nowhere near close to being in shape. 'Just, you know. The Muggle stuff.'

'Right,' Hawk nods.

Harry isn't naive, though. With a war on, things are probably just going to keep getting shittier. These past few years haven't felt like the end of something, but like a beginning. He's just not sure of what. Maybe just the new century. 'What did you do during the war?' he suddenly wonders out loud.

Hawk smirks. Not mean but like - amused. 'Took you long enough to ask.'

Harry shrugs. 'I try not to.'

There is a gust of wind, in the air. The sun hides behind a cloud for a moment. It is one of those mid-March days, an in-between, the pavement still wet, mush on Harry's shoes from the mud in the park, dawn puffer jacket open wide. 'I laid low,' Hawk admits. A sip of tea; he puts his cup back against the metal table. 'Marth, she's an artist.' Harry looks up. Not what he expected. Though, come to think of it, he's not sure what he expected. 'She, er, paints. Most of her clients are Muggles. She does quite well.' He stops, looks around. Little white houses with neat front gardens and shops that sell organic fruit and vegetables. Harry reckons their definition of 'quite well' might differ a bit, doubts any of this turns on Hawk's Ministry salary. 'I just did my job,' he shrugs. 'Tried to keep the kids and her safe. Tried to kill as few innocent people in the process as possible.' A pause. 'I don't reckon they trusted me much, though. Knew I was good mates with Gawain and he got sacked, so. Why?'

Harry nods. A tingle at the end of his fingers. His right leg cramps for a second. It passes. 'No reason,' he says. Like: literally no reason. He really isn't sure why he asked. 'Is your real name really "Will," by the way?'

'Oh Merlin,' Hawk snorts. 'I really thought you were out cold.'

They laugh, for a moment. Harry sets his cup down on the table and sighs. 'I do wanna come back,' he admits. This is really what he wanted to see Hawk about. 'I'm just -'

He's spent too much time on the Muggle stuff, lately, to be honest. Worked himself into the ground, trying to do both at the same time. Part of him can't help but wonder if it would have happened, if he hadn't been so exhausted. He should have seen them, tailing him into that alley -

The Muggle outreach programme felt like a good idea, at first, but with the war, he's just - Amber can take it, he thinks. She's good. More business-like than he is. He reckons she finds it easier to say no. And, perhaps, these days, they should be saying no.

'I'm just scared,' he admits, then, catching Hawk's gaze. It was a tough one to admit to Ginny, even more difficult to admit to his boss. Although, maybe he and Hawk are a bit more than that, now. Not friends, but - Harry trusts him. To help, not judge. He wouldn't say this to Robards, he doesn't think. Imagine that: the job's dangerous, and Harry's scared of dying. Hawk smiles, nods. 'Is Rory still leaving?'

There was talk of a sabbatical, last December, Harry remembers. He and his girlfriend were planning to leave before the summer, a 'round the world trip. For better or for worse, Harry even offered to put them in touch with Luna. Hawk just looks at him, now. A serious but also mildly disbelieving expression accentuated by the few lines across his forehead. 'It's a shit job, Harry.'

'It's not in the line of fire.'

And, it's useful. It's keeping the team safe. It's something he's good at. It's not: busting doors down and getting severing spells within an inch of a limb. And, not much happens with it, most of the time. Hawk rolls his eyes but also kind of smiles. Brown gaze no-nonsense on Harry's face. 'You pass your physical,' he says. Harry's clothes are too big for him. He has to pull the strings tight on his joggers, these days. 'And, you get those cramps sorted - don't lie to me,' Hawk holds his gaze, pointing at Harry's hand, 'And, we'll talk, okay?'

'Okay.'

He feels a bit coy, a bit childish, can't help but finally add: 'I'm going back to the gym tomorrow, you know?'

Hawk bursts out a laugh. 'Good - for - you.'

A few days later, in the morning of the 20th of March 2003, the 'Coalition of the Willing' launches 'Operation Iraqi Freedom.' Kingsley's government, as well as MACUSA, are amongst the 'willing.' The Minister has let the bad press die, relatively unbothered, though he did 'call' (was that an insult?) the three of them 'young idealists' in the Prophet. It is what it is.

Two days later, Bill and Fleur announce a second pregnancy. In Harry's ear, Ginny whispers: 'They do have a sense oftiming, I'll give them that. D'you reckon wars give Bill's little swimmers a push or something?' Harry chokes on a glass of pumpkin juice at the dinner table.

A couple months later, Bush gives a bizarre speech. Claims that some sort of 'mission' has been 'accomplished.' The Iraqi forces (what little existed anyway) have been defeated, but Saddam remains at large, and no weapons have been found. There's been looting everywhere - chaos in the streets of Baghdad. American soldiers are starting to fall victim to IEDs. Hermione whispers: 'They even have magic to help them look.' A pause. She bites her lip. 'D'you think none of it existed?

