The season, already busy, became busier once the cold started to break its hold. Even Arthur began to delegate – to Harry's surprise, Ginny received an owl from Peter Pettigrew, asking for paint color preferences for the kitchen; a brief postscript was a friendly aside that he was now doing work on the house as a bit of extra income. "Wasn't he tagging along after Umbridge?" Ginny asked. "No wonder he'd rather work for Dad!"

Ginny wasn't the only one who received letters, and Peter was not Arthur's only delegate. A snowy owl bearing a thick, crisp envelope swooped down on Harry in the middle of breakfast one morning, making him spill his pumpkin juice. It bore the official Ministry seal, heavily embossed on the paper. After a quick, concerned glance at Ginny, and a flick of the gaze up toward the head table, where Dumbledore was conspicuously absent, Harry unsealed the envelope. His stomach did a brief spasm as he wondered if this was an official summons to a trial – perhaps the Ministry had done some research into the Peverell name and discovered they were frauds – or the house was no longer available to buy, and they'd have to start over–

"What is it?" Ginny leaned over the table toward him.

"It's a list," said Harry, reading swiftly, noting the name Amos Diggory at the bottom with a jolt of recognition. "It's a list of our ghosts… the ones at the new house." There were, as promised, seven of them, all with names like Fumbling Phil, and Black-Eyed Bonnie. In smaller writing, were their histories from the time they were among the living. There at the end, piquing his curiosity, was a brief mention that "other occupants have felt an uncommon chill in the basement, unassociated with any other known ghost on the property".

"Well," said Ginny, pragmatic, "maybe Dad can do something about it…" Her smile lit up her face, making Harry clear his throat and shift in his seat. "And we'll see him soon…"

Before their holidays, however, they had a meeting with Dumbledore, who appeared uncharacteristically harried, blue eyes near feverish behind his half-moon glasses. It was a short meeting, leaving Harry with more questions than answers, and Dumbledore once more cautioned them to be careful, that Voldemort and his Death Eaters were gaining more power by the day, and that they didn't want his attention anywhere near them.

Harry could have told him that it was quite an uncomfortable experience to be the focus of Voldemort's attention, but he bit his tongue. There were things Dumbledore still did not know, though the temptation was rising in Harry to come fully clean with the headmaster. In fact, Harry rather thought that he might have already told him everything – laid his entire life bare – but Dumbledore was hardly around enough to have such a conversation.

"Maybe once he's finished his… whatever it is he's working on," Harry told Ginny, the night before their holidays started. She stroked his back, idly, scratching her fingernails against him. "I should…" He swallowed. "I don't think…"

Ginny seemed to understand. "You don't have to tell him," she murmured.

Harry knew this to mean Sirius rather than Dumbledore. "Yes," he said quietly. "I know."

HPHPHPHPHPHP

The Hogwarts Express clattered through thick fog in the Highlands, which gradually, through the day, thickened into drops of rain that threatened to pound them into the earth before they could reach King's Cross. Inside the compartment he mercifully shared with only Ginny, however, it was warm and cozy. She'd conjured a fire, which sat on the floor, crackling merrily. The trolley lady had come around; Harry had bought a packet of marshmallows, and they'd roasted them with conjured sticks. A couple of spells on the window of the compartment door were all it had taken to ensure that none of the students wandering up and down the train could look peer inside and see them, for it was not very brotherly and sisterly to sit cuddled under one blanket, hands entwined. Nor was it very likely siblings would kiss away remnants of marshmallow that lingered on lips and fingers.

"You've a bit of something," said Ginny, close enough that her breath lingered on him, warm and sweet. "Just here."

Her lips brushed the corner of his mouth, then her tongue came out, making Harry's body – already warm from the fire, the blanket, and Ginny, tingle with awareness. "Have you got it all?" he asked, his voice deeper than usual.

"Mm, I think so," she said.

There were several moments like these through the long train-ride, where Harry thought that they could perhaps trust their privacy charms for an activity or two beyond kissing. But each time, common sense would prevail. Still, he spent the ride in a state of languid anticipation: happy to cuddle, but his thoughts kept drifting to a place that would have more privacy than a compartment on a train.

Surely, at Sirius's house, they would find a way…

But the first two days of the holiday left Harry and Ginny rather bereft of any private moments. The train was late enough to London that Sirius took them home right away, then – oblivious to any hints that Harry wanted to go to bed early – wanted a nightcap in the study. Looking at his godfather, his gray eyes earnest, Harry had swallowed and agreed. The next day, Sirius, rather cheerful after having quite a bit of firewhisky the night before, insisted they get their errands done. "You've got a house now," he'd said, face guileless, "you're going to want at least some furnishings before you move in in the summer." Harry could not argue against that logic, so they'd grabbed their robes out of their trunks and headed out to Diagon Alley before Harry could do much more than give Ginny a good-morning kiss.

Although Easter was late this year, winter still held London in a tight grip. Diagon Alley was colored in shades of gray: Only the signs in front of the stores offered any color at all, and even these were dingy and subdued. There were others out and about; most were hurrying along, heads down even though the buildings along the alley offered protection against the wind. More disturbingly were the cloaked figures standing like sentinels at different points along the way. They hadn't been there last time Harry had been there – at least, he hadn't noticed them.

