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Chapter Text

Harry Potter awoke to light leaking through moth-eaten curtains. The nightstand lay thick with dust, like a fluff of baby puffskeins hiding from hungry nifflers. He groaned, reaching for those two round disks and wire that held so much of his life together, forcing the world into focus—the way one may rip off a bandage.

Just a minute before, he’d been at the Burrow where Celestina Warbeck warbled from an old bewitched phonograph. Mrs. Weasley sang at the top of her lungs as he and Ginny clapped along. Fred and George, meanwhile, conducted the whole thing like it was some full-on production with horned hats and swords, complete with heavy pots and wooden spoons. But then the words repeated, the notes died out, and there was just clapping that became duller and deader.

The words from the song faded as he tore down the staircase, thuds and creaks racing him to the living room.

Each day seemed to bring a different answer to his ongoing debate with himself on whether what had been called a window was actually just a large crack in the wall, covered by glass that had been recharmed over the decades. He went with window that day; he was feeling optimistic.

The owl rapped the glass then gave one irritated flap.

Evanesco, Harry muttered, his wand poking lazily out of his pajama pants pocket. The owl advanced one cautious wing before flapping in, and hooting its displeasure all the way to the mantle with the rest of the unopened mail Harry was too busy ignoring to open.

Relashio, Harry thought, aiming his wand at the twine-tied letter. As soon as it fell off, the owl shook its tail feathers at him, spread its wings, and took off like it was late for someplace better to be.

He lay on the couch that pressed hard and rough against his cheek. Still, he closed his eyes, attempting to make it back to the Burrow for just one more chorus of whatever song it had been—but there was nothing doing. His eyes opened, the fire dancing on the wall. Even without his glasses, he could still make out those high, unkempt curls and the dark, sunken eyes beneath them. He’d once tried to scorch Bellatrix from the family tree, but as he came to realize, the house had a magic of its own. Red curtains parted and the loud, piercing, shriek of Mrs. Black rent the air the moment he aimed his wand.

Harry put his head in his hands, yanking at his unkempt hair, before cursing so loudly that muggles on the street gasped at the open crack they couldn’t see.

“Off to a good birthday start, I see.”

Harry shot up to see a figure covered in soot, a curtain of red hair just visible beneath the pitch that brushed off as easily as it had clung to her. A flame danced in Ginny’s brown eyes as she wrapped her arms around him, pinning his arms awkwardly so that he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

“Yeah,” sighed Harry, not even trying to hug back.

“And everyone had the choice.”

“I guess.”

“And you’re . . . alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Then if you’re done making that face, kiss me.” She let his arms loose before bringing him in for a snog, her hands ruffling his unkempt hair, but then pushed him away. “After you’ve brushed your teeth.”

By the time he returned, Ginny was on the couch, rifling through the stack of mail, sorting it into two piles.

“The quicker we sort them, the quicker we can burn them,” she said, flinging an envelope so weathered, an edge cracked when it hit the table. “Honestly, you’re worse than Ron.” Then she handed over what Harry noticed immediately. A red crest with four beasts sat upon the seal, all huddled around the letter ‘H.’

“What do they want?” she asked, standing up to throw some old letters into the fire. “These are just from the Prophet,” she added, as if he cared.

“Dunno,” he lied, throwing it back on the table. He’d heard from Ron who’d heard from Dean who’d heard from Padma that she’d received a letter about coming back for an eighth year. But as he stared at the thick envelope, he imagined himself on Platform 9 ¾; questions battering his ears, hands on his shoulders, flashbulbs blinding as he held their babies. He wasn’t sure if he even knew how to hold a baby—not without dropping it, apologizing to it, or explaining that he was the very last person who should be trusted with something so small and so delicate . . . then again, maybe that was Ron.

“You’re such a bad liar,” Ginny smiled. It was nice to see someone smile, and she had a better smile than most, the way her freckles showed around her nose when her cheeks rose.

She took it from the table and ripped it open at the seal. “You’re invited back,” she said, her eyes moving left to right and back again across the letter before handing it to him. But as he took it, her hand paused on his. “Wait. There’s something in there. Do you want to hear it from me?”

Harry and Ginny sat in the dark living room staring at a letter only visible through the fire and sunlight from the glass-plated crack in the wall.

Harry tapped his wand to his name, and it drifted above the table, opening slowly as it rose:

The following arrangements have been made for returning eighth-year students:

All prerequisite requirements for N.E.W.T.-level courses are waived; you may enroll in any such course at your own discretion (and, I must add, responsibility).

To allow younger students opportunities in House competitions, eighth years will not be eligible for participation on House Quidditch teams or in other official inter-House games.

In the same spirit of allowing younger students the opportunity for advancement, we regrettably must withdraw all titles of prefecture. However, former prefects and captains may retain use of the prefect's bathroom.

The letter fell on the word bathroom.

“It’s fine,” Harry grumbled, leaning his head back on the cushion.

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Yeah. Okay. I think it's rotten.”

“I agree.” She leaned in closer and scratched his back. “If there was any way to let you play, I would.”

The words lingered before there was any meaning. What did she mean by ‘I would?’ And then it was clear. He tried to smile and almost got there.

“It’s your birthday. We don’t have to talk about it now.” Her fingers flattened to rub his back in circles now, making him sweat in the hot July air.

“There’s nothing to talk about. They made the right choice.”

“Good, now get dressed.” She gave him a look. There was nothing in it but to obey.

Harry and Ginny walked from the front door past dirty, derelict rowhomes to where they grew cleaner and less derelict than those they had left behind, arriving at a cinema. In eighteen years, Harry could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen a movie. Still, the smell of buttery popcorn and the rattle of ice in a fizzy drink was familiar. But the sight of Ginny stuffing her wand in a purse was unusually ordinary.

“I never thought staring at a scheme could be so much fun,” said Ginny as they stepped out of the theater, hand in hand.

“Screen,” Harry corrected.

“And that drink—bloke. I’ve never felt bubbles like that without my tongue growing.”

“Coke,” Harry chimed in again.

“And why was the floor so sticky?”

The gloom of Grimmauld Place burned off with the shining sun—or was it Ginny? By rubbish bins and decrepit cars, she pulled him in for a snog, massaging the back of his neck with her warm fingers. Suddenly the summer heat didn’t seem so sweltering.

“You don’t have to stay there alone, you know. Come to the Burrow. Mum misses you.”

As he stood on hot, black asphalt, he imagined Mrs. Weasley feeding him plates of sausages, a smile performing a holding pattern on her face, only to be reminded that he’d seen how it happened; dying with that goofy smile still on his face. Fighting against his erstwhile desires, he opened his mouth and said, “I’m fine.”

Harry lay on the couch amid a dying fire and candles that had threatened to sputter out for days. It had only been two hours—three? He looked at the clock—three hours since Ginny had been there. The house smelled damper. A rising flame glinted off the glass-covered crack. He cursed again.

McGonagall’s letter still sat on the coffee table. It stared at him.

Supply lists will come in due course, though it will be prudent to secure an owl due to the loss of school stock in the battle. Please make your intentions known by no later than the fifteenth of August.

He balled up the letter, aimed for the fire, and watched it fall just short of the closest flame.

He could have gone to bed, he could have walked to a pub. Instead, he lay there—staring at the old, high ceiling. It still tried to boast its grandeur; rectangular etchings sat straight and even atop carved panels. A pewter chandelier hung importantly from carved plaster that sloped gently like a chalice. But the illusion was short-lived; the etchings were pocked with doxie droppings and the pewter was now tarnished, descending from plaster that was stained by whatever leaked upstairs.

He’d eat; sometimes Kreacher would pop in with food from the Hogwarts kitchens, but by and large, he’d order delivery. ‘Meet you at the rubbish bins outside Number 10? Whatever you say.’ He’d sometimes sit in Sirius’s room, staring at the posters of muggle girls and trying to replicate the intricacies of motorcycles in drawings, but those ended up in or by the fire too.

One day, the fireplace flared again.

“You wouldn’t believe the summer I’ve had. My parents are back from Australia and they know who I am. But my dad still calls mum sheila sometimes.”

Her tan looked nice. Proof of life, like she hadn’t been inside reading for the upcoming year.

“The plane ride was awful. I told them I’d be at home waiting for them, but they made quite the point of telling me off for never wanting to spend any time with them. Twenty hours in coach . . . Anyway, I’m taking Arithmancy, Defense, Muggle Studies because let’s face it, that’ll be a doddle, Herbology, Potions, and runes, but only if Professor Stone lets me do an independent study. What about you?”

She looked around the place as if just noticing where she was before looking down—standing among pizza boxes, discarded drawings, and the crumpled Hogwarts letter. “Harry!” she groaned, stepping over an escaped pepperoni, “Why?” Her eyes completed a circuit of Harry, the letter, and a banana peel hanging from the chandelier.

He shrugged.

“This should’ve been the greatest summer ever. You could’ve explored London, seen museums. You should’ve had Ginny over every day. After all, you’re both adults now. How was her birthday anyway?”

He closed his eyes as it hit him, sharp and stupid. “No,” he half whispered, half groaned.

“I bet you haven’t even sent your reply back. Oh Harry . . .” She didn’t give him a hug. She just gave him a look. Empathy? Pity? Shame? He wasn’t sure.

“I haven’t decided yet,” said Harry, looking away.

With a wave of Hermione's wand, Harry’s current attempt at a motorcycle was wiped clean and the white paper became beige and heavy. “I figured you might say that,” she said as she wrote.

“What are you doing?” asked Harry, trying to get a better look.

“I’m telling Professor McGonagall that you may brood, you may come kicking and screaming, but you’re coming. Now where’s Hed—sorry,” she grimaced. “No matter, I’ll send it later. Now about Ginny . . .” she folded up the letter like it was the end of the discussion. “Take that girl out tonight,” she emphasized the last syllable. “White tablecloths. Wine, not too much. Spend money.”

“Yeah. Alright. I like that.”

“Diagon Alley Saturday at noon. Meet in front of the joke shop.” She stood up, looked around one more time and said, “And clean this up.” She turned on the spot and she was gone.

On a sunny Saturday, Harry walked from derelict drives to stone-lined streets and bustling boulevards. The warm and yeasty smell of fresh bread mingled with briny fresh fish and hot garbage, turning his nose into an olfactory cacophony so that neither baker, fishmonger, nor binman could quite claim supremacy. He sneezed.

A faint grumbling hit his ears, then grew louder; enough to make him look over his shoulder as a motorcycle roared by, weaving in and out of cars, all black and silver. Sirius would have something to say about it—probably some pun about staying grounded. He stepped forward, the roar still buzzing in his ears when he collided with a woman stopped at the crosswalk.

“Sorry,” he managed.

“Watch it, you!” she grumbled, and then strode through the intersection.

Children ran down the street as their parents shouted ‘Not too far.’ The shouts were largely drowned out by a reversing truck beeping. Fred and George would probably beep in unison. He opened his lips to try, but caught the smell of sweet, warm curry hitting his nose like a potion gone slightly too warm. Stomach growling, he looked at his watch, and walked faster, trying to ignore his stomach and the aroma.

Rounding a corner to an empty block, he found himself under the crooked sign. The Leaky Cauldron, though, would certainly not be empty. Tom would greet him, patrons would look, and then he'd be mobbed all amid the clink of fire whiskey and giggle water . . . were it not for his invisibility cloak.

The chatter and laughter died for a moment when the door opened, then carried on. After all, they’d seen stranger things.

Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was a whirlwind of students wholly incapable of restraint before boarding the Hogwarts Express, laden with wares that promised to be confiscated in due time. The reusable hangmen cowered as children thought up the most outlandish words. The extendable ears closed their lobes from the overload of simultaneous conversations. And Ron—in a blazer, knee‑high socks, and shorts that really shouldn’t have been that short—worked.

‘It’s four galleons normally, but that particular item qualifies for our Argus Advantage; a galleon off if you promise to use it on Filch,’ he shouted above the bustle. ‘But confiscations are non-refundable.’

Harry took a deep breath. It was now or never; the latter was certainly preferable, but he’d already gotten out of bed and come all this way. With an exhale, he shed the cloak. Before he could even tuck it safely in his bag, a little girl gasped and ran to her father.

‘Daddy, it’s him!’

“Ron,” Harry shouted into the bustle.

Ron, who was now very carefully and very shakily stocking Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, paused but didn’t look up.

“Ron,” Harry said louder.

“I heard you the first time, mate. But if I mess this up, who knows the next time we’ll see anything?” Ron said, putting down the box as carefully as ever. He straightened up slowly as he grabbed his back. Then strode over and gave Harry a big hug. Only after a moment did Harry figure out what to do with his hands and hugged back.

“What took you so long?” Ron asked, his glance darting from Harry to some kids with trouble written on them.

“No idea.”

“What do you mean, no idea?” asked Ron, letting Harry go to glower at a small child around the love potions.

“I don’t know. I just stayed in,” replied Harry, slouching his shoulders a little. “Ginny would visit sometimes.”

Ron’s head snapped back to Harry. “Not like that!” Harry added quickly.

“Uh huh.”

“We would just hang out. You know . . . go see a movie sometimes.”

Ron stabbed his finger at Harry, but it went just past his ear. “Oy! You. Put that bottle down!” A child had unscrewed a love potion and made to drink it, before he scampered over to terrorize a pygmy puff.

“Rough day?” Harry asked.

“Oh no, this is nothing. George says that the biggest days are next week before the train, Halloween, and April Fool’s Day. Come on, then. I’ll show you the new stock.” Ron led the way being sure to snatch the vial the boy had left uncapped.

“First we have the bad beans,” he said, leading Harry over to a shelf. A white box with red markings looked very much like a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. “Just sneak these in with real beans and—you get the idea. Only the bad flavors.”

A shrill whistling started soft, then grew louder, enough for Harry to whip out his wand. But Ron laughed.

“Kids are so stupid. Sometimes one of those little turds will try and steal a sneakoscope. We’ve got it covered.”

Sure enough, standing tall and grey, A Hagrid-sized security troll stared at the thief, then tapped its badge with pride as it escorted the girl out of the store.

“Just for the busy season,” said Ron slightly boastful.

“Now, onto the best part.” They neared the pygmy puffs, but just past their pin, another pin sat high and triumphant with banners and turrets. “May I present the Battle Puffs.”

They looked like pygmy puffs. the same size, and colored fur, only the fur was colors a younger Harry would’ve liked: Maroon, mustard, grey, black, silver—that is if you got a good glimpse of it under their suits of armor. They kicked their paws and charged headlong at one-another before collapsing in a heap and righted themselves to charge again.

“Like ‘em? My idea.”

“Brilliant!” It wasn’t that Harry had forgotten to ask Ron about Hogwarts, he just didn’t feel the need anymore. Seeing Ron barking at kids, negotiating deals, and inventing something like Battle Puffs told him everything he needed to know.

A familiar, high voice cut across the chaos. “Ron!” it called.

Turning his head, Ron bolted to the entryway, the vial of love potion spilling on the floor. Weaving in and out of patrons to get to her, he gave Hermione a big kiss.

Harry locked eyes with Ginny who was standing beside the snogging sweethearts. After what seemed like a whole Binn’s lecture—the kind where he starts repeating himself—Harry made his way toward the front, Ginny tapping her foot.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, weaving his way through the crowd. ‘Could I—excuse me.’

As soon as he got close enough, Ginny grabbed his shirt and pulled him in for a snog just as Ron released Hermione.

‘Sorry everyone!’ Ron shouted, causing people to look who hadn’t cared at all. ‘It’s okay. It’s my girlfriend. You know how it is when you haven’t seen your girlfriend all summer! But it’s okay now! She’s here! My Girlfriend’s here! Carry on!’

Hermione was nearing the color of Ron’s hair and with the tan almost hit a perfect Weasley Red, a dumbfounded grin on her face.

As Ginny released Harry, someone shouted, “It’s Harry Potter!”

People jostled each other in a race to the entryway knocking into displays of Canary Creams. Those who couldn’t jostle stood on tiptoes. Ginny and Hermione closed in front of Harry, but when someone knocked into a shelf of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, George swept in from nowhere and bellowed:

“Have some decency, people! You know you’re rotten when I have to say it! Either buy something or get out!”

‘I would leave, but I can’t see!’ someone shouted, prompting the whole store to chuckle and carry on about their business.

Harry thought George would've greeted him but he turned straight to Hermione. “What are your intentions for my brother?” he said solemnly.

She acknowledged him with an eye roll.

“I’m only wondering if you mean to make an honest woman out of him. Mum’s always wanted a daughter.”

“Ahem,” Ginny let out, but her lips curled.

“Right! Ginny, what are your intentions for my funder?”

“He forgot my birthday so probably nothing good?” she said slowly, her shoulder turned inward.

“Harry?” Ron said.

He clenched his jaw. The noise in the shop seemed thin for a moment.

“But there's that whole saving the world thing. Then he took me out to that nice muggle dinner. So I guess I can forgive him. This time.”

“I'd better get back to work,” said George. “And you,” he turned toward Ron, “better take your break.”

They all thanked him and moved outside, though Harry could've sworn he heard George sigh, but not the kind that sounded frayed like he was simply tired.

There were no buskers. No one to charm a guitar to pluck a tune. No one to create a cool breeze in the hot August weather to earn a galleon from sweaty, indulgent shoppers. No one even begged.

Even the cobble stones seemed too lazy to dig into Harry's feet like they’d been rebuilt.

Two witches and two wizards made their way down the street that was now too level, peering into shops, but seeing too much dust.

“Lots of shop keepers didn't make it. Even if they did, the Death Eaters forced suppliers to give everything to them,” said Ron.

Sure enough, the sign on Scribbulus Writing Implements said, ‘Opening soon. We hope.’ Hermione gave the smallest whimper.

But not far up ahead, a hoard of students swarmed Quality Quidditch Supplies. Harry slipped on his cloak; it settled over him like a breath of air.

‘That's the Firebolt Millennium!” a young girl breathed. ‘Complete with fancy broomcorn.’

It was hard to see, and the hoard was the least of it. The window was smudged, pocked, fogged, and streaked. Somebody had even spilled ice cream on it, the white sticky mass making its way from glass to sidewalk.

“There's nothing in it. Let's get out of here,” Harry muttered to the others under his breath. Hermione had gone. About a block up ahead she was already in a line at Eyelops Owl Emporium.

