Castles

by pebblysand

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

22. out of steel (undeterred)

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xxii. out of steel (undeterred)

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Over a year later, in December of 2018, Harry gives another interview to Laura. The fire burns in the study at Grimmauld; they hold mugs of tea tight in their palms to warm up, woollen jumpers and the scent of Christmas trees in the air, the dark of winter nights. 'I promise London's nice in the summer,' he feels the need to defend, always making her Portkey over at the worst time of year. She sets up her recording equipment on the coffee table, ensures that all the wires are connected, that all the lights are blinking right. Her photographer was here for some pictures in the morning; it's just the two of them now. A little microphone clipped at the hem of his jumper; Muggle technology has advanced. Harry stands, pressing his thumb to the side of his middle finger, rubbing skin with nerves.

'I thought you'd quit,' she observes.

He frowns. Then: follows her look down to his hands and smiles. The subtle tells of lingering bad habits. 'I did,' he insists. Doesn't want her to think he was lying when she asked five years ago, when he promised he was down to less than a pack a year, cross-his-heart - special occasions only. At first, it was because Ginny got pregnant with James and he wouldn't smoke around her; then, he wouldn't around their children either. Work got better - easier; he almost stopped altogether. Would still buy packs sometimes but they became like fidget toys in his hands. He'd turn them around, up and down, and up and down whenever he got annoyed or impatient, or needed to focus. Tap paperboard and plastic against tables or desks, and listen to the sound of cigarettes hitting the bottom of their box, realigning themselves. He'd fiddle with the lid, opening and closing it with his thumb. They're currency in Muggle prisons - always good to keep on hand for whenever he needs a favour from someone.

'I, er - relapsed.'

Harry sinks into the sofa, facing her. Isn't quite sure how to sit. There is a shelf for magazines underneath the coffee table; the soles of his trainers rest at an angle against it. Hermione would roll her eyes if she saw him like this, always complaining that with his posture and his old jeans and hoodies and dirty Adidas, he acts and dresses like one of those obnoxious, Silicon Valley tech CEOs. In character perhaps, he adds: 'I got one of those vape-y things.' He is anxiously filling the silence, today. 'It's sitting in its little box on top of my dresser, eyeing me reproachfully.'

Laura chuckles a little. He breathes out relief. There is her phone on the tabletop, screen down, and a book with a bubblegum-pink cover next to it, title spelt in bold, black, lowercase letters. There are: post-it notes and annotations sticking out all over the fore-edge; he eyes the hard outline of the black and white picture in the middle. The girl in its centre narrows her gaze on him, then smiles. He shakes his head, looks away. Laura suggests the vape could be a resolution for January.

He snorts. 'New year, new me?'

'I'll put it in the article.' She smiles and it's almost a promise. Her gaze is daring, amused. 'Keep you publicly accountable.'

'Right,' he laughs.

They have lunch together. She requested more time; he had a hard stop at seven to pick Lily up from tennis so they started early. Low stakes chatter about Kreacher; the elf brings them sandwiches - Laura thanks him profusely. He is so old and frail now that C.A.S.H.C.O.W. had to hire paid elves to help with the maintenance of the house, made him their commanding officer of sorts - to soften the blow. 'We're all trying to give him tasks he can manage,' Harry says, awkward. 'I wanted to retire him fully but the way he looked at me -'

Laura asks about the kids. It's another easy one - everyone in the wizarding world knows. Knows that Harry is the kind of father who will never stop talking about them if given the chance, the kind of father who attends: every Quidditch game, every dance recital, keeps dozens of pictures that bulk up his wallet, and will gladly shower anyone who asks with them. Laura wonders about their age, and: '14, 13 and 11,' he dutifully recites.

'Oof. Teenage years…' she smiles.

The boys have both left for school, by now. James started his fourth year last September; Albus, his second. The empty-nesting's hit Harry the hardest - Ginny loves their children, of course, but she is a chiller parent, more realistic, knowing that their little ones need the space and independence that will allow them to make their mistakes and learn from them, less inclined to tie them to a chair and surround them in bubble wrap, wishing she could keep them safe from everything for ever and ever.

Harry anxiously and somewhat pathetically awaits for their letters each week, pacing around the house like a 'lost puppy,' (her words, not his), in anticipation of his Christmas treat. He misses them. Misses James like: their scrunched up little baby with his little tuft of hair, now full of teenage sass and bravado. That first time when he was nine months old and they gave him chocolate; he contentedly smeared it all over his face and grinned the broadest of smiles, and they laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Now, sometimes, all his father wants to do is to hold him in his arms like he used to, pull him close and say: 'I know you're scared. I know it's hard. It's okay.'

He misses Al. Misses him like: he was too small and shy to go out on his own that first year, with his big suitcase, bigger and heavier than he was. His gaze full of youthful fake-it-till-you-make-it bravery and: 'Dad. What if I'm in Slytherin, Dad?'

It was better this time around. Last September, Al breezed through and stood proudly in Madam Malkin's shop with his green and silver tie, staring his brother down like: 'Will you shut it?' Harry laughed. A year in Hogwarts and he'd made friends, the confidence of a mountain, the anxious letters that followed his Sorting long forgotten.

When it comes to the one they still have at home: 'Gin says Lily has me wrapped around her finger these days,' Harry grins, tone intimating that this is absolute slander, not at all possibly true. Laughable defence, really, because he has been doting on her, lately, desperately hanging on until she finally joins her brothers up in Scotland; Lily is the world's Eighth Wonder. They've spent a lot of time together this past year, days building Legos and Jenga towers, and castles in her bedroom, her brothers' toy soldiers defending their positions in imaginary battles - a bubbly and chatty little girl who didn't quite know how to be an only child. Ginny said: 'I remember it being hard.'

Their daughter loves sports so they signed her up to a whole bunch of stuff. Karate on Mondays and tennis on Thursdays and Quidditch with her cousins almost every weekend. Harry's organised outings, doing the things in London he couldn't always do with three rowdy children. 'We went to the London Eye,' he smiles at Laura, now. 'Madame Tussauds. And shopping - for her birthday.'

Lily turned eleven in a loud bundle of excitement last November. 'She wanted a pink cauldron, a new broom and new trainers,' Harry laughs. Objectively, Lily isn't spoiled, she's just better than her brothers at presenting reasonable alternatives. The pink cauldron is outlandish. The new broom expensive, but defendable. Probably next year's anticipated birthday gift, when she can officially try out for the Gryffindor team. 'Anyway, that's how she got the trainers,' he settles, then.

They talk about work. His work. The conversation flows and the words are easy; Laura's always loved asking about it. Harry's got the sense she's one of those people on the left who don't like law enforcement that much, but she's also a journalist, dying to understand what she doesn't relate to. Harry seems to be a fascinating specimen she can poke at will, and he's always found her queries interesting. He reckons they can find common ground, sometimes. 'You were with the Hit Wizards for over six years,' she observes, now. 'Did you enjoy it?'

He smirks, a bit tongue-in-cheek. 'Best job I ever had.'

She does laugh with him.

He's not lying, though - not really. It's perhaps difficult to understand from the outside, the way this particularly heavy and ethically ambiguous job (he will give her that) felt like his Ministry homebase for so long, the team an unlikely safe space he somehow kept coming back to. When Harry took over from Hawk in 2012, he always knew that filling the boss's shoes wouldn't be easy. True, he wasn't coming to leadership from absolutely nowhere, had supervised a small team in Major Crimes as well as the training programme for years, but managing what had now grown into a full sub-department of thirty people was always going to be a trickier enterprise.

He wouldn't necessarily say that learning to make, and being responsible for, the tough decisions that the job entailed was the 'easy' part. It's been years but he still remembers the first time he heard the grain of the wireless come through and: 'I have a visual,' Ben said. 'Do I have a green light?'

Harry breathed in, breathed out, and: 'Yes,' he responded. 'Green light, AK authorised.'

Came home to Ginny and the kids, monosyllabic for a few nights. Almost quit over it, as a matter of fact. Replayed the scene in his head for days on end, wondering what he could have done different. But: looking back, that was the hard part he was at least prepared for. The other stuff was just: office politics and bureaucracy and performance reviews to draft, and some very petty arguments to be had with a couple of idiots who decided to take the piss, testing the limits like toddlers after Hawk left. Harry never wanted to be on Robards's level of disdain but he certainly did borrow some of Giulia's no-nonsense attitude to resolve said disputes, with a little bit more of his (and possibly Hawk's) empathy.

What really sucked? Taya and a couple others left in protest after his appointment. It sucked, because he liked them. Desperately tried to talk her out of it, felt the need to find a compromise, explain. But: 'Look, you're a good Auror, Harry,' she said to him. This was on her last day. 'You really are. It's not your fault. But I had more seniority and just because you get on with Hawk and Robards doesn't mean -'

Harry sighed. Wanted to say this wasn't why they'd appointed him but objectively, maybe, it was. He hadn't intentionally befriended Hawk for the job, but couldn't swear their friendship hadn't played a role. Hawk rolled his eyes at him when he brought it up - over pints a few weeks later.

The two of them continued to hang out, even after the boss left. First, it was just for drinks - that dreaded London tradition of quick, friendly catch-ups at the pub every six to eight weeks - then later, much more often - for Quidditch practice. It turns out that after a few months of doing - well, not much, aside from enjoying his early retirement, frankly - Hawk and a mate of his put together an amateur league team. They were both Beaters, already had a couple of Chasers on the roster - girls from Hawk's friend's wife's work - they were looking for other people to fill in. Harry didn't take much convincing. A couple years later, they even recruited Ron. They're actually not bad, now, believe it or not. Came in second in their main competition last year, might be bumped up to a superior League next time around.

'There's a reason I chose you,' Hawk said, after the Taya fiasco. 'You had less seniority, true, but you have more leadership. Taya will consult everyone on the floor before making a decision. It's generally a good thing but this is the kind of job where you can't do that, you know?'

Harry continued to wrestle with the guilt for about six months until he found out Taya had opened her own private security firm and now made about five times his salary. That softened the blow, somewhat. 'Why must I have married a man with a sense of public service?' Ginny teased him with a smile. 'I thought I'd married rich.' He burst out a laugh.

Later, he and Laura discuss politics. Harry loudly groans. This is 2018. Over the past five years, they've both sat and watched the rise of Trump and Brexit, seen the Muggle world descend into yet another brand of populist chaos, amidst the worst global climate crisis the Earth has ever known. Wars have crept up the planet's surface like a depressing game of Whack-A-Mole, and deaths have become numbers again, rather than individuals. The British wizarding world likes to think of itself as superior but just last week, Harry heard there was another coup in the Kingdom of Mongolia. More threats from the Chinese government about borders, the Standard said experts feared the displacement of hundreds of thousands of wizarding families in the near future. Harry couldn't help but feel like sixteen years ago, he was giving his life to save the Ganzorigs after they fled due to the instability in the region, and now it's still the same old shit. He gives money. Tries to take public stances that might entice the press to talk about it, might entice the government to give a fuck. He's frankly not sure it does much.

'And, yet -' Laura says.

And, yet.

'When we took Al to the train,' Harry admits, then, 'I had this moment of: "All's well that ends well," you know?' It sounds silly - almost childish. 'I mean, I've three healthy, fantastic children, their mother and I still haven't grown tired of each other, we're standing there laughing about Ron's Muggle driver's licence,' he smiles. Then, sighs. 'It's wild when you think about it. How much better things are.' He quite literally died for this. 'Now, no one my kids' generation would ever use the word "Mudblood" without suffering consequences. If a Healer refused care to a werewolf, they'd probably get sacked. There's still about five per cent of the population who want me dead, but that's better than, like, ninety-five.'

It's been twenty years. Twenty years. He was eighteen when they did the first one of these interviews. He is now thirty-eight - an age that seemed inconceivable, back then. They have been at peace for longer than they were fighting and there are now wrinkles on Laura's face. He can no longer pluck the grey hairs out at his temples for there are too many. Thirty-eight feels like an almost age, not-quite-there-yet. Harry wonders if he should become the kind of bloke who buys a van or a motorcycle, quits his job and opens a pub. He attends Ministry cocktail parties and blonde twenty-somethings bat their eyelashes at him. 'Oh! Hi, Mr Potter. It's so nice to meet you, Mr Potter.'

It's gross. They're Teddy's age, for goodness' sake. Children. He knows the job's kept him fit but - Laura laughs. 'Not that kind of mid-life crisis, then?' she teases. He reckons he'd rather get run over by the bloody van, to be honest.

She asks about the ceremony, last May. The anniversary. It was followed by a charity concert filled with people who, for the most part, weren't even born the day the Battle took place. Kingsley's office claimed they needed to make History 'resonate' with younger generations, get kids to understand and be grateful for the privilege they have. On stage, it translated to the band's lead singer shouting: 'Come on, Hogsmeade! Make some noise for PEACE!'

There was no new monument to unveil, so at least Harry couldn't get cross with the Ministry for snubbing Giulia again. The Weasleys and their gravitating satellites all paid their respects and hurriedly escaped the dreaded gig, retreated to Bill and Fleur's to enjoy a nice, quiet day at the beach. The weather was glorious; Lily played in the water with her cousins. Over drinks, George and Angelina shared some news: they were pregnant again. Due in December, actually - Roxanne was born just a couple weeks back. Everyone toasted and congratulated them. Fred is five already, so they tried a long time. That felt better than any ceremony.

'I get it, though,' Harry admits, now. 'I've felt it too, at times.' That knee-jerk reaction when he listens to people on the wireless go on about how the post-war Muggleborn quotas didn't take into account other diversity factors such as class or race, or about how healthcare access outside of London is still too limited. 'You kind of feel like: that's what you're complaining about? Really?' he chuckles. In St Mungo's, during the war, it was illegal to treat Muggleborns. They had to smuggle people in through underground tunnels and develop all these strategies to hide them during Ministry raids. Now, every time someone dares to suggest that things might not be entirely perfect, a whole bunch of people Harry's generation and older come out of the woodwork saying: 'You're safe. What else could you possibly want? In my day…'

'But that's what it is,' he insists. 'A knee-jerk reaction. You kinda have to move past it. I don't pretend to speak for those who aren't here anymore -' That old Dumbledore quote McGonagall repeated to him, once. 'But speaking for myself, I didn't die for us to just do the bare minimum and then stall and cruise by. Eighteen-year-old me would have his wand up in my face if I ever acted like that.'

'Is that why Hermione will run next year, do you think?'

He bursts out a laugh, grinning

Can't comment on that, obviously. Nothing's been announced yet and Samira will possibly skin him alive if he comments on it. She already spent half an hour trying to hammer it into his brain during prep yesterday: 'Whatever you do: Do. Not. Talk. About. It,' she said. So, he's a good boy. That is the one thing he and Laura do not talk about.

He shrugs. 'She didn't want me to do this at all, you know?' A casual smile comfortably lingers on his face as he throws a quick glance out the window. The sky's overcast, layers of winter clouds lined like blocks of concrete. It is just past three; the day will set in thirty minutes and they'll hardly have seen the sun.

'Really?'

Harry nods. Leans forward again, his forearms pressed to his knees. Mechanically fishes a cigarette out of its pack, absentmindedly tapping it against the table. Like the tobacco somehow needs to be tamped down, like Mr Marlboro in his many deadly factories doesn't provide this service for him already. At over £10 a pack, these days, he better.

'She wanted me to do the Standard, instead,' he admits. 'Said people would expect an interview. 'Cause we do this every five years, right?' he loosely points to the set up between them, the unlit fag still in his hand. Laura nods. 'But she thought - well, no offence, but she said no one would care if it wasn't you.' Laura lightly laughs. Not one to take offence, clearly; Harry's always liked this about her. 'She said their questions would be easier.'

She is amused. 'So you chose… what? Difficulty?'

He snorts. She says it like he expects a medal or something.

To tell the truth, he isn't even sure what he chose, exactly. Someone he trusted, maybe. Someone he knew wouldn't be interested in cheap headlines. He couldn't help but think of Giulia, that night. She was the one who talked him into doing the first one of these. She said: 'If you have something to say, then fucking say it. Because for better or for worse, people listen to you.' He feels like he almost owes it to her, somehow. Steer clear of sirens and shite. In her own way, she helped with Ginny, too.

Laura gently speaks. 'She died, didn't she?' Harry nods. It's been a while. 'I'm so sorry.'

It's the passage of time, he thinks. There is the cigarette between his fingers again. He wonders if he wants to smoke it. Wonders if he wants a break. They have four hours left. 'This is the only interview I'll give, you know?' he states. Laura's gaze is focused on him; the pen in her hand moves across her notepad, almost imperceptibly. 'About this, I mean.'

'You think?'

'Yeah.' He's sure of it, actually. After a couple hours of a long lunch and a lot of inconsequential chatter she was kind enough to indulge. It's calmed his nerves, he reckons. 'It's not my story.'

He never wanted to make this about him. Certainly doesn't want the press to ever make it about him. His is an alternative point of view that only matters tangentially. Laura's response to that is why he chose her, he supposes.

'Yeah.' She nods. 'I agree.'

Still, they're here. And since the wizarding people seem to be interested, this is his side of the story.

The first truth he tells Laura that day: Hermione always cared about it a whole lot more than he did. In interviews, she's since described the scandal breaking like an irresistible wave that bent steel and broke concrete - Harry remembers it more as a trickle. The kind of tsunami you notice only in a rearview mirror, when you wake up and suddenly realise you should have paid more attention to the erratic withdrawal of the tide, to the dying fish left stranded in the sand, to the foamy edge of the water in the distance. It was the autumn of 2017. The autumn of last year.

They'd just taken Al to the train for the first time. Lily had started Year 5. Hermione, Ron, and Ginny had had that stupid Howler fight over their middle child's Sorting, and afterwards, they all sort of laughed about it. There were rumblings in the Muggle news: another mass shooting in America. Raqqa liberated from ISIS. Round £1 coins ceasing to be legal tender. A series of attacks on young women; the Muggle government banned the sale of liquid acid to under 18s. Some reporter in America wrote out the downfall of one the richest, most powerful men in Hollywood.

Harry's not even sure how he became aware of it. It's the odd thing about the news, they just sort of appear. An article is published in a paper and gets picked up by another, then the radio shows and the 24/7 news cycle. Sometimes, he looks back and feels like on Day 1, he didn't even know what a film producer was. On Day 2, the media frenzy had reached such a tipping point that he could have told you what Harvey Weinstein had for breakfast.

It felt excessive. Not in the way that the punishment wasn't deserved - Harry frankly couldn't have cared less about some sleazy bastard losing his job over abusing power - but in the way that everything everywhere suddenly became about that one thing. Later, half the men in the industry fell like dominoes - this relentless impression that with every strenuous denial, another three stories crept up. There was a lot of chatter around the presumption of innocence, 'cancel culture,' the reported payoffs. Harry hoped that whatever police force they had in America would be doing their job, now. It looked bad. Not just for Harvey dearest, but for Hollywood in general. The way everyone seemed to know about the behaviour but was perfectly happy to woefully ignore it, if not encourage it.