"Who are they?" Ginny asked, echoing Harry's own thoughts, after they'd passed one of these silent figures just outside Flourish and Blotts. She craned her neck to get a better look.

"I imagine most of them are Aurors," said Sirius. "There's been a bit of trouble here these last few weeks."

"Really?" Harry said, surprised. "I haven't read about any of that in the Prophet?" This time, it was his turn to crane his neck. That could be Frank Longbottom under there, he supposed, or even Moody, though Harry thought he might have noticed a stump. Whoever was under the cloak, however, had shoulder-length, straw-colored hair, and a square chin. "The Ministry's worried, then?"

"Yeah," said Sirius, grinning a little, before wiping it away. "They don't want to alarm people, but they're keeping a close watch on what's going on."

Harry eyed him, wondering if Sirius knew more than he was letting on. But before he could press further something else caught his eye: hair bright even in the rather gloomy light of the London day, there was Professor Marlene McKinnon, an old girlfriend of Sirius's, walking briskly toward them.

"Professor McKinnon!" said Ginny, noticing the same thing.

The former professor came to a complete halt, face betraying nothing but blankness. "It's the Peverells," she said coolly, adjusting a bundle in her arms. "And Mr. Black." Here, her voice coldened even further. "What a nice surprise."

Oops, Ginny mouthed at Harry.

"Marlene," said Sirius. "Pleasure to see you."

"I'll be on my way then," she said, turning to the side. Harry's gaze flicked to the sign above the dark opening she had turned to: Knockturn Alley. Belatedly, he wondered if she was still working for Borgin&Burkes. She had to be, right?

Two more cloaked figures materialized, and took up guard on either side of Knockturn Alley.

All three gazed down the dark alley into which Marlene McKinnon had disappeared.

"I'm sure if you just talked to her…" offered Ginny, though with little certainty.

"I'm afraid that wouldn't do anything," said Sirius. With what appeared to be great effort, he pulled his attention away from Knockturn Alley. "What's done is done." A brief smile flickered across his face. "I never should have tried… She never would have been able to understand. Not the way you two can understand each other. That's why you two are so…"

The back of Harry's neck grew hot. There was something in this implication that Harry didn't like, even though this newly approving Sirius was far more convenient for Harry. "Erm–"

"...compatible," finished Sirius, gaze flicking back to Knockturn Alley.

When Harry looked at her, Ginny offered him a tiny shrug and a grimace.

"Shall we?" Sirius asked jovially. "That's where you want to go," said Sirius, nudging Harry with his elbow, and jerking his chin toward a storefront up the way from the crooked street, away from Knockturn Alley. "And look… they're having a Fire Sale."

"Remember what Dumbledore said," said Harry, in a low, low voice. "We can't spend too much money."

The gray in Sirius's eyes froze. He was no closer to forgiving Dumbledore for having locked him in Grimmauld Place than he had been when they'd first come. "I know what he told you," Sirius said testily. "And I told you that no one will even notice galleons being thrown around here. You'll just be a drop in the bucket."

"He might be right," Ginny said, fingers brushing the back of Harry's hand. "It's one of those places where a lot of people spend a lot of money."

"Okay," said Harry. "And it's not like it's a great big chain made to, y'know, protect people."

"Exactly," said Sirius, with a bit more cheer.

Up past Freezem, Boilem, and Burnem Apothecary, its storefront covered in a silhouette of a witch with a rather exaggeratedly large wart, was a furniture store that Harry had never noticed before. Outside stood a house-elf, dutifully ringing a bell, booming about a sale. Furniture danced above merrily flickering fires in front of the windows. The inside, once they skirted around the house-elf, was far more spacious than the storefront would suggest, with beaming witches and wizards standing in carefully arranged clusters of chintz chairs, sleigh beds, elaborately carved wardrobes, antique apothecary cabinets, and chaise lounges.

Ginny's eyes were bulging at the apothecary cabinet, which had the sign 800 G floating above it. "Eight hundred galleons," she said in the loudest whisper Harry had ever heard. "That's a sale?"

"Maybe it comes with its own unicorn," Harry suggested.

They were both laughing when a blonde wizard with a rather flamboyant grin marched over to them. "Welcome to Oak and Elder," he said proudly, throwing out his arms. "What can I find for you?" His gaze looked Ginny up and down, and his smile widened, irritating Harry. "We've lovely, hand-carved vanities… I can show you… it's every witch's dream."

"Perhaps you can show me where you keep your Quidditch cupboards instead," Ginny suggested coldly.

"My godchildren," said Sirius, clasping Harry on the shoulder, "are here to furnish their new home… from what I understand, it will take quite a bit to do so."

The wizard's eyes widened like saucers. "Furnish your new home?" he asked eagerly. "In fact, we have an excellent kit that can help you do just that–"

"I know," Sirius said. "That's why I brought them here."