They approached just as Hermione was talking to two confused parents and a little girl.

“You’ll do great. I’m in my final year and my parents are dentists. And if anything happens, I’ll be there,” she said to the girl.

The line was out the door. Students and parents waited impatiently, tapping their feet, crossing their arms.

“This is what Professor McGonagall warned us about in her letter. I heard they've brought in owls from Ireland and France,” Hermione said timidly.

“I don't want a French owl,” said Harry.

“Don't blame you. They don't speak English, do they?” said Ron, his eyes still on the quidditch shop mob.

“That's not how it works.” Hermione punched Ron on the arm.

“Oww!”

“Sorry. I'm just worried that if I can't get one, I won't be able to write to you. Oh Ron,” Hermione whimpered, nestling herself against him.

“Well I don't want any owl. I’m not even sure if I’m going back.”

Whatever melancholy Hermione felt for Ron practically turned into theatrics for Harry. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’re going. Tell him Ginny.”

Ginny felt around for Harry still under the cloak, grabbing hold and ripping it off. A few gasps hit their ears. “Yes, it’s Harry Potter,” Ginny barked, “now mind your own business.”

‘Rude,’ someone said, but they obeyed.

“And about Harry going back,” she continued, “He’s a big boy. He can do what he wants.” Harry couldn’t read her.

Hermione looked utterly betrayed, looking from Harry to Ginny, then finally nestling herself into Ron’s shoulder again.

“Come off it,” said Ron. “Of course you’re going back. You want to be an auror. You need your Newts.”

“I’ve already been an auror,” Harry said flatly.

“Harry,” Hermione’s voice was weak and pleading, “Ron’s not coming and Ginny’s going to be busy with the team. I need you to come back. For me.”

Those around them in line stared at the scene. Even Ginny just stood there, too tense or just too exhausted to tell them off again.

His heart caught in his throat. A young boy walked out with a young, snowy owl. Its feathers were too white. Too pristine. Hedwig’s had been worn from nights flown in the rain and wind all to deliver Harry a birthday present on time.

“Fine,” said Harry, “But I’m not getting another owl.” Ginny bit her lip.

“How are you going to send messages?” asked Hermione, looking only partly relieved.

“I’ll just use yours. How many times have you used Hedwig?”

“But what if it's already del—”

“Then I’ll sneak out and apparate and deliver the message in person,” he barked. Ginny stepped back.

“Harry, it’s been a whole ye—”

“I’m. Not. Getting. Another. Owl!”

The crowd gawked. Ginny was still holding his invisibility cloak. He closed his eyes as if it would help, but when he opened them, he was still Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

Brilliant.

Chapter Text

Chickens clucked and garden gnomes scurried, but the booms from experimental explosives that normally detonated from somewhere in an upstairs bedroom gave way to the creak of the old house settling. And even though pigs snorted and clocks chimed, only six feet could be heard going up and down the steps.

The Burrow hadn’t sounded this way in years.

When Ginny descended the stairs, it was to the spicy-sweet scent of sausage, the sizzle of bacon, and her mum in the kitchen singing:

On the word bat, Ginny landed on the bottom step that always made the staircase creak as if saying good morning. One hand on the old clock lurched and then clicked into place, probably showing her father arriving at the ministry. She didn’t look.

The old cloth on the kitchen table was nowhere to be seen under plates of scones, eggs, and any number of other breakfast assortments—for only two people. And yet, Molly Weasley was still stirring something. “All packed, dear?” she asked.

“I packed last night,” Ginny said, buttering a scone.

“Well eat up. We don’t have much time.”

“We?” said Ginny, immediately wanting to take it back, but resolving to proceed with more tact. “I mean, we talked about this last night.”

Molly gave an airy sigh and turned around to face her daughter. Her face looked slack. Ginny had long suspected that her mum had stopped bothering with charms, potions, and anything else advertised in Witch Weekly that promised everlasting beauty. But now there was something that sat just behind her eyes as if it'd been waiting to show itself. “I just thought that maybe you’d have changed your mind,” she said weakly.

It didn’t matter that she hadn't. Maybe there was something in her mum’s sigh or in the way she stirred a pot like a cauldron, but before Ginny could stop herself, she said:

“How about to the portkey? After that it’s just to the platform, and I can handle it from there. I promise.”

Molly sniffled. “Oh, I know you can. It’s just that . . . it’s the last one,” Molly said a little too slowly. Ginny rolled her eyes as her mum continued to stir. “But you’re an adult and I’ll take you to the portkey if that’s all I can get.” Ginny bit her tongue this time.

Her room was lilac—except when she decided that it should be red, and sometimes grey. From one wall, Myron Wagtail winked at her, flanked by the other members of the Weird Sisters, his lip ring gleaming through the sun in the window. On the wall opposite, Gwenog Jones fired a bludger that looked as though it was going to exit the poster and come barreling through the bedroom.

Ginny smiled remembering a time she was so startled by the new bludger on her new poster, that she dropped her mother’s Christmas present. Luckily Charlie was there to do some quick wand repair work. The snowglobe still snowed and everything, but it now hailed and sleeted too.

But the only thing that concerned her now was an old, wooden trunk with brass brackets in its corners. It had belonged to Bill, then given to Percy before he got a new one when Ginny started school. At least every few years, it needed a series of repair charms for cracks that seemed deeper every time she unpacked it. It looked up at her, boasting its importance perhaps for the last time.

She opened it to reveal black robes beside blue jeans and t-shirts. Rifling through, she touched a pile of books and a stack of parchment, satisfied she was leaving behind nothing that might imply she actually understood the subjects she was still pretending to grasp. In the corner on the floor sat a size two cauldron. Something brown that had once dripped down the exterior rim had crusted, making it look more like some sort of botched pottery than anything useful. Ginny shut the trunk with a thud and it locked with a click as though pleased with itself.

From across the room, Arnold licked some dust accumulating on the nightstand. She looked around to see that everything was still. She closed the door anyway. Lifting the puffskein and giving him a big squeeze, he hummed, but she put him down before he could get close enough to lick at her nose.

With her trunk floating after her, Ginny walked down the steps where her mother waited. The trunk banged into the walls as she descended the last stairs, adding to the dents that had accumulated over decades as though it was still being broken in. The final step creaked a goodbye, and then as she stepped over the threshold, the door clicked behind her.

The portkey was a piece of rope hanging just out of muggle reach. Ginny pulled out her wand and summoned it, but instead of catching it, let it fall to the ground where it somehow looked even more ordinary lying next to leaves and roots.

Molly had done most of the talking for the five minute walk over ditches and through brambles that shrank away as the two approached.

“I wonder who’s going to teach DADA,” Molly asked, trailing Ginny by a few paces.

“DADA?” Ginny asked.

“Defense Against the Dark Arts! I thought I heard someone say that last year on the platform. Is that not cool?”

“It's not uncool,” Ginny said, navigating a ditch in the path.

“Well, who do you think it'll be? I can't imagine Kingsley would step down from being Minister.” Ginny wanted to point out that at seventeen, most people don’t have an address book of aurors or duelists running in her head. She decided against it.

“Dunno.”

Ginny and Molly stood in a forest, neither of them speaking. A squirrel skittered up a nearby tree causing a bird to squawk. On the ground lay the bit of tattered rope, its ends camouflaged by a bed of dirt.

“Two minutes,” Molly said, looking at her watch. Ginny didn't answer. “Be sure to thank your father for the portkey,” she said, her voice wavered slightly. Ginny nodded, suddenly aware of how intently she stared at the rope. The twisted fibers seemed to oppose each other.

Molly closed her eyes and then buried her face in her hands. “Mum . . .” said Ginny, but had nothing else to offer.

Her mother pulled her in, arms wrapped tightly. “Promise me you'll be careful this year.” Ginny had never been very good at keeping promises, particularly when they made her think better of something she’d already decided to do anyway.

She nodded her chin into Molly’s shoulder before she said “I promise.” When her mum finally released her, Ginny tucked her broom in her arm, grabbed the rope, and then the trunk with her other hand. She was about to tell Molly that if she really really wanted, she could grab on too, but then the forest faded. She felt the familiar hook behind her navel, and then it stopped.

She found herself on the floor of an unfamiliar room. The white walls were completely unadorned and a simple wooden chair sat in front of the only door. Centered above the doorknob was a sign in gold that read:

Closing the door behind her, she found herself in a bright place with light pink tile. From somewhere nearby, a toilet flushed. When she looked back at the door, there was an Out of Order sign on it that looked so old it had yellowed as if someone had poured tea on it.

It’s not that she didn’t understand magic, only that she understood the magic she understood. So she decided to open the stall from which she’d just emerged. Where the chair had been was now a toilet, and instead of austere walls, messages had been scribbled on the stall divider. She leaned in closer to read.

She didn’t linger.

Ginny stood on Platform 9 ¾ soaking in the hum of voices and the clunking of trunks. No Voldemort or Death Eaters lurking, just the castle, quidditch, and possibilities waiting for her. Just one more year to stamp her name on Hogwarts’ stone walls. At the very least, a chance to do something that didn’t require clarification. But getting the world to ignore who she stood next to, she thought with some irritation, required that she stand exactly where he stood.

The sight was refreshingly normal. Children blinked their astonishment at the train and begged their parents to let them board, arguing that ten was plenty old to attend school. Younger children scuttled in and out of carts causing owls to hoot their protests. Parents cried after them to mind their manners as if repetition might count for enforcement.

Harry had whimpered–or perhaps only groaned–that he wasn’t ready to be seen out in public. Perhaps he was apparating. She stopped asking, but told him instead that he was getting a little too familiar with his invisibility cloak, and she’d begun referring to it only halfway teasingly as his blankie.

The engine hissed its final warning soon after Ginny found an empty compartment. It lurched forward amid a bellow of steam that dissipated to reveal parents and siblings waving. A dog laid down with its tail between its legs and rested its head on the concrete platform.

As the families disappeared from view, Neville Longbottom opened the compartment door. He seemed a little taller with some scruff on his chin that looked like somebody had shaded it in with a pencil. He hoisted his bag into the overhead rack as the train chugged along faster until tall buildings shrunk smaller and smaller until they were lost on the horizon. “Neville,” Ginny said surprised, “I thought you’d have just apparated like the rest of the sev—eighth years.”

Neville went a little red. “Yeah well, I wanted to, and I’ve been practicing. I even passed the test, but the last time I did it, I lost my nose. Of course I had to go back for it, but I lost my pinky. It was a long day.” Ginny’s lips tightened. The only thing that would have been worse than laughing was not being able to hold it in, which would have made her laugh harder.

“Was the summer okay?” he asked, taking a seat.

“Yeah,” she lied. “Just spending time with Harry and doing some family things. You?”

“Same. I mean not Harry of course, but time with Gran.” Ginny’s eyes moved to a small scrap of paper that he kept rubbing on the edge of the table between them, making it curl. “We didn’t do much. But we did build a greenhouse! I’ve been begging her for years, ever since I got a Mimbulus mimbletonia. It needs space to cultivate properly.”

“Great. I—”

“It’s been really great. I’ve been working on a stink sap project. I figure with some refinement, it might make a serviceable wand glue. It might just be strong enough to act as a magical conduit and binder.”

Ginny had forgotten what she’d wanted to say, or at least tried to say, but anything would do now if it meant sparing her ears, because like the smell, the conversation had a slight tinge of manure. “Have you heard from Luna? I expected her to be sitting with you.”

“The last I heard, she was travelling with her dad looking for the Crumple-horned snore–erm.”

“Snorcack?”

“Yeah, that’s it!”

“Well I hope they find it,” Ginny said, rolling her eyes. “But she should be here. She'd get a hero’s welcome.”

“Like when she tied Amycus’s shoe laces together. He never saw it coming,” Neville said grinning.

It felt good to see someone smile.

Ginny and Neville sat on two sides of a compartment on the Hogwarts Express as it chugged down the wooden track. The towns grew smaller, and the land became greener. Neville was now smoothing the scrap of paper with his hands. As Ginny leaned closer, the words Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum came into focus.

“I’m sorry to hear about Fred,” Neville said after a while. “I really liked him, even if I did fall for one too many canary creams.”

Ginny’s shoulders tightened. “It’s just another casualty. Everyone’s got them.” Neville continued to smooth the wrapper. For a minute, the crinkling was the only noise to be heard . . . except for the engine of course.

“I went to St. Mungo’s a few times. To visit my parents. I never talked about it before,” he said steadily, “but my parents were . . . well, they were aurors. But they were tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange and some others. They kind of lost it.” His voice steadied as he spoke. Ginny fidgeted with her wand. “They don’t know who they are . . . or who I am.”

Ginny bit her lip.

“But last week, Mum called me Pebble, and that’s close enough.”

Something welled in Ginny’s throat that she tried to ignore. It didn't work. “That’s great Neville. That’s gotta feel . . . okay.” But before he could respond, she stood up and said, “Toilet. I’ll be right back.”

Ginny stood outside of the compartment taking in air before making her way to the toilets, not worrying about if she needed them or not. The corridor hummed with chatter and laughter until it didn't. From somewhere up ahead someone was shouting. Through the glass of a compartment, she saw an ogrish looking Slytherin playing keep away with a young girl's wand. The girl shouted for him to give it back, and her friends watched with wands drawn, but just stood there as if not knowing tip from handle.

“Just give it back,” Ginny said in a tired, fraying voice as she opened the door to the compartment. For a heartbeat, the young girl looked at her, but then tried to snatch her wand back again. She missed. The boy, perhaps a sixth year, held the wand high in the air, well out of the girl’s reach.

Taking a quick gander, the corridor was deserted. Ginny felt like someone who’d been volunteered for something without being consulted, and finding it was too late to pretend not to hear.

Expelliarmus, Ginny muttered, her wand outstretched. The girl’s wand came flying end over end to Ginny, but she redirected it to the girl with a simple levitating charm. The boy scowled, drawing his own wand and pointing it chest level at Ginny, whose heart started to race. It was like being in a dream, observing herself from a distance. She didn’t remember thinking the thought nor did she feel her mouth move. But without ceremony, as soon as the boy’s wand began to prod the air, Ginny let the word out:

DEPULSO!

The next thing she knew, the boy was on the floor being jolted slightly by the joints between the tracks. For a moment, she stared at him. He no longer stared back. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open.

He didn’t speak. She wished he’d groan.

The girl and her friends scampered, creating a cacophony of thudding down the corridor, until it hollowed and faded to nothing. Ginny stared out of the window as if she could apparate away to one of the mountains in view, but saw a lightning-shaped crack in the glass. From somewhere nearby a girl’s voice made its way through the compartment wall. “What’s going on here?” it said. Laura Madley rushed in, still pinning her prefect's badge to her t-shirt. Ginny didn’t wait.

Looking around for an empty compartment and finding none, Ginny bellowed “Out!” to a clueless crew of students. They didn’t protest as the door was summarily slammed in their faces.

She sat with her head in her hands facing the outer window. Taking a deep breath and holding it, she tried to count her heartbeats, but lost track somewhere between one and thirty.

From somewhere down the corridor footsteps came thudding rapidly, louder and louder until they stopped right outside, muffled voices taking over where the footsteps that fell off. If she fell apart now, she wouldn’t trust herself to scrape herself off the floor. Surprised to find the wand still in her hand, she tapped the yew tip rapidly, pushing just hard enough to feel a little pain before telling herself she was fine.

The compartment door opened then closed, but she didn’t bother to check who entered.

“Well that was interesting, and the year has barely begun,” a woman’s voice said, which carried a somewhat nasally drawl. Ginny turned her head to see a woman with black, grey-streaked bangs that fell over an olive face. She wore khakis that tucked into long brown boots and a white tank top.

“Red hair. A spectacular lack of restraint. You must be a Weasley.”

“It’s Ginny,” she said, trying to sound unbothered, but she couldn’t steady her breath.

“Well Ginny, you’ve certainly made a mess of things, haven’t you?” In all her years, Ginny was no stranger to scoldings, but normally she was given the courtesy of being yelled at. This woman was calm. That was worse.

“Is he going to be okay?” Ginny asked, the realization dawning suddenly that she might not like the answer.

“Him? Oh probably. He didn’t have far to fall. Intellectually, I mean.”

Ginny suppressed a smile. “Who are you?” she said, remembering to inhale.

“Alena Herrera. New teacher, at your service.”

“Service . . . right.” she snapped. For the second time that day, Ginny resolved to proceed with more tact.

“Well right now, it’s cleaning up your mess. The boy came around. It's not the end of the world, but you should be feeling pretty fortunate that it wasn't. That’s detention.”

She looked into Herrera’s stare and started to feel the sweat prickle on her brow, but her nerves didn’t sit right with her anymore and gave way to something else. There was something rotten about the whole ordeal. As if helping someone deserved punishment. She wanted to tell her to kiss a skrewt. But then she remembered her mother practically begging her to stay out of the fight. And then being beside herself with grief on the floor of the Great Hall. Ginny had promised to stay out of trouble this year, and for once she tried to mean it.

But capitulating without terms wasn’t an option. “As long as that Slytherin boy gets detention too.”

“Well I don’t remember giving you a choice in the matter,” Herrera said matter-of-factly, “but . . .” she rubbed her chin. The chattering in the corridor died down making her stare surprisingly loud. “How many?”

Normally, Ginny was thanked for agreeing to decisions she hadn't been invited to comment on — usually in time to manufacture a small calamity and reopen the discussion. Now she was left without a plan.

“Two,” she didn’t know if she was making a statement or asking a question.

“Good. And how about you?”

Acting as if she expected it, she knew her answer. But the moment she even thought to say ‘one,’ the woman crossed her arms.

“Two. I get two. The boy gets three.”

“Well then, we’re going to get to know each other pretty well.” She smiled, but then checked her watch looking a bit startled. “You better get changed. So do I,” she said and exited the compartment.

Sure enough, when Ginny looked out of the window, she saw the curved silhouette of a spire in the distance. When she opened her trunk, she found a paper bag, containing two sausages pressed between the halves of a scone. It was somehow still warm.