The internet blew up a couple of weeks later. Harry never saw it himself; he's famously not on socials. Doesn't even tweet, or no more than once a year, when Ginny makes a game out of guessing his Very Secure Password on the 1st of April, and tweets out things like: From now on, I will only communicate with the public through interpretative dance, or (more viciously) I love feet. He pretends he doesn't snort or laugh at her jokes, and also pretends that his Very Secure Password isn't always some variation of the kids' names and birthdays. 'You know,' she warns, 'someday, you're gonna get hacked by someone who's not me.'

He found out about #MeToo at the office, actually. They've got a good few Muggleborns on the team now, there was talk about it amongst the girls in the breakroom, trading stories. Harry must say he prides himself in being the kind of boss people don't greet with the awkward silence of halted conversations whenever he enters the place. They showed him Alyssa Milano's post on their phones. He asked who she was. 'You've never seen Charmed?' Anya gasped. 'It's like magic for Muggles!'

Suggested by a friend: Alyssa had tweeted. "If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote 'Me too.' as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem." Harry remembers he read it and read it and read it, and sadly couldn't say he was surprised when they told him the hashtag had flooded social media within days. Even the Muggle News section of the Prophet had picked up on it, a half-page explanation of the phenomenon and a line that read: A number of wizarding personalities expressed their support to the movement by also tweeting the hashtag, including Hermione Granger, Sophia Nguyen, and Olivia Martinez.

Nothing in that list really surprised him.

The problem with #MeToo (and, God, now, he sounds like one of those arseholes: 'The problem with #MeToo…') - but, yeah, the problem with #MeToo was that quickly, everyone seemed to develop an opinion about it. Late October and early November buzzed with gossipy chatter on the Tube, Muggle politicians coming down one way or the other, claiming they 'understood the outrage,' and 'promised reforms.' They weren't necessarily bad opinions, Harry remembered. Just: Sunday afternoons with Ron, Hermione, Nev, Hannah, Dean and Seamus around the sofas, the latter's nephew napping in his pram while Lily and Hugo played upstairs. 'Swear to God, if they want to interview people to talk about sexual harassment, they should talk to women who worked in pubs,' Seamus laughed. 'The stories you used to tell -' he reminded Hannah as he laid his beer down.

She pursed her lips. 'I mean, it wasn't pleasant,' she agreed. Stole a quick glance at Harry. 'But I learned to handle it. It wasn't that bad, and -'

'-Well, you shouldn't have had to learn to handle it, though!' Hermione interjected.

Again, Hermione took #MeToo seriously - immediately. She refused to see it as something that was going to blow over, forgotten in the graveyard of news like the women's marches that followed Trump's inauguration or the Muggle government's perpetual procrastination in triggering Article 50. She went on to mention some bloke at the office who'd groped her in the lift once, and the fire reignited in Ron's gaze like the incident wasn't ten years old. 'I reported it. To be fair, they did move him to another department. I'm not sure what happened to him.'

'Should have got sacked,' Ron spat out. It sounded like an old row. 'Or better, arrested. I told you -'

'Ron, there was no point,' Hermione stressed, shaking her head. She reminded everyone she was in a position of authority, now, Head of the DMLE. 'If something like that happened under my watch, I'd handle it differently. Did you see how the Prophet reported we'd tweeted "in support" of a Muggle cause?' She laughed.'As though it wasn't to say we'd bloody seen it ourselves?'

Ginny smiled. Stood up and announced she was going to go check on the kids. 'They're being suspiciously quiet,' she chuckled. Ron nodded in agreement. 'I'll stop by the kitchen. Anyone want another drink?'

Harry felt Hannah's gaze on him again, and deliberately looked away.

They talked about it. Of course, they did. The noise around Weinstein reminded Harry of Strauss-Kahn, an old monster eerily resurfacing and he brought it up almost immediately, the day after he found out at the office, actually. They'd had a fight, six years ago, which he wasn't keen on repeating. As shocking as it may seem, he is, in fact, capable of learning from his mistakes - sometimes.

That evening, Ginny was getting ready to head out for a party - her publishing house's 300th anniversary. They'd invited all of their big shot authors around, press and agents and even some readers for meet-and-greets - there had been a draw in the Prophet, full glam and red carpet. At the time, she was working on a proposal for a new book series due mid-December, wanted to attend and do some sucking up to the big bosses in the hopes of a nice advance. Harry had been supposed to join, but an incident at work had forced him to reconsider. He was still with the Hit Wizards, back then, and the team had gone in to arrest a suspect; one of his agents had fired a spell to blast the door open without knowing the structure of the building was already compromised. The roof fell on top of their suspect's head - she miraculously survived but was now in a wheelchair, unlikely to ever recover. Serenity - who'd fired the shot - blamed herself. Internal Affairs blamed her. They'd opened an investigation; Harry had promised he'd be there at the hearing, scheduled the next morning.

Ginny smiled at him when he walked into the room and sat at the corner of the bed. On a chair, she faced the vanity, her hair already styled in an elaborate chignon with a hummingbird pin. She wore a deep blue gown with a bare back and crossed straps, satin skirt reaching the floor, a revealing slit showing off her left leg. She was putting on make-up. He loved watching her do it. There was something mesmerising about the attention she threw into her movements, the expert application of mascara and glittery eyeshadow, a mat red lip. Finishing her brows, she looked at him, her palm on his knee. 'I can stay if you want,' she offered.

He briefly shook his head, sighed. Wanted to put Lily to bed and review the case report again. How could IA fault them? They weren't bloody engineers. But he also didn't want to take any chances. 'We'll be fine,' he smiled. 'You have fun with Luna.'

Ginny had chosen her best friend as a back-up plus one. She was in England for a couple weeks to see her father - a happy coincidence. 'I actually can't wait,' she grinned. Her smile looked broader, even brighter with the lipstick. 'It's going to be wonderfully chaotic.'

Harry chuckled. 'I wish I could see it.'

They talked about it then. Casually - like adults. Harry broached the topic gently; Ginny confirmed she'd seen some of the stuff online. He'd expected her to stiffen but she didn't. Just sighed. Accioed her handbag, and eyed the display of products in front of her, trying to decide what to bring for touch-ups. 'Yeah, I'm not sure,' she admitted. 'I doubt people tweeting will change anything.' Hermione hadn't even tweeted herself, she reminded him, Samira did it for her.

Ginny didn't seem upset, though, that night. Not like she had been with Strauss-Kahn. Back then, the impunity had gotten to her - the brazen behaviour of a man who'd never expected consequences. With him, too, 'everyone knew.' But the way Ginny spoke now, she sounded jaded, been-there-done-that sort of thing. He felt it too. Hopes for change dashed a hundred times over. She finished packing her lipstick and powder into her bag.

'Dad read about it,' she said to him, then. 'The #MeToo thing. He's always all over the Muggle News section of the Prophet,' she laughed, a bit ironic. Her long, red-painted fingernails tapped lightly on the vanity. 'He asked me about it when I picked up Lily. I didn't know what to say.' There was a pause in her speech. 'I told him maybe the press hadn't treated me fairly at the start of my career.'

She inspected her lips in the mirror, pressed them together a few times before turning to face him. He didn't quite know what to say either.

'He told me: "Maybe your mother and I also didn't handle it well."' She shrugged. 'I said it was fine. It was a long time ago.'

She grabbed her phone off the vanity and stood in front of him. Instinctively, Harry parted his knees, his hands finding her hips. He looked up at her, her palm soft against his cheek. Since the boys had left, the two of them were having a bit of a - renaissance, of sorts. Not that they had ever stopped fancying each other, but there was now a bit more time to indulge. Flirtatious smiles and touches and snogging sessions and - well, they weren't teenagers anymore, fucking like rabbits in that first apartment they got back in Central but - still. He pressed his lips together, watching her. She said: 'It'll blow over.'

He kind of hated that he agreed.

She grinned. Stepped away, and twirled in front of him. He watched her dress move, so soft and tight around her bum. He wanted to take it off. 'Verdict?' she asked.

'You look gorgeous.'

She shot him a look. 'MILF?'

He burst out a laugh. 'Stop.'

The weeks passed. But: it didn't - blow over, that is. Harry must admit that #MeToo failed to turn out the way they expected it to. The way they had been taught by History it would, bubbles bursting loudly, spitting droplets around but never overflowing. This time, the river did overflow. This time, the Muggle women got angry, and they didn't relent. In the wizarding world, Hermione also refused to let it go. She brought it up in every interview and every speech, to the point that Ron even started expressing concerns to Harry when they met for Quidditch, pulling gear out of the changing rooms. 'It's always the same thing, isn't it?' he sighed, absentmindedly removed a loose splinter from his broom. 'She's right, but at what cost? She gets obsessed.'

But: the problem with #MeToo - the problem with #MeToo was that it also didn't gain the same traction, in their world. In hindsight, Harry reckons it was too much of a foreign entity. Ever since the Iraq fiasco, even liberal wizards had grown anxious of meddling with political or societal issues that could be perceived as Muggle-led. The coverage remained limited to a few articles in the Standard, to a handful Muggle News programmes on the wireless.

Hermione soon convinced herself that the lack of interest was due to the fact that unlike in the Muggle world, with its actresses and singers and feminist figureheads, no one 'important' on their side was talking. 'The media need a good story,' she told Harry. So, bravely, she went ahead and shared her own experiences. The bloke who'd assaulted her in the lift, and an old boss at the Ministry who'd told inappropriate jokes in the middle of work meetings. It made a tiny splash in the press for a couple weeks. A few other Ministry employees shared harassment stories, and Wizarding Resources issued a memo reminding people not to grope their colleagues.

As Head of a sub-department, Harry had to give a speech to the team about what was or wasn't appropriate office behaviour. He walked in not thinking much of it, just intending to tell people to use their fucking common sense, but then some lad who'd just started with them that September made a 'joke' and got sacked on the spot. 'No one's saying shit like that on my team,' Harry snapped. The words slipped out of his mouth without thinking. 'So pack your shit and don't come back.'

It ruffled a good few feathers. The bloke reported him to Wizarding Resources. They started talking about 'unfair dismissals,' even if Harry had simply (albeit ruthlessly) applied their own bloody Zero Tolerance Policy. 'There should have been a hearing, contradiction,' they said. 'It would be easier if you agreed to reintegrate him, blame it on a bad day. This could go away quietly.'

Harry ranted at Hawk about it over a pint, later that week. Because: sure, it was confidential, but also - fuck confidential. He felt vindicated when his former boss said he'd been right. 'You weren't clever, though,' Hawk told him, which wasn't exactly what Harry wanted to hear. 'Now, you have two bad options to choose from: either you roll over and reintegrate him and lose all credibility, or you spend the next six months in WR meetings until they finally offer him enough money to go away. With the risk of it leaking to the press.'

Harry grumbled. Drank his pint. Chose the latter. Obviously. And, it leaked. Obviously.

'Now, now,' on the wireless talk shows later that week. He listened distantly in the kitchen while making dinner. 'Granger, I get what she's complaining about. As a witch myself, I agree. It's not nice to have someone touch you inappropriately without your consent -'

'Oh, obviously!' the host of the show responded, his voice vaguely familiar. 'But I think the issue here is whether such minor incidents even deserve -'

Another panellist joined in. 'Isn't this the essence of the Muggle movement, though, Faustus?' Harry didn't recognize her voice. 'Acknowledging harassment in its various forms, and -'

'Well, this isn't the Muggle world, though!' Faustus cut in, insisting. 'Magic disregards gender. Wizards and witches have always been treated equally. Several witches have even been Ministers of Magic in the last three centuries, and if that isn't proof of equality -'

'We haven't had one in thirty years -'

'Well, there was Suzi Starr -'

'She was awful and lasted three weeks!' someone else interjected, laughing.

'And, maybe, that's why witches shouldn't be Ministers,' Faustus retorted. Harry heard a few booming laughs from their live audience.

'Oh, come on,' another woman sighed. 'That's not -'

'Are you going to lecture me like Potter now?' Faustus laughed. 'Schooling me on my opinions?'

Harry sighed. It all felt very Fifth-Year, being the butt of all their jokes. Without Tom out to murder him, he strangely cared a lot less. 'And on that note,' the woman continued. 'As clear-cut as this seems, Potter's camp hasn't responded. Let's not speculate -'

'Oh, there's nothing to speculate about!' Faustus blurted. 'Potter - look, we're all grateful he killed You-Know-Who, alright? Cheers, mate. But what has he done since then? Honestly? No, as far as I'm concerned, he's some middle-ranking Ministry employee who's never had to struggle for anything in his life and is now proving he can't even take a joke!' A scoff. 'Didn't everyone always say he had a sense of humour? Well, I'm sorry to say this, Emily, but I think he's an arrogant little -'

Harry jumped when Ginny's voice cut in. 'Keeping your ego in check, are you?'

He snorted. She was smiling, standing in the kitchen doorway, mug in hand. He lost track of the wireless discussions, just watching her. 'Always,' he joked. (See? He does have a sense of humour, thank you very much).

It was nice to see her though, warm and casual. Harry knew she'd been a bit annoyed with him since the leak; he hadn't had time to warn her beforehand, she'd found out in the press. Ginny had never liked him losing his cool with shit like this, especially in public. Always feared the scrutiny it could trigger for them.

She walked towards him and hugged his back, dropped her empty cup in the sink. Her fingers stole a piece of carrot he'd just cut; she bit on it before speaking. 'Kreacher asked me who did the cooking at our house and I didn't know what to say,' she grinned, leaning against the counter next to him. 'I said "me" because I thought he'd prefer that, but then he got very concerned about the kids' nutrition.' Harry chuckled. 'I asked if my cooking was bad, and he started hitting his head with a frying pan.'

They laughed. Lily was upstairs, doing her homework. Ginny poured herself a glass of wine. They continued to smile at each other until Harry noticed the low hum of the wireless again.

'Now, that's a different matter -' Emily interjected.

'Merlin, how -'

'Because she'd have valid grievances,' she continued. 'I agree with you, the issues Granger raised probably aren't serious enough to cause a real stir. But if Ginny Weasley - Potter, yeah - spoke out, she'd have legit things to complain about. She was seventeen and paps were trying to upskirt her, I mean -'

'Oh, please!' Faustus said. Harry could hear an eye roll. 'I hate to say it, but you reap what you sow. You can't dress like that, sleep with half the wizarding world, and then cry harassment when the paps want photos of your knickers. It's like telling everyone it's open bar, and then acting all shocked when people come and claim their free drinks.'

Harry reached for his wand. To change the channel. To send the fucking thing flying through the window. He wasn't sure. 'No, leave it,' Ginny insisted. Her hand around his wrist. 'I want to know what they're saying.'

He pulled away. Left the knife on the counter and wiped his hands on a tea towel. 'Well, I fucking don't,' he snapped. Stormed out and slammed the door behind him.

That year, the clocks went back and the nights got dark. 2017 drew to a close and Harry felt like he was fighting an inexhaustible kind of tide. At work, IA and WR were both separately trying to get him to admit to mistakes he definitely hadn't made, and outside, he also began to get paranoid about the press. He tried to put on a face, act as the very picture of nonchalance every time anything #MeToo-related was mentioned, but he feared his mediocre acting skills wouldn't hold very long.

At home, Ginny was juggling calls with her agent and her publisher, navigating creative and financial negotiations Harry had always struggled to provide valuable insight on. The two of them were constantly at each other's throats anyway, either bickering over the silliest shit ('You think I like it when you stand there making food while casually listening to them calling you an arrogant prick?'), or fucking half-clothed against the bathroom wall in desperate attempts to relieve the tension. It would work short term, because he-and-Ginny always worked as a unit left alone. They would celebrate with an evening at the cinema or a Sunday at the park, doting on Lily. But then a few days would pass and inevitably, there would be a new headline or a new call or a new stupid meeting that would send Harry's mind spiralling.

In late November, Robards summoned him into his office again. The boss opened with yet another complaint. 'She told the press we were creating a "task force,"' he said. 'A bloody "task force."' More heavy, exasperated sighs. 'Who the bloody hell does she think she is? Do you think I have time to create a bloody "task force"? Sex-related offences are dealt with by Major Crimes - because they are major crimes, I bloody well do agree with that - but that's not a reason to -'

Harry sighed. He felt a headache coming on. Knew what Robards wanted to hear. 'I'll talk to her,' he interrupted, quick. 'I'll see what I can do.'

In response, Robards just sort of - grunted.

He made his way up to Hermione's office after lunch. Wasn't even sure what he was going to say but: 'Look, I know you like him,' she immediately started, which he could already tell was not a good sign, but at least resolved his issue with finding an opening line. 'And, I know, fundamentally, he's a fantastic Auror,' she acknowledged. Since her career had become more political, Hermione had also become an expert in bullshit sandwiches, he'd noticed. 'But admit it: he's old. No one should be in that job past the age of seventy, even behind a desk. I mean, I know we live to a hundred and fifty, but -' She rolled her eyes. Harry honestly wasn't sure he disagreed. 'Every time anyone tries to advocate for a change, he refuses to even look at it. He's stuck in his ways. Did the same thing when we tried to push forward legislation limiting how much time people could spend in custody before trial. God, Harry, if he had his way, we'd still have Dementors in Azkaban - you know this.'

He looked around her mahogany office. Had always felt like the way the Department Heads sat with Kingsley rather than with their own departments encouraged a certain disconnect. 'Listen, I know this is important,' he said. I know this is important because your bloody task force has already been tried before. By me. Because I took all of these cases for months on end when I was with Major Crimes, and I tried to do it on my own with no resources and it fucking drove me insane. 'I'm just saying: these cases are already handled with care, by very capable people -'

'"Capable people" who solve only ten percent of cases?' she argued. 'Only two percent of which end in convictions?' He rolled his eyes. 'Look, I know you're doing your best. But you're like Ron. You're one of the good guys, but you don't know what it's like. It doesn't impact you. So, you stand there and tell me you care, "but" - because there's always a "but" - and I'm saying this with all the love in the world, you don't -'

He shook his head. His right foot raised up on his tiptoes, he made to turn around. Decided to leave.

'Oh, Harry, don't be like that -'

'I'm not being "like that,"' he insisted. Focused on his breathing. On the pitch and pace of his voice. He aimed for: calm, even. 'You're right, you win,' he nodded. Forced a smile that he willed to be convincing. 'I'm here because my boss asked me to talk to you. So, I did. Now, you do what you want. I have to go into a meeting, anyway,' he lied. 'Dinner at yours on Thursday? Is that still on?'

He left with a nod and another smile after she confirmed. Made his way to the toilets and just sat there. For a good while.