Three hours later, Harry grumpily thought that the Oak and Elder was not as convenient as Sirius had purported it to be. Stretching his arms out above him, Harry yawned widely. There were, he had soon realized, after the wizard – Jeremy Rogers, whom he now knew better than he wanted to – had whistled for helpers, a great deal of kits to choose from. When he and Ginny had appeared stunned by the selection, Rogers had taken their relative lack of enthusiasm as a challenge. Instead of allowing them to choose the third option that had been set before them, as they'd both sort of liked it, he insisted that they keep trying.

Nearly a hundred kits later, Harry was ready to fake enough enthusiasm that Rogers would allow them to leave.

"You two are difficult customers," Rogers said, still beaming. "Not to worry, not to worry. We'll find something…"

Harry stifled a groan. Sirius had disappeared to go get tea nearly two hours ago.

"Here's an older model… one of my great-great-uncle's last creations," said Rogers, who had told them during the first ten minutes of their torture that he was related to the founders of the Oak and Elder. "I'm afraid it's not on sale–"

"-that doesn't matter," Harry said quickly, ready to pay a steep price.

Ginny chuckled a little. "It matters to me," she said.

"We have the money," Harry told her.

"It's the principle," Ginny said, shrugging.

Resigned, Harry leaned back in his chair. "Let's see it, then," he said, rather ungraciously.

The scroll that Rogers brought out was yellowed with age and burnt in some places. "This was toward the end of his life… he got a bit careless with his wand," Rogers said briskly. "But the design is… sound." There was a faint pause that piqued Harry's curiosity. Beside him, Ginny leaned forward.

"Oh!" she said. "That's… actually, that's really…"

Harry bent over the scroll. Like every other kit, this one supplied furniture for a multitude of different sorts of rooms. Unlike the others, which had all seemed alike, with minute differences that Rogers seemed to think were life-changing, this one was different. "I like this," Harry said, surprised. Looking up, he found Rogers smirking at him. Instead of being dark and heavy, each piece would lighten a room.

"I knew we'd find one," Rogers said with great satisfaction.

"Will you let us buy it, then?" Ginny asked.

"Of course, of course." Rogers waved his wand, and the table was cleared of all the kits but the one they'd chosen. "It will take up to six weeks… the reason it's not on sale is because, you know, it's made of ash – great-great-uncle was a bit of a maverick, you know, he didn't always use oak or elder in his designs. We'll have to get the material."

"That's fine," said Harry.

"We don't really need it until the end of June," said Ginny.

Rogers led them out of the office and back into the main store, which was rather more crowded than it had been three hours previously. The sales witches and wizards, each wearing dark robes emblazoned with oaks and elders, moved through them. The sound of voices echoed, rising above everyone's head until there was a blanket of noise surrounding them.

"It will be 950 galleons," said Rogers, standing behind the till.

Harry withdrew from his pocket the tickets that Gringotts had sent him. Arthur had suggested it at one of their meetings, when Ginny had handed over a sack of money. Ginny pressed a quill into his hand. "I just write out 'Oak and Elder'?" Harry asked. "And the amount?"

Rogers nodded. Then, taking the ticket Harry had painstakingly written on, his eyes widened. "Peverell!" he said, rather loudly.

Harry, uneasy with this reaction, looked around. Was it just his imagination, or had the conversation around him slowed?

"I'm surprised you two didn't choose any of the elder kits, then," said Rogers, still talking rather loudly to Harry's taste.

"Why's that?" Ginny asked warily.

"Well, because of the Elder Wand," said Rogers. "You know, the Stick of Destiny… the Peverells… no?" Perplexed, he looked at them, his brow furrowing a moment before it cleared. Then, shrugging, he said: "Well, it's all just children's stories, anyway… I've got four little brothers and sisters, and Mum's always reading them Beedle the Bard. But honestly… Peverells…"

"Harry," Ginny whispered, low and urgent. "Look who is here."

Back of his neck itching, Harry waited until Rogers was pulling out a slim tube, and explaining that an owl would be sent to them when the furniture was ready, before he turned slightly. There was a blond woman standing not too far away from them, head-cocked, peering at Ginny with a lightly perplexed look on her face…

…her familiar face.

"Did you say," asked Narcissa Malfoy, lip slightly curled, "the Peverells?"

"What's it to you?" Harry said curtly.

Eyebrows rose on her frozen face. Narcissa drew herself up, finally pulling her gaze away from Ginny.

Harry shuffled his feet, moving so that Ginny was a bit obscured. His blood beat with a singular question.

"It's an illustrious name," said Narcissa.

Harry didn't believe her, but Ginny was pressing her hand into his back and Rogers was making choking noises from behind him.

"This is Narcissa Malfoy, Mr. Peverell," said Rogers, with no small amount of fear. This was Harry's warning to back off, and he saw the amusement this caused Narcissa Malfoy, who was once more staring at Ginny.

"Pleasure to meet you," lied Ginny.

"Hmm," said Narcissa.

