Castles

by pebblysand

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

20. out of ash (crooning flames)

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xx. out of ash (crooning flames)

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The truth is: no one ever asks. Why they had them - the three of them.

And, sometimes, it's almost like Harry wishes people would. It's probably the most important thing he's ever done with his life - yet, it's like they all consider it so instinctive, so obvious, they don't want to acknowledge the choice he and Ginny made. Don't want to ask them to phrase it, intellectualise it, put it into words the way they do with Hannah and Nev, relentlessly asked by the press why they didn't - have them. Ginny laughs. 'You've had baby fever since the day we met. I don't think there'd be much to explain.'

He snorts. 'At eleven? Trust me, I didn't have "baby fever" at eleven. I'm not even sure I knew how babies were made.'

She giggles, next to him. And sometimes, he thinks: maybe that is why they made babies. The sound of her laugh in his ear. Just that. The truth is that the kids, they're born in all of the adoring, caring clichés, and all the things that are typically said about little-me-s and little-you-s. They are: the best of all of the things, of all of the people, of all of the days. Years of: tears and exhaustion and snot and baby food permanently stuck to the fabric of his shirts or to the ends of Ginny's hair. Yet: neverending - fits of laughter and stomach bugs and tantrums and magic kisses that make it all better. Hugs. Loads of them, hungry and warm - before they all become grumpy teenagers who claim their parents are 'cringe.' Melodies and giggles trailing up from wireless monitors, charming the sparkling shapes of animals to float before wide eyes at bath time, flicking through the pages of Muggle baby books sat on the floor next to low, toddler beds. 'Look, here's a giraffe!' and: 'Will you go to sleep, now?'

Her mouth close to his ear as they walk down a forest path; the kids - older - chasing each other ahead of them. 'Lily, you're CHEATING -' Albus screams.

'You know what I mean,' Ginny smirks, next to him. 'You wanted a family.' He stops to look at her. Kiss her. It sounds like a massive oversimplification and truth at the same time. 'I'm not saying it's a bad thing,' she reassures him. 'I wanted the same thing.'

And so, they have - them.

James. So tiny in his little cot by the side of their bed. The new flat they moved into in a panic the month before he was born - shockingly, becoming parents hasn't made them good at planning. So: Clerkenwell again, just a couple streets away. Ron and Hermione helped move all their shit into an awkwardly shaped two-bed in a Victorian brick-layered building; they chaotically gave the other bedroom to Teddy. Reckoned the baby would fit in theirs; Harry didn't want the little one to feel like he was being replaced. A couple weeks after Christmas, they put up all the Spiderman posters his grandmother wouldn't let him have at the big house, and: 'You're so cool!' Teddy said, excitedly jumping about. It felt good.

The Weasleys. Later visiting, bearing more gifts than anyone's arms can fit. The Potter genes officially mixed with theirs - they're one big family, now. Ginny's singsongy voice escaping from behind the kitchen wall, talking about how good a baby James is. 'Yeah, no, he just wakes to feed, you know? Such an angel.' She looks at the mountain of George's gifts laid out on their coffee table, laughs and grumbles at the same time: 'Merlin, how is it that he's so small and has so much stuff, already?' They're going to have to do more spellwork on the closet to increase storage space. 'Well, I don't understand why you're still here, love,' Molly kindly interrupts. 'You know London is no place to raise a child, don't you?'

But: what matters. That first night - just the two of them, back from the hospital. Laying in bed and they can't take their eyes off each other. Whispering - wired from the lack of sleep. 'I love you so much,' and: 'I can't believe we made a baby.' Ginny playfully biting her bottom lip, sparkles in her eyes. 'I know it's the hormones but you look so hot right now,' she tells him. He hasn't combed his hair or slept in three days and raises an eyebrow.

'What do you mean: "It's the hormones"? I am quite the catch, I'll have you know.'

Chuckles and: 'Shh - don't laugh, you'll wake him.'

These are the years in which they make memories.

Like: the summer of 2003. A bit like: the summer of 1999. A summer of the two of them, existing alone in the world - strange cravings and low, folk music playing in the background, quieting the chaos of the news. A litany of Muggle political scandals. June is for sexed-up dossiers; July: David Kelly's suicide (or murder, depending on what conspiracy theory you choose to believe). August - the ensuing Hutton Inquiry. A debate on the journalistic standards of the BBC drowning the truth about WMDs. Rumblings about global warming, old people dying in continental Europe and the first-ever summer under forty-degree heat. Harry wonders if it makes him an arsehole that he hasn't opened the papers in weeks; it's just the headlines he skims.

Sunny days. Spent laying out on an inflatable mattress in the half-shade of a makeshift umbrella on their balcony, like they hid behind the branches of trees back in Michigan. His mouth - always so close. Leaving a trail of kisses down the ragged line that wounded her stomach once upon a time; it never occurred to him before. The way they'd spend years of their lives watching each of their children come to life under the shadow of scars. Her tummy grows. Her skin stretches, smooth against his lips. She says: 'You're thinking about it.'

He nods. Looks up to cross her gaze, chin at her belly button. 'Yeah,' he admits. 'I'm thinking "fuck him."'

Her fingers run over his scalp, thumb brushing the hair off his forehead. 'Can you believe we made a baby in May?' she says, that day.

He crawls up to kiss her. Sex and no funerals, then.

Her pregnancy is slow. Babies need time to grow. That summer, there is something oddly anticlimactic about it, like every other major life event he's ever been confronted with has always felt like the snap of someone's fingers. 'You're a wizard, Harry,' and: Here's your whole world, turned upside down, Harry. 'Here's a prophecy,' ( Now go, fight for your life ). But this - steady. Unhurried. The words come out of her mouth at Andromeda's and he expects life to change from one day to the next, yet in concrete terms, the only thing he truly notices is how for weeks, he can never quite wipe the smile off his own face.

Ginny is hardly sick. They are blessed. (The nausea will come back with a vengeance for Albus, but for now, they remain blissfully unaware). Just: a bit fatigued and bizarrely out of breath. Every day is like kneaded with a staggering dose of disbelief, whispers and bitten bottom lips like: can you even believe this? She cocks her head to the side and pokes at her stomach, flat in front of the mirror in their bedroom. 'It's mental, isn't it?' She crosses his gaze as he walks in, uniform in hand. 'There's another person inside me.' A concept so hard to wrap their heads around. Harry doesn't feel like they're having a baby.

He pauses mid-step, raises a suggestive eyebrow at her turn of phrase. She hides a chuckle behind a snort. 'Ha-ha. Very mature.'

He smirks. 'Always.'

They laugh - so much, that summer. A core memory of Ginny's first pregnancy - the two of them together, before they are three. The first person they tell: Luna. Ginny's idea but he's equally keen - feels like this is so Fucking Mental anyway, they are owed an equally mental take to go with it. A winning strategy, their friend does not disappoint, responds a week later with two pages' worth of information about the bizarre mating practices of a strange species of South African rodents Harry's not even sure exist, and a note at the end that says:

I am very happy for you and Harry. It seems from your letter that you are happy too. Daddy always says that the faeces of Wrackspurts are very good for pregnant women, that it helps with the pregnancy brain. I am not sure this is true.

'Merlin,' Ginny grins.

A Muggle clinic confirms the pregnancy. Ginny takes one for the team, allowing Muggles to draw her blood; she winces at the sight of the needle. It is still so early. The last thing they need is St Mungo's rumour mill. Their names spelled out on a form, mailed straight to the tabloids. It's still too soon to see the baby (Harry's had to readjust his expectations slightly, lately - it all always seemed to happen so quickly in the Muggle movies), but he reads the letter they are given detailing her results and the next steps about fifty times. The Muggles look at them with fondness in their eyes: 'Oh, you're both so young, that's so lovely!' Instructions about prenatal vitamins and whether or not Ginny can eat sushi ('What's sushi?').

One of the pamphlets they are given has all these food-related comparisons; they open it up the moment they get home and pin it to the fridge, promptly getting out a pack of lentils. 'It's the size of a lentil. How big is a bloody lentil ?' Harry laughs. The answer is: ridiculously tiny. Not real. And yet, there it is. A solitary, loose legume on the kitchen counter. Even if her stomach is flat, even if she's barely nauseous, he can see that. Stares at it for what feels like hours; it stays there two weeks right by the cooking oil because he can't bring himself to throw it out.

Later, they stop by the shops and get grapes.

They don't tell anyone else - not for a while, anyway. By which he means: they tell random people. At the shops or in restaurants - 'Sorry, I'm pregnant, is there any way I could get those eggs cooked?' - almost as if to persuade themselves that this exists, for real. But: they don't tell her parents. Nor Ron and Hermione. They're not even being cautious (they are a lot of things, Harry knows, but 'cautious' is not one of them) - it just sort of happens. Later, with Al, Molly is the one who suggests Ginny might be pregnant, so that's the cat right out of the bag. With Lils, he doesn't even remember who they tell and who they don't tell, because everything is such chaos, by then (a happy, giddy, two-under-two kind of chaos, but chaos still) and maybe people just have to wait until they see it. But with James - he agonises over the decision. Watches Ginny's belly grow like a pressure cooker sometimes, about to explode. It's strange: knowing that your whole life is about to change, but not knowing how, yet. He wonders if the three months people typically wait aren't just to spare themselves the awkwardness of having to inform distant relatives of a miscarriage, but also for their brains to accommodate.

With Ron and Hermione, he wants to tell them - desperately. Ginny agrees (as long as they promise not to spill the beans to anyone else) but every week, that summer, he goes to meet Ron for drinks on Thursdays and announces to her: 'Alright, tonight, I'm telling him.' Comes back with his tail between his legs every time. What if Ron lashes out? What if Hermione cries? 'You know, you're not going to be able to hide this forever,' Ginny smiles. He groans.

'Next week, alright?'

With her parents, Ginny mostly avoids the Burrow. Books them a holiday in Cornwall the weekend of his birthday to justify their absence. Harry half-heartedly argues that she's not even showing anyway, that no one would ever know, but the truth is that if he doesn't push, it's because he's being a bit of a coward there, too. Thinks: he not only proposed to her without a) a ring or b) asking her father's permission first (all of which they've yet to officially announce), but he's also now got their only daughter pregnant out of wedlock. Oops. 'You don't get it, it's different for men,' he says. 'Like: the one thing you're ever told is to not get a girl pregnant without putting a ring on it first.'

Ginny laughs. It does sound like a him problem, she claims. He rolls his eyes. And: 'Harry, do you need new glasses, though?' she teases. He frowns, confused. 'I'm not "showing"? I'm sorry, have you seen my tits, lately?'

He snorts. Like, okay, he's blind but not that blind. Plus, they feel nice. Under his palms when he's -

(For the record, he asked, alright? Did his due diligence, you can't fault him for that. It's not like they taught him any of this in Hogwarts or in the dirty magazines they used to pass around the dorms, but he's learning. The first time they - well, you know - after Ginny told him about the baby. Right before guiding himself in (better late than never, he supposes), he froze: 'Wait, can we still -'

She laughed and laughed and laughed, that night. Through explanations that sounded suspiciously like: 'Harry, you're definitely not big enough,' (Ouch, his ego); then laughed and laughed and laughed again. 'Merlin, I swear, men and their penises,' she chuckled at him. Like that meant something. 'Harry, if anyone could penetrate my cervix, it would be medically concerning.'

Oh. 'Okay, then?' he said.

She giggled again. 'Yes. Please. Okay.')

His point is: 'Your parents are not looking at your tits,' he challenges.

She laughs and laughs and laughs - again, then. 'Harry, my mother's had seven children. Trust me, she'll know.'

He does tell one person, that summer, though. Hawk. Of all people. It's a strange one, that. There's something about it: the way Harry once left 1998 and 1999 behind, scarred and jaded, thinking that the only person he'd ever look up to at work was dead and buried. That all he'd ever have of a mentor would be the ground in front of her grave and his imagination to play with. Yet, somewhere in the mid-2000s, he realises that Hawk's just sort of - crept in. Unnoticed, like Ravenclaws often do, with nerdy jokes and an attention to detail that Harry will never have the patience for - suddenly James and Albus and Lily are born and the two of them are grabbing coffee before work every other week.