Hermione eventually did find another brave girl who was willing to talk to the press. She was a few years younger than them and had gone on to play for Puddlemere, a low-level celebrity tier. Her name was Hazel Reynolds and she alleged that when she was in Hogwarts, a bunch of boys had taken her clothes off and locked her up in a toilet. In the Prophet, the story barely made page ten. The Standard did give it a bit more airtime, went the extra mile - they always liked Hermione, the Standard - and quizzed McGonagall about it. 'This was before my time as Headmaster,' she was quoted saying. 'I never heard of this.' The journalist followed up. 'Of course not, I'm sure this is true,' McGonagall said, when asked if this meant she questioned the veracity of the allegations. 'I simply never heard of it. This was a long time ago. If something like this happened now, of course, it would be taken very seriously by the staff, I can assure you.'

James later wrote in to whine about how they'd been given 'an annoying lecture.' Frankly, Harry wasn't unhappy about it.

Hazel turned out to be Hermione's swan song though, that year. When even that didn't take in the press, she finally decided to pack it in. Her low drone slowly disappeared from the papers and Harry couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief. He wondered if Samira had managed to convince her to shut down the operation, at least temporarily, something like: 'No one wants to talk about rape two weeks before the holiday break.'

He still heard internal rumblings at the Ministry, but nothing came out publicly. They never directly spoke about it, but Hermione did back him up in his still-ongoing row with WR - something he was grateful for. They'd formally requested he apologise for an error of judgement - 'I was impulsive,' he told Robards, 'not wrong,' - and while he was willing to admit to himself he'd felt angry and frustrated and needed a punching bag, he also wasn't going to fucking apologise to some idiot who'd made a rape joke. Robards backed him up as well - probably the only time he and Hermione ever agreed on anything. It wasn't a surprise: in Harry's experience, the boss would have backed up a wall if it happened to be in a fight with either Internal Affairs or Wizarding Resources, on the basis of a strongly-held personal conviction that these two Ministry departments had been specifically created to ruin his life and that of his agents - but it did feel nice.

'I still can't believe Marcus made that joke in front of you,' Serenity finally said one mid-December afternoon in Harry's office. The sky was dark already, rain sleeting outside. She had come to wrap up her paperwork, after her own IA investigation had, at least, ended favourably. 'Everyone knows you're very strict about that kind of thing.'

He - froze. The reaction seemed to frazzle her. He snapped a little - without meaning to. 'What do you mean?'

'No, I -' she stuttered. Looked down to her shoes, then shyly, back up at him. 'I don't know, I always heard rumours before I joined the team,' she added, quick. He stared at her. 'That - I don't know. That you were the one to introduce that module into the training course?' she said. Her smile was tentative, awkward. 'And that when you were in Major Crimes, you took all those cases no one wanted. I, er - sorry, that was presumptuous, I thought you cared -'

His throat tightened. His heart raced. 'No, I - I do care,' he choked out. Tried to even out his voice, tried to force a smile on his face, tried to sound - normal. He felt exhausted. His insomnia had picked up again; he'd started spending hours each night jogging into Central and back. 'I, er -' he hesitated. 'I - sorry, I just didn't know it was a "known" thing.'

'Oh.' She shifted uncomfortably. 'Sorry, I -'

'No,' he said. Harry closed his eyes, breathed out, like re-anchoring himself. 'Don't be.'

She smiled at him again. Looked so bloody young. The ends of her faded blonde highlights grazed the shoulder of her uniform. Harry strangely felt like she wanted to say something. He waited. She didn't (really) say anything. 'The walls have ears in this place, you know? There's rumours about everybody.' She seemed to chance a reassuring expression again. 'This is far from the worst I've heard, as far as I'm concerned.'

He let out a nervous laugh. He didn't know what else to say. 'Thanks, then.'

He considered telling Ginny. Then, decided not to. It didn't matter, anyway.

He came home early. That night was a Friday and Lily was having a sleepover at a friend's house; he and Ginny had made plans to take advantage of the free evening to get the last of the Christmas shopping done. The house was pitch dark when he got in; Harry called out her name but she didn't respond. He first checked the garden through the window, surprised a fox rummaging through their recycling like a deer in headlights. He went up the stairs. Found light under her office door and knocked. Gently pushed it open.

She was sat on the floor. Kneeling on the persian rug in the middle of the room, her bum resting against her heels. She didn't notice him. There was a notepad in her hand, the ink of a quill on her fingers. Papers, pieces of parchment, scattered all around her. When working, Ginny had always been messy, liking to see everything in front of her, print and edit and print and edit by hand, post-it notes and highlighters, but he'd never seen it get this bad. She was focused, headphones on, music blaring. Harry tiptoed, trying to catch her attention. Then, he stopped. Stilled.

He stared at them. For what felt like minutes on end. The two cardboard boxes in the corner behind her. He knew, then.

When he finally moved, Ginny met his gaze. His shoe disturbed a piece of parchment on the floor, halting him. Her cheeks were red, eyes bloodshot, but she wasn't crying anymore. She removed her headphones and set them to the side. The music cut off. She pointed her wand at a piece of paper on the floor; it floated up to him. 'I knew I remembered something.'

He took forever to grab the letter. Didn't want to. Could see she'd highlighted a couple of lines in yellow. Faded ink; it stood, suspended mid-air. Like, a few days ago, it read. Some of the slytherins cornered a third year in the girls' toilets, pushed her into one of the stalls and took off her clothes. She'd made fun of one of them for being short, apparently. Hannah's the one who found her there crying.

Time had eaten a few words at the bottom edge of the page before the next paragraph, he could only decipher something about not telling McGonagall but not much else. He briefly glanced at the last line. Anyway, according to her, they took pictures, said they'd bring them to Carrow as proof, that he'd been the one who suggested it. I asked around -

He stopped reading. The letter fell to the floor next to him.

'I texted Hannah,' Ginny stated. She glanced at her phone. 'I thought maybe she could try and corroborate.' A shake of her head. 'Hasn't seen it.' Hannah is a Hufflepuff - the type of person who has their blue ticks on. 'Doesn't matter anyway. The press will say it was a prank. Someone would have to jump in front of a train for people to notice.'

'Hey -'

'Don't,' she said.

He sat down. Settled into a rare empty space on the floor; his work uniform felt stiff around his legs and his weight closing the door. In the quiet, Harry's thumb traced the hem of the rug at the edge of the hardwood. Ginny's study is lined with books on one side and a small, apple-green, velvety couch on the other. Her desk faces large, radius windows and the street outside. He's always liked this space; it's always felt homey, safe.

'I was furious with her, you know? Hannah,' Ginny supplied. 'The way she minimised it. The stuff from the pub?' There was a question at the end of her sentence; Harry wasn't sure what to make of it. The tip of his index finger absentmindedly rested on a knot in the floorboards. They'd dug them up from under the previous owners' carpet when they renovated the place. 'The way she kept looking at you. Couldn't even fucking look at me.'

There was a pause. She looked at him.

'Then, I got angry at Hermione.' She inspected her nails, Christmassy red and green glittery patterns Harry couldn't distinguish. 'Who wouldn't shut up. Kept going on about nothing. Bloody nothing.' Ginny shook her head, swallowed. A bitter, pained expression crossed her features. 'Everytime I hear someone go "in my day," I roll my eyes and snap at the fact that it shouldn't be the bloody trauma Olympics. Now I'm just a fucking hypocrite.'

His gaze was sharp.

She ignored it.

'I've got these kids - teenagers - writing to me,' she stared at him. 'Saying stuff like "I want to be you when I grow up."' Ginny scoffed a little. 'Like I'm some -' She rolled her eyes. 'Like I'm some feminist role model or something. But in truth I'm just sitting here, wishing Hermione Bloody Granger would shut up. Like all those pricks who fear they're next on the list.' There was so much disdain on her face. 'And I get all these tweets and all that stuff in the press from her supporters. There's not many of them, but they're fucking relentless.' She let out a short laugh. '"Why hasn't Ginny Weasley said anything about this, yet?" These people don't fucking understand.'

She shifted. Her bum on the floor and her legs tucked to the side. She pinched and toyed with the fabric of her leggings. He thought they should probably stop listening to the news. 'Maybe -'

'I kept scrolling that night, you know?' she interrupted. In her own thoughts. 'On Twitter, I mean. Everyone was posting. And, I don't know, I thought - I thought it would mostly be men in balaclavas. "A woman walking home alone from the pub gets attacked."' Her voice sounded like she was quoting from a headline. 'But so much of it was just - people who they thought were friends, spiking their drinks. Or things at work. So much of it was at work.' The last syllable sounded trapped at the back of her throat. 'Stuff like: "I had to give some exec head to keep my job,"' she explained. 'It was everywhere.'

Harry realised he hadn't quite seen it. Had heard Hermione talk about it, of course, and the press commentary of it, and the snippets the girls at the office had shown him, but not - the actual materiality of any of it. Not the numbers - not this.

'David Bennett does it,' she added. Her look was suddenly piercing. Harry vaguely recognised the name. The lead recruiter for the Tornados. 'Everyone knows. Well - he wasn't there when I was playing so I suppose I should say "allegedly," and "I don't know first-hand," but I've heard,' she admitted. 'No one says anything. None of the journalists. None of the players. Then, you've got all these arseholes on the wireless telling us it's a "Muggle problem."' Another exasperated laugh. 'And, I keep wondering what I would have done. When I was seventeen?' She smiled at him. 'If he'd promised it would guarantee me a spot on the team?' Her voice was quick. 'Well, actually, it doesn't take much "wondering -"'

'Gin -'

'Don't,' she repeated. For a few seconds, her eyes closed. 'Please,don't.'

He didn't know what to say. Or, in fact, what she wanted him to say. He was frustrated but trying to please her or figure out the right thing to tell her had never led to positive results between them. He sat back, instead. Shifted more comfortably against the wall at the side of the door, bent his knee a little, leg pulled towards him. When he looked at her again, he saw how raw and delicate the skin under her eyes was, tired and paperthin. There was a light on her desk and the floor lamp set on low left of the couch. She'd made a little flame, dancing in a jar by her side.

'Hermione thinks I don't care,' he admitted, then. Wasn't even sure why he was embarrassed. Told Ginny about the meeting they'd had, and: 'I just sat there on the toilet afterwards, I couldn't -' he pinched his lips. So fucking stupid. 'I couldn't breathe.' She stared at him. 'I mean, like - like after the war, you know?'

It had been years since the last one.

'Jesus, Harry.'

'It's fine.' He shook his head. Knows what they are, now, how to calm them down. 'I just mean - I don't know.' Looking back, perhaps this was another instance of not wanting to make it about him. Ginny angled her head to the side.

'No. This is about both of us,' she said.

And breathed in again.

She confessed: 'Something like this happens and it's all I can think about.' Her gaze slowly grazed the room, the mess of her words. 'I thought I would feel different. Reading them now.' She twisted a smile. 'I thought maybe I'd have some sort of revelation. You've always been so adamant. Even now,' she bit her lip, rolled her eyes a little. 'You don't say it. You know I won't like it, but there's always this look on your face like, "Maybe, this time will be the one. Maybe, this time, she'll realise. Little Ginny got raped by the Big Bad Death Eater -"' Sarcasm coiled like a snake in her words. He opened his mouth. 'You know it's true.' She didn't seem angry. 'And, I don't know, maybe it's just hard to reconcile feelings you didn't have at the time. "Read that again and tell me it wasn't rape." Sometimes it feels like the only thing you care about.'

'It's not—'

'Right,' she snapped. Then, seemed to resent it. There was a vulnerability in her voice. Not like a demand. 'I don't want to fight,' she begged.

He remembered the banks of Lake Superior. He remembered all those nights she woke up screaming, and their first apartment back in Central. The tears that ran down her face, how terrified she was of it leaking in the press, of her parents finding out. Ginny smiled, sad. He felt they used to be so much better at talking about this. But: 'This isn't us,' she explained. 'It's not coming from us. It's not our own timing. It's this torrent hurdling down that we don't control. That I don't control.'

'And, Hermione is going to fail,' she said. 'Because she didn't do anything wrong.' He frowned. Thought no one had done anything wrong - 'I mean: she was assaulted, pushed him away, reported it, moved on. She did everything you should do.' (Ah, he thought.) 'There's strength in numbers; it's the only way to change things, but no one wants to follow her on her big crusade because, frankly, you're always going to look like the black sheep next to Little Miss Perfect. Most people don't do everything right. They hide in their rooms, drink wine, say nothing for months. Then they feel responsible for the next girl who gets assaulted because somehow that's their fault for not reporting it.' Harry tried to object. 'Or maybe they said "yes" to the blowjob even though they didn't want to, because they were desperate to be hired. Then that's their fault, too. They're the ones who sucked cock to get in,' she shrugged. 'I mean, I didn't even actually do it, and people still said that about me, you know?' She smiled at him.

He didn't think it was funny.

'I didn't even tweet.' She sighed. 'The whole bloody world tweeted #MeToo, and I froze.' A bitter smile. 'Coward. Or maybe I'm the only woman in the world who doesn't have anything to tweet about,' she smiled. 'How about that?'

The minutes passed. Eventually, Ginny moved closer, sat beside him. Her arm rested against his, her back leaning into his side, head touching his shoulder. It was nice having her there. He could see that the redness on her cheeks had mostly faded, that she seemed calmer, steadier. She idly played with the edge of an old letter on the floor, creasing the corner. 'Harry, I can't stop thinking about him,' she murmured. 'It's like I'm spending every hour of every day trying to make this about other things. To forget he ever existed.'

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. 'I know,' he said.

'I just want it to stop. But then I also don't want it to stop.' A pause. She squeezed his hand. 'I'm so angry.' Her voice broke. 'At everything.'

Her wand moved again, eventually. Out of the printer in the corner, Harry saw a few sheets of paper travelling in her direction. They landed in her lap. Little black, justified lines hidden by the side of her forearm, her thumb toyed with the edge of the sheets. He waited. 'I keep thinking of that girl. She was thirteen. James's age.' Her mouth twisted. 'He taught others. Gave instructions.' Harry felt a lump in his throat. She closed her eyes for a moment. 'I tried to write a statement. I tried to write fifteen statements.' She swallowed tears. 'It never works.'

Slow, Ginny stood up. She put her right hand on his shoulder; finally handed him the papers from her left. 'I'm so scared,' she said.

Quietly slipped past the door to go downstairs as he read.

I spent a lot of time, she'd written, trying to convince myself that this wasn't about me. Or, that if it was about me, then it wasn't about him. That the only reason I even thought of him was because my husband did, and my husband had always been wrong about this. It was about all the other stuff that I don't want this to dismiss, the harassment from press and the sexism of sports coverage, and the way that my sex life became a source of public entertainment when I was just seventeen. The world thought that if someone was in the wrong about it, it was me.

I thought it wasn't about him, because I never thought it was assault. I thought journalists trying to steal pictures of my knickers was assault. I thought some bloke groping my arse without my consent in the middle of a party was assault. But not this. Harry has always disagreed. Welcome to the one and only unresolved issue of my marriage.

I think that he's always seen my relationship with Amycus from an outside perspective. I don't blame him, it's just the way it is. Harry's always been an outsider in this, the way I was when I saw all of these other women's stories online, the night the MeToo hashtag broke. I was doom-scrolling, there was this tweet from a woman who'd explained she'd agreed to sleep with her boss to keep her job. She was young, didn't have any family, and needed a roof over her head.

Some idiot, whose handle could have been Me+MyHand, responded: 'well dont complain then!' It got me enraged. I thought he was a dickhead. I thought he didn't understand. And I've been wondering for a long time why I never felt that way when it came to me. When it came to him. Objectively, he not only threatened to kill me, he threatened to kill my entire family. These were not empty threats. He was thirty-six - coincidentally, the age that I am now - and I was sixteen. Were it to do with anyone else, that alone would cement my belief this was a form of assault. I stalled. I still do.

I think no one ever speaks of the day after. Just now, I was re-reading the letters I wrote to Harry, and even I didn't speak of the day after. It never seemed important. I remember I got back to the dorms. It was early morning. My friend Neville pointed his wand at me. 'Oh, it's you,' he said. He was always keeping watch back then, sleeping in the armchair by the fire. I stood at the entrance. 'You alright? We were worried. We thought Amycus might have found out you'd written those articles in the Quibbler?'

They'd seen him lift me off the platform as soon as we'd arrived. I looked at Neville and stayed in relative darkness of the threshold, hoping he wouldn't notice the bruises on my face. I could feel blood trickling down my thigh. I worried it would go past the hem of my skirt. I shut my legs tight so that he wouldn't see. 'I, er - no.' I said. 'I mean, he's angry, he kept me a while but - no.'

'Oh, thank Merlin.' He smiled at me.

I went upstairs to shower. I sat there until it turned cold. I didn't want to come out. I didn't want to sleep. I noticed in the mirror there was a bruise on my neck and on my cheekbone, so I put Dittany on them. They disappeared almost instantly. I kept looking at my full reflection, looking for signs I couldn't see. I'd always wondered if I would feel different after having sex for the first time, and I wondered if that's what it was. I felt like maybe I'd dreamt the whole thing. I must have lost consciousness for a bit because I remember Demelza's knock on the door made me jump awake. I suddenly realised it was morning. I wrapped a towel around myself. 'Sorry, I'm coming.'

I went to class. In hindsight, it is mind-boggling to me that I went to class. I didn't know what else to do. I had Transfiguration, Charms and Potions. McGonagall knocked ten points off me for not paying attention. Ethan pushed back, saying she couldn't possibly continue to expect us to 'pay attention' with everything going on. The whole thing ended up costing us a grand total of thirty points. 'And you will both have detention tonight -'

'I can't -' I interrupted. The words slipped out of my mouth. 'I already have detention with Professor Carrow.'

I remember that a couple of Slytherins sneered. I saw a flash of concern in McGonagall's gaze. 'Well, tomorrow, then.'

'Okay.'

I didn't go to dinner that night. I couldn't imagine swallowing food. Instead, I went to Madam Pomfrey. This was an emergency I could actually do something about and it felt good to be problem-solving. The last thing I needed was to get pregnant, so I told her I was seeing another student. She seemed surprised but not judgmental. She didn't ask who it was but I volunteered the information, said it was Neville. She knew him to be shy and awkward so I knew she wouldn't ask, wouldn't want him to feel embarrassed about dating me after I'd dated Harry. She asked all the right questions. She checked that I wasn't being coerced, she enquired about pre-existing conditions, informed me about STIs and she gave me a couple months' supply of potions. 'And take this,' she gave me a different, smaller vial. 'What I gave you will protect you in the future, but if you've already had unprotected sex, better be safe than sorry. This works for up to seventy-two hours after the event.'

I thanked her and drank the potion. I went upstairs to shower again.

