#harry himself

      Harry purses his lips. "I wonder," he thinks aloud, because he's never stopped to consider it.

      And that's the crux of it all. For all Harry's been angry or somebody's hero, he's never stopped. He's never had the opportunity to stop, to take a break.

      But he's just earned the longest respite in his life.

      It's him and Hermione for the first few weeks at Grimmauld Place as the Weasleys are still tender in the aftermath of the war. But that's probably wise, given that Hermione comes and goes at all hours of the day, inserting herself into new business at the Ministry of Magic right away.

      "You really ought to be joining me, you know," she chides him over breakfast and occasionally at supper.

      Harry rolls his eyes. Having Hermione prod him like this—it's one thing that won't change, whether they dine in the Great Hall or in the Black ancestral family kitchen (and he wouldn't change a thing about it). "Why's that?"

      "Because half the time when I'm proposing new legislation to Kingsley—who swears up and down that he's only going to be Minister temporarily, so please convince him otherwise, by the way—he's really only half listening, Harry. Oh, good Godric, you're only half listening, aren't you?"

      "Hmm? No, no, I'm listening, Hermione, honest! Kingsley doesn't want to be Minister, you wanted the marmalade spread—"

      She huffs and flares her nostrils. With a flourishing wave of her hand, she gestures to a plate free of toast and only a few bites of scrambled eggs left. "As I was saying, you should come along with me. I know you're not really cleaning around here…"

      Harry frowns. "Hey! Kreacher likes taking care of Grimmauld Place."

      "You need something to do, Harry. I know you told Kingsley you weren't going to jump right into the Auror Office, but at least come speak with him. It'd do me a world of good." She finishes with an imploring look. The only thing is, on Hermione, imploring just as easily reads as intimidating to Harry and Ron, who've known her the longest.

      He sighs. "…all right."

      "Fantastic. Then let's go."

      "You meant today?!"

      But Hermione means business and is in no mood to hear protests of any kind.

      They take the visitors' entrance to the Ministry since Hermione isn't an official employee yet (she keeps talking of juggling Ministry work with an eighth school year, but Harry worries that's impossible even for her, with or without a Time-Turner). Once inside, the hush Harry encountered before the war greets them, when eyes fall on the pair of friends. Sometimes he thinks he'll get used to the unwanted attention. But mostly he stares forward, at a point on Hermione's shoulder, while the genius witch leads the way.

      Outside the Minister's office, Percy bumps into them. He's pale as Death with eyes as red as a rabbit's, and he startles when he sees them. "Harry. Hermione," he says instead of greeting them.

      Harry and Hermione screech to a halt. "Percy, hi," Harry starts. "Ah…" The usual friendliness escapes him. You don't ask someone who's lost a brother "How are you?" or "How've you been?" or anything of the like.

      Percy sniffles. He gives them a brittle smile. "Good to see you," he manages. He makes to pat Harry's shoulder and reaches up partway before changing his mind and scuttling off between them.

      Harry winces and exchanges a look with Hermione. "I thought none of them have been past the Ministry?"

      "To my knowledge, no. Both Arthur and Percy have taken a leave of absence."

      "Have you ever known or seen Percy pat someone on the shoulder?"

      Hermione frowns in response.

      But a better answer awaits them in Kingsley's office. The older wizard sorts through endless stacks of parchment with a grunt and happily dismisses the task when Hermione lets Harry and herself in. "Ah! Miss Granger and—ah. Mr. Potter."

      Harry quirks an eyebrow. "From Auror to Minister and now you stand on formalities, Kingsley?"

      Kingsley grins and laughs. "You'll have to forgive me, Harry. Learning decorum around here is one of the tasks I haven't taken to as interim Minister—"

      Hermione coughs at the title. But Kingsley ignores the interruption, as if he hadn't heard or he's used to her opinion on the matter by now.

      "—but people like the formality, it seems. I will endeavor to keep friends close, however," he finishes, getting up and walking around to the front of his desk. He sits on a front corner. "I was just telling Hermione the other day that we could use your face around here."

      Harry frowns. Beside him, Hermione crosses her arms in front of her chest and settles Kingsley with a look. Kingsley, for what it's worth, realizes very quickly how his words sound.

      He grimaces and holds up a hand. "Revered Rowena—that's not what I meant, Harry."

      "Yeah, I've had my fair share of being played by people on both sides…"

      "What I meant is that it'd be great to have someone around who remembers the politics but can navigate them," Kingsley corrects. His usual confident grin is small and tired. "You remember a lot of what this place was like before the war."

      "I do, but I wouldn't say I navigated anything," Harry points out. He sticks his hands in his denims' pockets. "If anything, I said a million things that came close to landing me in Azkaban. And that was just for uttering a syllable in Fudge's presence."

      Kingsley shrugs but nods, as if he, too, recalls a similar interaction with the disgraced former Minister. But then his dark eyes land on Harry. "…Harry, honestly? If you're not ready to be an Auror, then you could consider this as part of your Auror training."

      Harry pulls a face.

      "Come in and learn to comingle with other departments."

      "You say that, but I'm hearing 'show your face around here,' and I'd like to know why, Kingsley."

      Kingsley's demeanor shifts. He isn't hostile, but more of his exhaustion bleeds into his body language and he gestures to the door behind them. "Look, you two. I'm having a hard enough time around here, with Percy out—"

      That makes Hermione loosen her arms. "Nothing's changed, though, right? Nothing else—?"

      He shakes his head. "He just came in to explain about extending his leave of absence. Arthur's work will be there waiting for him in his department when he returns. But Percy? I've promoted him to Senior Undersecretary. Honestly, I think he'd be an excellent right-hand man."

      Harry risks a tiny smirk. "Kingsley, you realize I'd make a terrible replacement for Percy?"

      "And that's why I'm not asking you but am in talks with an old classmate of yours, a fellow eagle. No, I've got Percy's assistance covered for now, thank you." Once more, he gestures to the door. "But, out there, people work in a building, a Ministry in which they aren't confident. Few of the war's heroes come around here, if they survived."

      Harry frowns again. "So…what? You want a sign of unity? A show of strength?"

      Kingsley strokes his chin before shaking his head again. "…no. Honestly, I'd like for you to offer some comfort."

      The Boy-Who-Won blinks. Then he blinks again. Then he gapes and turns to Hermione, whose expression mirrors his. "…comfort?" Harry clarifies.

      "People like heroes. But people like you, Harry."

      "Not everyone."

      Kingsley chuckles and stands. "You have a way with people. Talking to them plainly. Rallying them to a cause. Simply rousting them, my friend. If you wouldn't mind interacting with them, I'd appreciate it."

      Harry pulls another face and glances at Hermione. But he finds her shrugging off her earlier surprise. "You, too, Hermione?"

      "Well…you never did want to lead the D.A. But it's your frankness, being yourself, that garnered support, Harry. I hate to say it, but Kingsley has a point." As if to emphasize things, Hermione sighs and walks to Kingsley's window, where she peeks between the shutters. "Morale's always shaky after a regime change," she mumbles.

      Neither wizard remarks about the heft of her chosen words, but it's hard to deny them. So Harry nods. "…all right."

      "Thank you, Harry."

      "You're welcome, Minister Shacklebolt."

      Kingsley cocks his head to one side. "This isn't an order, and you can stop if you wish. Honestly," he adds the longer Harry stares at him.

      "…I'll hold you to it, Kingsley. But I'll start tomorrow."

      "I'll see you then."

      Harry leads the way out of the Minister's office, Hermione right on his heels after pulling the door shut behind them. "You definitely had no idea? That he was going to propose that and persuade me?"

      "Honest, Harry, no. I thought he was just going to bring up the Auror Office again, was all." She walks with him to the exit, all the while darting her eyes around the Ministry, taking in the sights anew. "…but it makes sense. I've ignored it, so focused on changing things. But—"

      Harry finally picks his head up out in the lobby. Even the people who come and go watch him and Hermione with careful eyes, their stares lingering on him longest. Sometimes there's a familiar detail about a certain individual—the moustache on one wizard, the shaking frame of one witch. A few times, he picks out familiar faces, like Penelope Clearwater or Hestia Jones. It's only when he meets the unsurprised gaze of Susan Bones that he feels less uneasy, and he acknowledges her with a brief, polite nod.

      "I'll see you at home then," Hermione says, interrupting his observations.

      He blinks, and Susan's gone, another face lost in the crowd. So he returns his attention to Hermione. "Er, yeah. I'll see you then."

      "As far as first days go, this…is not spectacular," Harry says, grumping beside Hermione in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement the next day.

      But Hermione whizzes through the files before her as though it's time to cram for exams once more, completely in her element. "I'm not sure what you expected. Kingsley spends quite a bit of time holed up in his office. He's not out and about as much as he'd like."

      Harry frowns from where he stands behind Hermione's desk, and he takes it all in. Nothing can be said for the Ministry's overall décor, which is dark and dim everywhere, but at least it reads warmer here, with more mahogany and oak and birch details in the furniture and wall decorations, as if this place was decked out by former Aurors, who knew they needed something cozy after a long, Dark day. Actually, if one hung a few tapestries, Harry wonders if he wouldn't feel at home, back in Gryffindor Tower…

      "…to me? Just a head's up."

      Harry snaps out of his reverie. "Sorry, what?"

      Hermione groans and rolls her eyes (he can tell even from behind, by the fall of her shoulders; she'll always be Up To Here™ with him and Ron, and that's a fact). The bushy-haired witch turns to face him and points with her quill. "You didn't hear a word I said. I was warning you, that—aside from shadowing me, lingering in the corridors—there will probably several events coming up."

      He furrows his brow. "What do you mean, 'events'?"

      "I mean those things that make you sweat small talk. Things like parties. Dances. Soirees."

      He blanches. "But—" He grasps for a logical reason why he won't be attending any such awful thing. Bill and Fleur's wedding was one thing, and even that didn't go as expected. "But we've just achieved peace," Harry states rather weakly.

      "That's the point. Next week will be a month, Harry."

      Her voice is so light and airy in contrast with the reminder of the war that the reality hits Harry as if he'd walked straight into Hagrid. "But we've just achieved peace," he repeats dumbly.

      Hermione watches him for a full minute. "Harry? Are you all right? …it's not that bad. It won't be like one of Slughorn's parties, I promise. If I don't have Ron with me and Ginny with you, then I'll stick with you. You won't face these things alone."

      His shoulders sag and he glances at her. "I've written Ron a few times and Floo'd Gin once. But how are they?"

      Hermione sighs. She pauses her work to run a hand through her hair. "I've been by a few times. The Burrow's a bit full again, with both Charlie and Percy home, but." She doesn't remark about Fred's absence. "…it's tough. Molly's always made me feel like one of her own, but suddenly it's hard to breathe around them, as though I'm an outsider."

      He nods. He fears the same thing, which is why he hasn't inserted himself into their daily lives as of late, not to mention that one chat with Ginny… But he shakes himself free of the thought. "They need time. I don't know how much, but they just need time, Hermione."

      She nods, but her eyes have this far-off look to them, and Harry doesn't need to ask. Since sharing Twelve Grimmauld Place means seeing her daily—not to mention there was that chunk of time without Ron while hunting for Horcruxes—he's come to recognize when her mind's off in Australia. He's asked her before, about getting her parents back, but she shuts the conversation down every time.

      The soft click of heels on a worn floor draws Harry's attention from his and Hermione's corner of the room. "Hermione, this was the passage you were looking for—oh, sorry," Susan says, noting Hermione's absent gaze.

      Harry steps forward, subtly bumping his best mate to the present while engaging Susan. "Susan, hullo. I thought it was you I saw the other morning."

      "Hi, Harry." Her smile is small and soft, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. She slides the parchment in hand under Hermione's nose as the brunet notices they have company. "Have you come to join the department?"

      "Er, no…" He dodges the knowing look Hermione gives him and scoots away from her desk. He falls into step with Susan as she heads back to her own, smaller desk across the room. "I'm—" Harry decides to lean in to Kingsley's initial euphemism. "—getting acclimated to the Ministry air. In preparation for Auror training."

      Susan nods. "That makes more sense, knowing you."

      "I suppose I had 'Future Auror' tattooed across my forehead…"

      She glances back at him. Her blue eyes zero in on his infamous scar and her cheeks pink as she tamps down a more genuine smile.

      "Aside from what already occupied some prime real estate there," Harry quips. He reaches up to fiddle with his fringe, ensuring that, no, his scar is covered as best can be. "I didn't expect to see you in here, though."

      Susan shrugs but doesn't move to sit at her desk, instead preferring to glance over her work while on her feet beside him. "I have to wonder if it's in my blood, too, you know. Ministry work. It wasn't just my aunt who worked here. There've been loads of Boneses throughout the Ministry's history, you see," she elaborated.

      "Oh. I didn't know." He pauses, wondering if it'd be all right to mention that he'd liked Amelia, even though their connection was brief.

      But the moment passes and Susan dismisses the tension with another, tinier shrug.

      Hermione was right. He really hasn't gotten any better at small talk… But that brings to mind another question. "Have you been here long?"

      She taps a finger to her lips. "Not very. I came on about a week after Hermione, looking to help out." Susan casts her eyes around with a frown. "It's calmed down a little, but it's rather chaotic around here. They can use the help." She meets Harry's eyes. "But you're not in the Auror Office. I'm not stunned to see you here, but…this seems relatively quiet for you, tagging along with Hermione."

      "Ah. Well…" Harry fidgets. He doesn't want to expose Kingsley's lack of confidence in running a post-war Ministry of Magic, even to a friend and fellow Dumbledore's Army member.

      "Good for you, though, Harry."

      He stops fidgeting and looks at Susan with wide eyes.

      But she can't hold his gaze for long. It's easier to say this next part while fiddling with the quills and pencils in her pen cup instead. "Sometimes the quiet is what's good, especially after"—she gestures vaguely—"everything."

      Harry chuckles, earning him a concerned look from Susan. "Sorry, just—I've been dreading what comes after. To think it's just the quiet, that it might be good. It's a tad difficult to wrap my head around."

      "Oh." Her concern melts into that old, friendly smile of hers. "You had me worried for a second. But I reckon I'll just see you around here more often?"

      Had someone asked him that an hour ago, he would've told them he was quitting today, despite his agreement to try for Kingsley. But Harry finds himself returning Susan's smile. "Yeah. I'll see you around, Susan."

      Susan's words stick with him over the next several days. At home, he muses on the quiet (which is relative, because Kreacher skulks about but isn't as quiet as the house-elf wishes he could be); at the office, he tries not to stick to Hermione's side, which serves the dual purpose of letting his friend carry on with her work and allowing him to roam the Ministry more.

      Kingsley's got such high hopes for him, though, Harry fears. Every time he goes out and about into the halls and offices (even the lifts), he's got eyes on him. What he didn't notice before is the grimaces. But mostly Harry reads caution in the visages that pass by or leer. He would ask Hermione for her opinion, but she loses herself in perfecting a rough draft that she insists Kingsley read over before tomorrow's small commemoration ceremony.

      That's why Harry asks Susan to join him for lunch and they walk together to the cafeteria. "I've not set foot outside Magical Law Enforcement or the Minister's office much because of this," he whispers to her, looking straight ahead but giving a subtle jerk of his head to the other workers who pass by them.

      Susan's good at taking in the situation at a glance without giving it away. "Oh, Harry. I'm so sorry. I thought I'd noticed more people distracted around here lately, but to be the center of attention again—"

      He frowns. She's right. Had anyone else said it, such as perhaps Ernie or an unusually bitter Seamus, he would've heard jealousy in those words. From Susan, it's just a statement of fact, tinged with sympathy. "It's life," he sighs.

      "No, it's not." She stops him with a hand in the crook of his right elbow, turning him slightly so he can see her frown. "Harry, are you really all right with lingering around the Ministry?" Susan narrows her eyes at him, as though she can see through to the truth of Kingsley's demand.

      "I've dealt with worse," he reminds her. "But it'll get better, I'm sure."

      Susan gives him a sympathetic smile and shakes her head. "'Dealt with worse,' Harry Potter says. As if we didn't just go through the same seven…well, ish years of school together," she pokes, heading for the cauldrons of stew.

      He hears the teasing lilt in her tone. "I'm just being optimistic, Susan…!"

      She grins.

      They grab their meals and find a table for two. Having talked about it, it's difficult to ignore the stares of others in the cafeteria, but Harry does his best to focus on Susan. "So, tomorrow," he prefaces.

      Her grin from earlier dims. She prods her bowl of stew with her spoon. "It's going to be a rough day. At least it's just the ceremony and a day off."

      Harry nods.

      "Are they making you speak?"

      Oh, no. "That never occurred to me," Harry says. "So I never asked… Padma's quite efficient, organizing something like this at the last possible second; she's been a great help with Percy still out. But neither she nor Kingsley mentioned that I would have to…" Suddenly his cup of soup and sandwich smell sour. "It's one thing when adrenaline's pushing you through. But all those times before—I mean, even back in fifth year, at the Hog's Head."

      "The D.A. interest meeting. I remember."

      "I had no speech prepared. Hermione was so instrumental then."

      "True, but you still had the history even if you lacked the words." Susan knocks her knuckles with his. "And Hermione wasn't the one running the D.A. meetings afterwards. Not her or Ron, but you, Harry."

      "But—that was winging it."

      Her sympathetic smile returns. "Isn't that sort of your style?"

      Harry pushes his food away and runs a hand over the back of his head. "…give me a Death Eater, and I know what to do. But public speaking or school work, and I'm flummoxed."

      "You'll get through tomorrow, Harry," she assures him, pushing a lock of red hair behind her ear and finding her appetite again.

      "How do you know?"

      "Because you've dealt with worse."

      His camaraderie with her melts some of the tension in his shoulders. Suddenly tomorrow doesn't seem like such a big hurdle, just the next day.

