There's that strange sound again.

He had heard it some minutes before and had decided it must have been a part of his dream, but now it's back. Unwilling to open his eyes at what feels like a very unsociable hour, he merely groans and clamps his pillow down over his head as the unwelcome squelching sound continues to issue from somewhere close to his left ear.

"Draco," he mumbles through a yawn, "what the fuck are you doing?"

When there's no response after a second or two, Harry lets go of his pillow and stretches out an arm, patting the cold sheets with sleepy fingers. He's alone.

Squelch, squelch, squelch, thrrrrp, goes the noise. Irritated and confused, Harry's eyes snap open and he props himself up on one elbow to see a vibrating, shiny red tomato staring back at him. Quite literally, in fact; this tomato has a single beady eye which is regarding him with reproach.

It always does that when he doesn't want to get out of bed in the morning, he thinks, and then his stomach drops through his body, leaving him empty and yet quite sure that he's going to vomit. Barely breathing, he reaches over and whacks the tomato with his palm, cutting it off mid-squelch, then flops onto his back and covers his face with his hands. He doesn't care that he's behaving like a child who doesn't want to be found; he feels like one.

That obnoxious tomato alarm clock was a gift from Al for his last birthday. It goes off at six o'clock every weekday morning so that Harry can drag himself to the office, slog through his paperwork, and have a hope of leaving at a semi-reasonable hour. Heart hammering, Harry looks through the gaps in his fingers at the pitch black sky outside the window. At the clothes thrown on the chair at his bedside, and at the quilt that Molly Weasley made for his and Ginny's twelfth wedding anniversary.

He's back. He thinks. At least, he thinks he knows where he is, but when is fully up for grabs.

"Fucking Boris," he mutters to the ceiling, rubbing his eyes and wondering just what exactly he's supposed to do now. He's been trying so hard not to think about leaving his new life behind that he hasn't allowed himself to consider what he's going to do once the meddling old bugger has quite finished fucking about with him.

And now he's here, in this bedroom that doesn't really feel like his any more, waking up in the middle of the night to spend more time doing a job he hates. And Draco is... oh, god, Draco. Harry closes his eyes again and bites his lip as something tears inside him. His stomach, now apparently back with him, rolls over and over until his eyes are stinging and his mouth is filled with saliva.

This can't be right, he tells himself over and over again. This can't be right.

Overwhelmed, he takes a deep breath, clamps a hand over his mouth and rolls off the edge of the bed and onto his feet in a messy, painful heap. He reaches the bathroom just in time.

**~*~**

Some minutes later, he drags himself to his feet, flushes away the evidence of his loss of control, and shuffles across the cold tiles to the sink, where he splashes his face with water and stares in mute horror at his tired, haggard appearance. His hair is messy, but not in the deliberate, careful way to which he has become accustomed, the way that takes years from his face. It's just everywhere, like he doesn't give a fuck; he needs a shave badly and his eyes are heavy and shadowed.

He wonders if this is what he's always looked like, and how he never noticed. Looks are far from everything, he knows that, but the man staring back at him, as he sighs and grips the edge of the sink, looks sad.

Finding that he can't keep the thought of 'What would Draco say?' out of his head, he turns away from the mirror; the cold, sharp avalanche of emotions and what-nows threatening to race down and bury him is more than he can take right now. He swallows hard, forcing the persistent nausea down, bringing his breathing under control. He's here now, he's... home, he supposes, even though something discordant jars in his chest at the thought, and right now, if he has to stuff all of this crazy into a box and lock it up until he's ready, then that's what he'll have to do.

He's probably dealt with worse, he concedes, stumbling back into the bedroom and searching for clean clothes. Worse, but this may well be the strangest idiotic situation that's ever been flung in his direction. Finally he pulls on the trousers he finds on the bedside chair. They're confusingly easy to fasten—just one button and one zip—and he smiles for a second at the memory of his old-new wardrobe, and then stops, because it hurts. He finds a shirt and a jumper, throws them on and then gazes down at himself, sighing.

Everything is old and boring. All the clothes are serviceable, of course, but the knees of his trousers are baggy and slightly worn, his shirt is an inoffensive shade of sludge, and his jumper makes him look like an old man. Frowning, he flicks through his wardrobe, heart sinking heavy and sore as he finds nothing but tatty, boring, drab, shapeless, brown—where did all of this brown come from? His work robes are brown, of course—he pulls a set from the nearest hanger and throws it over his shoulder—but he can't help but wonder when he started dressing to match them.

He leans against the closet door and listens to the sound of the silent house. Wonders if he dares to hope that the children are home from school, that he hasn't missed their Christmas, that Ginny hasn't descended into madness, thinking her husband disappeared in the night. That, just perhaps, no one ever knew he was gone.

Of course, there's only one way to find out, but just in that moment, he's terrified.

"No, I was on the moon with Frank!" comes a strident, if sleepy, cry from down the hall, and Harry's chest aches at the sound of his little girl's voice.

"Lily," he whispers, peeling himself away from the wardrobe and hurrying to her as quickly as he can, mouth tugged into an uncontrollable smile.

As soon as he steps into her bedroom he knows, somehow, that Boris had not lied when he said that Harry would find his family as he left them. Lily, curled on her side, arms wrapped around her stuffed fish, is frowning lightly as she sleeps, apparently engaged in some kind of dream disagreement.

Frank the cat, curled in the space behind her knees, blinks sleepily at Harry before tucking his head back into his side. They are both bathed in the soft light from the landing and look so peaceful that Harry can barely breathe for the relief of having them back.

"They weren't upside down when I got here," Lily declares, freckled nose wrinkling and looking, just for a second, so very like Maura.

Harry crouches beside her bed and gently strokes her vivid hair from her face. "I missed you, beautiful girl," he whispers, and presses a soft kiss to her forehead.

"Don't be daft, Dad," she mumbles. "I was only on the moon for a minute."

Harry grins and levers himself to his feet. As he turns away, he catches sight of the calendar on Lily's desk. It is covered with moving pictures of cats and kittens and big black crosses, as Lily has apparently been counting down the days until Christmas. The last day to be marked off is the nineteenth of December.

Harry closes his eyes as confusion, grief, and relief fight for dominance inside him.

He hasn't missed anything. He'll take that.

Al is sleeping flat on his back, snoring lustily, when Harry slips into his bedroom. He has kicked away all of his covers, and, though he seems to be sleeping peacefully, Harry can't quite resist picking up the sheets and blankets and depositing them carefully over his son. Al doesn't stir.

"Missed you, too," Harry says softly, tugging a book out from under Al's head and setting it on his bedside table. "Dragon-Breeding for Pleasure and Profit. Oh, good."

Amused, Harry lets himself into James' room. Though James (somehow) appears to be sleeping deeply, the room is so violently ablaze with magical light that Harry has to shield his eyes. It really is far too early in the morning for all this, he sighs inwardly, dimming the light with a flick of his wand and gazing down at his eldest child with a mixture of exasperation and affection.

"Yes, I even missed you," he laughs softly. Not daring to risk the wrath of a sleep-deprived teenager, he instead perches on the edge of James' cluttered desk and watches him for a moment. Without his perpetual scowl, he looks younger and almost innocent... apart from the bright blue streaks that are shot right through his dark hair. Harry has no idea how he could have missed them before. He thinks perhaps he had given up noticing things.

James twitches and snarls in his sleep, and Harry decides to take his leave. No doubt Ginny has left for work already, so perhaps he has time for a cup of coffee in relative peace before he heads for the office. Because there has never been any question in his mind of not going to work. Work is what he does, even when he doesn't like it, and when in doubt... well, then work is an even better idea. Plus, he has his own office and he knows rakes of good locking spells. Better to sit in there and let his head explode than do it here with the children watching.

As he walks into the kitchen, he stops short. Ginny is sitting at the table, reading a magazine and crunching a piece of toast.

"You're here," he says pointlessly.

She looks up. "Yeah. I decided to have breakfast at home today. All the decent canteen staff at work are off for Christmas, and I'd rather not risk food poisoning."

"Right." Harry stares at her, unable to put together a complete sentence, because she, too, looks even wearier than he remembered, and a shadow of the spirited woman she once was, and could have been.

"You look like you've seen a Dementor," she says, abandoning her piece of toast and frowning up at him.

"No, I just..." Harry's throat turns dry as she stands up and approaches him, features creased in concern. Before he can think about what he's doing, he's grabbing her and hugging her tightly, all at once flooded with feeling for her, twenty years' worth of affection and support and friendship, the guilt of the past six weeks, and the confusion and fear and pure relief of holding her again, dragging in the coconut scent of her hair and closing his eyes.

He can feel her puzzlement even as she wraps her arms around him and returns the hug, but it takes him a long time to let go. In the midst of all of this, she is an anchor, and he doesn't remember the last time he was so pleased to see her.

"Harry," she says, soft-voiced, pulling back and looking up at him, eyebrows knitted. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I just... bad dreams," he improvises.

Ginny sighs, and Harry watches some of the concern fade from her eyes. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised—we were only talking about Malfoy yesterday."

Something in her tone makes Harry bristle, but he fights it down and shrugs. "Yeah. It doesn't matter, anyway. I'm fine, just a bit... tired," he mutters, extricating himself from Ginny and scrubbing at his face, feeling suddenly awkward. "I'd better get going. See you tonight."

He turns and heads for the door, barely able to resist the urge to run out of the house as fast as he can.

"Bye, then," Ginny calls uncertainly after him, just before he slams the door.

**~*~**

"You are earlier than usual, Mr Potter," remarks Harry's secretary as he lets himself into the anteroom that leads to his office. Her tone is flatly neutral, but there's something in her expression that makes Harry certain he is being judged for some reason. She frowns, continuing before he has a chance to reply: "Surely you didn't walk all the way here with your robes slung over your shoulder like a brace of pheasant?"

Harry blinks. Smiles. He hadn't thought it possible, but he has missed this abrasive woman. Her grey-streaked black hair and lips pressed together in perpetual disapproval have always put him in mind of a particularly severe Minerva McGonagall, but now he finds himself reminded of Draco.

"I did, Helga. You should pray for my soul." He shakes out his robes and pulls them over his head.

Her black eyes sharpen and Harry hears the clack of the ever-present rosary. It feels as though it's been a long time, but not for Helga, he supposes. As far as she knows, she spent most of yesterday telling him off, just like always.

"Lost causes aren't really my area," she advises, regarding him with a prickling air of impatience. "Come and get your messages before they crumble into dust from sitting here unanswered for so long."

"Is the drama necessary?" Harry asks mildly, crossing the room and taking the sheaf of parchment from Helga's outstretched hand.