That morning, he fucks up during a training exercise. Badly. It is the end of June; the boss is testing their patience, having them watch the same building for hours on end with nothing happening - when Sett, playing their suspect, finally unexpectedly runs out the back door, Harry's Petrificus Totalus misses him by about a mile. Hawk summons him the next morning at that café in Primrose Hill again, with the clear intent of talking some sense into him without risking being overheard. He speaks with what Taya has previously dubbed as the 'Team Dad' voice, and: 'Harry, maybe you came back too early -'

'I'm fine,' he insists.

He is. Medically speaking. For the most part, anyway. Not quite a hundred per cent yet, but getting there. Like, sure, there are some days, after long shifts, where the muscles in his body still feel like they've been thrown around a tumble dryer. And, sometimes, he comes home, late afternoon, and he and Ginny just nap and laze about with the heat of the setting sun against their faces. She is tired with the first trimester. He, with this. They deal. The Healers in St Mungo's are weaning him off the last of the potions. He's fine - going to be, at least.

'Look, I know you passed your medical,' Hawk adds. 'But I'm not taking the risk of having you out in the field. If you're having cramps again -'

So: '- Ginny's pregnant,' Harry says, that day. Just that. In the air, for a while. It's easier - telling the truth. 'I'm not cramping. I'm just distracted.'

For a bit, Hawk - stares, that morning. Gaze narrowing for a good thirty seconds. He steals a sip from his drink, then raises an eyebrow. Laughs. 'Are we… happy? About this development? I can't quite tell.'

And: Harry bursts out a laugh, then, too. Grins. Like: yeah. Of course, he's happy. Ecstatic, actually. And - really fucking freaked out, too, to tell the truth. It's - a lot. They're having a baby. A child. A human child. They had sex, once, and voilà. Someone they're going to be responsible for - forever, really. He can't help but think that they perhaps should have tried with a cat or dog, first. He's going to be a father. Doesn't know what the fuck he is going to do with that piece of information, you know?

It feels like there is a world between staring up at the ceiling, daydreaming about having a wife and kids after spending an evening with that family down in Arizona, and this. A world between being Teddy's fun godfather who agrees to take him to see the same film five times in a row if he wants to, and this. He never had a father. It's easier for Ginny - he reckons her parents are the best parents you could ever have; she can just do whatever they did. He, on the other hand, doesn't have a fucking clue where to start, doesn't have anyone he can ask. The only two people he could really get advice from are her father and Bill, and Harry's pretty sure that the moment they tell her family, they're going to (validly) decide to excommunicate him, so -

Hawk holds his hand up. Smiles again. This time, fondly. 'How far along is she?'

Harry shrugs. 'Seven weeks?'

The boss grins. Holds it back a bit, like his cheeks are filled with liquid. 'Alright, yeah. Tad early for the panic to set in, but not unheard of.'

Ugh . Harry groans.

These are the first baby gifts they receive, that year. Nothing much but: a small card that comes with an owl the next day, the tiniest shoes and a spa voucher for Ginny. A note from Martha, Hawk's wife, that says: I hope you make good use of it. For Harry, an additional reminder that this is not, in fact, an excuse not to pay attention in training. Congratulations, though. I'm here if you need anything.

Ravenclaws quietly creep in. And then, they stick.

They tell her parents. Eventually. The big birthday dinner for Ginny's twenty-second. Harry tells Ron and Hermione a couple days beforehand. The kind of awkward meal where Hermione tries to cancel last minute because of work again, coming back after a holiday to hundreds of memos lined up on her desk. 'Can we do next week?' she says. Harry cringes. So: their favourite Indian, that night, and he does the thing. Slides the screenshot from the Muggle ultrasound they've just had across the table after the waiter comes to get their orders. Hermione gapes. Then, screams. 'Oh, Harry,' she tells him, almost toppling their table over as she abruptly jumps up to give him a hug. Ron catches on - eventually. 'Shit, the wizarding ones don't look like that at all, I'd never have known -' he observes, squinting at the picture. Hermione beams. 'Did you hear the heartbeat?'

He feels shy, all of a sudden. That day, in the Muggle doctor's office, he held Ginny's hand and couldn't even speak. Not crying, just - he wanted to stay there forever. Looking at it.

'Yeah,' he says.

'That's mental,' Ron supplies.

He can't help but wonder if they argue afterwards. At least, that night, they seem happy for him. Bicker for a bit ('Obviously, he doesn't know the sex, Ron, it's too early,') but don't break up, so Harry's counting his blessings. Ron asks if they have names in mind, and: 'I don't know,' Harry smiles, a white lie. The fact of the matter is that Ginny is due the 14th of February. 'Valentine' was the first name she mock-suggested. He raised her with 'Pickled Toad.' 'Toad can be a middle name, I'm easy, you know.' She threatened to hit him with a tea towel, but somehow it stuck. To them, James Sirius Potter is 'Baby Pickle' (for short) until well into her second trimester.

With her parents, Ginny was right. Her mother just - knows. They don't even have to say the words. Mrs Weasley bursts into tears right there and then in the middle of the kitchen the moment she sees her daughter at the threshold. 'Oh love,' she says. Harry stands awkwardly at the back, not even sure if this is good or bad. 'Oh, my baby girl!'

'Hi Mum,' Ginny says.

There is something almost hesitant in Ginny's voice, that day. Yet, the embrace finds her so quick, Molly's face burying into the waves of her hair. Harry stays rooted in place for a bit and bites his lip, watching Ginny close her eyes into her mother's hug. An odd thought: he wishes his mum was here. Here to see him. Them.

Mrs Weasley shortly comes up for air, just long enough to look at him. His heart in his throat; surely they'll have his head for this. She releases one arm off her daughter. 'Oh, Merlin, you too, come here!'

He breathes.

George makes jokes. Bill congratulates them with warm hugs. He seems happy that Victoire and the baby they have due in September will soon have cousins to play with. Percy says: 'Oh, that's fantastic,' then tries to engage Harry in Ministry discussions he doesn't listen to. Mr Weasley has loads of enthusiastic questions about the Muggle ultrasound picture, and only warm, congratulatory thoughts about the two of them starting a family. 'You've always been part of ours, you know that, Harry.' Harry chokes on his thanks. Watches him open his finest bottle of Firewhisky before lunch, and of course, ask about a wedding. Oops.

'Harry's proposed, Dad,' Ginny announces, perched on the armrest of the couch at Harry's side, before he even has time to formulate thoughts. The hair stands at the back of his neck but thankfully, Mr Weasley smiles affectionately. He cocks his head to the side, like a bit of mischief, but: Okay, I suppose I'll allow it. 'I just don't think it's a priority right now,' she adds, then.

She's not wrong. They've talked about it some more, recently. Still aren't quite sure what they want to do. Ginny wants to elope but can't Portkey nor Apparate while pregnant, so that already limits their options. He is happy with some sort of destination wedding, but wants Ron and Hermione to be there. Wants her family to be there. 'Alright, twenty people , tops,' she laughed. 'We're not inviting bloody Muriel .'

They're probably going to wait at least until the baby's born, he reckons. Don't really have time to plan a wedding, right now, and Harry also has this weird sort of hang-up about it. He doesn't want to rush it, feel like they're marrying for the baby. He proposed because he loves her, not for the sake of appearances. Yet, the moment he sees Mr Weasley's gaze move up to meet his daughter's, that day, his own shoulders inexplicably tense again. It's just something about -

Mr Weasley sighs. Something tired in his voice. 'Ginny - we've talked about -'

Abruptly, she stands. Harry's gaze worriedly flicks between the two of them again. Gritted teeth. 'Yeah,' Ginny agrees. 'And, I said I'd get married when I fucking say so.'

It's all a bit awkward, after that. Not with him, thank God - 'Don't worry, you did the right thing,' her father quickly reassures as he pours their drinks - but: with Ginny. Her mother must hear of the incident quite soon afterwards because when Harry walks into the garden with Teddy, there is a hushed argument going on between the two of them and his ears are buzzing from the Muffliato. Ginny throws him a look he understands to mean: don't ; so he quickly grabs Teddy's hand. 'Come on, Tiger, we'll go play somewhere else.' Part of him wants to jump in, explain that he was part of the decision, too, that they both want to wait, but Teddy is pulling at his arm. 'Yeah, alright, I'm coming,' he says.

Twenty minutes later, Mrs Weasley calls them over for dinner like nothing ever happened.

They take the Tube home, later that night. Floo into Ron and Hermione's, first - they now have a chimney. The air is roasting in the city again, the heat barely affected by the stretching sunset. Harry loves having the luxury of Apparating, sometimes, but it's also been nice to move slower, this past summer, lean into public transportation and the convenience London offers. They've lazed about in parks or gone on long walks, but he now feels this weird sense of dread at the thought of December. He used to hate the summers.

'So, I suppose you'll be taking next season off, then?' At dinner, Bill said.

The big table in the garden. Teddy and Victoire impatiently staring at their empty plates and a question Harry's now even learned to recognise for Victoire asks it so often. ' Maman, on peut sortir de table? ' Seconds later: the loud screeches of their games in the distance. Pieces of wet cloth charmed to fan cool the air. Molly was serving. Ginny didn't have time to open her mouth. 'Well, of course, she will,' her mother snapped. 'It'd be unreasonable. Much too dangerous for the baby.'

Harry can't sleep, that night. Sits outside on the hard tiles of their balcony and smokes. It's past one. They left the window open to get some airflow so he doesn't hear Ginny until she actually sits next to him. Hastily puts out the fag. She smiles. He's been like this ever since their first visit to the Muggle doctors, the nasty look he received when Ginny filled out their intake form, ticked 'No' to their 'Do you smoke?' question and 'Yes' to 'Are you exposed to secondhand smoke?' Just like that, he stopped smoking around her. Decided he never would around the baby. Certainly reduced his consumption; if anything, the packs now typically last him almost two weeks.

'Typically' except tonight, he supposes, looking at the graveyard in his ashtray. 'Can't sleep?' she asks him.

She didn't say anything. To her mum, when she spoke. And, given Molly's tone as well as the way he'd watched Ginny snap at her father just a couple hours before, Harry expected a row. But, uncharacteristically, Ginny just sat there. He couldn't help but feel like he wanted to scream. Later, her voice is shy, that night. 'Yeah, me neither,' she admits.

Thing is: they decided, you know? An important turn of phrase, as far as he's concerned, because afterwards, when it all does come out, when the press finds out, they mostly blame her. Write pages upon pages about how bad of a mother she is, putting their child in danger before it is even born. There is an all-out war between her fans, the 'Weaslies,' and the papers, discussing whether she was right or wrong, whether she owed anyone anything. Like Ginny just - woke up one day and decided to hide her pregnancy from the rest of the world for close to eight months without ever consulting him at all. Like that wasn't something they talked about, hours upon hours sat at their kitchen table - running her stats, and -

The truth: medically speaking, the issue of pregnancy in professional Quidditch athletes is up for debate. In 2003, the research is sparse, even when it comes to Muggle sports, let alone wizarding ones. The doctor they do talk to isn't quite sure what to tell them. 'Well, it depends,' she says, warm and kind. 'What sport do you play?'

From what they learn, there are general concerns about the over-straining of joints with certain repetitive movements, and a blanket advice that her heartbeat should remain under 140. From old Quidditch magazines, they also glean that it's not the flying itself that's dangerous. She could basically fly to France if she wanted to, and be just fine. It's the possibility of getting hit by a Bludger at a bad angle. Or, you know - falling down the equivalent of ten stories. The kind of thing that would be dangerous - regardless of a pregnancy.