      …then tomorrow arrives and Harry muses that he spoke too soon.

      He and Hermione arrive at the Ministry midmorning since the Weasleys are coming as a family. They funnel into the largest courtroom floors below, because this was the best place to transform into a reception hall for the ceremony.

      At first, Harry flinches, as does Hermione, because neither of them has been into the bellows of the Ministry for a long while. But he freezes when he sees the rotating, floating display in the center of the room.

      Crystal globes in assorted colors (not merely House colors) swirl gently in the air in silence. On each globe is captured the countenance of the fallen. The magic keeping them in motion shimmers as the globes revolve and face out at everyone in the room.

      But, for Harry, the display is an unpleasant reminder of the Battle in the Department of Mysteries. All of the prophecies lost…and the one that cost him someone very dear… He nearly walks out, seeing the display.

      "Padma wouldn't've known," Hermione whispers to him, bringing him back to his senses.

      He nods. Of course not. Only he, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Luna, and Neville would, as well as surviving members of the Order there that night…which, he thinks grimly, primarily leaves him and his friends with this unwelcome flashback.

      Though they came separately, the Weasleys have Hermione and Harry sit with them. Hermione tucks herself in between Ron and Harry, but she rests against Ron's left arm and holds Harry's hand, as if making up for lost time with her boys.

      Much of the D.A. shows up, interspersed throughout the crowd. Katie, Alicia, and Angelina sit a few rows below Harry and company. Across the way, he spies Michael and Terry, the only eagles remaining in their year along with Padma. Dean and Neville sit with the Hufflepuffs by the exit. Harry's not surprised by Seamus' or Parvati's absence, since Lavender is still touch-and-go in St. Mungo's right now.

      Not unlike having Hermione between him and Ron, Susan and Neville have a pale Hannah propped up between them. Susan brushes back a loose strand of hair away from her friend's face before she picks her own head up and scans the room. Her blue eyes stop on Harry, and she nods to him. Her words go through his head once more: "Because you've dealt with worse."

      He nods back, taking some comfort from her encouragement. Then Kingsley walks into the center of the room, shooed there by Padma.

      Kingsley clears his voice before pointing his wand to his throat, nonverbally casting the Sonorus Spell. "Welcome, friends," the Minister says, his voice filling every space in the converted courtroom.

      Not a single person moves or so much as coughs.

      "Today we mark a month since our world changed," Kingsley continues. He pauses, as though the heaviness of his prepared speech hits him in this moment. "For better, for worse. Our world as a whole. Our own private worlds… Much changed in a day."

      Harry catches Susan's eye again. Her concern is evident: If Kingsley continues down this road in opening this morning, then Harry undoubtedly will be invited to share some uplifting words. The thing is, he hasn't got any, especially not after seeing the crystal globes.

      "But a day is just that," Kingsley adds after an odd beat. "And we have seen the days after that, the weeks. We have made it a month now, friends. We are slowly rebuilding. We rebuild, but we do not forget." He waves to the displayed globes, which come out of column formation to float more loosely around the room so each face and name can be seen. "We remember, but we press on. Because it is only in living on that their memories will stay alive with us."

      Someone in the back of the room coughs at the cheesy line closing his speech. But Kingsley lowers his wand and doesn't budge in spite of the awkward moment. A second later, off on the sidelines, Padma starts clapping, but the sound is so soft and doesn't echo much in the room, so Harry joins in, and then Susan, and the rest of the D.A. follows suit. It catches on, a polite reception for a man trying his best at a job he quite despises, and Kingsley respectfully tips his head before stepping away, letting people take everything in on their own.

      Harry exhales a sigh of relief. He does his best to ignore the globes—he's not ready to look yet—but he looks his friends over. "Hermione?" he whispers.

      She gives him a wet smile and releases his hand. "I think I'll stay put for a bit."

      As if voicing his opinion, Ron adjusts his cheek atop her head. Harry reaches around Hermione to give Ron's shoulder a squeeze. They lock eyes and it's the first time in a while that Ron's looked so alive.

      Harry gets to his feet. His legs protest as if they've been sitting here far longer than they realized, but it feels good to descend the rows and see others. The usual feeling of having eyes on him doesn't weigh so heavily today; several times he returns the stares, finding a familiar, friendly face waiting for him.

      He means to find Kingsley and congratulate him—that wasn't bad for his first, small commemoration—but Harry's eyes are drawn to the badgers. Susan's not with them any longer, Justin having taken her seat.

      Ah, well. She had brought up the fact that today would be a day off from work, after the ceremony. Harry muses that he hasn't exactly taken a day off from anything in a while, despite the few weeks in May being quieter than normal. But even those were filled with support and waiting and writing and talking, all because of—

      "Oh, Harry," Kingsley says, meeting him near the exit. His dark eyes are bright, his grin too tight. So stunning to see a battle-hardened man like Kingsley Shacklebolt nervous. "Good to see you. Apologies I haven't been as available to you as I might've suggested I'd be."

      Seeing him anxious the way Harry felt leading up to today relaxes Harry, lets him know that this position won't go to Kingsley's head. "It's all right, Kingsley. You did well, by the way."

      "Short and sweet, as suggested," Padma chimes in, appearing at Kingsley's side. She crosses something off on a clipboard and glances at Harry. "I'm glad you could make it, Harry. But, Minister, we have a few remaining tasks this afternoon, if you're done here."

      Kingsley sighs. "Yes, Miss Patil… Here's hoping this interim business doesn't persist," he mumbles to Harry before following Padma out of the hall. Of course, he says that, but there's extra pep in his step after Harry's and Padma's compliments on the job well done.

      Someone taps Harry's shoulder, and he turns to find Susan behind him. "You lucked out," she says, that soft smile of hers gently tugging at the corners of her mouth.

      Harry chuckles. He motions to the nearest row of seats so they don't end up underfoot for those leaving early. "I did," he agrees after they sit. "Kingsley will get better with practice or perhaps he'll channel his inner Dumbledore. Whichever the occasion calls for."

      Susan stifles a giggle, especially when the sound catches the disapproving eye of an elderly couple. "Oh, dear. This really is a terrible place to chat."

      "I've—"

      "—dealt with worse," Susan says along with him. Her eyes crinkle with amusement when Harry huffs at being predictable.

      "Are you going home after this?"

      The question catches her by surprise. "Well…sort of. I'm going out with Hannah and the rest for a bite." Susan's shoulders sag and she darts her eyes across the room to where Harry sat earlier. "What about your lot?"

      "Not sure. Hermione and I are there for them as needed, sort of on call, but." Harry removes his glasses and pinches the tension in the bridge of his nose. "It's not easy."

      "Being relied on when you're mourning, too?" She nods.

      He replaces his glasses, catching the ghost of her pout in the process. "…see you tomorrow, then, Susan?"

      Her smaller smile returns. "Of course, Harry."

      He nods, but, the funny thing is, neither of them makes to leave. They just sit awhile, together, glimpsing the crowd and peeking at the crystal globes that drift past their heads.

      It's easier, Harry realizes, accepting the reality of a post-war world sitting beside someone like Susan.

      And he wonders why that is.

      "Susan, I'm off to Level Five—want to come with?" Harry asks her later in the week.

      Susan smiles before tearing her eyes away from the form she's busy stamping and checking for errors. "The Department of International Magical Cooperation? What takes you there, Harry?"

      He pauses, the truth making him feel a touch silly. But he holds up a scroll. "…actually, running an errand for Hermione."

      She giggles but stops when he pouts. "Sorry, just. That fits." She stands and grabs a stack of files after sending an interdepartmental memo flying off on its own with a flick of her wand. "I just wonder if you're not looking for excuses to poke your head into each and every department."

      "Well, I'm a little curious about the countless offices that run this place," he supplies, still careful not to show Kingsley's cards.

      Susan hums to herself on their way to the lifts and gives him a long appraisal from the corner of her eye. "Harry, do you explore the Ministry much without me or Hermione by your side?"

      He blinks in surprise. He opens his mouth and splutters, but that's not really an answer.

      Her smile is soft but a bit hurt, too, as Susan furrows her brow. "I only ask because. Today, Level Five. Yesterday, Level Three. The day before, Level Four, to two different divisions." She clutches her files to her chest and stares at the lift gate as they wait. "One would wonder if you prefer a buffer, precisely because you're at the Ministry, where you feel uncomfortable."

      Harry closes his mouth, a guilty lump forming in his throat. He's always known Susan to be a kind person, a good person, and he can't fault her for politely calling him out on his actions, even if he'd been doing this subconsciously.

      Susan nods, mostly to herself, and then the lift arrives. They wait half a beat for the carriage to empty and then step in. Susan musters another smile for Harry, as if proving she won't let it bother her much.

      But then other workers enter the lift, too, crowding them and shoving Harry into the corner and into Susan. He puts an arm out on the wall, bracing both of them. "Sorry," he rushes.

      Susan's cheeks pink and she shakes her head, accessing the situation and dismissing it in one motion.

      Still, being squished back here gives Harry the time to dwell on her difficult question. True, Kingsley asked him here. And, true, he's gone around with Hermione a few times. But mostly he's joined Susan for lunch or on a walk to stretch their legs or simply asked her to join him. Susan's great to haunt the Ministry with, really. He can talk easily with her about school memories and the difficulties of having little to no family in the same breath, without weighing their moods down. Susan didn't fight Voldemort herself, but there's so much overlap of her life with Harry's that it's easy to talk about anything and everything, plain and simple. And that's without being the Chosen One or the Boy-Who-Won or Harry Potter. That's just being Harry. They're Harry and Susan, plain and simple.

      When the lift dings a heartbeat later and the flow of bodies spills from the carriage, Susan stumbles and nearly drops her thick stack. But Harry's still got his arm in front of her, so he catches both her and her work. "Oh! Thank you, Harry."

      He nods and runs a nervous hand over the back of his head as they make for the International Magical Office of Law. He waits until the pink fades from her face, hoping she's comfortable around him once more before he starts, "You're probably not wrong."

      Her blue eyes flicker to him. "Sorry?"

      "About the buffer thing. I hadn't even realized—and I'm sorry about that."

      Her eyebrows rise into her fringe, but she gives him a curt, single nod. "Well, thank you for that, Harry. I hope you know it wasn't my intent to be so harsh."

      He chuckles. Is it a Hufflepuff thing or a Susan Bones thing to be this nice? "No, you're all right. But also—you're not entirely correct."

      Susan slows her steps, allowing Harry to catch up with her quick pace. "Oh?"

      Harry nods once more with growing confidence as they walk together, falling into step with her. "The only one I keep asking to join me is you. I enjoy your company, Susan."

      "Oh," she repeats, and the pink creeps back into her cheeks. But it's not as alarming this time, because her blue eyes glitter like the Bluebell flames lighting some of the sconces on this floor.

      Harry smiles, at ease seeing Susan's reaction.

      It will only hit him later, when recounting this exchange to Hermione over supper, that he inadvertently pointed out he's been asking Susan out all this time. (Or, rather, Hermione will hit him, with her napkin, and call him daft and groan before abandoning her plate for the work she brings home that evening.)

      Tap-tap-tap, scritch-scratch.

      "Harry, were you planning on getting that?" Hermione asks him that Sunday.

      Harry picks his head up from the telly he's still trying to set up in the sitting room. Honestly, there's got to be some trick to getting Muggle technology working in the Black house… "Get what? Did I drop something?" He searches the carpet and doesn't count extra pieces past what he's supposed to have lying around…he thinks. "I reckon it was just Kreacher."

      As if summoned, Kreacher snorts from the doorway and shuffles on. "Filthy gadgets… Mudblood mischief, Kreacher says…"

      Harry rolls his eyes and looks up at Hermione in her chair. "I can order him to swear off all the nastiness forever, you know."

      But she shakes her head. "Don't bother. It's in his nature to stick to his ways, Harry, and ordering him around is wrong. I thought he'd improved with you after the incident with Regulus' locket, but." She stops there. "Anyway, I meant the post. Sounded like an owl tapping at a window on one of the upper floors."

      He rocks back on his haunches, rolling to his feet. "I'm not expecting anything."

      Hermione shrugs, but she's curious, too, and watches him dart upstairs. Likely she has the same redheaded family on her mind as does he as Harry goes to check the post.

      None of the Weasley family owls greets him where he locates the noise, at a third-floor window. Harry finds a black owl whose feathers are speckled with brown and gray, and its amber eyes follow him tiredly until he conjures up a treat. The owl cheerily chomps down, allowing Harry to remove the little scroll attached to its right leg. Harry unfurls the missive and reads it twice on his way back to Hermione.

      "And?" she prompts when he returns to the sitting room.

      "It's something for me," he answers, tucking it into his back pocket. He sits back in front of the telly and picks up a small screw from the back panel.

      But Hermione nicks the letter and holds it out of reach, not reading it but staring Harry down. "Is it something of consequence, Harry?" She narrows her dark eyes.

      "…it's an invitation, Hermione."

      Her eyes widen, and she flips the envelope over to check the return address. Her mouth forms a small "o." "When you said 'invitation,' I thought perhaps my suspicions about Ministry events had been confirmed…" She passes it back to him, although now she smiles encouragingly. "Though I suppose it wouldn't be unreasonable to describe this as Ministry-adjacent," she gently teases.

      Harry settles her with a dirty look. "Just because I bumped into Susan at the Ministry—" He sighs and collects the remnants of the Muggle device in front of him. "It's just lunch with her and the other Hufflepuffs."

      "Well, no one's accepted Smith back into their circles, last I knew, so you won't have to deal with him. And you always got along with Justin. Hannah and Ernie were solid by the time the D.A. came to fruition." Hermione ticks off on her fingers, quietly folding down three for Megan, Leanne, and Oliver, who were amongst the fallen over a month ago. "…you'll have to ask Susan about Eloise and Wayne, though. Eloise was a sweet girl, but boys were never very nice to her," she finishes with a puckered face.

      Harry sighs, giving up on the telly. "Is this your subtle way of telling me to let you handle this and just leave already, Hermione?"

      Hermione pats him on the shoulder and waves her wand, levitating the strewn mechanical parts to a cloth on her lap. "It's best to be early. Witches love punctuality, you know."

      Harry rolls his eyes for the second time that late morning. "Am I bringing anything back for you?"

      "Surprise me within reason, thanks." And then she buries her nose in the manual for the set. Before Harry's left the sitting room, most of the telly's back in one piece, and he wouldn't be surprised if they're able to watch Muggle broadcasts by the time he's home, thanks to that brilliance of hers.

      He washes up and changes shirts—no matter what they do, there seems to be a permanent stuffiness to Grimmauld Place they can't Scourgify for the hell of it—before grabbing a cloak and leaving. Out on the steps of Twelve Grimmauld Place, he pulls Susan's missive and reads it once more:

      Hi, Harry—

      So sorry you and I didn't go anywhere before… But the cete's getting together for lunch today at half past noon. It's at a Muggle pub, in London. If you want to join us, meet me outside the Leaky Cauldron a bit before then.

      It's all right if not. You and I can make plans for another day.

      Sincerely,

      Susan

      He doesn't linger on the mystery of "cete" (must be a Hufflepuff thing), because he keeps rereading her last sentence, which makes his stomach do a happy little flop. Funny how often Susan has him hoping these days.

      He Disapparates to Diagon Alley, though he does so on high alert. Even with the war behind them and the Ministry using Aurors and Hit Wizards to monitor the Wizarding mecca, Diagon Alley and its side streets have yet to bounce back as spryly as other locations. Hogwarts took the most damage, but there's a pervasive rot around this shopping center that was allowed to seep out the last couple years, and it's not so easily swept back under the cobblestones. It's that rot that hastens Harry to the pub and past Tom the barman's friendly wave and through the Leaky Cauldron's door nearly twenty minutes early.

      And he crashes into Susan just outside the door.

      With an "oof!" Susan stumbles, her red plait swinging behind her. But she has enough footing to stay upright and catch Harry this time. She grins when they keep standing. "Reckon I had to return the favor somehow," she quips.

      They laugh as Harry adjusts his tilted glasses. "I got your owl," he says.

      "I can guess."

      "But aren't we both horribly early?"

      Susan checks her watch. "Somewhat. But Justin's footing the cheque today, and he likes to arrive as early as possible, so we're quite on time, really." She tugs on his arm. "It's not a long walk. You'll see."

      Harry obliges, letting her lead the way and in no hurry to pull his arm free from her light hold. Although his curiosity regarding one thing does win out. "I have to ask, though: What's a 'cete'?"

      She laughs. "Not like 'seat,' like 'set.' It's a collection of badgers. You never wondered about the collective noun for your House animal?"

      "Never stopped to think about it…although, I confess to having spent far too much time dealing with various dens of snakes," he darkly remarks.

      Susan gives his arm a squeeze, not letting him linger in those thoughts, not today. "Well, you're in good company today, Harry."

      They lapse into a comfortable silence the last couple of minutes to the pub. Susan hadn't exaggerated, saying it's close. At their brisk pace, she and Harry cover just over a block in about five minutes, then they cross after a few yards at the next. At first, Harry misses the restaurant altogether, because the shiny, dark façade blends in with the other storefronts on the street and the pub sign isn't prominent. In fact, Harry misses the name when he and Susan enter, but he becomes distracted by the interior.

      If there had been a sign outside reading "The Hog's Head," Harry might believe it. Given the layout, Harry does a double-take and half expects to find Aberforth behind the counter…but, no, this place is cleaner, newer, and lacks nods to Hogsmeade with its Muggle décor. But the coziness still draws him, and Harry smiles when they spy their friends at one of the larger booths in the back.

      "You lot come here often?" Harry quietly asks Susan before they reach the others.

      "Yeah, actually. There's something about it, don't you think?"