She says nothing, but her sharp look sends Harry into his office without another word. He emerges again just minutes later, having spelled and dispelled a battery of locking and privacy charms, realising that he has forgotten the most important instruction of all.

"Can you try and keep the interruptions to a minimum? I'm working on something important and I really need to think."

Helga does not turn around but Harry sees her posture stiffen; he waits for a response, trying to remember why he puts up with her at all.

"I'll see what I can do—no promises, mind. I'm not a gatekeeper, you know," she says at last.

Harry sighs. "Thanks."

He flops into his desk chair and swivels slowly from side to side, allowing his eyes to travel over the familiar worn landscape of his office. Everything is where it should be (though the room seems a little dull without the orange splash of Ron's Chudley Cannons rug) but it couldn't feel more wrong. The chair is creaky and comfortable, moulded to his shape over the years, but his Auror robes feel stiff and heavy after working in nothing but tatty jeans and thin t-shirts. As he scowls at the mountain of paperwork on his desk, his fingers itch for his glassblowing pipes; if nothing else, he could use them to sweep the unwanted parchments to the floor and out of sight.

But he doesn't have them. He has a tedious, responsible job and a cantankerous secretary, and he's not sure if that's any better than having nothing at all. Groaning softly, he rolls his chair up to the desk and drops his forehead to the cool wood. He could have gone on for years, decades, for the rest of his life, never truly comprehending his dissatisfaction with his life; he could have taken the headaches and the arguments and the disturbed sleep, knowing—believing—he had drawn his lot and that was all there was to it. He was alright. Ish.

Harry folds his arms on the desk and rests his head on top. Not now, though. Not now that he has seen, experienced, felt, tasted everything he never thought to imagine that Draco Malfoy could offer him. And even though he spent the majority of the glimpse trying not to rationalise the chemistry and warmth of their relationship, it has begun to make sense regardless. No one else has ever or could ever capture his attention like Draco. It's always been Draco.

"I never stopped thinking about you," he mumbles, keeping his sore eyes closed against the flood of terrifying, idiotic realisation sweeping through him and tying up all those recurring dreams, 'healthy' Malfoy-curiosity and nagging thoughts of 'what if?' into a neat little parcel of wow, you're stupid, Harry Potter.

And now he's painfully in love with a man who might not even exist. Harry has no idea if the Draco who cooked for him and reassured him and fucked him in his parents' ballroom is even real. Perhaps he was just a figment of Harry's subconscious, brought to life by Boris in order to provide Harry with some kind of nervous breakdown. Then again, Maura often talked of the 'other' Uncle Harry, the one she knew before he turned up, so it makes sense that the 'other' Draco exists, too. Somewhere.

Head banging, Harry exhales slowly and attempts to gather himself. The ache inside him isn't going anywhere, and he has no idea what he's going to do about it, so he supposes he might as well try to do something useful. He peels off a sticky note reading, 'To approve' from the top report in a stack, leans back in his chair and stares at the words, lip caught in his teeth.

"Auror Department Annual Training Budget," he mumbles, starting to swivel once more. "That sounds exciting." He discards the report and looks at the next one. "Two person teams versus larger units – an investigation of strategic efficiency in the Auror Department." He frowns, flipping through the report with increasing bewilderment until the columns of numbers and diagrams begin to blur across the page. He's not sure he knows how to do this any more.

Disoriented, he abandons the reports and picks up his messages.

MLE meeting time changed to 4pm Friday, FF's office.

- Calendula.

Calendula is Fitzwilliam's secretary; he remembers that much. Oh, good. Harry frowns, wondering for the first time if this Franz Fitzwilliam really is as virtuous as he seems. Still, he supposes that his boss' integrity is far from the top of his list of priorities.

Can you call me back when you've a minute? This goblin situation is getting out of hand and I think we need to get together and thrash it out.

- Max Evertree.

Harry reads the message three times before he has to admit that he can't remember who Max Evertree is and he hasn't a bloody clue about the goblin situation.

One more, he thinks. One more and he will find one that makes sense.

Harry – I could really do with a few minutes of your time this afternoon; we're having a bit of a drama with some of the union contracts. If you can make it down to the third after lunch, I promise to buy you a proper cup of coffee (as opposed to that swill you're served at Auror HQ).

- HJG.

Hermione, he thinks, mouth tugged into a smile. He's halfway out of his chair before he remembers—or, at least, he thinks he remembers—that Goldstein works alongside Hermione, and he is quite possibly the last person Harry wants to see right now. That is, of course, if the glimpse is to be believed. He's not about to risk it. Instead, he slumps back into his chair and allows his mind to drift.

Unsurprisingly, it settles on Draco, and he lets it stay there. He wonders what the other Draco—the one he remembers from school—is doing. How he's doing. Who he's doing, his brain supplies helpfully, and he scowls. Try as he might to fully separate the man he loves from the man he saw on the railway platform, it seems to be a near impossible task, and as he sits there, leaning back until he's at heavy risk of toppling over backwards and hitting his head on the fireplace, curiosity about that dignified, severe man grows inside him, twisting new shoots around his confusion and grief and setting his mind racing.

Eventually, he jumps to his feet, not quite losing his balance, and takes down the spells from the door.

"Helga?" he attempts, poking out his head.

She turns in her chair, fixing him with cold black eyes. "Yes, Mr Potter?"

"Erm... do you think you could get me a copy of yesterday's Prophet?"

"Yesterday's Prophet?" she repeats, one dark eyebrow lifting a fraction.

"Yes, please. If you can," Harry amends, hanging onto the doorframe and attempting a smile.

Helga merely stares at him until he retreats back into his office, and returns, defeated, to his messages. The stack is quite sizeable, and he's barely halfway through it when there's a knock at the door.

He looks up. "Yes?"

Astonished, he watches as Helga stalks into the office bearing a folded newspaper and a steaming mug. She places both on his desk and then steps back to regard him, arms folded.

"Is that for me?" he asks, indicating the tea, because if it is, it is the first unrequested drink she has brought him in almost ten years.

"You are not well, Mr Potter," she says, somehow still managing to sound as though she is scolding him. "I took the liberty of strengthening your tea with a drop or two of Vitalitus. I didn't make it, don't worry—" She holds up the tiny bottle, "—I keep it in my handbag for emergencies."

"Er... right. Thanks." Harry really doesn't know what to do with this sharp-edged kindness and it's doing nothing good for the unsettling feeling that none of this is real.

"Is there anything else I can get for you?" she demands, and something in her expression dares Harry to say no.

He sighs. "A Stunning Spell would be nice. Put me out of my misery."

The thin mouth twists and something dangerously like amusement flickers in the black eyes.

"I'd love to, Mr Potter, but I suspect I would lose my job, and then my cat would starve. I shall... discourage anyone who doesn't seem to be in desperate need of your attention."

"Anyone who isn't dying, then?" he wonders, and her perpetual frown is back. Harry cringes inwardly. How quickly he has forgotten that no one here has a sense of humour, least of all him... or, at least, the him that he once was.

"That's a little harsh, Mr Potter," she says, pausing at the door. "If they're on fire or have lost a limb, I shall let them pass."

Harry smiles and unfolds his Prophet. When she closes the door behind her, he doesn't bother with the locking spells. He flips through the newspaper until he finds the small article Al had read to him on the drive home not-yesterday. Now he re-reads the words to himself, leaning on his desk on folded arms, eyes flicking to the small black and white photograph of the family.

It is with regret that Draco and Astoria Malfoy (nee Greengrass) announce their separation after a marriage of fifteen years. The separation will be made formal in the New Year, and the couple's only child, Scorpius, will remain at Malfoy Manor with his father.

Harry sighs. Scorpius, looking out of the photograph from between his mother and father, resembles an eleven-year-old Draco so much that Harry is momentarily yanked back in time, head full of the confident little boy and his clumsy attempt to be the famous Harry Potter's friend. The only thing that prevents Scorpius from being the exact image of his father is the cautious, full-lipped smile that he seems to have inherited from his mother.

Astoria Malfoy is elegant, poised, and handsome rather than beautiful; her features are not delicate but striking, all sweeping brows and dark, cascading waves and steady, careful eyes gazing, unblinking, into the camera. If Harry is honest, he feels a little intimidated by her.

Draco, though, stares fixedly ahead, posture rigid and upright, and his expression is heavy with sadness. Harry wonders when the picture was taken, whether the stiffness is indicative of a family at splintering point or whether it's always been this way for this Draco. Harry wonders, though he tries to stop himself, if this Draco has ever been happy. Harry studies the photo-Draco until his eyes begin to hurt and his insides are leaden, painful, as though they belong to someone else.

While recognisable as the Draco he has come to know, to need, to want, this man is solemn beyond his years, wearing his severe hairstyle and sharp black suit with a refined, weary gravity that makes Harry want to reach into the photograph and shake him, to ruffle his hair and make him smile. Scrabbling to rein in his spiralling panic, he forces himself to consider just how different two versions of the same man can possibly be.

As different as an exhausted Auror with three children and a reluctantly stylish gay carpenter, his subconscious provides helpfully. Harry sighs, chewing on his bottom lip and trying to catch the eye of the staid photo-Draco, persevering even when it becomes clear that it is an exercise in futility; the man in the photograph seems to want nothing to do with him.

"Stop trying to look at me!" Draco's irritated voice echoes in his head. He closes his eyes and he's there.

"What on earth is your problem?" Leaning up on his elbow in bed, Harry cranes his neck and tries to catch a glimpse of Draco, who is cocooned in the blankets with only a wisp of hair and a pale nose protruding.

"You," Draco snaps, attempting to elbow Harry through the bed-clothes. "Desist!"

Harry snorts. "I will not. What is it—have you grown an extra head?"

The sound that escapes Draco sounds suspiciously like a whimper. "How did you know?"

Baffled, Harry drops back against the bed and frowns at the ceiling. "Please come out," he says eventually, trying to hide his anxiety that—however unlikely it might be—Draco has suffered some terrible disfigurement during the night. Stranger things have happened. He turns onto his side, gazing at the mound of linen that contains Draco. "I'm sure it's... not that bad."

"Easy for you to say," Draco whispers, emerging slowly and turning to Harry, all big eyes and plaintive scowl. "Look at it!"

"At wha—" Harry begins, before thinking better of it and scrutinising Draco's face in silence. And, finally, there it is: an angry red spot, staring angrily back at him from the otherwise flawless skin of Draco's chin. It's relatively small, but something in Draco's expression tells Harry that saying so would not end well for him. "Ah, yes. Well... it's... certainly... there, isn't it?"

"I feel better already," Draco snaps. "Have you considered going into counselling?"

"Yes," Harry says gravely, leaning forward and—ignoring his protests—kissing Draco softly. "I am a model of sensitivity."