Still, the League's official position is that they refuse to take the risk. Too many concerns about potential scandals and lawsuits; female players typically get written off the moment they announce a pregnancy. Stay off the game until at least six weeks after birth, the statutory limit. For Ginny, that would mean staying away the entire season. The baby being born mid-February would take her break to the beginning of April, with the season ending late May. 'I'm not going to come back for two months after not having trained the whole year,' she said. 'That'd be stupid.'

So… She just sort of didn't - tell. In June, after they found out, she kept training. Used the Floo at Clémence's to get herself to Scotland every day ('Trust me, she won't ask questions,') mostly because - well, she likes flying. He was going back to work full-time and she didn't feel like sitting around waiting for him all day. Wanted to see her mates on the team, especially given that she wasn't feeling sick. It might have been harder, being nauseous on a broom, but. And, they were off-season. Training regimen chill, and the risks low, just aimed at maintaining a general level of fitness before the ramp up. July flew by. August picked up, the new season set to start the 20th of September. They sat down and looked at each other.

The thing is: even now, Ginny isn't showing. Probably because she is so fit - honestly, even naked you can hardly see it. Thirteen weeks, Harry supposes that yeah, if she wore a very tight-fitting shirt, you'd maybe think she was bloated. And, yeah, she's put on a bit of weight but nothing that would raise flags. She crossed his gaze. 'What if I just didn't - say?'

The Magpies qualified for the AeroLeague, this year. A tournament organised by the EUQA between all of the top clubs in Europe; it is an opportunity she doesn't want to miss. She is also on the English selection for the Euros next summer, and again, it's not like she'll be able to just waltz in in April without having trained at all. Plus: she's good with the team, now. Good with the coaches, better than it ever was with the Harpies. She loves the sport. Loves getting up in the mornings to do something she excels at. A couple years ago, she was England's new rising star but with the World Cup, there's even been international coverage - when he comes to one of her games in Italy that October, people in wizarding quarters recognise her more than they do him.

She is currently the second-best scorer in the UK League, the third highest paid. Her contract was just renewed with another million Galleons to her name. It's been great, seeing her grow. Accomplish the things she used to dream about, back between heavy snogging sessions at the lake that spring. It makes all the shit he sees at work worth it.

There was another one of those murder-suicide cases last month. It got splashed all over the Prophet. Some bloke killed his wife and kids before offing himself - as well as the poor woman's aunt, who was unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity when he had his breakdown.

The Aurors (and by extension, Kingsley's government) have been under a lot of pressure since then. Some of their neighbours had previously tried to report their concerns and were woefully ignored - due to low staffing, most likely. Opinion pieces and wireless talk shows claiming that the current administration is putting Muggle problems before their own. Claiming that getting rid of Dementors only bolstered criminals who aren't deterred by the prospect of losing their souls anymore. Azkaban is now a 'holiday camp.' And, the fact that Iraq is now starting to turn into a shit show isn't exactly helping. Turns out the Wizarding press is exceptionally diligent in reporting Muggle news when it furthers their agenda.

The Hit Wizards didn't even have much to do with the case. Harry's team just went in to secure the house. Not a single spell fired. In fairness, the fact that Patrol is now choosing to ignore DV reports isn't their problem. There was just - a lot of blood. A lot of bodies. Hawk had a row with Theobald Keeley, the Head of the Major Crimes unit in charge of the investigation, out on the front doorstep of the house. Something about Hit Wizards going in and damaging evidence. 'Your people got blood on their goddamn shoes,' the man ranted, to which Hawk argued that his task was to secure the premises, find and get any potential survivors out, not tiptoe around looking at where they were fucking stepping. 'For Merlin's sake, Hawk, everyone was clearly dead ! He left a bloody note at the door -'

'Well, what'd you need evidence for, then? Can't even close an investigation with a written confession, can you?'

'Oh, go fuck yourself -'

'Yeah, fuck you .'

When Ginny asked what he'd think if she kept playing, Harry just - smiled. Couldn't help but want to brighten both of their days. 'Well, when was the last time you took a Bludger?' he said.

So: big jumpers, loose clothes, that winter. Ginny avoids the team Healer like Spattergroit. They stick with the Muggle doctors for a while longer. And, of course, they're concerned. Of course, she's concerned. For the baby. And, he is, too. It's not a decision they take lightly. How many games, how many close calls in the last four years? She's never been knocked off. Hasn't been badly hit in over two years. 'I'll stop,' she says. 'If I ever don't feel well, I promise, I'll -'

She's seen too many girls, she tells him. Take three months off, then six, then a year, and never come back. 'If I just play as long as I can, I -'

They didn't plan James. Then, had to make decisions they weren't prepared for. Did what they thought was best. And, perhaps, that's parenthood. 'D'you think I'm being selfish?' she asks him, that night, after her birthday dinner. 'Wanting everything ?'

He pulls her towards him. Wraps an arm around her shoulders. Wishes he could take some of the weight off her, wishes he could make everything better. Greedily. Immoderately. He thinks they both deserve happy.

The leaves turn golden. The summer curves into the autumn like a winding road waiting to reach a mountaintop. At her games, Harry watches Ginny like milk about to boil and with every close call, his heart skips a beat. But also, there's that pride thing. That autumn, Ginny flies - plays - better than she ever has before - goals that make him leap out of his seat - and she's doing it while carrying their son. Growing a human. Sometimes, Harry can't help but watch her and wonder if life will ever get better than this. Then, one morning, they are running late, rushing out the door to go to practice and work and suddenly, she halts. Holds her stomach, frowns. He's quick to her side. 'You alright?'

'Yeah, I think so.' A nod and frown. 'I just, I dunno. I felt like - bubbles? '

They leave it at that. She says it didn't feel bad, just odd. It takes them a few days to understand why. 'Harry, I think it's moving,' she says.

The baby is moving . 'You're joking .' He can't stop grinning. A few weeks later, he can finally feel it too.

As per usual, they fight. Once. An annual occurrence, at this point. One evening, they're making food and she absentmindedly refers to the baby as 'Pickle Potter.' He blows up. Shouts at her. Unforgivingly shouts at her. 'He's not getting my fucking last name!'

'And, I 'm not having a child with the bloody neighbour! He's your son!'

They go to bed livid. Wands in a drawer. Harry sleeps on the sofa. Meets Hawk the next day, pushing dead leaves around with the tip of his trainers as they walk down Primrose Hill. It is October. He oddly feels like there's no one else he can talk to about it. He's clearly not going to ask any of the Weasleys.

'I feel like I'm putting a price on its head,' he says.

Hawk sighs. Hawk protects. By the bins, a couple of pigeons fight over a sandwich. The job's just been shit. 'I don't think its name will make a difference in that, Harry.'

A sigh. He just wants to turn back time. Stay calm. Not yell at his child's mother. 'Fuck, I'm gonna be the worst father in the world, aren't I?'

' Harry -'

'Hawk, I kill people for a living,' he snaps.

It's just - last week. Some kid with a bomb in the middle of a busy street - a few hundred metres from his family's house. They got clearance from the Muggles to open fire - Avada was less of a hazard than bullets raining down from the sky. It was the first time - since Harry took on Rory's job. Didn't have a choice; it was the right thing to do. Yet, he can't forget the way the mother screamed when she came out running, rushing to her son's body. 'What happened?' she kept saying. 'What did you do to him?' They had to modify her memory. Total count: five. Six, including Quirrell. He never knows if he should include Quirrell. Or Tom, for that matter. Now that he thinks about it, maybe the Weasleys should have been more concerned about him dating their daughter. Or fathering their grandchild.

That day, Hawk stops in his tracks. 'If I thought for a second that that's how you really saw this job, trust me, you wouldn't be doing it.'

Harry presses his lips together. He shoots a pebble out of the way. The weight of it against the dirty fabric of his shoes. It's rained - mud on the paths. 'I just -' he sighs. 'How d'you do it? With the kids? With all the - shit .'

Another drawn-out sigh. 'I don't know,' Hawk admits. 'It's nice to come home and just - hug them. They'll babble on about their day, what the teachers, or what their mates said in school. They'll break vases throwing Quaffles around and try to put them back together with their little glue sticks like you won't notice.' He grins. 'I have this naive belief that they'll be the only ones in the world who'll never have to be sad.' He pauses. 'And, Marth keeps me sane when I think too much.' A short laugh, shaking his head to himself. 'She wasn't in Ravenclaw.'

'I just - I want it to have a normal life, you know?'

Hawk nods. His mouth twists. 'I know.'

Arguments and settlements, that autumn. Harry gets a card from one of those hipster Muggle shops on the way home from work, a jar and two little green shapes with arms and legs; one of them says: we seem to be in a bit of a pickle. It weeds a smile out of her. There are flowers and her favourite pasta dish on the table. She raises an eyebrow.

'I'm sorry,' he tells her.

'I know.'

'I don't -' he breathes out. Tries again. 'It's not that I don't want to - own up to it or something. I just don't want it to grow up like Neville, you know? Everyone expecting it to live up to some sort of -' He's not even sure what to call it. 'Boy Who Lived fantasy of stuff I didn't even accomplish , shit that was a complete fluke -'

Her thumb softly grazes the back of his hand, his knuckles. 'I know,' she says, again. 'We won't raise him like that, alright?'

He makes love to her, that night, and at the end of October, they visit his parents again. The weather is uncharacteristically dry and Ginny lays flowers on their grave. He goes and walks around for a bit, eyeing the names on the headstones, giving her privacy as she talks to them. She is holding up a picture of their most recent ultrasound when he comes back. He stands at a distance when he realises she is still speaking. 'It's a boy,' she smiles, telling them. There are sparkles in her eyes; he doesn't think she's noticed him. 'Of course . I think we'll just have boys, you know? I'm definitely not having seven children.'

A beat passes. They don't respond. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and finally looks up at him. Another smile that reaches her eyes. She glances back at the grave. 'He wants to call him Fred, you know?' she adds, then. 'But I don't want to compare.' Her gaze locked on his again. 'I was thinking James.'

'Sure. At this point, you might as well go all in,' Hawk eventually laughs at him.

London frosts up with the winter. Wet pavements and the drizzle in the air, crowds bustling up and down Oxford Street framed in Christmas lights, the start of errands and shopping. A wave of double-deckers rolling in the dark nights; Ginny plays a bunch of away games at the weekends. The Magpies are doing well - exceptionally well - in the running for winning the League. Ginny's been a bit more nervous about hiding the pregnancy lately, people are starting to ask questions about the way she's been avoiding the press outside of formal settings and when she dislocates her thumb, diving for a low-hanging Quaffle in early November, Harry has to fix it himself with the basic emergency Healing his Auror training afforded him. 'The Healer's been harassing me to schedule a check-up,' she winced as he directed his wand at her. 'If I go in, I'm fucked.'

There's a bump between them, now. When she's naked or wearing tight clothes, it shows. The baby, the size of a swede. 'That's some sort of turnip, isn't it?' Ginny had to ask Molly to sow in Lycra extensions on her Quidditch trousers whilst enduring her mother's reprimands. 'Why are you even still playing, Ginevra? It can't be good for the baby.' 'Wait until she hears I'm planning to come back after six weeks,' Ginny jokes to him.

It's getting a bit harder, hearing her say these things. On the one hand, he understands. She decided to keep the baby. She decided to juggle her career. No one forced her - he certainly didn't, and they have enough money. He should just support her. At the same time, he can see she's struggling. Out of breath all the time, the baby's adding to her weight and messing with her balance on the pitch; she's training harder than she ever has before. 'You could take the rest of the season off,' he suggests, one night. Not as an injunction but more like: I wouldn't be disappointed or see you as a failure if you did. She looks at him.

'Yeah. I dunno.'