Chapter Text

Harry could barely see the junk that littered the creaky wood floor. But that didn't matter. He knew exactly what was there. The chess pieces, weary and battered from his awful play with Ron—but somehow not battered enough. A set of gobstones. He played a round with himself, letting them spray him. Not that the smell made much difference—not amid mouldering takeout containers and doxie droppings that now lined the ceiling like garland.

It was Hermione who lit the candles Harry hadn’t bothered with after a loud crack signaled her arrival. He merely stared at his trunk—now slightly more visible thanks to her—thinking of what no longer belonged and what was no longer inside it.

Because Harry Potter was no ordinary wizard, thank you very much. Ordinary wizards didn’t wear scars like nametags. Ordinary wizards didn’t carry Elder Wands or witness murder like a spectator sport. Ordinary wizards played quidditch.

Ordinary wizards stayed dead.

The candles didn’t help much, and neither did the sky. Grey clouds hovered below a sun that couldn’t be bothered to reach the crack in the wall. The real shame of it was the darkness didn’t hide anything. He could still see the white creases on his black leather trunk, reminding him of something marbled and broken. The lid was still imprinted, big and round, from a cage that used to sit there. Now it just looked shabby.

“Pack,” said Hermione, already dressed for school. “You’ll feel better once we’re there.”

Robes sat next to books which sat next to a cauldron, but there was no mirror and no snitch. Even the map, folded and blank, looked as if it had nothing else to show him.

“I solemnly swear,” Harry whispered, “that I am feeling no good.”

Hermione froze as if the slightest breath could topple the whole house. “Yes. I know,” she said softly, “That's why we need to leave. Think of the feast.”

But he did. An image of himself lying on a table in the Great Hall swept through his mind. In his mouth was stuffed an apple, and instead of hands he had colorful feathers. Applause made its way through the hall while Slughorn carved him open.

Hermione looked at him like he was some book she’d forgotten to read. “Horcruxes?” she asked.

“Peacocks.”

She shrugged as if it made sense.

“Harry, I promise you it's better than staying here. I'll make sure of it. Look at this place!”

Candlelight danced eerily on the wall, making Bellatrix glow like molten iron before fading.

“This is my home,” Harry said flatly, “just like Sirius.”

“So we're grading on a curve now?”

The look he gave her was as sharp as a knife. Or at least he hoped it was.

“Harry, do you honestly think he'd want you to stay here? He hated it here!”

Harry could have lied, he could have stayed silent, he could have told her that this whole thing was a mistake and that she should leave without him. But there was something in her eyes. They were wet. She pretended they weren't.

“Alright. Fine.”

“Thank you. I promise you it'll be alright.” He looked at her. She turned her head to wipe her eyes. Maybe she meant it. They grabbed their trunks and together turned on the spot.

The Hogwarts Express slowed just as the last few shreds of daylight receded from the slate roofs and stone chimneys of Hogsmeade. Pressing their faces to the windows, first-years created a fog that cleared with each new inhale, only for the glass to fog again on the next breath. With a great hiss and a billow of steam, the train stopped. He and Hermione arrived just in time to see it.

The first-years’ trunks were new, loaded off the train for the first time. No white lines or shabby rings. No decisions to be made beyond toad, cat, or owl. After all, they were ordinary wizards.

“Come on,” Ginny barked, appearing out of nowhere. A moment later she was dragging him by the arm.

The thestrals were barely visible, their scaly skin blending with the black and blue hues of the night, much easier to hear than to see. They flapped their wings, letting out hollow, raspy whinnies as students approached. Hannah Abbott recoiled at the sight.

“Whoa, that’s a—” she caught Harry’s eye as they approached the same cart. “Harry, is that a . . . thestral?” she asked.

It was Hermione who stilled it, approaching it slowly to put a soft hand on its muzzle. It lowered its head then stilled, looking content to be petted.

“Yeah,” Harry said to Hannah, “and a big one.”

No sooner had he sat down, the thestral started to walk, pulling its load on wheels that creaked and shook with every bump and root. ‘Of course I can see thestrals,’ someone boasted from a surrounding carriage. ‘I was there when Harry killed Voldemort. I can’t believe I was ever afraid to say the name.’

Hannah bit her lip and turned away. It felt like the night itself had questions for him, but was too polite to ask.

“Hannah, how was your summer? Is your . . . is your father doing well?” Hermione asked.

“Oh God. He’s been a nightmare, treating me like a child and trying to distract me from mum getting killed. But what that big muggle of mine doesn't get is a lot of mums died.” She spoke like saying it hard and fast would somehow put it behind her, but a quiver in her voice betrayed her.

“We’ve been bouncing around the continent with cameras and bum bags.”

“But that sounds lo—lovely!” Hermione said as the carriage hit a bump.

“It was at first,” Hannah protested. “But he dragged us to every castle. The ghosts were the worst. Wouldn’t leave me alone! I must’ve looked crazy talking to them in front of muggles. Some German hag—the Green Lady I think—told me the Bloody Baron stood her up for some solstice feast or whatever centuries ago. She wants me to tell him off for her. Like that’ll ever happen,” she scoffed. “And after Hogwarts, everything else is just another castle, even though it—” She looked away.

A breeze rustled through the trees before brushing Harry's cheek, quick and cold.

‘Can you believe he killed Voldemort with Expelliarmus? Not even Dumbledore could have pulled that off,’ said a voice carrying through the breeze.

A moment passed before Harry even remembered that, tucked in his bag, just beside him was his invisibility cloak.

The old feel of water turned to cloth was like a balm on his fingers as they brushed over the ancient threads. But before he could even get it out of the bag it was wrenched away. The flat look on Ginny's face told him there was no use in protesting as she put it on her other side.

Wheels creaked below them.

Through thinning branches, light shone through windows, more and more until the trees faded away. Towers stood tall and round in the light from a waxing moon. They were too strong. Too proud. Harry’s stomach twisted. It seemed false.

Below the ramparts, there was no blown out wall. Just a perfectly smooth stone by Gryffindor Tower. Nothing to mark it. It was like it never happened. Like nobody had ever—

He felt his fingers squeezed tight like a vice. Ginny’s eyes were wide like galleons, her face as still as a statue.

“I guess I’ll see you all in there,” said Hannah.

The carriage had stopped. He hadn’t even felt it—or heard it. There was no more creaking in the still night air, just students entering the castle and whispering. He didn’t have to ask.

“Come on,” said Hermione, “You’ve already done the hardest part.”

“Yeah right.” He ruffled his hair and took off his glasses like it would help. “How do I look?”

“Like Harry Potter,” said Ginny laughing, “but if you’d like—” she pulled out her wand.

“Let’s just get on with it.”

High above the tables, the Gryffindor lion hung proud and strong. But the gold mane didn’t bleed into the red shield like it used to. To one side, the Ravenclaw Eagle looked more gold than bronze, and to the other, the Hogwarts banner hung above a fifth table in the middle. Harry felt something in the pit of his stomach as he walked, barely even noticing Ginny barreling through the Great Hall like an erumpent. Andrew Kirke and Jack Sloper looked at each other before shirking their resolve under her stare and abandoning their seats across from Neville.

“Alright, el capitan. Use your words next time,” Sloper called as he left, but Harry noticed he was safely five whole yards away when he said it.

He, Ginny, and Hermione sat. The whispers continued.

It was good seeing Neville. He might have grown an inch or two and had a good deal of stubble. But nobody whispered about him. Practically the same birthday as Harry, and he killed Nagini, but no one called him Serpent Assassin or some other stupid name in line with Chosen One.

Before either could open their mouths, though, Professor Flitwick led in the first years, their eyes big and wide in the torchlight and their wands looking as big as swords wielded by small hands. With a flick of Flitwick’s wand, the sorting hat appeared out of nowhere, then spun as it hovered before finally stilling on the stool. It opened its mouth to sing.

When good Rowena Ravenclaw, and the other founders three, started Hogwarts School, they also bewitched me,

Old Godric Gryffindor, with courage in his heart,
said if you stand your ground, then you've got the part,

Harry shifted in his seat. The sound was muffled. The creases that passed for a mouth didn’t open as fully as they used to.

Helga Hufflepuff, looked for patience and loyalty,
She said, ‘If you hold these virtues, kindly come with me,’

Salazar Slytherin, wanted only pure of blood,
If you came from muggle blood, he'd leave you where you stood,

Wise Rowena Ravenclaw, valued wit beyond measure,
Do you study hard and ponder in your leisure?

The hat rose and turned again. Harry shrank, but it wasn’t enough. Not even the invisibility cloak—still firmly in Ginny’s arms—would spare him from what he saw. As the hat turned, the brown fabric looked almost painted in some places. But that was nothing compared to a large patch, charred and blistered, where light died.

I may be some old hat, but I'll put you in your basket,
Now you know me and the tale, I'm the sorting casquette.

There wasn't much applause, just a few polite students. Even Flitwick held his nose, but must've remembered where he was because he drew himself up to stand straight and as tall as he could before calling the first student.

Abigail Burbage, Steven Coolidge, and Asterix Earnhardt were sorted into Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Hufflepuff respectively. But who knew if they really even belonged where they were placed? Not after that song, if it could even be called that.

When Hadrian Hagen was sorted into Slytherin, though, a murmuring started soft and grew to a full-on grumbling. Even the Slytherins didn't clap. But the look on McGonagall’s face as she began to stand was as frightening as ever and the grumbling ceased immediately.

Hermione gave a tiny pout when Maisie Moss, the muggle-born from Diagon Alley, was sorted into Hufflepuff, but clapped louder than anyone else when Harry looked her way. And though the ceremony carried on without incident, Harry held his breath with every name.

McGonagall approached the table looking a rare sort of flustered. “It's been a long train ride for many of you. Eat!” The tables filled.

Roast beef and a bowl of tomato soup found their way to Hermione. “How was your summer, Neville?”

“It was great,” he said. “Gran and I—”

“Built a greenhouse so I can propagate Mimbulus mimbletonia,” Ginny finished for him, loading her plate up with chicken, greens, and grapes.

Gleaming golden trays held Yorkshire Pudding, roast beef, chicken, and duck. Roasted potatoes sat next to chips, which sat next to crisps, all looking perfectly golden and perfectly crispy. Only Harry couldn’t serve himself properly. Ginny was squeezing his hand under the table. A few seats down, Romilda laughed at something Dean said, making Harry jump a little at the high, loud giggle. He settled for a single piece of treacle tart, spilling a little on the mashed potatoes as he struggled to steady it.

“Ginny!” Hermione chided somewhere between shocked and amused.

“Sorry,” Ginny grumbled.

“That’s okay, Hermione,” said Neville, helping himself to a sticky bun. “That pretty much sums it up. But what happened on the train? You left and I just heard a loud crack a few minutes later, like something broke before that new teacher started ordering everyone around.”

Her hand became tighter around Harry’s. “Nothing big. Just your garden-variety duel. I'm getting detention for it.” Harry snapped his head toward her. “No big deal. I won, clearly. Just a Slytherin being a bully.” She pecked him on the lips. It tasted like grapes.

He thought—apparently wrong—that they were all done with duels. She and Bellatrix. Hermione and Crabbe. Him and—well there wasn’t much good in thinking about that again. The words garden-variety duel rasped in his ear like sandpaper.

He unclasped Ginny’s hand to pour himself some pumpkin juice. She slid a little farther away from him.

“Your throat must be dry from worry,” she said quietly.

Hermione and Neville turned immediately inward to each other.

‘The quidditch season should be a good one.’

‘Yeah . . . good weather, maybe.’

“I’m sorry, Ginny.” Harry wanted to say something more, but he’d only ever been eloquent at incantations—the wrong sort of charm for the situation.

Her eyebrows pinched together. “Is it so hard for you to just—do you even still—” Her eyes slid to his sliver of treacle tart, still intact except for the bit that was now seasoning the potatoes. “It’s okay,” she sighed. “Of course it is.”

‘I hear the Harpies are going to . . . play this year.’

‘Don’t they play every year?’

‘I think.’

“It’s just that,” Harry tried again, “Doesn’t anyone care about the hat?”

Apparently satisfied that the Harpies would probably be playing, Hermione said, “Sorry, Neville.”

“Yeah, sorry,” said Ginny.

“That's okay,” he said briskly, almost sounding eager. “It's damaged. I'd know better than anyone. I spent three days in St. Mungo's for the burns. It’s mostly alright, but it’s why I’m trying to grow facial hair.” He pointed to his cheek and sure enough, below his ear, blistered skin showed through patchy hair. “The healers say it might eventually grow evenly, but for now it covers enough.”

Harry felt small like a Knut—no, Knuts were worth something. He had no burns anymore or loss of limb . . . just a foot in his mouth and a scar that didn’t even hurt. Everything else—those were for ordinary wizards.

“Your attention please.” The sleeves of McGonagall’s tartan robes spilled over the whole lectern. She stood closer to it, leaning on it more than Dumbledore ever had. “I believe it fitting to recall something Professor Dumbledore once said to me when I was mourning a particularly difficult loss. He told me that we feel the dead with us most of all when we’re going through times of great trouble. At the time, I thought he was being particularly poignant as he certainly could be. But in the last year, I have to admit there’s scarcely a moment that’s gone by where I haven’t felt him.”

Ginny squeezed Harry’s knee, jolting his focus to the room. The silence lay heavy with every pause McGonagall took.

“I find his patience in the quiet moments I’m able to steal on a hectic day. And his fondness for sweets still amuses me. I can’t help but smile at the way he would offer me lemon sherbets. There was something in the way he said it.”

Professor Sprout dabbed her eyes.

“But this isn’t a eulogy for Professor Dumbledore. All this is to say, talk about the dead. Tell your stories, and perhaps when you need them most, they’ll be here. As a school, we will have a proper remembrance for them in due time.”

Harry heard a broken sound, thin and shaky, from a few seats down. When he looked, Parvati had tears in her eyes.

“Today, though, is about beginnings. For the first time in a great while, we’re facing a brighter future than . . .”

It was as if the hall itself was exhaling. Suddenly people moved in their seats. Fidgeted. Slouched. But the word ‘beginnings’ got snagged at the front of Harry’s mind.

He remembered the Great Hall being larger than was reasonable. The hat placed on his head was whole—able to be reasoned with. Now the hall seemed hollow and the hat—

“ . . . eighth-years already know that they are barred from quidditch and other official interhouse competitions. To allow everyone time to settle in, tryouts will occur in early October.”

“And now our new staff. Siobhan Finnegan will be your new Muggle Studies professor. Alena Herrera, the new head of Slytherin, will be taking over my courses at the O.W.L. level and under in Transfiguration. And Daedalus Diggle, your new head of Gryffindor and Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”

The hall clapped politely, but Harry didn’t feel like clapping. Maybe it’s because the top hat was too mauve. Or maybe it was because he saw neither Diggle nor top hat at the Battle.

“You may have noticed we have among us a fifth table. I hope at some point this year you will take it upon yourselves to bond with your peers from other houses. We've been fractured for long enough. I invite you even now should you care to move . . . Very well,” she said when nobody budged, “Then I'll leave you to finish the feast on this note.”

The sounds of pouring juice and fork to plate had already begun again while people shifted impatiently in their seats.

“The Ministry does not wish me to tell you, but . . . ” Professor McGonagall looked at the Sorting Hat on the stool, then to Professor Sprout who nodded solemnly.

Ginny squeezed Harry's hand again. This time he squeezed back.

“You've just witnessed the last Sorting. The houses will be dissolved at the end of the year.”

A fork screeched on a plate and then there was nothing. No chatter, no gasps. He could have sworn he saw the candles dim for a heartbeat, but the windows were closed and there was no tickle in his hair.

The questions started.

‘Where will we sleep?’

‘Who will we play in quidditch?’

“Your questions are important and will be answered in due time.”

She kept talking, but Harry didn't hear it. He took a bite of treacle tart with his free hand.

It tasted like lemon, and upheaval.

Chapter Text

Ron awoke at his London flat after a fitful sleep. Just minutes ago, he’d been running and hiding from a giant battle puff. But whenever he thought he'd escaped, Severus Snape called it back like a basilisk. Waiting for relief to set in, he blinked. No Snape, no battle puff. Just the raised bumps that clumped together like cottage cheese on the ceiling. He turned his head to the nightstand. Hermione looked up from a book and waved from a picture frame. A few seconds later Harry walked through, completely unaware of the camera. He covered his face and turned around, but had been laughing the whole time.

The faint smell of broom polish mingled with the clutter of takeaway cartons and half-drunk beer cans jostling for space on the table. He found the remote beneath a hamburger wrapper and clicked the TV on. The news that day was rather boring, at least by Ron’s standards. A panda born at the zoo. Another scandal in Parliament. No unexplained death or missing person. No flying car or dragon sightings. Of course the ministry would have cleaned all that up by now—but Ron knew. He even tried to guess what muggles were made to remember instead: A freak lighting strike, a minor earthquake . . . Or his favorite—someone shooting a sci-fi movie.

Dodging dung and gum on the street, he stepped outside into the morning. London hummed with life. People in suits sat at restaurants. Uni kids ran for the underground in holey jeans. No robes. No wands. No badges or anything else that required clarification. Only people living decidedly unmagical lives—day to day.

Several yards away, a lady with spectacles and a tight bun approached, walking a dog. His attention jolted. But as she came closer, the lines on her face weren’t as familiar as he felt they might have been. He walked past boys wearing football kits and women in blouses exiting coffee shops until he approached an elderly man sitting on a stoop. He had long gray hair and a beard to match that sat below a crooked nose and spectacles. But then he saw the man’s hair was matted and his spectacles were square. He dropped a pound in the man’s cup and kept on.

He couldn’t put his finger on what made it so odd, but there was something about the way people passed by an old storefront. Nobody looked up at the crooked sign or even noticed when others exited, almost colliding with them. His feet dragged as he approached.

The Knotty Wand, the sign read. A woman stepped out through the wooden door, the iron knocker swinging behind her, a dusty brimmed hat rising to a point on her head.

Only then did he understand.

He pushed the door in. It was as if someone tried to apparate the Three Broomsticks to a London storefront. Iron chandeliers the size of quidditch hoops hung from the rafters, and tables twisted up from the floor like ancient trees. But it wasn’t all magic and enchantment. Next to a big barrel of butterbeer sat a keg of the same cheap lager Ron was fond of from the corner shop. And on a dusty shelf, a television played Arsenal and Leicester City.