"You're no fucking help, that's what you are," Draco grumbles, lifting a hand to press cautiously at the spot. "I have a meeting today, you know. An important one. And will anyone be listening to my presentation of interesting and important observations? No. They'll be staring at this... this supplementary skull that's sprouting out of my face without permission!"

In hindsight, Harry considers it an achievement that he manages to contain his laughter for as long as he does. The expression of pure outrage on the refined face is just too much for him. Seconds later, he buries his face in his pillow and shakes with laughter until his stomach and face hurt, ignoring the indignant huffs and pokes-in-the-ribs from the man next to him.

"Have you quite finished?" Draco demands at last.

Still cackling breathlessly, Harry shakes his head and rolls over to look the fearsome carbuncle in the eye. He presses his lips together, struggling hard for control. "Absolutely. All good. Fine."

"I'm far too old for this," Draco says, narrowing his eyes sulkily. "I'm nearly forty, for crying out loud. How is anyone going to take me seriously with this... pustule..."

"Okay, okay," Harry interrupts, jumping in before Draco can start his not-at-all-hilarious catastrophising again. He grabs his wand. "Shall I hex it off for you?"

Draco's eyebrow flickers in mild alarm, and then he shrugs. "Go on, then. It can't exactly look any worse."

A sudden clatter followed by a muffled oath from Helga's office startles Harry and he blinks, looking down once more at the newspaper photograph, a smile tugging at his lips. Draco had been very late for that meeting. He hadn't seemed to mind too much.

Just as quickly as the easy warmth of that memory washes over Harry, the cold reality swipes back through him, turning his mouth dry and his skin icy; his fingers don't seem his own as they slide, sweat-damp, over the edge of the photograph, smudging the black and white face of Astoria Malfoy until it becomes unrecognisable, and suddenly all he can see is Ginny. Her clever, tired dark eyes, her beautiful bright hair, and her lips twisted in the familiar moue of frustration.

She's his wife. The mother of his children. The person who has been by his side for the entirety of his adult life, and the person who deserves better than this. She deserves better than disappointment and exhaustion and sniping for no reason other than that two people who were once in love have found themselves in one of those 'for the kids' marriages. Even worse, now he has at last allowed him to think about it, is that they have never discussed it. Not one word has passed between them about their relationship, or lack thereof, and as Harry's grief pours out of him, hot and bitter, he presses his hands to his face and hates himself for letting it happen. For saying nothing, and for keeping her trapped in unfulfilled, numb, not-quite-misery with him for years.

And now, instead of sitting down and talking to her like a grown-up, he has managed to step into an alternate dimension and fall for her probably least favourite colleague. Harry sighs heavily for what feels like the hundredth time this morning.

"Why not?" he demands of his office. "Who do I think I am, expecting any of this to make sense?"

A paperweight throws itself off the desk at the sound of his voice, and Harry watches, resigned, as a flurry of memos fling themselves after it.

Surely, he has to tell her something. He doesn't know exactly what is the right thing to do, and he doubts that there exists a set of rules for a situation quite as bizarre as this, but he knows that things cannot go on as they are. As they have been. He has trundled along all this time, telling himself that putting up and shutting up was the best thing for Ginny and the children, and that was good enough for him. But it's not. It's not good enough for Lily, Al, and James to have two miserable parents, and after a taste of what could have been, it's not good enough for Harry, either.

Fuck.

"Oh, fuck," Harry says out loud, feeling the weight of the decision that has come together almost without his knowledge. He thinks he should feel shocked, horrified, but actually, the realisation that he is going to end his marriage fills him with a new sort of calm. He exhales slowly and leans back in his creaky chair, pushing his hands into his pockets.

Immediately, he registers the sharp edges of parchment against his fingertips. Frowning, he withdraws a folded piece from each pocket and opens them out in his lap. The smaller of the two, scrawled in Al's somewhat haphazard handwriting, reads:

Dad – the wise man does not play leapfrog with the unicorn.

Al's note is exactly where Harry left it, just as he had been promised. The other thing is more mysterious, and Harry hardly dares look at it. When he does, though, his stomach flips sharply. It's a clipping from the Daily Prophet—the carefully torn-out photograph of Harry and Maura standing behind the multicoloured glass bowl and grinning at each other.

"Maura," he whispers, already missing his little shadow.

Knowing that he shouldn't have this photograph at all—perhaps Boris has made a mistake, which isn't all that reassuring when he thinks about it—just makes the discovery all the more bittersweet. Harry stares at their beaming faces for as long as he can stand, and then he fishes out a huge, leather-bound copy of The Auror Code of Conduct: Eleventh Edition, hides the photograph carefully inside, and stows both away in his desk drawer.

Helga manages to keep the bureaucrats from the door until mid-afternoon, when she lets herself into Harry's office with a brief knock and a roast beef sandwich. Harry's stomach growls in approval as he looks up from the Strategic Efficiency report (which still doesn't make much sense, and he's not sure it ever did). He hasn't eaten in a long time, whichever universe's last meal he is counting from.

"There is a man here to see you, Mr Potter," Helga says, passing him the sandwich and watching him beadily until he takes a bite.

"Oh, that's lovely, thanks," he enthuses, wiping mustard from his chin. And then: "What sort of a man? Is he on fire?"

Helga smirks. "No. But he has a very large beard and a wooden leg, and he seems very anxious to see you."

"Boris?" Harry splutters, almost dropping his sandwich.

"I believe that is what he called himself," Helga sniffs. "It was rather difficult to interpret his accent."

Harry isn't sure how he feels about seeing Boris again, but there's something brilliantly amusing about his secretary's curled lip and folded arms, and he smiles. "Go on, then, send him in. And thanks for the sandwich."

Helga nods and turns to leave. "Remember to chew, Mr Potter. And don't get used to it."

Harry wouldn't dare. Resignedly, he watches the door, ignoring Helga's advice and stuffing as much of the sandwich into his mouth as he can without choking; who knows when he will remember to feed himself again.

"Hello, young man," Boris calls, letting himself into the office and making unsteady progress across the floor toward the desk. Harry wipes his mouth and flicks his wand to conjure a chair for the old man, spitefully making it a hard wooden one without a cushion—let him sit on his creaky old bones, he thinks mutinously as Boris lowers himself onto the chair, arranging the folds of his vast oilskin coat around himself.

"I didn't know you had a wooden leg," Harry mumbles, having no idea what else to say.

"Well, it's not exactly the most excitin' topic of conversation, now, is it?" Boris says, wiggling his huge eyebrows. When Harry says nothing, he sighs and pulls up his trouser leg, revealing a pitted spindle that disappears into his worn old boot; he takes a pencil from Harry's desk and taps on it several times, as though to prove its genuineness.

"Very nice," Harry says weakly, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. Boris lets his trouser leg fall and mirrors Harry's posture, regarding him impassively. "So, what do you want with me today?"

"I thought you might 'ave some follow-up questions."

Harry stares, distracted for a moment by the incongruity of the phrase 'follow-up questions' emerging from that scruffy, bristle-matted mouth, and then he snaps.

"You thought I might have questions? Really? Like... what the hell did you think you were doing to me? What exactly was I supposed to learn, except for how it feels to completely lose my mind? Or that, actually, I want to leave my wife, and now there's nothing in this world that's going to allow me to forget that?" Harry pauses, fingernails digging into the leather arms of his chair, knowing he's being rude—or worse, unreasonable—but driven on by Boris' calm expression. "Or... you know... because I've been thinking—if I was there, where was the other Harry? Was he with my children? Will he remember it? Will they? Is Draco... is he..." Harry falls silent, throat prickling. He shakes his head and stares at the floor.

"Calm down, lad," Boris says softly.

Harry snorts. "Right. I don't know why I didn't think of that."

"I know this must be confusin' for you," Boris continues, shifting about in his chair so violently that it groans under his slight weight. "But I suggest you trust me when I say that too many answers won't do you any good, lad. Some things I know, and a lot more I don't, but the less shared with you, the more power for the mysteries of the universe, you see."

"I really don't," Harry sighs, rubbing a hand across his pounding forehead. "And the mysteries of the universe can bugger off, as far as I'm concerned. I've had enough of them."

Boris laughs, and Harry looks up, startled, to see his delighted grin. "You know, young man, sometimes I feel the same way. But what I can say is this: this was a learnin' experience for you, not for anyone else. What happened... happened for you, and you only. But I promise..." Boris leans forward and fixes Harry with his milky eyes, "...no family members, friends, or former enemies were 'armed during the makin' of this glimpse."

The old man's grin widens, and Harry is irritated to feel a smile tugging at his own lips.

"So, you've come to explain nothing at all," he sighs, fighting the smile away.

"I've come to explain why explainin' is unnecessary," Boris offers. "An' to check that you're in one piece, so to speak." He scrutinises Harry's weary appearance and emits a thoughtful sound. "You looked 'ealthier in the other place, I 'ave to admit."

"Thanks," Harry says drily, picking at his heavy brown sleeves.

"Can't be 'elped," Boris sighs, scratching at his beard with stubby fingers. "I seem to recall I looked young once, too... not an 'andsome devil like you, of course, but still... and sometimes I think I were born a whiskery old bugger. Tricksy old besom, is time."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, suddenly vehement. "Apparently so."

Boris nods vaguely, apparently caught up in his moment of nostalgia. At last, he blinks.

"Right," he asserts, reaching inside his coat and dragging out a creased sheaf of parchment, which he drops with an unceremonious thomp onto Harry's desk. "Mind if I borrow your pencil?" he asks, picking it up without waiting for a response and starting to scribble away, face very close to the desk and beard spreading out everywhere.

"What now?"

"Nothin' to worry about, lad, just a few routine questions," Boris mumbles without looking up.

Harry's eyebrows disappear under his fringe. "You've got to be kidding me."

"It's important to have a record of the quality of the experience," Boris says vaguely, scratching at his beard and frowning at the topmost piece of parchment. "So, question one: would you rate your enjoyment of the glimpse as (a) very enjoyable (b) somewhat enjoyable (c) unpleasant (d) horrific or (e) Dementor?"

"I had no idea the glimpse business was so rife with bureaucracy," Harry mutters, resisting the urge to leap out of his chair and into the fireplace, leaving Boris to fudge the questionnaire by himself. "And anyway," he adds, "Dementor isn't an adjective."

"You'd be surprised, young man," Boris says grimly. "And I'm just asking the questions, I didn't write 'em."

"Well, that's reassuring," Harry says under his breath; feeling Boris' eyes on him, he adds: "A."

Boris grunts his approval and Harry watches him scratch at the parchment, head spinning. He's still angry, but he doesn't suppose that his anger—justified or otherwise—is going to improve his situation. And more than that, he suspects that even Boris' survey will be a more diverting use of his time than any of the reports on his desk.