      He chuckles to himself. To think that Dumbledore's Army is still linked in certain ways…

      Justin chokes on his drink when he catches sight of Susan's shadow. But he beams at Harry while the pair hangs their cloaks up. "Harry! Good to see you. Welcome to Brunch with the Badgers."

      "Stop calling it that, Justin," Ernie huffs from across the round table. "We're not giving Sundays an official name, least of all one as ridiculous as that." Ernie glances at Harry and politely nods before patting the open spot beside him. "Regardless, welcome aboard, Harry."

      "I, uh—thanks." Harry slides in, sandwiched between Ernie and Susan on the end. He raises his eyebrows at Neville across the way, settled between Justin and Hannah, and understanding passes between the lion friends.

      "You get used to them," Neville assures Harry with a gentle smile and chuckle, which earns him a "HEY!" from Justin.

      But Harry laughs, too. Even having Susan beside him, it still feels good having another, much more familiar face at this table.

      "We ordered drinks but waited on the rest until you showed," Justin says, though that's primarily directed at Susan. He sticks out two fingers to flag down wait staff. Then he beams at Harry again. "Oh, feel free to order what you like, Harry. Today's on me."

      "That's kind of you, thanks." He fidgets. "Is there a special occasion?"

      "Hmm, today? Not really. We tend to take turns, but it's my preference, really. Although," he says with an emphatic twist of his head in Hannah's direction which makes that curled lock of hair in front of his face bounce, "someone will be turning eighteen later this week and refuses to let us throw her a party…"

      Hannah rolls her eyes and leans against Ernie on her left. "And I've told you a million times already, Justin. I'm simply not interested in one! Da said he wants just him and me to do something that day anyway."

      Ernie shakes his head at Justin. "See? Can't win against family, Jus. So let this one go already, mate."

      Justin pouts but nods. With him easing up, Hannah heaves an audible sigh of relief and sits a bit straighter, closer to Neville once more. Justin eventually perks up, too, when the waiter finally comes over and takes their orders.

      "Hard to think any of us are eighteen or going to be," Neville thinks aloud once the waiter disappears.

      Harry runs his hand over the back of his head. "You and I still have a bit of a wait, Neville."

      "True. But I'm thinking planning an eighth year might help me pass the time a bit faster."

      Harry's mouth falls open. He knows Hermione wants an eighth year, but he hasn't considered who else in their year might return to school. "No joke?"

      Neville shakes his head. "I figure, if I want to teach Herbology someday, it couldn't hurt."

      Harry looks at the Hufflepuffs in turn. "What about the rest of you? Eighth year?"

      Ernie takes a long swig of his beer and shakes his head. "Not for me. I'm…thinking of travelling."

      There's some surprise around the table, with a little gasp from Susan and raised eyebrows from Justin. But Hannah gawks at him. "You are?"

      "There's too much history here, Hannah. I need a change of pace." Ernie answers her, but he does so while looking into his glass. It's a brief exchange and reads as something private that none of them are supposed to witness.

      Perhaps Justin picks up on that, because he jumps right in. "I want to teach, too." He bumps his shoulder with Neville's, drawing most of the table's attention on the pair of them. "So it'll be you and me then, Neville. Although you can keep your Herbology. Muggle Studies sounds right for me."

      Neville smiles warmly. "That'd be great." Neville raises his eyebrows at Susan.

      "Oh, no, I'm good. No teaching or eighth year for me." She steals a peek at Harry, who already knows this part. "The Ministry's probably right for me."

      Harry tamps down his smile. He doesn't know how long he'll be doing his favor for Kingsley or if the Ministry really is his future—but he likes to imagine these days spent with Susan, and that's not a bad plan. He tries to keep his focus on the group, though, since he was so warmly welcomed. "So, Hannah? What about you?"

      But it's terrible timing. Hannah distractedly tears her eyes from her best mate, who still finds his drink utterly fascinating, and seems to realize that Harry is, in fact, still with them. "Hmm? What? Oh. Me? No. No plans." She frowns, aiming it Ernie's way, and that's that.

      Harry winces and frowns in apology to Neville and Justin before glancing at Susan. Each of them is concerned at the sudden shift in mood at the table, but they're all at a loss of how to handle it.

      It doesn't get much better when the food arrives. The food's delicious, and Harry makes a note to order the same pot pie for Hermione because he's glad for her encouragement and she deserves something nice, and Justin does his best to up the table's spirits with tales of his family's antics while the Finch–Fletchleys were on the run and in hiding from the Muggle-born Registration Commission last year ("You'd swear my mum thought we'd have to go without running water, forgetting half the time that, yes, she's a Muggle with a wizard son"). But it's doesn't erase the awkwardness that comes from Hannah and Ernie abstaining from chatter, and Susan tugs Harry out of the booth the minute both of them finish their meals.

      "Won't they think that was rude?" Harry frets outside the pub.

      Susan shakes her head. "No. So long as you don't interrupt Justin in the middle of a story, you can come and go as you please, though I am sorry to leave Neville in the middle of that mess." She frowns and throws a look over her shoulder at the door.

      But Harry rubs her arm. "Neville and Hannah became close last year, right?"

      She nods.

      "Then he'll be all right. As for Hannah and Ernie…" He squints and stares at the door for a beat with her. "I can't begin to unravel something so obviously bad it was apparent even to me."

      Susan gives him a thankful smile. Then they turn and meander up the street, in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron. "Sorry, by the way," she says after a moment.

      Harry tilts his head her way. "For what?"

      "Well, for cutting lunch short."

      "I'm lucky the waiter brought Hermione's takeaway while I was still eating." He pats his Expanded pocket. "But it's all right, Susan."

      "It's not the first time they've brought up post-Hogwarts plans, you know."

      Harry doesn't comment. Susan pauses, but it's not a pause to be filled with their back-and-forth. So he waits.

      "I'm…also sorry for poking at you over needing a buffer or not at the Ministry." She chuckles, but it's a hollow sound. "Justin and Neville bring up their grand plans to teach so easily. And me? I say 'Ministry' as if it's a plan. But…I'm using the Ministry as a crutch. Given my family's history, it feels as though I'm duty-bound to that place, and I think I took that out on you some." It's quite the apology and a revelation, though it's wrapped up in hesitancy, as if Susan's not painting the entire picture.

      So Harry shakes his head and encourages her, "Go for it."

      Susan quirks an eyebrow.

      "I understand the burden of legacy, Susan; if you need to vent or lash out any, then why not to someone who empathizes?"

      She smiles, soft, slow, content. She doesn't answer him nor take him up on the offer right then and there. It's as if Susan only needed those words. So, instead, she leans on his shoulder as they walk, down the street, past the Leaky Cauldron, spending the rest of their afternoon in Muggle London this way.

      Together.

      June wears on rather much like their walk that day. Harry doesn't think he'd change much about it, really. He stops pestering Hermione altogether at the Ministry, leaving her be to do the things she does best, and that frees up more of his time to spend with Susan. It doesn't, of course, mean he bothers Susan all the time, since she actually works there, but Harry does catch Kingsley in passing a few times, and the black wizard raises a handsome eyebrow at how dutifully Harry approaches several of the departments. But Harry pointedly ignores Kingsley's curiosity, because he doesn't feel ready to jump into the Auror Office, not yet.

      Sunday lunch with the Hufflepuffs becomes a regular thing, too, although the first Sunday after he and Susan cut out early is a bit stiff with Hannah and Neville's notable absence. No one says anything at lunch, though Susan confides in Harry afterwards that she's concerned about a possibly larger fight than expected between Hannah and Ernie. As if confirming Susan's speculation, the next lunch sees Hannah and Neville back, but Ernie's gone, left to travel already. Still the others say nothing, but it gets easier with each passing week, as if only these five—Susan and Harry, Hannah and Neville, and Justin—had ever arranged to meet to start.

      His summer is filled with Susan, old friends, the Ministry. But there's still one niggling item on Harry's mind, in Harry's heart, that he wishes to address before he even begins to consider what awaits him when the summer ends.

      And, for that, he and Hermione in July pay their first visit to the Burrow in…good Merlin. Half a year? No, longer.

      It strikes him hard, how much he misses the familiar, lopsided home in Ottery St. Catchpole. Hermione's only been once or so, because the Weasleys have asked everyone for time and space, but arriving at a small hilltop nearby and spying the Weasley home from a distance makes the pain of not seeing them come rushing forward, best as Harry and Hermione have done to set it aside. Harry literally stops in his steps and grimaces.

      Hermione stops two steps ahead of him and turns back. "Harry?"

      He spent so much time here that it came to feel like home… But Harry shakes his head and catches up with her. "Sorry. I'm good."

      Hermione eyes him while they walk. "I feel the same as you, you know."

      Harry feels the familiar burn of irritation, because it's not quite anger, roiling in his chest. "No, you don't," he supplies. They love these people; they're like family. But, at the end of the day, Hermione has her parents to go home to—or to go out and find, whenever she decides to put that on her to-do list.

      Perhaps she knows she's overstepped. Her cheeks flush and she settles him with a severe look, caught with her foot in her mouth. But Hermione takes three breaths and reaches for his hand, both as an apology and as a comfort.

      It does the trick. Ages ago, it wouldn't've, but Harry figures he's learned by now which arguments are worth having.

      The closer they get to the Burrow, the louder the noises turn. It's not just the animals the family keeps, either. There's a genuine din in the back, and Harry and Hermione exchange a look of surprise before entering the home.

      "Ah! Perfect timing, Harry, Hermione!" Molly says, her hands full of trays of food and another levitating behind her. She puts the ones in her hands down, flicks her wand, and sends everything gliding out the back before she throws her arms open wide. "Well? No dawdling!"

      Harry can't help but grin and dive into her arms. Molly Weasley has the strength to crush him against her without magic, honest, and he doesn't mind one bit. "It's so good to see you," he says while Hermione has her hug next.

      Molly's smile is as big as ever, but there's a constant dampness to her eyes that she blinks away. "Good to see you and have you back around here, Harry, Hermione." She ruffles his hair and pats Hermione's cheek. "We really should've had you back ages ago, but—"

      Hermione shakes her head. "No, it's all right."

      Molly nods, happy not to explain. Then she puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head behind her. "But I really did mean you have perfect timing. Hermione—still hate flying, dear?"

      Hermione turns a pale shade of green. "I Apparate if I can."

      "No worries. Well, I think they're still short several players, but you can make it a little more even, Harry."

      Harry doesn't even ask. They follow Molly and the extra food out into the wide backyard and find a rather lively party taking place: Streamers float through the air along with the food, someone keeps setting off little fireworks, and… "There are more people here than I thought," Harry blurts.

      Arthur chats with Xenophilius by the drinks. Luna lifts her Spectrespecs up and waves lazily at Harry and Hermione from where she sits atop an old milk crate by the shed. Up in the air, George, Angelina, Alicia, and Katie beckon to Percy, trying to coax him onto his broom, while Charlie goads his younger brother from the ground. Ignoring the teasing are Bill and Fleur, eating together at one of the few tables set up, and Ginny and Demelza, also up in the air on their brooms but tossing a Quaffle back and forth. The missing face appears around his mother with a comfortable grin on his freckled face, as if he's ready to rescue Harry and Hermione from certain danger just like all these past years. "Pictured us still wallowing, did you?" Ron asks, straight to the point, the moment Molly leaves to join Arthur.

      Hermione, sickly green a moment ago, reddens. "Absolutely not, Ronald!" She fusses with her hair while she and Harry take in the sights. "But—what then—?"

      "Ah, just a little sendoff for Charlie." Ron sips his butterbeer and looks between his best mates. "Charlie's heading back to Romania tonight. It was something good to celebrate." He glances back at his father. "I think it's given Dad and Perce the kick in the pants to head back to work, too. Bill's been doing limited work, but Fleur got him back in fulltime last week. And George…" He shrugs. "Well, I offered to help George reopen the shop, if he decides that's what he wants to do."

      Harry raises his eyebrows. "That's…"

      "Generous, I know." Ron ducks his eyes.

      "I meant you dumped a lot on us in one breath." Harry grins at the glare he receives from the other wizard. "But I'm glad to hear you lot have plans." He doesn't wait to draw Ron into a brief hug.

      Ron claps him on the back. "Yeah, this summer… It's been a mess, mate." He twists his mouth around as the three of them look out at the gathering. "I've always heard that being around people and talking about loss is supposed to do the trick. But that's not always the case, is it? Sometimes…" He sighs. "Just us Weasleys, being together, hurting. It felt like the right thing to do."

      Harry and Hermione don't have to exchange a look this time. Him on Ron's right, her on Ron's left, they stand together, not touching but close enough. Some things don't have to be expressed between friends, certainly not after everything they've been through.

      "OH! Hey, Harry's here!" George calls out. Several heads turn their way. "And Hermione, too! Well, hello, Hermione, but really we need a Seeker if we're going to muster up a round of Quidditch!"

      "No team with Harry gets Charlie, though—equal division of Seekers," Angelina warns as Charlie lights up at the possibility of playing on the same team. Alicia and Katie cheer Angelina's declaration.

      "If Harry's here, then you don't need me anymore," Percy insists. "So just—"

      "It's a numbers game, Perce," George interrupts. "So get on the broom already!"

      Harry stares at Ron over the rims of his glasses. "How long has this been going on?"

      "Since the girls arrived," Ron says with a gesture to their elder Chaser trio. "And, no, not a lick of Quidditch has transpired yet."

      "They do realize Ginny's a hell of a Seeker, right?"

      "They do, but Ginny's not been very interested in a full match. She and Robins have mostly kept to themselves or hung out with Luna." Ron pauses, his brow furrowing. "That's right. You and Ginny…"

      Harry clears his throat then, keeping Ron from finishing his thought. "I'll go say 'hi' and see if we can't have at least one game before Charlie leaves." He walks away from his best mates before they can offer their opinions.

      Ginny and Demelza hover high up on their brooms above the trees a bit away from the party. When Harry approaches them, Ginny throws the Quaffle to Demelza, but Demelza keeps it, her brown plait swinging behind her as she smiles at Harry in greeting. She tips her head to him and pulls up on her broomstick, flying back to the others. Doing so leaves Ginny and Harry alone.

      Harry shields his eyes from the midday sun. Ginny makes no move to descend, so Harry sighs to himself and pulls his broom from his Expanded denims pocket (thank Merlin for Hermione and her love of Expansion Charms). He mounts it and shoots up to Ginny's level but doesn't draw too near.

      But Ginny acknowledges him. "Hey, Harry."

      "Hi, Ginny." He stares at his broom handle for a second. Then a topic occurs to him and he tilts his head behind him, where Demelza flew off. "Nice to see Demelza again. You and she returning for—?"

      "For seventh year? Mum wouldn't have it any other way." She frowns at the harshness of her own words. "But, yeah, we and Luna will be back in school in less than two months now."

      Harry nods. "You'll captain Gryffindor's team, won't you?"

      Ginny blinks, as though this never occurred to her. "…do you think they'll have Quidditch again, the first year back?"

      He shrugs. "Perhaps." When he sees her hesitate, he continues, "Well, either you or Demelza would make a great choice."

      That earns him a Ginny Weasley smirk. "Demi's fab at a bunch of positions…but, if anyone's going to captain, it's me." She laughs and glances at the party. "I bet Charlie would love that."

      "He'd probably find some reason to leave Romania and watch your matches."

      She laughs again. "You're not wrong…!" She calms and swipes at her eyes. Harry realizes she holds his gaze, stops avoiding him. "Harry, how are you? Good?"

      He nods. "I'm good, Gin. You?"

      Ginny bites her lower lip and drifts closer to him. There's a sorry pinch between her brows. "You know I'm not talking about Fred and the others right now, right?"

      Harry does. "Yeah, Gin, I know."

      She frowns. "Sometimes I wonder about why we broke up, why I asked you not to wait for me. I think—was I being impulsive again? Was I just not thinking?" Ginny sighs and runs a hand through her hair. "But…being focused on Fred's absence and my family and my grief…it's given me time to think."

      He knew. He knows. He vividly recalls their Floo call when she broke up with him.

      "But—and, good Godric, I sound like such an arse saying this, Harry—but I don't disagree with what I said back in May?" She musters a smile despite the tears in her eyes, and she laughs at them when she wipes them away. "I thought I acted too quick, calling it quits when I lost my brother, but I've had time to focus on the past year. And all I can think is that I wasn't ready for romance yet."

      Harry frowns but nods.

      "I mean, you just asked me a simple thing about being Gryffindor Quidditch Captain and I didn't even have an immediate answer for that because I hadn't been thinking about it properly at all." She exhales and looks out not at the party or the Burrow but at the land all around them. "Sometimes I wonder what else I haven't thought about. What else I never stopped to experience."

      "I can commiserate," he says, sensing it all right to chime in.

      Ginny's brown eyes meet his green, and she smirks at him. "Really talented at making it up as we go, aren't we, Potter?"

      "Winging it can take you far, Weasley," he teases.

      They laugh together, hard and loud enough to draw some of the others' attention. But it's easy to dismiss their curiosity and outright rude questions ("So are you two happening again?" George inquires with all the delicacy of a troll waltzing into the Yule Ball) and play a modified six-on-six game of Quidditch, because Harry and Ginny are good. They stay broken up, but they're still good friends who've been to hell and back, and that counts for a hell of a lot.

      For a post-war world, things nearly seem all right again. Then the notices go up around the Ministry a week before his birthday, plastered on the wall here and there:

      Three Months! An Evening at the Ministry to Consider Our New State of Peace and Patrolling Our Hard-Won Future. Join Us, August 2nd, in…

      Harry practically races to Hermione's desk that morning on his way back from visiting Arthur. "Didyouseeit," he blurts on his last breath.