The tense moment ended when, smirking a little, Narcissa moved off to examine a trio of cabinets of varying sizes. Harry, reminding himself that there was little she could do to them, not with the Aurors stationed every thirty feet, keeping their eyes on Diagon Alley. But he was distracted as they finished their transaction, so distracted that he nearly wrote 'Potter' instead of 'Peverell' and had to make his signature extremely messy in order to cover his mistake. You've got to stop doing that, he ordered himself.

But Rogers didn't even blink, Narcissa had moved into a different part of the store entirely, and he and Ginny were free to leave.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Fifteen minutes later, they were safely back at Sirius's house, Harry explaining what had happened in the furniture store, that they'd seen Narcissa Malfoy there. He paced the sitting room, an odd buzz of annoyance and even a bit of fear prickling at him. The familiar feeling of being watched – of being hunted – welled up inside of him.

"It was strange, Sirius," said Ginny. "Rogers made a big to-do about us being Peverells… I hadn't noticed her before, but I caught her staring at us."

"It will have been because of the name," Sirius murmured. A lazy gesture with his wand had flames shooting out of the tip, striking the wood in the fireplace, and setting it to burn. The temperature of the room rose by several degrees. "It's a curious name, Peverell. I'm sure that's all, you two."

"She wasn't staring at us," said Harry, turning to Ginny. "She was staring at you." It was puzzling him now as it had then: Narcissa Malfoy had stared at Ginny, head cocked, ignoring the sales associate standing before her. The slight sneer on Narcissa's face seemed to be perpetual, but there had been something off about her scrutiny of Ginny.

"But why?" Ginny asked, baffled.

Harry rounded on Sirius. "Why'd you make us go there, anyway?" Harry asked. "It was only purebloods in there."

Sirius looked surprised. "It's the only spot that sells kits of that kind," he said reasonably. "But yeah, you're right, it's mostly for newly married purebloods who are setting up their new home, away from Mummy and Daddy. I thought purchasing your furniture there would just be more… expedient."

"When you moved out on your own, you went to Muggle charity shops for all your furniture," said Harry.

"You're right," said Sirius, "I did."

Harry blew out a breath. Firelight flickered on his godfather's face, casting odd shadows. For the first time, Harry saw the resemblance between Sirius and his cousin Narcissa. Unnerved, he looked at the ground. Ginny touched his arm.

"Harry, I'm sure it's nothing–"

"She doesn't know anything about us, Harry."

Sirius and Ginny spoke at the same time, but it was only Ginny's words that brought him any comfort. The way Narcissa had been staring had been odd; what it hadn't been was nothing. But it was true that Narcissa could know little about them – how could she? Her son wasn't even conceived yet; their rivalry did not yet exist. Not only that, but Harry was not the Boy Who Lived here… there could be no reason why Narcissa had found them intriguing… why had Ginny drawn her attention so?

But eventually the circular conversation spiraled into a sort of lazy silence. It was then that Sirius stood and attended to a couple of things around the room. One of these things, to Harry's satisfaction, was taking out a bottle of firewhiskey, and pouring a measure of it into three different glasses.

"Wait a minute," muttered Sirius, after he'd handed them their drinks. "I've got something that'll make it even better…"

"What's that?" Harry asked.

Sirius was shifting things about on the mantle before finding a tiny jar of what looked like pepper. "Something that goes with the firewhisky," he said, unstoppering it. "Your dad and I used it a lot… it gives it a smokier flavor. Enhances it."

Sharing a sidelong look with Ginny, thinking that firewhisky did not necessarily need a smokier flavor, Harry sipped at his glass. The moment Sirius added a pinch of powder to the flames, a not-unpleasant aroma filled the air. It was peppery, and the tips of the dancing flames sparkled black before returning to the bright orange and yellow.

"It is good," said Ginny, surprised.

Sirius smiled at her.

Harry was quite content, then, relaxing into the armchair, his godfather refilling his glass. Just one more," Harry promised himself. But after the day of looking at endless furniture and the odd encounter with Narcissa Malfoy, the firewhisky was exactly what he needed. And when was the last time he'd felt so relaxed with Sirius? The often-pinched look on Sirius's face had softened. Suddenly glad they'd come to visit over the Easter holidays, Harry took another sip.

Harry's gaze strayed to Sirius. There, shuffling out of the back of his mind, came the image of the drawing she had shown him the last time he'd seen her. It was never far from his thoughts this holiday. Now, with the fire a warm glow in the room and the firewhisky a warm glow in his belly, Harry did not want to think of the dark star Dorcas claimed his godfather was under.

"It's nice to be away from Hogwarts, isn't it?" Sirius asked. "Have a bit of a holiday from everything…"

"Yeah," said Ginny.

"Beginning of seventh year was probably my favorite year," said Sirius, "NEWTs notwithstanding. Those were brutal. But we all had so much more freedom." A little smile played across his lips. "We could come and go as we wanted… until the pox."

"Glad we're done with that," said Harry. Glass now empty, he added two fingers more, and then he really would be done.

"So Dumbledore's really lengthened your chain this year," said Sirius, swirling his own.