She's worried about losing her spot on the team, she tells him. About her image changing. She will be a mum, soon enough, and no longer the youth's favourite rebel, the one men would like to think they could get in their bed. No longer someone that sells, or someone people fantasise over. The Magpies will likely have to pay a fine to the League for the inadequate monitoring of their players when her pregnancy becomes public, and if she's not bringing in enough cash to make up for that loss - he doesn't want to think about it. She's heard horror stories of clubs breaking contracts in the past, using long-term injury clauses to rescind deals when their female players couldn't come back quickly enough, postpartum. He asks if she regrets keeping the baby - honestly . They could have waited. Objectively, it wasn't the best timing.

She smiles. Her hand on his forearm. 'No,' she says. 'I've never once regretted it.'

It's just hard , she explains. Doesn't deny it. But - they deal. They know how to get through hard, now.

Against all odds, he is the one giving interviews, that winter. Well, one interview - don't get too excited. It's Samira who first gets the request in the mail, passes it on to him; in the end, they call in a general meeting of what she jokingly refers to as the full 'Boy-Who-Lived Committee.' A Saturday at Grimmauld - Ginny, Ron, Hermione, Harry and she all piled up in the study, inspecting the letter like a mouldy piece of bread. It is the end of November, by then. They've told Samira the good news - she's prepared a bunch of statements to issue in case the pregnancy leaks before they're ready. With every week that passes, Ginny's bump is becoming harder to hide and at the weekends, she's mostly in leggings or pregnancy dresses, these days. Harry has to admit, there's just something about that . She sits down with her tea next to Ron on the couch; he watches her do that thing she does now, where she'll be listening to the wireless or reading a book and subconsciously caressing her belly at the same time. He can't help but look. How beautiful she is, her hair shiny and soft over the wool of her top, the way she smiles wide, and -

'What d'you reckon?' Ron says.

The letter's from Laura Gellman, the American journalist who interviewed him back in '98. She's offering: a check-in interview. Five years on. Same format, same people - she and her photographer, a three-hour tell-all with nothing off limits, but including the promise of fair reporting. Harry's - not sure. Hermione thinks it's a good idea. Ginny and Samira are pragmatic.

He's not appeared in public since May. With Ginny's unusual avoidance of reporters, it's not helped the rumours that spread like wildfire after the incident last year. Endless speculation about his health, an allegedly rocky relationship with Kingsley since the Iraq march - ironically: a possible split with Ginny. They used to easily quash those rumours by attending public events together or 'accidentally' getting papped in Diagon Alley but they've been so careful lately, the tabloids are having a field day. The stuff about Harry's mental health's started resurfacing like it did after the war, and the way he looked at the demonstration only fueled the gossip. Heard a bunch of callers on the wireless claim the attack must have damaged his brain, that Hermione dragged him to the march in a semi-conscious state. When Samira questioned them, Kingsley's comms team swore they had nothing to do with it, but it clearly plays in their favour. The Boy Who Lived didn't truly oppose the Minister's decision to join the war alongside the British army. He was just 'confused.'

'That one you gave when I was still in Hogwarts,' Ginny says, that day. 'It's the only interview I've ever read that truly sounded like you . '

So: he says yes, mind you.

Laura requests they schedule it the same day as they did five years ago: the 14th of December. It's a Sunday - he's not working, so it works for him. To come out on the 20th, right before Christmas. Samira gives him a few pointers but mostly leaves him alone, has learnt by now that he performs better without being coached. He and Laura meet at Grimmauld again, the fire crackling low in the study and frost building against the windows - it's a cold day in London. She is just how he remembers her: polite, cheerful, inquisitive, American. Wavy brown hair cut into a bob, medium-light skin, on the heavier side of an average build. She and her photographer are both wearing jeans and trainers - Kreacher takes their coats and brings them all tea and biscuits.

'Round 2, then,' she grins at him.

It's actually - not that bad. Last time, he remembers how he wanted to talk, speak up, but was walking on eggshells the entire time. The trials, Narcissa's pettiness pecking at him like fucking bird, the very public break-up with Ginny - all those things he was trying to hide. The tone is more relaxed, this time. She writes:

We meet Mr. Potter in the same place we met him, five years ago. His late godfather's home in the London Borough of Islington, the location still concealed under extensive protective wards, requiring a thorough Ministry of Magic clearance. It is easy to play Seven Differences between the way we see him now, and our last interview. Five years is a long time. May 2nd 2003 marked the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, which ended the Second Wizarding War across the country. Since then, the United Kingdom has undergone a series of institutional reforms, elections, new governments, and most of the regular, unavoidable scandals that are the curse of most modern democracies. Yet, the first thing we notice, visiting Mr. Potter, is that there are no longer journalists camping outside the house. He laughs: "Oh, trust me, they're still there sometimes. If there's a party or something related to C.A.S.H.C.O.W. But I'm not here often, you know."

He leads us up the stairs. We make note of the many other changes sprinkled throughout the house itself. The walls, once dark and grimy, now brighten the space with an eclectic array of No-Maj film posters and amateur paintings lining the corridors. I confess I remember the place being messier, under construction, and quite gloomy at times. Mr. Potter smiles again. "Oh, yeah, you came when we were still renovating, didn't you?" I watch him reminisce the way my husband and I do when we think back to the first couple of years we spent in our house. Dust and paint buckets, pulling up carpets. Mr. Potter laughs. "You know, I didn't even live here at the time, but I reckon even I am a bit traumatized."

We sit down in the study. I watch him thank his house elf, Kreacher, before he explains what we have already gleaned from the Ministry's land registry records. The house is still his, but it is now held in a trust, administered by Mr. Potter's non-profit, C.A.S.H.C.O.W. An organization once aimed at providing emergency support to children and families affected by the Second Wizarding War, now repurposed to offer financial aid and housing to young witches and wizards across Britain. "We let the rooms out free of charge," Mr. Potter says. "Everyone agrees to chip in or help with whatever maintenance is needed. And, it's not 'my' charity," he corrects. "I'm just one of the people on the Board."

I smile at his mention of the Board. Note how a house, then under construction and chaotically managed by a dozen eighteen-year-olds, is now responsibly administered by an incorporated entity. When I wrote in to ask for an interview, I did not have to wait four months for an answer. The Golden Trio, as it is now known, employs a full-time publicist, who kindly and very professionally responded on Mr. Potter's behalf. Harry - as he once requested we call him - nods and smirks. I recognize his sometimes irreverent sense of humor. "Well, that's why you wanted to see me, isn't it? To see how boring I've become?"

They talk about politics, that day. Harry's not surprised; Samira warned him. 'That's her background,' she explained. 'The intersection of Muggle and magical governments. I know you initially picked her because she was Muggleborn, and it wasn't a bad choice, but just know that she used to be a reporter with the Wizarding Times, writing for their Muggle News section. She went freelance for The Owl because she wanted to do more research, write in-depth pieces. But, I'm telling you now: she's gonna drill you on Iraq. The American public is still largely pro-war, but on the left, the winds are starting to turn. That's definitely where she's heading.'

He can handle it, he reckons. Handles it quite well, as a matter of fact. For most of the first hour, Laura quizzes him about the state of the world, about his opinions on recent reforms, his complicated relationship with the Shacklebolt administration. General elections are two years away, Ministers in place for seven years, and it doesn't look like they'll be called early. 'In light of the UK's recent experience in rebuilding a democratic state,' Laura asks him about some of Bush's decisions in the war, which Harry doesn't hesitate to call 'stupid.' The man they appointed as the provisional coalition administrator in Bagdad excluded from government all members of Saddam's former party. He remembers having this exact discussion with Kingsley early on, about how they couldn't just kick everyone who'd worked for the Ministry during the war out, or else there wouldn't be anyone left to run the country. In Iraq, it turned out that party membership used to be required of most civil servants, not just politicians. The decision put everyone with a brain out of job overnight, in the middle of a warzone. Not only police forces and military personnel but also, teachers, university professors, doctors, justice workers… It fed people's desperation and resentment, bolstered the chaos.

In August, a truck exploded at the UN Headquarters and killed twenty people, injuring over a hundred. The start of the second phase of the war, haunted by: suicide bombings and IEDs. Formally, it takes until October of 2004 for the United States Senate to relay the Chief Weapons Inspector's official conclusion that: ' Iraq had no stock piles of biological, chemical or nuclear weapons before last year's invasion ,' but already by the end of 2003, that fact has become painfully clear. Even Vladimir Putin, when visiting the UK, mocks the British and American governments for their apparent failure to locate the weapons. The Hutton Inquiry led to nothing but frustration in the public opinion and when Bush visited London in November, he was welcomed by mobs of protesters. Another bomb later exploded in Istanbul on British targets as retaliation for the UK's participation in the invasion, killing the Consul-General.

When it comes to the wizarding world, by December, Hermione's lost her job in Kingsley's cabinet. She lasted just under two years. Was kindly but firmly requested to transfer to the Magical Prosecution Service where she would be 'more useful,' according to the Ministry's press release. To be fair, having talked to her since, Harry knows she wasn't wholly unhappy about the move, claiming that the new job is 'better aligned with her values.' Hit Wizards don't do much investigating so Harry doesn't work with her on a daily basis but he has heard a few chosen nicknames around the office that he'll keep to himself. She and Susan Bones are in charge of overseeing Major Crimes investigations and the both of them are tough, Harry's told, apparently rarely ever think the department has enough evidence to prosecute anyone. That day, Laura asks him if one of the things that has changed, in the past five years, isn't also his relationship with Kingsley.

'I dunno,' he shrugs. 'The feud's a bit overblown, I reckon.'

To tell the truth: they get on. Kingsley visited him in hospital. They saw each other at the ceremony last May, and the Minister seemed genuinely happy to be shaking his hand. 'Harry,' he smiled. 'Thank God. We were all so worried.' Andromeda's grown pretty close to him with all the political work she's been doing, trying to rally the purebloods to his cause. But between them, it just never quite clicked. Harry needed space after the war and in hindsight, he thinks Kingsley almost wanted to step in as a quasi-father figure, someone to take him under his wing. Partly out of self-interest, probably, surfing on Harry's popularity, but also - maybe a debt. Owed to Lupin, Sirius - Giulia. Harry resented him (still resents him) for using Ginny during the war. They fought. Reconciled. He more or less got the man elected. In the papers, they fought again about the war but - did they?

Laura is waiting for him to speak and he's not quite sure what to say.

'Kingsley's good at what he does,' he settles. ' I have a… natural proclivity for the Résistance .' Laura lets out a short laugh. 'I'm not an administrator. He is. And, you know, for better or for worse, that part was a lot like Iraq. We didn't think it through. No one planned for the aftermath. The major difference is that we didn't invade someone else's land, but -' he sighs. 'I'm not a politician. I'm not an economist. So, maybe all that stuff he did after the war was necessary. It felt frustrating at the time that all we ever heard about was money, but I also get that if people don't have cash to feed their kids, they're not going to care about Muggle quotas or elf rights - or even justice, you know?'

She takes notes, facing him on the leather sofa. They didn't change much in the study. Kept the built-in shelves, switched out the books. Old aesthetics and heavy mahogany furniture, classic banker's lamps - it feels cosy. 'He did do things I agree with,' Harry adds. 'Putting more elected seats in the Wizengamot, changing the regulations on werewolves, promoting cooperation with Muggles… Iraq's a fiasco soyou've got all these people now claiming we're getting too friendly with Muggles. They're just throwing the baby with the bathwater if you ask me. One thing went wrong, doesn't mean everything was wrong. If anything, it'd be great if the cooperation programmes weren't just for war and policing, you know? I mean, there's healthcare or education -'

'You don't agree with everything, though,' she challenges. 'You opposed the war.' He shrugs. 'There are people who say you have a standing agreement with the current administration. That you criticise it only when they allow you to and always come back, no matter what. They say you can't truly speak out because of a secret immunity deal you allegedly signed after the war.'

He holds her gaze. Interesting - how rumours form. There's often some element of truth behind them. 'You reading the Quibbler's conspiracy theories, now?' he smirks. She says nothing. 'Do I look to you like someone who's "afraid to speak out"?'

'Why did you oppose the war, then?' she asks.