"Question two: would you rate your Glimpse Management Operative as (a) very helpful (b) occasionally useful (c) pointless (d) chocolate teapot or (e) dangerously incompetent?"

Harry laughs. "I'm afraid that'll have to be an 'occasionally useful'," he admits, amused to note Boris' wounded expression as he notes down the answer. "No offence meant, Boris, but you spent most of your time telling me why you couldn't tell me things and then disappearing. It was fairly disconcerting, actually."

"I've 'eard worse, young man," Boris advises, chewing on the end of Harry's pencil. "Question three..."

Harry lounges in his chair, swinging slowly from side to side and answering a long series of increasingly bizarre questions with even more bizarre answers. As they enter the second hour of interrogation, Harry finds himself choosing the response '(c) squidlike' to a question about sleeping patterns, merely because the thought amuses him and the idea that any answer could make his life stranger at this point is just ludicrous.

As Boris scribbles away, tongue poking out from between the bristles in concentration, Harry wonders if he should confess that he still has the photograph from the newspaper. It doesn't take too long for him to dismiss the prickling of his conscience and decide to keep his mouth firmly shut and his one piece of proof that Maura existed safely in his desk drawer.

Finally, the old man stops, stretches, and stuffs the parchment back into his coat.

"I'll be off, then, lad. Certain you'll 'ave things to do... things to think over... it's usually the way." He sighs and heaves himself to his feet, nodding at Harry with an odd sort of finality that makes him want to leap up from behind his desk and shake the frail old man until answers fall out.

"Er—that's it?" he manages, standing awkwardly.

"That's it. And, er..." Boris frowns, one hand on the door handle, and Harry thinks he catches a sheepish expression behind the beard. "If you could keep it to yourself about the picture, I'd appreciate it. I... er... wasn't really s'posed to do that."

Harry smiles. "Thank you," he says, and this time he really means it.

Boris nods and grasps the handle stiffly, opening the door with some effort. "About your wife, lad," he rasps, just audibly enough for Helga to pause in her quill-scratching.

Panicked, Harry throws out a silent privacy charm. "Yes?"

"You said you realised you wanted to leave her, didn't you?" he goes on, bestowing a grave, almost fatherly expression upon Harry. "Forgive my boldness, young man, but... I think you already knew that."

Harry sits down heavily, chest aching, and doesn't say a word as the old man nods once more, shuffles out of the office and closes the door behind him. Boris is right, and he hates it. He hates it because it leaves him with no one to blame, because it means that he's even more of an idiot than he first thought, and because his remaining excuses for doing nothing are dissolving before his eyes. Pulling off his glasses, he rubs at his weary face and tries to think.

What would Hermione do? Apart from not getting into this situation in the first place, of course.

Harry pushes away the unhelpful thought and rolls his eyes.

Make a list. She would make a list, and that's exactly what she'd tell him to do if she were here. And, Harry thinks grimly, shoving his glasses back onto his nose and locating pencil and parchment, there's no way she's going to be dragged into this, too, so the voice inside his head that sounds a lot like her will have to suffice.

He taps the pencil against his chin as he thinks, registers the damp, chewed-by-Boris texture, and flicks it away across the room. Grimacing, he finds a self-inking quill that looks a lot like the one Draco—his Draco, at least—likes to keep behind his ear. Harry sighs.

Strengthens his resolve.

Writes.

What do I tell Ginny?

He chews his lip.

HOW do I tell Ginny?

This isn't working any more.

I'm not in love with you.

I want you to be happy.

I can't make you happy.

I'm in love with someone else.

I've spent six weeks in an alternative universe with Draco Malfoy.

I had sex with Draco Malfoy. Lots of it.

I'm in love with Draco Malfoy.

I'm leaving you and... Harry stops and exhales slowly. No 'and'. He's not leaving Ginny for Draco; he's... leaving Ginny. Draco is another kettle of fish entirely, especially the severe, mysterious Draco with the family and the black clothes.

Tell the truth, he writes, pressing down so hard with the quill that the tip almost gives way. Tell the truth, Harry Potter.

And he can picture himself, standing in the kitchen of the house where they made a family together, telling Ginny everything he has done, letting it all spill out until there are no more secrets left, and he feels sick.

Will it help her to know?

The truth is always best, isn't it?

Or perhaps it isn't. Telling her everything would assuage his guilt, that's for certain; it would also devastate her. That's if she believes any of it, of course. Gin's an open-minded woman, but she's also admirably down to earth, and it's not beyond the realms of possibility that she'd hear Harry's heartfelt confession, frown at him for a moment, and then ask him if he was having some kind of funny turn.

Harry rotates slowly on his chair, list clutched on his lap, and stares into the fireplace at the licking flames. Much as he wants it all out, to purge himself of guilt and confusion, he has the creeping feeling that to do so would amount to nothing more than further selfishness.

You deserve more, he writes, pulling his feet up beneath him and resting the parchment on his thigh.

I've been thinking.

We need to talk.

He stops, re-reading the clichéd old words and wanting to hex himself in the face. With a sigh, he drops the list onto his desk and incinerates it with a violent flick of his wand. For a moment, he sits motionless, watching the soft grey smoke curling into the air, and then he pushes his chair back and stalks out of his office. It's barely after four, but he doesn't care.

"I take it I'm to cancel your five-thirty meeting, then?" Helga calls.

Harry halts, halfway across her office, and turns to see her sitting primly in her chair, nursing a delicate china cup in one hand as the other fiddles absent-mindedly with her rosary.

"Er... yes, please. You were right; I'm not very well after all. I think I'm going to go straight home and get some rest," Harry says, feeling as though a detention must surely be imminent.

"Hmm," Helga sniffs. "I'm hardly surprised you're sickening for something considering the company you keep. That man was terribly unsavoury, you know. I doubt that coat had been washed in the last five years. Perhaps you ought to... take an inventory of your associates. Especially if you want to become Minister for Magic one day."

Harry frowns, more bewildered than ever. "Thanks, Helga; I'll... er, keep that in mind."

Seeing the arched eyebrow and deciding to run with it, Harry excuses himself and hurries to the lift, looking at the floor and affecting deep concentration all the way down and across the Atrium, just in case anyone decides to attempt conversation. As he steps into the nearest available fireplace, relief courses through him, and he knows just one thing for certain:

He does not want to be Minister for Magic one day.

**~*~**

Harry steps out of his fireplace and is immediately the focus of four curious eyes. Oddly startled by the sight of his children, he brushes the flecks of ash from his robes and attempts to cover his discomfort with a smile. The living room is bathed in the glow of countless strings of coloured lights, rich with the scent of pine needles and deliciously warm, but Harry feels awkward, as though he doesn't belong.

"Hi," he forces out, knowing that avoidance isn't going to make the task of resettling here any easier.

"Hi, Dad," Lily says, peering over the top of a large book; from behind its pages, a striped grey tail flicks in lazy greeting. "You're home early."

"My meeting was cancelled," he says, and it's not really a lie. "What are you doing?"

"What she's always doing," James mutters, and Harry glances at his studiedly sullen expression as he lowers himself onto the arm of Lily's chair.

"Hello, James," he says, affecting a little wave and secretly delighting in his son's eye-roll. He's missed it. "What're you up to, Lil?"

"Frank and I are reading about the Black Death," she advises, showing the book to Harry and scratching Frank's ears. Harry can't help wondering what the other Frank would have to say about that. Something, no doubt. He has yet to find a subject on which the snake does not have an opinion. Frank the cat, meanwhile, just yawns and stretches out a paw to touch a gruesome-looking diagram.

"Very festive," Harry says, all at once baffled and suffused with affection for his daughter.

Lily wrinkles her nose. "We've got to do a project on it over the holidays."

"Both of you?" Harry asks, unable to help himself. Frank flicks his ears importantly.

"Dad."

"Alright, I'm just saying... you might be missing an opportunity. I think Frankfurto would be an excellent project partner."

"Frankfurto?" Lily giggles.

Harry shrugs, warmed by his daughter's laughter. He points. "Look, rats and pestilence and horrible sores – all his favourite things."

Lily pulls a face and, from somewhere behind Harry, comes the sound of James muttering to himself.

"They're not sores, they're buboes," Lily says gravely, looking up at him from under her fringe.

"Well, that makes all the difference," Harry agrees, and for no reason that he can see, he suddenly misses Draco so much that it's painful. He exhales carefully and pulls himself together with some effort. "Where's Al?"

"Where do you think?" James sighs from his perch on the window-seat, and Harry twists around on the chair arm to shoot him a quelling look, but something in James' out-of-uniform appearance strikes him somewhere amusing and he immediately forgets all about being stern. Dressed in faded jeans and a white t-shirt, James is sitting on a cushion embroidered by his grandmother, long legs drawn up and arms folded lazily on top; his blue-streaked hair is teased into an almost-quiff, and his lip curls as he stares moodily at Harry.

"Who do you think you are, James Dean?" he demands, suppressing a smile.

James' brow creases in confusion. "Who?"

"Rebel without a clue," Harry mutters, thinking of the old films Uncle Vernon used to watch on Sunday afternoons whenever there was a hosepipe ban in force.

"Rebel Without a Cause," Lily corrects, giggling, and now both James and Harry look confused. "Mrs Harbottle says he's a legend. Or he was. He's dead now. Didn't you have Mrs Harbottle in year six, James? She's brought in a picture of him for our inspiration wall."

Harry says nothing. He hasn't the faintest idea what an inspiration wall might be.

James snorts. "No. I had that woman with the blue hair."

"She's Headmistress now," Lily informs her brother, and, in an impressive display of sibling civility, James nods seriously before he turns to stare out into the darkness once more.

"It's nice to have you home so early," Lily says, turning back to her book and flipping idly through the pages. "Are you going to have dinner with us, or do you have to go back out?"

Harry stares down at her, heart tight. Boris is right; he does have a lot of things to think about.

"No, Lil. I'm here now."

She smiles, radiating contentment that is momentarily potent enough to wrap around Harry. When she finds her page and begins to read, lips pursed in concentration, Harry twists, arms resting on the squashy back of her chair, and gazes wearily at his son's brooding profile. He wishes he could say that he was never such a sullen, melodramatic pain in the arse, but he has an uncomfortable suspicion that his teenage self was all that and more.

James sighs heavily and draws his finger through the condensation on the glass, making a squeaky, squiggly path through which the stars blink brightly.

"Everything alright?" Harry tries, without much hope of contact.

"Fine," James grunts, wiping out the squiggle with the flat of his hand.