      Hermione quirks an eyebrow at him while Harry collects himself. "If you mean, did I see that my prediction came true, then yes." She goes back to sifting through parchment.

      "Hermione!"

      She huffs at him. "Harry, what is the trouble here, really?"

      He straightens up and sheds his cloak, draping it over a free corner of her desk in spite of her pout. Running here or the realization has stifled him. "I thought that perhaps that nonsense wouldn't occur, with Percy back."

      The thought gives her pause. "Hmm. Well, in another reality, I'd say Percy would think of such a thing as an unnecessary frivolity when the Minister has better things to do—"

      "Right! So—"

      "—but Kingsley's kept Padma on along with Percy, Harry." She shrugs his discomfort off. "Padma's been a huge help the last several months, and she told me recently that she's thinking of taking the post fulltime, if he'll have her. Though she has to make up her mind soon. She's another debating an eighth year," Hermione elaborates at Harry's puzzled stare.

      His shoulders sink. "Great. I mean, truly great for Padma. But…" Harry shakes his head. "'Parties. Dances. Soirees.'" He grimaces at Hermione, who has the humility to redden when she hears him quote her.

      But Hermione waves him off with her quill. "I don't see why you'd be as scared as before. Aren't things a little different now?"

      Harry doesn't answer.

      "Susan," Hermione hisses under her breath, glancing around him at the desk across the room. Hermione looks back up at Harry with a smile. "I'm sure she'd love to be your plus-one, Harry. But, of course, Ron, Ginny, and I are still here for you as needed." She says that last part with a teasing tone, though he knows the offer's genuine, because he'll never be short of reliable friends.

      That said, Hermione and Susan have quite the busy day that Friday, and the witches have a working lunch at their desks, leaving Harry to his own devices and wandering back to Arthur's office for company, which delights the Weasley patriarch.

      It's not until after Sunday lunch with the usual gang that Harry brings up the Ministry's upcoming event. He and Susan have taken to walking around Muggle London every time after lunch on Sundays, and today's no different. They're eyeing a ride up in the London Eye since Susan told him last week that she's never been up in a Ferris wheel, and Harry leans Susan's way. "So, the posters about next month's little ceremony…"

      Susan grins and tilts her head back, amusement lighting up her blue eyes at the poor segue. "Hermione insists it's supposed to be something small, nothing too grand. Like a cocktail get-together." She rests her head on his shoulder. "Still scared you'll have to speak?"

      Same as last time, that hadn't occurred to him. "Well, no," he says truthfully. He wonders if there's a way to ask her to go with him, though, that won't make it seem as though she'll be his buffer; he still tries to be conscious of that these days.

      "Harry, go with me, then?"

      It takes him a minute to realize Susan beat him to the punch. He stares down at her, since she hasn't moved from his shoulder. He gapes a bit but quickly closes his mouth. He's so thankful to his brain when all he gets out is, "Yeah."

      Susan beams. The sun is getting low in the sky, and it casts a golden glow over her face. The glow, her smile—it's tempting to kiss.

      Harry doesn't, and they don't ride the London Eye that day, but there's an air of expectation between them when they part that day, and suddenly Harry finds himself looking forward to the Ministry function.

      For a post-war world, things definitely are looking up.

      He arrives at her Chelmsford home half an hour early as settled on and knocks. Harry tugs at the collar of his dress robes, but he's thankful they're not the extremely formal set the Yule Ball required years ago or that he needed for Bill and Fleur's wedding last year. Hermione swore up and down that tonight's event is something nice but lighter, like one of Slughorn's infamous parties.

      The comparison isn't comforting, but it does warn Harry of what's to come when they arrive at the Ministry.

      …that is, if they go at all. He frowns and furrows his brow, knocking again on the dark wood door to the Bones home. He takes a step back, too, and checks the number. Yes, Number Ten, and Harry spies lights on up on the second floor through a curtained window. Strange.

      Harry continues to wait. A couple minutes later, there's a clamor on the other side of the door, and he wonders if perhaps Susan's parents will answer. The mere idea sets his spine straight, because he hasn't the foggiest how he'll look in front of them or what to say—

      Susan gets the door, cracking it open a sliver. Somewhere far behind her, down the dark hall, is a light, so she's faintly silhouetted. "Oh. Hello, Harry."

      "Susan. Is everything all right?" It's not just her monotone that concerns him. He glances past her head…or tries. He and Susan are around the same height, so he can't see beyond her.

      She shakes her head. "It's nothing. Um, could we step outside and talk, Harry?"

      "Of course."

      He makes space for her, backing off the stoop, and Susan darts out of her house, yanking the door shut behind her. The door slams shut quite noisily. And, as before, another clamor occurs inside the house. Susan winces.

      Harry looks between the door and Susan. "Did something fall?" That's when he realizes Susan's still in her clothes from earlier today when they met the others for lunch. If she's comfortable, then that's well, but he and Susan parted directly after lunch specifically because she and Hannah meant to go shopping. He wonders if this and that are connected.

      Susan tugs on the hem of her button-up top and eyes the ground. "It's—It's just stuff, Harry. Can we sit?" she says, rushing her words and dropping to the stoop before he agrees.

      "You understand I'm happy to sit with you but only worry more the longer we linger here," he says, sitting beside her and observing her profile. His stomach drops, seeing normally happy Susan so stony-faced.

      "I don't want you to worry, Harry. I—I quite like spending time with you." The street light a stone's throw from the door shows a healthy flush across her cheeks. "But, in trying to get ready for tonight, I just…" Her voice catches. She rests an elbow on her knees and holds her head in her hand. "It's a mess, Harry. I'm a mess."

      He shakes his head. "I don't understand."

      Susan squeezes her eyes shut. Her breath shudders through her, but she's not crying, not yet. "I couldn't find anything to wear when I was out with Hannah today. So I went looking through the house, to no avail. Looking through things, bumping into things… What you heard were boxes falling, Harry. I've been dealing with falling boxes, knocking boxes over, boxes, boxes, boxes—all day long!"

      Harry's shoulders fall. "Boxes? Wha…?"

      "From all the estates. I keep putting off looking in them—" Her voice catches again. Another shudder seizes her.

      All Harry hears is "estates." His blood goes cold. In all the time they've spoken about their shared experiences, about their wins and their losses, Harry thought he knew. Edgar and his family had been lost in the first war. Amelia was taken in the second. But for Susan to be this rattled— "Susan, your family…"

      Finally, she looks at him. Her damp eyes glitter. "I'm the last Bones, Harry."

      It's the final piece of the puzzle; he now sees the entire picture. Why they have such a cozy kinship. Why Susan's been hesitating, discussing her future whilst stuck in her morbid present and past.

      Susan sits here beside him with the weight of her family's legacy, essentially the weight of the world, on her lone (lonely) shoulders.

      His heart breaks, seeing her like this, recalling similar odd, heavy feelings once he learned he was the last Potter. But memories of nights spent in front of the Mirror of Erised and others spent wishing for any place outside the Dursley home are strong reminders that he's at peace with his reality, that he's gotten to this calm point with his reality, as best as one can be with such news. It's a process, but one can get there. So Harry presses his arm against hers, lowers his volume out of respect for the dead, and returns the advice Susan once gave him. "You can mourn them without being tied to the Ministry, Susan. It's your choice how to spend this life."

      Susan's bottom lip quivers, but she hears him out.

      "If I get to enjoy a quiet life now, after Voldemort, then you can choose any life you want. It doesn't have to be a Ministry one, Sue. It can be any place, anywhere in the world." He flourishes with a gesture at her yard, though really it's just for demonstrative purposes. The glimpse he's had of Chelmsford, coming up her street, is quite nice; he wouldn't mind getting to know the lovely town a bit better. He musters an empathetic smile for her.

      Susan stares out at the yard with him, taking it all in, dwelling on his words. She leans against his arm, too, almost as if she needs propping up.

      Harry watches her carefully. He could care less about Ministry cocktail parties right now. He's more worried Susan might sit out here all night if he budges.

      "With anyone?"

      He blinks as Susan turns back to him. "Sorry?"

      "Any place. Anywhere in the world." Her eyes, even in the terrible yellow of the streetlight, are still a deep, startling blue. "With anyone?" Susan repeats.

      Harry doesn't want to jeopardize her chances nor his…but he acknowledges, too, that he's lost a lot of good in his life, and so has Susan. So he lowers his head, peering up into her eyes, their faces close. "Anyone you choose," Harry clarifies.

      It's the answer Susan wants. She wraps her arms around Harry's neck and kisses him. The kiss is salty from her tears, but Susan laughs into it, at the absurdity of things—their disastrous night, their morbid connection, their rough kiss. But, when she pulls her lips away from Harry's, she's smiling.

      And Harry's stomach and heart swoop.

      "…you know, if I take a vacation from the office, I bet Minister Shacklebolt will miss the boost you give to his ratings," she quips, in one breath both implying Harry will be by her side and that she's surmised Kingsley's plan this whole time. How shrewd of her. Harry knows he likes Susan for more than just her sweet and politely blunt sides.

      He rubs his thumb over her cheekbone to wipe away some tears, smiling with her, their noses bumping. "Perhaps," he admits. "Although, Sue, if you take a break from the office, Hermione will go nutters having to do everything herself."

      Susan raises her eyebrows. "True…" She smiles against his lips. "I suppose we could wait until our friends are happily ensconced in their eighth year then?"

      "Sounds like a plan." He kisses her again.

      Susan sighs happily. But then she squeezes his neck and peers at her front door with a frown. "Is it bad that I'd happily go into work right now when the thought of those boxes scares me like a boggart?"

      Harry shakes his head and pulls Susan to standing with him. He loosens his tie and keeps hold of her hand. "Not at all. No one says you have to deal with the boxes tonight, tomorrow, this year or the next. But, when you're ready, Sue, you won't be alone."

      At last, Susan brightens. She squeezes Harry's hand and, together, they go inside.

HOLY HELGA, IT'S DONE! D8 As a pal of mine knows, this story idea popped out of nowhere one week in…March?? And quickly spiraled into a big beast of a thing that refused to end, simply bc there was so much story that wanted to be told. The original inspo for this was "What if Harry didn't automatically jump into the Auror Office?" bc, given his life, diving right into more action seems like hell, imo, *lol*. So throw in some strong Harmony friendship, a good dose of Kingsley (bc I'm biased -w-), some Hufflepuff banter and drama bc I love my badgers, and I finally had a nice concept to write a proper story for one of my lowkey OTPs. Sincerely, it always struck me as odd that, given their similar histories, Harry and Susan never had a shot in canon. Thank Merlin for fanon, tho! :'D I included the Weasley stuff I did bc I do like the Weasleys (love Ginny :3c) and it felt impt to show on-screen that Hinny were broken up, too. But I liked the slow-build of HarrySusan and how Sue had one final hurdle to overcome, sharing the totality of her loss with him. Deffo smthg they can share together, and I like to imagine them spending some days going thru the boxes, perhaps at times with Justin and Hannah to help, just. Healing together is so impt! It is, as the title says, one of those things that come next. ;)

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!

               That gaping mouth had been all the encouragement Oliver had needed.

               Over the course of three years and through three attempts on his life by followers who wished to resurrect He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Harry had demonstrated that he was much more than a wizard. He'd accomplished so much, had done much more in his life so far than any person would ever do in their entire lifetime.

               And, yet, all Oliver could think was that, "At least I'm leaving Gryffindor in capable hands," and he thought winning the Cup before graduating was his own greatest achievement.

               Then Harry had said, before the students dispersed and the seventh years left for good, "Oliver?"

               They were almost to the trains, and Oliver was surprised Harry had time for him. The kid had looked to have a lot on his mind lately. No wonder—his godfather had been vindicated, and Harry had a new option in life. Still, Oliver had all the time in the world for the best Seeker he'd seen since Charlie. "What's up, Harry?"

               "I was wondering… Could I get some more pointers on Quidditch and stuff?"

               "Ah…that's a bit of an odd request…"

               "No, I just— I mean, Ron knows loads about these things, since he's into it. Chudley Cannons and all that…"

               Maybe it was a trick of the sunlight, but Oliver thought he detected a trace of uneasiness, of little confidence in his eyes. He gave Harry an easy smile. "It's no problem, Harry."

               Harry seemed ready to exhale a sigh of relief, but he didn't. Instead, he grinned back, feigning the confidence Oliver had only seen in him on the pitch so far. Ah. The Boy-Who-Lived was trying to grow up. "I'll owl you, yeah?"

               "'Course. Hey, I hope you have a nice summer, Harry." And he meant it.

               Sad to say, Harry was in the back of his mind that summer. After a grueling June of training and practice, and a July full of tryouts and rejections, August came.

               And, with it, an invitation from Puddlemere arrived.

               Oliver's parents were ecstatic. "I'll paint the whole house blue and yellow!" his father exclaimed.

               "Christmas cards this year—shall we do Puddlemere-themed ones?" his mother asked, her eyes lit with excitement.

               (In all honesty, his parents seemed more amazed by it than Oliver was. Hmm. Was that an insult?)

               Still, his father was happy. "You'd never spoken much about what you'd do after school, besides play Quidditch," he told his son in early August. "Truth be told, your mother and I were a little worried."

               Oliver frowned at his father. It was a small annoyance in the back of his mind that he might look like him someday, bearded and a little rounder than he'd want. "I was always going to play Quidditch."

               "Yes, yes… Well, a lot of people think that…" His father trailed off, realizing he was getting further from his point than he wanted. "But enough about that. How about we go see a game?"

               "Really?" the Gryffindor asked.

               "Yes, all three of us."

               "Even Mum? But she's never been very keen on watching matches."

               "Oh, she'll want to see this one." And his father pulled from his pocket three tickets for the 1994 Quidditch World Cup.

               Oliver gaped at him. "But this is—"

               His father grinned. "A small reward for working so hard, Oliver." The older wizard shrugged. "Besides, this year it's Ireland versus Bulgaria, but maybe someday we'll go see a match that's England versus…anyone."

               The teen smirked. "You'll only need two tickets for that, I hope," Oliver remarked.

               "That's the idea. Make it onto the national team and get in yourself, son. After all, you're an adult now."

               They laughed together, and it was nice. It was nice, even despite the niggling feeling in the back of Oliver's mind that he was forgetting something…

               Of course, he understood why he'd had that feeling when he got to the Cup and spied the Weasley twins.

               "Oi, you two!" he said to Fred and George—er, George and Fred…well, who ever really knew which one was on which side? (Times like these, Oliver wished for Angelina's expertise on that matter.)

               The twins turned and flanked Oliver on either side. "Oi yourself, Wood," the twin on the right said.

               "It's not very nice to holler at people in crowds," the other stated.

               "We're classy gents," they said in unison.

               Oliver laughed in spite of himself. "Nice to see you, too. I didn't know you were coming to this."

               "Sort of a last-minute thing," the one on the right mentioned. (Oliver decided he was Fred since he insisted on taking the lead.)

               "We even picked up Harry and Hermione for Ron," George informed him.

               "Wee little friends to keep wee ickle Ronniekins entertained," they snickered.

               "Plus Ginny's a given," Fred added.

               Oliver stopped walking, which was quite a feat since the twins had been leaning on him and they'd kept going. Ah, right, Harry. He felt like an idiot. He'd promised to communicate with him over the summer, but it had completely slipped his mind.

               As the twins wandered off, talking about making some bet, Oliver turned back to his family's tent, hoping he'd see Harry at some point so that he could apologize in person. At least he might make things a little more right by telling him the good news about Puddlemere.

               As luck would have it, though, Oliver bumped into Harry almost literally a few yards from the tent. "Oh, Harry! Long time, no see," Oliver blurted.

               "Good to see you, too, Oliver." Somehow, Harry looked out of place and yet right at home at the same time here at the World Cup. It was easy to forget, Oliver realized, that Harry had not grown up around all of this.

               "Fred and George told me they grabbed you and Hermione. Isn't this exciting? The World Cup! Who're you supporting?"

               Harry held up the scarf zipped into his sweatshirt. "Ireland, from what I know of them. Though Ron's a big Krum fan."

               Absentmindedly, Oliver noted that the green of the Ireland scarf wasn't the same green as the Seeker's eyes. But he shook himself free of that thought. "Yeah, Ireland's a great team."

               The younger boy looked around him. "Who're you here with?"

               "Oliver?" Mrs. Wood called at the perfect moment.

               "Ah, my parents…" Oliver ducked his head sheepishly as his parents appeared behind him. "Um, Harry, this is my mother and father."

               Luckily, the greetings were short and sweet. Oliver's parents did their best not to embarrass him, though they came close when they recognized Harry's infamous scar. Still, they gave Oliver a moment to walk with his former teammate.

               "Sorry about them," the older boy said to drum up conversation again.

               "Why? They're fantastic," Harry confessed.

               Oliver glanced down and frowned. Good Godric, he was an idiot… Of course Harry would like Oliver's parents. Just because Harry had Sirius now didn't mean he didn't miss his parents. "By the way," Oliver said, trying to lift Harry's mood, "all that practice has finally paid off."

               "Yeah?"

               "Yep. You're looking at the new reserve Keeper for Puddlemere United."

               Harry nodded appreciatively. "That's brilliant, Oliver. Honestly." His expression was sincere. "After having practiced under you for three years…I'm not surprised you made it."

               "Yes, well, I might only be a reserve, but I plan on giving my motivational speeches whenever we have a game, since they did Gryffindor well. I mean, we eventually won the Quidditch Cup, didn't we? …Potter, are you laughing at your former Captain?"

               No matter how hard Harry tried to hide it, his shoulders shook, and he couldn't quite keep his face straight. "I said nothing whatsoever, Wood."

               Oliver's face grew warm from embarrassment. "Yeah, yeah…" He scratched the back of his head. He knew it was time to head back to his parents, so he had maybe another minute or two to spare for Harry. "By the way, sorry about no post this summer."