I washed my hair. Exfoliated my skin. I wanted to scrub him off me. The products made the whole place smell like flowers and berries. I looked down. Wondered if I should shave. I decided I would. I did my armpits and my legs and my bikini line. Then, I wondered if I should do more. I wondered what he would like. It felt like a daze. I hadn't really slept in over twenty-four hours. I looked again and decided to get rid of everything.

I wondered what to wear. I didn't want to put on my uniform. It felt gross, doing so. It was a fantasy that even at sixteen I didn't feel I wanted to indulge. I opted for tracksuit bottoms, a t-shirt and a Gryffindor hoodie. I didn't want it to seem like I'd made an effort. Then, I wondered about underwear. Chose a dark, matching set. It was already six thirty. He'd said he wanted me to come back, but hadn't specified a time. I felt oddly ready.

People were coming up from dinner when I headed out. Ethan wished me luck. 'For the detention,' he said.

I wish I could say I hesitated before knocking but I didn't. He hesitated when he opened. Seemed surprised to see me. 'Oh, you came back,' he told me. He smiled, always a bit lopsided, and invited me in. I noticed he didn't bother locking the door. His office was sparsely furnished. There was a bookshelf, a chair, a desk, and another two chairs in front of it. A couch in the corner. 'Can you wait?' he asked, pointing at the papers on his desk. 'I need to finish this.'

It was okay. I sat on the sofa. I'd taken my backpack with me with a couple of books inside, just to preserve the illusion if I ran into other people so I set it on the floor. Amycus wrote down something for a while then got up.

'Will you excuse me for a second? I have to post this to my sister.'

'Sure.'

I held back a smile. The words didn't sound like him. Having grown up in the country myself I'm not one to judge people on their accents or speech patterns, but Amycus was most definitely not an RP kind of bloke. His 'me's and 'my's were always interchangeable and in his mouth, 'Will you' sounded bizarrely formal. I wondered if he was trying to impress me. But then, there was also spite in his voice when he added, 'She's feeling better, by the way.'

I watched him walk towards the door and turn the handle. He stopped to look at me right before he stepped out, like an afterthought. 'Take off your clothes. Sit on the desk. I'll be back in a bit,' he said.

The moment the door closed I thought of running away. My heart beat so fast I thought I was going to throw up. He hadn't locked me in this time either so I thought of going down to the Quidditch pitch. My broom was up in Snape's office - contraband - but I could probably slip in and nick one off the Slytherins'. I was a good flyer, even then, and I knew I'd be too far gone by the time anyone realised. I didn't have a wand to my head. He wasn't holding me hostage. But I didn't leave. Instead, I did what he said.

I started taking off my clothes. I wondered whether I should keep my underwear. I weighed both options in my head. I thought on the one hand, he might enjoy taking it off himself. On the other, he might laugh and call me a prude if I didn't. On the balance, I preferred to own the decision myself. So, I took it off as well.

I was cold. I daydreamed that he wouldn't come back. That some angry owl would dig its claws into him, that he'd tragically fall off the tower. But, he didn't. The door faced the couch rather than his desk so when he entered, his gaze landed on the bookshelf. When he did turn to look at me, he smiled. 'Well,' he said. I didn't hide. I don't know why but in my head, that was the one thing. I didn't want to hide. I didn't cover my breasts, I didn't slouch, glared straight back at him.

I'd never had anyone look at me like that before. I'd had boyfriends, of course - the press has taken pleasure in constantly reminding the world of that fact - and we'd explored things to varying degrees - like normal teenagers do. I'd never had someone just stare at my naked body like this. I felt like he was watching me in a zoo, his gaze narrowing on my breasts and my hips, like a piece of meat. He got to my pubic bone. 'Oh, good, you got rid of it,' he said. 'Did you shave?' I nodded. 'Use wax next time, otherwise when it grows back it feels shite.' I kept quiet. Confirmed the instructions in my head. 'Though, is your hair red down there as well?' he smiled. 'I didn't notice yesterday. You always wonder with gingers, you know?'

I think he quickly understood that my standing there, naked in front of him, was the little power I felt I still held, because he immediately took it away. When it came to the sex itself, he turned me around and pushed me down against the desk with his palm around the back of my neck. He undid the buttons of his trousers and more or less just pushed himself straight inside me. I wasn't wet; it hurt. I gritted my teeth for the few minutes it lasted. I tried thinking of something else. I kept telling myself: this is the worst part. You get through this, you'll be okay. He took his hand off my neck and put both of them around my hips to push me to move harder against him. After that, he came relatively quickly. He pulled out, Accioed a towel to clean himself up.

I turned around. He smiled again. 'That was good,' he said. I felt relief. Positive feedback. I reached down to get my stuff but then he grabbed my wrist with so much force I thought he was going to break my arm. There was loathing in his eyes, suddenly, and I wondered if he was going to kill me. I wondered if I'd done all of this for nothing. 'Don't you EVER put your clothes back on until I tell you to,' he snapped. He was twisting my arm, I whimpered and he finally released. I let out a sigh. I did my best not to cry. I didn't want to cry.

'Sorry.'

He nodded again. This time, contentedly.

His trousers were still undone. I could see his underwear poking out. He dragged one of the chairs over, a few feet away from the desk and just sat. Stared at me. I tried not to move. Not to shiver. 'Open your legs wider,' he told me. 'So that I can see.'

I did what he said. He dragged the chair closer. He was so close I could feel his breath against my skin. He pushed one of my thighs a little wider still. Then, he just stayed there, for a bit. Finally dipped two fingers inside me. I felt another wave of relief. I thought: okay, he's not done, that's fine, I can deal with that. I still wasn't really wet but I'd just had his penis in there so it didn't hurt much. He moved. Slow. In and out a few times. He added friction, and then I did feel myself getting wet, mechanically, just a little bit. He continued until he was able to use some of it as lube, and rubbed my clit with his thumb. I bit my lip.

I wanted him to stop. I felt dirty and used, and like I was a toy to him. I felt guilty, too, because it didn't feel that bad if I dissociated from the moment. I kept thinking: don't move. He had this edge to him, like he could turn violent any second. But, he didn't. He also didn't stop. I couldn't believe it but it hit me after a while that he wanted me to come. That was what he was after. He seemed to know what he was doing, too. He curled his fingers inside me, rubbed my clit, his hot breath tickling. I tried not to make a sound. I bit my lip again but I still moaned. He smirked, satisfied. I thought he'd stop but he didn't. I thought about faking it but I was so scared of what would happen if he caught on. So, I leaned back against my palms and looked up to the ceiling. I tried to focus on the feeling. He started using his tongue, his lips. I closed my eyes and tried to picture it. This is Harry, I thought to myself. You're in the Room of Requirement. It's spring. The sun is pouring in.

I did come, eventually. Not particularly loud or quiet but I did. Again, I was so relieved. He wiped his face and his fingers, and sat against the chair again. He dragged it back a bit, as though wanting to take in the full picture of me. I didn't dare move an inch. I kept my legs as open as he'd left them. I kept my hands flat against the desk and faced the ceiling. He got up again. So slowly, featherlight, he traced his index finger down my throat, then my chest. He teased my nipple and I shivered, my body still sensitive from the orgasm. I breathed, slow, rise and fall against his touch. 'Look at me,' he said. I finally shifted my weight off my hands to do so. He grinned, satisfied again, and sat back on his chair.

I thought he'd tell me to go but he didn't. For a while, he just stayed there. Had a wank. He didn't ask for help so I didn't offer. I waited. After a bit, he looked at his watch and suddenly got up. He brought my backpack to my feet. 'You should go,' he told me.

I put my clothes back on. It was excruciating. I would later learn better than to wear this many layers. By Easter, I was showing up to see him in only tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie. Nothing underneath. Once I was allowed, I wanted to flee as quickly as possible. When I was finally done and standing, he opened the door for me. 'Next time you're in my class,' he said, 'don't wear knickers. I'll check.'

And if you're still wondering what kind of person Amycus Carrow was, just know that he did. Our next DADA lesson that Thursday, he assigned us to write a few paragraphs about Dark amulets. I kept my legs crossed so tight the whole time, I was terrified someone would notice. But then, he passed my table at the back and dropped a quill right in front of me. He crouched down to retrieve it. I uncrossed my legs and opened them, ever so slightly. I wanted to disappear. He took so long. No one paid attention, everyone was writing their paper. He finally got back up. 'Very good work, Miss Weasley.'

So, was that assault, do you think?

And: 'Yes,' he just said.

In the semi-darkness of the mood lighting in their living room, this time, the two of them sat around the dining table and Ginny's words thrown against the dark wood. Tea - a Muggle potion that purports to fix everything.

'Harry, I can't publish -'

'What? That?' he asked. 'The truth?'

She closed her eyes. Like a knife twisting in her chest. 'My parents,' she said. Then, crossed his gaze again. 'Someone else will do it.'

He agreed. This cause sadly wasn't short of potential martyrs. 'Do you want it to be someone else, though?'

She stared at him.

'We have children.' Her finger loosely pointed to the air around her. 'Have you seen what happens every time someone complains. Have you seen what they're doing to Hermione?' She laughed. 'She's not me. I'm a slut and whore and now a traitor,' she counted on her hand. 'They'll fucking crucify me. You think our kids need my sex -'

'You think that's sex?' he argued. She stilled. 'That's rape. I'm sorry. I'm not going to change my mind about it.'

They were quiet for a while. He ran a hand over his face. 'You'd be doing it for them.'

'No, you would,' she corrected. 'I'd be doing it because I'm angry. Because I don't want to be scared anymore. I'd be doing for the glory,' she almost laughed. 'Or for the martyrdom, maybe. Because I want to know it was me. Because I won't ever be able to look myself in the mirror again if it's not me.' Her voice broke. ''Cause I'm stupid enough to think I can "change the world,"' she mocked, looking at him.

He nodded. Gryffindors and all. 'And that's not reason enough?'

They talked some more, that night. Hashed out a plan. Ginny kept saying if and he kept saying when, knew she'd already decided. He would never have pushed her otherwise. But knowing her, she'd decided the moment she put pen to paper. The rest was just - trying to talk herself out of it. Like he wished he could have talked himself out of going into the forest. She couldn't imagine doing an interview, she said, and a statement would be too short. 'It can't just be that,' she sighed. They landed on a book. 'You start writing in January,' Harry suggested. 'We have a good Christmas together.' She timidly nodded. 'It comes out in the summer. The boys will be home. We'll protect them.'

He knew this was wishful thinking. He also knew she didn't need him to hesitate. Harry fiddled with the papers on the table between them. She looked up. 'I don't want it to just be about him.' She wanted it to be about the press, she said. She wanted it to be about the harassment and the sexism she'd experienced in Quidditch. She wanted it to be about the consequences. The partying and the sleeping around and being constantly judged and shamed for her choices. 'No one ever asked how I was,' she set her jaw. 'No one fucking cared.' The lengths at which she'd gone to reclaim herself.

They disagreed on the rating. Ginny wanted to shield her parents and her brothers and their children from the explicitness of it all. He felt like keeping stuff like what she'd written in the book was the only way people would understand, relate to what abuse really looks like. 'People read in the press about how so-and-so got assaulted and it's like: "Oh, that's sad." They don't get it. And, I think we can agree to disagree on the wording but this,' he pointed between them, 'says a lot more than "he raped me." Says a lot more than "I slept with him," too.'

She clicked her tongue between her front teeth. 'I want the happy ending, Harry,' she admitted. Explain how love and life won, despite everything. But if I go explicit on this, then I have to go explicit on the rest. I -'

He wanted to laugh. The semblance of privacy they'd been able to maintain all these years was about to explode in their faces anyway, so frankly, she might as well. 'If that's what you're concerned about, write whatever you want. And write that I was a fucking arsehole sometimes.' She half-smiled. 'I honestly don't really give a fuck about what some rando online is going to think about my sex life.'

She snorted.

'Just burn everything to the ground, alright?'

So, she wrote, that year. And, wrote. And, wrote.

He took over most of their life admin. He took over parenting. Lily's school runs and the chatter about her classes and her friends, and her activities. Ginny broke down in tears a couple weeks in and said: 'I can't be "Mum" and do this, I can't look at her, and -'

He pulled her into his arms. Fended off questions with no good answers for months. 'No, love, don't bother your mum, okay? She's working.'

'But she's always working.'

Ginny's since said in an interview that they wrote the book together. Harry's not sure it is quite the right phrasing. She wrote it. She just trusted him to draw the editorial lines sometimes. What was or wasn't going too far, what was or wasn't essential. They kept that scene, almost as is; that was important. And between January and May, the two of them sat in her study almost every night, going through what she'd written that day. The place became this awful sort of prison cell for the two of them, one they both kept voluntarily locking themselves into. She'd started waking up screamingin the middle of the night again. He'd started smoking - again. 'Do you mind?' he'd asked, nodding at her across the room once. She gave a soft shake of her head, like: your problem, not mine. She was sat at her desk, he on the couch, toying with the bloody cigarettes that were silently begging him to give in. The air was thick between them; he got up and cracked the window open. The toxins burned the back of his throat as he swallowed, blew smoke out into the dark of the night.

Ginny wrote about the war, that year. It was also marking the twentieth anniversary. She picked out memories she wanted to spiral around and fill the gaps in chronologically. She wrote a few initial thousand words about her family. My parents are extraordinary people, she said. They are the best parents anyone could dream of. They loved all of us, and my mother wanted a daughter so desperately. We had no money but growing up, I never felt I was lacking anything. My mother liked to dress me up in the dresses she made herself out of my brothers' hand-me-downs and I always wanted them to turn, forming big halos around me like provençal skirts. I wanted to take up space. I wanted to be a princess. I wanted to run in the mud after Fred and George. I wanted to fly but the boys never agreed to lend me their brooms. 'You're a GIRL!' they said.

'MUM!'

Her hand would reach for my arm, warm and homey. 'Come on, honey, leave your brothers alone. We'll go feed the chickens, yeah?'

She could always bribe me with the chickens. I loved the chickens.

Ginny wrote about Tom. A little. I'm not sure how relevant he is to this story. I'm not sure that had I not been his victim at the age of eleven, I would have felt the same burning desire to fight him, at age sixteen. I'm not sure that had I not had every ounce of my agency robbed from me at such a young age, I would have been so desperate to preserve it afterwards. I'm not sure how much he knew, or didn't know, about what was going on in Hogwarts that year. I've long since determined this is not my concern. I think that in entertaining these alternatives, I fall into the traps of endless what-ifs. What if my parents hadn't lectured me after Harry saved me in first year, for trusting an evil diary? What if the belief hadn't cemented in my brain that I would never allow myself to stumble, cry, make a single mistake, or be weak ever again? The fact of the matter is that Tom robbed my childhood. He robbed my memories. He made me do things I didn't want to do against my will. He murdered my in-laws. He was one of the world's greatest evils and a series of micro tragedies.

She included a lot of the letters. The contemporary account of a sixteen year old girl who fought in a war and still dotted her i-s with circles. She used them to retrace the early stages of the rebellion. I'd forgotten about it but I once wrote to Harry that I wanted to stop writing to him sometimes. 'Maybe it's just not worth the risk of these letters being found,' I said. 'But, if I stop, [...] if I stop it'll be like the forgotten memories from before the war. No one will know what happened to us. We'll all die and Tom will win, and there won't be any record of our side. We'll have been silenced, like animals you put down. We'll all fall into oblivion. You know, Bill's helping the Order with their cash flow, collecting funds from overseas without going through Gringotts. Charlie's learning what he can from Andromeda, says that caring for dragons and caring for humans isn't that different. Fred and George are wreaking havoc, Ron is helping you. I play Quidditch, Harry. I play Quidditch and I'm too young to fight, but I can write. Do you think maybe that's what I'm here for, Harry?'

I wonder if I always envisaged these letters to be a record, like I always knew deep down it would come to this.

He felt the passage of time in her words, a layer over the phrases she'd written as a child. She wrote about the fighting and about the DA and about the walls of Hogwarts that were haunted by the screams of teenagers. She wrote about clandestine articles in the Quibbler and about listening for names on the wireless. About her parents' hesitations about going into hiding. She wrote about a bravery that he's always considered limitless and about her loneliness. About being sixteen and in love and missing her boyfriend. And, she wrote about him. Him, him, him.

That winter, Harry worked, too. Their world felt suspended at the edge of a cliff but it wasn't for anyone else. Christmas came and went and the world moved into the new year. Bolsonaro became President of Brazil. There was a coup d'état in Gabon. Hermione came back charging with another #MeToo-related idea but to everyone's surprise, the row that ensued with Robards was the straw that broke the camel's back. He rage-resigned.

Then, he annihilated her in the press. Called her an incompetent fraud, incapable of making decisions, obsessed with her own little crusades - the conservatives had a field day. Robards had gained a lot of credibility when it came to law enforcement policy - the highly decorated career-officer who'd single-handedly restored order after the war - 'And, what has she done, eh? Not much, since the age of eighteen!' Cued laughs from the audience. He attacked the changes Hermione had brought about regarding the rights of suspects in custody, claimed that Azkaban had turned into a 'hotel' and that prison sentences were no longer a deterrent to crime, went 'round and 'round on wireless panel shows and gave so many interviews to the Prophet they might as well have given him a daily column. It was bad. Samira ambushed Harry in his office after he'd dodged about fifty-seven of her phone calls, asking for his support. He didn't know how to put it.

'Trust me, you don't want me to support her right now,' he admitted.

He couldn't tell her why. Didn't know what the backlash around Ginny's book would be like but if it got as bad as he suspected it would, Harry wanted to shield Hermione (and Ron) as much as he could. Coming after the entirety of the wizarding patriarchy was a risky game, and everything he and Ginny both touched would be so easily maimed.

Samira and Hermione were understandably furious. Interpreted his refusal to sign anything as an unspoken form of support for Robards and gave Harry the silent treatment for weeks. 'I've got kids, Harry,' Samira argued. 'So do you. Don't you want a better world for them?' The whole thing was made even more awkward by the fact that, in light of the boss's absence, Harry was now reporting directly to Hermione. Even Mrs Weasley tried to open a line of communication between them over Sunday roast. 'So, Hermione, how is work going?' she said, while pointedly glaring at him. The success of this endeavour was particularly limited.

The power vacuum left by Robards's departure soon ensured the entire department fell into absolute chaos. About a quarter of the staff went on strike to demand Robards be re-integrated like he hadn't quit of his own accord, and when that didn't work, the internal war for his succession took hold. There were two main contenders that Harry could see: Elias Fabius, the Head of IntoxSubs, and Seamus, who was now Head of Patrol.

Fabius had the most seniority; Harry felt that at this point, the man came with the furniture. Seamus was ambitious, good at his job, well-respected, loyal and honest - very similar to Robards in a lot of ways, but without all the Robards - well, bollocks, Harry supposed. He was well able to make decisions, didn't shy away from expressing his opinions, but he also listened to people and wasn't stubbornly opposed to change. Harry had previously had massive rows with each of them so he felt like there was no ideal candidate, but on the balance, he preferred vehement valid disagreements to blatant incompetence.