"He has, yeah, and it's been great," said Ginny. "We've needed to leave every weekend to work on the house. Well, to help Dad and Peter—"

"Peter?" Sirius snapped out, astonished, sloshing steaming, amber liquid on his fingers. "Peter Pettigrew?"

"Yeah," said Harry. Ought he help his godfather…? Firewhisky was hot to the touch… But no, Sirius was shaking his hand out, grimacing. "Apparently the Ministry isn't paying people enough and they've got to get second jobs—"

"—in Dad's department, too," said Ginny. "So Dad's hired Peter for a bit of help."

"You know… I'd forgotten all about that…" said Sirius, gaze flicking to the mantle. "Well, it seems I don't remember as much of the 1970s as I thought."

"They're helping," said Harry, a bit lamely. "Arthur swears it'll be done well before summer."

"I'm honestly surprised," said Sirius, eyes narrowed, "that Dumbledore is going to let you just up and leave Hogwarts." A faint bitterness now emanated from him, leaving its own smell.

"He's the one who suggested it," said Ginny.

"We're adults," said Harry. "We want our own place."

"Still…"

For long moments, there was silence. It was on the tip of Harry's tongue to tell Sirius what had happened over Christmas break, when they had together killed the basilisk and destroyed one of Voldemort's diaries. Dumbledore was not forcing them to stay at Hogwarts, no. In fact, he was gone often, both looking for Simon Burke and looking into the bits and pieces Harry and Ginny had told him about the future. Prophets, he'd called Harry, Ginny, and Sirius… and he was acting on their prophecies…

"Dumbledore called us prophets, you know," he said lazily.

Ginny huffed out a laugh. "And what does that mean?"

"There's supposed to be one in every generation of my family," said Sirius. "According to stupid family lore, that is."

"Maybe I'll start dressing all in scarves and carrying around a crystal ball," added Ginny, who had heard all about Sybil Trelawney from both Ron and Harry. "I just hope my third eye matches my other two…"

Harry let the idea he'd had float away from him. Sirius was right. A memory tickled at him. "What was your family lore again?"

"Ah," said Sirius, waving his hand. "It's just a bit of nonsense. But family lore says that every generation of Blacks has a madman, a Seer, and someone who dies young."

"Is that true?" Ginny asked, eyebrows winging upward. There was a rosy flush in her cheeks. "You know… Sirius told us that story — young Sirius, I mean. He told it at Halloween, the first year we were, you know, here."

Sirius grunted. "It's just Black family lore to make us sound more important. We have had Seers — Dorcas Meadowes, for one — but every generation? Probably not. Now as for madmen… I'd say there's more than one every generation." All three laughed. "And for those who die young… well, we've had that, too, but doesn't every family? My older brother — Regulus, obviously, I mean — and my cousins used to — well…" His face hardened. "They could all die young, for all I care."

The fire crackled. Harry looked down at his glass, frowning, then tossed back the rest of it.

"Sorry about that," Sirius was saying, relaxed once more, "I forget how much I hate talking about them…"

"We understand, Sirius," Ginny said gently. But when Harry looked at her, she was giving her head a little shake. It didn't seem like something easy for her to understand, not given how much she loved and missed her family, and how much she looked forward to every morsel of news from them.

But the Weasleys, like the Potters, were nothing at all like the Blacks.

HPHPHPHPHPHP

It was with obscure relief that the next day, Harry replied to an owl from his father, agreeing to meet with him at a wizarding pub in Godric's Hollow. Ginny, too, was invited; in fact, the letter had been addressed to the Peverells, a fact that made Sirius grunt.

"It's Godric's Hollow," said Harry, when Sirius had raised a skeptical brow. "It's safer than loads of other places, isn't it? Besides…" We've got to have a bit of a break. Sirius was, in fact, cycling through being exuberant and bleak; neither mood was conducive to a relaxing holiday, and Harry had begun to wish that he and Ginny had chosen a place that they'd be able to immediately move into. "It's my parents, Sirius."

Predictably, Sirius's features fell into softer lines. "I know it is. But after you've just drawn Narcissa's attention, I think you can ill-afford to draw more attention to yourself—"

"It's not like we're going to spend loads of money," said Harry, exasperated. Sometime over the last few hours, including his dreamless sleep of the night before, Harry had convinced himself that Narcissa was merely curious as to why two such young people would be buying expensive furniture sets. "We're just going to the pub."

"Promise me—"

"Sirius," Harry interrupted firmly, "we don't need your permission."

There was a brief flare of annoyance in Sirius's eyes. Harry thought he might tread down a familiar path, telling him how like his father he, Harry, was, but instead he bit off a "fine, then" and exited the kitchen. Harry frowned after him long after the front door had opened and closed. Perhaps he shouldn't have said that so explicitly.

Ginny, however, was encouraging as she pulled her gloves on. "He just needs to be told again and again that he can't keep us locked up here," she said, teasing the gloves over her fingers in a way that made Harry idly wonder if they should cancel their plans to go to Godric's Hollow and take advantage of the empty house.

It had been a very long few days since they'd been together.

"Ready?" asked Ginny. "If I stay here another minute, I'm going to go crazy."