'I didn't.'

It slips out; but it also doesn't. Laura's interest perks up; he can see that. She stills and looks away from her notes. Harry's always taken responsibility for the things he's been wrong about. 'I mean, I did,' he concedes, quick. 'But only because Hermione pointed things out to me. And, before you ask: no, she didn't drug me to get me to attend.' A laugh. 'She just asked the right questions. I didn't.'

'Why's that?' Laura asks.

'Can we take a break?'

He cracks the window open, that afternoon. Lights up a cigarette. It's almost four, the sun is setting; after a while, Laura comes to stand next to him. Away from her photographer, from her old Muggle tape recorder. She takes the hint. Crosses his gaze, her face half hidden by the white wood of the frame. 'I'll tell you whatever I can tell you,' he says. She nods. He breathes out smoke, fingers flicking out burnt ash. 'But I don't want it to sound like I got it wrong on Iraq because of that. I got it wrong because I'm not that special.' She laughs. Would clearly beg to differ if he let her. 'I just fell for the whole: "Let's go save these poor Iraqis, rid them of Saddam," you know?' He rolls his eyes. 'I didn't get it wrong because I was sick.'

She sighs. 'Not even a little? You don't think?'

Later, on the record, she asks him: 'There were reports you were tortured for information.' His jaw sets. She talks about the stuff the press has said about his mental health. 'Extensive injuries. I read a No-Maj man found you unconscious in a ditch by the side of a road. Is that true?'

He sighs. Crosses her gaze. 'You know, it's funny,' he says. In a not-really-funny sort of way. 'My entire medical history's all over the papers, but I can't confirm or deny anything, 'cause it's all supposedly classified.' He rolls his eyes. She asks how it felt, being back there. He smirks again. 'How did it feel ? What is this? My therapy session?'

She laughs. 'Every five years? I doubt it.'

Her version of the exchange: I ask him how it felt, being back there. He cracks a joke. I point out to him that he frequently deflects personal questions with humor. "Yeah," he says. Nothing else. I laugh. "What?" he adds. "At least, I'm not denying it, am I?"

'Do you wish it wasn't?' she eventually asks. 'Classified, I mean. Do you wish you could talk about it?'

The question surprises him. He actually thinks about it. 'No,' he admits.

She smiles.

Finally, they do talk about Ginny. Over two hours in, like five years ago - it's not what Laura is most interested in. Having said that, she grins again. 'So… I hear congratulations are in order,' she suggests.

It is his turn to laugh. Shake his head and roll his eyes. Right.

So: they were hoping to last at least until Ginny's last game before Christmas break. It was scheduled on the 18th. They lasted until the 11th. Good enough, Harry supposes.

It was - a bit stupid. She scored one hell of a goal against the Bats last Wednesday, flying upside down and up again to dodge one of their Chasers across the entire pitch and went for her usual victory lap around the stadium afterwards. Danced on her broom to the Magpies' cheers and reflexively touched her stomach. Her jumper got stuck, tucked itself under her breasts and the shape of a bump clearly appeared - voilà . It lasted less than a second; she pulled it down so quick and at first, Harry reckoned no one else had noticed. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary amongst the audience themselves, and at the press corner after the game, no one asked questions either. He thought they'd dodged a bullet but Samira woke them up ringing his phone at six o'clock the next morning. 'There's a photo,' she just said. One single photo taken at just the right moment. 'Bloke's shopped it around the place. I've received enquiries from the Prophet, Quidditch Weekly, and even the Standard, already.'

He groaned. Wanted to go back to bed. Reluctantly shook Ginny awake. 'Alright,' he sighed. 'Let's.'

So: Miss Ginevra Molly Weasley and Mr Harry James Potter are delighted to announce - et cetera.

It's by a stroke of luck that Laura ends up with the exclusive, that week. Wasn't planned, but since they'd previously scheduled the interview, this is his first official post-announcement appearance in the press. A deal for which Harry reckons every other newspaper in the country would have killed. 'Oh, yeah, we got owls,' she confirms with a smile. The noise the announcement made? Deafening.

Quidditch people - speculating as to how on Earth she managed to hide a pregnancy from her team, her management and the Healers for that long. Questions about what the consequences will be on her career, on the Magpies' prospects this year, and will the League's policies change in the future? 'When you think about it, players are almost encouraged to be secretive about these things,' some woman claims on the wireless. 'Isn't that even more dangerous?' Her fans and supporters send hundreds of congratulatory packages and baby things to Grimmauld. The gossip tabloids turn into a fucking nightmare again, harassing her parents for comment at the Burrow and writing countless lists of reasons why Harry's not proposing. She baby-trapped him. 'Merlin, they even came to the shop,' Ron rolls his eyes all the way to the back of his head the following Thursday. '"Did you know about your sister's pregnancy?" Like what do they want me to say?' Harry laughs. Samira also released a statement of congratulations on Ron and Hermione's behalf. 'Like that's how we talk. Through public statements ,' Ron groans. 'I mean, you know, what? Cheers!' he said, raising his pint to clink it against Harry's. 'Congratulations!'

If Harry's being perfectly honest here, it seems that the papers are simply furious this one slipped under their radar. Ginny gets heat for 'endangering the baby.' He gets absolutely dragged when they find out there is no record of the pregnancy in St Mungo's. The Prophet calls him an ungrateful twat in light of the amount of public spending that undoubtedly went towards keeping him alive last year. The Standard who - to their credit - have been reporting for months about a lack of personnel and resources at the main wizarding hospital concluded: The fact that Mr Potter himself did not trust our health system to monitor his partner's pregnancy clearly shows how dire -

Et cetera.

Laura asks about he and Ginny getting back together, that day. It's sweet. The last interview he gave, they weren't even talking and he had a slip-up about how he still loved her. She asks about their trip to America. 'Is it true that you both got the Grand Canyon coordinates tattooed?' He laughs. 'You've got good sources.' She calls Ginny 'one of the very few successful turnarounds, in terms of public image. She's become a symbol now, for a lot of people, young women specifically. A free spirit, an incredible athlete, but also someone who can be opinionated - provocative at times. She's taken public stands like wearing that pro-werewolf armband during a game while the debate was going on last year, even if it earned her a fine. What do you think about it?'

He thinks he's proud of her. But not in the way that he had anything to do with it. It was all her hard work. 'In our last interview' Laura reminds him, you said: " Some of the things that they've written about her, how she was just after me for money or fame, making lists of all the boys she's dated before, it couldn't be further from the truth. It's despicable and insulting, and outrageous. " You said the papers treated her this way because of sexism. " They would never write that kind of stuff about me. You know, Hermione once told me: 'When a girl dates lots of boys, she's a slut. When a boy dates lots of girls, he's "great fun" or "one of the lads."' That's true, and it really shouldn't be." Do you stand by that statement?'

Laura holds his gaze, that day. He can't help but shake his head to himself. 'You know what's interesting?' he says. 'That was December of '98.' He sighs. 'It wasn't even the worst of it.' It was before. Before she even broke up with Matthew. Before she started partying and sleeping around, before the harassment and the fear and before everything. But: 'Of course, I stand by that statement,' he says.

That December, the last paragraph of the interview reads: I ask Harry what he thinks his eighteen-year-old self would say, seeing him today. With an educated view on politics and an incorporated non-profit, a stable career, a long-term relationship with the girl he's always loved and a baby on the way. He laughs, but doesn't say.

They prepare for Christmas. Ginny has meetings with The Powers That Be, shows up with the precise accounting of how much she'll cost them versus how much she's earnt them. Her contract is safe - for now. The League gives her a three-game suspension for breaking their rules and making them look stupid - effectively, she'll be off until the baby's born. 'It's fine,' she tells him, one night. 'It was becoming a bit hard.' Emmett, her coach, later admits he knew, 'but, you weren't saying anything, so -' He did what he thought was best for the team. When she tells Harry about it, her voice sounds like a sigh of relief. The man gives her a light training regimen to keep up with, if she feels able, and wishes her good luck. 'We'll see you in April, right, then?'

Hawk begs him to be on-call over Christmas. Ben initially promised he would cover, then decided to fuck off with his girlfriend to Antigua. Harry negotiates time off the week before. They nest. Finally start considering a move when confronted with the state of their apartment. Talk middle names. Land on Sirius rather than Fred or Remus, want to leave them open for George or Teddy. The baby kicks against his palm now, and seems to react to the sound of his voice, little dances and cheers like it can hear him. ' God, ' he says. '"James Sirius." You're gonna be trouble, aren't you?'

She grins.

The 21st of December comes and goes. They don't really talk about it. It's a Sunday; they laze around and cuddle in front of the TV. Ginny holds him a bit tighter than usual and when she drags herself out for a flight as the sun sets, he joins her. The weather is cold but dry - with gloves and warm layers, it's all right. They fly for an hour and land on a beach somewhere east with no one around. In the distance: a seaside town with a promenade and Christmas decorations and shops, the moon and the lights a low glow on their faces.

There's something sweet, he thinks, about the last few weeks before James. Excitement. A bit of fear. Just them. He can't wait for it not to be just them . The interview came out with another bang, yesterday. The wireless wouldn't stop going on about it so he shut it off. Skimmed one of their courtesy copies and went on with his day. Hermione sent him a twelve-page thorough analysis which he still needs to get to, and Samira smiled and said: 'You did well. The rest can be January's problem.'

He had a tattoo appointment and Ginny didn't have much else to do, so she went along. A scar on the inside of his right forearm from last year that wouldn't fade; he decided to cover it up. The half-realistic, half-geometrical face of a tiger, encased in a diamond-shaped outline. He likes it. She likes it. Grumbled about not being allowed to get one herself. They went to Andromeda's for dinner and Teddy's grandmother took one look at it and asked whether, between that and the dragon, he was thinking of opening a zoo.

At the beach, Ginny sits next to him and stares out at the North Sea. 'I think we should have him at the Muggle hospital,' she tells him. Harry sighs. The Prophet won't be happy about that, clearly. For the record, they did try. After the news came out in the press, a few days back, Ginny thought it mattered less, now. Still booked the appointment under the name of Penny Girtrot, just to be on the safe side. They didn't want to walk into a crowd of reporters either. The papers keep saying he doesn't 'trust' the wizarding healthcare system, like again, his entire medical history didn't end up all over the press last year. In the waiting room, Ginny wore a blonde wig and a pair of large sunglasses that hid half her face. He gave himself a thick beard, a sweatshirt and baggy jeans, cap pushed down his forehead - comical, looking like bloody Eminem or something. Kept his eyes trained on his phone the whole time. They waited. He pretended to play Snake. His hand in hers. He couldn't help but think she should have been the nervous one.

She is having to go through all these scans, after all. Being probed and checked by all of these stranger's hands. He asked her, once: 'Is it okay?' She shrugged. Her mouth twisted. 'It's worth it,' she just said. And, every time they've been to Muggles, he's tried to crack jokes. Hold her hand, or whisper words of reassurance - whatever felt most appropriate. It's worked - even took her mind off the anxiety of the twenty-week scan with daydreams about the baby. He should have been able to do this too, in St Mungo's. Excitedly talk about getting to meet James again, if only through a temporary revealing spell.

Yet, that morning, he couldn't say a fucking word. Held her hand so tight he thought he was going to crush her fingers. An intern walked past, pushing an empty gurney, flicking the wand in his palm. The receptionist smiled at them. The other couple in the room kissed discreetly. His heart in his throat. 'I can't fucking breathe,' he choked out - a whisper. Ginny nodded.

'Yeah, let's get out of here.'

'I've spoken to Andromeda,' she pushes again, gently, now. 'The risk's low. Muggle care's good - plenty of wizarding babies are born to Muggles each year, we wouldn't be the first,' she smiles, reassuring. 'And, if anything does happen, I can always get transferred.' A pause. 'She said the only real "risk" is that their pain relief might not fully take, apparently the Muggle stuff just doesn't work as well on us, but -'

'Gin -'

'I'm not scared of the pain,' she says. Fine , he thinks. He is. She claims she's objectively probably been through worse and the reward of meeting their son wasn't there at the end, but those Muggle birthing classes filled with crazy couples have scared the living shit out of him on her behalf. He wishes there was a way to just - magic the baby out? But, apparently, even wizards don't do that. She adds: 'The only thing I care about is you being there.'