Behind the bar, crouched a woman unscrewing a bearing with a wrench. “Wizards!” she muttered to herself. Her brown curls sat close and deliberate. They fell forward as she leaned back from the tap. “Just because it pours itself doesn't mean it doesn't clog.” She turned her head to the kitchen door and yelled, “Because somebody hasn't cleaned the lines in two weeks!” A garbled apology (or was it a protest?) came from the kitchen.

The woman looked up at Ron, back down to the tap—then up again as if she'd only just remembered to greet him. She wiped the wrench with a worn white cloth before tucking it into the pocket of her overalls beside a pale, ashen wand. She looked up with a warm smile, the corners of her dark brown eyes creasing as her cheeks lifted. Then her head cocked and her eyes narrowed. “You must be a Weasley,” she said. “I finished Hogwarts with your brother.”

Of course, that required clarification. “Who?” Ron asked. “The twins?”

The woman stroked her chin. “No, just one bloke.”

“Charlie?”

“No. Head Boy. Allergic to fun.”

“Oh! You’re thinking of Percy!” Ron said excitedly. Did he meet her at a quidditch game or in the Great Hall? Maybe he was thinking of the girl in the toothpaste advert on the side of a bus—the kind who needn’t bother with love potions.

“Abby,” she extended her hand, “Abby Thompson.”

“Ron—well, you already know the rest.”

She sat him down at a table and showed him a menu as she went back into the kitchen to fetch coffee. The stool creaked beneath him as he flipped through the menu. Waffles. Sausage. Eggs. Done, he thought. But his stomach made a strange sound, or at least he thought so until he recognized it as cheering from the TV. The score was nil-nil. He’d gotten used to football (or at least accepted its existence), but he couldn’t get over how often a draw was treated like a conclusion instead of a failure. And where was the close call of barely dodging a bludger? The risk? Goalkeepers in football just stood there. One net. Blocking a ball that didn’t even stay up in the air.

“Not fast enough for you?” Abby had returned holding a pot of coffee. The light reflected warmly on her face.

“I’ve heard Binns lecture faster than this,” said Ron, sprinkling sugar in his mug.

She pouted. “Yeah, I understand. You know, football was my first love. I played before Hogwarts and was pretty good too. But now I'm wondering if it was all just magic I didn't know about.” Steam curled from Ron's mug as he stirred. “I even started a football league at Hogwarts—or at least I tried to. Even the other muggle-borns lost interest pretty quickly. We all did, eventually.” A sudden burst of sound came from the TV. The crowd erupted. Leicester scored. Abby's eyes darted to the screen, then back to Ron. “Anyway, what can I get for you?”

It was as if Ron's stomach grumbled the order out of his mouth. Abby confirmed it: “Waffles, sausage, scrambled eggs—and a surprise. But it might be disappointing,” she said, checking a pink-banded watch on her wrist just before disappearing into the kitchen.

A disappointing surprise . . . Hermione once surprised him with an extra hour of O.W.L. revision. ‘I didn't think we'd be able to fit it in with all the D.A. sessions!’ she’d said.

His mum would normally surprise him with extra chores—although, he admitted, it was never that surprising. Even the garden gnomes knew he was coming. A disappointing surprise, he thought again. A chocolate frog? Or a few squares of Honeydukes? Not exactly disappointing.

Beneath his feet, the floor vibrated. A high, whirring sound emanated through the room, and then the TV flickered before showing a referee holding up a yellow card. Tightly gripping his fork in one hand and his wand in the other, Ron looked around—but there was nothing to see that required either. The few scattered patrons didn't even bother putting down their mugs.

Through the kitchen door, Abby rushed toward Ron, putting his plate of food down in front of him, then paced in circles around the room, breathing heavily with her eyes closed. But before he could even inquire, an elderly witch said gently, “Hogwarts wasn't built in a day, Abby. Progress takes time.” She opened her eyes and nodded. Now everyone was looking at the TV in quiet anticipation.

From the pocket of her overalls, she drew her wand, took one last deep breath, and pointed it at the little box made of plastic and glass. To Ron's astonishment, Leicester gave way to the Puddlemere United—draped in navy blue. Arsenal was replaced by the Holyhead Harpies—donned in dark green—all as if someone merely changed the channel. Only, the keepers stayed by the posts, and a bludger stood on Gwenog Jones’s bat as if it had a change of heart. Even the snitch was frozen in mid air, trapped like it was still strapped down. It didn’t even struggle.

Abby huffed, but the old witch was already speaking. “One of these days, you'll have done it,” she said encouragingly. “I was there when the first television set exploded.” She was now talking more to Ron than to Abby. “I was going to spray water on it, but she stopped me. An electrical fire! I know what that is now.” The woman smiled. The rest of the patrons had already gone back to their coffee and cakes.

“I'm sorry, Ron. I was really hoping to surprise you,” said Abby with a long face.

“Are you mental? That was brilliant!” Ron bellowed, unrestrained, making the patrons jump. He didn't know what impressed him more, that it worked at all or not quite. “How did you do it?”

For the first time since the frozen screen, Abby smiled. Close-lipped. No flash of white teeth. “It's complicated. But think of TV like a pensieve. I have a friend with omnioculars at the game. That's the original memory. I altered a protean charm to work with complex images. That took over a year to get right.”

Ron smiled, mostly at himself. Hermione did protean charms all the time, usually before breakfast. He continued to stir his coffee, the sugar long since dissolved.

“So another set of omnioculars, here where we are, mimics what's on the first set,” she continued. “It's like storing the memory. It's just when I try to convert magic to an electromagnetic signal—that’s what muggles use in most technology—it just freezes.” Ron nodded, hoping it looked like understanding. He made a mental note to write to Hermione about it—if it didn’t spill out of his head by morning.

“It's like the pensieve becomes a muggle photo album. Anyway,” she sighed looking around the place, “I should get back to work. The doxies aren't going to just up and leave by themselves.”

As she disappeared into the kitchen, Ron looked at the frozen screen, the snitch still caught in the beats of its own wings. He took a bite of his waffle. It had gone cold.

When he arrived at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, it whirred with hijinks. Rockets pushed on their tethers, eager to have their moment. Decoy detonators went off, knocking into Peruvian instant darkness powder. The place went pitch black for several minutes. It all came with the territory, or at least the mortgage at Number 93 Diagon Alley. What was more surprising was that George was leaving.

“Going to the muggle post office to receive a shipment of fake spiderwebs for the Halloween edition of the Muggle Line. “Muggle is in right now! Brilliant, little brother,” he said without being asked. And then he was gone. Ron was alone. No customers, just the puffs and a few escaped reusable hangmen.

Quiet wasn’t the right word, but there was something a little hollow. He didn’t have to think too hard. It had been there the whole time. Sitting in a corner of the shop was his desk. Or at least it was supposed to be his. He walked over to have a look. It was covered in screws, toothpicks, and matchboxes, as well as Prophet cuttings, fainting fancies, and decoy detonators that had already detonated. They groaned.

A puking pastille had a note taped to the side of it that said, ‘Too effective, reduce nausea,’ but next to it was a photo frame. He turned it around without letting himself look, and then sat.

It felt good to sit.

In the desk drawer was a metal file, an old muggle lighter, and a small mound of gun powder—the last being nothing Ron couldn’t siphon away with a prod of his wand. And then standing out, stark brown against a nest of broken, white quill feathers was a small paper bag tucked in a corner. Inside was a pumpkin pasty. Ron’s hunger was like an imaginary friend; it wasn’t really there, but it was always nice to have someone to talk to.

He took a bite. It was sweet. A little hard, but the taste of pumpkin meeting sugar was unmistakable. And then it hit him. There was something a little off. He took a look around the shop, took another bite, and decided it wasn’t just off— it was putrid. How long had it been there? At least since June. Hermione had been gone for over a week.

He conjured some water, but it didn't neutralize the putrid that now coated his tongue. The half-eaten pasty stared up at him. It once looked innocent, but now it taunted him, like he’d been pranked one last time . . .

At a desk in the shop, Ron sat alone in the relative quiet. Even the decoy detonators seemed to have taken a nap. In his hand was a water glass. On his tongue was a taste that refused to move.

The memory of Abby crept through his head, temporarily moving the taste to the back of his mind. He hadn’t known how she’d done it (not really anyway); he only remembered the moment after, when quidditch was suddenly on TV . . . kind of.

The memory sparked a thought and set his mind churning, like his stomach from the pasty, only different. He looked at the pasty, then looked at the calendar. Halloween was coming up. It was like he’d clicked the deluminator without even trying.

As Ron got in bed, he read Hermione's most recent letter like he did every night. She always used the finest parchment; soft to the touch, but firm enough where it didn’t collapse on itself. Her penmanship was small and efficient as if each letter knew its place and didn’t crowd the others around it. It was neat, but not pretty. No hearts on the ‘I’s like Lavender used to draw.

He took a whiff. It smelled faintly of burning wood and chamomile. He imagined her sitting in the Gryffindor common room with a mug of tea like she did when she was feeling particularly rested. It had been some time.

Dear Ron,

It's already different without you here. Most of the castle has been rebuilt, but some of the portraits still haven't returned, and the Sorting Hat seemed really off. It's just as well. I'm sure you've heard by now that there's no more sorting after this year. I'm not sure how I feel about it just yet.

Ron wanted to say that as a successful businessman he was above such things. That the only thing it meant for him was to stock more house-themed merchandise. Nostalgia sells. That's what he told himself.

But it's not all bad. Daedalus Diggle is our new Defense Professor! And Ginny is already talking about quidditch strategy non-stop. I think she's even more determined now that she knows it's the last cup.

I know it's only been a little while, but I'm already thinking about Christmas, and curling up by the fire with you at the Burrow.

Make sure you write soon, but do remember to write to Harry. I think it would really lift his spirits.

I love you,

Hermione

P.S. Sir Nicholas says Hi.

He placed the letter on his bedside table and kissed Hermione’s photo good night. She seemed to take it well. He clicked the deluminator which stored the lamplight, but also that horrible red flashing light on the smoke detector. Lying under the blanket, one leg sticking out, a pain radiated from the base of his spine. He tried to relax his muscles like he was entangled in Devil’s Snare, then found himself sinking into the mattress.

But just as he was about to drift off, he opened his eyes. It’s not that he wasn’t tired, it’s just that visions of Snape and battle puffs danced in his head, menacingly—to the point where he sat up. Sneaking into the living room as if someone was there to mind, he turned on the TV.

Crowds roared and cheered at some football game somewhere in the world. He followed the arc of the ball as someone kicked it high in the air only to be returned in the same manner by an opposing player. It wasn’t bad, but it just wasn’t quidditch.

The score was 1-0.

Chapter Text

The Green Room was normally quiet. In years past, some younger students could be heard playing exploding snap or gobstones, while the rest of the house merely boasted and simpered. Not that Draco wasn’t good at them. He just thought he did them better than everyone else, so by comparison, they were all just amateurs. So when the boasting ceased after the war, and with nothing to simper on, the Green Room became too quiet.

Draco sat in the common room watching Blaise preen himself, mirror in hand. Of course, he would be checking to see if the whitening charms were holding on his teeth. He wasn't the only one. Olive Montgomery sat by a dark window that reflected the green light. She stared into it as if it held the secret to making her look as edgy as she wished people saw her—as if she knew what edgy really looked like. She was merely checking her eyeliner—probably.

Rite or ritual? Rituals are habitual. The rhyme was easy enough to remember. There were the teeth, the makeup, the glare, the sneer—all rituals. And now the morning silence before everyone decided they were awake enough to pretend together. Yet someone was always bound to break it.

Two voices came from the steps to the girls’ dormitory. “I told you to call me Parker,” one of them grunted.

“That's not going to work,” came the other voice, “and neither is that hair.”

Pansy Parkinson (or was it Parker now?) and Daphne Greengrass emerged from the staircase, school robes already perfectly smoothed. Hair that had once been brown and short on Pansy's head was now blonde and long.

“You don't know that,” Parker hissed. Draco decided that calling her Parker couldn't hurt and might even be prudent for some favor or arrangement down the line that they'd both convince themselves was done in the spirit of good will or good faith. He would look up the difference later.

“Good morning, Parker,” Draco said, trying to sound just a little snide. “. . . Daphne.” They both rolled their eyes at him.

“Look,” continued Daphne, giving no more thought to Draco, “this Parker thing isn't going to work, but I know what might.” They disappeared out of the entryway.

There it was. The rite. Parker. Reinvention in the name of survival. Draco wondered if he could do it again or should even try.

In the Great Hall, the Slytherins sat still and secluded. Through the ceiling, the sun managed a brief appearance before a cloud slid across to smother it, only for the light to push through again until it was once more bested by another grey mass that drifted in. The whole sky was apparently unable to decide who ought to be in charge.

Draco poked at his cereal, challenging it to maintain its crunch. He bet it couldn't do it.

The door opened, bringing with it a slight commotion as a cloud parted just enough to dim the candles. And then he saw them. The royal court. Longbottom and Granger followed by Weasley and Potter, a host of others in tow. Some of them scowled in Draco’s direction. He noted, with some irritation, that the fool always gets a nod.

Potter, he muttered under his breath.

“All hail King Potter, the Boy Who Lived to make breakfast a spectator sport,” he said aloud. But no one laughed, or even groaned. He looked to his right and saw only the staff table. To his left, Daphne whispered to Parker, well out of earshot, while Blaise smoothed the napkin in his lap. There was no one else to look to. He hadn’t heard from Goyle since it all happened, and Crabbe, well . . . at least it was quick.

‘Everybody bow and kiss Potter’s wand.’

Just as he poked his cereal again, hoots and screeches called from the windows. Owls swooped in. Several hovered around Potter, many of them dropping letters, but others it seemed just wanted to get a better bird's-eye view. The Chosen One of Owls. That was lame, Draco told himself, and so was the fact he’d thought it.

Then one flew over Slytherin. A snowy owl headed his way, closer and closer until a letter landed on his teacup:

Mr. Malfoy,
Another year is upon us. I thought it might be prudent if we discussed our mutual expectations for the remainder of your time here, so we can see to it that it is as productive and harmonious as possible. Please stay after Transfiguration later today. It shouldn't take too long. Your new Head of House will be joining us.
Sincerely,
Professor McGonagall

Mutual expectations . . . he expected that she'd talk and he'd nod.

He fixed his eyes on the staff table as an owl beat its wings overhead, the draft tickling Draco's hair. McGonagall was talking to Slughorn. He looked at the letter again. Of course she sent an owl. Perhaps it just needed some exercise.

He took a bite of cereal. It was soggy. He'd won.

Slowly, and not without spectacle, the Hall emptied. An owl had landed on the Hufflepuff table to a chorus of ewws before Hagrid stood up and knocked the staff table. Several plates crashed to the floor. Stupid oaf, Draco thought to himself. And then Potter stood, followed by half a dozen other Gryffindors and a few odd Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws—probably just to get a better view. Harry the Lionborn, Longbottom the Unlikely, and the others left, followed by the professors. And then everyone, until it was just Draco.

The Great Hall had never looked that way. Not to him.

A period off. A chance to study? Barely any work had been assigned. A chance to relax, but from what?

Outside, the sun and clouds had come to a truce. The mountains were gold and radiant, but a light rain fell over the castle grounds. Draco tried not to take it personally. The trail was well worn, cut by students too lazy or too late to follow the stone path that twisted and stretched lazily from the castle’s oak doors to the greenhouses, the trampled grass damp with a fine mist, enough to make each step slightly unsure. Soft laughter drifted from up ahead.

It grew as he approached, walking slowly in its wake, until something loud and sharp hit his ear, making him wince. As he peered through the glass, he saw them. One by one, mandrakes were repotted until it all went quiet again. Including the laughter.

He continued walking.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a broom high in the air. He turned his head to the quidditch pitch. For a heartbeat, he had the impulse to smirk at the memory of Longbottom and that ridiculous remembrall, but the impulse died in his mind before it ever reached his lips.

He kept on.

He was starting to feel the rain just beneath his robes and shivered slightly. By an arch in the courtyard, a small pile of rubble lay beneath a bush that he would never have registered had he not been hunched from the wind that was beginning to pick up. Despite the gusts, he froze. Two fingers of a stone hand jutted from the pale granite chips strewn beneath a mix of twigs and yellow leaves. He heard the high, cold laugh, but he always did. Now he wondered whether this year might have been different had he been seen not cowering or being saved. Had he cursed the right person . . .  He looked at the crumbled hand again. Maybe . . .

The high ceiling of the transfiguration classroom always made it seem more austere than it should have been. The sound echoed slightly. Perhaps it was by design so McGonagall didn’t have to say anything twice. Cages lined the walls, full of rats and hedgehogs, but there were no banners on the ceiling or anything else to look at. The only thing that could be mistaken for a decoration was a handsome, carved clock that hung on the stone wall.

Draco sat in the back. The faces were all familiar, MacMillan boasted, Patil gazed, Blaise preened, and of course, the court: Granger the Intruder, Potter the Walking Felicis, and Weasley. The only thing new under the echoey ceiling was a girl with blue hair who stared intently at McGonagall.

“Welcome back, everyone.” Professor McGonagall had a chipper tone (or at least relative to her) and wore black robes with a gold ‘H’ on her lapel. “I trust everyone had a,” she paused, “restful summer.” A few students nodded. Some lowered their heads. Draco cracked his knuckles. “We’re going to start with a review of partially detransfigured objects and bodies. Now, who can tell me . . . When detransfiguring only part of an object or body, what must be controlled above all else?”

Draco raised his hand halfway, his elbow jutting out so his hand hovered right above his head. Granger had her hand in the air waving side to side like a beanpole blowing in the wind. Six years told him she didn’t believe in half-measures and apparently neither did McGonagall.

Granger spoke when called on: “It’s focus, Professor. Lots of wizards make the mistake of thinking the magic is easy because the mass is smaller than during the original transfiguration. But the focus of the part has to be at least equal to the whole because you’re denaturing the object—magically at least. Not that we can measure focus, but that’s why it’s called Greystag’s Principle, and not Greystag’s Law.”

Draco told himself she was loved more than he was hated and that’s why she got the nod. It was a good enough answer for the moment. Maybe Granger was right, not just about the question (of course she was) but about half-measures. Perhaps this year it would be easier to keep his hand firmly by his side.