Harry hates that word. 'Fine' can mean a whole variety of things; almost anything, in fact, except for 'okay', 'satisfactory', or 'yes, thank you, I'm actually feeling quite alright'. Frustrated, he stares through the clear patch of glass until the darkness starts to swim and the room fades behind him.

He's gazing at a blackboard, at the artfully-chalked words:

Soup of the Day – sweet potato and chive

Speciality Breads – black pepper twist, spicy cardamom flatbread, multi-grain bagels

Swap your ordinary (but delicious!) chips for parsnip chips at no extra cost!

Ask your waitress about our selection of Artisan Roast coffees

"Why would anyone want to eat parsnips instead of chips?" Ginny is asking at his side, voice lowered.

Harry turns to answer her and notices the waitress, who is standing just feet away in an uninterested slouch as she writes down Draco's order. "No idea," he says, meeting her eyes and noting with a jolt to his stomach that her eyes and skin are just as luminous in his memory as they were some time in January, when the four of them had met for lunch in that delicious-smelling cafe.

"We're out of parsnips," the waitress says flatly. Harry and Ginny exchange glances.

"Portents of doom!" booms Blaise, taking no care to keep his voice down. The waitress, who can be no more than sixteen, looks at him askance for a moment and then raises her eyes to the ceiling.

"You're out of parsnips," Draco repeats, drawing out each word and staring up at the girl from his seat, arms folded and eyes narrowed. Harry knows that look; he knows it very well. He thinks the little madam would do well to apologise and disappear back into the kitchen post haste, but part of him is curious to see what will happen next.

"Er... yeah," says the waitress, and her expression clearly conveys her belief that Draco is a special kind of stupid. "As in... there aren't any left. The kitchen is totally parsnipless."

Harry snorts, and it's almost worth the sharp look and kick under the table that he receives from Draco.

Catching the sound, the girl turns heavily made-up eyes on Harry. Taps her pencil against her notepad. "I don't think he gets it. Am I not saying it right?"

This time Blaise laughs—first, a low rumble-snort semi-concealed in his napkin, broad shoulders shaking, and then he loses his composure and cackles delightedly, throwing back his head and filling the small, steamy cafe with the sound of his amusement. He pokes Ginny in the ribs and that's all it takes; she turns away from Harry and giggles helplessly. Across the table, Draco sighs and gazes crossly at Harry, who knows better than to join in with the frivolity.

Instead, he taps thoughtful fingers on the shiny tabletop and looks up at the waitress. "Erm... I don't think it's that he doesn't understand you. I think he's taking exception to your attitude."

"Excuse me?" the girl demands, thin-pencilled eyebrows disappearing into her long fringe.

Harry sighs, unable to decide whether he's amused or exasperated. "He wants you to be a little bit more polite," he rephrases gently. "Maybe you could say 'we're out of parsnips, I'm sorry' or something like that."

"It's not my fault," she says defensively, crossing her arms and straightening up.

"I know," Harry sighs. Next to him, Ginny and Blaise are leaning against one another, trying—with limited success—to control their giggles. "You could try smiling," he suggests, attempting a weak grin in her direction, already certain that he's fighting a pointless battle.

The girl blinks. Whips around to stare reproachfully at Draco. "Well, forgive me, but you didn't smile either!" she says, apparently wounded.

"I don't work here!" Draco retorts. "And, to be perfectly honest, neither should you."

For what feels like a long time, there is silence at the table; even Ginny and Blaise manage to stifle their laughter. The chatter of the other diners, the rattles and hisses from the kitchen, and the raspy singing of the busker in the street outside fill Harry's ears as he looks from the waitress to Draco and back again. She holds his steely eye contact for what Harry feels is an impressively long time, but when she looks away, her eyes are shimmering with tears.

A glance around the table tells Harry that none of his dining companions are going to be of any use here. He supposes that this Ginny has a few years left before she has to deal with any truly stroppy behaviour from Maura.

"Listen," he says, leaning forward to catch the girl's attention. "He didn't mean to upset you. But he's right that you need to behave like a professional when you're working—I mean... I'm no kind of expert on this, believe me, but wouldn't you enjoy your job more if you didn't have to argue with people?"

"I don't normally have to," she mutters, writing—or, Harry suspects, pretending to write—on her notepad so that she doesn't have to look at him. "Yeah, I suppose," she concedes after a moment, and it looks as though it costs her to do so.

"There are plenty more where he came from, I assure you," Blaise puts in helpfully, grinning, and she flicks a glance at him, flushes, and resumes her scribbling.

"Right. Okay. Sorry," she mumbles, determinedly not looking at Draco. "I'll put a note on the board."

"Good idea," Ginny says faintly.

The waitress bites her lip, frowns, and then scurries away, pushing her hair out of her face as she winds her way through the tables and launches into a frenzied conversation with the older woman behind the counter.

"You're far too soft," Draco sighs, folding his arms on the table and regarding Harry with resigned tolerance. "But... I suppose it's best not to make girls cry. Especially when they're preparing one's food."

"I'm really glad this has been a learning experience for you, Draco," Harry says, shaking his head and fighting a smile.

Ginny's face is a picture of confusion. "How the hell did you do that?"

Practise, Harry thinks grimly. He shrugs. "Some people expect you to be confrontational and being nice really throws them. It's always worth a try."

"Wise words," Blaise declares. He flashes a sparkling grin across the crowded cafe, which is immediately followed by a metallic crash. Harry looks around just in time to see the surly waitress crouching and scrambling to retrieve her tray.

"Blaise," Ginny reproves, mouth twitching at the corners. "Don't be a dirty old man."

"Take that back! I am in the prime of life!"

"You're too old to be flirting with teenagers," Ginny says, resting her head on his shoulder, eyes bright with amusement. "Sorry."

Blaise heaves a sigh so dramatic that Draco's napkin skitters off the edge of the table. He bends to retrieve it and emerges, nose wrinkled in distaste.

"I hate teenagers," he says with feeling. "They're all horrible. No exceptions."

"You'd know," Ginny prods, grinning.

"We were all impressively obnoxious in our own little ways," Draco says, before conceding gracefully with a small smile that squeezes Harry's heart: "I may have been more obnoxious than most. Which makes me an expert."

"If you say so. I think you have to sort of... speak their language," Ginny muses.

Blaise's eyes grow wide. "Oh, good grief, no. Don't do that."

Intrigued, Harry leans forward in his chair. "Why not?"

"Because if you're anything like me, you'll make a complete tit of yourself. I was looking after Melina—you know, Aurelia's daughter—the other week..."

"Oh, yeah. I remember now," Ginny says, smirking. She pats her husband on the arm consolingly.

"First I asked her how it was dangling for her..." Blaise groans and covers his face momentarily with a huge hand. "And then when she was getting aerated about something or other, I suggest she 'unravel herself', which she found hilarious."

"Why would you do that?" Draco asks, puzzled.

"It's something they say... something like that, anyway. I was attempting to be cool," Blaise sighs. "Of course, she wasted no time in telling everyone in sight how horribly out of touch her uncle is."

"Untwist," Harry says, head full of Lily's voice. "You're supposed to untwist. I have no idea about the dangling thing."

"Where do you learn these bizarre things?" Draco demands.

Harry jumps, gritting his teeth as he registers the sudden sharp pain of pointed claws digging into his thigh. He blinks, coming back to himself, and looks down. The bustling cafe has dissolved, and Frank the cat is curling on his lap, using his claws to anchor himself. He stares up at Harry, sensing his tension, and lets out a plaintive miaow.

"Claws in," Harry reproves, sliding his fingers between Frank's paws and the rough fabric of his robes and prising the two apart with care.

"Hmm?" James says, turning his head a fraction and quirking an eyebrow. "Did you say something?"

Harry looks at his son and smiles softly, all at once bristling with warmth for the daft bugger.

"Yeah. What have you done to your hair?"

James' scowl deepens and at Harry's side, Lily stifles a splutter of amusement. Reaching into his depleted reserves of self control, Harry resists glancing at her and instead attempts to fix James with his most patient expression.

"I dyed it," James says slowly, not needing to add the 'obviously' that glints in his eyes.

Harry pushes out a long breath. "Alright. That was a silly question," he concedes, and James' flicker of astonishment lights a thrill of triumph inside him. "What I mean is... maybe you shouldn't have done it without asking your mum first. She's quite upset about it, you know."

James lowers his eyes and pulls his knees more tightly to his chest, tucking in his chin and curling into the smallest space possible. "She doesn't get it," he mutters.

"Get what?"

"Being different. We don't all want to conform, you know," James says, voice sharp with accusation.

Harry suspects the comment is designed to wound, but instead he is flooded with warm nostalgia for his own moments of pointless rebellion and the fierce, Bat Bogey Hex-flinging Ginny that existed well before James was born.

"I think you'd be surprised," he says at last, smiling at James until his scowl softens into confusion. "Your mother had her moments."

James snorts, but the hardness has left his eyes as he regards Harry over the top of his folded arms.

"It's not like I got my tongue pierced or anything," he grouses.

Harry blinks. "Were you planning to?"

"No, Dad," James says, rolling his eyes. "But Teddy's got his done, and his hair's magenta."

"Teddy changes his hair colour ever five minutes," Harry points out, trying to keep the surprise from his voice. He wonders if Andromeda knows about the hole in her grandson's tongue. He doubts it. "And anyway, he's of age and he lives in Paris."

"I know," James says moodily. "He sent me a picture of his new girlfriend. She's called Renée."

"She's French," Lily puts in, sounding amused.

"I think he could've figured that out, Lil," James sighs.

Harry looks wearily between them and scrubs a hand through his hair. "So... are you saying that you've dyed your hair blue because Teddy's got a French girlfriend?"

For a second or two, James continues to glower exasperatedly from the window seat, and then something astonishing happens. He laughs. He might be trying to hide it in the crook of his elbow, and he might be trying to stop, but it's no use because Harry has seen it and Lily has seen it, and so has whoever has just stepped out of the fireplace behind them. James groans, but a smile lingers around the corners of his mouth, and Harry decides to accept the small victory.

"Hi, Mum," Lily says. Harry's heart speeds and he hesitates before turning to see Ginny emerging from the fireplace with Al in tow. "James is being weird," she adds cheerfully, and returns to her book.

"Ah. Everything's in order, then?" Ginny says, finding a weary smile for her son. She shrugs off her outer robe, scrapes her curtain of heavy hair over one shoulder and startles as, to Harry's almost-amusement, she appears to notice him for the first time. "You're home early."

Her tone is neither accusing nor overjoyed; it's just flat. She nods briefly to acknowledge his cancelled-meeting explanation, and then excuses herself to the kitchen. Harry gazes after her for several seconds, attempting to extricate some kind of sense from the oddly numb mass of emotion that has taken up residence in his chest.

It's no good.