The truth all starts slowly coming that spring. Deaths, a total lack of planning, Abu Ghraib. He tries to avoid the photos in the press, 'cause then he doesn't sleep for days. Then, in the summer, news of dead weapons inspectors and 'sexed up' dossiers. In their world, May is the fifth anniversary of their war. Harry's first public appearance in months. It goes okay. Ahead of the ceremony, he, Ron and Hermione find out they're getting their faces on Chocolate Frog cards.

He finally sees Teddy again in June. Has put the weight back on, enough muscle mass in his arms to lift him up to the fucking sky if he wants. He's grown so much, in just six months. Turned five, too. Going to Muggle school now, learning to count and colour, and put little letters on the whiteboard in the right order. He chose permanently jet-black hair for the weekdays.

They are at Andromeda's, that day. The sun shines in the back garden. There are lots of tears. Quivering little chins, trying to hold them back, and I'm-a-big-boy-now. Arms crossed over his little chest and brow furrowed. Harry shakes his head. 'No, you're right to be cross. I'm sorry.' He's had to apologise to Andromeda, too. Again. She has the patience of a saint, dealing with difficult men.

'Granny said you were ill.'

'Yeah,' Harry confirms, nodding. He sinks down to his knees to level with him. 'For a while. And then I got a bit in my head about it. I was a bit scared, you know?'

Teddy nods, affecting a solemn air of pride. 'Granny says sometimes when you get scared you don't think well.' He pauses, crosses Harry's gaze. 'I could have helped, you know? Granny is a Healer. She taught me loads.'

Harry nods. His mouth twists. That hurts. 'I know. I'm sorry,' he says. Teddy looks at him with Tonk's big, dark brown eyes. 'Can I give you a hug, please?'

There is a bit of thinking. Before Teddy nods, solemn again. 'Yes.'

He pulls him so close. Soclosesoclosesoclose he could hang on forever and never let go. He blinks, blinksblinksblinks to hold back the tears that threaten to just stream down his cheeks. Ginny stands behind Teddy in the grass and he crosses her gaze. Her eyes, too, are red.

Later, they sit outside. Andromeda's put a small table out before she left them to go to the shops. They've had tea and Haagen Daz - a bit chaotic - 'Don't tell your nan, yeah?' And Teddy is now zooming around on a kiddie broom in the garden. They made paper planes, then enchanted them to float around, waiting to be caught. 'Harry, look!' he says. Ginny is sitting across, to Harry's left, an arm draped over the back of her chair.

'Not bad!' she shouts, smiling. Teddy grins - clearly pleased with the professional feedback. Ginny turns around towards Harry again. 'It's true,' she laughs. 'He's really not bad.'

'Hey,' Harry smiles. 'He's not my godson for nothing.'

They bask in companionable silence for a while, just the songs of birds and Teddy's laughter and the soft summer of Andromeda's garden, the shade of an awning above their head. It is Sunday. Harry's back with the Hit Wizards tomorrow. Passed his physical - 10/10, flying colours. Hawk's gaze felt like it was piercing through his skin as he went over his file, taking in every detail meticulously. 'No cramps?' he asked, inspecting Harry's face. 'Not even a twitch?'

'Nope. Not in the last month. The Healers are saying they're probably gone.'

Hawk nodded. 'Alright then, okay.'

When Harry looks at Ginny again, that afternoon, her gaze is back on Teddy. He sees her profile, the tip of her nose a bit red from the sun, a constellation of freckles across her creamy cheeks. There is a bit of lipstick on her lips, just a pink tint - 'You're staring,' she teases, grinning, without even having to look at him. Teddy runs back into the house to get a Quaffle from his bedroom and Ginny catches Harry's gaze as they listen to the running footsteps dim.

'I'm pregnant,' she tells him.

Just - that. In the air, for a long time. His mouth opens, closes. 'I went off the potions when you were sick,' she explains, quick. 'They were giving me these headaches. With the stress of everything, it just -' She shakes her head. 'I thought, you know, we weren't having sex anyway, so why bother? Even after I stopped, I wasn't really getting my period.' She looks at him. Brown eyes like chocolate-flavoured Haagen Daz. 'It came back at the end of April, I thought I'd book an appointment to get another prescription but -'

A pause. Her gaze locked on his.

'I wanna have it,' she tells him. 'I don't wanna wait until we're thirty and - old. I wanna have it while we're good and healthy and happy. I wanna have it now. Not a hypothetical "later," Harry -'

'Found it!' Harry jumps up at the sound of Teddy's voice like an electric shock - Ginny bursts out a laugh. His godson is suddenly holding the ball in front of him and Harry struggles to find the words for that, too. 'Oh, great, Tiger!' he yells, stammering at Teddy's back, watching him run into the garden again.

He glances back at Ginny. She is still smiling. He wonders if he's actually hallucinated the whole exchange but her amused look does suggest otherwise. His palm reflexively covers his mouth before a wide grin spreads up to his eyes. 'Fuck, you're not joking,' he mutters, to himself almost, and she puffs out a laugh again, loud like it spreads over the summer air, and pulls gently at his hand to take it in hers.

'I'm not.'

He blinks, eyes prickling again. He reckons he might be crying but doesn't really care. Speaks so, so quick. 'Yeah,' he beams. 'Yeah. Okay.'