Of course, he fucking wants to be there. Opens his mouth to say just that; she stops him with a shake of her head. She shifts to look at him. 'In St Mungo's, you're not yourself.'

It's just - there. That. The Incident. Like: if he doesn't think about it, snaps at Hawk that he's fine when he mentions it, skirts around the questions of journalists, it will just go away. 'You're still not sleeping,' she adds, then. 'And I know, 'cause I'm not sleeping either.' A reluctant smile. 'Though that's mostly because your son likes to play Beater against my bladder.'

He looks at her. The darkness of her chocolate-brown eyes in the low, evening light. The soft pressure of her gloved fingers around his. He's fine, he thinks. Even started playing Quidditch again with the Auror team.

They are quiet. For a while. Harry picks up a seashell from the ground, fidgets. At night, he dreams of the barn. 'There's a baby there, now,' he says. About - maybe a year old? 'He can stand, you know?' Pulling himself up with the bars of the crib. 'And he's just… watching. The whole thing. And he cries. I mean - wailing. I'm -' His words caught at the back of his throat; he closes his eyes. Opens them again on a ferry like a blinking island in the night. 'I'm on the ground. He's terrified . And, I'm trying to tell him it's gonna be okay, that he 's gonna be okay, but I can't 'cause there's this -' he trails off again, swallows. 'I'm just choking on my own blood,' he settles. 'And, I can't speak to him.'

Ginny scrutinises the expression on his face. 'D'you remember?' she finally says. He shakes his head.

'No.' A pause. A half-shrug. She isn't talking about the barn. 'I mean, yeah, Tom's version. Not mine.'

That doesn't stop him from wondering, though. Wondering if he is the boy in the crib, sometimes, watching his parents agonise.

'D'you think if you grew up with violence, it just makes you repeat it?' he asks.

Laura brought his 'rather successful' career at the Ministry, during the interview. She smiled. 'Did it ever feel like you were cosying up to the enemy?' He laughed. Sure, his eighteen-year-old self would probably have thought it a bitweird, working for the people who tried to kill him. But: it's complicated.

She asked about his job title, then. Which, beyond the fact that he's a Hit Wizard, is - of course - not publicly available information. 'There's rumours,' she pushed. 'That you're their sniper.' Wow, the Ministry really does have bloody thin walls, he thought. Smirked. 'Now, you know that 's classified.'

I still wonder if the violence and the abuse he saw growing up has made him more tolerant of it, she wrote. Ginny holds his gaze, now. 'No,' she says.

'Gin, it's not just Tom and the war, it's -'

'I know.'

They never did talk about it. He remembers Ginny asked, once, a few months after they first moved in together, something about Dudley trying to drown him in the loo. He said: 'Not now,' and she said that didn't mean 'never' but truth be told, he'd already more or less decided to put it all behind him. Sometimes, he reckons you really can stop thinking about something and be better for it.

He doesn't even hate the Dursleys anymore. It's an emotion he no longer has the bandwidth to expand. Has wondered a bunch of times how he'd feel if one of them got run over by a bus without having said goodbye, and came to the conclusion that he wouldn't mind. He doesn't wish for them harm, but can't imagine himself crying in a graveyard over it either. Right after the war, he remembers having these fantasies. Running into Petunia and her not even recognising him. Or dropping by the house, now reshaped by Auror training, no longer the weak and scrawny kid they used to know, and throwing a punch in Vernon's face. Just one. Make stagger backwards. But: for what ? he thinks, now. Samira found an old letter from Dudley in the mountains of fanmail when she started working, one that he'd presumably sent after receiving the magazine Harry had forwarded on, five years ago. I'd love to grab a drink next week. Dated a year before. Harry just threw it in the bin.

It wasn't that bad, he tells Ginny, now. It was mostly just the food. And, the fact that they hated him. And, that they never told Dudley to stop. And, sometimes it was just Vernon. Push the kid around, teach him a lesson. Slaps and belts - it was a different time. At work, he's seen people treat their children much worse. If there had ever been a real risk for his safety, Dumbledore would have intervened. It was just discipline, when he crossed a line.

'And how often did you cross a line?'

'Ah, you know me. I love lines.'

She doesn't smile. 'So would you do that to Teddy? If he crossed a line.'

'No.'

He's pretty sure he'd kill anyone who did.

'So it was that bad.'

They walk into town to warm up, afterwards. Hide the brooms in a corner under a concealment charm until they make their way back. Fairy lights are a clothing line for Christmas trees. Muggle cars and a seaside stroll - 'People just randomly smile at you when you're pregnant,' Ginny observes. His arm loose around her waist. 'Even in London sometimes. I swear it's fucking bizarre.' He laughs.

They get chips from the chipper and ice cream. 'Oh, stop,' Ginny tells him. 'It's never "too cold" for ice cream -' There is a fancy, Italian-style shop on a side street that is 'already closed.' 'I'm eight months pregnant -' she insists, glaring at the bloke as he pulls down the blinds; Harry notices he almost smiles.

'Alright .'

They sit on a bench, overlooking the water again. 'I've no idea what kind of father I'm gonna be,' he admits to her, then. Picks up a couple of chips and shoves them into his mouth. He supposes he does know what he doesn't want, and the bar's literally on the floor. 'Or, maybe, I just look at your parents and I'm like - that's who I wanna be, you know? But, it sounds fucking impossible. I dunno.'

She smiles.

He wants: a house that's chaotic and loud with so much love running around. He wants: board games and Quidditch matches in the back garden, and for there to never be a single day without a laugh. To grow old next to Ginny, watching the wrinkles line their faces with time. He wants to take their kids to the Hogwarts train and to say: 'You'll be fine. You'll have a lovely time.'

She nods. The smile doesn't reach her eyes. Her shoulder lightly pressed against the side of his. Spoon digging into a scoop of hazelnut, the streetlights drawing shadows on her face. She looks away. 'What happened?' he just says.

He's been wondering about it for a while. Her silence is telling. Since the end of the war, he's seen her pick countless petty fights with her mother, but rarely ever real ones. She's never once snapped at her dad. He's seen her blow up, stand up for herself, but never cower in the face of Molly's remarks like she did on her birthday. She was anxious, telling them about the baby. Not just the normal nerves stemming from a life-altering event, but something like: is this okay?

She loves them, she tells him. 'They're incredible parents. I don't think any of us could have hoped for better. I mean, they raised us, protected us -' she smiles again. A couple ladies and a dog power-walk past them, fluorescent sports gear in the half-dark. 'After the boys left for Hogwarts, I was a bit sad so Dad, he - he used to take me on these 'expeditions,' at the weekends in the village,' she laughs. 'Show me all these Muggle things I didn't know anything about. We'd pretend we were treasure hunters.' Her eyes are so bright. 'Then, when the thing with Tom happened, he said: "Haven't I taught you anything?" Like it was my fault, you know?'

She is silent. A long while. He doesn't speak. Watches her wet her lips and look away at the road, then at the sea, and her ice cream is melting under the little stab wounds she inflicts on it with her spoon. He feels the need to defend himself. 'I don't idealise them, I -' Harry starts.

She cuts him off with the most tender of smiles. 'Oh yeah, you do.' A breath escapes her mouth. He turns to look at her, but she won't look back. 'Harry, I want you to. I love that about you. I love that you love them. I love that they love you. I love that you get your happy ending with them. You deserve to idealise them. I don't want to take that away from you. I'd never expect you to take my side,' she adds.

He thinks back to 1999 again. The year in which, for months, she and her mum barely spoke. It drove him up the wall, he remembers, considering all that Mrs Weasley had done for him. He tried to call Ginny out on her behaviour, he remembers. And: Well, I'm sorry, she said. But I can only tolerate so many howlers that come inches from calling me a slut. He resented her for making his beloved Sunday roasts awkward - the way that she was ignoring them, but not him. Mr and Mrs Weasley kept tentatively asking how she was. It didn't even occur to him to write back: I'm sorry she said that.

He tugs at her wrist, now. Ginny shifts, a somewhat uncomfortable process with her bump, tucking her ankle under her bum to face him. His arm around the back of the bench. 'What happened? When I was in hospital, what happened?'

She presses her lips together. Draws in a breath. He remembers: even after he discharged himself, those couple months of hell. He wouldn't visit her family, didn't want to scare anybody. She'd go alone, week after week, pretending he was alright, and: 'I sit and lie, and make excuses to my parents,' she said, that night. She looks at him now. 'They love you,' she tells him. 'They were worried sick about you. I mean, Mum, she wouldn't stop crying; I had to force them to go home, that first night -'

Not what he asked. Ginny smiles, kind. 'Well, maybe I'd rather you didn't ask.'

He pauses. Wonders, too. If he'd rather not know. And, maybe, a few months - years - ago, he wouldn't have pushed. Would have just let her deal with the family tensions she sometimes has to navigate, but with the baby, now, this is also his family. And: he wants to understand it, understand the flawed humans that compose it, who try their best at it - even if they're not always perfect. So: they spoke about marriage, he knows. Mr Weasley wants them to get married sooner, rather than later. And, it occurs to Harry that when they get pregnant, people don't just marry for the sake of appearances. They marry for the legal protection it provides in the face of major life events. Perhaps, if his daughter had chosen to build a life with someone who'd died three times, he'd also have doubts. 'They weren't there that night,' Ginny defends, shaking her head. 'They don't know what you said when you proposed to me. They're just scared,' she states. 'For me, for you, for the baby.'

Considering form, it's actually quite fair. He's not upset Mr Weasley thinks he might die again. Would rather his daughter have the security of a ring around her finger before it happens. 'That's not it,' he says. If it was just that, she wouldn't be like this. They've talked about it.

She sighs. Avoids his gaze. 'Dad, he just -' she trails off, swallows. 'I was terrified . I thought you were gonna die. And: "What did you expect?" he said.'

He pulls her so close, then.

Cross-legged on their bed after the flight home. She says: 'I want to love as much as they did, if not more. I want to take all the good they gave us and not leave the tiniest shred. I want - everything you said. The laughter and the noise and the board games. I want our kids to be safe. And I want us to stay us, because my parents always loved us, but they also loved each other so much.'

She smiles. There is a thin layer of water in her eyes. 'But I don't want to be strapped for cash. I don't want them to be spoiled but - I don't want them to worry. Love makes up for all of the material stuff, but it doesn't make up for worry.'

She pauses. He never stops holding her gaze. 'And I don't want to have favourites. I don't want them to feel like they have to conform to what I want them to be. I want to protect them. So much. As much as Mum and Dad protected us. But, I never want to blame them for loving too much, or trusting too much.' He nods. 'And, I don't want them to feel like they have to go behind my back to get answers to their questions. I don't want extendable ears.' She blinks, quick. 'And, I want to raise boys ,' she smiles. 'I want to be happy raising boys. And if we ever have a girl, I'll love her, of course , but I don't want that to be the deciding factor if we're not sure we want more. I want to raise the good ones.

'Okay. I love you,' he agrees.

They have James. On the 7th of February.

He is so tiny. In his little cot by the side of their bed. Obviously, the world's most beautiful baby. They were lucky - got to meet him a week early. Born to the good old NHS - and seeing Ginny give birth? Absolutely fucking mental (in the best way possible). Humbly, he likes to think they were the midwives' favourite couple, that day, just great to be around, the banter was top class. All those birthing classes always talked about the stress and the pain and everything that could go wrong - and yes, of course, when James comes out and Harry tries to say something encouraging, she SCREAMS at him at the top of her lungs to JUST SHUT UP! and more or less breaks his fingers, but it had never occurred to him that this could be fun, too. Being with Muggles also means that they can be just them . No appearances or curious gazes; Harry and Ginny rather than Harry Potter or Ginny Weasley. Just the two of them. They were cutting it close to midnight and Harry said: 'Nah, I reckon he'll be born today,' and Ginny raised an eyebrow at him. 'Like you've got the Sight or something.'