Hermione, however, unfortunately came down with a bad case of decision paralysis. She still wasn't really talking to him, keeping all their conversations strictly professional, but he knew her well enough to diagnose it. The mounting pressure around the issue in the press was getting to her; she had three interviews with both candidates, then decided to call in all qualified Aurors in the building (i.e. all the other department heads) to ask them why they weren't applying and whether they were certain of their decision. A gruelling process that took at least another two weeks and led absolutely nowhere. She even called Harry for an interview, during which he said: 'Hermione, you're not going to pick me. I'm your friend, that'll look even worse in the press. So, can we talk? Please.'

She looked hassled. Fiddling with her hands; she had bags under her eyes that no amount of make-up could hide. 'Why would you say that?' she asked. 'I'm giving everyone a fairchance.'

He ran a hand over his face. Decided he didn't have time for this. 'You wanna know what I think? Pick Seamus. That's it.'

He walked out, afterwards.

Except: she didn't pick Seamus. She picked no one. Eventually, Kingsley reshuffled.

Objectively, it was the right time to do so. About a year to the elections, the Minister was putting his battleship in order. Hermione had grown increasingly unpopular - the 'annoying' one, always raising fusses about issues no one cared about. It wasn't just her. Kingsley also replaced the Heads of the Money Matters, Education and Wizarding Industry Departments and moved in - believe it or not - Fudge to lead International Cooperation. Susan Bones - who used to head that department before- was asked to take over the DMLE instead. She almost refused - out of loyalty to Hermione - but her friend shook her head. 'If it's not me, I'd rather it be someone I trust,' she said. And, come the next elections, Hermione wasn't even sure she'd manage to keep her Wizengamot seat, anyway.

She seemed depleted. Harry hardly ever saw her in the press anymore. She still did work through the Wizengamot commissions she was on but the amendments were never submitted in her name, and she did her best to keep her head down. Things also became tense between him and Ron as a result - Ron blamed him, which Harry frankly couldn't disagree with. They kept bickering at Quidditch, which infuriated everyone else. Harry got called into Kingsley's office one morning along with Susan and honestly thought he was going to get sacked, too.

Instead, they offered him Robards' position. Fucking believe it or not.

It was a strategy. Hermione's dismissal had delighted people to Kingsley's right, but upset those to his left. As a forever dead-centre navigator, he needed to stir the ship back, somewhat. Harry was Harry Potter. He was also another third of the Golden Trio. Having refused to pick a side in the Robards feud played in his favour, Robards had also interpreted it as a sign of support and had only had good things to say about him in the press. He would suit both sides.

'I need to speak to Ginny,' he said.

'I would think -'

'It's a political thing,' he interrupted. Stared at the Minister directly. Don't take me for a fool, he thought. I'm not eighteen anymore. Susan smiled awkwardly. 'It's more responsibility, more visibility.' Robards's family had always lived under Auror protection, and Robards wasn't - well, Harry Potter, frankly. 'I need to speak to Ginny.'

He wasn't going to take it. Just wanted to buy time until he found an acceptable way out of the situation. First, he didn't really want the job. Again, the Hit Wizards had always suited him just fine, and he wasn't attracted to power or change. Frankly, from what he'd seen during Robards' tenure, the Head Auror job seemed to include a lot more policy work and a lot less policing than Harry was comfortable with. He'd stepped out of the line of fire a while back, but it didn't mean he looked forward to being stuck behind a desk. Head of the Hit Wizards had always been a comfortable middle-ground.

He also felt he might get sacked when Ginny's book came out. Either for making his own department uncomfortable, shouting from the rooftops they didn't properly investigate sexual assaults, or because Kingsley might lose his majority. Firstly, because the Carrows were Ministry employees and if the noise around Seamus's old lawsuit was anything to go by, the fact that they had acted the way they did while being on the public dime might not please voters much. Secondly - well.

They'd disagreed about it. What to say in the book about Kingsley. Ginny wanted to nail the press. Name and shame editors and paparazzis, a lot of them with Witch Weekly. She wanted to nail certain players and coaches - 'They can sue me for defamation if they want. I've got money.' With Kingsley, it was more complicated. 'He did what was necessary,' she said. Harry gritted his teeth.

If Kingsley went down because of them, there was nothing preventing him from taking Harry down with him. Kingsley didn't only know the truth about Alecto, Harry had also more or less confessed to murdering Amycus, in his office back in '99. Brilliant idea, that was. If some of it came out, true or false - at best, he'd get sacked. At worst, arrested. Which was also one of the reasons he didn't want to take the job. He felt like taking it might heighten Kingsley's sense of betrayal. 'I think it's better if I keep my head down.'

She frowned. 'Does he have actual proof? I mean, regarding any of it?'

'I dunno.' Harry shrugged. 'For Alecto, my guess is he wouldn't have trusted anyone else to Obliviate her, so he did it himself. I can assure you there's no record of that anywhere,' he laughed. He'd checked out the Auror archives ahead of this, found there was extensive papertrail of the plea deal she'd 'accepted' instead of going to trial in '99, and of the injury she'd later sustained when she 'attacked guards during a prison transfer,' leading to 'brain damage.' Kingsley had done things really well. 'But I'm sure he kept an insurance policy somewhere. I'm not naive. My guess would be a certified memory of our conversation or something. He never actually agreed out loud. Wouldn't be hard to tell people he told me to fuck off, so I did it myself.' He shoved his hands inside his pockets. 'For Amycus, obviously there's no proof 'cause I didn't kill him,' he insisted, 'but it's also not like Malfoy's gonna step up and defend me, is it? I don't know when he died during the Battle. I don't know if I have an alibi.'

Ginny nodded. For a moment, she was quiet. 'Alright. Then, I'm pulling the plug, this is going too far.'

'No.'

She was sitting behind her desk. He was leaning against the opposite wall.

'You got to decide if you wanted to do this. This is on me.' She glared at him. 'We're not pulling the plug because I might get arrested. I might also get run over by a car tomorrow.' She rolled her eyes. 'If we stop because of this, then I'm the one waking up in ten years and something has happened to Victoire or Rose, or Lily - and I had a chance to make a real change and I didn't,' he insisted, loosely pointing a finger at her bookshelf in the corner. ''Cause I saved my own arse. Doesn't work like that.'

He shrugged a little. 'I go to jail - I go to jail, it's the rule of the game.' He did Obliviate Alecto Carrow, in the end. It was his decision and the order he gave. 'We'll deal with it. I'm not going to volunteer the information to anyone, but if it comes out, it comes out. I'll confess to what's true, fight what's not. Take responsibility. I don't regret it,' he admitted. 'The kids will know their father's done bad things and owned up to them. You don't get to decide if I jump in front of a train.'

Ginny set her jaw and stared.

'Take the job, then,' she said. He frowned. 'You take the job and this -' she pointed at the papers on her desk, 'actually works and changes something? You're in a position to reshape the entire Auror department. You get to create Hermione's task force or whatever else is necessary, you get to decide where the funding goes, what training agents get, how sexual assaults are investigated - everything. You're doing this for Lily? Then do it properly. Take the fucking job.'

So: he took the job. Even if it didn't make Seamus or Elias very happy.

They didn't tell anybody. About the book. Obviously. Even in his new role, Harry continued to put his head down and they kept most of the pretences. He cheered on Lily at her tennis games and hid in the garden to smoke, hoping she wouldn't notice. They tried to attend Sunday roasts at the weekends until Ginny couldn't anymore. Every ounce of laughter from anyone in the family seemed cut through her like glass and, 'I'm ruining everything. I'm ruining -'

'Hey,' he would say. 'Breathe.'

The days got longer. Moodier. Rain and sunshine in unison, the bricks of buildings painted deep red as they dried in the afternoon light. He and Ginny mailed a dozen packages to James for his birthday in February and when March rolled around, Mrs Weasley grinned: 'Where is your mother?' ruffling Lily's hair while looking at Harry.

'Ah, she's just busy,' he said. 'Book deadlines, you know?'

George quipped: 'Doesn't she know capitalism will be the death of us all?'

Ginny wrote about the night Amycus cut through her stomach with a knife, that month. She wrote about things that Harry couldn't quite put a finger on. I remember being in his bedroom, he read, once. I remember the warmth from the fireplace in the early days of March. We were in bed, I was wearing a large cotton jumper and nothing else. His fingers had left marks around my neck that I'd noticed in the mirror after I got up to use the toilet. I stared at the ceiling. His palm moved down from my stomach. He always liked to keep me close after sex, making sure he touched me at all times, even if it was just a fingertip, like he needed to stake a claim on property. Sometimes, the way he touched me felt even worse than the sex itself, worse than the pain of some of his curses. It was like I could feel my skin trying to crawl away. Like I had to hold back the magic in me that wanted to attack him. I automatically spread my legs to give him better access but instead he just put his hand there, on my pubic bone, but didn't do anything else. I felt like he owned every inch of my skin.

He asked, 'Do you think about him?'

I didn't speak.

'When you're with me, do you think about him?'

I wondered what he would do to me if I said yes. I wondered how I would feel if I said yes. I wondered how I would feel if I said no.

'Sometimes. Yeah.'

I half-expected a curse, but it never came. He looked at me. He had blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. The thing about Amycus Carrow is that he looked like everybody. 'What's he like?'

'I don't know.' I thought to myself: it's so hard, putting into words why you love someone. 'He's funny.' It's what a lot of people say about Harry. 'He's got this dark, sort of sense of humour - not everybody likes it.' I paused, thinking about it a bit more. 'He's kind. He's a lot more forgiving than I am. He's brave.'

Amycus nodded. He seemed relaxed. In bed, with me, that night. 'Do you think he's gonna die?'

'Yeah.'

He pulled his hand away. Frowned and looked at me more closely. He shifted up a bit, his face resting on his palm, laying on his side. My words seemed to have startled him. They didn't startle me. I always knew Harry would die. I even knew how he would die. I knew him, and I knew Tom. Tom would offer him a deal: his life to save that of others, and Harry would take it. I'd rarely ever felt this level of certainty about anything else. I also knew Tom would eventually lose. That it might take people decades or centuries to defeat him, but monsters are always overthrown. The right side always wins because it fights with nothing to lose.

I didn't tell Amycus any of this because I knew he wouldn't understand it.

He looked at me, then. His touch was gentle, soft against the bruises around my neck. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I didn't mean to do that.'

''S fine.'

He shook his head. 'You know I'm not a bad person, right?'

A few weeks later, he started to drug me. That was worse than the sex and the curses and his hands on me. The potions would put me to sleep. I would wake up hours later, not knowing what he had done to me. I still don't know what he did to me.

Harry let out a heavy breath. Took off his glasses and ran his thumb and forefinger over his eyes. 'Do you think he really thought that?' he asked. Wasn't a bad person, really?

'I don't know.'

'Do you think that?'

She looked away. 'I don't know.'

Gradually, she wrote her way out of the war and into the Battle. Tom died and Harry survived and she spent days wondering what had happened to Amycus. It took a long time for the news of his passing to reach me. The chaos that followed the Battle is hard to explain to anyone who wasn't there. There were rumours about everything. Someone was alive, someone was dead, someone was in St Mungo's or in Ministry custody. Reporters kept trying to get inside the castle or my parents' house and everything was so loud.

My friend Seamus is the one who told me. He told half a dozen people at the same time. We were all in Hogwarts, in the Great Hall, helping with the castle and the wounded. An emergency HQ had spontaneously formed there, and people from all over the wizarding world were pouring in, looking for loved ones who might have gone into hiding or missing. We had Ministry connections and the manpower to help them, the few times we were able to hand out good news kept us going. A month later, this ad hoc group of volunteers later formally assembled as C.A.S.H.C.O.W.

'Amycus Carrow's dead!' Seamus ran in, that day. We already knew his sister had been arrested, but then the whole Hall stilled.

'You're pulling my leg,' Michael said.

'Dead serious, I saw him!' Seamus gleefully laughed. 'They found the body hidden in the Slytherin Common Room. It's out on the fucking stairs! Mind you, he doesn't look too good, been down there a week but -'

We all ran out. I remember turning a corner and getting a glimpse of his robes through the open door. His body was at an awkward angle, feet up and head down on the bottom steps, like it'd been thrown out there in the sun. I remember the flesh of his left calf was exposed and I saw a skull tattoo I knew to be there and a few maggots crawling. Soon, my friends crowded around him. I stayed inside, rooted in place. In the excitement of this discovery, no one noticed I wasn't there.

I felt numb. I felt like I was going to retch. I'd seen dozens of dead bodies in the past week but this one I couldn't look at. I'd spent so much time wishing him dead. Now, I feared the state his body would be in. I feared what people on my side had done or would do to him. I stayed inside because this wasn't how I wanted to remember him.

Harry sighed. 'You sure you want to put that in?' he asked. 'Might get the lads into trouble.'

He regretted asking. Didn't care what Seamus & co. had done to Amycus Carrow's decaying form, out there on the grounds, and frankly, the more the better. But he knew she would. 'Yeah,' she agreed. 'You're right.'

As promised, she wrote about the two of them, too. In a strange way, Harry felt a nostalgic appreciation for the chaos they were. Harry and I had sex hours after the Battle ended. I understand this might come as a shock to a lot of people, especially those who lost loved ones that day. I don't have a good excuse for this. All I know is that I initiated it, that I'd used the thought of what it would be like, with him, as a lifeline for most of the war and that I wanted to feel him alive inside me. I wanted to prove to myself that we'd both survived, that I could wash Amycus off me, that I would be able to repossess the parts of my body he'd appropriated and pretend like he never existed. I thought if Harry and I could get that moment, at least once, then I would be alright.

It was clumsy and quick and desperately teenage. It was also the best sex I'd ever had by a mile.

He smiled.

She talked about a lot of things he already knew. Her decision to tell no one, protect herself and her parents. I knew what people said about women who'd 'fraternised' with the enemy. You heard about it through the grapevine or the wireless, 'Death Eater whores,' they called them. I had nightmares about people I knew finding that out about me. 'I would rather have died than do that,' I would hear them say in commentary and think, 'You're lucky not to know what that choice is like.' Being who I was, the daughter and sister of figures of the Order, and Harry Potter's ex-girlfriend, would make the hit against me that much harder. I knew that if the press ever got hold of that information, I wouldn't survive it. I have feared that backlash for almost twenty years now.

When it came to my parents, the grief of Fred's passing drowned every other feeling. It drowned my own feelings. My mother would wail tears of despair that I do not wish on my worst enemy. The pain of losing a child is insurmountable. I thought that my best case scenario, where they understood and held me and said that everything would be okay, said that it wasn't my fault, was also my worst case scenario. I couldn't inflict that pain on them. So I promised myself I would take Amycus Carrow to my grave.

I didn't. A little over six months later, I gave the letters to Harry.

She talked about the leap.

About the aftermath, too. The partying, the sex. She wrote about getting agency back over her body and about the conflicting nature of her methods, the grimness of blowjobs in pub toilets. The issue when you pick men to sleep with at random is that not all of them are nice guys. I wasn't forced or assaulted in any way that year, but it doesn't mean all of it was pleasant. Some of them asked for things I didn't really want to do, but I did them to prove to myself that I could. I was on this quasi-manic hunt for my own orgasms, feeling like he'd mechanically exploited my body in ways that had robbed me of my agency over them. In exchange for the sexual pleasures these men provided, I got random objectifying remarks about my body. Random claims to fame in the papers after they'd fucked Ginny Weasley. 'What was she like, in bed, really?' I remember the high I felt one night after I had sex with two different people. I thought: 'Shit, I can really do this. I can really get what I need out of it and not care.'

There was something empowering about the vitriol that spread about me, about my mother's Howlers that yelled, 'I didn't raise you with this little self-respect!' I remember I would let them echo through the entirety of the Great Hall, the loudest form of a teenage 'FUCK YOU!' I decided I was right and I didn't care what people said. I began partying with kids who were known to attend Muggle raves and the press started claiming I was doing drugs. I never did drugs. I tried once and couldn't bear the loss of control it implied. Not after what he'd done to me. My mother stopped talking to me.

She talked about their reconciliation, their issues in America. The very real consequences Amycus had on the both of them. Learning to trust sex again. She wrote about the early days of her career and the constant fights about her image. Harry wanted me to fight back but I was too scared. I did my best to accommodate. I adopted a strategy which, simply put, could be phrased as: 'You think I'm a slut. So what?' I had a steady, famous boyfriend but I played cheeky in interviews and did sexy magazine covers, and became a product meant to appeal to young men and women alike. Women liked me for being bold, shameless and unapologetic, which I am, and men liked me because they wished they could see me naked. I liked feeling attractive and desired.

At the end of April, they resolved their dispute about Kingsley. Ginny was filling gaps now, re-reading and editing for flow, amending sections she'd previously left as TBDs. She also wrote about things he didn't already know. There was a four-month blind spot in his version of their post-war year that he'd never quite considered before. He was going through Auror training in London, meeting Mia, and Giulia. She was in school, alone, and since their break-up, they weren't talking to each other.

I suppose I didn't do very well academically, the year after the war. Everyone knows the story of how I walked out of my N.E.W.T.s after taking a leap with Quidditch, the press has loved to romanticise it. The truth is that I remember I'd always been a rather average student before then. Not the best but certainly not the worst, and I'd gotten Os in Transfiguration and Charms on my O.W.L.s.

Still, on the 2nd of September 1998, I stayed in bed instead of going to Defence. I pulled my blankets over my head and pretended I was sleeping. I remember my friends left me alone that day, probably thought I was still reeling over my break-up with Harry. It was all the talk in Hogwarts, splashed all over the gossip papers, it felt natural that I wouldn't want to show my face in these circumstances.

The Gryffindor tower was the only place I felt safe. The only place he'd never been. I think the year that followed the war was worse than the war itself in a lot of ways. Many people would find that shocking. But the slowness of it was excruciating. Like a junkie I missed the adrenaline. I missed feeling like I was fighting for something. I missed not having time to think. I missed him.

I saw him every time I closed my eyes. I felt his hands on me. He wasn't dead to me. He was a ghost haunting the walls. I had nightmares about it, about him coming back. Him telling people what I'd done. The fear I'd had at the beginning of the summer of my secret coming out, of him not being dead, very quickly reignited. I spent hours in the library researching death, ghosts, trying to reassure myself that he'd really gone on. My brother had just died and every step I took towards a certain form of acceptance with regards to Amycus also drove me to see all the ways I'd never get Fred back.