He managed to put a tail back on a pincushion, but the nose was still a little too pointed. The clock ticked just loud enough to hear. Five minutes left. He tried to turn the top of a pepper mill back into a snail shell, but he got the bottom instead. It crawled slowly, leaving a trail of black, spicy-smelling ooze in its wake.

As the clock chimed, he conceded to himself that he had all the concentration of a snail on a salt flat. The class shuffled out, a faint chill cooling his cheek as the blue-haired girl passed too closely.
He stowed his wand but stayed seated as a witch walked leisurely into the classroom. From up close, Professor Herrera looked too young for grey-streaked hair. But that was the least of his worries. “Mr. Malfoy, remember we’re meeting in a few moments. Don’t go anywhere,” said McGonagall. She was writing something down, not even looking his way.
“That’s why I am still sit—” he started to say, but thought better of it. It didn’t stop him from kicking the desk. He walked over when called and sat down.

“I trust your summer went well,” said McGonagall, her lips pursed. What part of his life was she examining that would suggest that anything was going well? The part where school and prison got their owls crossed?

He sneered so hard his lip twitched. He didn’t care. It was important Herrera recognize him by reputation. “Let’s just say it was trying,” he barked just loud enough to emphasize the last word.
She stared at him, her lips pursing so thin now, they looked like parchment.

“Well, as you know actions have consequences.” Her mouth loosened. “You’d think he’d learn from his first stint in Azkaban.” Already making fists, Draco pushed his thumb to the knuckle of his index finger. A crack rent the air from his pocket. “But that is not why we’re here,” she continued. “I thought it might be . . . prudent if we set some expectations for—”

“So you can tell the Ministry you actually have an eye on me?” He didn’t know what made him say it, only that she looked at him like a problem she’d rather not solve.

“Expectations for your conduct while you are here,” she continued as if he’d said nothing, only louder. Then her volume softened like she remembered herself, but her tone was unmistakable, “As for the Ministry, Mr. Malfoy, that is a situation you put yourself in.” Draco cracked another knuckle. All the while, Professor Herrera sat in an armchair to the side, her face wearing a slight smile. “Shall we move on?” McGonagall continued.

Draco didn’t answer.

“I hope you’ve realized by now that your schedule inclu—”

“Muggle studies, Professor?” he boomed. He tried to crack his finger again, but there was nothing there.

“You should feel fortunate to have a schedule at all,” she barked. A cough came from the corner. “Muggle Studies was scheduled with your future in mind, as was every other class you’ll take this year. Save for Defense Against the Dark Arts, but your head of house insisted.” Her volume softened to a whisper. “I can’t imagine you’d need any more practice considering all your,” she breathed, “accomplishments in the last few years.”

He didn’t want to fly, or even apparate. He wanted to bolt. But in the confines of the chair, he settled for taking his hands out of his pockets and forcing his palms together until his wrists cracked. They glared at each other.

Two professors and an aging student sat in the classroom. Only one faked it enough to force a smile. In the absence of anything else to look at, Draco sulked in his head.
“I really do miss him, you know,” McGonagall said quietly. Weakly. His lip curled upward again, surprising him like he hadn't put it there. A clock ticked impatiently on her desk. Her lips went tight, smoothing the wrinkles that made her mouth look stitched together.

A voice came from the corner. “May I have a moment with Draco?” said Herrera.

“Please,” McGonagall said, rising to her feet, “I’ve said what I needed to say.” And then she left without another word—or a glance at Draco.

Herrera sat herself down across from him. The sun through the window reflected warmly in a pair of amber-brown eyes. When she spoke, her tone was anything but warm, although not cold and weighty either. “Why is it that you’re back here?”

Surely she was joking . . . or being intentionally obtuse. Like it hadn’t been the topic gabbed about in every wizarding pub for the summer . . . Or at least for a few days until a missing body turned up, or some other family’s fate was decided. “The Ministry decided that—”

“Do pull the wand from between your ears and listen. Everybody knows why you’ve returned, but what is it you want, Draco?”

He broke her gaze to look around the room, but anything there was to see was behind him. He knew that the quidditch pitch was just outside, but nobody flew by when he turned his head to the window. He thought about her question. The words made sense, but not in this context. He didn’t know if it was a problem with the asker or that his name followed like an afterthought. Maybe freeing his father was what he wanted, but as he thought longer, he’d much rather have a broom than a wand. He didn’t answer.

“And that,” she said quietly, “is a big part of the problem.”

“What problem?”

Her eyes narrowed for a heartbeat. “You.”

They glowered at each other. Or at least Draco glowered, but he couldn’t read her.

“Is there a girl?” she asked, staring at him just long enough to see him shake his head. She lifted a scroll of parchment from a stack on her desk. Disappearing behind it, she lifted a finger, telling him to wait. Draco’s fingers gripped the chair arms. “Guy?”

“Of course not,” he barked.

“Lighten up. It’s really not that big of a deal.” She pulled the parchment down just enough to meet his eyes. “You’d be surprised. There were even rumors going around about that man you killed. Dumbledore, yes?”

“I didn’t kill him!” he said through gritted teeth, hoping she confused his tone for anger. Something stung behind his eyes, unexpectedly. And it seemed to be controlling his throat, because it started to narrow.

She puckered her lips and spoke slowly, as if to a small child. “Of course you didn’t.” She’d not put the parchment down, but he could see the skin creased in the corners of her eyes as they narrowed. “That would require too much courage,” she spat.

“I didn’t want to even—he would have killed me!”

But she wasn’t listening. “Maybe you should have let him try. Harry Potter did.” She slammed the parchment on her desk.

“I’m not—” Draco started, but he choked.

The clock on the wall ticked steadily like it was bored. But boring had its place. Especially now.

Whatever she was trying to do confused him. Not that he didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t know whether to feel upset or downright angry. He supposed it was a mixture. He felt what he felt.
He’d never told anybody he didn’t want to do it. But Dumbledore knew. Those blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles still gazed at him. They looked through him from behind the veil of death that sat cold and dark in his mind.

‘Draco, Draco you are not a killer,’ he’d said. Even now, Draco could still see how frail and weak Dumbledore had looked. ‘I am more defenseless than you can have dreamed of finding me, and still you have not acted.’

“The Dark Lord would have killed me if I didn’t,” he repeated. The plea in his voice shocked him, but he tried to continue. “I couldn’t do it.” He looked at his hands as they gripped the arms of the chair. His knuckles sat ridged and white, asking to be released.

She put her elbows on the desk and leaned in, making her too close. “And there it is,” she said quietly. “The reason that you’re not in Azkaban, and the reason anyone gives a damn about you—as weak of a damn as it might be.” She leaned in a little closer still. “And of course you didn’t let Voldemort try and kill you. I wouldn’t have either,” she said with a hint of kindness in her voice. He craved more. “Nobody in their right mind would, and it’s debatable that Potter or Dumbledore were ever in their right minds. But please,” she rubbed the sides of her head with her fingers before leaning back in her chair, “answer me this time. What is it that you want?”

He didn’t need any more prompting. He knew the answer exactly. He wanted to leave and he said as much.

“Good!” She spoke slowly, leaving separation between the words. “You. Want. Freedom.” He looked at her, her amber-brown eyes flickered with a certain feeling he couldn’t name. “You haven’t been free a day in your life. Not with Lucius and Narcissa bringing you up.”

“I’m not some pathetic house elf!”

“House elves are enslaved, Draco, don’t be so dramatic. But if you like, we can arrange for you to work in the kitchens. Actually . . .” she pulled out some parchment from a desk drawer and started to write. “You are just,” she said, scribbling the whole time, “a coddled child who has never been allowed to have an unapproved thought.” She finished.

Draco shifted in his seat. A sour twist settled in his chest, the kind he would try to put down with a sneer. It didn’t come—at least not right away. “How do I . . . get it? Freedom.” He found the sneer. His lip twitched from overuse.

“Survive the year and let your reputation be something you can carry with you.”

Draco opened his mouth, but was answered before he could ask.

“You’ve hurt people, yes? People don’t like you?” She looked at him like she was waiting for him to nod his acknowledgement. “Make amends. Bonus points if you mean it. I think that Granger girl would be a good place to start. And then, maybe when you’ve stopped,” she shut her eyes as if reading her eyelids for the right word, “sucking, you’re going to help me save Slytherin. Now, get out.”

Chapter Text

There were problems: shards of broken wands jutted from small piles of rubble that still littered the corridors. Then of course, there was his scar. It hadn't prickled, burned, seared, or tingled in months, but it was still there like a beacon to everyone who had a question. They must've mistaken it for an invitation because he was hounded at least once a day by anyone who called themselves a friend.

So when Dean, whom Harry was happy to call a friend, asked how he’d come back to life, Harry might have explained what he could, or offered a polite refusal—but he only grunted. In all fairness, Dean wasn't being rude. Some may have called three months an appropriate amount of time to wait for answers, but the oft-asked question entered Harry’s ears and scratched at his mind like a cat at a post, or a claw on a chalkboard.

Still, the rhythm of the classes day-to-day became a kind of boring bliss that only revealed itself when life was too exciting—at least for most people.

Muggle Studies was full. Not that the room couldn't be extended or more seats conjured, but Professor Finnegan was already acting like most professors right before a long break. Every question seemed to be a personal assault on her nerves.

“Yes. I'm Seamus’s mother. No, knowing him won't help you. Yes I taught muggle students. And yes, I preferred them. Put a computer in front of them and they don't bother you. But wands . . . Dear Lord.”

Even still, the lessons were entertaining . . . in a mundane sort of way. They played with toys that didn't talk back. Harry and Neville kicked a football around while Hermione scolded someone for throwing a bamboo copter. “No, no, no,” she said. “ You're doing it all wrong. You're going to hurt someone.” She seized it, rubbed it in her hands as if it had come in from the snow, and sent it spinning enthusiastically throughout the room to some astonishment and even a little applause.

“Best class ever!” Ernie exclaimed. “Muggle is in right now.”

The faces Harry saw day to day looked older. Many guys had scruff that looked penciled in and uneven while some girls looked like they were from a magazine, although perhaps a crumpled one. Eye shadow, eyeliner lay caked on faces. But for all the changes, they were still the same eyes that he'd first seen years before at the Sorting. Except for the new girl.

She had blue hair which wasn't entirely unusual. After all, it was a simple spell. But the face didn't register beneath it. Her eyes were small and teal. And a small, pointed nose sat beneath them. She spoke to no one, but was still in the pack that wandered from class to class, sometimes losing one to an unpopular elective only to find their way back in the next class.

Professor McGonagall greeted her students with a pair of gloves each, making everyone hesitate. Something rectangular sat covered by a sheet, which didn’t help. “We’re going to continue with partial transfigurations today.” She wore a bit of a wry smile. All around them, whispers started to fill the air which smelled oddly of musk mixed with something damp and sharp.

‘I hate surprises,’ someone said, ‘and gloves are never good.’ Somewhere, a girl simply said, ‘Uh oh.’

McGonagall seemed content to let the whispers rise before they died down, the anticipation getting the better of the class. “Today, you’ll be transfiguring,” she pulled the sheet away to reveal a cage, “the tail of a rat into a brass chain for a pocket watch.” A lot of the class groaned. Ernie hopped up and danced on his chair, someone else whimpered, and the blue-haired witch simply stood up and excused herself to the toilets. McGonagall’s smile turned from wry to practically menacing. “My favorite part of the year,” she sang, serenely. “Just remember Greystag’s Principle and you’ll be fine.”

The smell fell sharp on Harry’s nose, not enough to gag like some of the others, but enough to hold his breath as long as he could. He held the rat and pointed his wand. The spell was nothing compared to getting it to hold its tail still. He’d miss and hit the desk, making parts of the smooth wood turn slightly gold in color. So he decided to only hold its tail down and let the rat scamper in place.

“Harry,” said Hermione, “It’s not just for Death Eaters. Stun it!”

He tried thinking of a clever retort or a good excuse for why he hadn’t thought of something so practical, but settled for saying, “Oh yeah.” Petrificus Totalus, he thought. The little legs stopped scampering and the little rodent fell over.

‘Where is that Claire girl,’ McGonagall muttered. She shook her head. ‘Transfer students . . .’

Hermione, of course, had already turned the tail brass, but then finished the job. The rat now kept perfect time. Harry managed to transfigure the tail, but it looked more bronze than brass.

That night at dinner, Ginny couldn’t get her mind off of the upcoming quidditch tryouts. On her plate, she had Salisbury steak, potatoes, and greens. On her other plate, she had three grapes, two strawberries, a kiwi, and a green bean. “We need a new chaser,” she said, “but preferably one that can play backup green bean—I mean backup seeker. Harry, if you’ve taught us anything, it’s that you can never have too many backups.”

“I think you taught that to yourself,” he said.

She bobbed her head from side to side like he made sense. “And we have our beaters. They’re not the greatest, but we did win the last Quidditch Cup, so they stay—I think anyway.”

Harry tried to smile. He’d never really been a boyfriend before, but he decided that boyfriends should smile sometimes. In truth though, hearing Ginny talk about quidditch was harder than he’d ever admit to her. He didn’t know what it was about the whole thing. After all, she was just doing her job. It used to be his. The turmoil, the pettiness, the wins, the—

“Harry, what do you think?”

“Peakes and Coote. Yeah,” he muttered.

They were okay, the beaters. But Harry, he was far better than okay. He was Harry Potter, the youngest seeker in a century according to Hermione. He’d never lost a game . . . not while he was conscious anyway. Ginny moving fruit around, he thought with some pride, would not help her win the Cup. He’d bested rogue bludgers hexed by rogue house elves, cursed brooms, and dementors—fake ones, but still. He would have been the only choice for seeker. Then again . . . his stomach dropped through the bench he sat on. She’d caught the last snitch. It had made her irresistible that day, but now, he noted to some frustration, it wasn’t his snitch. What good was being Master of the Elder Wand when she was Master of the Last Snitch? Just after he thought about slapping himself, he felt a sting without ever opening his hand.

“Who do you think would make a good seeker? . . . Harry? . . . You there?” She punched him hard on the arm. “Hogwarts to Harry!”

Walking through the castle the next morning, the memories of the battle smoldered in Harry’s mind like an ember. The hunchback witch was no longer hunchbacked—in fact, she didn’t have a back at all, only a jagged crater descending from neck to rear.

‘She never did anything to anyone,’ a gargoyle whimpered.

Harry kept walking, brushing his fingers along the stone walls, some of them smoother—patched where some sort of curse most certainly failed to strike its target. Through the quiet, his ears hummed. The air should have been filled with portraits greeting him and clinking mugs as they toasted tea to the morning, but many of those were gone now too.

Even as he stepped into Defense Against the Dark Arts, he didn’t feel that same itch, despite the promise of a real teacher. It didn’t seem to matter—nothing did. Even the thought of Voldemort’s tattered scrap of soul shuddering in the darkness forever closed around Harry’s heart like a vice.

“Gather ‘round! No time to waste!” came a squeaky voice. Daedalus Diggle wore an excited smile beneath a mauve top hat, his robes embroidered with golden suns to match. “We’re going to start with dueling.” A grumbling of excitement spread through the class, especially among the seventh years. “Had anyone ever bothered to teach you aside from that blithering idiot Lockhardt, there might be more of you standing here right now.” All the grumbling stopped. “Yes, I keep up.”

"We always bow to our opponent." He bent at the waist and flourished his wand in circles outstretched in front of him. "And you want to flourish. The more flourishing and brandishing the better. It won't help you, but if you're going to go down, you want it to be in style." Harry looked down at his hands. His fists were clenched as if holding a secret. He opened them. Peering over, Ginny’s shoulders were lurching forward as she suppressed a snigger.

Diggle straightened up, but he was no longer talking to the class. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, a fond smile spread across his face.

"You know, I dueled a Frenchman in ’76,” he furrowed his brow, “Or was it ’75? We both tried to outdo each other in flourishing. It lasted for a good bit, until we forgot what we were dueling over. Ahh yes! Not a single curse was cast that day, but we both felt hexed from a long night of revelry drowned in cognac . . . I should write to him."

Harry’s lips slowly curled at the edges, betraying a smile. But he didn’t know if he was smiling at Diggle or Ginny. She’d turned completely around and her shoulders were bouncing up and down.

“Partner up!” Diggle shouted, “Let me see those bows!”

All around him, desks scraped to the sides as the class paired up, among them Ginny with Hermione, Ernie MacMillan with Hannah Abbott. Harry found himself with Neville. Everyone looked at the Slytherins like grindylows, wading and preparing to strike as they huddled in the back. Draco and Blaise eventually bowed to each other, leaving only Pansy Parkinson and Claire, the Ravenclaw with blue hair, according to her tie. She stood straight as a board, hands fidgeting with the jelly choker she wore. Her eyes darted around the room until she and Pansy approached each other slowly.

All around, pairs bowed to each other, their hands twisting before moving their arms upward and inversely with their heads. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, old chum,” Ginny cried in a voice sounding a little like Slughorn. “Indubitably,” Hermione cried back in a voice sounding much like Percy. She smiled as she crossed her legs and bent at the waist. Harry laughed despite himself.

“That’s a curtsy, Ms. P— er, Marigny, not a bow,” Diggle said earnestly. “Very Beauxbatons of you, but I’ll allow it. Although I don’t know why you’d ever leave to come here. Their food is to die for. One pistachio macaron,” he said with a perfect accent, or so Harry assumed, “one very perfect bite!” He kissed his fingers.

“I prefer to be called Claire, if you don’t mind,” she laughed, but her fingers continued to tug at the jelly choker. Harry registered the name Claire Marigny. It didn’t match the blue hair on top of her head.

“Now!” Diggle clapped his hands prompting the bows to stop. “You know the spells. Let’s see how well you cast and defend. No curses. Jinxes and hexes only. And nothing that’s going to get me in trouble with Madame Pomfrey. She’s barely talked to me ever since I named a porlock Poppy in Care of Magical Creatures those many years ago. Well you know how children can be. Unfortunately, your sweet nurse was called Poppy the Porlock for that whole year. The real porlock took it even harder—refused to be around me, you see. I tried renaming her Penelope. Oh how she hated that.” Ginny was in tears while others snickered. Thoughts of the dead faded from Harry’s mind like a shadow thinning at sundown.