'Well, maybe I do,' he quipped. 'Trelawney's got nothing on me, you know?'

She threw the extra pillow they'd given her in his face. 'Ah yeah? Didn't see that one coming, did you?'

How do they deal? Well. At first, honestly, it's just one day at a time. The Ministry oh-so-graciously gives him two weeks of paternity; he considers taking more but Hawk slows him down. 'I know it's tempting but you might need it later, trust me.' Honestly, Harry's not sure he will ever go back to work after this. None of it fucking matters. All he wants to do is stare at James all day. The way his little mouth moves and his little eyes open - the tuft of brown hair on his head. He is gorgeous. He looks like Ginny. She insists he looks like him. They should definitely be sleeping but instead, they're just standing over his crib. Just looking at him. They've got a hundred million charms set to sound an alert if he so much as coughs in his sleeps so it's not like they even need to be monitoring, it's just - fuck. They made him.

Ginny was so tired after the birth, she's actually been sleeping better, so he's been doing most of the night shifts. Didn't really inform her of this decision, became an expert at casting a silencing charm on James's crib just as he starts fussing, taking him out of the room before she wakes up. It takes her a few days to cop on, sit next to him on the ledge of the bedroom window of their new flat (no more balcony but at least, he's got the coming and goings on the street to keep him entertained), and shake her head at him. 'He's not sleeping through the night, is he?'

A low chuckle. It is what it is. 'Look, just sleep while you can,' he tells her. 'I'm up anyway.' And, at least, it feels like he's up for a good cause. Feeding his son, changing him. (His son. Can you imagine that? The word still feels foreign on his tongue). Not just laying on his fucking back turning shit over and over in his head while staring at the ceiling.

'D'you think you should talk to someone?' she asks. 'Like Hermione does, I mean.'

He sighs. Honestly, he's not sure. This isn't like after the war when he was confused and traumatised. During the days, when he's got things to do, people to introduce James to, he hardly thinks about it. It's just - the nights, when the flashbacks rise. He knows talking about the war has helped Hermione but he just doesn't think he's that person. What has helped him, though, was Ginny deciding to take them up to Yorkshire, a few weeks back. On a whim, mid-January, she said: 'Take the day off tomorrow.'

He tried. Hawk insisted he just call in sick. 'Who's gonna report you? Me? Keep your annual leave for your baby.'

Ginny booked the whole trip all by herself. The train tickets to Leeds, then the car they hired. Her ability to function in the Muggle world is frankly becoming impressive. He got her a mobile phone so that she could reach him if she went into labour while he was in work; she was the first person to ever text him. He saw the message on his screen and: 'How d'you even do that?' he asked.

'Ha-ha.'

She eventually consented to giving him a lesson. And, during the day, they text , now.

They were quiet, on the train. Ginny read. He looked out the window. A bunch of teenage girls loudly gossiped at the other end of the carriage, ignoring the tutting sounds from the older couple next to them. Harry blasted music in his headphones; it felt odd, being in the middle. Too old for the boisterous train rides, too young to care about the youth disrespecting its elders.

They got the car in Leeds. He sat behind the wheel and Ginny asked if he thought she should learn (for real, this time), with the baby coming. The official recommendations strongly discourage Apparating with young children and the new flat still isn't connected to the Floo. Ron and Hermione had to look for weeks to find a working chimney. 'Most people in London just get it from Diagon Alley, but -' Ginny didn't finish her sentence. He shook his head at the riot Ginny-Weasley-and-her-baby-in-Diagon-Alley would inevitably cause. They're not going to stay in that two-bed for long anyway. The place has stairs between the bedroom and the bathroom, and he's pretty sure the fridge dates back from 1965. He doesn't know much about pregnancies but he does remember Teddy being a toddler and the moment James starts to walk, this set-up will become a nightmare. If they can't get the Floo next time, she's right, they'll at least get a new-build with underground parking. He'll teach her, so.

They drove down fields, that afternoon. Two-lane country roads, heavy clouds and green grass. Sometimes, little hedges. They followed signs to the village and found the house about a mile out. It was big enough - bigger than any of the houses you'd see in London - sun-dried bricks and limestone-tiled roof, a colourful red front door. The garden was well-kept - even in the pit of winter. Pruned lavender beds and pots of geraniums lining up the path past wooden gates. Harry stood - with his flowers and a box of chocolates. He didn't know what to bring. Ginny said: 'Everyone likes chocolate.'

'Maybe we should leave everything here?' he suggested. It wasn't raining - wouldn't get wet. 'Could just get a card or something. I don't want to bother them.'

Wrapped up in her coat, Ginny looked at him.

It felt good - seeing them, once he did knock. The man who answered the door was in his seventies - thinning white hair and a jovial, round face, shorter than him. He froze on the threshold and stared at Harry. 'I don't know if you remember me, I -'

'Oh, I'll never forget the look in your eyes,' he said. When Ginny moved in to shake his hand, he gave a tender smile after stealing a glance at her pregnant belly. 'You must be Ginny.' She stilled. The man nodded. 'You know? He wouldn't stop saying your name.'

They spoke. Over tea and biscuits in their 1980s living room. Ginny explained she found their name and address in Harry's hospital records. They got a world of congratulations for the upcoming baby and Dottie, the wife, thanked them profusely. For the chocolates and the flowers. 'Oh, you've got fantastic taste,' she said to Ginny. 'Look, darling. These will look lovely in the kitchen. Let me get a vase, quickly.'

Thank you for the chocolates and the flowers. Ginny watched him choke on his words. Thank you for being there. For stopping the car. For doing CPR. Fuck. 'Oh, you'd have done the same thing,' the kind man smiled at him. Someone official must have told them he was with law enforcement - a generic statement Harry obviously doesn't correct. 'I used to teach in schools, they - well, they train you, you know? And thank God , nothing ever happened - with the kids - but they always said: "You'll see, when it happens, it just kicks in," you know?' he laughed. 'I honestly never thought it would. I thought I'd just freeze.' Another nervous chuckle. 'I'm not a Rambo.'

'It's good to see you, though, you know?' the man added, smiling. 'They transferred you to another hospital, they never said -'

They never said if he survived, Harry realises. He closed his eyes. The man shook his head and smiled again; it didn't quite reach his eyes. 'Well, I'm so glad you're fine.'

A bit of silence. Harry felt Ginny's palm squeeze his knee. Breathe. 'And, look at you now,' Dottie beamed at the both of them, smoothly changing the subject. 'This is lovely. You're right to do it young - you'll have a lot more energy! How far along are you? You must be so close, aren't you?'

They talked about the baby. Babies make everything okay, apparently.

He asked the old man before they left. Ginny and his wife had gone down the path back to the car ahead of them. 'Oh, I can show you if you want. It's on my way to pick up my granddaughter anyway.' Harry hadn't even thought about it: having to drive down that same place again, every day. They followed the red Twingo further into the countryside for a couple miles until there was a quick flash of the man's hazard lights down a road with no one but cows and empty fields of wheat and barley around. Harry flashed his thanks and slowed down, watching the other car disappear in the distance.

He looked out the window. Saw the barn, maybe three hundred metres out. 'I'll be back in a bit,' he said, then.

No wards. It had been over a year; he supposed the ones the Aurors had put in place had now decayed. He tried to get in but the door was stuck, had to nudge it with his shoulder a couple times before it gave under his weight. Harry couldn't help but feel like he was disturbing the dust, that day. Disturbing the dust and the spiders and the pieces of wood gregariously put together into a wobbly building. There were gaps between the oak boards of the walls, just like he remembered. The sheet-metal roof and the sound of rain, tapping against it. Even now, he remembers dreaming up a storm, heavy enough to bring it down. He remembers the couple windows on each side of the door, remembers laying on the ground and looking up at the sky.

Everything else was different, though. The place felt smaller. No furniture. No rotting bales of straw. The way it was that day, there was a small, wooden table in the corner, a couple chairs. One which they tied him to for a bit. A shelving unit - they threw him against it later; it cut the side of his forehead. He guessed the Ministry probably took all of it into evidence. The place never belonged to anyone. Hawk said they'd checked Muggle and wizarding land records and couldn't find anything. So: who would ever claim it back?

There was a large, dark stain by the side of the wall. Smaller ones around where the chair was. He stood under the window and nudged the floorboards with the toe of his Adidas. This was so far from all of the other farms around, no wonder no one heard him scream. They wouldn't even have needed silencing charms. Harry sat down, back resting against the wall to the left of the entrance.

They had an owl, he remembers. It would come in with messages; one of them was in charge of responding. 'Well, tell him he fucking stinks,' the other spat out. 'I mean if we could just open the door -' The scratching sound of a quill against parchment. 'Fucking piss and sick everywhere -'

The writing one, Harry chose to call him the 'wordsmith' in his head. He set down his quill and got up. Without warning, pushed the other one against the wall, his forearm pressing to his throat. 'Fucking shut up! ' he said. 'Or, I'll fucking kill you.' The clouds were moving with the wind in the sky. It was getting dark. Harry closed his eyes. Opened them with a jerk. Stay awake. Stay awake.

'Hey, hey, hey, look at me!' The sound of someone snapping their fingers close to his ear. Slaps against his cheeks. The wordsmith crouched next to him. Dark hair, dark eyes - bushy eyebrows. Harry's vision was so blurry. 'Good ,' he said. 'Now, here's the thing: you're gonna die in here, alright?' He paused. 'I know I said we'd let you go if you talked, but you're not stupid, you know this. You've seen our faces. Even if we Obliviate you, this has gone too far, alright? We're not gonna just let you just walk out of here. And, I know I'm not telling you anything you don't know,' he smiled. Harry felt dizzy again. More slaps. 'Yeah?'

A moan from the back of his throat. Please, stop. 'Yeah.'

' Good .' Another pause. 'Now, there's two ways this can go. You've fought in the war, you've been an Auror for years, you know the drill. You want this to stop? We stop right now. Just tell us where they are. You tell us where they are, right now, and it's an Avada Kedavra. Easy. You just fall asleep,' he said, relaxing. 'If you don't, we're just gonna keep at this until your heart stops.' The man sighed. 'Or until you bleed out. See -'

He pressed against Harry's stomach. Harry gasped for air. The pain was like his eyes were going to pop out of their sockets. Blood came up throat and suddenly, he was drowning in it. Spit it out on the floor. 'You've got internal bleeding. I'm sure they teach you that in Auror training.' The pressure lifted. Harry managed to breathe again. 'With that flesh-eating curse, it's only gonna get worse. Your wounds are slowly eating themselves. Feel that? ' he asked. The man took Harry's hand to move it, pressed it to his side. There was a knife wound, growing larger. Thick blood at his fingertips. Harry tried to keep his palm against it but the pressure was too weak to truly slow down the flow. 'D'you really wanna die like this?'

There was another pause. The shape of the wordsmith shifted back on its heels. 'You know, I really respect you,' he said. 'You've held on this long. You killed that dickhead. That's a feat. I'm Muggleborn meself, you know? Loads of people don't believe that. So, thank you. Really,' he smiled again. 'Look, we just want an address.' He sighed. Sounded tired, sad. 'Won't tell anyone it was you. You'll be remembered well, I promise you. Just give us the address, mate.'

Harry coughed. Looked up at him. Vision clearing a bit. Late-thirties, probably. A large, crooked nose; the kind that's been broken a bunch of times. He sighed. Closed his eyes. Opened them again. 'Fuck you,' he said.

The wordsmith nodded. What looked like genuine regret etched on his face. 'Right,' he said. 'You know, I really am sorry.' Harry closed his eyes again. Breathed. Decided that this time, he'd rather not see it coming. In, and out. He tried to think of Ginny.