I tried to attend my other classes but my resolve didn't last long. My third week, I walked out of Charms. There was no drama about it. I remember Professor Flitwick was explaining something, spelling out words on the blackboard, and I just decided to pack my bag and leave. I told Hermione Granger, who was sitting next to me, that I didn't feel well, and was going to the Infirmary. I didn't. I roamed the empty castle for half an hour, then went out to fly. That year, flying was the only thing that would get me out of my own head. I would train for hours, driving myself to a point of exhaustion, just so that I could sleep for a few hours.

Within weeks, the only classes I was still going to were Potions and Astronomy. I found Slughorn's presence reassuring, his opportunism reliable, and I liked Astronomy because it happened at night, outside. I began to sneak back into Hogsmeade on the days I didn't go to class, like I used to during the war. The bookshop had a café upstairs, and I would sit and read all the romance books I didn't have the money to buy. It was the only way to focus my brain on something. I liked knights in shining armours and soapy, fluffy tales with incredibly low stakes. I would Reparo spines and put the books back on the shelf after I was done.

There was a boy working there who I soon understood had a crush on me. He would slip me free hot drinks and let me read as long as I wanted, treat the shop like a library. He was funny and kind, a couple years older than me. He felt like the harmless type of person who'd never had a problem in their life. He was calm, discreet, hidden behind his long hair and big glasses. He liked nerding out about books. I'd never talked to a boy who liked books before. He didn't know who I was. Had lived a sheltered existence until then, had worked in the bookshop throughout the war, didn't really get out much. The benefits I got from flirting back with him were rather innocent, but I now wonder if this was the first instance of a pattern I would later develop, using sex or the idea of it to get something I wanted.

It wasn't until November that I actually started sleeping with him. I was his first ever girlfriend. It was so sweet. He would take me out on dates at Madam Puddifoot's. He was the first boy I slept with after Harry. He certainly didn't know anything about Amycus, but I didn't feel like I was hiding it from him. When I was with Matthew (his name is sadly part of the public record), nothing else existed. I could just be a kid, a teenager. I wasn't in love, but I trusted him.

The press found out about us in January. He panicked. I don't blame him. Can you imagine? Nineteen years old, the whole of the wizarding world coming down around your ears because you're suddenly dating Harry Potter's ex-girlfriend. It would be too much pressure for most people. He broke up with me. The press began running speculative articles about how many boys I'd dated, how many of them I'd had sex with. They called me easy. I thought: if only they knew. It was the last straw before I spiralled out of control.

My absences in Hogwarts didn't go unnoticed. I began to receive detentions that I also wouldn't go to. I got all of Gryffindor's points knocked off, we would have gone into negative if it had been possible. I knew that had I been anyone else, other students would have thrown fits. But I was Ginny Weasley. People didn't mess with me anymore, not since the year before.

Sometime towards the end of October, Professor McGonagall, acting as my Transfiguration instructor, Head of House and Headmaster called me into her office. She claimed my attendance rate was abysmal. That I hadn't handed in a single paper since September. 'I understand this might be hard for you,' she said. 'After last year. But you are not the only one in this situation. Plenty of students are struggling. I cannot decently continue to turn a blind eye -'

Of course, she didn't know. McGonagall never knew. I begged her not to expel me. I said my parents had enough to deal with. I knew she'd be sympathetic. I didn't want to be in the castle, but I didn't want to be home either. She seemed at a loss for what to do. She said she could write me a reference letter, get me transferred to another school. I couldn't face leaving the country. 'I would give you detention, but you've also decided not to attend those,' she sighed. 'I would take you off the Quidditch team but it seems to be the only thing you are currently willing to participate in.'

She gave me until Christmas to hand in all of the schoolwork I had due. She said that I would be expelled if I didn't. That she would think about the rest.

In hindsight, it was the best decision she could have made. I began to build a routine again. Matthew worked Tuesdays through Thursdays, so on those days, I would go to the café and work there. I liked people-watching. I liked being outside. They had most of the books I needed. I started handing in essays, even though I still only barely attended classes. It was easier to focus outside of the castle. About a week later, McGonagall contacted me again to let me know I would have detentions with her every Sunday from ten to twelve, until the end of the school year. She said she understood that Saturdays were for Quidditch and that if I did attend her detentions, I could stay on the team.

I didn't know what to expect from my first detention with her. I'd lost all notion of what the appropriate etiquette for school punishments was. She welcomed me into her office with tea and biscuits. She said I would write lines while she marked papers. The prospect of lines was something I couldn't quite wrap my head around. She said that to make it interesting, she would have me copy from a book. I expected some boring Transfiguration treatise but instead, she gave me the Chronicles of Narnia. For those not familiar, a Muggle children's book.

I will never know why. But that year, it was the first time I felt safe again. Copying that book in her office, two hours a week. They were the two hours of calm when I didn't have to think. Sometimes, the last thirty minutes, we would discuss the contents, she would ask me what my favourite passages were, where I thought the story would go next. I began looking forward to these detentions. Even after Christmas, even when my life spiralled out of control, I never missed one. I would show up in yesterday's clothes sometimes. I would show up without having slept. I would show up smelling of sex and boys and pub toilets. But I was never a single minute late. And in exchange, she gave me this space.

In February, I remember there was an incident with Professor Hussein. He'd been hired to teach D.A.D.A. that year, had moved to Scotland from Lebanon given the lack of local volunteers for the role. I didn't know him very well because I'd never actually been to his class, but per my agreement with McGonagall, I'd still hand in coursework. Typically, I'd find him after one of his classes, but once I had to go into his office. He was a very nice man. I knocked on his door, he opened with a bright smile, welcomed me in. His accent was charming. I looked in. I handed him the essay and said I couldn't stay.

I was in such a hurry to leave, so frozen in place, seeing that office again, the same yet so different, that I tripped over my own feet. Embarrassingly fell, slow-motion, face-first, and almost hit the floor. The only reason I didn't was because he grabbed my shoulders and held me up.

I jumped out of his reach. So fast and hard I almost fell again. I almost hit the wall of the corridor. In seconds, I had my wand raised at him. We both froze. 'Miss Weasley?' he said. He sounded so concerned. 'Are you okay?'

I stuttered an apology. My hands were shaking. I couldn't speak. I ran away.

The next Sunday, McGonagall kept looking at me. She'd never looked at me like that before. I took my copy of Narnia out of my backpack but she said: 'We're going to do a different one today.'

She gave me a shorter story about a little girl dressed in red, her grandmother and a wolf. The target audience was younger. It was tragic, the wolf ate them all. McGonagall asked what I thought and I said I didn't like it, that I preferred Narnia. I felt like her eyes were trying to read something inside me but I didn't know what. She asked if there was anything I wanted to say to her. She reminded me that I was of age, that whatever I said could stay between us. I hadn't slept the night before, had been at a boy's house, watching him get high on potions while I gave him a blowjob. I couldn't for the life of me understand what she was talking about.

I remember she sighed. She said she'd heard rumours from other Gryffindors that I was receiving a lot of letters from London to our dorms. She asked if there was someone I trusted there, someone I was talking to. I knew what she was asking about then, I knew she was asking if I was writing to Harry. I couldn't think of a reason to lie, I trusted her not to go to the press, so I said yes. She sighed again. 'Well, I suppose that's something,' she said. Her voice sounded like an odd mix of defeat and absolute grief. 'We'll do Narnia again next week, okay?'

It took me years to understand. I wasn't ready.

He looked at her. 'What's with the Little Red Riding Hood?'

'You've never read it as an adult, have you?'

They sat. They talked. Ginny said: 'I'm not going to put that last part in the book. I just wanted to tell you.'

'Do you think she knew?'

'While it was happening?' She shook her head. 'Absolutely not. I don't think it would have even crossed her mind and I hid it well. But later…' A sigh. 'I think she'd heard the rumours we'd all heard about him getting "favours" from the Slytherins, even if she never had proof. I think she might have put two and two together regarding Pansy. I think Hussein immediately went to her after what happened. Either because he was scared of getting accused of something untowards, or because he recognised my reaction for what it was. I think it occurred to her that as your ex-girlfriend, I was the perfect prey. I think she… had doubts, let's say.'

'She should have told your parents.'

'No.' She shook her head. 'She had no proof, I said nothing, I was of age.'

He glared.

'I'm not going after McGonagall, Harry,' she told him firmly. 'She's the only adult who made me feel safe that year. Not my parents, not any of the other professors, just her.'

He stayed silent a long time. They were at the dinner table again; it was late. He stood up. 'Okay,' he said. 'But we go after Kingsley.'

Ginny finished her first draft in May. It was fitting, a random Tuesday night. Harry remembers the fading daylight outside her office window, the start of long summer days. The sheets of paper felt both heavy and anticlimactic; she'd already written the last chapter a while back. This was a TBD section about the joys and ambiguities of having children in the public eye - I became a mother and thus no longer fuckable, she wrote. As strange as it may sound, I was both relieved and concerned. Relieved that the pressure to be constantly on display would likely relent, that I would no longer be a product to be consumed. Yet, I knew the sexism wouldn't stop, merely take on a different form. I worried about the impact I might no longer have on the world, about whether the press would still be interested in the causes I wanted to defend, which felt more important than ever as my children grew.

In the first few years of their boys' lives, Harry took on most of the parenting. That is widely known -

Harry looked up, stopped. They'd covered that part already.

The first person they told was Samira. They met over lunch at a Muggle café, far enough from the Ministry to avoid anyone. She showed up the way Harry has always known her to show up: on time, dressed in a conservative pantsuit, her hijab perfectly wrapped and pinned, nothing ever out of place. She glanced at her watch as she sat down. The USB stick Ginny had given her with the draft sat on the table between them. 'Alright, we don't have much time, so I'll make a few assumptions here,' she said. They signalled her to continue.

'I'm assuming you're planning to publish this.'

'I'm assuming that twenty years ago, when you told me you didn't want to push back against the press because there were things in your past you didn't want them to find out, this is what it was. I'm assuming there's nothing else. 'Cause, trust me, if there is, now is the time to say it.'

Ginny didn't speak.

'I'm assuming this is why you -' she surprisingly turned her head to glare at him, 'have been acting the way you have these past few months.' Harry cringed. That was an answer enough. She shifted again, her dark gaze hovering between them. 'And, I'm assuming I don't need to tell you why you shouldn't even think of doing this,' she insisted.

They were quiet. The magnitude of telling another person was indescribable.

'Who else knows about this?'

Harry spoke. 'About the book?' She nodded. 'Us.' He pressed his lips together. 'It's always just been us.'

Something flickered in her eyes. She turned to Ginny. 'I hate to ask, but will anyone back you up?' She paused. 'Because the way I see it: he's dead and his sister's dead, so in that way you're lucky. It's not your word against his, it's your word - that's it.' Ginny nodded. 'But you're attacking a lot of people in here.' She tapped the USB stick against the table. 'So, trust me, there's going to be retaliation. You two are the closest thing our world has got to royalty. Have you seen how the Muggle press has been with Meghan Markle lately?' She pursed her lips, looked down.'They'll say you were afraid of it coming out so you got ahead of it with a lie. That you consented, that you're a traitor, that you're rewriting History to fit the #MeToo narrative and take down everyone else.'

Harry opened his mouth but -

'There's Hannah,' Ginny said. They'd put it in the book.

Samira nodded. 'Other girls?'

He and Ginny exchanged a look. They'd decided to keep Draco and Pansy out of it. 'I know of one more,' Ginny admitted. 'But I won't throw her under the bus.' Samira tried to argue, but Ginny shook her head decisively. 'I'm not sure about anyone else but considering his behaviour with me -' She bit her lip. 'You've read the book. Looking back, it can't have been his first rodeo.'

Samira nodded and let out a breath. No one else spoke for a bit. Harry could faintly hear the bustling café around them, Londoners hurriedly ordering coffees and sandwiches. They had cast silencing charms; it felt like they were in a bubble.

'I -' Samira began again, then stopped. Only then did Harry realise she had reached the end of her prepared speech, cracks showing in her usual professional demeanour. 'Sorry,' she apologised. 'You didn't come here to watch me cry. What exactly do you need from me?'

Ginny explained quickly. She would need to send the book to her editor, get it polished before publication. 'I trust her,' she said, 'but she usually handles my romance novels. She might need help. I don't necessarily trust the help.' She cringed.

'Your agent?'

Ginny shook her head. 'I don't trust them,' she amended. 'Not with this anyway.'

'Okay.'

'I want to prepare for a leak,' Ginny added. 'Just in case. I know you mainly work for Hermione now -' Samira only dealt with Golden Trio matters as a courtesy these days, and because they were somewhat related to Hermione's political career. She'd hired someone else to deal with their mail. Ginny's comms and career were typically handled by her agent. 'But I trust you. And -'

She trailed off. Samira looked at them. Her long fingers traced the side of her face, slightly replacing the fabric of her hijab even though it hadn't moved an inch. Eventually, she nodded. 'Okay, let's make a plan, then,' she said.

Once Ginny's editor got over the initial shock of the first draft, she did agree to help. And, thank God, it didn't leak. She got a handful of other people involved but kept the circle a very tight knit. Following Samira's advice - they didn't tell anyone else. 'You don't know how people are going to react,' she told them. 'It might not even be done maliciously but they may be shocked. Need to tell their partners, their friends to process. And, these people tell other people, and -'

Samira didn't tell Hermione. They didn't tell Ron. Or the kids. Or Ginny's family. Or anybody.

The weeks passed. After Ginny's people took over, Harry realised he wasn't needed much anymore. She'd spend her days on calls with her editor, discussing scene placements, word choices, and narrative nuances he knew nothing about. While she never shut him out, it became clear this was an aspect he couldn't contribute to. The days warmed and the sun brightened, he took Lily out often. They went to Quidditch practice with Hawk and the team; her presence eased the lingering tension with Ron. They visited the park nearly every day; Harry got her a Muggle scooter and she zoomed around Hampstead Heath, startling pigeons and grumbling elderly ladies. Samira started to worry about Harry. 'Are you alright?' she'd ask, joining them occasionally. He'd shrug. 'You know you have to keep a low profile, right? You can't protect her from everything.'

To keep him occupied, she tasked him with planning their escape. 'Leave the country when this breaks,' she said. 'Two, maybe three weeks. A Muggle place where the press won't find you.' So Harry renewed their Muggle passports. Samira advised Ginny to target an end-of-July release. 'Time to get away, return mid-August. Re-acclimate the kids before school.'

They started having these cyclical conversations about what they'd do with the kids. Homeschool them? Send them to Bauxbatons? 'What if they get bullied?' Ginny asked. 'I can't -'

'Hey,' he said. 'You do this, okay? Let me worry.'

The internet became his saving grace. He scoured for hours, hunting remote spots with kid activities and privacy. The Maldives fit; August would be the off-season - the press would be less likely to look. From what Harry read online, the summer would be like tossing a coin: either you ended up with three weeks of sun or three weeks of rain. He thought they were English and could take their chances.

In early June, Ginny's publisher gave them a tentative release date. Ginny bit her lip when she told him. 'Books typically get released on Tuesdays,' she explained.

To quash any potential rumours, she, her publisher and Samira had decided to keep up the pretence that Ginny was releasing a new romance novel that summer. The book world was apparently one giant gossip mill, so they'd decided the best way to keep the truth under wraps was to give people something else to talk about. They teased the novel as particularly raunchy, which explained the lockdown, the lack of ARCs or pre-press tour around it. But the run up to the release needed to look as normal as possible.

'The last Tuesday in July's the 31st,' Ginny said.

'Oh.'

He took two minutes to decide he didn't care. At least, they'd be on a plane, out and done, by then.

Harry blew about thirty thousand quid on one of those luxury villas built on stilts by the side of the ocean. Then, he blew another twenty on plane and Portkey tickets. He booked them on five different Portkeys and three Muggle flights out of London, then booked another set out of these destinations on to other places. He thought that even if the press managed to get hold of Portkey records or Muggle plane manifestos, they wouldn't have the time or manpower to check out fifteen different itinerary combinations. By the time they got to the Maldives, they could put wards around their rental.

Lily's questions became harder to deflect, that spring. Their daughter had always been clever, quick to pick up on other people's emotions, and she was starting to suspect something. The news that Ginny had turned down another opportunity to cover the World Cup with the Prophet was strange, and Lily was also upset they wouldn't be attending full stop. Harry reckons she started to study them more. 'Are you and Mum getting a divorce?' she asked, one afternoon.

He froze. Her schoolfriend's parents had divorced last year.

Things had been tense - between them. It was almost the end of June and Ginny was on to copy edits and cover designs. They were both so stressed out they hardly spoke anymore. Just sat, looking at each other sometimes; he would hold her hand and squeeze and she would sigh and say: 'Alright, we're almost there.' When they did talk, they bickered a lot. Stupid stuff like who did the dishes when, and who left their shoes in the hall. Harry felt like they weren't even truly annoyed with each other, just needed to relieve the strain like air out of a pressure cooker.

There had been an incident, a couple weeks back. They'd had a row about money, which they never usually did. He'd taken their holiday expenses out of Sirius's inheritance, hadn't wanted her to know how much everything was costing them, but she inevitably found out. 'This is for C.A.S.H.C.O.W.!' she said to him. 'For traumatised kids!'

'This is being used for traumatised kids!' he argued, and told her he could bloody well do whatever the fuck he wanted with his own bloody money, anyway, and he wanted them to at least have a good time over there. 'I'm using it for our own children!' he shouted.

Immediately regretted the implication. Immediately saw the look on her face and the panic and the hurt and would have chopped his own tongue off if it could have taken the words back. 'I didn't mean -'

He could see the tears of guilt in her eyes. 'It's fine, you're right.'

'Ginny, no, I shouldn't -'

He hadn't even thought. Felt barely awake most days, more exhausted than during any of the kids' newborn days. Sleep deprivation was making him say things he didn't even mean, and -

'Harry, it's fine,' she told him.

She got closer, her hips aligning with his. He felt her hand move against his chest under his shirt. She whispered, her lips grazing his neck. 'Harry -'

She kissed his jawline, her hand reaching under his waistband.

Sex had been weird, as of late. They'd grown restless and Harry had started to suspect Ginny's libido was following the curve of her bad days, when she and her editor would spend hours discussing the level of explicit violence Amycus Carrow warranted. She would tease him and take the lead, have him take her on the sofa or against her desk, pushing into her as she whispered, 'Harder.' He'd almost felt uncomfortable at times, like she was using him to escape her mind, making them into something they hadn't been for a really long time.

This had always been their way of communicating, ever since the US. Ginny had even written about it in the book. Despite the issues we initially had, I think Amycus was both a blessing and curse, for us. He made sex a problem we had to navigate carefully, thoughtfully, and as such, it was never a problem. We learnt to talk to each other, trust each other, in ways that I don't think many people experience at such a young age, if ever. And, sometimes when I socialise with other mums at my kids' Muggle school, the ones who complain about their husbands and the routine and being taken for granted, I think that we never took each other for granted. We had ups and downs, sure. We had three children and, for many many years, not much time to ourselves. But we always talked about it. We always laughed about it. And, I'm not writing this to make it sound like I think our relationship is better than anyone else's, because I don't think it is, I just think we've been together almost twenty years, now, and we've made a good thing out of the worst circumstances.