"Who ate all the bread?" Ginny calls over the crashing of cupboards and the whistling of the kettle.

The living room is pin-drop silent but for the soft sound of Frank's rhythmic purring as he kneads Lily's thighs with his paws. James frowns lightly and begins a very thorough examination of his nails.

"No idea," Harry calls back, enjoying James' poorly-concealed surprise. He pulls himself upright and heads into the kitchen, where Ginny is leaning against the counter and eating pickles out of the jar. With her fingers. Harry lifts an eyebrow.

"Don't tell on me to the kids," she whispers, shooting Harry a conspiratorial glance and offering him the pickle jar. "James ate all the bread, didn't he?" she adds, looking mutinous.

Harry smiles, struck by a painful rush of affection for this woman and the knowledge that he can't pretend, not now that he knows what he does.

"If I tell on him, I'll have to tell on you," he says roughly. Swallows hard.

Ginny sighs, seeming to consider this for a moment. At last she finishes her pickle with a decisive crunch, screws the top back onto the jar and abandons it on the counter. She licks her fingers.

"Alright. I can deal with that." Narrowing her eyes, she stares at him across ten feet of space that feels like more. "You look like you've had a bad day. I'm pretty tired, but if you want to rant while you're making me a cup of tea, I'm all ears."

Harry exhales carefully, forcing himself to break the eye contact. He crosses the kitchen, lifts the kettle and turns his back on Ginny, allowing the last of the steam to curl around his face.

"Gin, if I knew where to start, I would."

There's a sharp intake of breath behind him, followed by a creak as she settles herself on the kitchen table. "Wherever you like," she says, and there's something in her soft tone that makes Harry's fingers curl tightly around the handle of the kettle. "Or I could guess. Did Helga try to poison you?"

"Not today." Harry pours the tea and chews his lip thoughtfully, recalling Helga's pinched kindness.

"MLE meeting go badly?"

"What?" Frowning, Harry pokes at the teabags, watching the infusion darken. "Oh. No. It's been moved to Friday."

"Hasn't it already been moved once?"

"I can't remember," Harry says honestly. Stomach in knots, he turns around, passes one cup to Ginny and clutches onto his own as though it's a lifeline. He takes a deep breath.

"Mum!" Al sings, skidding into the room at speed and using the edge of the table to bring himself to a halt. "Mother!"

"Yes, son?" Ginny deadpans. Harry watches her sip her tea, apparently unperturbed by the interruption. Why would she be? he scolds himself silently. As far as she is concerned, everything is fine. At least, as fine as it usually is.

"What's for dinner? I'm starving."

Ginny looks at her son. Reaches out and ruffles his hair. Accios the pickle jar from the counter.

"Ask your dad."

**~*~**

Frazzled though he may be, Harry has no issue with making dinner for the family. It does, however, take him a moment to remember that he is no longer cooking for Draco and therefore cannot throw anything he feels like into the pot, or experiment wildly with unusual herbs and spices, and still expect appreciative noises and clean plates. At last, after a search of the cupboards with Al, Lily and Frank under his feet, making suggestions, asking for snacks and demanding meaty chunks in jelly—in various combinations—Harry settles on a nice, safe spaghetti Bolognese.

The first meal he made for Draco, he thinks, pushing away an odd little pang and slicing viciously at a large onion. Draco isn't here any more. Not his Draco.

After a relatively civilised meal, the children decamp to the living room and Harry, without a better idea, follows them, struggling as he does to remember what he used to do in the evenings before all of this.

"Haven't you got any work to do tonight?" Al enquires, throwing him a curious glance when he settles himself on the floor at the foot of the Christmas tree and obligingly holds onto the loose end of the shiny red ribbon that Lily is curling with scissors.

"Thanks, Dad," she murmurs, lips pursed in concentration.

"No," Harry tells Al. "I left it all at the office."

Al's green eyes widen. He sighs. "I wish I had somewhere to leave my homework."

Harry smiles. He leans back on his free hand, enjoying the fresh smell of the tree and the soft hum of carols from the wireless, and, astonishingly, just above that, the tentative sound of James and Ginny having a conversation. A conversation that their expressions suggest is about something other than James' hair or James' clothes or James' grades.

"I wonder what they're talking about," he murmurs, mostly to himself.

"Quidditch," Lily says, taking the red ribbon back from him and standing on tiptoe to dangle it from one of the upper branches before dropping back to the floor and handing him a second ribbon, this time green. "James asked if he could have a new broom. I stopped listening for a bit, but now she's telling him about winning a match against Slytherin."

"You've got ears like a bat, Lil," Al says, impressed. He picks up a ribbon of his own and copies Lily, only to slip halfway along and stab himself in the hand. "I bet this is easier with magic," he huffs.

"I'd rather you didn't blow yourself up... or worse, set the tree on fire," Harry advises. His wand hand makes an instinctive twitch toward Al, but he resists, instead scrutinising the small scratch. He'll live. "Suck it," he says instead. "Saliva is a natural antiseptic."

Al raises his eyebrows but complies, raising the heel of his hand to his mouth.

"Erghh!" Lily says, wrinkling her nose. Al laughs against his hand and sucks harder on purpose.

"Nice one, Mum!" James cries, and then he coughs lightly and amends: "I mean, yeah, that was pretty impressive, I suppose."

In an attempt to hide her astonishment, Ginny turns away and meets Harry's eyes over the back of the sofa. She shoots him a 'well, that's interesting' look that is familiar enough to draw a small smile from him. It really is no good.

He has to tell her.

**~*~**

As he sits on the edge of the bed, poking his tomato clock until it says, "ten thirty-four, ten thirty-four, ten thirty-four" over and over again, Harry thinks it can wait. The telling her part.

"Ten thirty-four," says the clock, and Harry slaps it into silence. He just wants to go to sleep.

He just wants a lot of things, he supposes, and not all of them are possible. But that's fine, he tells himself. That's fine—do you know why? Because you're a grown up. You're a man who's old enough to realise that you can't have everything. So, in short, get a fucking grip.

Powered by pure stubbornness, he stomps into the bathroom and brushes his teeth so hard that he spits blood-tinted foam back into the sink. He stares at it for a moment, running his tongue around the sore inside of his mouth, tasting mint and copper, before lowering his head and swilling out his mouth with icy water straight from the tap. Then, shuddering, he splashes his face and allows himself a second or two to regard his dripping, fuzzy reflection in the mirror.

At the sound of Ginny's approaching footsteps, Harry wipes his face with the back of his hand and retrieves his glasses from their perch on the collar of his t-shirt, shoving them back onto his nose so that he doesn't fall over her on the way back to the bedroom. When he gets there, having passed her in mutual silence in the doorway, he falls back onto the bed and props himself up on his elbows. Bare feet dangling almost to the floor and head tilted back, he closes his eyes.

"I sincerely hope you aren't planning on coming to bed wearing those."

Harry glances down at his thin drawstring trousers and then up at Draco, who is standing at the foot of the bed with his arms folded, wearing a quill behind his ear and nothing else.

"What's wrong with them?"

"What's right with them?" Draco snipes, grey eyes narrowed in disdain. "I'm willing to overlook the boxer shorts from time to time, but really... those things just catch the cracker."

Harry frowns, baffled—first at the offending trousers, and then at Draco. And finally it makes sense. He laughs. "I think the phrase you're looking for is 'takes the biscuit'. My trousers take the biscuit. And... I'm taking them off now."

"Harry, have you gone deaf?"

Harry's head snaps up and he opens his eyes to see Ginny, not Draco, standing at the end of the bed. She is knotting the belt of her turquoise robe and gazing down at him with her head on one side; oddly, she doesn't seem irritated, and even more oddly, that fact makes Harry want to cry.

"Sorry, Gin," he manages at last. "I was in my own little world."

Ginny nods vaguely and sits down on the edge of the bed next to Harry's feet. She lifts her hand to tuck several long strands of hair behind her ear, opens her mouth to speak and then hesitates, brow creased and mouth twisted into a sad little smile.

"That's the second time tonight," she says at last.

"What?" Harry asks. Anxious, he scrambles up into a sitting position beside her and glances sideways at her solemn profile.

"The second time you've called me 'Gin'. You haven't called me that in a long time."

Harry's heart speeds unpleasantly. He hadn't even noticed. "I'm sorry."

She laughs, light and sad. Looks out of the window. "No, I just... Harry, you've been so far away from me."

The raw truth of those words hits Harry like a slap to the face and, inexplicably, he wants to laugh. He resists, suddenly terrified by the realisation that he has no idea what to feel any more. Or what to say.

"I'm sorry," he tries again, partly because he needs to say it, and partly in the hope that it will be the right answer this time.

Ginny sighs and turns to him, eyes large and bright with tears. "What are you apologising for?"

"Like I said, I don't even know where to start," he says. It hurts to see her in pain. He had somehow forgotten how much.

"Try," she whispers, dragging in a ragged breath and twisting her fingers in her lap. "Try, Harry, because you're not the only one... you're not the only one who knows something's ... not right any more," she says. "I'm not stupid." Her eyes hold Harry's: fearful, defiant, beautiful. Something inside him curls up into a tight ball and screams in pain.

"I know you're not, Gin," he mumbles, reaching out to her. Pulling back his hand and clenching it into the sheets. "I know you're not. I know." Aching all over, he stares at her, breath short and eyes hot; he lets them fall closed and leans slowly, closing the small distance between them and resting his forehead against hers. The skin pressing against his is cool, as are the strong, slender fingers that slide-rustle across the sheets and wrap around his.

Hot with guilt, he barely knows what he's doing as he dips his head, faintly startled by the softness of the skin that brushes over his, falling blindly against her lips and kissing her with a dark, glittering hope that doing so will take all of the jagged, messy shards inside him and somehow put them back together.

Ginny twists her free hand into his t-shirt, clinging to him even as she huffs a soft sound of confusion into his mouth, kissing back, matching his desperation and tasting like tea and toothpaste and everything he knows. He slides his fingers through her silky hair and kisses her harder, stinging with loving her but not like this, hating that her mouth doesn't seem to fit perfectly against his like it once did, thinking about the mouth he wants and forcing himself not to think about it until those broken shards threaten to rip him apart.

Mouths sliding together, they share hot, unsteady breaths; Ginny's fingers slide under the hem of his t-shirt, nails dragging lightly, and he freezes.

No, he says, turning cold as his senses return to him in a rush. No.

Nothing happens, and it takes him a moment to realise that he hasn't spoken aloud. He opens his eyes, pulling back and wrapping both hands around her shoulders, holding her gently at arm's length.

"I can't. I'm sorry... I just can't."