Harry's daydream popped and he smiled at her. "Ready," he said, eyeing her traveling cloak. "I hope you haven't got anything too sexy on under there… I don't want to embarrass myself."

"It's just normal robes," she assured him, a little twinkle forming in her eye. "You can handle it."

"Don't overestimate me," Harry told her.

But they were not in much danger of letting out their secret. Generally, James and Lily liked to surround themselves with friends, but today it appeared they'd only invited Harry and Ginny. "Sorry it's just us," James had explained, "But I knew everyone else is busy… Remus has got — uh — a family problem, Sirius is off doing something for someone, and Peter's working one of his three jobs."

"He's helping my — uh, builder with our house, actually, did you know?"

"I think you told us…"

Harry threw off his traveling cloak and scarf and rubbed his hands together. "That sounds busy," he said, catching the bartender's eye. "I'll get us drinks, shall I? What does everyone want?"

That started a couple of hours of genial laughter. At one point, James brought a chair around and proceeded to very seriously explain to Harry everything to do with Quidditch, the English Leagues, and even Quodpot. Gradually, tension eased in Harry's shoulders; some of the relaxation came from the mead they continued to drink, but a lot of it was the company, too.

Later, when the sun was down and the moon slanting through the window, James stood, stretched, and suggested a walk. The pub wasn't closed quite yet, but the bartender was examining what was left in the bottles behind the bar, the customers were trickling out in batches, and the servers had charmed towels wiping down every vacated table.

They were buffeted out of the Phoenix Crest by warm air and merry conversation. The feathers that outlined the old wooden door, which Harry had been assured were fake, now glowed the colors of fire, providing a cheerful welcome to passersby. Warm and replete by both excellent food and conversation, Harry settled in step behind his parents, careful to maintain a distance of at least a foot between him and Ginny. Godric's Hollow was a sleepy little town; the Muggle side of it was entirely dark, and even the wizards were closing their shops. Lights were on in the windows above pubs and shops and apothecaries. One woman – dark-skinned and yellow-eyed – waved at them from the tiny Quidditch supply store before shutting the door.

Harry, for reasons he did not want to examine too closely, was wishing for another hour – or even two – before returning to Sirius's house. Maybe we could go to the Leaky, Harry thought, wondering if he should suggest it. Diagon Alley, located in London, kept on London hours: He did not think any of the pubs closed until the early hours of the morning.

But when Harry opened his mouth to suggest Apparating to London, his father stopped so suddenly Ginny nearly banged into him.

"Whoa."

James let out a low whistle.

"What is it?" Lily asked.

"Look at that," said James, pointing.

There was the church that divided the Muggle side of town from the wizarding. It was predictably dark: No one went to church at this hour. But it was backlit by a pearly glow, as though the moon had reason just behind it and hovered there. Harry's feet carried him forward, and he withdrew his wand. His arm brushed against Ginny's.

"Only his sort would flout the Statute of International Secrecy," muttered James. "That's too close to the Muggles."

But it was not Death Eaters or anyone of the sort that had brightened the night. There, in the small graveyard sprawling out behind the church was a large cluster of translucent ghosts that exuded the light that had drawn their attention. Tucking away his wand, Harry leaned up against the marble plinth that supported a statue of a saint.

"Whoa," James said again.

"What're they all doing here?"

Ginny was doing a swift count. "There's got to be at least a hundred here, maybe more."

"I bet it's a Deathday Party," said Harry, who had seen ghosts congregating like this before. That had been in the dungeons of Hogwarts; Harry'd been cajoled into joining by Nearly-Headless Nick. As his memory of that night burgeoned in his thoughts, the wind changed direction, bringing with it the strong scent of rotten fish and vegetables.

"Ugh, what's that smell?" gasped Lily.

Harry lit the tip of his wand. There, between two large tombs, was a table nearly buckling under the weight of a pile of rotten food. "It's their party snacks," he said. "If it's rotten like that, they can almost taste it."

James and Lily were peering at him oddly.

"I've been to one before," confessed Harry.

Ginny chuckled a little.

"Did I hear you say Deathday?"

A ghost, wearing long pale robes and a welcoming grin, had drifted toward them, beaming rather widely.

"Er," said James.

"I said it, yeah," said Harry, gesturing to the milling ghosts, some of whom were playing a sort of game where one would sink into the earth under one gravestone and then pop up with a hair-raising shriek from another. "I thought that's what it might be."

The ghost came and put his arm around Harry, who immediately felt like he'd been doused with icy water. "No, no, you see," said the ghost, waving his goblet. "It's not a Deathday party, it's a goodbye to our freedom party."

Harry blinked at him. "What?" he said. His thoughts immediately went to the Spirit Division at the Ministry, and Benjamin Fenwick's article. "Is it the Ministry?" he asked.

"Oh, no, nothing like that," the ghost assured him. "I'm Fumbling Phil, by the way. No. Ministry can't keep us down for long." Harry was strongly reminded of Ludo Bagman. "I've been haunting this good earth for nearly three hundred years–"

"-that's a bit of an exaggeration," another ghost mumbled. Three of them were now in a staggered line, looking every bit as curious of Harry, Ginny, James, and Lily as they were of them. "Your last fumble was two hundred and fifty one years ago."