By then, he wondered if that had ceased to be true.

She dropped to her knees and started undoing a button. He gently pushed her away. 'Don't,' he said.

She snapped: 'Right.' Her glare was furious; she walked out and he felt like that night when she locked herself in the bathroom back in America. After that, they didn't touch each other for weeks.

He looked at Lily, now. 'I promise we're not getting a divorce, love.'

They fetched Al and James from the train a couple weeks later. Ginny joined them. Harry spent countless afternoons laughing with the kids at The Burrow, maintaining a semblance of normalcy. It wasn't too bad. Al was a quiet kid who was happy as long as he was inside playing chess with Uncle Ron and James being fourteen meant that all he really wanted to do with his summer break was sleep until noon and hang out with his mates, bitching about his parents not taking him to the World Cup. It suited them fine.

The week before the book came out, Ginny's publisher ordered a bunch of proofs. She went over typos and final details; they braced for a leak from the printing press but still, the secret held. She brought a couple dozen copies home - it was weird, finally holding it in his hands. 'Okay,' he said.

She'd wanted the cover to look girly, a point about reclaiming flowers and princess dresses, hence the bubblegum pink. She'd chosen an old picture of her for the cover. Luna had taken it the day of the first anniversary of the war. Ginny sat out on the steps of Hogwarts in her uniform. She was staring in the distance; there was something heavy about it. Then, she suddenly noticed Luna and smiled incredibly bright, incredibly fake. She looked so young. A child.

On the evening of the 28th, everything was locked. They looked at each other.

Suddenly, it was real. It was time to tell.

Ginny decided that most of her 'telling' would be done through letters. She spent most of the 29th writing to people. She wrote to Neville, to Seamus, to Demelza, to Luna. Long letters accompanied by a proof for each. Asked Kreacher to deliver them to everyone once they were away. 'Is Mistress Ginny well?' he asked, anxiously; she smiled at him, told him not to worry about the things that would be said about her in the press. 'Promise me, okay?'

She wrote to Hannah, next. You are the only one for whom this will not be a surprise. I suppose this letter is both my thank you to you for keeping my secret for so long, and my way of relieving you of that burden. She wrote to Charlie, , they both crafted a letter to Teddy and Andromeda. Decided they would tell their own kids later, together, once they reached a safe place.

Ginny arranged a family gathering at The Burrow for six thirty on the 30th. She used Harry's birthday as an excuse to get the boys to come, claiming they would be having early celebrations, but it was a hard sell. She couldn't justify why they shouldn't bring their wives and kids as well. 'I just can't do it if everyone's there,' she'd told him. As such, Harry spent the week building up to the release fending off worried notes and phone calls from her brothers. 'Is Ginny alright? She's not ill, is she? Her little family reunion sounds bloody odd,' and 'You're not separating, are you?' He supposed that they'd hardly shown their faces together lately so this must have been a logical conclusion.

'No, she's fine. We're both fine.'

The morning of, Ginny deep-cleaned the house, starting at seven o'clock. She dusted the skirting boards by hand, did laundry, washed the floors, cleared out drawers, and instructed the kids to hoover behind their wardrobes. They all groaned. 'Mum, it's the holidays -'

'Yes, and we're leaving tomorrow. I want the house clean for when we come back.'

'But Mum, why should we clean if we're not here!'

Doors were slammed.

Around eleven, Harry found her on the bathroom floor, sobbing. Just - sobbing. He'd planned to head into work for a few hours in the afternoon to wrap things up for his handover. Now, he sat there, next to her. He could hear the kids grumbling amongst themselves.

'We can still stop this,' he whispered. He wasn't sure this was true, but it didn't matter.

'I don't want to.'

He held her as she cried into his shirt. 'Dad!' Albus shouted from downstairs. Harry closed his eyes. 'Is there anything I can do?' he asked.

She bit her lip, visibly uncertain. Neither of them had slept much. 'Can you not come?' she finally managed.

'Dad!'

'He doesn't care about you, you twat!'

'Oi!' Harry yelled. 'You lot do what your mother told you, eh? I'll be downstairs in a bit!'

He stared at Ginny, then. His breath caught. She looked away. 'Sorry, I -'

'I'm not leaving you alone, Gin, I -'

'It's worse if you're there,' she burst out. Closed her eyes for a second and wiped more tears from her cheeks. 'I -' Her voice broke. 'I don't know how they'll react. They might say things they don't mean and get upset.' She swallowed. 'If you're there, you'll get angry. I can't handle that and them.'

'I won't -'

She met his eyes. 'You will.' She paused. 'I know you mean well, but you've had twenty years to process this. They haven't.'

He gritted his teeth. Sat back against the side of the tub and looked up to the ceiling. 'What was it you wrote?' he asked with a tired smile, taking her hand. When women get assaulted and tell the men in their lives, the primary reaction is often anger. 'I'm going to kill him,' they say, and mean it. Except, that solution is often unwise. So, they have to calm other men down, on top of dealing with their own grief.

Ginny promised to call if she needed him or changed her mind. 'I want to tell Hermione,' he stated. Ginny hadn't wanted anyone's partners there initially, and it had felt wrong to make an exception for her, but he'd been a coward, asking Samira to do it. 'She knew something was off back then. I promised I'd tell her what was going on if I ever could.'

Ginny smiled softly. 'Okay,' she told him.

He headed into work with a copy of the book concealed inside a plastic bag. Met with Seamus who had begrudgingly agreed to act as Head Auror while Harry was away, a choice that had driven the Head of IntoxSubs up the wall. 'I still don't understand -'

'Look, I'd rather it be you, alright?' Harry snapped. He thought that in case he did get sacked, Seamus would stand a better chance of being permanently appointed if he was already in the job. Seamus rolled his eyes.

Harry packed his things a few minutes later. Made sure to leave all the paperwork in order and went up to Hermione's Wizengamot office. He found her munching on a salad at her desk. She groaned when she saw him - they still weren't on very good terms. 'What do you want?'

'Clear out your afternoon.'

'Oh, Harry, what the -'

'How long does it take you to read 350 pages?'

She threw her fork to the side, clearly exasperated. 'I don't know, six or seven hours? I'm a fast reader. What is this -'

He fished the book out of the bag, laid it down hard on the desk in front of her. 'Read this. Text me when you're done. I'll meet you. Anywhere,' he just said.

They waited for the hours to pass. Harry came home and they packed bags and tried to entertain conversations with the kids. Harry could feel his nerves like prickling at the edge of his skin. He went out for a run. Samira came over to check on them around five; she'd agreed to keep an eye on the kids while they were out. Ginny was about to head out when Harry got home. James grumbled. 'I'm 14, I don't need to be babysat. What is going on anyway -'

'Gee, thanks, James,' Samira quipped.

Six o'clock rolled around. Six fifteen. Harry kissed Ginny on the doorstep. 'I'll be okay,' she said.

He and Samira sat in the living room, him on the sofa, her on a chair. He couldn't even swallow tea. 'Fuck,' he said, apropos of nothing. His phone buzzed. He saw the notification without even opening WhatsApp.

I'm at the house, Hermione said. Come when you can.

Here we go, he thought.

Harry found her in an armchair by the fireplace a few minutes later, at the little farming cottage she and Ron had moved into after London. Her kids were playing on brooms in the back garden, shouts muffled by the closed windows. The sky was grey and dark, menacing with thunderstorms, and she had turned on the lights. Harry knocked but the door was open. He shut it behind him and walked into the front room. He crossed her gaze.

The look on her face reminded him of the way he'd found Ginny, on the floor of her office, that night back in December. Her cheeks were raw, blotched. He sat down in front her, the couch opposite, and said nothing.

'Ron's at his parents'.'

He nodded.

He filled the silence. Explained he'd been supposed to go, didn't go, Ginny didn't want him to. Midway through his third sentence, he crossed Hermione's gaze again - she was crying, just quiet, there, and without warning, looking at her, tears of exhaustion and nerves started pouring down his own face. Hot, pathetic sobs on her sofa; she materialised next to him, her arm immediately around his shoulder. Like that night when he was eighteen and the girl he loved left him. 'I just - I can't fucking break down in front of her, I -'

'Hey,' Hermione said. 'Hey.'

She made tea. With lots of honey and sugar; he managed to swallow that one. Felt like he hadn't eaten in days, hadn't slept in days, just -

Hermione did what she does best. She confirmed facts. 'When's it coming out?' and 'Who else knows?' and 'What's the plan?' He outlined their escape strategy. 'We'll keep our phones off but I'll get a burner, text Samira the number.' Hermione nodded quietly.

'You found out in January '99, right?' she asked. 'Explains a lot.' About him, about Ginny, his behaviour that year, and even recently. He tried to apologise but she waved him off. 'Everything changed after the US, didn't it?'

He shook his head. 'Not like a magic spell.'

'No,' she conceded. 'But you became a team. This sort of -' she paused, then, looking for her words. 'Unstoppable force.' She insisted on her words and he almost laughed a little. 'I was jealous of it, you know?' she admitted after another pause, a quick shake of her head like a chill in the air. 'Later, I mean.'

'I know,' he said.

Hermione asked about Amycus. 'I didn't kill him, if that's what you're asking.'

She didn't seem to find it funny. Her gaze narrowed. 'But you know who did.'

He shrugged. That was the part he wasn't sure about. They'd kept it out of the book for obvious reasons but Harry wouldn't have minded telling Ron or Hermione. He knew he could trust them but it felt like Pansy's story to tell. Hermione knew him well enough to read the answer to her question on his face anyway. 'He assaulted someone else,' Harry admitted. 'He got killed because of that assault.'

'God.' Hermione pleaded. Her eyes were heartbroken. 'Will she -'

'-Come forward?' He shook his head. 'I dunno. I don't think so.'

He stayed at the house for almost two hours. They talked about what would happen next. 'If this works,' he said. If this doesn't completely blow up in our faces and destroy everything we've built - 'We can work together,' he suggested. 'I know you're not at the DMLE anymore but I thought maybe we could -' he halted, nervous. 'Create your task force or something. Actually change things. I know you had ideas, and -'

She cried again, pulling him into a hug. 'Oh, Harry,' she told him.

A little after eight, Ron came home. Opened the front door, took one look at Harry and punched him in the face. Expected. Then, he went at it again a few more times, and broke Harry's nose. Blood spilled all over their flooring. 'YOU DIDN'T TELL US! SHE'S MY SISTER! YOU FUCKING -' something. Harry supposed Ginny's family meeting had gone as well as he could have imagined.

He just sort of let it happen. Didn't stop Ron. His best friend needed to have a go at something and Harry's face happened to be in the way. He decided that if/when ribs started cracking, maybe he'd intervene. Hermione put an end to it much sooner than he would have with a mild stunner to Ron's chest. She yelled at her husband for attacking him and at Harry for not defending himself. 'You're a Hit Wizard, for God's sake! Don't tell me you can't fight him off -'

'Get the FUCK out of my house -'

Harry stretched and got up and groaned and saw himself out.

He leaned against the fence at the edge of the road, little stone walls bordering their bright, summering English garden, and tried to wipe the blood that was pouring down his face. He was in a t-shirt and didn't have any tissues; Harry rolled his eyes when Hermione came running after him. Thank Merlin they lived in the middle of nowhere and didn't have close neighbours. 'I'm fine -' he groaned.

She batted his hand away and Episkeyed his nose, giving him gauze for a cut at his eyebrow. 'Oh, shoot, I forgot the Dittany, let me -'

He reached for her arm as she was about to Accio it. 'I'm fine, Hermione.'

They sat next to each other again. The weather had turned a bit, clouds framed by hints of blue skies. It hadn't rained. The bleeding at his eyebrow eventually slowed down. 'He'll calm down,' she assured him. 'He'll come around, he's just -'

'I know,' Harry sighed.

'How are you? I mean really -'

He laughed. The exact same thing Kingsley had asked the three of them in May of 1998. She seemed to identify the throwback, gently shook her head at him and smiled. 'I don't fucking know,' he admitted.

'Harry,' she said. 'What happened to Alecto?'

They'd been careful, he and Ginny. Unless Kingsley talked, the book itself was iron-clad. Samira had read through it and never asked. No one on Ginny's team had ever asked. Even if questions were asked, Kingsley's paper trail was as foolproof as anything could possibly be. But Harry also had a hunch that Hermione (and possibly Ron) would have enough context to remember he'd traded something for his political support with Kingsley back then, and had stubbornly refused to tell them what.

'Do you really want to know?' he asked. She was quiet. 'I can tell you but then you can't ever take that knowledge back.'

He thought: she had a glowing political career ahead of her. And, possibly a lot of scrutiny associated. If it ever came out that she knew… He still wanted to protect her and Ron as much as he could. In the end, she shook her head no.

Eventually, he Apparated home. Ginny ran to the door, took one look at him and: 'What on EARTH happened to your face?' she said.

He winced. 'Ron.'

In hindsight, it gave them something to do. She hurriedly sat Harry down at the dinner table and finished what Hermione had started. Dittany was oozing off his skin within minutes and she had fished a couple of ice packs out of the freezer to contain the swelling. 'What an idiot,' she muttered under her breath.

'He's just -'

'Not him,' she snapped.

He managed a pained laugh.

Ginny eventually sat beside him. Explained she'd been back about half an hour (around the same time Ron attempted to destroy his face, Harry supposed), and: 'I said I'd give them room to process. I put the kids to bed.' She corrected: 'Well, they're in their rooms at least. I told James we'd need to be at Heathrow by five tomorrow, but if he wants to spend the night playing video games, that's his problem.'

Harry smiled. Then, said nothing for a while. He didn't even know what to tell her. It seemed silly to ask: 'How did it go?'

She explained her father had been on the verge of imploding. 'He kept saying stuff like: "Why didn't you tell us?" and "How could you do that? Ginny, this is serious." Then, I think he processed it more and asked me why I wrote the book, he said people didn't need to know, that they'd come after me, he said -' Harry opened his mouth - she shook her head. 'I don't think he meant anything by it. I think he was just in shock.' There was something in her tone that also said: this is why I didn't want you there.

'Mum didn't stop crying from the moment I opened my mouth. Then, she went upstairs, wailing, and Dad ran after her.' Ginny sighed. 'Percy had loads of questions. Like - technical questions. How did we meet, and where, and how. I answered everything.' Harry heard a pause, loaded. 'Bill felt guilty, I think. That he didn't know. I'm the little sister, he's the big brother, he's always thought he had a duty to protect me. We talked a bit about the politics of it. He asked about the slut-shaming when I slept around afterwards. He apologised. I said he was actually the only one who shouldn't apologise, that he'd never held it against me. He's the one who pulled me into a hug at the ceremony.

'Ron just sat there seething. Then, he asked if you knew. Then, he took off,' she cringed. 'I left a proof for each of them but I also said they didn't need to read it.' Harry nodded. 'I think George took one. He helped me clean up the kitchen after everyone had left,' Ginny said. 'He felt so - normal. It was quiet but not tense, like a Boxing Day morning. Then, he gave me a hug before I left and I just - I broke down in tears,' she explained. He could still hear clouds of them in her voice now. 'He just said: "Thanks for telling us," and "I'm so sorry." That was that really.'

Harry held her, too, that night. Then he suggested she get some sleep. She snorted. 'As if.' They sat around with tea and a bit of food, waiting for the morning.

A little before three, Ginny went to grab a shower. Harry started taking their bags downstairs. They'd give the kids another half hour in bed. He'd booked an Uber for four. Ginny's phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. Unknown Number. Samira had warned them this might happen. The book was being printed overnight; the printing press had promised a fast turnaround using magic and overtime, but more employees on the project meant more risk.

He picked it up. 'Hello?'

'Hi, my name is Ava Thompson, I work for the Standard, I'm trying to reach Mrs Ginny Potter?'

Harry sighed. Almost laughed. At least, it was the Standard. 'At…' he stole a quick glance at his watch, '3:06 in the morning?'

There was a pause on the other end. 'Mr Potter?' A hint of a doubt.

'Yes,' he said.

'Mr Potter, I'm hearing from multiple, confirmed sources -'

'D'you want a statement?' he interrupted. There was a bit of confused stutter in his ear.

'Do I want -?'

He did laugh, this time around. 'Do you want a statement? I'm basically confirming that what you've heard is true, and obviously, we are not unprepared,' he spelled out. 'So, hence my question: I have a statement to read, do you want to take it?'

Ms Ava Thompson did seem a bit stunned, but quickly caught on. 'Sure, yes.'

'Let me grab my phone, then.'

She wished him luck, at the end of the call. When Ginny reappeared, Harry caught her gaze. 'Just had the Standard on the phone.' Her mouth twisted. 'We've got to go.'

And, there it started.

They spent eighteen days in the Maldives. The flights were chaotic; they Confunded more Muggles than Harry could count and almost missed their connection to Abu Dhabi but they watched Muggle films and ate snacks and Ginny spent a lot of time staring at the clouds outside. Al got a bit nervous but she said: 'I'd always wished I could go this high.'

They had a couple days of rain. The rest was gorgeous and the Muggles who owned the resort treated them like royalty, or like the kinds of people who can blow thirty thousand pounds on a holiday stay, maybe. They had a cleaner and their laundry done and plenty of fresh fruit delivered each day. Lily ran full speed into the pool the moment they got there. Al spent a lot of time on the lounge chairs next to his mother, discussing the books he read.

Harry bit his nails and chain-smoked cigarettes. He and Ginny had decided on a week to unwind. They'd locked all the phones in the safe, just got a couple of burners to call each other if they got separated. The ban included the kids, which immediately triggered a row with James. 'We're not even going to the World Cup! Now, how am I supposed to talk to my friends?'

'You've no friends,' Lily quipped.

Ginny shot her a look. 'James, this is family time, your father and I have decided, that's it.'

Except: they were on holiday with so much time on their hands and not much else to think about. Harry developed this fear at the pit of his stomach every time he had to open the safe to get to his passport or his wallet, as if his phone was going to jump up and bite his neck off, Nagini-style. He'd imagined a relaxing trip to paradise where he and Ginny would be able to rest, but instead he still couldn't really sleep and Ginny was waking up screaming.

Things came to a head with James that Friday. Their eldest chose to play the angsty teen card up to its full potential, repeating to everyone who was willing to listen that this place was 'so boring' and did not 'spark joy.'The wakeboard activity Harry had booked for them got cancelled due to strong winds, so Harry decided to head into town with him on one of the speedboats their resort provided, just to get him out of the house. James was sulking and rolled his eyes a lot but still, they managed to do things. They got some food and hit souvenir shops on the main road. James eventually found a place that sold surfboards and disappeared into it. The sales person had a good pitch, and it was nice to see a smile on his face, for once. 'Dad, d'you think I could - I could surf at Uncle Bill's if -'

It was £300. 'That's your Christmas present, then. And only if your mother agrees,' Harry said.