She gapes at him, face flushed and eyes wide, all at once looking so young in the soft light that for a fleeting moment Harry wants to hug her and tell her to forget it all; everything is fine; he's just had a long day. Then her expression shifts, becomes resolute. She folds her arms.

"You need to tell me what's going on in your head, Harry. Right now. This isn't fair."

Harry nods. "I know." I know, I know, I know, he repeats silently. But he doesn't know anything at all. He doesn't know how to say these words. Whatever these words might be. Whatever they are, he hadn't expected to say them yet, but they are tumbling out of his mouth and he is letting them.

"I keep having this dream," he says suddenly.

Ginny looks an awful lot less surprised than he thinks she should. "The one about Malfoy?"

"Er... no," he improvises, "a different one. And... everything is really different. For everyone. You and I never got married. We're both with different people. And I... the person I... in the dream I'm gay, Gin," he says all in a rush, wanting the words out, even though the admission is half-arsed and faintly ridiculous.

"Okay." Her face is pale now, but her voice is even and she has dropped her hands into her lap and tucked one foot up underneath herself on the bed; she looks almost relaxed. "But you can't tell me that our marriage isn't working because you have a recurring gay dream... which, by the way, isn't all that surprising."

"What?" Harry demands. Derailed, he stares at her, prickling heat all over.

"I've always wondered," Ginny says, shrugging and treating him to an odd half-smile. "I've had a long time to wonder. But that's not what this is about, is it?" she presses, smile turning sad.

"I... is it not?" Harry asks. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. Scrubs at his hair with both hands. "Since I've... been having the dreams," he attempts when there's no response from Ginny, "I've been thinking, and... I don't know, I'm finding it harder to ignore how unhappy we're making each other... because we are, aren't we?" he says, throat aching as he forces himself to turn his head and look at her.

Ginny's face is obscured by her hair as she looks down at her hands, but there's no disguising the tremor in her voice as she says, "I didn't think it would be like this."

"Neither did I," he admits. "But he we are. You know, this conversation wasn't supposed to go quite like this, either," he sighs, looking back down at the rug.

Ginny laughs shortly. "I didn't really think we'd be having it at all."

"Tonight?"

"Ever."

Resting his head in his hands, Harry lets out a long sigh that leaves him sore. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry that you don't love me any more," she says matter-of-factly.

Harry's heart twists violently; he squeezes his eyes shut, but several fat tears slide out and splash against his glasses. "Gin, I do love you."

"Not like this," she whispers, pain evident. "Not like you used to."

"No," he says at last, and the sound seems to echo in the near-silent room, mocking him. Frozen in place, he feels the mattress dip beneath Ginny's weight as she shifts and draws in a long, uneven breath.

"Wow," she whispers, trying to hide a sob behind an awkward laugh. "It really fucking hurts to hear that."

Harry lifts his head from his hands, stung into action by the out-of-character harsh language and the confusing sentiment. "Didn't you expect it to?" he wonders. The "I'm sorry" falls from his mouth before he can stop it; Ginny sniffles and rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, I expected it to. I think I'd convinced myself that expecting it would soften the blow, somehow. Stupid, really," she sighs, affecting nonchalance that has no chance of fooling Harry.

"It's not stupid," Harry says forcefully, grabbing her shoulder and compelling eye contact. He needs her to believe this—to believe him—because suddenly, in the midst of this raw fucking snarl of hurt that has opened up around them both, he can see what's important, what's vital, and he holds on to it hard, swallowing around his pain and blinking his sore eyes until she slides back into focus in front of him.

"I don't want to hurt you, Gin. I know I already have, and I want it to stop. I don't think it matters what I do now, or what you do, because I don't think we can make this right." He pauses, voice catching, chest sore.

Ginny's dark eyes swim with tears but she doesn't look away. "I used to think you could fix anything." She lets out a rueful laugh, forcing a smile that doesn't stop a sob from escaping.

"Gin..."

"Don't worry, I've managed to disabuse myself of that notion over the years," she says.

Harry almost smiles. "That's a relief." He exhales slowly, trying to push all of the anguish from his body in one long breath. "I wish I could fix it."

Ginny shakes her head and flops back onto the bed; for a moment, her hands cover her face, and then she pushes her fingers back through her hair and gazes up at Harry, face tear-streaked but determined. "I don't."

Harry stares down at her, feeling all at once relieved and as though he has been hexed viciously in the stomach. "You don't love me either," he says, unsure whether or not he means it as a question.

"Don't be an idiot," she sighs. "I love you more than anything, except for my children. You're their father, Harry—we made them together." Ginny takes a deep breath, wipes away her tears with the back of her hand, and pulls herself upright again. "I love you so much that I can let you go," she whispers, and Harry falls apart a little because it's right, and it hurts so much.

Words seem out of reach. Instead, he wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her hair, shaking as they cling to one another, gulping at sweet, coconut-scented air and allowing her hot tears to trickle down his neck and inside his collar. He closes his eyes and thinks of Lily, Al, and James, peacefully unaware that anything of significance has occurred. Of Draco, both the one who briefly belonged to him, and the one who is probably sitting in his manor, wearing black and, perhaps, wondering just where his own marriage veered off course.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" Ginny says, breaking the silence. At least, that's what Harry thinks she says; her voice is muffled by his shoulder.

"What?"

"Do you want a cup of tea?" she repeats, pulling away and scrubbing at her blotchy face.

He frowns. "Er... I don't know."

"Well, I'm having one," Ginny announces. She stands, stretches and gathers her heavy hair in one hand, shifting the weight of it as she works the kinks out of her neck. When she looks at Harry again, her expression is oddly calm. "It's a serious decision, of course."

"Not like ending a marriage," Harry says, because she doesn't.

She quirks a rueful little smile, but wraps her arms around herself as though the words might shatter her fragile new armour and bring the tears rushing back.

"Exactly," she says softly, and then turns and walks out into the hallway. She doesn't bother to light the lamps and quickly disappears into the darkness. After a moment, Harry scrambles from the bed and follows her down the stairs, carpet prickling against his bare feet, cautious breaths loud in his ears.

He hesitates at the kitchen door, listening to the sounds of kettle and cups and spoons and wondering just what he's supposed to do now. There's no going back, that much is obvious, and the speed at which his life is turning itself inside out is making his head spin. Craving fresh air, he turns his back on the soft yellow light that spills from the kitchen and instead makes his way to the front door and out into the night. The air is sharp and bitterly cold against his skin; it ruffles his thin t-shirt, slices through his hair and stings his sore, damp cheeks. He tips his head back, welcoming it, until a violent shiver grips him and reminds him that it's December and he's hardly dressed for the elements.

Lowering himself onto the cool step, he pulls his bare feet up onto the edge, tucking his knees into his chest, and sweeps his hand in a large arc, palm out, until the entire doorway is encircled by an invisible ring of warmth. In theory. In reality, it's a little patchy, but it'll have to do; his wand is upstairs and he's exhausted.

When a steaming cup is handed to him, he accepts it in silence, and Ginny sits on the step beside him, pulling the front door closed behind her. For a moment, Harry watches her in his peripheral vision as she blows gently on her tea and stretches out her bare legs, examining the chipped silver polish on her toenails, before he leans back against the solid support of the door and gazes down the driveway at the glittering, frost-coated village that has been his world for the best part of two decades.

His stomach flips; whether in apprehension or in relief, he doesn't know, but either way, this part of his life is over. All over bar the shouting, of which there has been none.

Harry sighs. "What should we do now?"

"I don't know," Ginny admits, resting her cup on her knee. "I don't think anyone ever does, really."

Harry gulps at his tea, registering the extra sugar with an inward wince but saying nothing, instead allowing the hot liquid to soothe his twisting insides. She's right, he thinks, exhaling a warm, white plume of breath that highlights the inconsistencies of his Warming Charm. There are no strategies or tictacs for this. Nobody is going to tell him how best to handle the situation, and, while that may well be a good thing, because he doubts he's in the mood to listen to advice, he suddenly feels very alone.

Ginny's thigh brushes against his as she shifts position next to him and he looks up. Her skin glows softly in the silvery moonlight, and he is struck by how beautiful she is. Though not as youthful and vibrant as her other self, this Ginny—his Ginny—has aged with grace. There are lines, but they are faint, indicative of struggles and hard work and three separate sets of sleepless nights. There are grey hairs, but many, many more are a rich, flaming red that makes her stand out wherever she goes. She is clever, quick-witted and fiercely loyal, just like the girl he fell in love with, and, probably, just like the girl that Blaise Zabini fell in love with.

"You're brilliant," he says impulsively.

Ginny glances at him. "Don't tell me you're changing your mind."

"No." Harry hesitates. The minute flicker in her eyes suggests she's teasing, but he doesn't trust himself to interpret her any more. "Would it matter if I did?"

She shakes her head, staring down into her cup and gripping it in both hands. "No. If you think this is all you deciding to walk out on me, you're kidding yourself. And so would I be if I decided to play the wounded victim. This..." She gestures between them, avoiding his eyes, "... this hasn't been working for a long time."

"I know," Harry mumbles, letting go of his denial and hoping the night breeze will carry it away. "Although, to be fair, I'm the one saying that I think I want... something different," he adds, shifting uncomfortably on the hard stone. Not just because of the hard stone.

Ginny sighs. "Something different is sort of comforting, actually. I think it would've hurt more if you'd wanted another woman instead of me... even if I knew we shouldn't be married to each other any more. Don't worry, I don't expect it to make sense," she adds, draining her cup and setting it down on the step with a soft clank-scrape.

"It does make sense," Harry says, surprising himself. "I just wish it hadn't taken me so long to... figure things out."

"Don't," she says firmly, wrapping her arms around her knees and looking up at him. "It hasn't all been bad, has it?"

"No," Harry says quickly. "No, of course not. It hasn't been bad, Gin, it's just..."

"Yeah, I know." The sharp challenge in her eyes fades and she leans against him for a moment.

"I want you to find someone better. Someone who makes you happy," he whispers. Closing his eyes, he pictures Blaise lifting Ginny and swinging her around in the Weasleys' garden, laughing together over their fortune cookies at the Flailing Lizard, and teasing each other mercilessly as they distribute soup on Christmas Eve, bundled up in coats and scarves, Maura in tow—he concentrates on their energy, their chemistry, their smiles, until it doesn't hurt quite as much.

"I think I need to be on my own for a while," she says at last. "See how that feels."

"Yeah," Harry rasps, gripping his cup so tightly with the effort of not thinking about Draco that it cracks. He watches the fissure travel along the shiny red ceramic until it reaches the rim of the cup and stops abruptly. "That sounds sensible," he says, in a voice that sounds nothing like his own.

Ginny reaches over, takes the damaged cup from him and examines it, eyebrows drawn down in contemplation. "Who is it, then?" she asks calmly.