               "No, the fault's mine. I sort of got caught up watching the drama unfold as my godfather popped another vein in my uncle's neck while telling him that I'd be in his care now."

               "Everything all right, then?"

               Harry shrugged. "More or less. Sirius' home is becoming home, though the house-elf, Kreacher, is someone I could probably live without… Ah, I should get back to Ron and the others before Hermione sends out a search party." He held his hand out and shook Oliver's hand. "Congrats on Puddlemere, Oliver. I'll owl you soon, promise."

               "It's no problem, Harry, really. And maybe I'll be able to send some tickets to the team in the future, have everyone learn some new tricks."

               "That'd be nice." Harry tipped his head then and left, and the night just became another festive one for Oliver.

               Well, it wasn't all that festive when Death Eaters crashed the party and sent everyone fleeing.

               As most of the fans had, the Woods had abandoned their tent almost immediately. Oliver did pause to worry about Harry—and the twins and the others, of course—but he had no time to go looking for any of them. His parents dragged him along and forced him into Side-Along Apparition. He would have to learn later that several Death Eaters cornered Harry and his friends and that the Ministry didn't quite understand things, not yet.

               Oliver did end up sending an owl to Harry first, shortly after the scene at the World Cup:

Harry—

Are you all right? The Prophet's been going on about what happened, and my father heard from a friend who'd witnessed Ministry officials botch things. Did they really point their wands at you?

—Oliver

               A response did not come immediately. Not until after the school year began and the Gryffindors had a few Quidditch practices under their belts with Angelina as Captain did Oliver finally hear from him.

Oliver—

I'm fine. We were all unhurt. The Ministry thought I'd cast the Dark Mark in the sky, but it's fine. My name was cleared, though I confess I'd like not to deal with the Ministry anymore.

               There was a drop of ink on the page after the paragraph, indicating…hesitation, Oliver assumed. Which made sense, as the letter continued.

So, learn anything useful from the Ireland–Bulgaria match? I'm not sure I caught all the action, though watching Krum play did get me fired up to play this year.

—Harry

               It wasn't much comfort, but Oliver breathed a sigh of relief. He'd hated the thought that, as their senior, he'd left them to fight on their own. But…but…

               Oliver sighed and stared at the items in his room, most of which were Quidditch-related. If he were being frank, he'd admit that he was only a real fighter on the pitch. Percy and McGonagall had long ago and several times pointed out that he had a one-track mind: the Quidditch track.

               Still, if that were the case, then Oliver wouldn't be talking about things other than Quidditch with Harry, right?

               And, as it turned out, that really wasn't the case. The Triwizard Tournament came to Hogwarts, and, though the letters were spotty and infrequent, Harry came to tell Oliver more and more of the things he did off the pitch.

               Not to mention that Quidditch has been rendered pointless, Harry wrote, with the tournament. Surprisingly, Krum is Durmstrang's champion. Oh, and do you remember Cedric Diggory? He's Hogwarts'…and so am I.

               Oliver…didn't know how to react to that. He compartmentalized so that he fretted a bit about those on-goings when not at practice, but he was confused. Hadn't the tournament always been one student from each of the three schools? So two Hogwarts students didn't make any sense…

               At least Harry told him about the dragons. He had a good plan, to Summon his broom and to utilize his flying skills.

               Charlie never mentioned if it was possible to out-fly a dragon, Oliver wrote, but I reckon if someone has a chance, it's you, Harry.

               Oliver didn't get a response to that letter, but he heard the good news from Angelina and Katie. Harry had bested the dragon and rather spectacularly. Imagining the feat put a smile on the Keeper's face.

               As the school year dragged on for Harry and blurred from one match into another for Oliver, their communication remained fairly erratic. It surprised Oliver to get a short missive from Harry before Christmas, though, griping about the Yule Ball. Oliver commented, It'll probably look gorgeous in the castle, though.

               And Harry? The castle's one thing. But witches are scary when it's time to dress up and dance.

               Oliver somewhat understood his pain. Several times before matches, he'd seen Angelina, Katie, and Alicia primp to no avail, since flying always messed up their hair. But he'd stopped trying to stop them after the second time they'd hexed him off his broom. It hadn't been a pretty sight. Speaking of sights…

               The Keeper wondered how odd it would be for him to visit his alma mater. He still lived at home and split his time between there and Puddlemere's practices, and he'd grown bored. A part of Oliver tempted him with the idea to visit Harry, even if only for a change of pace. Besides, he convinced himself, surely he was beginning to forget his friends' faces.

               And, yet, he had left Hogwarts alone throughout two tasks and the ball. Still, Oliver hadn't shaken the idea, and he did visit in late spring, before the third task commenced.

               The grounds were as lush as he recalled…and Oliver blushed. As he entered through the front door, to seek permission from McGonagall if not Dumbledore to visit, Oliver internally groaned. Would anyone miss him? Had anyone been missing him? Perhaps Angelina and Alicia. Maybe Katie and Lee. The twins… And Percy—ah, no. He'd graduated, too, and Oliver hadn't heard from his roommate for a long while, despite spotting him in passing a few times at the World Cup…

               Oliver's mind wandered, and Flitwick spotted him. "Mr. Wood!" the little Charms professor squeaked. "To what pleasure do we owe this visit?"

               "Ah, Professor Flitwick… It's nice to see you. I suppose I was feeling nostalgic." The tall boy grinned wanly.

               Flitwick cocked his head to one side. "That's lovely. It's not against the rules, you know. I do wish more of our former students would visit." He pointed, though not rudely, up at Oliver. "Do let Professor Dumbledore know you're wandering the campus, however."

               "Of course, professor."

               "Good day, Mr. Wood."

               "The same to you, professor."

               Flitwick toddled off behind Oliver, his footsteps echoing in the rather empty corridor. Oliver himself continued forward, wondering if perhaps he'd come not during a break but during classes, which defeated his purpose.

               He rounded the corner, saw two people up ahead, and ducked back behind the corner. When he peeked around again, he saw they were still there…"they" being Harry and Diggory.

               It wasn't an unusual picture, as they were both Quidditch players. And yet…Harry was smiling. Comfortably. Maybe he'd just been laughing as well, judging by his soft expression. Diggory, too, looked to be enjoying Harry's company as they stopped to chat.

               Oliver frowned at himself. Why the hell was he hiding? There was nothing strange about seeing them…although Oliver was curious. Harry had mentioned Diggory just a few times in their letters, as Diggory had sort of taken Harry's side in the ensuing chaos of Hogwarts having two champions. Diggory had been an ally, Harry had told Oliver.

               The Keeper sighed. He wished that Diggory weren't that older figure for Harry to look up to—Oliver had begun fancying the idea that he himself was that figure for Harry. Which had been nice, since everyone else on the Gryffindor team had never taken Oliver seriously at all. Harry didn't, either, but he could on occasion.

               He was too caught up in his thoughts, so much so that he didn't notice when Harry and Diggory parted ways, and Harry came his way.

               "Oliver?"

               Harry's voice spooked him, and Oliver jolted. Agile and light on his feet—Harry really was a Seeker. "H-Harry," Oliver stuttered.

               "What're you doing here?" No joy or confusion on his face, just curiosity.

               "I, uh… I wanted to see Hogwarts…"

               "Lonely?"

               Harry always went on about Hermione, but he was fairly perceptive himself. "No," Oliver fibbed. He fell into step with the younger lad.

               "I'm surprised to find you walking around the castle like this," Harry continued, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. "Everything all right at home?"

               "Oh, definitely. And Puddlemere's been great, too." Oliver fidgeted before shoving his hands into his pockets. "How're the houseguests?"

               The Boy-Who-Lived shrugged. "Not too bad. I don't deal with them that much, although it's amusing to watch Ron fawn over Fleur Delacour while Krum chases after Hermione."

               "No joke?"

               "No joke."

               The brunet wizard stroked his chin. "What about Diggory?" He paused, wondering if Harry might guess he'd seen them. Though that wasn't bad, right? They hadn't been doing anything for Oliver to witness.

               "Everyone loves him and hates me," Harry said with half a smile. "And, yet, he still insists on being nice to me. It's almost as though I'm rubbing everyone's nose in it that way," he added with a light chuckle.

               Oliver liked the sound, and he chuckled a bit, too. "Must be tough, not having any Quidditch this year… Wait, don't you have class?"

               "I could skip one History of Magic, I'm sure," Harry answered. "And I do miss Quidditch. I'd much rather fly after the Snitch instead of risking my life for these stupid tasks." He stopped and looked up at Oliver. "I'm not sure if I mentioned it, but I really don't want to be one of the champions."

               They stood by the moving stairs, and, while the stairs were moving, no one else was around. Oliver pushed his questions about Diggory to the back of his brain and reached up, hesitantly. Then he went for it and ruffled Harry's hair, looking away. "Don't say that, Harry," he told his underclassman. "You're a great wizard and a hell of a Quidditch player."

               Harry snorted and gently pushed Oliver's hand away. "Cedric said something along those lines, too, not that long ago."

               Oliver's eye twitched, but he didn't understand why. "Well, I should let you take your time moseying to Binns' class," the older male stated suddenly.

               Harry's face dropped. "I thought you were visiting?"

               "Ah, I've seen what I wanted to," Oliver said, which wasn't entirely false. He forced a smile. "I'll see you around, Harry."

               As he walked away, Harry called after him. "Come see the final task, will you?"

               Oliver didn't trust his voice. He raised a hand over his shoulder, neither confirming nor denying his presence for the third task.

               For a short while, Oliver puzzled over how he'd acted and reacted when he'd seen Harry. Maybe he'd just been a bit jealous of Diggory for…being a big brother in Oliver's absence?

               That had to be it. Oliver was sure of it. And, with that decided, Oliver seriously considered going back to Scotland to cheer Harry on for the final task.

               But, when the time came, Puddlemere was forced into several late-night practices after suffering a humiliating loss to Wigtown. The reserve Keeper was worked nearly to the bone like the rest of his teammates, and he could barely lift a quill to parchment when he got home, an apology for Harry on the tip of his tongue. Yet exhaustion took him, and he slept the night and much of the next day away.

               Then, of course, the news was everywhere.

               The Triwizard Tournament, a disaster. Champions hexed, cursed—and killed. Harry, deemed insane. The Death Eaters were gaining numbers once more.

               Oliver…didn't know what to do or how to react. A little time passed, but the end of the summer was still far off. Eventually, he wrote something:

May I see you? —O

               It was a sentence that fit on three lengthwise inches of parchment. It was hardly worth the owl's energy, perhaps, but Oliver felt it was all he could do. When not on the pitch, Oliver Wood felt ridiculously useless, and it didn't help him to recall those brief moments when he'd seen Harry's eyes waver over the years.

               Luckily, he might not prove to be so useless after all, for, the next thing he knew, Harry told him how to get to Sirius' house. The note was only directions, but Oliver had a feeling it was the most Harry had spoken to anyone in weeks.

               It was mid-July when Oliver flew to London, in search of Twelve Grimmauld Place. He got lost on the street when he looked several times for Number Twelve, but Harry appeared on the steps when Oliver blinked, and he realized there must've been enchantments on the townhouse.

               Harry looked the worst Oliver had ever seen him. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he looked thinner than when Oliver had last seen him. Even his normally messy hair seemed to droop. But, while Oliver saw sadness on that pale face, he could recognize anger when he saw it.

               "No, I'm not all right," Harry confessed when the older boy approached. "But that's about as much as I want to say right now."

               Oliver nodded, understanding that he didn't need to speak yet.

               "Let's walk," Harry said, and he came down the steps and began walking up the street, leaving Oliver to jog after him. After the first block, Harry exhaled and relaxed his shoulders. "Sorry," he began. "It's just—after all that happened, this summer hasn't been so great." He pursed his lips. "I've not even heard from Ron or Hermione."

               The Keeper blinked. "Strange."

               "I've not seen them, either. It's frustrating." He glanced up at Oliver. His look was both apologetic and thankful. "I…rather needed a friend right now."

               Oliver's chest tightened, and he nodded. "I'm glad you were all right with me."

               Harry managed a snicker. "Don't put yourself down, Oliver. I don't think I could've played for you if I didn't like you, and I'd like to think teammates can be friends, too."

               The Keeper fought a stupid grin from appearing on his face. "Well, Houses, too. I mean, I'll die still hating Flint, and I have to admit that Chang was a good player, but Diggory wasn't too—" Oliver choked, realizing what he was saying. "…wasn't too bad," he finished weakly.

               His companion stared at the ground as they walked. Six, seven minutes of silence passed.

               "I'm sorry, Harry. The only thing I'm not rubbish at is being a Keeper."

               Still Harry said nothing for another five minutes. And then— "No one seems to get it. He…his name was Cedric, and he was a good friend as well as a good Seeker."

               To make the awkward moment worse, Oliver thought Harry was on the verge of tears. Neither of them mentioned it.

               "It's not safe anymore," Harry said at last when they turned around and headed back towards Grimmauld Place.

               "When has it ever been?" Oliver glanced down at Harry. "Or did you not attend Hogwarts the past few years?"

               Harry laughed darkly. "Point taken. At least Voldemort's dead—though that didn't stop his followers from trying to resurrect him recently."

               Oliver's eyes widened in response.

               "Yeah. That's the story that the Ministry doesn't want me sharing. He's not back, but his followers are, in large numbers. I know for sure that one of them is Malfoy's dad, too, but the Ministry doesn't want to believe me. They think they just have some bad eggs on their hands for the Hit Wizards to take care of." Harry shook his head. "And Pettigrew…I already told Sirius…"

               Whatever that meant, Oliver didn't know. And he also didn't know if he preferred an angry Harry over a depressed one. He clenched his fists and subsequently relaxed them, patting Harry on the back. "You need to fly, my friend."

               The remark caught Harry by surprise, and some color returned to his cheeks. "Oliver, we're right in the heart of Muggle living—"

               "Then let's get away from the Muggles for a moment." He tugged on Harry's arm. "C'mon."

               "I don't even have my broom on me, just my wand—"

               "So live a little crazy and go for a ride with me." Oliver squashed the mental images of a pretty witch riding behind him instead, as he was determined to do this.

               It did take some pushing, but, once they'd walked nearly out of the city, Oliver mounted his broom and waited for Harry to hop on. He did, and the two rose into the early evening sky.

               They were quiet for the whole three minutes they flew, but Oliver sensed Harry lighten up. At first, his arms around Oliver's chest and waist had been tense, but then they fidgeted and turned awkward when Oliver flew slower. At least his mind seemed to go elsewhere for the moment.

               When they landed, they remained quiet. Oliver was breathing hard from the brief flight, but he still walked the entire way back to Harry's godfather's place.

               "We'll have to do this again sometime," Oliver joked as Harry went up to the door.

               Harry snorted at him. "Maybe, maybe not."

               "See you, Harry." He turned to go.

               "Oliver, wait. Aren't you going to come in?"

               The older boy blinked. "Huh?"

               "You came all the way here. You could eat with us. I'm sure Sirius wouldn't mind."

               "I, uh…"

               Harry smirked. That smirk coupled with those green eyes had occasionally put Oliver in mind of a Slytherin…but he was glad to have shared Gryffindor with Harry, even if they hadn't been in the same year. "You hadn't thought that far ahead, had you?"

               Oliver ducked his head, hiding his red cheeks as he walked in after Harry. "Shut up… I'm a good strategist—"

               "On the field, I know, I know," Harry said with a laugh. Unbeknownst to Oliver, it was the first Harry had laughed for real in a month.

               Throughout the summer, Oliver visited Grimmauld Place, often. To his shock, he liked Sirius Black; Sirius was nothing as the old stories had described him, and he was more of a doting father than caring godfather when it came to Harry. But Sirius appreciated Oliver coming around and hanging out with Harry between practice and matches.

               Sirius gave him a look once in late July, when Harry had left the kitchen. "You know, because…" He hadn't needed to finish.

               Oliver nodded. "I know." He did. Still Ron and Hermione hadn't contacted Harry or seen him, and he'd begun to get a little pissed with them, since they were supposed to be Harry's best mates.

               "I'm off to Remus'," Sirius announced, as if that were a rare occurrence. It turned out that the two old friends spent a lot of time together, though Oliver had to wonder if they were only catching up on old times. With Ron and Hermione acting strangely and Sirius leaving Grimmauld Place a lot, Oliver would be damned to think that something wasn't up.

               "Oh, something definitely is," Harry said when Oliver voiced his opinions. "Now, come on. I've got a few moves to practice, and I need to try them out on you."

               Oliver groaned. "I'm beginning to feel like your Quidditch dummy, Harry."

               Harry grinned. "It's not my fault all the other Seekers are bigger than me. And you're burly, so it all works out."

               Oliver rolled his eyes, but he let Harry do as he pleased.

               The remainder of the summer carried on like this. Even Harry's fifteenth birthday, which only Sirius and Oliver celebrated with him. However, as the summer wound down, something stirred, and Oliver couldn't come see Harry as much.

               "Oh, um—stuff with Ron and Hermione came up," Harry told him. Something flickered in his eyes again.

               Oliver frowned. "You can tell me if you want, Harry."

               "No, Oliver, it's—" He furrowed his brow and rubbed the bridge of his nose, beneath his spectacles. "It's nothing," he said with a sigh, trying to sound as though he meant it.

               Oliver didn't hassle him. He'd come to learn that Harry would tell him things. In time, but he'd tell him things.

               Of course, then Harry's fifth year began, the professor from hell arrived, and the year turned to utter shite.

               One thing after another piled up, and Oliver ran out of time to read the dozens of letters Harry sent him on a semi-regular basis. By the time he got to them, guilt washed over him.

               She's changing Hogwarts, Harry said in one.

               We're teaching ourselves, that's all I can tell you, he said in another.

Her idea of detention is carving words into my hand… But I won't tell Dumbledore. He's got enough to worry about.

               and

I kissed Cho Chang. But I don't think I should've.

               Furthermore—

A lot of things are happening. I feel as though Quidditch is the last thing on my mind. I wish for its simplicity, though. I miss flying with you.

               Worse, yet:

I miss Cedric.

               And Oliver regretted his lack of attention most when the school year ended and things began to go up in flames as he read the headlines: MINISTRY BREAK-IN. DEATH EATERS BACK FOR GOOD. IS THERE ANOTHER YOU-KNOW-WHO ON THE RISE?

               Suddenly, Puddlemere didn't seem so important with the rumors swirling about Harry.

               When the summer arrived, Oliver asked Harry more questions. "What happened? Were you safe? What did you learn? Are you going to be all right in the future?"

               Harry barely had time to answer Oliver as he tried to dodge the volleyball that they were calling a Bludger for practice. "We fought Death Eaters in the Ministry. Of course I wasn't safe, but at least Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and Luna had my back! We learned to defend ourselves, is all! And, Oliver! Stop bludgeoning me with questions! You're not my brother or father!"

               With both his words and the volleyball, he hit Oliver in the chest, hard. Oliver crash-landed on his broom.

               Harry gasped and quickly dismounted. "I'm sorry! I didn't—"

               Oliver held up a hand. "No, I know." He locked eyes with Harry. "But I'm your friend, and I do care about you."

               Still…saying that… Oliver wondered if it was a lie, calling himself Harry's friend. Because he sure as hell spent more time with him and cared more for him than he believed a friend would or should.

               And he could read it in Harry's eyes, too. They weren't friends, not really, but they were much more than captain and player.

               "Let's practice again," Harry said, and that was the beginning of Harry refusing to meet Oliver's eyes.

               For Oliver…it wasn't a blur. It was a smudge.

               It reminded him of those times in Transfiguration when he'd nod off and hastily copy Percy's notes later, only to do a shoddy job and be unable to read them because he'd smudged it all. Blurs, he could sort of make out. Smudges were illegible.

               And that's what Harry's sixth year was to him.

               From romance (too many girls were after Harry, poor bloke) to pranks (the twins' store was doing well and still their chaos reached Hogwarts) to Dark things (because Oliver agreed with Harry's letters that Malfoy was likely up to something and that Snape couldn't be trusted), it turned into one big smudge between Oliver and Harry.

               Harry no longer pestered Oliver about hanging out and playing Quidditch, but he also said nothing more about Cedric. Oliver was fine with the Cedric bit, at least.

               Still, Dumbledore…died. Just like that.

               It didn't make sense, Death Eaters in the castle and—and—and—

               Oliver couldn't wrap his head around it. Harry didn't write to him after the news broke, but Oliver didn't think it needed to be in a letter. This sort of thing had to be talked about in person.

               So, that July, Oliver went to Grimmauld Place in search of Harry, only to find that Harry was packing while Sirius was out.

               "What the hell are you doing?" Oliver asked softly as Harry pulled on a jacket. Not a cloak. He wanted to be incognito, Oliver surmised.

               "I'll be gone for a while," Harry said. And he pushed his way past Oliver, dodging the hand that reached for his arm.

               "Harry—" Oliver swallowed the lump in his throat. He wished those green eyes would look at him…

               He didn't see him again for a year.

               By the next summer, Harry had grown. He looked like a man now, Oliver noted. Maybe battle had done that to him.

               Made sense. The Death Eaters had tried to take over Hogwarts, but Harry had thwarted them. He'd killed Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy and…

               Oliver shook his head. What did that matter? Maybe this Death Eater business and V…Voldemort nonsense would finally be put to rest…

               But even though Oliver had participated in the Battle of Hogwarts and had caught glimpses of Harry and those dazzling green eyes…those eyes still wouldn't meet his.

               Oliver tried not to care. After all, they weren't friends, were they?

               (But that was only half of it.)

               September of the year after next was fairly warm, in Oliver's opinion. The sun shone a lot, and Puddlemere was shaping up nicely. They'd even taken one of the best players from Holyhead last year, so…yeah. Oliver felt as though his life had purpose once more.

               Quidditch, ah, Quidditch. Oliver's one and only love.

               "The beginning of the season—just sets your blood on fire, right?" Cahir, a reserve Chaser, asked Oliver.

               "Definitely," Oliver replied. He pointedly stared elsewhere as Cahir brushed her red hair back, and he caught a glimpse of the emerald ring on her finger.

               Merlin, he hated the color green. (Too many tough memories. Not bad…just tough.)

               "We're getting a new Seeker, y'know," Cahir told him as they got the equipment out for practice.

               "What? That's big news."

               "Oh, no, sorry… I meant reserve Seeker." Cahir shrugged. "Though, if his school record's the real deal, then he'll probably be our new one in no time."

               "Really? He's that young?" Oliver inspected the Quaffle. "Which school? Hogwarts, right?"

               Cahir nodded. "Yeah, his name's—"

               "POTTER!" their coach yelled.

               Oliver flinched. The coach had to be wrong…or, no, well, "Potter" was a fairly common surname…

               But, no, the coach's announcement was for none other than Harry James Potter, and Oliver could feel his breakfast rising in the back of his throat as the raven-haired man walked onto the field in a brand-new, navy Puddlemere United jumper, emblazoned with the signature gold bulrushes.

               Cahir whistled. "I didn't think it was him when I saw the name, but…wow. That is the Boy-Who-Lived, right?"

               "He's not a boy anymore," Oliver griped, but he couldn't place his annoyance. Or was it anger? Agh…

               As if his arrival hadn't been grating enough, Cahir had been right: Harry was less a reserve Seeker and more a first-string player. A part of Oliver was jealous about that, as he'd been playing for years already and still was only a reservist.

               But Harry had the talent. And he had the skills. Some of which Oliver had taught him, but still.

               Harry still wouldn't meet his eyes, even though it'd been, what, three years or so now?

               Although, Oliver had to wonder: How in the world had Harry decided on Quidditch in lieu of Auror training? Harry had dreamt of that before, especially with each passing year that he had survived.

               Oliver's curiosity won out over everything else, though, and he began trailing Harry like a needy puppy, hungry for answers. Things went on like this for months, until winter was very nearly over.

               And Harry was not that patient a person.

               "What, Oliver?!" he barked at his former Captain by the end of February. Despite Harry's skills, he was still a fresh face, and fresh faces, like Oliver, had to clean up after practice whenever the coach deemed so.

               "I, uh…," the brunet said eloquently.

               "Do you need something?" Harry asked, his tone calmer this time. It reminded Oliver of years ago, when Harry would ask him simply about Quidditch. Oliver had always liked those moments, with nothing but him, Harry, and the game in mind.

               "…not really," Oliver mumbled.

               Harry exhaled. "Then finish putting things away and hit the showers. I'm going on ahead."

               Oliver dumbly nodded, but he hurried through his tasks, and, by the time he left the pitch, he could see Harry walking away. He jogged to catch up with him—ah, also like old times.

               And, as before, they walked for a while in silence. Eventually Harry spoke up. "I apologize for my behavior, but…we're not kids anymore."

               "I know," the Keeper remarked.

               "A lot has changed since…the battle."

               Oliver waited. Harry would tell him.

               It took a few more minutes, but Harry sighed. "I couldn't stand it anymore, you know? The Dark Arts and the villains and the risks and the loss…" His voice was hard. "I—I couldn't become an Auror. Not after all I've seen and dealt with. Even when I was journeying with Ron and Hermione, learning the Death Eaters' plans…"

               Ah, so that's what had happened then. A tiny part of Oliver tried to ignore the fact that Ron and Hermione had gotten to spend that time with Harry…that would just be petty, to be jealous of that situation…

               "And, then, coming back, I think everyone had expectations of me." Harry sighed and tilted his head up to look at the nighttime sky. The moonlight reflected off his glasses. "I decided I loved Quidditch. It's perfectly normal, isn't it?"

               Oliver smiled, watching those eyes. There actually wasn't any more self-doubt in there anymore… No, that gaze…it was almost content, almost. "'Normal' is a rather nice word."

               "I s'pose so. It, and Quidditch—it means I can do what I want. Like, stay up late and sleep in—"

               "So long as you don't miss practice," Oliver corrected.

               "Quidditch nut," Harry teased.

               Oliver shrugged. "Guilty as charged." He took a breath. "Harry…do you dislike me?"

               Harry gaped at him. "Why are you…?"

               "There are a billion reasons. Do I really have to point them all out?" He didn't want to. He didn't want to mention Harry's favor of Cedric over Oliver. He didn't want to mention not even looking at each other for years. He didn't want to mention not being friends.

               "Oliver, I told you that I couldn't play for you if I disliked you," Harry said quietly.

               "But, if I recall correctly, I once asked if I should teach you everything about Quidditch. Well, I must've. You've gotten here, to Puddlemere. You don't need me anymore, so you don't need to like or dislike me." Merlin, what was he saying? He didn't mean to show himself in a poor light, but… Agh! This was infuriating. He just wanted to be able to look Harry in the eye again, at least like equals.

               …oh.

               Oliver blinked. It slowly dawned on him, what he wanted. But he had no courage to voice it aloud. Maybe if this were a pitch…oh, Godric, no, he could never voice this on a pitch, either…

               "Oliver."

               The brunet turned. Harry had stopped with him under a lamppost. Even though the light was a horrific yellow, those green eyes were greener than ever—

               —and they were finally looking at him.

               Oliver shut his gaping mouth.

               Harry frowned. "I joined Puddlemere because it's a good team, and I wouldn't have joined it if I disliked you. I want to play with you again, Oliver. I want us to talk again. I want to be—be friends again," he continued, stumbling over "friends." His cheeks darkened with color. "There are some people I can't forget—"

               Internally, Oliver winced. Diggory's face flashed in his mind.

               "—but I'd like to think that, with time, I'll make enough good memories to replace the sad ones. I'd like to make more memories with you."

               If he'd been playing, Oliver felt as though he could've blocked five goals at once.

               "And the team, of course," Harry added hastily. He ducked his head and resumed walking, forcing Oliver to keep up with him.

               "That's fine, Harry," the taller wizard said. Oliver ruffled his hair, much to Harry's chagrin. But, no matter how much Harry swatted at him, Oliver couldn't resist. "Hey…," he began as they slowed and Oliver realized Harry would probably Disapparate soon. "Harry, are you done running?"

               "Running? Of course." Harry looked at him as though it were such a simple question. "I saved the world, didn't I?" he mumbled a tad darkly.

               "Are you going to look me in the eye from now on?"

               Harry grumbled. "Of course! That's a ridiculous question, and—" He grabbed Oliver's hand and tugged it free of his hair. "Didn't I say we weren't kids anymore?"

               Oliver laughed. "You're right." They took a few more steps. "Hey, Harry? Do you like me?"

               Miraculously, the Boy-Who-Lived spluttered and let go of Oliver's hand as though it were fire. "Goodnight, Oliver. See you at tomorrow's practice!" And then he Disapparated.

               Yet, somehow, Oliver felt that was only the beginning. And that it was about time for him to have an interest in something other than Quidditch… (Oh, who was he kidding? He already did.)

As I write this, it's almost one in the morning…and I'm tired. SORRY for the OOC-ness of…like, everyone… I'd like to think I did okay with Oliver and that Harry wasn't too bad, but they really fought me in this fic, Harry more so… And, yes, that was a hint of HarryCedric, because, the more I wrote, the more I was intrigued by both HarryOliver and HarryCedric (and the more I wished for Harry to get jealous if Oliver were to mention Percy, but maybe that'll be a separate fic). Within the scope of this fic, though, I think the ending was right. It was a long time before their beginning…other stuff can come later. Plus, boys will be boys, and they can be slow. ;P But it was fun to draw them in uniform for the cover! :D Hope you enjoyed it, HPSL! Dx This was a toughie for me!

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!

~mew

               Sure, his name had been known for years, though the years had been short and few. But everyone knew him. Of course everyone knew him.

               His name was Harry the Kid, and it was public knowledge that he hated Sheriff Riddle. Most people didn't know why and didn't question it. Those who questioned Sheriff Riddle tended to go missing. …or parts of them were lying somewhere in the dessert.

               Ginevra Weasley knew, though. The old families knew. The old families saw the "Undesirable No.1" posters all the time. There were the old families like the Blacks and the Malfoys who ignored the posters and pretended they didn't know. Then there were the old families like the Weasleys and the Longbottoms who glowered whenever they saw the posters. They knew exactly what had happened to make Harry the Kid the adversary of Sheriff Riddle.

               "I heard he'll be local soon," Luna Lovegood, the daughter of the manager of the newspaper, told Ginevra. She was an odd girl of interesting thoughts and talents who was only slightly below Ginevra in terms of societal class. Ginevra got along with her.

               "You hear everything before anyone else does, Luna," Ginevra said with a smile. She smoothed her skirts and pushed around some of the papers on her friend's desk to clear a space to rest her arms.

               "Not only me, but Father, too," Luna said simply. "I know you miss him," she whispered.

               Ginevra blushed and glanced over her shoulder, checking to make sure they wouldn't be overheard. "It's not as though I've seen him that much. Plus my brother dropped the family name to protect us, since he joined Harry." Ginevra lowered her brown eyes to Luna's desk. "The Muggles don't get it. They see wizards dueling in the street and believe they see pistols instead of wands. Sometimes I wonder for how much longer Sheriff will keep this city under his thumb."

               "Illusion Charms are easy enough to manage when you're that powerful. Or if you have a good enough number of lackeys to rotate supporting the magic." Luna had an odd way of talking, but Ginevra liked it. Suddenly she focused her eyes on the Weasley daughter. "What will you do when he comes back?"

               The other girl shook her head. "I don't know… I've studied as much magic as is allowed for females of my status in these times… That's a lie, partially. Dad's taught me a few things, and Bill and Charlie, too, since Percy and the twins haven't been home once since leaving to work as adults." Ginevra twiddled her thumbs in her lap after sitting straight in her chair. "Sometimes I'm jealous of my brother for going along on Harry's adventures. It's just the two of them. Surely one more person couldn't have hurt?"

               Luna smiled in that dreamy way of hers, her light eyes big and bright. "It's to keep you safe, Ginny," she said, using her friend's nickname.

               Ginevra rolled her eyes. "It's always to keep me safe," the redhead remarked as she went to leave.

               Luna, of course, had heard right.

               Not even a day after visiting her friend, Ginevra began to hear rumors swirling around the city.

               "They say he's back to finish business this time."

               "You don't say?"

               "Well, he's Harry the Kid—the Kid. I'm sure he wants to be an adult someday. The only one in the way of that is Sheriff Riddle."

               "Yeah, but what's a kid these days?"

               "Must be something like seventeen or something, if you try to figure all the battles he and Sheriff have had."

               "Has it really been that long? It doesn't seem like it."

               "Of course it doesn't seem like it, because he's had to best Sheriff's lackeys one at a time and one by one. Like that skittish guy, Quirrell. And the younger Crouch. And Harry the Kid's encountered the Sheriff's gang, the 'Death Eaters,' more times than you can count."

               "Really? Good thing he's got Red with him."

               Ginevra's ears always perked up at her brother's moniker.

               "Hmm? Oh, yeah, yeah… Red Ronald. Not the brightest guy, from the stories I've heard. But he's even more bullheaded than Harry the Kid."

               "And did you hear? They've got another with them these days."

               Ginevra could never quite catch the full content of this rumor, unfortunately. But something about it made her heart ache—

               "Ah, yep, yep… The Scholar."

               "The Scholar?"

               "The Scholar. That's all anyone knows of her. I've heard that she's nothing to look at…if she zips by you. But get a moment, and you'll see a diamond in the rough."

               Ginevra hated spending so much time at home, just learning whatever her mother, Molly, taught her. It was just them at home, since her father, Arthur, and Bill and Charlie spent most of their time at work. But at least this allowed the women to chat, especially about the recent gossip.

               "You've heard the latest?" she asked her mother.

               Molly nodded. "Every time Harry comes around, there's always some big battle."

               "That's not what I meant."

               Molly looked at her daughter with the same brown eyes she'd given her. "…I heard of the Scholar. But I know nothing of her. Nor does anyone else."

               Ginevra thought. "I wonder if she's one of those rare cases—a Muggle-born."

               "Maybe. We're only just starting to see them pop up in the past two decades, though, so we can't know for sure."

               They sat quietly, Molly mending something of Arthur's without magic (she always told Ginevra it was a good skill to have, since there was no guarantee Wizarding folk could remain a secret in a Muggle-dominant society without effort). Ginevra admired her mother's needlework. "He didn't take me with him."

               Molly sighed. "Dear, we've been over this before—"

               "No, no, I know. Everyone's always keeping me out of danger." Ginevra watched her mother a bit longer. But while Molly thought their conversation had concluded, she missed the glint flaring to life in her daughter's eyes. Ginevra understood well that she was precious to her family as the only girl…but no one had ever told her that she couldn't try to help Harry from home.

               She had to put her head together with Luna's to come up with some ideas. Luckily, Luna's fiancé, the heir to the Longbottom name and legacy, was on board to help, especially as he'd grown up with Ginevra and Ronald.

               "I heard it through the grapevine," Neville told the two girls one evening three nights, as it turned out, before Harry's return. "He's been spotted close by. We should see him soon."

               "Great," Ginevra said. She looked at him. "And our plans?"

               He tipped his hat to her, which was a good sign. If someone who usually lacked confidence felt good enough to tip his hat, then that was fantastic. "I've asked around, and I've got Seamus from down at the pub and his pal, Dean, helping to spread the word. We're not letting the facts reach the Sheriff's ears." He leaned closer so only Luna and Ginevra could hear him. "If we're lucky, Harry will be upon the Sheriff before the Sheriff even knows it."