The lady in the shop smiled. James jumped up. 'Oh, this one's so cool -'

Harry stepped out for a cigarette. He absentmindedly looked at the people on the beach in the distance, a handful of American teenage girls were plaiting each others' hair with pearls. He didn't notice James leaving the surf shop for the phone shop a couple doors down. Only turned around to see his teenage son come out with a -

'Give me that!' He ran over.

James panicked. Tried to hide the phone in his pocket, Harry grabbed it, a struggle ensued - 'it is MINE!' James shouted. 'I HAVE A RIGHT TO THE INTERNET -'

'JAMES!'

'YOU AND MUM ARE HIDING SOMETHING!' he shouted, 'I bloody know it! YOU THINK I'M BLIND? YOU THINK LILY'S BLIND?' he was gesticulating, pointing at Harry. 'SHE'S BEEN WRITING TO US! She knows something's going on! And now you're taking us to the middle of NOWHERE, pretending like everything's ALRIGHT - I HEARD MUM SCREAMING LAST NIGHT!' Harry's breath caught in his throat. 'AND YOU THINK YOU'RE PROTECTING US, YOU -'

James had moved without meaning to, reaching closer to traffic. Harry grabbed his arm to pull him back onto the pavement - people were staring. The phone fell to the ground and James picked it up. He pulled back before Harry could get to it. Harry launched to grab it again, James struggled to escape his reach and he felt the fear rising in him turn to raw panic. 'STOP!' Harry shouted. James yanked his forearm to try to push him off, screaming: 'Don't touch me!' and 'YOU LIAR!' and Harry just - hit. His palm flat against James's cheek.

The world stopped, still.

He'll never forgive himself. Never. It was one time. One time but he broke the promise he'd made to Ginny, the promise he had made to himself, the promise he'd made to James back when he was still in her belly. Harry looked at his hand and he saw Petunia and her frying pan and the bruise Vernon had left at his cheekbone once.

James stood frozen. The phone hanging from his left hand as his right laid against his cheek. There were tears pooling in his furious eyes and: 'FUCK YOU!' he said. 'FUCK -'

Harry sat down. On a bench at the side of the street. The few passersby who'd been ogling at them had already moved on, unbothered. He'd just slapped his son. He felt like he should be dragged in handcuffs to the closest police station, but no one seemed to fucking care. An inconsequential family dispute about his kid's mobile phone. He put his face in his hands under the glaring sun.

'I'm bloody leaving,' James snapped -

'Wait. Please, wait.'

It was the broken tone that made him stop, Harry reckons. James had never heard him like that before. Harry's son was glaring at him when he finally dared to look. 'Please don't go online,' Harry begged. He tried to steady his voice. 'I need to call your mum first,' he said. 'Then, I'll explain.'

She agreed. Her voice was calm and soothing 'He's like you at that age,' she said. 'Stubborn and dramatic.' Harry snorted. 'He won't budge until you've told him.' A pause. 'I think we're repeating my parents' mistake, hiding things to protect them. Tell him,' she added. 'You're his father, he deserves to know.'

'We'd -'

They'd planned for this. They were going to tell the kids the week before they got home. One by one, age-appropriate conversations - you don't handle this the same way with a ten-year-old, a twelve-year-old, and a fourteen-year-old. James had already had talks the others hadn't. Harry sighed again. Ginny was warm, reassuring, then. 'It's okay, plans change,' she said.

They got a couple of Cokes at a café by the beach and sat in the shade. White plastic tables and chairs trapping branded umbrellas in their centre. James was still glaring daggers at him. Had agreed to sit down but only sideways, like he wanted to make it clear he wouldleave if Harry didn't start talking immediately. There was concern on his face, the bravado was all gone. 'Is Mum ill?' he asked. 'Is someone dea -'

Harry closed his eyes. He thought that Kingsley's claim that younger generations didn't relate to the war enough was worth burning the Ministry to the ground. If anything, especially now, his children related too much to the war. Knew too much. Would know too much. He wished they didn't 'relate' at all.

Harry took another deep breath and: 'Your Mum wrote a book,' he said.

James frowned. 'Mum's always -'

Harry continued to speak. 'It's one that's going to make a lot of noise in the press, and we wanted to shield you three from the worst of it.' James stared at him. Harry couldn't help but look up to the sky, praying to a God he didn't believe in he would find words to explain the inexplicable.

In the end, maybe they were lucky, he thought. Lucky that they had always been open with the kids, until then. That Ginny had been adamant she didn't want to repeat her own upbringing, that when the three of them had had questions about how babies were made, they had always been answered. That he and Ginny would laugh sometimes, tease and kiss and joke around, had always been affectionate with each other, even in front of the kids. That they'd told them about consent early on, not only to protect them, but also so that they would be caring to others. When they'd found porn on James's phone sent by one of his mates a couple years back, they'd talked about that, too. 'I want to raise boys. I want to raise the good ones,' Ginny had told him, once. So, they'd tried the best they could.

James understood quickly. Harry never even said the words. He explained the war and Amycus Carrow and Ginny's rebellion and getting caught and tortured: 'She slept with him, didn't she?' his son asked. Harry swallowed.

'He didn't give her a choice. He threatened to kill your grandparents, your uncles, me, her, everybody.' James picked at an acne spot on his cheek. 'I think it was rape,' Harry said. He thought the word was important to say. James twitched a little. 'But your mum might disagree a bit. It's complicated. She feels like this was her way to fight.' James nodded. 'He was very - aggressive.' Harry bit his lip. 'Violent, I mean. Not all the time, but sometimes.' James looked away. 'I'm just telling you because I'm not going to forbid you from reading the book. I know you: if you want to read it, you'll read it anyway,' Harry smiled, tender, then, 'but your mum and I, we - we'd rather you didn't. At least not until you're older.'

They sat for a long time. The ice in their drinks melted and the afternoon faded. 'Your mum's doing this because of #MeToo, you know? The Muggle thing.' James quickly nodded. 'She wants to change things. She wants people who do that to be reported, to go to jail. She wants girls to not have to go through that anymore.' Harry squeezed his son's wrist gently, supportively. 'I'm sorry I hit you.' He winced at the words. 'I panicked. I didn't want you to find out online,' he admitted. 'There's going to be some - nasty things said about your mum in the coming weeks. A lot of people might not understand. A lot of people still think girls are property. I didn't want you to see that. I'm sorry.'

James took a long time to speak. When he did look up, Harry studied his son's face, recognised his own nose and mouth, and James's mother's eyes, her freckles in the sun. 'Dad?' Harry nodded. 'Is Mum okay?'

He smiled. There was genuine concern in James's voice. 'Yeah,' Harry nodded. 'She's okay.'

'Can I talk to her?' Tentative and shy again.

Harry felt the emotion tickling in his throat. He felt like the weight the world had been lifted off his shoulders. 'Of course, you can.' He smiled and pulled James into a hug. He handed him the burner with Ginny's number. 'She'd love to talk to you. I'll walk around. Take all the time you need, alright?'

They told Lily and Al the next day. They were going to be okay.

Over the next few days and weeks, things eased up, little by little. Everyone kept their phones off but they talked a lot, and tried to enjoy the sun and the heat and the activities the resort offered. They went paragliding and snorkelling and Harry's pretty sure James had a snog with a Muggle girl with blonde hair and blue eyes who he only consented to point out to them from very, very far. He and Ginny enjoyed the quiet of afternoons by themselves. The low hum of the Muggle fan above their heads, the water outside their window, an infinite blanket of blue. They could hear short waves lapping against the wooden stilts, the soft heat of the setting sun. They had sex. Once afterwards, he loosely traced the line of her spine, the quiet rhythm of her sleeping breaths, naked on her stomach next to him. She stirred, the sheet that covered her body, from her hips down to her calves, shifted slightly. 'This feels nice,' she told him. He supposes things hadn't felt nice in a long while.

'I hit James,' he muttered, that day. He rested on his side, his head balanced on his palm; her index finger followed the coordinates of the tattoo on his bicep. They'd faded a bit with age.

'I know,' she said. She smiled. 'He told me.'

Harry thought he would. Definitely wouldn't have asked James not to tell. Ginny outlined the line of his jaw.

'I didn't say anything 'cause I thought you probably hated yourself enough.'

Harry let out a heavy breath. He shifted to lie on his back, and looked at the ceiling - she followed him on her side, her hand laid over his heart.

'He'll be fine,' she reassured. 'He knows it was fear, not anger.' Harry still couldn't shake off the guilt. Had a feeling he never would. 'Hey,' she said. 'Do you know how many times Mum chased Fred and George aiming her wand at them throughout the house?' He snorted. 'It's definitely not what killed Fred.'

It was a Wednesday, a few days before her birthday. Ginny gently pulled away. 'I've scheduled a call with Samira tomorrow,' she stated. He caught her gaze, rested there, for a moment. 'I think I'm ready to find out what's happening.' He nodded. 'We can take it from there,' she said.

Which, Harry supposes, is what has led him here. To his interview with Laura, today.

Some good has come out of it. There's been a lot of talk and headlines and stuff. Ginny has done a lot of press. 'Your wife has become a figurehead,' Laura sums up, hours into it. 'Both here and in the US, and I'm sure in a lot of other places. With the career she's built, she's a worldwide celebrity. You were the hero of the war, and she's the heroine of this. With all of the difficulties that that implies, I guess.'

The noise the book made was deafening, so loud no one could look away. They tried their best to take it day by day, one problem at a time. There were: the thousands of letters and tweets Ginny's received since August, the hundreds of other women who went and told their own stories. She made #MeToo happen, in their world. Nothing more. Nothing less. Harry got back from the Maldives to Seamus handing him his job back ('I wanted it, but not like that,' he said) and announcing: 'We've had a 20% increase in SA reports being filed.'

They looked at each other and Harry wasn't sure what to say, until Seamus added: 'I didn't know. I would have killed him if -'

Harry cut it short. 'I know.'

He didn't get sacked. Susan Bones, loyal to Hermione, had his back. The ship rocked, but it didn't sink. The gossip followed him in work and everywhere he went but he didn't care much. His row with WR abruptly ended - whatever happened to that. Harry addressed the book once, in an All Hands meeting, then never again. 'Some things are going to change around here, and if you're not happy, you can leave. Now, let's get to work, steer clear of sirens and shite, right?'

David Bennett lost his job. The chief editor of Witch Weekly sued both Harry and Ginny for defamation - the lawsuit's still pending and Ginny is refusing to settle. 'I want him to apologise to me,' she laughed with Samira, one night. Hermione took #MeToo and ran with it. The other figurehead of a redistribution of cards around a liberal agenda; Ginny gave her blessing for her to exploit it politically. She will probably announce in January.

Kingsley took a hit. A medium one. The book made it clear that he probably did not know about the sexual abuse, though he might have, but he was definitely aware of the torture. Sent a child he knew to be at risk back to that school. The Ministry pleaded, explained it was a war time decision, and some people understood. Harry feels like this is in Hermione's hands now, to run a better campaign than his.

Ron did come around. They talked on the phone when Harry and Ginny were still in the Maldives. He apologised for using Harry's face as a punching bowl. They talked some more when they got back. Harry reckons they're okay - ish. Ginny's family is still processing. He's been instructed to give them space.

She's spent a lot of time with her friends, people in the DA. People who were there, that year, and feel responsible for not knowing, not helping - Demelza, Seamus and Neville the most. They couldn't have, she assured them. She didn't want anyone to help. 'I'd like to do something now, though,' she told him. 'For girls, through C.A.S.H.C.O.W.' They gave their blessings and got to work.

George read the book. Ginny's been out with him a bunch of times. They've also talked about Fred. She's been to The Burrow a lot, in the middle of the day, to spend time with her mother. Harry hasn't asked about it, because it's felt precious and warm and fragile and unless she needs him to step in, he knows better than to endanger it.

And then came a crisp, sunny morning, late September, when Samira called them up at 6:30. Harry grunted at the phone. 'Turn on the wireless,' she said. 'Or tell Ginny to turn on the wireless.'

'Wha -'

'There's someone else.'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'There's been loads of people, Samira, I think -'

'No, I mean, with him.'

He bolted upright. It wasn't Pansy. It was an ex-girlfriend he'd raped and beaten and left for dead in her own house, years before Ginny. It didn't need to be Pansy.

There were all of the hard things, of course. More death threats. Ginny had to change her number five times in four months and someone tried to hex her on her way to school with Lily. The Auror protection provided by Harry's job has come in handy. There was: the hardest of all the things. McGonagall calling them up to Hogwarts midweek last October and: 'If it had just been James, I wouldn't have written, but with Albus -' Seeing their little baby standing on the steps outside the Headmaster's office in his little Slytherin uniform, with a deep frown on his face and his arms crossed, having received his first ever detention. A duelling match with a kid twice his size. 'He called Mum a whore,' he said. In his voice: all the tears in the world.

Harry's throat so tight in the candlelight. The things he should have said: 'That's not a reason to hex someone.' The things he did say: 'I know. Come here.' Holding his children so close he wished love could make everything right.

'Professor,' Ginny said, tentatively catching McGonagall's gaze. 'Can I speak to you?'

'Of course, Miss Weasley.'

Harry asked, later. 'What did you tell her?'

'I thanked her.'

And: 'Ginny finished the book like this,' Laura says, now, reading from her copy across from him. The afternoon is drawing to a close, too, and in the distance, Harry sees the neighbours' Christmas lights twinkling in the dark. 'I chose to write this book not to paint myself as a victim or to wash my laundry in public, but because I was hoping other people would connect. Not necessarily with what to happened to me, specifically - I am under no illusion that my story is a wartime story - but in a broader sense. Harry and I promised ourselves we would make this as poignant, as explicit, as real as it needed to be for people to hopefully understand it, even if it meant sacrificing a lot of things, including our sense of safety and privacy.

I do not think you need to have a wand to your head or a knife dug through your skin to feel pressured, forced, or intimidated. I do not think you have to sleep with a war criminal to feel the guilt, the shame, and the sense of responsibility that I felt. I do not think you have to be growing up in the public eye to feel hunted and slut shamed for choices that you made the way I did.

I still don't know if I can call what happened with Amycus rape. I also don't think I need to. I can say that it was a terrifying, humiliating, and damaging thing to go through. It would probably have been so regardless of age, but even more so at sixteen. I can say that I chose between two options a child should never have had to choose between. But, I regret none of the choices I made. I regret none of the things I did. I will not apologise for any of them. They allowed me to survive, and become the person I am today.

Still. 'Me too,' I can say.

I hope this book manages to change things. I hope it can change someone's life, change the world maybe. I'm an optimist at heart. For me, it's been a way to put this behind me, draw a line in the sand. I no longer spend my days trying to forget about him. I've learnt that he can be a memory. A thing that happened. Something I talk about in the past tense.'

Harry looks at Laura, now. He is slouched on the couch a bit; it's late. 'Do you know what the dedication on Ginny's previous book was?' He laughs. Ginny's always dedicated her books to random people, always claimed it felt 'bloody weird' to dedicate raunchy romances to her family and friends. Harry racks his brain. 'The woman who bought her a new marble cake after baby Albus threw the first one on the floor in a café or something, right?' Harry suggests. Laura grins. 'Yeah, actually, you've got a good memory.'

She holds his gaze. 'D'you know what the dedication on this one is?'

He pauses, conceding the point. 'Yes,' he says. 'To H. For everything.'

'Do you think this is a love story?' she asks him. 'Underneath it all, I mean.'

'Maybe.'

There's an event, that Friday night, in December. It's the Annual British Quidditch Association's Christmas Dinner and Ginny is invited as a member of the sports press, as well as a former player. Harry is her plus one. His interview with Laura's just come out in the press, so everyone's been talking about it. Curious looks and chatter follows them around the room as they move between groups but he honestly couldn't care less. He supposes he's mostly there to enjoy the free bubbles and the canapés and to feel uncomfortable being hit on by twenty-year-olds. 'Oh, such a feminist,' they now say.

They are in the midst of a riveting conversation about the World Cup with Demelza Robbins who is now coaching the Harpies when someone interrupts, coughing right by Harry's shoulder. He turns around, half-expecting Umbridge's ghost to materialise right in front of him, but thankfully, it's not her. Instead, it's a shorter girl with an upturned nose and pitch-black hair - the three of them stare. Demelza is the first one to speak. 'What are you doing here?'

Pansy crosses her arms over her chest like a fifteen year old girl in a bitching contest. 'I work for Witch Weekly.'

Demelza snorts. 'Of course,' she smirks.

Pansy swiftly chooses to ignore her, turning to Ginny. 'Can I speak to you?' She glares at Harry. 'Alone.'

He and Ginny exchange a look. The most discreet glint in her eye that says: it's okay. 'Yes,' she nods at Pansy, leaving his side. 'Of course.'

His gaze follows them absentmindedly as they disappear onto the balcony.

He continues to talk to Demelza for a bit. Then, finds refuge with a group of Ginny's old Magpie teammates. By the time she meets him again, he is sitting alone on one of the chairs at a big, round, deserted table by the side of the dancefloor. He toys with the vape in his pocket. The music is lively but soft with piano keys, the evening reaching that point were people unhurriedly finish conversations before they leave, either heading home or to another venue.

Ginny stands in front of him. Close. She shuffles until their knees touch, until he opens his legs to let her in a little. He looks up to meet her gaze, smiling. 'What did she want?' he asks. Ginny shakes her head.

'Girl stuff,' she says.

He vaguely hums to the music. The piano sounds like a trickle of rain. Ginny runs her thumb over the stubble at his cheek, and bends down to kiss him, open-mouthed, in front of everyone. He snorts when she pulls away. 'People are looking.'

'I don't care,' she says.

Her palm is warm around his. 'Come on,' she whispers in his ear, 'dance with me.'

They're the only couple on the dancefloor at that point in the night. A soft ballad. He is certain someone must be filming on their phone. She is so close. They are whispering. 'Do you think Hermione will win?' he asks, still a bit anxious.

'I hope so.'

'Do you think Kingsley will send me to jail if he loses?'

She chuckles. 'Possibly.' She pauses to look at him. 'But we're here. We've made it this far, haven't we?'

He rests his hands on her waist. For a moment, the world is just them. He remembers talking to Laura a few days back. In the scene that replays in his head, 'You found the title,' she says.

He nods. Ginny's told the press in previous interviews. 'She wrote it.'

'Yes,' Laura smiles, 'but you found it.'

He grins, amused. 'I suppose, yeah.'

It was one night, going through her letters, a few weeks before they went to press. A highlighter in his hand. 'That,' he said.

The Way Wars Are Fought.