' Crucio! ' he said.

January, a year later - the door opened, after a bit. Ginny appeared and he watched as she lowered herself, awkwardly balancing her weight on her palms to settle next to him. She'd really 'popped,' by then. Some of it, the third trimester, granted, but some of it, Harry also reckons, the moment pregnancy became public. He remembers: it was like James understood he had been given permission to show, now. 'It's okay, Mummy doesn't need to hide you anymore.' And: 'I'm gonna need your help to get back up,' she smirked, her palm over her belly. 'Just so you know.'

They didn't speak. Her eyes inspecting the space around them. He wondered what she saw in it. His nail scratched at the wood underneath. He couldn't help but feel like this place belonged to him now. Like he owned the oak of the walls and the metal of the roof and the dried blood that permanently stained the floorboards. Ginny stared at it. 'There was a spider,' he told her. Shook his head at the memory; it felt silly. 'I kept looking at it,' he admitted. 'I mean, it was tiny but it was just - unbothered. Spinning its little web in the corner down there,' he pointed - a couple of feet away. 'I was - here, ' he showed her the length of a body on the ground. Protecting it. 'Then, it crawled over me, I dunno why. I couldn't stop it. One of them just stepped on it. Not even on purpose, I don't think he saw it,' he shrugged. 'I was so fucking gutted,' he added. 'Like they'd killed my pet or something.'

Ginny looked around. A discreet smile. Cobwebs everywhere. She nudged his shoulder a bit. 'The next generation seems to be doing fine,' she quipped. He snorted. It felt good to just - laugh, in here. 'Should bring Ron over, you know?' she suggested. 'He'd love the day trip.'

Time passed - between them, that day. Eventually, Harry got up. Extended his palm out to her. 'Come on,' he said. 'Let's go have a baby.'

They did.

They had three.

So, how do they deal? Day by day, week by week. When Ginny finds out about James notsleeping, she says: 'You're gonna go running again.' Harry initially protests, already told Hawk he'd drop out of Quidditch after the baby was born - he's already going to be working most of the time; the few hours he has free, he wants to spend with James. Plus, it doesn't seem fair on Ginny, leaving her on her own with - 'Alright, then, we're trading,' she smiles. 'You get an hour whenever you can't sleep. I get that time back at the weekends. To do -' she shrugs. 'Whatever, I don't know yet, I'll find something,' she laughs. '3-4 hours, you take him, yeah? He needs us - the both of us - to stay sane .'

It helps. So does thinking of that Muggle man who saved his life; every year, they send each other Christmas cards. And, just - time. Harry's always wanted to do things quickly, has always wanted his mind to clear with a snap of his fingers, but the truth is that they learn to live with it. Ginny never stops sleeping with her hand on his heart and later, whenever she's away for a game, either as a player or as a reporter, it feels like something's missing. She still has nightmares, sometimes, about this or about the war. Early on, he finds that watching James - physically within his eyesight - helps. Sometimes, they settle him in the buggy in the sitting room, a motion spell rocking him, and Harry falls asleep on the couch just following the regular back-and-forth of the pram. He opens his eyes and it's three hours later and James is in Ginny's arms. 'Oh, yes, love. Did you and Daddy have a good sleep?'

He grins.

Ginny officially goes back to work after six weeks. She is back on a broom after three. That's hard. On her, obviously. Harry wishes he could change the world again but the pressure is immense. It's the only thing the Quidditch world talks about, that year. She told the team and the sponsors that she'd make it; there is no option not to. Will the Magpies still win the League? People keep asking. (They do). Will they win the AeroLeague? (They don't). Will Ginny play the Euros? (She does). Will they win the Euro? (They - actually do . It's not the World Cup, but that one does shockingly come home and there's a very, very big party at Grimmauld). 'I didn't think it'd be this hard,' she admits to him. It is both the best year and the toughest of her entire career. She wins the Golden Quaffle as the best Chaser in Europe, but it still makes her cry, sometimes. She says it's the hormones.

There's a physical side to it. They had a very 'easy' birth (at least according to the Muggle doctors) but she still - well , pushed a baby out of her. Continues to bleed and feel sore for several weeks and from what she says, the afterpains aren't particularly pleasant. The epidural ended up working - kind of. She said that for a while, it numbed out the contractions a bit. 'Like, I dunno. It was weird. It was like I could feel my magic fighting it? It didn't feel really good, actually.' She frowns. Gas & air was good, though. She was practically glued to that thing the entire time. Giggling at his bad jokes. She said it didn't do much for the pain but: 'It feels like you're drunk, you know?' He took a discreet hit after the midwife left the room - curious, so what? - and Ginny threatened him with her wand. 'I swear, if you finish that thing -'

There's also an emotional side to it. James is three weeks old and she's already leaving him four or five hours a day. He's so tiny. He holds onto her finger and she presses her lips together, closes her eyes and cries. Ironically, the fact that he was born early plays in her favour; she's back on the pitch mid-March, only missed seven weeks of actual gameplay. Those early days are just - a lot of them, sitting at the kitchen table, looking at each other and holding hands, that year. They're splitting the night shifts to try and both get some sleep, but they're so exhausted. 'I keep having these nightmares where he forgets who I am,' she says.

He squeezes, once. ' Hey.'

Molly doesn't understand. Her family as a whole doesn't understand. Even Ron, once: 'And you're letting her just -'

Hermione's death glare silences him. 'Oh Harry,' she smiles. James is snuggled up in her arms - the two of them were their first visitors in hospital. 'He's so beautiful, Harry.'

Ginny lies to her mother about the formula. Explains the Muggle doctors told her she didn't have enough milk. 'Oh love, that happens, it's not your fault, don't worry about it,' Molly smiled, kindly pulling her close. 'You should go into St Mungo's - there are spells that help. It really is better for the baby.'

The truth is that: yeah, she had enough milk. It was even painful, at the beginning. But: the doctors said it was her choice. 'Trust me, plenty of babies do just fine on formula,' theirs smiled when she saw the look of anguish on Ginny's face. They also asked Andromeda who said: 'Look, the most important thing is that you do whatever you need to do to get through the first three months. Sure, there are benefits, but there are also benefits to you staying sane.' The nurses at the hospital gave Ginny side-eyes; they both tried to ignore them. 'I just can't be tied to him like that,' Ginny whispered, one night. 'I wouldn't be able to train and - I mean, even if I pump, it's like -'

'Teddy turned out fine,' he smiled, holding her against him. He pulled away to look into her eyes. She seemed to feel guilty about so many things, that year. 'I like being able to feed him. We'll make it work, alright?'

Teddy helps. Not only by sweetly and excitedly offering help with everything ('I need to put him to bed, now,' - 'Can I help?' - 'I need to clean him up, now,' - 'Can I help?') but also because, while Harry hadn't really thought about it before, he actually does have a bit of a leg up on Ginny, it turns out, with most of the practical things. He thought he'd more or less blacked out the first few months after the war, but some things do come back surprisingly quick. The spells that help with the formula, how to change a nappy, how to get him to burp after a meal, how to settle him. She's helped with Teddy since they got back together but before that, when he was a newborn, Ginny was still in Hogwarts. Now, Harry finds that he feels marginally less clueless and terrified. And, the first time Teddy does visit them, that year, his little eyes open wide on James, gaping, like a baby is definitely cooler than Spiderman. 'Can I be big brother?' he asks.

Andromeda stills. Harry feels: this rush of warmth in his chest like it's spread up to his throat and into his eyes; he holds Teddy so close. 'Yes, you can. Of course, you can.'

They navigate: sleepless nights. Little colds and benign illnesses; childcare. That is another thing they didn't really think about, before they had James. Just sort of assumed Molly would look after him, to be fair. Harry supposes they failed to consider she could say no. 'Well, of course, I can look after him sometimes , dear,' she said to Ginny, smiling. 'But you cannot just go back to work this quickly! Who cares about Quidditch? It's a sport. Children need their mother. You need to rest, ' Molly tutted and shook her head. 'I knew you weren't ready for this, Ginevra. Your generation - you want to do everything all the time, you need to grow up and understand the responsibility -'

'Ginny's career is as important as mine is,' he interrupted. Ginny looked up at him, sat on the couch with James in her arms, eyes wide open in surprise. His heart - hammering against his chest; he couldn't bring himself to look at Molly. He thought of adding: 'You're not saying that to me ,' but couldn't quite get the words out. Looked to his feet. Looked back up. A breath for courage. Ginny's words swirling in his head. ' I don't expect you to take my side. ' It was a timid attempt. And he became pretty sure, by then, that Molly was going to ask him to leave the house and never show his face again. But, instead, she smiled, even if it didn't quite reach her eyes.

'Well, it's nice that you think that.' He exhaled. At least, it wasn't an all-right ban of his person - yet.

Ginny started again. 'It would just be ten weeks, Mum. Until we can find him a childminder that'll -'

'Ginny, as I said -'

'I'll take 'im,' a voice interrupted, making them all suddenly turn towards it. Fleur was sitting on the other sofa at the Burrow, nursing Dominique. Harry had to stifle a laugh at the look on Ginny's face; he didn't think he'd ever seen her this astonished his whole life. Fleur shrugged. 'I'm not working. I 'ave two, what is a fird?' (Harry would argue that ' a lot' is a third, actually.) 'I love babies. We can arrange ze details,' she said, then turned to Molly. 'Women should be allowed to go back to work if zey want to.' She then smiled, and looked back at Ginny. 'Plus, it will be fun to 'ave a boy. We 'ave no boys.'

Ginny crossed his gaze. Bafflement to amusement to actually… what do you think? He wasn't sure what to say. Wanted to laugh more than anything else. Molly looked positively irate. 'Alright, yeah, thank you,' Ginny said.

In the end, they do: three days a week at Fleur's, one at Andromeda's. Hawk was right to tell Harry to keep his annual leave; he uses it to take all of Fridays off until the summer. Afterwards, they find a Muggle childminder and set up all the wards they can think of around her place. That makes him nervous, but having James be looked after by wizards is worse. Samira's unfortunately too busy to do it (shockingly, her job has become a full-time one); she's tried to recommend names but Harry is hesitant. It would leak in the press in an instant, and then he'd be even more concerned for James's safety. Having their son has made him consider using his parents' inheritance to pay for 24/7 security. Andromeda says he's paranoid. Hermione says: 'You're turning into a bit of a helicopter parent.' Hawk tells Section B to stop supplying him with the daily stream of memos he's requested to keep aware of all the threats made against his person. 'It won't change anything,' he says. 'You need to relax, okay?'

That year, they become parents.

Just that, he thinks. Plain and seemingly oh-so-simple. Like: a new word they have to learn to roll their tongues around, like: fuck, he's a father, now. Ginny's a mum. The pregnancy felt so long and yet, this just happened - the blink of an eye. A scream and: 'Hey, cut the cord, he's yours now.' The two of them, responsible for the health and wellbeing of this tiny little thing that never asked to be born. This tiny little thing that gives new meanings. To life, to joy, to love. To laughter, and to fear, and to tears and to trust, to the future. And, of course, Harry wonders, all of the time: how vain? At twenty-three years old, with all the scars that they bear and all of the night terrors they still have, to think that they will be good parents. And: how entitled? Placing him on this Earth like game designers - but God , do they love. Do they try. With every day, and everything, to make their little island safe and right. He tries to heal the world, one investigation at a time. One cuddle at a time.

And, if anyone ever did ask why they had kids: hope is what he thinks. Like a drug, like they are addicts - high on millennial delusions that they can change the world for the better. That they can make everything better. That they can give their children a better life than the one they had, and perhaps it is naive, in the world they live in, but it is also right. They rebuild - after the war. The tallest and kindest of castles from the ashes of ever crooning flames, and they pour it all in, all the bricks and all the mortar, and all of the cards and all of their hearts on the table. Like this is the only, truly unbreakable vow they can make.