               "So our idea of selective gossip has been handy," Luna said admiringly.

               Neville blushed a bit. "Yes, about that… Some of Harry's followers…are a little more enthusiastic than others."

               "You don't say?" Ginevra asked.

               "Well…some graffiti's been spotted around. Things praising Harry…and some, let's say, less than kind things being said about the Sheriff."

               Ginevra grinned. She didn't mind feigning innocence in light of what Neville was describing. In reality, she herself had gone under the cloak of night with some of the commoners to paint the buildings with slogans like "Sheriff Harry will be here soon" and "Time for a new era," amongst others. Of course, to Muggles like Colin and Dennis Creevey, they didn't exactly understand the meaning of their rebellion, but Ginevra tried not to feel guilty about using Colin's crush on her to her advantage… They needed all the bodies they could get.

               As the trio continued to talk in undertones, Luna abruptly stopped them by clearing her throat. She looked up.

               Behind them, Mrs. Parkinson and her harpy of a daughter, Pansy, stood, waiting to pass Luna an announcement. "Please give this to your father, to print in today's evening edition," Mrs. Parkinson said. She spoke like a dog on a hot day—slow and slobber-laden.

               "Of course, Mrs. Parkinson," Luna said graciously. When she dashed into the back, Pansy exchanged glares with Ginevra and sneered at Neville.

               "I thought the old families were keeping together," she said with a laugh. "Breeding already, Weasley, Longbottom?"

               Neville's face flushed, and he stood up. "My fiancée, Luna's, a good girl, Pansy."

               Ginevra stilled him, though, and caught Mrs. Parkinson's gaze. They didn't need a commotion here…especially since it was known how close the Parkinsons were to the Malfoys, who had all but come out and declared themselves allies of Sheriff Riddle.

               "It's fine, Longbottom," Pansy remarked. "I'm marrying up, myself." Her look was gleeful and venomous at once, if that were possible. "I'll be with Draco Malfoy soon enough."

               Mrs. Parkinson shushed her daughter then. "Don't jinx it, you flighty girl," she reprimanded as they left.

               "Good Merlin," Ginevra muttered when Luna returned. "Pansy and Draco? Draco's insufferable enough as it is. The two of them together will be impossible to stand."

               "Then let's hope that's one thing that changes after Harry's latest face-off with Sheriff Riddle," Neville mumbled, and the two witches nodded in agreement.

               The next few days passed by too quickly for Ginevra to believe. However, when the night came, she had a feeling about it. Just as she'd had a feeling years ago when Harry had saved her from one of Sheriff Riddle's plans (that had been so bad that she'd almost wished it had been the stereotypical damsel-in-distress-tied-on-the-train-tracks scenario people saw these days), or when Harry had rescued his outlaw of a godfather the following year (and followed in Sirius' footsteps to become a full-fledged outlaw himself), or when Harry had won that tournament, or when he'd beaten the Death Eaters at the courthouse at the cost of Sirius' life, or when he'd saved the city last year despite the loss of his mentor, the historian Dumbledore—she just knew when it would happen.

               And happen it did.

               It was like some quiet flood through the streets, but news of his arrival came. It reached Ginevra and Neville last, but, by the end of the night, the entire city would be awake and aware of what was happening.

               "You've got to let me fight," Ginevra told her parents.

               They were in battle-mode and knew they could no longer use their usual excuse on her. "All right," Molly said reluctantly. However, Arthur sent his daughter a conspiratorial wink, because he knew she was more than capable of handling herself in a duel or two.

               As it turned out, Ginevra heading into battle was a very good thing indeed. She rallied those willing to fight, alongside Luna and Neville, and word got out even to the gun-toting Muggles who were sick of living under the Sheriff's oppressive command. They took help from anyone and everyone—from the old classmates of her brothers (Oliver Wood fetched some more comrades) to people she hadn't trusted before (Cho Chang, the Oriental merchant's daughter, who Ginevra was sure had caught Harry's fancy once before), they gathered a sort of army. But they still had to play their cards right.

               Ginevra had yet to see Harry, but Seamus came bounding up to her and Neville while they were still taking volunteers. "'E's 'ere! 'Arry! Saw 'im skulkin' in th' shadows on th' edge o' th' city!"

               Ginevra exchanged a look with Neville, who nodded. Time to split up.

               Neville went off with Seamus, and Ginevra had only a second to worry when she thought she heard Seamus say "TNT" (because anyone who knew Seamus knew he wasn't allowed anywhere near the oven in his family's pub). But she turned her mind elsewhere.

               She set her sights on the city gates…and was stunned. Two groups faced the gates. One was led by the Sheriff, whose skin was so white that it glowed evilly in the moonlight. The other was led, to her surprise, by her father and two family friends, Remus Lupin and Kingsley Shacklebolt, travelling circus performers who stayed in the city a little longer each time they visited.

               And the groups were facing a trio. Ginevra's heart leapt into her throat.

               There he was. Harry the Kid. Or, as she knew him to be, the simple boy Harry Potter. Her childhood love. The man she'd never forget. The soul she never wanted to part with ever again.

               He looked a little scruffy in the moonlight, but she could see his cockiness even from yards away. "This ends tonight, Riddle," he bellowed from where he stood.

               Behind him, Ronald nodded and tightened his grip on the reins of his and Harry's horses, Pig and Hedwig. Ginevra almost wanted to laugh at that sight. Faithful steeds, indeed.

               Beside her brother, there was a young woman around her age. She had a book on a strap slung over her shoulder, but something about her radiated power and knowledge that Riddle definitely didn't have. Something told Ginevra that she would appreciate the fact that the boys had stumbled across her in their adventures, which almost set her mind at ease.

               "High talk from someone who visits only annually," Riddle cackled. Many in his group laughed with him until he held a hand up to quiet them. He looked at Arthur and the other rebels.

               "It is as I said, Sheriff" came an annoying voice. Ginevra glared as Pansy stepped around Draco to speak with the Sheriff directly. "I told you I heard whispers of rebellion."

               He nodded. "So you were right, Parkinson. I must say, it disappoints me to have to kill any of the old, good families," Riddle said, emphasizing "good" so that the Muggles wouldn't understand. The gathered witches and wizards knew he meant purebloods. "But it must be done, otherwise the wrong kind will be bred." Then, to Ginevra's dismay, his eyes sidled her way, into the shadows, and she knew he saw her.

               Harry saw it, too, and so he threw the first spell. And all hell broke loose.

               Spells lit up the sky like fireworks. Gunshots boomed in the valley city like thunder. Pain and death rained down upon the inhabitants like a plague.

               Ginevra was glad she had practiced behind her mother's back. It ended up saving her neck on more than one occasion.

               Harry had changed, too. His fighting skills were sharper, and his reactions were better. He saved Luna, he saved Seamus—Ginevra even saw him cast a successful, wide enough Shield Charm on her parents, and she swallowed down a thankful sob.

               Ronald did brilliantly, too, and the girl—the Scholar—cast some unusual spells right alongside him. In fact, they were so in sync that Ginevra had to wonder about them…

               Save it for after the battle's won, Ginevra scolded herself.

               Neville and Seamus did blow up a few homes—mainly the mansions of the Malfoys, Parkinsons, and Blacks, where Riddle spent most of his time. The old schoolteacher, McGonagall, even rallied her few coworkers to fight or to heal. Those whose magic was more skilled, such as some of Dumbledore's acquaintances whom Ginevra had never known personally, got to work when the opportunity presented itself to augment the Muggles' memories and to cast Illusion Charms as needed.

               It was terrifying and unreal. One moment Ginevra thought she saw Luna fall at the hands of the city madwoman, Draco's aunt, Bellatrix. The next, Luna was sprinting across the city square to aid Neville as he dueled with Lucius Malfoy.

               As the sun came up, the numbers on both sides had been cut down severely. Muggles and magical folk alike littered the ground, bodies stilled by curses and riddled with bullets. But, as Ginevra walked through the wreckage, the battle ended with a great holler that few witnessed.

               Having ended up back at the city gates, Harry and Riddle faced off before every remaining set of eyes. With a terrible sound, their spells locked. But Harry struggled to hang on to his wand with both hands. Riddle was so mad that he drew his pistol with his free hand and aimed it—

               But Neville shot that hand off.

               In that brief moment of shock, Harry's spell overtook Sheriff Riddle and struck him, splintering his wand and disintegrating the villain. Just like the tumbleweed anyone could see in the daytime, the dust of Riddle blew on by, and it was as if he had never been.

               And that was how a silent war was won.

               The pubs and saloons couldn't keep up. The celebrations could've been heard ten towns over.

               Ginevra walked by Neville as he was lauded for the fifth time for his clincher of a shot. She walked past Narcissa Malfoy and Mrs. Parkinson, the former of which was tearing to shreds the engagement announcement of their children. She stopped by the booth where her parents cried tears of joy. Bill and Charlie had been in the battle, but Percy and the twins had gotten the news late. At least it meant that they'd been safe and could now just celebrate with the rest of the family.

               Then Ginevra made her way to the table in the corner that was frequented by everyone, much to the dismay of those sitting there. She came up and put her hands on her hips. "Well, you could've said hello by now," she said teasingly.

               Ronald and Harry looked up at her, and their faces brightened. Her brother was the first one up, but Harry beat him to the hug. Harry held her tightly and, she swore, breathed in her scent. Then he pulled away. "It's been a while," he said, pained. He definitely wanted to say something more.

               Then Ronald had an arm wrapped around her shoulders, and he pecked her cheek. "Oh, Merlin, Ginny, you wouldn't believe the time we've had. Getting back here after leaving last year… It's been hell. We could've used you."

               She raised an eyebrow, but she guided her eyes to Harry, who was bashful. "Oh, really? Funny you say that now."

               "I did my best to help when I could," the Scholar said as Ronald sat back down beside her. She sort of hid behind his shoulder, but she offered her hand, which Ginevra shook. "My name is Hermione. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ginevra."

               Ginevra caught her brother's eyes, and he turned red. Ah, so that's how it was. That brought a large smile to her face. "Nice to meet you, too, Hermione the Scholar. Sorry you had to look after them all by yourself."

               "Oh, no—" Hermione dismissed the thought with a wave. "It was nothing."

               "Besides," Harry said, drawing Ginevra's eyes back to him with his smooth voice, "Neville tells me that you handled quite a bit yourself over here."

               Ginevra nodded and sat down beside Harry when he motioned. "I think I learned a trick or two from you troublemakers…," she began.

               She took her time catching them up. From time to time, Neville and/or Luna stopped by to add to her narrative or to give an observation ("Ginny was always on the lookout for news about you like a dutiful wife," Luna said unnecessarily to Harry; Ginevra, red-faced, tried to kick her for that, but Luna dodged it).

               The trio was amazed to hear what had been organized in the city. "What happens next?" Hermione asked sleepily.

               "Someone's got to lead the city," Ronald pointed out. "Hell, if Dad were up to it, I'd suggest him… Or maybe Frank Longbottom… Your dad would've been good, too," he said to Harry, and they and Ginevra went quiet at the mention of his late father. Ginevra almost commented that the late Lily Potter would've made an amazing female sheriff, too, but that would've been pouring salt in an old wound.

               Conversation died down not long after. Hermione fell asleep with her head on Ronald's shoulder, and Harry motioned for Ginevra to exit the tavern. He followed, and they stood off to the side, in the alley between the tavern and the post office.

               "Hermione asked a good question," Ginevra said to him with a shiver, as night fell once more. A whole day since the battle had begun…only half a day since it'd been won. She wondered if she would get used to it someday, the idea of a changed world.

               "Hmm, what next? I agree," Harry stated, draping an arm over her shoulders to give her warmth.

               Ginevra almost chuckled. He wasn't subtle at all. She looked up into the green eyes that she'd missed in this desert city of black, gray, and brown. "You've finished all your battles. Will you…will you stay this time?"

               He grinned sadly. "Isn't that the point? Making it so I'm no longer an outlaw?"

               "That's right," she gasped. "We can't call you 'Harry the Kid' anymore."

               "Well, of course you could, but—"

               Ginevra raised an eyebrow.

               He laughed quietly. "No, I think it's time for a change. I'm ready to be just 'Harry Potter' again."

               "Good. I like that."

               A few minutes of comfortable silence passed between them. Then Harry scratched his head. "I was wondering… If you like the Potter name so much, Gin…"

               The redheaded witch tried not to redden at the new endearment. "Don't even go there, Harry. You've got a lot of catching up to do after all the time you spent away from here." She turned on her heel and began her march up the street to return to her parents' home. She pretended not to hear Harry say as he began chasing after her:

               "I'll give you that, but just keep in mind that my next and final battle will keep me here, Gin. I won't leave the city ever again until I have a new Potter along with me."

               She smiled. She knew that was a battle they'd both win.

HOLY—! D8 This took me forever, so it's WAY late for HP Ship Weeks, but I was so stubborn about finishing it, and I'm SO glad I did. XDDD This was FUN! Tough, but FUN! I think people were fairly in character, despite the AU. :O And there were some great symbols and some parallels drawn between the canon and the AU…just GAH. X3 I'm almost tempted to do something more with this (as in, companion fics or continuation, dunno—review or PM to let me know? :x). I've only done an in-depth AU once before, IMO, in ch31 of 45 Ways to Make a Werewolf Fall for You (complete, btw), and that was fun, so…I think I really like AUs, though I don't do them often. ARGH. *dies* I love Ginny and liked holding on to her proper name here to show special cases for her nickname… And Neville, that cutie… *is dithering now* Yeah. Thanks to autumn midnights, my FFN lil' sis, for rec'ing this on her tumblr since I'm too lazy to get a tumblr. *mwa* ;3

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!

~mew

                Harry James Potter actually had been expecting to hear this. Of course, he'd once thought he might hear it from Lorcan or Lysander; both of Luna's sons thought of him as an uncle, and both were only a year older than his daughter. Also, Lily Luna got on well with them. However, Lorcan was enamored with George's daughter, Roxanne, and Lysander had started dating Bill's younger daughter, Dominique, a few years back. Seeing as Scorpius Malfoy didn't know Harry very well and also was with Rose, yet another of Harry's nieces, and Harry didn't know anyone else who'd call him "uncle" that he wasn't related to… Harry ended his jumbled thought there. Only one person would be telling him this.

                "Uncle Harry?"

                Harry lifted his head and tore his eyes away from a Quibbler he wasn't really reading. His green eyes met—well, Teddy's eyes weren't staying one color. That always happened when Teddy was really excited, really nervous, or both—which he probably was right now.

                "Uncle Harry?" Teddy repeated.

                "No."

                The Metamorphmagus stared at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

                "You said you love my daughter. I say 'no.'"

                Teddy almost gaped at him, judging by the hippogriff-in-the-wand-light look on his face. Obviously he had been expecting a different reaction. Harry already loved Teddy like a son, but he didn't quite wish he was saying something positive. "How can you say that?"

                Harry shrugged, not in the least nonplussed. "Easy. It's only one, two-letter syllable."

                Teddy dropped his eyes to the floor in shock. "But…why?"

                The elder wizard sighed and stood up. "Teddy, take a walk with me, will you?"

                Teddy lifted his head up, and, though he looked hurt, he followed Harry anyway. The two of them exited the Potter residence at Godric's Hollow and went up the street. Harry held an arm out to Teddy and they Disapparated, Apparating to a familiar house that was much too big for one person. "Grandma Meda's house?" the turquoise-haired male asked.

                Harry nodded. He walked up the short walk and knocked. Andromeda answered, greeting Harry with a soft smile. "Hullo, Andromeda. Mind if I borrow a book or two?"

                "Of course," she said, and her face lit up more when she saw her grandson. "Oh, Teddy!"

                Harry left them to exchange words, since he knew Teddy had been more involved with the Auror Office since moving out and into his own flat a few years back. The Potter marched down the hallway and took a slight right into a study-like room. Books lined shelves and were piled in haphazard stacks that littered the floor. The sight of them amused him; Harry could imagine a young Tonks not being allowed in here for fear of her crashing into the tomes which would most certainly topple and bury her. But Harry concentrated on the task at hand. He knew which shelf he needed and which suede-bound album was the one. With it in hand, he joined them at the door.

                Andromeda gave Harry a look. "What, you can't stay for tea?"

                He suppressed a chuckle; Andromeda was too kind for her glare to be intimidating like her sister, Bellatrix's. "Maybe another time, Andromeda."

                She let them go after hugs, and they returned to the Potter house. They went into the living room after shucking their cloaks, and Harry grabbed another book with similar binding before he sat on the couch with his godson. He cracked open the one from Andromeda first. "What's with the pictures?" Teddy asked.

                "Here's the very first one," Harry said, his voice wistful. Though he had not been there right after Teddy's birth, it was… He couldn't explain it, but Harry's heart jumped as he watched the picture, a moment literally snatched from the past. In it, someone passed a little bundle to Tonks, and Andromeda pushed Remus into the frame. Tonks laughed, and it was hard not to, considering how vulnerable Remus looked in the presence of a baby…his own son. "This is the very first picture of you. Your father took another picture after he'd composed himself, and he shared it with me when Ron, Hermione, and I were on the run." Harry opened the other photo album, and there was said picture.

                Teddy stared at the one with his parents. It was not as though he were a stranger to these images; he'd seen them plenty of times. But that had been when he was younger. As he'd grown, Teddy hadn't looked at as many pictures, and he hadn't asked friends and family for as many stories. It wasn't as though he'd shut that part of him away—he'd merely buried it a bit.

                "And here," Harry continued as he pointed to another image from Andromeda's collection, "is when you came home for the first time. Your mother hated putting you down in your crib; she wanted you in her arms all the time."

                Teddy pursed his lips as they continued through the albums. Both Andromeda's album and the Potters' had so much for nearly every aspect of Teddy's childhood: his first steps, his first birthday, his terrible-twos, the triumphant look on his face after he'd mastered the loo (Andromeda had foisted that one onto Harry's shoulders), his first broomstick and flight (which had happened at home, not at school), his Hogwarts letter, buying his school supplies and robes—there was even a photo and scrap of the letter he'd sent to both Andromeda and to Harry announcing that he loved Hogwarts and Gryffindor House. Andromeda had cried when she heard that Teddy wasn't in Hufflepuff like his mother and grandfather…but she cried harder when Teddy's letter said that the Sorting Hat had debated for almost a full five minutes between making him a lion or a badger.

                There were other pictures, too. Teddy at home on break, little James and Al in the background. Teddy holding baby Lily Luna for the very first time. Teddy helping Lily with her first steps. Teddy making his hair red and doing a very good impression of Ron while Rose, Hermione, and Ginny tried not to laugh. Teddy trying to wrangle all the Potter and Weasley kids into one picture, though by that time Teddy wasn't a kid anymore, and he stuck out like a sore thumb. Teddy's O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s were in Andromeda's book, and countless pictures of his graduation, and then, just a little while later, his first day of Auror training, in the Potters' album.

                There were random moments, too. A younger Teddy with James after Ginny had found they'd gotten into the Christmas candy. Victoire and Dominique snickering after doing up Teddy's hair one time when he'd fallen asleep on the couch during a lazy summer day; Teddy looked oddly adorable with pink bows in his hair. There were three pictures of Teddy and Ginny: one of Ginny holding toddler Teddy, one of preteen Teddy standing beside Ginny with his arms around her waist as though she were his mother, and another showing a tall, strong Teddy holding Ginny in his arms and kissing her cheek, eliciting a great laugh from her. Sure, there was no audio to accompany these three, but Harry knew them well, since he was the one who'd taken them. Just as Harry had been "Uncle Harry" to Teddy, Ginny had been "Aunt Ginny" to him, and, even before Harry and Ginny had married, they had served as parental substitutes for the Metamorphmagus, because Andromeda wasn't young enough to keep up with her grandson all the time.

                Harry's hand rested on the last picture he and Ginny had taken of the two of them with Teddy before James had been born. Teddy had been six—almost seven—then, and he looked as though he had the whole world in the palm of his hands. Harry had done good by him so far. But today? The wizard frowned.

                "Again, what's with the pictures?" Teddy inquired a second time. "I mean, I know you and the others like taking trips down Memory Lane, but…"

                "Teddy," Harry interrupted. He looked at his godson and placed the open photo albums on his lap. "I've known you nearly your whole life. I helped raise you. I fed you, changed you, clothed you, bathed you, gave you everything a kid could want. You're like a son to me."

                The turquoise-haired lad gave him a look. "So, what? Because I'm like a son to you and Lily is your biological daughter, me loving her is tantamount to incest?"

                Harry sighed. "No. That's not it at all."

                "Then what is it? I'm not some pervert. I admit, I started liking Lily when she was fifteen, but I said nothing to her until she told me she liked me back, last year before her seventeenth birthday. I know…" Teddy gritted his teeth. "I know there's a ten-year age gap, but it's smaller than the gap between my parents. And I've known Lily her whole life."

                Harry shook his head. "It's not the age gap."

                "See? So—"

                "But you were heading in the right direction."

                Teddy shut up. "Wait…what? I said…" He thought back on his words. "Wait, 'I've known Lily her whole life'—that's what bothers you?"

                "'Bothers' isn't the word. And you're almost there." Harry took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. "Teddy, Lily is a lot of what you've known in your life. And you're…you're all she's ever known in hers. How can either of you two breathe or know how you feel or what's good for either of you when you've blinded yourselves to the rest of the world?"

                "But… I've dated other girls… I was with Vic for a little bit. I even went out with Molly for a while, and I've had a few girlfriends at the Ministry."

                "Because you fancied them? Or were you waiting for Lily?"

                Teddy paused and opened and shut his mouth several times. By the looks of it, he hadn't considered this before. He dropped his eyes to the floor as he dwelled on his godfather's words. "I…I did like them…"

                Harry leaned back into the couch. "Teddy, if you truly love Lily, give it some time. Wait for her to grow up some more—and do some more growing up yourself."

                They sat for a while, quietly. It was a good thing Ginny was out, coaching the new Harpies, otherwise she might've entered the room and taken the seriousness out of this conversation. The same could be said for Al and James, though they were both probably working, or Al was spending time with his best mate, Scorpius, and James was at home with his spouse and daughter.

                The Boy-Who-Lived reached for The Quibbler, the same one he'd discarded earlier, and resumed reading until Teddy reacted.

                "I know…," Teddy began, "that you're not yelling at me or being mean." He lifted his eyebrow and looked at Harry. "What you're trying to do is impart some words of wisdom."

                The comment made Harry smile. "Funny, I always thought that Hermione, McGonagall, and Dumbledore did that better than I ever could."

                Teddy sat up straight in his seat and pushed the Potters' album back into Harry's lap. "But I have something to say, too." Harry raised his eyebrows, and Teddy continued, "Just go with me here."

                Harry shrugged and put the newspaper aside as Teddy flipped back to the beginning of the book, where an eighteen-year-old Harry stared at the camera, hair stuck up in the back as usual, specs freshly broken (and subsequently repaired by Hermione), and a baby Metamorphmagus in his arms.

                "I've also known you my whole life," Teddy finally said. "I remember that day when you insisted on taking me to a Muggle amusement park when I was five, and Aunt Ginny nearly had conniptions because I couldn't control my shifting hair color that day. I remember the jealousy I felt when you told me that you two were going to have a baby of your own, because—because—because I loved being your son. I miss my real mum and dad, of course, I miss them every day; but you, Grandma Meda, Aunt Ginny, and the rest of the Weasleys—you all raised me. You took care of me. I was one of the family." He smiled, though his eyes were wet. "I did get over my jealousy of James, you know."

                "I'd hope so," Harry gently joked, and he rubbed Teddy's shoulder.

                His godson kept flipping through the Potter family's moments. "Of course I was there for James', Al's, and Lily's childhoods. How could I not be? I knew them every step of the way. Like here," Teddy said, pointing to a picture of him hold little Lily up to a crabapple tree. "I knew that Lily wanted the crabapples to throw at the local crows in the neighborhood, not at her brothers as you and Aunt Ginny thought. She hated how the crows harassed Turnstile, the family owl. And here," he added, flipping to a picture of a grumpy Lily in a dress who smiled when Teddy walked into the picture and draped his cloak around her shoulders. "She didn't want to go to Scorpius' party, but she went because Rose asked her to and you and Aunt Ginny thought she should get out of her room and take a break from reading her comics and dragon magazines."

                Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes, remind me to thank Al's girlfriend for getting Lily into American comics."

                "And then here," Teddy continued with a gentle smile. He pointed to a picture taken of Lily, who held the best O.W.L.s in her family. "See how her nose is crinkled as she hides behind the marks? She didn't want James and Al making fun of her—which we all know they did anyway—but she also told me that she couldn't help it. She had tried, but Lily…actually loves studying."

                The father bit back a remark. Thinking of a child of his and Ginny's that loved school…it was a little funny and hard to believe.

                "And I know this not because she wanted to shut you guys out, but because Lily told me everything. Well, almost everything. I doubt she thought I should know the real girly stuff. But my point is that Lily tried talking with other people. Some worked, some didn't." Teddy flipped through several other pages. "But, every time, Lily could tell me and know I'd listen. I didn't think much of it at first until we took the O.W.L.s photo and I thought, 'I ought to kiss that girl.'" Teddy blushed as Harry gave him a look. "Eh-heh…chastely, of course, Uncle Harry…" He pointed to one of the most recent photographs, one of Lily twirling on Platform Nine and Three Quarters with Teddy before getting on the Hogwarts Express for her final year of schooling. "But…I see it here. She's fancied other blokes in the past, I know—even Luna's sons," he added when Harry looked doubtful, "but she never sounded so…Lily when she told me she liked me."

                "Just liked."

                "Loved," Teddy corrected himself.

                Harry stared at the picture. "And…are you sure you're not just hearing what you want to hear, Teddy?"

                "Interrogate Lily yourself! Well, actually, don't, because then she'd get mad at me for suggesting the idea, and I really hate it when she's mad at me, because she doesn't just ignore me, she talks right through me as though I'm not there, and I can't stand not talking to Lils—"

                "Teddy, shut it." Harry closed the albums and suppressed a laugh. "I think I get it a little bit better now."

                "Really?" He looked so hopeful.

                "A bit. It does a lot better than just saying 'I love Lily.'" Harry met Teddy's eyes. "But I would still like you to heed my advice and grow some more. Please. If not for me…for Lily."

                Teddy nodded and stood. He hugged Harry tightly and then smoothed his jacket. "Well, I wanted you to know, since your opinion matters to me. But, Uncle Harry?"

                "Yes?"

                "I might grow some more, but beware that my love for Lils will, too." He nodded and left the house, leaving Harry to ponder his words alone.

                Quite honestly, Harry already had figured as much, but he thought he should've had a say at least to get Teddy thinking seriously. But who was Harry kidding? Teddy was a headstrong lion just like him.

:] I've wanted to do this kind of fic for a little while now. So many people harp on about Teddy being similar to his real parents, but there's likely a lot of Harry in him, too, if Harry and Andromeda raised him. And I wanted some true consideration to that fact and to what things might roam through Harry's head if Teddy did love Lily. I really just wanted something familial and fluffy…so how did I do? ;)

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!

~mew

                Harry shook his head as the image of Dumbledore's body floated to the front of his mind. Despite seeing Dumbledore in the Pensieve and in that place that had reminded Harry of limbo, two pictures stood out best in Harry's mind of his mentor: one was of the first trading card he'd gotten of Dumbledore in the Chocolate Frog package, and the other was of Dumbledore's cold, lifeless body after Snape had killed him and he'd fallen from the Astronomy Tower.

                The Boy-Who-Lived cursed under his breath. This silent tour of Hogwarts was supposed to be therapeutic, not dredge up bad memories.

                Harry walked past the entrance to the Great Hall and smiled. It was good to see the castle in such pristine shape. As always, the ceiling looked lovely, even if a bit stormy. Harry would always cite that as one of his favorite things about Hogwarts, whether telling Teddy or his own children or nieces and nephews.

                Again reminding himself to stop walking down Sentimental Lane, the wizard walked much of the castle, trying not to stop at each and every thing that caused a surge of anecdotes to swim to the tip of his tongue. But his heart both sank into his stomach and jumped into his throat when he, at last, reached his destination and gave the password, the spiral staircase in response granting him access to a place he had once doubted he'd ever want to enter again.

                Up in McGonagall's office, Harry called out for her. "Professor?" Her bags and cloak were lying haphazardly on her desk, so he assumed she'd just arrived and had been called away by another faculty arrival. It made sense, since the new school year was starting next week. But he knew she had been expecting him, so he was fine doing what he had come here to do.

                Behind her desk, Harry glimpsed Dumbledore's portrait. A small smile formed on his lips, for Dumbledore's portrait always seemed to be sleeping. It figured; now that Dumbledore had all the time in the world, his portrait was catching up on all the sleep he'd never appeared to collect when Harry and the others had known him. He nodded to the painting and moved to the corner of the room, searching for another image.

                Hidden in the shadows was a different portrait, one done in blacks and other colors so dark one had to squint before realizing the frame was, in fact, not empty. Harry cleared his throat. "Hello, Snape."

                Abruptly, a flash of white appeared as Snape's portrait faced him, his countenance as sallow and thin as ever. "Potter."

                The young man cleared his throat again. "Er…how are you?"

                "I'm a painting in McGonagall's office. What do you think?" came the snarky reply.

                Harry took a deep, steadying breath. Even in death, Snape was the same as ever. "I wanted to speak with you."

                "Then what do you call this?" Snape smirked at him, and Harry fought the urge to poke the frame and tilt it.

                "About your memories…"

                "Ah." Snape raised an eyebrow. "You've come asking now?"

                "Six years after witnessing them, yes."

                Snape sighed and crossed his arms in front of his chest, lifting one hand to cup his cheek as he stared at Harry. "Weren't my memories enough?"

                He'd asked so quietly that if anyone else had been making noise in the room, Harry would not have heard him. "I'm not sure…"

                "You know exactly what I mean, Potter. Weren't my memories enough to satisfy you? My deepest, innermost emotions, queries, and ponderings—I gave them to you." Snape paused. "Only once did I ever feel the need to explain myself. Consider yourself lucky you were the recipient."

                Harry nodded. "I'm just— I was hoping you might be able to answer some questions."

                Snape continued to study him before replying, "Within reason."

                Harry nodded again, feeling a little relieved. "It's just… I get the feeling that you left some things out. I—well," Harry groused, "did I really get the whole story?"

                The Potions Master snorted derisively. "Good Merlin… Of course I left things out. You didn't really expect my whole life's story, did you?" Snape shook his head and finally sat in the dark silver chair in the painting. "I gave you a brief overview of what you absolutely needed to know."

                "You loved my mother."

                "You speak as though love is something that simple." Snape pursed his lips. "I'm not looking to explain myself…but I can tell you this: Your worldview can be severely messed up when you're looking for a reprieve from a reality that's just a little too nonfiction for you."

                "Tell me about it," Harry grumbled, thinking of the Dursleys. Though, every once in a while, he did wonder how they were doing. Messed up or not, they were still family. He shook his head and got back on topic. "Is that why you gave her and my dad up? Because your 'worldview' was iffy? Is that how you justified giving them up and then protecting me?"

                Snape snarled at him. "There was nothing easy about my life."

                "No, I s'pose not. But you could've made some bits of it easier. Why'd you join Voldemort anyway?"

                "Didn't you ever wonder what it was like to have a real family? Of course you did—you saw them in the Mirror of Erised."

                "How did you—"

                "Dumbledore, who thought it was good to remind me occasionally of my guilt over Lily's death." Snape shook his head. "'He sees his family, Severus, a family he will never know.' That man was more torturer than gentle soul," he hissed.

                A pang of sympathy surged in Harry's heart, for he understood Dumbledore had been both a great and a fearsome man. But just because he knew new things about Dumbledore did not mean that it was not Dumbledore who had been there for him before. Harry, just as much now as in the past and forevermore, was Dumbledore's man through and through.

                "But my guilt and love were tied together, a sordid two-for-one deal," Snape continued without urging. "You sacrificed yourself, did you not, for those you loved?"

                Harry nodded and rested his sight on the frame. Though he did not talk of what had happened in the Forbidden Forest, loads of people had seen him in the castle's debris, thinking him dead—only to watch him fight and fell the Dark Lord.

                "That's nice. But come back and talk to me when you've sacrificed the only thing you've ever loved and find you cannot, for once, rectify what you've done."

                "You called her a Mudblood."

                "That, I remember much too vividly for my own good."

                "But you still loved her. How?"

                Snape locked eyes with him, black on green, and told him the only other true thing Harry felt might ever come from those thin lips: "It was never about giving my life to make up for what I had done. I lived each day thinking that, when I met my end, I would see her again. The line between love and devotion is an obscure one for most. For me, no line existed, for the two ideas are one."

                "That's why you wanted me to look at you. My eyes weren't a last-minute reminder of your mistakes made right. They were a reminder of what you hoped to see in the afterlife."

                "And so, a little after two decades, the Boy-Who-Lived came to possess a spot of intelligence."

                Harry paused. "And James Potter…"

                "Oh, sweet Salazar, does everyone think I might be your father? Trust me, that horrid man is your flesh and blood. Good grief, Dumbledore hounded me about that, too."

                Several quiet minutes passed as Harry stood there and fidgeted on his feet. He had a multitude of other questions, but he understood they'd never be answered. Snape had taken some secrets to his grave, and Harry…well, he was okay with that. He knew he'd take some secrets to his own grave someday. Harry picked his head back up and gave Snape a friendly grin. "In light of all I did, I still am in awe of you. You, more than anyone else I knew, were the bravest."

                Just like that, the trademark fury Harry had come to learn and receive for six years reappeared on Snape's face. He thrust himself off the chair and came right to the edge of the frame. For one frightening minute, Harry honestly thought Snape might try to come out of the picture. However, though Wizarding pictures moved, they did not—to Harry's knowledge—release their subjects and showed no sign of doing so anytime soon. But he couldn't blame Snape for lack of trying, especially when he yelled at him next: "Don't you tell me I was the bravest man you ever knew! You never knew me, Potter. And you never will."

                Snape huffed, his face flushed with the most color Harry had ever seen in it. Frankly, the former headmaster was right. Harry didn't know Snape very well and never would and probably had no right to say what he'd said, but one thing was certainly true. "But I do know that, without your help, I doubtful would be here."

                Even if Snape did not want to hear anyone calling him a hero, Harry felt he should be privy of that fact, and he did not wait for the slack-jawed expression on Snape's face to disappear before he said goodbye and left the office. Harry exited the castle before McGonagall even saw him, and he headed home, feeling that maybe he didn't need to have all his questions answered. But he also felt that, in the end, Severus Snape deserved to be recognized as a hero. And he'd make sure that was so.

And, as we know, he goes on to name his second son "Albus Severus," which is a nice thought after writing this little piece. I think it was a hint at the inner workings of Sev's mind, but—I'll admit—we'll never fully understand Snape unless he expresses himself. Will we ever know Snape like we think we should? Perhaps not. But we will always have his portrait around to ask. ;] A kind of follow-up piece to this is "Tea with Snape," set some time after this, so feel free to hop on over to it after.

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!

~mew