“Too much brandishing!” Diggle called out. “It’s why you do it when you bow, because doing it during the duel will get you killed!” The class stopped to look at him. He turned to a practice dummy. With an almost imperceptible flick of his wand, he sent the dummy skittering sideways. “You lot look like you’re clinking swords together in flowy capes, what with all the brandishing.” And then, as if forgetting where he was, his gaze drifted toward the dragon skeleton hanging from the rafters. He fell into his smile again. “I had a cape once,” he squeaked delicately, “It was given to me by a count—a vampire, although you’d hardly notice, what with all the make up and finery. Impeccable taste! Unfortunately, I wore the cape to a duel.”

His smile vanished. One lip curled. “I was just acting as a second. They were supposed to aim wide, then go out for sherry to make up. They didn’t, so then I had to get involved. That beautiful midnight satin cape burned to a crisp. We never did get that sherry.” His eyes returned to the class as if nothing had happened. “Real duels then.” He clapped his hands. “You’re going to be assigned a partner this time.” A collective groan spread among the class at the prospect of being paired with a friend, or worse, a Slytherin. He walked over to an oval cage with many little balls in it, emblazoned with names in blue ink.

Hermione cocked her head to the side. “Is that a bingo cage, Professor?”

“Bingo, Ms. Granger. Muggle is in right now.” He tapped his wand to the side of the cage and the balls began to dance around like popcorn in a kettle.

“Hermione Granger and Pansy Parkinson,” Diggle cried out as the balls escaped the cage.

“It’s Parker, Professor,” she said somewhat brusquely. “Please,” she added.

The class huddled round the bingo cage looking timid as names were drawn. Two by two, pairs were called, causing exclamations of ‘Yes!’ and laments of ‘Aww man!’

“Draco Malfoy and Claire—Well . . . I suppose it’s just Draco Malfoy and Claire.”

“Harry Potter,” everyone looked his way, “and Ginny Weasley.”

The class whooped as Harry’s heart sank to his bellybutton.

Ginny had already found empty space and had begun prodding her wand in short jabs of anticipation, sending sparks in the air that faded as quickly as they appeared. Harry had to will his legs to move and join her. He smiled at her awkwardly, but she was already bowing with frilly flourish. Harry bent at the waist and jerked upward causing a twinge in his back. “Expellliaaarmus!” Ginny shouted slowly as if announcing quidditch. A red jet of light flew toward him, which Harry blocked handily.

Around them, pairs were sending hexes and jinxes at each other followed by laughs and shouts. For a moment, he’d grown worried about Hermione, but chanced a look over at her and saw that Parker had put her hands up in surrender.

It was then that Harry felt a jolt in his hand. Wood slid through his fingertips, leaving his hand in a bit of pain. He looked up in time to see his wand flying toward Ginny, tip and handle flipping end over end. He looked at the splinter lodged just below his middle finger, and then to Ginny who rubbed their wands together like knives in celebration.

Diggle put his palm to his forehead.

“Are you trying to bore me, Harry?” he said. The dueling stopped as everyone turned to watch, but Diggle didn’t stop them. In fact, he shuffled everyone in closer. “You’re not even paying attention! And that’s all you can come up with, Weasley? Expelliarmus?”

Sniggers flooded the air.

“Pretend like he forgot your birthday,” he paused. “Or better yet, pretend like you caught him ogling Claire . . . again!”

Harry flushed amid a chorus of jeers and whistles, but Ginny was still smiling as she floated his wand back to him to land neatly in his hand. His heart pounded, each beat making him more aware of the onlookers’ eyes. Of course he had an audience . . .

Taking the wand in his hand, he felt a new ridge where the wood had splintered against a surface of the handle worn smooth from years of spells. His finger stung.

Then it all happened quickly. Too quickly. Ginny’s mouth opened and her wand moved, but he didn’t know what spell she cast—it didn’t matter. With a prod and a wave of his wand, Ginny was lifted into the air. She hung upside down by her ankle, her wand clattering to the floor. She yelped as she followed suit, and landed with a thud.

“I’m fine,” Ginny said, rising to her feet.

“I’m sorry—”

“I said I’m fine!” Ginny snapped. As if only noticing anyone else was there, she smiled. “I just need to . . . walk it off,” she said, disappearing into the corridor.

Harry looked at the bystanders. Most whispered and laughed, though some watched in sober silence; among them Hermione, Neville, Hannah, Claire, and Malfoy—which struck him oddly.

“Okay, let’s get back to it!” Diggle shouted as students shuffled to their stations, but Harry turned toward the door.

“Harry, don’t,” he heard Hermione plead, but following after Ginny was the only thing he could allow himself to do.

He ran by classrooms, passed the backless witch, following the echo of footsteps in the deserted corridor. Old buckets littered the floor and a very tall ladder was propped against the wall. “Who’s there?” Filch’s cold voice called from above. Without a word, Harry continued following the footsteps. He found her by a deserted classroom, breathing heavily, her eyes wet.

“I’m sorry, Ginny,”

“I told you, I’m okay. I just needed to step outside for a moment,” she said tersely as she continued walking.

“Ginny! Ginny! Hey w–wait for me!” But she wouldn’t stop. Harry picked up the pace. He was in a light trot now.

“Ginny! Wait! I’m sorry!”

“For what?” she snapped, turning on her heel. “Hmm? For beating me in a duel? You were supposed to!” Her eyes widened and her lips curled upward to her nose. The familiar sound of desks scraping on stone meant the period would soon be over. “You were just doing what we were told to do,” her tone had evened, but her voice still quivered. “It’s not your fault. I just w–wasn’t str–good enough.”

Doors opened all around them. They were met with stares. “Don’t follow me!” she shouted. And with those words, Ginny continued through the corridor. Harry stood frozen in front of all to see.

“I told you not to run after her,” Hermione said at lunch, her pitch rising like a song. The Great Hall was crowded as students loaded their plates with breads and meats, famished from their first days back.

“I know,” Harry grumbled, rubbing his finger where a tiny sliver of wood protruded from his broken skin. It stung, but he rubbed it anyway as if it were penance for something. It had felt so strange. The jolt of blocking a jinx, the surge of the wand as it cast toward his opponent . . . it all came flooding back. But would he ever need it again? Or was it simply what the world asked him to know? 'Harry Potter the hero,' he muttered to himself. The words tasted bitter. Harry Potter, the boy who lived in the cupboard under the stairs. At least nobody had ever expected anything from him there.

“Peacocks?” Hermione asked. Her eyes held still on him like they did when she knew something was wrong and demanded an answer.

“Cupboards.”

The clanking of forks on plates and murmur of the hall was disrupted by a soft hooting as a few owls entered through the great windows, their wings beating overhead. One dropped a letter on Hermione’s turkey sandwich. She tore it open and read, her eyes flickering left to right and back again. A wistful smile stole over her face, and she blushed.

“Ahem.” Harry cleared his throat. “All good?” he asked teasingly. He allowed himself that much.

“Oh,” she sighed. “Just the usual. He misses me. He’s sorry he’s not here. He hopes term goes by quickly because he can’t wait to see me at Christmas. He also says hi.”

“Is that all?” he quipped. Hermione just stuffed the letter back in the envelope and hid it out of sight. Still red, and with a pursed-lipped smile, she covered her face with her hand. “Yes! That’s all!”

Harry had picked up his spoon to slurp some soup, when he felt the sting again in his finger. Feeling suddenly full, he put the spoon down to fixate again on the splinter, thinking of Ginny some more; her laughter, the duel, the corridor. If he could only talk to her.

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” Hermione sighed, taking Harry’s hand from him. “Accio splinter!” Faster than when it had lodged itself in his finger, it shot from his hand. Harry lost it in the sunlight pouring in from the arched windows. “What is it with you and pain?”

In Potions, Slughorn went on and on about poisons and antidotes. Harry had even brewed something to some degree of success, but by evening, he couldn’t remember if it would save someone or kill them.

He hadn't seen Ginny since that morning, and even though his stomach grumbled, the possibility of her skipping dinner wasn’t one he could ignore. He made a decision— a timid one, but a decision nonetheless. He would sit in the common room and wait for her there. Yes, he thought. She would have to come out of her dormitory sooner or later. Then he could apologize for the duel—or for apologizing, maybe . . . He’d remember which one later.

As he sat by the fire, he looked at his finger where the splinter had been to see a scrap of broken skin, just another one to add to the list. Hermione at Malfoy Manor—no, he didn’t want to think about that. Ron trying to stand on his broken leg in the Shrieking Shack. For a moment, he smiled at the memory, but it flattened quickly. Had Pettigrew not escaped . . . well there wasn’t much use in thinking about that either.

He didn’t know how long he sat, but a dull and hollow ache settled in his stomach, demanding satisfaction. He tried to ignore it, but it grumbled its protest. Ginny would have to wait—which to his irritation, she wouldn’t regard as any great hardship.

Despite the many people and hot food, the buzz of the Great Hall made Harry feel calmer—cooler even, like the breeze on a broom. Instinctively, he walked to the Gryffindor table, but his friends weren't there, Ginny not least among them.

Out of nowhere, he felt a cold as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on him, but before he could even wonder why, Nearly Headless Nick drifted from Harry's face, looking an even more ghastly shade of pale than usual. “It seems we have traitors in our midst, Harry,” he said, gesturing toward the fifth table. It had been quite some time since he’d heard the hollow metallic ring of Nick’s voice. “If you must go, at least do me the courtesy of waiting until I'm out of sight. It’s not that I really mind. I just have to keep up appearances—the Ghost of Gryffindor Tower and all that.” He sighed, took one last look at the sparse house table, then vanished into the floor.

Harry’s heart rose into his throat. From the fifth table, Ginny not only waved, but smiled at him. “I may have overreacted,” she said to him as he sat down next to her. She opened his hand that he didn’t realize he’d been balling and held it tightly.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, causing Ginny to raise an eyebrow. “I mean I’m sorry for saying sorry. For running after you and apologizing.”

“And I shouldn’t have gotten so mad. Let’s just say my head got turned upside down.” Her light brown eyes caught the light and for a moment, the faint scent of flowers sat among the smells of supper.

The pressure that mounted from his very first fight with her released like a punctured football. And then as if they’d suddenly apparated, people emerged, mid-meal, at the table. Hermione smirked at a smug look at Harry, while Hannah was practically yelling, “It’s Hufflepuff’s year to win the Quidditch Cup! We have the most talent returning!” Padma and Dean rolled their eyes at her. To the far side of Hannah, Neville was talking about plants to everyone who’d listen and his sole audience was Claire.

“So I figure, stink sap might make a really good wand glue. It’s strong enough to hold the wood together and contain the core without affecting it,” Neville told her. Harry’s ears perked up to hear.

Claire sat upright with her hands folded in front of her. “I’m not an expert, Neville, but I would imagine that it would be none too popular considering its stench.” Harry expected her to sound like Fleur—like she had something caught in her throat—but for being a Beauxbatons transfer, she sounded decidedly British. “You might at least try mixing it with mint—or lavender,” she added. She wiped blue hair behind her ear to reveal teal eyes.

“That’s a great idea. I just don't know if lavender will be enough,” said Neville. Padma rolled her eyes.

“Broom polish!” Harry blurted out. Everyone looked at him at once. “Sorry, I mean broom polish might be strong enough to hide stink sap smell.” Harry found himself rubbing his scar. “You’re Claire.”

Claire tugged on her jelly choker. “You’re Harry,” she responded. They looked at each other. Ginny slid a little closer to him.

“That might actually do!” said Neville, excitedly. “But, it depends on the brand. Some of them use billywig wax which could . . .” But Harry stopped paying attention.

Padma furrowed her brow at Claire for a heartbeat before saying, “I remember you. You’re the one who tried to name the Ravenclaw eagle at the porthole. What was it? Evangeline?” Ginny snickered at the name which made Harry squeeze her hand a fraction harder. Hermione didn’t appreciate it either, because she raised herself up and said:

“Much nicer than the Fat Lady.”

“I just thought she should have a name, that’s all,” Claire said.

“Well I’m sure Eva is glad you’re back,” Padma teased. “Where did you go anyway?”

“Beauxbatons.”

Hannah scowled. “It must’ve been nice—eating macarons and croissants while we were all here fighting,” she said, coolly. It went quiet. All eyes flickered from Hannah to Claire and then back again.

Hermione frowned. “That’s not fair, Hannah.”

“It’s not like I chose to go,” Claire said quietly. “Sirius Black had just escaped. Before we knew it wasn’t him. My father insisted. And besides,” she smiled, “the croissants were often overbaked.” No one spoke, her smile flattened, but Harry found himself holding back a laugh. “I’m sorry,” she continued, “I guess I didn’t realize how much I missed. It must have been awful. The fighting, the uncertainty. Poor Harry here must’ve been running around like Dumbledore’s bowtruckle.”

“Excuse me?” Ginny cried. Harry closed his free hand around his cup, his knuckles whitened against the hard, cold metal. For the first time, Claire’s posture wavered as her head lowered into her shoulders.

“I’m sorry.” There was a slight plea in Claire’s voice. “I only meant that . . . Well, in France, some of the newspapers blamed you for disappearing last year when you . . . well, nobody knew where you were. They called you Dumbledore’s Diricawl. But I didn’t think you just quit on us,” she added hastily. “And bowtruckles, they’re loyal, and fight above their weight.” She looked around at everyone before turning directly to Harry as if looking for an appeal. “I didn’t mean it to be rude.” Not quietly enough, she muttered, “And now we have cold food.” Nobody responded. At least not verbally. Hannah shook her head, and Claire took that as a cue. She stood up to smooth her robes and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sat here,” and walked away.

Nobody stopped her.

Chapter Text

A slight chill crept into the air and to venture outdoors meant the crunch of pine needles underfoot. The change in the weather made it easier to forget the duel—almost. That duel belonged to the end of summer, Ginny told herself. It didn’t stop her, though, from practicing in private, already counting how swiftly she could hit a dummy with Levicorpus, but she’d never let Harry know about it in case she ever got the opportunity to return the favor. ‘Oh Harry, I’m so sorry!’ she dreamt of saying, not meaning a single word of it.

Still, it was nice to have him around, back in a place where she was only one of the people charged with keeping him occupied. He’d even grown quite good at pretending he didn’t even want to play quidditch this year and divided his time up among Ginny, Hermione, and his dormmates. It would do.

Quidditch was the talk of the castle with tryouts set for the following week. Every aspiring quidditcher strutted the corridors like they were the next best thing to Krum, or as Ginny refused to admit, to Harry. Most of them carried brooms from class to class, but one aspiring Ravenclaw chaser took to shrinking a quaffle and pelting it at anyone she knew to be an aspiring keeper. All was well right up until a boastful beater brandished a bat and knocked over a cauldron full of Befuddlement Draught in potions. Slughorn made quite a spectacle of the whole thing, seizing the bat and setting it aflame. After that, nobody showed off quite so brazenly, but the spirit was still there.

“So, who’s gonna be your new chaser this year?” The way Dean leaned forward meant a good laugh, or at least a good eye roll. “Because if you’re looking for someone, I know just the person.”

“Oh yeah, who’s that?”

“Me.” But before she could even fathom the words, Dean said, “Hear me out.” He put two hands in front of him like he was pushing open the doors to a world where she would agree to whatever he conjured from his— “I can cut some hair from a fourth year and brew it into polyjuice. They get all the credit, but I get to play.”

Across from him, Susan Bones let out a giggle that sounded as if a house-elf swallowed a goat, at least to Ginny anyway. “I’d come to see you play,” Susan said, “even if you were two heads shorter.” Then giggled again.

Susan, she thought amused, was exactly the kind of girl who’d enjoy being helped through a portrait hole or whatever it was they used in Hufflepuff.

“I honestly don’t know who’s going to be on the team,” Ginny said, popping a grape into her mouth. “We’ll have to see who remembers how to fly.” Dean raised his hand prompting Susan to giggle again, right on cue.

“Yeah, well as long as nobody tries to kill the seeker this year,” Harry added, stabbing his eggs.

The familiar screech of owls sounded outside the arched windows before they carried in their parcels, presents, and letters. All this was accompanied by the familiar sight of hands covering their mugs and waffles. Only first-years still had to learn that sometimes the owls came bearing presents of their own. Nothing dropped for Ginny that was strange enough or revolting enough to make her stop eating. Only a letter. It was a white envelope that looked a little worn like it'd been reused and sealed again, so by the time it landed on Ginny's banana bread, she didn't have to ask.

Dear Ginny,

Your father has some excellent news! The Ministry is restructuring and Kingsley has picked your father to head the new Department of Muggle Relations! It’ll be in tomorrow’s Daily Prophet. We’re going to have a Christmas like we’ve never seen.

It was exciting. A well-done moment. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought of her dad ordering people about, her Mum pulling the strings from the Burrow. But a Christmas . . . ‘

A Christmas like we’ve never seen.

It sounded exhausting. Honestly. What was wrong with an ordinary dinner and then sitting by the fire? The kind that blends in with a dozen others. If it was a trip, she’d count herself firmly out, and sit by the fire herself, knitting her own jumper. Perhaps she’d show it to the garden gnome atop the tree. And no fancy stuff. Except maybe a broom. An unused old model and that’d be the end of it.

But Genevra dear, we were worried when we got Alena’s letter about what happened on the train. You did promise me you’d be careful this year. We’re all trying as hard as we can, but please don’t make me worry.

Love,

Mum

P.S. Your father borrowed one of your ballpoint pens. He’s trying to figure out where the ink comes from.

Detention . . . she’d forgotten all about it. Tonight after dinner. Probably cleaning the board by hand or some other stupid task to keep her busy and make her sorry. But Alena . . . why would Mum call her that?

Now that Ginny had seen what she’d seen, the idea of thestrals wasn’t so unsettling, but the beasts themselves, well . . . well she thought they looked better invisible.

“People don’ like’em ‘cuz of the whole death thing,” Hagrid said that day in Care of Magical Creatures. “Think they’re bad omens, see. But the thing ya need to know ‘bout thestrals is that they’re wicked smart. Great sense of direction.”

Ginny already knew this, of course. Flying to the Ministry that night was strange to put it lightly, but seeing them up close in the light of day made her rather glad she’d already eaten.