Harry freezes. "You're asking me to recommend someone for you?" he says, trying to inject a note of incredulity into his voice.

"No, you daft bugger," she scolds, voice catching again. "Who makes you happy? Who do you keep dreaming about?" With a searching stare that pins Harry to the cold step, she insists: "There is someone, isn't there?"

"I'm not cheating on you," he says, and the words stick in his throat; technically, he knows he is telling the truth but technicalities are for the weak, the slippery, the deceitful. He also knows that the discomfort is his to carry, not Ginny's.

"That's not what I said." Ginny extends a cautious hand beyond the cover of the Warming Charm and skates it along the ground, gathering powdery snow on her fingertips. "I want to know what's in your head."

Harry copies her, leaning to one side and scooping snow into his cupped hands. Pensive, he lets it fall from one hand into the other; it's astonishingly light and soothing against his fingers, turning them damp and numb. Beside him, Ginny sighs, and he knows he has to say something. Unfortunately, he suspects that what's in his head can only make things worse.

"How will that help?" he says in the end, and compresses the snow into a hard plaque between his palms.

"It won't." She shrugs and flashes him a tight smile. "I'm curious."

"Curiosity can be dangerous," he says weakly.

Ginny snorts. "You're one to talk. Is it someone I know?" she says suddenly, eyes bright as she wipes her dripping fingers on her robe. "It's someone I know, isn't it?"

Harry drops his head back against the door and turns his eyes to her in mute appeal. "Gin."

"Harry."

"It's the middle of the night. We're sitting outside in the snow, having this insanely calm conversation about ending our marriage. Do you really want to make this any weirder?"

"Why not? I've got nothing to lose," she says, voice brittle. She tucks her arm through Harry's, making him jump; seconds later, she turns to him, eyes wide. "It really is Malfoy, isn't it?"

Harry's heart slams against his ribs and then drops through his body and all he can do is stare back at her. "Nothing's happened," he mumbles.

"You're in love with Malfoy?" she says, and it's not really a question. Harry just tries to breathe. "Draco fucking Malfoy. Oh, Harry..." she murmurs, and then seems to lose it altogether, pressing her face into his shoulder and shaking against him.

Alarmed, Harry stares at her, listening to the odd, heart-rending sound of her anguish.

It takes him a good few seconds to realise that she's not crying. She's laughing, and he's confused. It's a hot, shuddering laugh/sob that wracks her whole body, and when she finally lifts her head, her face is caught midway between real, hard amusement and soft, muted sadness.

"What's so funny about that?" he asks before he can stop himself.

Ginny snorts, covers her face with her hands, and laughs breathlessly. Harry lobs his snow plaque at her and it shatters in her hair; she laughs even harder and shakes her head vigorously, sending lumps of ice flying everywhere.

"Oh... what's not so funny about it?" she gasps, still giggling as she drops back against the door and closes her eyes.

"Charming," Harry grumbles. He doesn't suppose he has much right to be hurt, and he's not—not really. He's baffled, but he's used to that.

Ginny grins wearily and then opens her eyes. "I keep thinking, any minute now I'm going to wake up and wonder what the hell all this was about," she confides.

"I know exactly what you mean," Harry agrees, stifling a yawn.

"When did we get so old?" Ginny mumbles, catching it and lifting a hand to her mouth.

Harry shrugs, an automatic "I don't know" on his lips, but he catches it before it can escape. "We're not. At least, we don't have to be."

"Hmm," Ginny muses, picking fragments of ice out of her hair. "Maybe we make each other old."

"Don't say that," Harry whispers, heart-sore. Even though she's probably right.

"Well, we'll see," she says. "I have to say, though, from what I've seen of Malfoy recently, he's not doing any better. He looked terrible the last time he was at Gringotts."

Harry aches. "He didn't look too happy at King's Cross in September, either," he offers. "That was the last time I saw him."

Ginny lifts an eyebrow. "You know... if I didn't know better, I'd say you were having a mid-life crisis."

"Maybe I am." Harry shivers; the Warming Charm is fading, but he can't be bothered to do anything more than glare at it. He tucks himself into a smaller space and rubs his arms.

"You could be, but I doubt you've forgotten about Malfoy for more than five minutes at a time since you met, so..." She shrugs.

Harry scowls at the ground, prickling with indignation. "Aren't you upset?" Ginny catches her breath, and he immediately regrets biting. "Sorry," he mumbles.

"Of course I'm bloody upset," she snaps, picking up another handful of snow and savagely squashing it into a ball. "I just don't think being bitter will make me feel any better... or help you... or be good for the kids. And... and despite all of this mess, I just want us all to be okay."

Sobered, Harry nods. "So do I."

"Do you think that's possible?"

Harry draws in a deep breath, sensing the significance of the question. "Yes," he says after a moment, the word coming out a little too loud in an attempt to sound decisive. "I think we will. I have no idea what I'm going to say to them, but I'll think of something."

"I'd start with Al, he already thinks the Malfoys are the best thing since glow-in-the-dark cereal." Ginny draws back her arm and flings her snowball into the street, where it splatters against a stop sign with impressive accuracy. "Did you read his last letter from school? Scorpius Malfoy this, and Scorpius Malfoy that..."

"No, I didn't," Harry admits. Frowns. "But that's not what I meant. I meant that I don't know what I'm going to tell them about you and me."

"I wasn't planning on making you do it on your own," Ginny says, looking at her hands and frowning.

"I know," Harry lies, hiding his relief with some effort. He pretends intense interest in a nearby patch of ice, and when he turns back to Ginny, she is holding out her wedding ring on the palm of her hand and staring at him, face set. Harry winces, and she blinks, pained, biting her lower lip but holding firm.

It's been coming, and for far longer than he wants to admit—Draco or no Draco—but fuck, it still hurts like nothing he's ever experienced. Nothing.

He takes the ring and wraps his shaking fingers around it. With a shuddering breath, he twists his own silver band until it loosens, slips it off and hands it to Ginny. She takes it without a word and leans against him, pushing his ring onto her thumb and lacing her hand through his. Uncertain, he squeezes her fingers and kisses the top of her head. She squeezes back, hard enough to hurt, and he rests his chin there, following her eyes to stare out at the stars.

Finally, the spinning inside his head begins to slow, allowing his thoughts to clear and separate. Which isn't necessarily a good thing.

"Oh, god," he mutters against Ginny's hair. "Ron's going to kill me."

"You should give him some credit."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He feels Ginny's shoulders lift in a deep sigh. "Everyone always expects him to fly off the handle about everything and it's not fair. I know he's done some stupid things in his time, but so have you, and no one ever says 'I don't want to tell Harry, he'll be completely unreasonable'," she complains. "He wants what's best for you as well as me, you know."

"I know," Harry says, chastened. "But you're his sister. His little sister at that," he adds, knowing that she hates that, and, sure enough, there is a small sound of discontent from below.

"You're his best friend," Ginny points out.

"I know. And I didn't really want to be the person who broke his sister's heart," Harry says heavily.

Ginny sniffs. "Well, I'm afraid that was the risk you took when you married me."

"Gin, I'm s—"

"Harry."

"Yeah?"

"Be quiet for a minute."

Harry is quiet. He stays quiet until they both pull their breathing under control, and he is quiet as they rise, by mutual tacit consent, and step back into the house. He is quiet as he follows Ginny up the stairs, relishing the heat and the soft carpet, and he is quiet as he creeps along the landing past the children's bedrooms.

He is not quiet enough. Lily's door creaks open and a sleep-tousled head sticks out.

"What's happening?" she mumbles, blinking slowly up at her mother.

"Nothing, Lil—why don't you go back to bed? Me and your dad are going to bed now," Ginny says.

"I heard the front door," Lily protests, yawning.

"Ah... we were just sorting out some... secret stuff, you know," Harry improvises, shooting Lily a meaningful look and kicking Ginny lightly in the ankle until she, too, puts on a conspiratorial expression.

A sleepy smile spreads across Lily's face. "Christmas presents?" she whispers.

"If you go back to bed," Harry shrugs. "Perhaps."

Lily rubs her eyes. "Okay, Dad. 'Night, Mum," she mumbles, giving each of them a haphazard but warm hug and stumbling back into her bedroom.

Harry watches her door for a moment, just to make sure, and then traipses into the bedroom that, for the moment, he still shares with Ginny. Cold and exhausted, he flops straight onto the bed and pulls the sheets around himself. Part of him wonders if he should be doing the decent thing and offering to sleep on the sofa, but he can't bring himself to move, and Ginny doesn't seem to mind. She crawls into bed, still wrapped in her robe, and tucks her icy feet underneath him. He suspects that at one time, before all of this, the idea of sharing a bed with his soon-to-be ex-wife would have been a strange one, but right now it somehow feels like the most natural thing in the world, and he holds onto it.

"You're a brilliant dad, you know," she says suddenly.

Harry doubts he deserves a compliment at this point but it warms him all the same. "Thank you. So are you." He frowns. "Or something."

Ginny snorts. "Thanks, I think."

Harry stares pointlessly into the darkness, trying to imagine just how strange this Christmas is going to be. Until this morning he thought he'd missed it completely, and now the whole thing has been whisked away from him again. Closing his sore eyes, he exhales heavily and twists Ginny's ring in his fingers. He doesn't want to miss it. Not again.

"Gin?" he tries, heart in his throat.

"Mm?"

Harry hesitates for a moment too long; her exasperation is almost palpable.

"I really need to sleep, Harry. My brain is shutting down. We can talk in the morning, I promise."

"Yeah... it's just... what do you think about hanging on until after Christmas?" he says, hating the weakness in his voice. "Just a little bit more... time."

"This isn't going to go away," Ginny whispers.

"No, it isn't," Harry agrees, strength suddenly pouring into him. He turns onto his side, seeking out her eyes, just visible in the gloom. "It'll still be here in the New Year."

Ginny sighs. "I could live without the guilt of ruining my children's Christmas, I have to admit."

"I think we both could."

"This is all a very weird dream," Ginny yawns, turning her back on him. "But just in case it's not, you'd better have this back."

Harry closes his fingers around the cold metal, uncertain how he feels about unexpectedly having it back in his possession. He puts it on anyway, safe in the knowledge that, if nothing else, doing so buys him almost two more weeks with his children before everything is blown wide open.

"Just for now," he says, reaching for Ginny's hand and sliding her ring back onto her finger.

She lets him. "You always were a terrible procrastinator," she mumbles, and just for a second, she sounds a lot like Draco. The memory of him fills Harry's senses as he punches his pillow, settles down, and wraps an arm around his wife's waist. All he can do is hope that his other self is back where he belongs, and that, eventually, the rest will follow.