"It's closer to three hundred than two," shrugged Fumbling Phil. He winked at them. "But what I mean to say is that the Spirit Division can make all the changes they desire, but none of it is permanent. I'll still be here after all the live ones are dust."

"But then why are you having a goodbye party?" Ginny asked, looking from one ghost to another to another. More were joining as though pulled toward them with hooks. One of them even looked familiar to Harry: She was tall, solemn-looking, and might be the Ravenclaw ghost.

A grizzled old hag of a ghost coughed out an answer: "This ancient old fumbler here is upset about losing his Quidditch Pitch."

"It's not simply that," Fumbling Phil protested. "It's a disruption in our way of life. How many of our gatherings are we going to be able to have when the living finally get our home fixed up? The redhead's already warned us they were asking questions, Bonnie!"

Phil. Bonnie. Something was niggling at him. But it was not until Ginny dug an elbow in his side that Harry realized that they were talking about him and Ginny.

"You're talking about us!" cried Ginny, half-standing.

"Yeah!" said Harry, chuckling. "We bought the house."

The ghosts drifted closer. Fumbling Phil looked like he'd been hit in the back of the head with a Bludger. "But…"

"They're just kids, you fumbling popinjay." A rather severe-looking woman tapped her transparent foot against the closest tombstone. "All they need is a good scare and we'll have them out in no time."

"Before they do it to us," agreed someone else.

"And we have no intention whatsoever of ousting anyone," Harry said firmly. "It's your home too."

"We're used to living with ghosts," Ginny said cheerfully. "We've been at Hogwarts for what it seems like decades."

James and Lily laughed.

"Or a year or two," Harry said, with a crooked grin at Ginny. "But we aren't going to try to get anyone to leave."

"Really?"

"Well, this is so unexpected!"

"Aren't these two just so sweet!"

The ghosts rambled their thanks, except for the one who reminded Harry oddly of Mad-Eye Moody. He could imagine the old Auror being as suspicious in death as he was in life. As the other ghosts continued to thank them, Harry stared at her, unwilling to back down.

"Ignore her," said Phil, exasperated. Bonnie tucked her arm through his.

Finally, the severe ghost spoke again. "Stay out of the basement," she said, eyeing him up and down. "Or you'll die regretting your own birth."

"Don't listen to her," joked Phil. "That's always where I kept the best firewhisky."

The ghosts faded away from the living, back to their increasingly raucous party. Phil and Bonnie in particular were particularly exuberant: Bonnie performed stunts on a ghostly broom that made Harry's eyebrows raise, and think an unsympathetic thought before turning his attention back to Ginny and his parents. All four sat loose-limbed against an aged marble tomb.

"You two are dif'rent, y'know." This came from Lily.

Harry blinked slowly at her.

"Different?" Ginny said. There was a warning in her tone.

"You two just… care," said Lily. Her cheeks were bright red; Harry suspected his mother was more drunk than he'd thought. Her gaze caught his. "You've done things — big things to just… help. Even these ghosts. And… and other things. Important things." Now she was speaking solely to Harry. "Like waking us up… and other things."

Trapped in his mother's gaze, Harry wondered if she somehow knew about the basilisk pox and what Harry had had to do in order to save his grandparents. Admiration fairly glowed from her. Discomfort and pride entwined together and welled up inside him, momentarily blocking his throat. How could he tell her that it was her original sacrifice that had led to all of this? That by standing in front of his crib — he imagined her arms had been spread, trying to block as much of her small baby as she could — she had imprinted that inside him?

"How did you…?"

"You know," Harry said, his tongue loosened perhaps by the firewhisky they'd shared at the Phoenix's Plumes, but more likely by the fact it had been Lily asking the question, "I think I'm just following the lead of my parents."

Both James and Lily leaned forward, curiosity alive on their faces. Beside him, Ginny rustled.

"They were excellent people," Harry explained. There they were, the four of them, surrounded by pearly, partying ghosts. Harry kept his eyes on the translucent figures, the back of his neck growing hot.

"I don't think we've ever heard you talk about them," observed Lily.

"Because," said Harry, "growing up, I never really knew them. They died when I was little. But everything I've heard about them… they were the types who would…" He swallowed, flicking a glance at his mother. "You know," he said lamely. "They would do everything they could to stop him, and to stop him hurting others. I know they would. They'd do it proudly… straight-backed and upright."

"Like you," said James, smiling a little and clasping him on the shoulder.

"And Peter doesn't think you ought to have sorted into Gryffindor," said Lily, her tone a mix of wry fondness. If Peter had been standing there, she'd have been ruffling his hair.

"Peter can be mental," said James affably. Then, loyally, he said: "But he's really working hard, and they've got him helping Benjy with"—here, he lowered his voice, or tried to, but perhaps he was more drunk than Harry thought, for his volume did not change overly much—"you know, Order stuff."

"Shh," Lily and Ginny said together.

"Sorry, sorry," said James, peering around rather exaggeratedly at the celebrating ghosts. "I didn't mean anything…"

"Secrets," said Ginny, impishly, "are best when they're kept."

"I think I should get him home," said Lily, twining her arm through James's and heaving him to his feet. "C'mon, love, we can have a bit of a walk. That way you can't get our friends in trouble with that loose tongue of yours."

"Yes, dear," James said meekly. Then, leaning down, he whispered something in Lily's ear that made red bloom in her cheeks.

"Later," she promised.

Harry stifled a groan. James and Lily said cheeky goodbyes and walked arm and arm out of the graveyard, hardly looking where they were going; they were too busy wrapped up in each other.

Once they were out of earshot, Harry looked at Ginny. "I think they're on their way to go make me," he said.

Ginny grinned at him. "Timing's off on that," she pointed out. "They're still just practicing."

Harry let himself groan. But it only lasted a second before he turned so that their bodies were closer than they had been allowed to be all night. His thumb brushed her jaw. Her lips caught his, and for a long moment that grew very heated very quickly, Harry kissed her.

Pulling back, careful to keep them hidden behind the statue of a knight, Harry tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"Can we…?" he asked, with a great deal of hope.

A grimace caught her features, there and gone again like the flicker of a candle. "I'd rather not," she said. Then, quickly: "Not that I don't want to. But not with Sirius home, and… it's awkward. I like to be able to relax during and not worry…"

"That he'd catch us?" Harry supplied. "We can lock the door. He'd catch the hint."

"It's more that I don't want to hear what he has to say about it," Ginny said flatly.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHP

In the middle of the night, once they were safely returned to Sirius's house, Harry woke up alone with a dry mouth and a heavy bladder.

Harry barely remembered how to get to the loo, and took a stumble down to the first landing, catching himself rather painfully on the wood-paneled wall. "Damn," he muttered, shaking his hand where a splinter had lodged. Eyes bleary, he blinked, stuck his foot out to look for the next stair, and wished he'd thought to grab his wand from the bedside table. Too late now, he carefully made his way down the stairs, keeping his shoulder pressed to the wall.

He was on the second to last step when he heard quiet voices coming from Sirius's sitting room, where they had spent most of their evenings this Easter holiday. Swaying where he was, thoughts thick with sleep, Harry listened.

"—heard what Harry said, Dumbledore thinks we're prophets—"

But like a record player that skipped essential bars of music, this conversation was just as patchy and seemed only to include Sirius.

"—it's never been real, though, has it? And me! Think of Wormtail! If I'd been a Seer—"

Cold air wafted over Harry, who wakened further, still needing a pee, wishing he'd brought his wand and his glasses. Moving once more, he made his way down the last two stairs, curious as to who Sirius could be talking to… Dung, perhaps?

But whoever was speaking was mumbling; even when Harry pressed his ear to the closed door of the sitting room, he could not make out what they were saying. In fact, it sounded like Sirius, both questioning and answering himself. Harry pulled away, confused, shifting in discomfort from foot to foot.

"All right, Sirius?" he said at last.

The mumbling cut off.

The Sirius who opened the door was haggard and tired-looking, cheeks hollowed; there was an air of Azkaban about him. Harry shifted from one foot to the other, wishing he didn't need to go so badly.

"Harry," Sirius said. "I'm fine, I…" His hand came up to rub his head. His eyes were unfocused and his mouth trembled in a frown. "I… think I was dreaming."

"Dreaming," Harry repeated.

"Yeah," said Sirius, seeming to come back to himself. "Sorry about that," he added. There was a spark of warmth in his eyes now; a trickle of warm relief went through Harry. "I think I… dozed off there."

Harry thought about pressing the issue; but then Sirius's hand came up to clasp his shoulder, jolting Harry's bladder in the process. "Good," Harry mumbled. "Good. I just gotta…"

Minutes later, his business complete, Harry's path took him back by the library door, which was slightly open to reveal a now empty room. Sirius must have gone on to bed, Harry decided. Harry did the same, only pausing very briefly at Ginny's door, before returning to his own room and his own cooling sheets. He wrapped himself in his blankets, willing himself back to sleep.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Author's Note: And… we're back! I'm sorry about the delay, but I had a collapse of motivation due to some health issues, work issues, life issues, etc. I'm doing this story differently than my others, in that I'm writing out an entire arc (or at least the juicy meat of it) before posting, which is why there are long delays. It's more complicated than anything I've written, and I've been going at it for two years (!) now. I needed a bit of a break to write some of an homage to Phantom of the Opera. I've had the opportunity to see it twice in the last year, once in London and once in Madrid, and it's been life-changing.

If you think of it, or like this story, or have a comment, pleeeeeeeeeeease take the time to comment. Reviews are soooo motivating; you wouldn't believe how much.

I really can't wait to show you the next few chapters… they are doozies!

Also, special thanks go to two of my favorite Gins: Fizzy and the Void. Thank you for your care for this story. It got me going again, and I am so grateful!