The task was to feed them which wasn’t so much difficult as it was taxing. The whole herd emerged from the forest when Hagrid took the lid off a worn, wooden barrel letting a metallic, musky smell fill the air. She approached it slowly at first, glimpsing a hint of grey just beneath the rim before the furry texture came into focus. It wasn’t long before she realized that the barrel was full of dead squirrels, mice, rats, and any other number of woodland corpses.

There were only six other students, each of them gagging or holding their noses. For the time it takes to gag, Susan Bones gave Ginny a look that said ‘is it too late to take arithmancy?’ Ginny felt something in her throat, but suppressed it. Claire, the bowtruckle-loving, blue-haired girl, took a step back and glanced behind her as if seeking an escape, but stayed put.

“Look who’s come to greet ‘ya,” Hagrid boomed. Most of the thestrals were now just a pebble’s throw away, their hollow white eyes looking milky in the sunlight. Taking a deep, begrudging breath, Ginny grabbed something. Squirrel, rat, or vole, she didn’t look, but she threw it at the closest thestral who pounced on it ravenously. It gnawed like a dog with a bone, shaking its head left and right until scraps of fur and flesh flew from its scaly mouth with razor-sharp teeth.

“That’s the spirit, Ginny!” Hagrid said, “I expected ya’ to use your wand, but I should’ve known you had it in ya to not shy away.”

Ginny bristled. She was a witch after all. A witch with a wand. Susan practically floated at the suggestion until she raised her wand, and sent a rat flying toward the herd, not bothering to see what happened to it. Others did the same. One by one, students stepped up and flung prey (squirrel or otherwise) to the ravenous pack.

Then came Claire. She pointed her wand and turned her head away, hiding behind the crook of her elbow. The next thing anyone knew, the whole barrel flew toward the ravenous lot. They pounced on it like cats. Ginny didn’t look, but the sound was nothing short of vicious.

“O’course that’s the quickest way to do it, Claire,” Hagrid said.

Beneath her blue hair was now a pink face. “I’m really sorry!” she pleaded, sounding like she’d just hit someone with an errant hex. But Hagrid just waved his hand as if to say it was all right, and dumped the rest of the barrel.

“You just made their day. They’ll sleep well t’nite,” said Hagrid, and pulled on a pair of dragonhide gloves to scoop the leftover carrion back into the barrel.

“Well that was fun,” Susan said flatly, her eyes rolling far back in her head.

Ginny sat down on a rock and shot some water over her hands to wash away the phantom grit on her fingers where she’d touched whatever it was. “Yeah, we survived a whole war just to throw rats at scaly horses.”

Susan sat down next to her. “I don’t mind Hagrid,” she said slowly as if covering herself in case the wrong person was listening in, “but I’m really here for the unicorns and nifflers. They’re so cute, even if we do have to put up with other stuff.”

To be fair, it wasn’t rude exactly, but it was perfectly unnecessary. The slow way she said it, making sure Ginny heard. It was like saying with all due respect before insulting someone’s mother. It was just so . . . it rubbed her perfectly the wrong way. But she was older now. She didn’t have to do anything about it or let it turn her day.

She felt for her wand, but picked up a pebble instead and chucked it, nodding her approval of the distance. “Well I’m here for Hagrid,” she said, bringing herself up to sit straight and tall. “And anyone who thinks he’s an oaf doesn’t know what they’re talking about—even if I do have to sling rats sometimes.”

It was then that she heard the crunch of pine needles nearby. When she looked up, Claire was hovering halfway between them and the other group that was now having a contest to see who could fling a pebble the farthest with their wands. She wore a half smile, but her slightly narrowed eyes gave darting glances from Ginny and Susan to the other group that had already changed the game to propelling stones high in the air and seeing how long it took them to land.

“Well aren’t you going to sit?” asked Ginny, trying to sound nice. The crunch of pine needles stopped. “Unless you want to hover there until Hagrid tells us we can leave.”

There were no more stones, but Claire sat herself down in the grass. “Thanks,” she said, “I didn’t know you wanted me here.”

Susan mouthed a wow, until Ginny gave a small shake of her head. A warning.

“Well why not? We’ve had a long morning of squirrel and barrel tossing,” Ginny quipped. She wasn’t always the friendliest person, but she knew the difference between friendliness and kindness, and she could give the latter to those who she didn’t want to be friendly to.

“Well I just—” Claire bit her lip, clearly thinking hard about what to say. “Just after the barrel and the . . . you remember what I said the other night about Harry.”

Of course she remembered. Dumbledore’s Bowtruckle isn’t something easily forgotten, but in the course of providing the required, girlfriendly outrage, she’d forgotten to laugh at the whole thing. Claire wasn’t wrong. But just as she was imagining a little bowtruckle with a lightning bolt etched in its forehead, Susan gasped.

“So you’re the one! You’re the one Hannah was talking about. It’s Claire, right?”

She nodded, her face having gone pink. Under the blue hair that fell over her face like fringe, she looked a bit like a pinata.

“Come off it, Sue,” Ginny said, unwilling to let anything escalate. She already had detention later and she didn’t want to do anything that might make her think she actually deserved it. “She’s alright.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Susan protested, “I thought it was kind of funny. Harry’s not the kind to take that kind of thing too seriously. Isn't that right, Ginny?”

If she only knew. Even a thank you or a well-done on the wrong day could be enough to sour Harry’s mood.

“He can be a little touchy these days,” said Ginny. Underneath her grimace, Claire was yanking at her jelly choker.

“I like your hair,” said Susan, “is it just a charm or do you dye it. I mean muggle is in right now.”

“It's just a spell.” Claire gave a hesitant smile, but the color in her face had started to normalize.

“Pansy, or I guess it's Parker now, she dyed her hair blonde, but she used a growing charm. Like that'll ever work,” Susan jeered.

Ginny was a bit taken aback. In six years of knowing her, Susan hadn't so much as looked at anyone the wrong way, much less made fun of anyone.

“Work? What needs to work? . . . I feel like a jerk,” Claire muttered that last part under her breath, but not quietly enough.

Susan cocked her head like she must have been thinking everything Ginny was, but carried on. “I keep forgetting you're new. Parker tried to give Harry up to You-Know-Who last year during the battle in front of the whole school. Now she's trying to live it down.”

“Ouch. And how awful.”

Hagrid came back from whatever he was doing in the forest. “That’s it fer today. And don’t forget you have an essa—on second thought, maybe ya just tell me next time whatcha learned abou’ thestrals.”

Claire’s eyes darted from Ginny to Hagrid. “I’m going to talk with Hagrid about something. But I’ll see you next time.”

Ginny and Susan strode back up to the castle, taking their time in the air that lay crisp and fresh over the grounds. Owls and sparrows hooted and squawked at each other in some sort of inter-avian debate which had to be more interesting than what Susan was going on about. The bar was low.

“I like Claire,” Susan said. “She’s cool.”

“I think you’re mistaking cool for kooky.”

“She’s funny.”

“There are lots of ways to be funny.”

As they strode toward the castle, a knot of boys grumbled on the moor. Nothing strange in that, but as they pressed nearer, the tone of their voices soured until there was no mistaking what was being said.

‘This school is going to the dogs.’

‘Is that what we’re calling mudbloods now?’ another said.

It was brilliant. Exactly what Ginny needed. Between rats, thestrals, and witnessing the saddest crushes . . . Ginny drew her wand, but Susan drew first.

“That’s enough,” Susan shouted, though her voice quivered. Her wand was outstretched but she held it lightly, with an unsteady hand. The kind you don’t need a spell to snatch away.

The three boys sitting in the grass couldn’t have been any older than fifteen—plenty old enough to know better. It wasn’t quite cold enough for scarves, but their ties were green and silver. Of course they were.

“Are you going to curse us without our wands drawn?” said one of them.

Another one slowly got to his feet and said, “Go on then.” Judging by the voice, it was the one who said ‘mudblood.’

“You first.” It was Ginny who spoke this time, not willing to let Susan take the lead again. After all, schoolyard duels usually didn’t end in loss of life, and limbs could be regrown, sometimes. But reputations stayed with you, and Ginny couldn’t chance hers on Susan’s half measures.

All three boys stood, hands slowly sliding for their wands. Ginny bent at the waist, flourishing her hand out in front of her and brandishing her wand. Diggle had been wrong. Flourish wasn’t about going down in style. It was the difference between walking into the arena and walking in while spitting on their banner. The boys scowled.

“Three on two?” one of them said, sneering so hard his lip quivered.

“I fought your old friend Bellatrix Lestrange and lived to tell about it. She didn’t. So I’ll take my chances on you lot,” Ginny barked. It wasn’t a lie strictly speaking, just the wrong time to be specific. They all were. It didn’t matter. She looked for some flicker of recognition or fear in the boy’s faces, but there was nothing there.

“Ginny,” Susan said, timidly, “I just want them to apologize. We don’t need to do this.”

With those words, Ginny felt a pang of guilt and disliked herself, just a touch, for not even considering what the ending of the ordeal should look like. She relaxed her brow which had gone sore from holding it in a scowl. It was like the world came back into focus, which wasn’t good. They’d attracted a crew of onlookers who whispered; not close enough to help, but they didn’t have to be to take bets.

“We’re not going to apologize for standing up to mudbloods and blood traitors taking over this school,” one of them barked. To her relief, Susan clutched her wand tighter. If they were going to go down, it should be because they were outnumbered, not because someone forgot the first rule of dueling.

But just as Ginny was predicting what the boys would try and hit her with, something rustled in the grass. From behind a large stone, a short furry figure emerged. Mrs. Norris slinked a little closer before turning her head, the rest of her following, and disappeared behind the stone again.

“We should go,” said Susan, but the whites of her knuckles still showed as she gripped the wand.

“On three?” Ginny asked, talking to everyone. The boys nodded their heads.

“One,” the boys still scowled. “Two,” everyone’s wand arms were still outstretched, bracing for the worst. “Three.”

Nobody moved. But nobody cast either. Someone had to make a decision. Ginny raised her wand high in the air hoping for the best. Diggle was wrong again. If she went down now, it would be in style; the only one honorable enough to honor the uneasy pact.

Slowly and unsurely, the rest of them did the same, but to her surprise it was Susan who followed last.

“C’mon!” Ginny grabbed Susan's arm and dragged her toward the castle.

“Name the time and place and we’ll be there,” one of them called out.

She kept walking—until she heard someone shout ‘coward.’ Without breaking stride, she shouted, “Wanker!”

Neither girl talked until they were safely back in the castle. And despite everything, the image of Mrs. Norris stuck in Ginny’s mind. She was thin and patchy. Even the way she slinked about looked slow and labored, like going to tell Filch was no longer an easy undertaking. Maybe they had time for the duel after all. But Ginny was above such things, she told herself.

“I can’t believe—” Susan started, but the words caught in her throat.

“Fights happen and you didn’t back down,” Ginny tried to reassure her.

“I don’t care about that,” she threw her hand up like the whole near miss was nothing. “I can’t believe people are still saying that. After everything.” She didn’t sound flapped or perturbed, but she was very quiet, like she was talking to herself. Ginny was just furniture.

“They’re just sour ‘cause they lo—”

“I’m a half-blood,” Susan said, not caring for explanations. “But that shouldn’t matter. It’s Hermione. It’s—” she let out a squeal that sounded a little like ‘Dean.’

She didn’t mean to but the moment she sat down in one of the big plush armchairs by the warm Gryffindor fire, Ginny felt herself slipping sideways. Her eyelids turned into heavy, burdensome things, and the next thing she knew, she awoke with a start. Where just a minute ago, there’d been fellow Gryffindors singing raunchy songs and playing wizard’s chess, she was now looking at a common room that was perfectly empty.

The Great Hall hummed, or rather shrieked with forks on plates and gossip. It was louder than usual. At the Gryffindor table, Hermione hid behind her hair like a curtain.

“What’s wrong? Why aren’t we at the fifth table?” Ginny asked.

“It’s Harry. Neville’s on it,” Hermione responded. “Dean, can you explain?”

Dean, with his eyes wide, blew a raspberry. “Well now I feel bad for asking all those questions. I didn’t realize how much he’s been bothered.”

“Dean,” Ginny said, warningly.

“Okay.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a blue, five-sided card. She snatched it from his hand. On one side it read Honeydukes Chocolate Frogs. Her heart sank through the bench. She didn’t need to turn it over to know what this was all about, but she did it anyway. Harry smiled at her, his scar more visible than it had ever looked in person. Across his shoulders, it read, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived and Defeated Voldemort. She pocketed it.

“The tossers!”

“Ginny,” Hermione said disapprovingly, but it didn’t have that same level of righteous rebuke.

“I’m going over there to give them a piece of my mind! I’ll hex them into next Tuesday!”

Hermione huffed. “Don’t bother. McGonagall’s furious. She’s already written to them.”

“I don’t care! I’m going to—”

“There’s nothing you can do!” Hermione said louder this time. “If the Prophet or Skeeter can smear him, Honeydukes can have their card. Especially now that he’s an adult.”

Dinner was quiet. Nobody ate much. Ginny flicked some peas through rings of raw onions, but even quidditch wasn’t enough to lighten the mood. Dean tried by showing them a sketch he’d done of Diggle bowing with much flourish. Hermione was polite but Ginny snapped and said, “Oh go show it to Susan!”

He blew another raspberry.

“Sorry Dean, that was—”

“It’s okay. I get it.”

Professor Herrera wore a flower dress with thick socks and trainers when Ginny opened the door to the transfiguration classroom. The air smelled nice with hints of cloves and cinnamon. When she looked around, she saw sticks of incense on a desk, lighting themselves when one burned out.

“Hi Ginny,” she said pleasantly. “This will be easy for you.” She beckoned to follow her over to a table where pincushions were stacked high in a heap. “They’re hedgehogs. I just need you to change them back. It’s easier if they’re already in their cage.” She threw a pincushion into the barred, steel box and muttered reparifarge. In a red whirl, it grew a few sizes and turned from red to brown until the hedgehog stuck its tongue out at Herrera.

“Got it,” Ginny said.

It was easy work. Some of the hedgehogs looked a little surprised, but settled down to a nice nap, while others turned their backs indignantly. Professor Herrera kept grading, perusing rolls of parchment and a few sheets of paper. She never spent very long reading them and marked them rather quickly, often rolling her eyes.

Reparifarge Ginny thought, but this time the hedgehog still had pins in its back and not quills. The hedgehog looked annoyed. “Reparifarge,” Ginny whispered, and in the blink of an eye, the quills were replaced. The tiny creature nodded its head and settled down for a nap.

Herrera gave a long sigh and threw a scroll on top of what Ginny assumed was the graded pile. “Nobody ever tells you how tedious grading can be. The same thing over and over. And wizards make the worst writers.”

Ginny froze for a second before turning another pincushion. “I really should be more professional.”

“It’s okay,” said Ginny. “We don’t like writing them.”

“I never did either.”

It wasn’t exactly polite, but she hoped it wouldn’t come across as rude either. “Were you friends with my mother when you were here at Hogwarts?” Ginny asked.

Herrera tilted her head. “How old do you think I am?” She scoffed. “It must be the grey streaks.”

“I’m sorry professor, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that she called you Alena in a letter about my detention.” She made sure to be seen continuing her task. ‘Reparifarge,’ she said aloud this time.

“Of course she would. I was friends with Charlie.”

‘Reparifarge.’

There was the clack of wood on metal followed by screaming from a kettle. “Ginny, why don’t you come sit and have some tea?”

“I’m not done yet. Reparifarge.”

“Oh, by Ptolemy’s trousers.” Herrera pointed her wand to make the desk and cage come skittering across the floor. In the time it took for Ginny to be impressed, the cage was filled with hedgehogs and there were more pincushions.

Ginny felt slightly insulted. No, insulted wasn’t the right word. Behind. It’d been six years and she’d barely gotten the basics down. Clearly, she caught Ginny’s discomfort because in a slightly consoling voice said, “It comes with time and sometimes frustration. You’ll get there. Now have some tea.”

The new professor was clearly getting settled in because aside from the stack of parchment, there was only a clock that ticked steadily, not one of those strange clocks that kept some sort of time from some sort of strange magic Ginny didn’t understand. But on the floor around the desk were crates of picture frames, trinkets, and anything else that encouraged Ginny into thinking that Herrera had a life.

It wasn’t cold, but Herrera warmed her fingers on the mug before she pressed it to her lips. “So how are you, Ginny?”

“I’m fine,” she lied.

Herrera leaned back, studying her. “If you say so.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” It’s not like she hadn’t been called out for lying before, but that was by her Mum and brothers. And by Professors that actually taught her like McGonagall and Snape. But Herrera barely knew her.

“Minerva and I saw Harry storm out of the Great Hall. And then we saw the card. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”

Her throat tightened before she even knew she was speaking. “It took me two weeks just to get him out of bed this summer. And I still remind him to eat sometimes.” She found the words pouring out like water from a broken faucet. It felt like a small betrayal to every caution she’d ever made herself take, which to be fair, wasn’t terribly extensive. A stranger, some guilt. She’d dealt with worse. “Where were Ron and Hermione? It’s like the war ended and that was it. It’s not like I don’t have a dead brother too. And now it’s starting all over again!”

“I’m sorry, Ginny. That sounds terrible.”

“It’s not that bad, I just lost myself for a second. It’s fine.”

“You Weasleys . . . Charlie always thought he had everything under control too. He did a lot of the time, but he never wanted to show himself panicking even when it was understandable.”

“But you’re Slytherin. How did you two—”

“We’re not all evil, you know. And it was better back then. Voldemort had been gone for some time and we all tried to make the best of it.” She took a sip of tea. “But Charlie, he got me out of some trouble that I might tell you about at some point. After that we got into some good mischief, but we lost touch when I finished school. Ok, fine. I have a few years on him. He was scrappy for a little second year. Not unlike Harry, from what McGonagall says.”

“He used to be scrappy.”

“That’s a tough situation. I’ve never dated a celebrity. An entitled Slytherin girl. A muggle-born Ravenclaw guy—that came with its own problems. But never the world’s most famous wizard.”

“Well if you’re so friendly with muggle-borns, then why did I nearly duel some Slytherins shouting about mudbloods today?” She’d given up on being tactful, or maybe it gave up on her. “Get your house in order, Professor!”

Herrera leaned back in her chair, her eyes wide. But to Ginny’s relief, she was smiling. “You really don’t disappoint. And you’re right. Do you remember on the train when I told you I had my work cut out for me. This is the reason I’m here. I’m trying to save Slytherin from itself. I don’t want to see it dissolved.”

“Does Professor McGonagall know that?” Ginny only just remembered about her tea and took a sip. It tasted different, more like something you’d drink at Christmas with cloves and cinnamon.

“It’s the first thing I told her when I interviewed. It’s going to be a long year.”

Chapter Text

Tirades weren’t unusual; Filch had at least one a week. Although, when he yanked out a hunk of hair at dinner one evening because Peeves hid his keys at the top of the tallest spire, a poll was taken if it was a tirade or a breakdown.

But when Hannah Abbott went on a tirade about Slytherin, it caught traction. ‘They don’t do anything,’ she’d said, stabbing a finger toward the Slytherin table. ‘They sit and eat, taking up space.’ She wasn’t wrong; you’d never catch a Slytherin dead in Frog Choir or Chess Club, but it wasn’t their fault they’d prefer not to perform cheerfulness as a civic duty.

Draco sat by the fire in the empty Green Room, warming his hands. A faint film of stinksap lingered, and he figured a touch of heat might sort it out. He interlocked his fingers and pulled back, cracking them, irritated by the tackiness. The sound got lost in the fire. The heat didn’t help, but the pops of the fire and the way the warmth brushed his cheek made his eyelids heavy until they closed.

It could have been a minute or an hour, but he awoke to the sight of Daphne Greengrass standing on a pile of books. He counted nine others and five eyebrows raised, each brow telling him they’d rather be anywhere else—besides maybe Frog Choir. Still, they stayed. Being seen was better than being forgotten.

“So . . . erm,” she started, the books wobbling a little under her. She’d hardly ever been at a loss for words, just for sense, so when she stumbled, Draco took interest. “We all know why we’re here.”

“Why are we here?” Graham Pritchard asked, his eyebrow still raised. “I thought this had something to do with quidditch.”

“You think everything has to do with quidditch!” Blaise said. “She’s an eighth-year, so she’s barred. Read the flyer next time, you moron.” Everyone knew muggle was in, but everyone didn’t know muggle. Blaise wore a pink shirt with a collar that wouldn’t sit and shorts that threatened to reveal more than anyone was willing to remark on.

“Thank you, Blaise. I’ve never so much as tried out.” Daphne smiled, determined to make everyone believe she had a handle on her less-than-willing audience. “We’re here to discuss the recent allegations that we, as a house, are too insular and—”

“Insular?” Nott asked, frowning at the word.

“It means we keep to ourselves. Kind of like the way you treat food,” said Pritchard, laughter only half-contained.

“That’s not nice!” Daphne snapped, before pretending to be the nice girl she always attempted to be. “I mean, I’ll use words everyone can understand from now on.”

For a moment, Draco started to stand, but the fire was still warm on his cheek, and there were plenty of less amusing ways to end a long, Stinksap-filled day.

“The reason we’re actually here,” Daphne went on, “is that they’re right. We do keep to ourselves. When’s the last time you did anything to help someone around here?”

Someone coughed and Blaise uncrossed his legs, making some heads turn away, but everyone else stared blankly.

“Try phrasing it in true or false next time,” Draco called out, unable to help himself.

“I help,” Millicent Bulstrode protested, her arms flexing slightly. “I reshelf books all the time.”

“Outside of detention, you half-wit,” Draco shouted, enjoying himself a little too much. He rubbed his hands together to force off the rest of the Stinksap, now dry and gritty.

“Draco, please. But . . . yes.” Daphne swiped a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I mean things that we’re not required to do, but do anyway for the good of the school.”

Draco found himself sinking deeper into the chair.

“Like flushing the toilets?” said Davis, like he surprised himself with a good idea.

“But then what would the house elves do?” came another voice to much agreement.

“Well that’s something.” The fire flared, throwing a brief glint in Daphne’s brown eyes. “What if we gave them a day off and did their work for them?” But no sooner did she say it did she shrink to a chorus of barking laughs. “But that’s what it’s going to take,” she protested ardently. “Or we could help Filch. The point is, we need to step up, and just maybe they won’t dissolve the houses.”

Of course, it had been brought up in waves of dread—the end of houses. The trepidation was real, the outrage was vocal, but asked what anyone would do about it, they all shrugged. At least Daphne was trying. Draco wasn’t sure how serious she was, but had learned to treat hopefulness like a contagion.

“I can’t wait!” screeched Parker.

“Yeah I bet that’s true. The sooner they dissolve the houses the sooner people forget about you. You were the only one dumb enough to say it aloud. Isn’t that right, Pansy?”

“It’s Parker,” she hissed.

“I’ve been telling you to apologize to Harry for weeks!” Daphne said tersely, all five feet of her stepping down from the platform of books. It shifted slightly under her weight and she steadied herself before facing the room again.

On the mention of Harry’s name, Olive Montgomery looked up from a book. “What are we talking about?”

The skies threatened to pour down at any moment, making everything darker than anyone cared to accept. Lots of students cast sunlight charms on the windows, but Draco kept his perfectly dreary from the backmost window in Muggle Studies. From his usual spot where a television sat on the display, he looked into its screen. Of course, there’d be nothing on at Hogwarts where the magic was too thick for such contraptions to function, so he stared into the black screen instead. Blonde scruff reflected in the candlelight which shone stronger in the dark glass. He felt it on his face, somewhat surprised by the hair that sat on his chin. Of course, he knew it was there, but hadn’t bothered to check the mirror as of late. A particularly satisfying strand, blonde and sharp, dug into his thumb as he brushed his new stubble.

His seatmate, Claire, he'd come to learn was her name, stared intently at a question on the slate board in the front: What are we to muggles?

The font was big and round like bubbles, making it hard to stare away from the question. The words themselves were a breach, but Claire wrote it down in her notebook with a ballpoint pen.

“I wouldn’t bother,” said Draco, his elbow leaning on the desk. “Muggles don’t know about us, so the answer is clearly a waste of time.” But she just gave him a sideways glance and continued scribbling.

Draco stared lazily out of the window, quite bored of looking at his scruff, only to find the grounds as quiet and lazy as they ever were. Even the Whomping Willow looked as if it was napping, although sometimes it would take a swipe at a bird, but it was slow like it was merely trying to shoe it away.

Professor Finnegan entered looking bright in a yellow blouse and jeans, but there was something rotten on her face like she'd caught a whiff of a dungbomb. “Sorry I’m late. Peeves . . .” she grumbled and flopped down in her chair. “Umm, yeah. Here’s the question we’re going to be studying for the next few weeks, so pair up and talk about what you think it means while I—just go ahead and talk.” She closed her eyes, like she was sleeping but opened an eye every now and then like diligence was negotiable.

“I know you don’t care, Draco,” Claire started, pivoting in her seat to face him, “But I rather think we mean a lot to muggles even though they’re not supposed to know about us, like you said. Even Merlin advised a muggle king and some sti—”

Draco yawned loudly.

“As I was saying, some people still talk about him like they know he was a real person.”

“He put an unbreakable charm on a sword. Big deal.”

Judging by the hair and choker she wore, he took her as the kind of person to roll her eyes at him, but she merely stared, blinking slowly. “You don’t have to—” but she was cut off.

“Alright, what do we think?” Professor Finnegan was standing now, eyes open a little too wide, compensating for whatever sort of fatigue afflicted her, which was fair. He’d be tired too if it was his job to talk about muggles all day.

Granger’s hand was first in the air, perched high like a gargoyle; Finnegan nodded at her. “Harry and I discussed Ptolemy. Muggles think he was a brilliant scientist. But we all know he was really a wizard.”

“Yes, fair point.” Finnegan nodded toward another student Draco didn’t know.

“I’ve heard there are loads of wizards working for muggle governments. Rumor has it that the Minister worked for the muggle Minister, but really he was there as an auror in case Death Eaters tried to kill him.”

“Rubbish,” someone called out. “Shacklebolt working for a muggle? Did it hurt when you fell off your broom and hit your head?”

“No, but if it’s pain you’re looking for I’ll—”

“Enough!” shouted Finnegan. “It’s too early. Life is too short.” She took a swig of whatever was in her cup.

Draco could have raised his hand and said something clever, he could have mentioned that muggles were simply not supposed to know about wizards, but he simply jotted down overlords on his parchment as the answer to the question.

He stared out the window again amid talks of famous alchemists, healers, and even warriors, all being mistaken for muggles. The Whomping Willow had woken up and managed to snatch a bird from the air and waved its branches around victoriously.

Claire’s hand shot in the air. “Draco said wizards do more for muggles than they know. Like Merlin. Camelot would never have existed without him.”

“Erm, good Claire . . . Draco.” She paused. “Anyway,” she sang in a frayed voice, “Wizards and muggles have coexisted for thousands of years, sometimes peacefully, sometimes not—as you know. Just a few historical things that might come up on your N.E.W.T.s, so pay attention. Muggles have stories about wizards that go back as far as civilization itself. Always changing a little with its teller, getting more and more fantastical over the centuries—until we hit the printing press in 1440.”

Finnegan tapped the board with her wand. What emerged was a large contraption that looked a little like a torture rack with fewer spikes.

“From this point, muggles were able to print quickly and accurately at an unprecedented rate of dissemination which got faster over the next centuries with improvements.” A few kids started sniggering at the word dissemination. “And this presents a problem. Does anyone know it?”

Draco’s eyes inclined themselves toward Granger, but her hand stayed put.

“Stories about us started to become standardized,” Finnegan continued, “and far more accurate, so much so that it’s estimated the number of muggles who believed in us rose by three hundred percent. By the seventeenth century, our risk of exposure was much too high for comfort.”

Granger practically fell out of her seat. “The International Statute of Secrecy!”

“Precisely. We went into hiding permanently. And the very first thing the International Confederation of Wizards did after the Statute’s passing in 1689 was to launch our world’s most widespread and successful misinformation campaign about these stories, and by 1697, the world had started calling them fairy tales.”

Of course they’d rewrite the story when it didn’t suit them anymore. Lies. Theater. It was elegant, really.

Claire started to tap her pen on her notebook, getting faster until she raised her hand and blurted out:

“Perrault! Contes de ma mère l’Oye!”

Finnegan stared at her. “Condo what?”

“The Tales of Mother Goose. Perrault was a wizard. It all makes sense now!”

“Sure, why not,” Finnegan muttered. Claire looked away, pretending she was interested in her pen. “Anyway, if we’re now figments of muggle imagination reduced to storybooks, what did the muggles keep?”

People shouted out. “Wands.” “Transfiguration.” “Curses.” “Potions.”

“All true.” Finnegan sat down at her desk again. “Good witches. Wicked Witches. And fairy godmothers.”

She tapped her wand to the board again and an elderly witch appeared. There was something about the old lady, and it wasn’t just the spectacles, though they did have sharp frames that could make a stare cut deeper. It was the way she smiled, like McGonagall smiled at Granger or the Weasley girl; maddeningly warm and assuring, but never a grin. And then there were the wings. Like a dragonfly’s, only larger. They looked too real. Like—

“A half-breed,” Draco blurted out. He froze, but it was too late. All eyes were on him. “I mean—fairy? Godmother? Forgive me, but that’s not anatomically possible.”

A chorus of sniggers drifted through the room for the second time. “At least not without some serious transfiguration.”

Finnegan pinched her upper nose and as if the moment called for an adult presence, stood up and said, “It’s just a portrayal. We don’t need to get into the . . . minutiae of it.”

Ernie MacMillan was almost in tears. “This is just one depiction of how muggles envisioned us.”

She sighed and sat back down, taking another swig of something.

“I’d like you to read Cinderella. Pay particularly close attention to when the fairy godmother enters the scene and what she does.”

When she waved her wand, a metal cabinet that stood by the chalkboard opened to reveal a stack of books. It seemed reasonable until someone muttered ‘accio book’ and a copy shot through the air. It wasn’t long before books flew faster and more waywardly than the first. At one point, two students summoned the same book, resulting in the front cover shooting to one person, the back cover to the other, and the pages drifting before scattering about the floor.

With thumb and pointer at the inner corners of her eyes, Professor Finnegan shouted for the class to stop. “Kindly,” she said through gritted teeth, “leave your seats and retrieve your books without using magic. Then silently read the book. Please. It won’t take you long.” She took a breath. “Wizards . . .” she said to herself and then muttered something barely audible as she sat at her desk.

Draco Malfoy hardly understood muggle names, much less muggle fairy tales. But there he was, staring at a book meant for little muggle girls—at least judging by the cover. It was hard and rough, yellowed from years of abandonment, so much so that the pink dress the girl wore had a salmony tint to it, and her blonde hair seemed an unnatural shade of pale, even for a drawing.

A rustling and crack of brittle paper sounded from somewhere. Draco dragged his fingers once more over the rough cover and opened the book.

Cinderella, he thought, could be a proper wizarding name like Celestina or Narcissa, but as he read on, a name like Dobby seemed more appropriate, or maybe Dinky. Rags and housework—he was reading a book about the help. Or was it about the step-mother? Efficient and brutal. It was well-done, turning that girl into a servant in her own home.

But by the time the pumpkin had been transfigured into a carriage, it was clear that muggles just expected wizards to show up when they’re having a bad day . . . aside from the last year, that is.

It was a transaction between a witch and a muggle, but a sloppy one. No vow or contract. Not even a handshake. He read faster waiting to see what happened at midnight. It was the only thing that made any sense. The only stipulation. He wouldn’t put it past the muggle girl not to steal the wand.

“And that’s time. So what did you think?” asked Finnegan, her face in a book like she’d forgotten what happened herself.

“Already? I didn’t finish,” shouted Parker. Draco thought to say something, but he didn’t get far enough to see if the Prince ever found the girl. Obviously he did, it was supposed to be unrealistic after all.

“Not enough pictures for you, Pansy, eh? It’s a children’s story, moron,” jeered Parvarti.

“It’s Parker, dammit!” she hissed. “Parker!”

Finnegan shook her head slightly in a way that said it was more disbelief than a decisive rebuke. “Ten points from Gryffindor. No need for namecalling. And just because you’re technically adults doesn’t mean you can go about calling people that and carry on. But yeah, it wasn’t long. So why is the fairy godmother so important?”

“Sorry, Professor. Sorry Parker,” Parvarti said, making sure to emphasize the name. “Cinderella doesn’t have anyone, and here comes a witch. A nice one.”

“Who transfigured some pumpkins. Big deal,” Draco blurted out, like it was obvious. A dress, and a pumpkin. Besides the ridiculousness of a rat into a coachman, that was it. “It was sloppy work. All that leverage and she didn’t use it. But then again, what’s the witch going to get in return? Her rags? Waste of time if you ask me.”

“She was just being kind, Draco. Kind of like the Ministry not locking you up—”

“That’s enough,” said Finnegan tersely. “Parvarti, detention. See me after. Draco, not everything has to be a transaction.”

A chilly silence was struck; one that required Draco to crack his knuckles. When that wasn't satisfying enough, he tapped his quill on his parchment, forgetting it was wet, and quickly pulled out a new roll.

“Well I’ve read this many times of course, being muggle-born,” came Granger’s voice, perfectly unprompted in the silent air. “The idea of a fairy godmother is a bit ridiculous to a muggle, though. When I came to Hogwarts, I wish I’d had something like that, not fitting in and all, just wanting to be noticed.”

“So that’s why you raise your hand like a crup begging for a treat? To be noticed?” Draco jeered, but it wasn't as satisfying as he hoped it would be.

When the bell chimed, he could've thanked Claire, or asked her why she bothered speaking for him at all, but he just slipped the fairy tale in his bag and left.

Chapter Text

Nobody thought long distance was exactly ideal, least of all Ron, but he was doing his part. He’d even suggested that they buy three notebooks and put protean charms on them so that he, Hermione, and Harry could communicate without waiting for Owl Post. But Hermione insisted that they use coins again. ‘Sentimental reasons,’ she’d said, already pulling out her wand. She’d even tried to name their little band.

“We’re every bit as talented as Sirius, Lupin, and your dad, Harry. And they called themselves The Marauders.”

“Well, I feel like a Moron-er even talking about this,” said Ron. Hermione acknowledged it with one slow, disdainful head turn before suggesting The Horcrux Hunters.

“Hard pass!” Harry shouted, cringing a little at the word.

“Yes, well . . . alright then. How about The After Order because we came after The Order?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Harry. “Rub it in.”

“Yeah, Hermione. That name sounds like we’re scraping the bottom of the pot, like leftovers,” said Ron.

“The Leftovers. I like that,” Harry exclaimed excitedly.

“All in favor?” Ron raised his hand, followed by Harry.

Hermione abstained and dropped the whole thing, although she would sometimes refer to them simply as The Three.

Of course, this conversation happened with Ron's head in the fireplace, which was something he was determined never to do again. After only five minutes, his knees ached so badly he didn't think he'd be able to get up. Still, it was nice seeing the Gryffindor Common Room again.

When October rolled through, so did the customers. Sure, there were the classics: the hangmen hid under their gallows after the train left in September; and George even acquired some French owls to keep up with mail order love potions, although they looked snootily down their beaks at the parcels. Customers really came for Halloween.

Muggle Monster Masks flew off the shelves, at least until a few vampires staged a small-scale protest chanting, ‘We're undead, not unwashed.’

Fake spider webs flew off the shelves constantly, requiring someone to run to the muggle post office for shipment. After all, muggle was in.

The crowd finally began to trickle out after a child spilled butterbeer on a pygmy puff, making it look like a giant tie-dyed cotton ball. Finally, back jolting, there was just one customer left, one more bill of sale to ring through the till. She wore a Tutshill Tornadoes t-shirt; black hair spilled from beneath an oversized pointed hat. She couldn’t have been older than ten and counted her coins far more diligently than Ron’s legs (and nerves) could take.

A little scrap of parchment gazed up at him from the till crowded by other little scraps of parchment—reminders of what to do with returned love potions, an expired work schedule, a reminder to eat. Small, pointed writing sat centered on the note: