Harry wakes before the tomato.

Feeling somewhat triumphant, he stretches out a hand and prods it into the 'off' position, ignoring the eye that swivels to follow him as he rolls over and gazes silently at Ginny, who is sleeping lightly beside him. Or so he thinks.

"What's the matter?" she mumbles, shifting and almost disappearing behind a curtain of hair.

Harry squints at her in the near-darkness. "Nothing," he whispers, staring at her, and it takes him a moment to realise that, actually, it isn't too far from the truth. Which is weird. His whole world has essentially been pulled apart, and yet he feels rested, and yesterday's headache has dissolved.

Ginny stretches and shuffles into a seated position. "You look relieved," she says softly.

Harry bites his lip and casts guilty eyes down to the bed clothes. "It's not the only thing I'm feeling, believe me."

"It makes quite a nice change to hear anything about how you're feeling," Ginny says drily.

"Isn't it a bit early in the morning for sly digs?" Harry complains, turning away to hide his awkwardness in making a show of putting on his glasses and lowering his feet to the icy floor.

"Probably," she sighs after a moment. "I'm sorry, Harry. I feel like I woke up and suddenly didn't know how to talk to you any more. I know that sounds stupid."

Harry takes a deep breath, trying to loosen the knots in his throat. "No, it doesn't."

There's a rustle of sheets behind him as Ginny crawls out of bed. "What do you suggest?"

"What do I suggest? To be honest, Gin, I'm still astonished that you haven't torn a strip off me, but if you're sure... I think we should talk to each other like good friends."

Ginny makes a rough little sound. "You've been my best friend for a long time."

"I suppose you can manage that, then," Harry says, twisting around to meet her eyes.

Her smile is a little wobbly, but genuine. "I suppose I can."

"Good. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you," Harry says, all in a rush, not caring how it sounds.

"It isn't as easy as that to get rid of me," Ginny advises. "However," she says, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek and then getting to her feet, "I do have to go to work. Thursday morning meetings wait for no man... or goblin."

Harry watches her disappear into the bathroom, wondering if he also has a meeting this morning. One for which he is, in all likelihood, completely unprepared. It's surprisingly difficult to care. Idly, he picks up his tomato clock and is floating it in lazy circles around his head when Ginny stalks back into the bedroom, robe flapping, bringing a wave of fresh, floral-scented steam with her. Draco's shower steam always smells like lemons, his mind supplies, along with the shockingly vivid memory of Draco's water-slicked bare skin and his invitations for Harry to join him.

Concentration slipping, he loses his grip on the spell and the tomato clock falls, bounces off his forehead with a painful clonk and rolls away across the bed with a single cry of 'six twenty-eight' that startles Ginny, causing her to stop buttoning up her shirt and turn to fix Harry with an inquiring look.

"What are you doing?"

Harry scowls and rubs at the sore spot on his head. "I have no idea. Carry on."

When Ginny finally leaves for work, hair shiny and robes pressed, with a brief hug that both pains and fortifies Harry, he prises himself from the bed and gazes gloomily at the sea of brown that is his wardrobe. Irritably, he chooses a sweater and trousers that look a little newer than the rest and stands in front of the mirror, gazing at his reflection with growing dissatisfaction. As he stuffs his wand into his waistband, though, he has an idea. Possibly not a very good one, but an idea nonetheless.

Eyes narrowed in concentration, he draws his wand along the soft wool of his sweater, concentrating on both the unfamiliar Transfiguration and the image of one of the nicest garments belonging to his other self, a sea-green cashmere thing with a strange folded over neck and little zips at the bottom. Encouraged by the tightening of the sweater around his torso and the lightening of the sludgy brown fibres, Harry flicks his wand, closes his eyes, and decides to trust his instincts.

Next, he goes for the trousers, attempting simply to make them black (because black goes with everything—he's certain he has heard Draco say that at least five times) and a little more fitted. Quietly confident—because how difficult can it be, after all?—Harry holds onto the spell until the trouser fabric pulls at his hips, and then lowers his wand and opens his eyes.

"Oh, no."

The man staring back at him from the glass looks ridiculous. Harry can't be sure where exactly he has gone wrong, but somewhere during the process, he has managed to create a style disaster. His sweater, far from being bluish-green and trendy, is the colour of a particularly obnoxious lime and so tight that when he lifts despairing hands to rake through his hair, the fabric rides up to expose his abdomen and then rips under both arms.

Harry lets out a sound that is part whimper and part snort of self-deprecating laughter.

If Draco could see him now, he'd... well, it's probably a good thing Draco cannot see him now, that's all Harry knows. Because the trousers... oh, fucking hell, the trousers. Far from being fashionably fitted, they stretch so tightly around his buttocks and crotch that absolutely nothing is left to the imagination. Harry suspects that right now, each individual bollock could be spied from space, and that's more than anyone needs to see of him. Conversely, from the knee down, the once uniformly baggy trousers have widened into some of the most obscene flares Harry has ever seen, and he has seen pictures of his dad in the seventies. He gives each leg in turn an experimental shake, and the excess of not-quite-brown, not-quite-black fabric flaps around his ankles.

He sighs, and then freezes at the sound of a stifled giggle. Very slowly, he turns, and realises with a thrill of horror that he has forgotten to close the bedroom door. Green eyes bore into his from beneath a mop of sleep-ruffled hair as Harry's pyjama-clad son looks him up and down and laughs and laughs and laughs.

"What are you doing up?" Harry grumbles, crossing his arms self-consciously over his chest.

"Bathroom," Al pants, cackling in earnest now. It's only a matter of time before James and Lily are roused to come and laugh at his outfit, too. "What've you got on, Dad?"

"I'll have you know," Harry says, drawing himself to his full height and attempting to channel a Draco-like level of icy nonchalance, "that this is an extremely... you know what, never mind what I've got on. Go back to bed."

Al snorts. "Right, Dad," he mumbles, shaking his head slowly as he slopes off to his bedroom.

Harry sighs. Alright, so he hasn't done the most elegant job with his outfit, but he doesn't think there's any need to laugh quite so hard. Slightly wounded, he strips off, banishes the offending garments and returns to his wardrobe. After a few moments' rummaging, he finds an un-butchered sweater and pair of trousers and resolves to go shopping after Christmas, even if he does hate the experience with every fibre of his being. If he's going to stop acting and feeling like an old man, he needs to stop dressing like one, too.

**~*~**

Opting not to fuel Helga's disparagement this morning, he throws on his robes before he leaves the house, and when he strides into the office a few minutes later, she barely raises an eyebrow.

"Your messages, Mr Potter," she says, holding out the sheaf of parchment without looking up from her Daily Prophet crossword.

He takes them, heads for his office door, and hesitates.

In that room lies sanctuary of a sort, but also reports and memos and other things, the very thought of which threatens to reinstate his headache. Suddenly he can't face it. He feels anxious and tender-raw and he doesn't need strategy and paperwork. He needs to see a friend.

Decisively, he stuffs the messages into his robe pocket and turns to Helga.

"I'm going out."

"Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but didn't you just arrive?" she says acidly.

Harry resists the temptation to pull a childish face at her. "I have a meeting with someone from the Goblin Liaison Office," he says, not quite resisting the temptation to fold his arms.

Helga blinks. "That's not in the diary."

"I know. I don't tell you everything, you know."

There's a familiar clacking sound as Helga leans forward and lifts an eyebrow. "Oh?"

The sound chills Harry and he takes a step back, but maintains eye contact. "Yes. Indeed. Hm." Harry pauses, frowning. "Never mind that. I'm going now."

Feeling like even more of an idiot than usual, Harry turns his back on her and stalks out into the corridor. In the lift, he presses his forehead against the wall, relishing the coolness of the metal, the fact that he's alone and the proximity of his office to Hermione Granger-Weasley's. At some point, he hopes, his brain will start working again. Unfortunately, he has no idea when that will be.

By the time he reaches the Goblin Liaison Office, he is light with the prospect of seeing the real Hermione for the first time in weeks. He is right outside her personal office before he remembers about Anthony Goldstein, but then the door is flying open and it's too late.

"Oh, hello, Auror Potter," says a vaguely familiar young woman with curly hair and an armful of scrolls. She smiles up at him and attempts to hold open the door with an elbow and a foot. "Have you come to see Ms Granger-Weasley? She's not in a very good mood at the moment," the woman adds in an undertone, shooting Harry a conspiratorial look.

"Union contracts?" Harry guesses.

The woman nods. She gathers her scrolls more securely and moves out so that Harry can take the weight of the door. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Harry murmurs, listening as her footsteps recede. He'd almost forgotten that some people at work are nice to him; Helga makes it too easy.

"Harry? Is that you?"

He pushes the door open and has to suppress a grin at what he sees. Hermione is sitting behind her desk but is almost completely hidden from view by a stack of multicoloured files, at least seven coffee cups, and a glittery tomato costume. Goldstein is nowhere to be seen.

"Nice tomato," he offers, clicking the door closed behind him.

"Oh, don't get me started on that," Hermione groans, wheeling her chair over the carpet so that Harry can see her harassed face. "Since when did the Nativity include sparkly tomatoes? And, more to the point, why did my son only show me the letter on Tuesday, giving me approximately five minutes to make his costume? I'm... I'm not even very good at sewing!" she wails, and Harry does smile at her now; he can't help it.

"I don't know, 'Mione," he says, finding a few square inches of desk and perching on it. He pokes at the costume cautiously, sending glitter showering to the floor. Alarmed, he withdraws his hand and stuffs it into his pocket. "It's... well, it's the best one of those I've ever seen," he says truthfully.

She laughs and the tension dissolves from her face. "Thanks. Where were you yesterday, anyway? Didn't you get my memo?"

"I'm sorry. I was buried in messages and I completely forgot. Is the offer of coffee still good?"

Hermione eyes the stack of files wearily. "If you can help me with these negotiations, I will buy you as many cups of coffee as you can drink."

Harry smiles, just full of warmth to see his friend again, even if he knows there's no way he can talk to her about the mess inside his head. Not yet, anyway. He leans across the desk to accept the quill she is holding out, getting gold glitter all over his robes and not caring.

"Deal."

After two hours of brainstorming and drafting and redrafting that feels like much longer, Harry has almost managed to forget about Ginny and Draco and everything that goes with them. In addition, his wrist hurts from scribbling down Hermione's rapid-fire thoughts, and the words 'goblin', 'representation' and 'therefore' have lost all meaning. When Hermione finishes re-reading their work and rolls up the parchment for safekeeping, he can barely contain his relief.

"I don't know how you do this all day, Hermione, I really don't."

She gazes at him across the desk, brow creased. "Drafting negotiations or dealing with goblins?"

"Paperwork," he clarifies, eyeing the desk piled high in the otherwise pin-neat office.

Hermione laughs. "I quite like it usually," she confesses, getting to her feet and shrugging into a smart plum coloured coat. "It appeals to my need for order. And anyway, you do at least as much as me; you never stop complaining about it." Harry opens his mouth to protest but she shakes her head, smiling, and heads for the door. "Come on. I've found this great little place."

"Same old Hermione," he mumbles under his breath, following her and hiding a smile.

"I heard that," she advises.

Harry says nothing, just follows her down to the Atrium and out into the crisp, cool morning. As they saunter through streets packed with last-minute Christmas shoppers, side by side in a comfortable silence, Harry wonders whether or not he should be in a meeting, or if he should have at least told Helga where he was going, but he flattens the flicker of conscience almost as quickly as it appears. He is the bloody Head of the bloody Auror Department, and he can go wherever he likes. It's been the longest time since he abused his position even a little bit.

Hermione glances at him, apparently amused, and Harry wonders if the childish little 'So there!' in his head is written all over his face. She directs an odd little half-smile at the ground and tucks her arm through his.

Probably, then.

"Mum!" comes the stage whisper of a small child from the other side of the street. Harry looks, trying not to make it obvious, and sees a little boy of six or seven, bundled up in stripy knitwear, hanging onto his mother's arm and gazing at Harry with wide dark eyes. "Is that Harry Potter, Mum? Is it? Is it?"

The woman bites her lip. Shoots anxious glances at Harry and then Hermione, who has now slowed almost to a standstill and is watching the scene with interest.

"Don't stare, Leon," she says, grabbing his hand and attempting to pull him along the pavement.

Harry heart clenches. He smiles at the little boy and adds an awkward-but-friendly wave without thinking about it. It only takes a moment for the child to grin and wave back so furiously that his arm is in danger of becoming detached. The pure, open delight on his face slams into Harry, and he is lifted higher still as the woman seems to shake herself, throws him a grateful smile and mouths a 'thank you' as she steers her son back into the crowds.

As they resume normal walking speed, Harry holds onto the smile.

"Are you feeling alright?" Hermione asks, elbowing him lightly, and shame steals back into his veins. He's forgotten his defences. His strategies for keeping people away. He's left them in that other place along with his exhaustion, his sanity, and the dull, unhappy person he had accidentally become before all of this.

"Yep," he manages, throat dry.

Hermione lifts an eyebrow but says nothing. Instead, she steers him around a corner and into a cobbled backstreet where the crowd is sparser and the cold air is rich with the aromas of coffee and fresh bread. Harry breathes in deeply, already feeling some of his dissatisfaction slipping away.

"Gah," Hermione yelps, grabbing his arm painfully hard as she loses her footing on the icy cobbles.

Without thinking, Harry twists around and catches her around the waist, steadying her before she crashes to the ground. She rests her head against his chest and sighs, mouth twitching at the corners, windblown curls everywhere.

"Well, that was graceful." She lifts her eyes to meet his and pulls herself carefully upright.

Harry grins, releasing her. "I've seen worse. I'm always falling over."

Hermione throws him an odd look and then turns away, holding her arms out at her sides and setting her feet down carefully on the sparkling cobbles. "You're being oddly self-deprecating today. Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

"Yeah, it's my..." Harry stops, staring down at his legs and turning cold. This knee was never damaged by Bellatrix Lestrange in the Malfoy's ballroom. Because Hermione... Harry drags in a deep breath, letting the cold air crash into his lungs. Here he doesn't need to worry about crashing to the floor at all the most inopportune moments, does he? In fact, since he returned, there has been a complete absence of falling down at inopportune moments. He can't help feel that he should be more relieved about that.

"Come on," Hermione calls from the door of a cafe some way up the street, and when Harry looks, there's an immediate thrill of recognition. He's been here before. Shaking himself, he catches up to her and follows her into the steam-filled cafe.

"The coffee here is fantastic," she says.

I know, he thinks. And the waitresses here are sulky.

"Better had be," he says instead, pulling up a chair at a corner table. "I think I've earned it."

Within seconds, the sullen-faced waitress has sloped over from the counter and is standing beside their table, tapping her pen against her notepad and regarding them with such an expression of world-weary ennui on her young face that Harry is almost impressed.

"What can I get you?" she asks, barely keeping the sigh out of her voice.

"Large black coffee, please," Harry says brightly, baring his teeth at her in a friendly smile that makes her eyes widen in astonishment. She just about manages to catch her pen before it tumbles out of her loosened grip and escapes.

"Er," says the waitress, eyes large and puzzled. "We've got three featured coffees this week... erm... a Sumatran Mandheling, a Monsoon Malabar, and a Brazilian Bruzzi. I think," she adds in a small voice, suddenly looking very much like the vulnerable teenager Draco had reduced to tears.

"I don't know," he says, folding his arms on the shiny tabletop. "Why don't you choose for me?"

"Right," she says after a moment, blinking repeatedly and knitting her thin eyebrows together as though she has no idea what to do with Harry.

He has to admit, he's enjoying himself.

"I'll have a medium cappuccino, please," Hermione says faintly, and both Harry and the waitress turn to look at her. "Do you two know each other?"

"No," Harry says, a little too quickly.

"Er, no," the waitress confirms, every shred of her attitude back in place as she regards Hermione.

"Well... alright then," Hermione murmurs, tucking an errant curl behind her ear and turning back to Harry, eyes narrowed in contemplation.

The waitress rolls her eyes and turns away, and Harry watches her until she disappears out of view.

"Fangirls," Hermione sighs.

Harry kicks her lightly under the table. "Hardly."

"Well, I don't know. Don't think it's escaped me that you're behaving oddly."

Harry's heart speeds unpleasantly. "What do you mean by that?"

Hermione sighs, dropping her hands into her lap and picking at her coat sleeves. "You're jumpy. And you're being... sociable with members of the public. If I'm honest, Harry, it's a little bit strange."

"Is this because I waved at that little boy?" Harry asks, attempting to sound as incredulous as he can.

"It's because I've known you for twenty-six years, and I know when you're trying to avoid talking about something," she says sharply, dark eyes boring into Harry's with such intensity, such intuition, that he's tempted to tell her everything, to hug her tightly and beg for her advice, but knows that as far as she is aware, they saw each other less than two days ago, and the only rational thing he can do right now is to pretend that everything is fine.

The waitress chooses that moment to bring over their coffee, and Harry busies himself with adding brown sugar from a paper packet and stirring noisily for as long as he can get away with.

"Harry. Communication is good. It won't hurt you," Hermione says stridently; when he meets her eyes, though, something in her seems to soften. "It's just me. You know you can tell me if something's wrong... is it James?"

Already forming his defence, Harry frowns, puzzled by the non-sequitur. "What? No—why would you say that?"

Hermione shrugs. She sips her cappuccino and wipes foam from her top lip with a paper napkin. "He's a teenager. And Al told me that he's dyed his hair blue. Just a hunch."

"Ah, that," Harry sighs, wrapping his fingers around his cup and allowing the heat to flow into his body. "It isn't all of his hair, if that makes a difference."

"Oh, all the difference in the world," Hermione says, lips twitching into a half smile. "Alright, then, it's not James, who, by the way reminds me an awful lot of you as a teenager—" Hermione pauses for long enough to mirror Harry's grimace mockingly back at him. "So, what's bothering you?"

Harry rubs his face and rests his chin on his hand. He hates lying to Hermione, but to tell the whole truth wouldn't be fair to Ginny, and the words that he needs stick in his throat. "I'm just run down, 'Mione. I'm tired," he says, and at least that part is true. As he speaks, a yawn rises obligingly and he covers it with a negligent hand.

Hermione catches it and shakes herself, setting down her coffee cup and turning stern eyes on Harry.

"Don't," she pleads. "I can't sleep until that bloody tomato is finished."

"Why don't you just use magic to make it?" he asks as the thought occurs to him.

Hermione bites her lip and ducks her head, suddenly sheepish. "Don't ask me that."

Harry is intrigued, and, more than that, he's happy to pursue any topic that takes the focus away from himself. "Hermione, why don't you just use magic to make it?"

She picks up her spoon and twiddles it distractedly in her fingers. "Because Hugo sedalthothrmumsrmakinthersproply."

"Excuse me?" Harry prods.

Hermione lifts her head and makes defiant eye contact, cheeks ever-so-slightly flushed. "Because," she says quietly, "Hugo said that all the other mums were making their costumes properly. And I can do that. I can," she insists, trying not to smile as Harry snorts with laughter at the wonderfully well-meaning, slightly illogical, so very Hermione admission.

Being with her is a miniature escape, a well-timed little reminder that even the most level-headed of his friends are capable of the faintly ridiculous. He's not alone.

"You're mad," he says, smile stretching wide.

"Probably," Hermione sighs. "Oh, well. It happens to the best of us. I'm not going to push you to talk to me, you know," she says, turning serious. "As long as you know I'm always here for you."

"I know," he says softly. At a loss for what else to say, he gulps at his rapidly-cooling coffee. It's delicious, smooth and bittersweet—the miserable waitress has chosen well.

For a minute or two, neither of them says a word. The cafe is midweek morning quiet and Harry can hear the two waitresses gossiping about a celebrity break-up as they wipe the counter and stack teacups and arrange exotic-looking bread rolls in a basket.

"They were like... a perfect couple," says the young waitress. "I can't believe it."

"Perfect couple my arse," her older colleague snorts. "There's no such thing, mark my words."

Harry sighs and drains his cup.

"Have you finished your Christmas shopping?" Hermione says suddenly.

"What do you think?" Harry says, lifting an eyebrow.

"If you were organised, you might be dangerous," she sighs. "I was thinking of getting Ron a bigger shed in the garden for his brooms," she says with a weary edge to her voice. "What do you think?"

"Doesn't he keep his brooms in the house these days?"

"The shed is for his overflow brooms," Hermione says faintly. She closes her eyes, rests her chin on her hand and laughs.

"Good grief," Harry murmurs, wondering—only for a split second—where on earth he has picked up that expression. His heart twinges and he forces himself to ignore it. "Yes, I think he'd like that... although I also happen to know that he's been angling for some Chudley-Cannon-orange seat-covers for his car."

Hermione wrinkles her nose. "Noted."

Pensive, Harry reaches for a sugar packet, slowly rips the paper and tips the granules into a tiny pile on the tabletop. "Did you..." Harry hesitates, pushing the sugar crystals around with the tip of his finger. "Did you always imagine that our lives would turn out like this?"

"I don't know," Hermione says carefully after a moment. "I hoped."

Harry looks up to meet hopelessly sincere brown eyes. "So, you're happy."

"Most of the time," Hermione says, and it's so obvious that she means it that Harry aches. "I've got Ron and my children and you... and my job. They're all a little bit frustrating at times, but therein lies the challenge, I suppose. I think I'd probably be bored if everything was perfect."

"That's very true," Harry manages. His mouth is disgustingly dry but his cup is empty.

"What did you imagine?" she asks, concern striking a little line between her eyebrows.

"Everything I have," he says, trying to swallow down the guilt that lashes from his chest into his throat when he thinks about Ginny and her sad, calm resignation. "I imagined that Gin and I would have a family and that I'd become an Auror." He forces a smile. "I was just wondering."

"Are you happy?" Hermione asks.

Harry feels sick. Gathering all the fortitude he possesses in order to maintain the eye contact, he draws in a deep breath and presses his fingertips against the scattered sugar granules, allowing the sharp crystals to prick his skin.

"Yeah, of course. I think I just need to make a few changes," he says after a moment.

Hermione's eyebrows shoot up. "What kind of changes?"

Harry quirks a small smile, still fighting down a persistent wave of nausea. "You'll see."

Glancing at the clock, Hermione sighs, rummages in her coat pocket and drops several coins into her empty saucer. "I have to go back to work, I'm afraid. It's a bit early but... do you think you're having a mid-life crisis?"

"Shut up," Harry says. Both witty and articulate, his subconscious observes.

"Well, that's me told," Hermione laughs, getting to her feet.

Harry seals his mouth shut before he can say anything else idiotic or incriminating and follows her out into the winter sunshine. It's almost midday. He wonders if Helga has sent out a search party yet.

**~*~**

As it turns out, Helga greets Harry with a "Good afternoon, Mr Potter" that is positively dripping with sarcasm and then spends the next few minutes watching him beadily as he fetches himself a glass of water and makes coffee for her with a lingering feeling of guilt. She takes it, swapping the cup for another seven messages and informs Harry pointedly that he has a very important meeting in half an hour.

"Right," Harry says, gulping at the cold water and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Helga shudders. "And is that all I have on this afternoon?"

"Is that all?" she repeats, apparently horrified. "You are being asked to sit in on a strategy meeting between the Minister for Magic and the Muggle Prime Minister and you are asking if that's all? Mr Potter, have you had a blow to the head?"

Helga is all but frothing at the mouth now, but Harry finds himself unmoved. He gazes at her over the top of his glass for a moment and then speaks in what he hopes is an even but still professional tone.

"I'm fine, Helga. I'm a little bit tired, and your concern for my health recently is much appreciated. I certainly didn't mean to be... dismissive about the meeting," he says, while frantically trying to remember the agenda and whether or not he's going to be expected to say anything. "What I meant to ask was how much time has been scheduled for the meeting, because I have some errands to run this afternoon."

Helga's dark eyes glitter and she looks more McGonagall-esque than ever. "Further errands?"

Harry nods, flashing her an expectant smile. Her startled expression only leads him to wonder just how long she has been in charge and how long he has failed to stand up to her. After a moment of blinking and muffled clicking, she pulls the heavy diary toward her and runs her finger down the page marked 'Thursday 21st'.

"Twelve thirty until three thirty," she says. "Provisionally speaking."

Harry groans inwardly. "Fantastic. How does my hair look?"

"Like it always does. Like you've been rolling around in a field," Helga sniffs, clawing back a shred of power.

"Well, then, I'm ready for anything," Harry declares, pushing his performance up to eleven just for the sheer enjoyment of Helga's bemused expression. "I think I'll go down there now, make sure I'm nice and early—what do you think? Have you got anything to eat?"

Helga opens her mouth and closes it again, reaches behind herself without looking away from Harry and, after a moment, retrieves a shiny green apple from a desk drawer.

"Brilliant," he declares, accepting the apple and taking a huge bite. "S'yoolater," he mumbles through his mouthful, and takes his leave of Helga before she can get a word in.

Despite his best intentions, he is alone in the vast conference room for barely as long as it takes him to polish off Helga's apple; he has just drawn his wand to get rid of the core when the door creaks open. Hurriedly, he sends it flying through the air and thwapping neatly into the waste paper basket in the corner and stands up just in time to see Kingsley Shacklebolt stride into the room. Huge and intimidating in robes of blood red, he exudes authority and gravitas but still finds a sly smile for Harry as he sweeps past and takes his seat at the head of the table.

Harry smiles back and holds out his hand to greet the Muggle Prime Minister. She is followed by Franz Fitzwilliam, who appears to be barely suppressing his boredom, and a nervous-looking young man carrying a quill and a stack of folders.

"You must be the Head of the Auror Department," says the dark-haired woman, clasping his hand in a firm grip. She doesn't smile, but her green eyes are warm.

No, I'm just Harry Potter, he insists silently. I'm just confused. I'm just a man who doesn't love his wife any more. The address just doesn't seem to fit. He's never felt more disconnected from his job.

"Yes, I'm Harry Potter," he says at last, hoping his hesitation has gone unnoticed. "A pleasure to meet you, Ms Harman."

She nods, releasing his hand, and Harry smiles at her, secretly rather impressed with himself that—all things considered—he has managed to remember her name.

It's a good start.

Unfortunately, by the time the water has been poured and the usual niceties observed, Harry finds his attention drifting. He is seated next to the Under-Secretary, who is so conscientious in his efforts to record every word spoken that he doesn't spare Harry a single glance, and, given that simply being present seems to be the extent of Harry's role in this meeting, there is very little to hold his interest. As the words of his colleagues fade to a low, meaningless hum, Harry observes the open posture and slightly anxious mannerisms of the Prime Minister and the dark expression of his boss as Kingsley speaks, and wonders if he's ever found the content of these sessions diverting. He can't remember.

Surely he must have enjoyed all of this at one time. He wants to believe that's true, but the uncomfortable wriggle in his gut forces him to admit that he hasn't really felt like an Auror since he came out of the field. And he knows, despite his frequent protests to the contrary, that he's not fit for that any more; age and fatherhood have softened him beyond repair.

He exhales slowly, lacing his hands together on the glossy mahogany table and gazing down at his blurry, distorted reflection.

"If we could turn to page thirteen, paragraph four, I'd like to draw your attention to the statement regarding the conduct of magical persons in non-magical situations which have been exempted from the most recent amendment of the Statute of Secrecy," Kingsley says.

His deep, rumbling voice shatters Harry's malaise and he flips to the relevant page before his inattention is detected. All of a sudden he misses his bright, sawdust-scented workshop so violently that he has to close his eyes. When he opens them again, the glaring white page with its tiny, cramped black letters is still there, Kingsley is still talking, and Harry has to focus.

**~*~**

It's after four by the time chairs are scraped back and goodbye handshakes are exchanged, and as soon as Harry is out of sight of the others, he bolts for the Atrium, practically leaps into the nearest fireplace and emerges into the dark, smoky interior of the Leaky Cauldron. It's not his usual style; in fact, he can't remember the last time he went shopping in Diagon Alley, but Hermione's words have stuck with him, and, actually, he doesn't want Gin to have to choose all the Christmas gifts on her own.

He nods to Tom the barman and makes his way out into the street. None of this is making much sense, but he doesn't know what he can do other than allowing it to take him where it will. The air is biting cold and night has fallen already, plunging the world into darkness as thick as a winter cloak. When he steps through the brick archway into the street, he catches his breath.

Diagon Alley is alive with chatter, laughter, ringing footsteps on cobbles; stallholders are trying to make themselves heard above the merry, piping music that fills the street. The scene is glittering with strings of multicoloured lights, gently-swinging lanterns and the real fairies that flutter and glow around the branches of Christmas trees for sale. As Harry walks slowly into the river of shoppers, the festival atmosphere wraps around him and lifts the weight of his afternoon away.

Draco would like this, he thinks, breathing in the warm scent of spices and cider, not even flinching as a group of teenage girls brush past him, looking back and giggling amongst themselves. Instead, he plunges his hands into his robe pockets in search of gold to fritter away, but turns up nothing more than two Sickles, a handful of Knuts, and a purple, flower-shaped button that can only belong to Lily.

Pasting on his 'let me through, I'm on serious Auror business' face, Harry fights his way through the crowds and reaches the top of the Gringotts staircase, breathing hard and slightly warm despite the nip in the air. As he clicks across the marble floor, secures himself a goblin and rattles along the underground track to his vault, his mind is so occupied with hoping that he doesn't run into Ginny and get quizzed about why he's not at work that he's completely thrown when he steps back into the lobby, pockets heavy with gold, and the first thing he sees is a retreating blond figure, black robes whipping behind him as he stalks, in a terribly familiar fashion, out of sight around a corner.

Harry's heart stutters painfully, and just for a second he thinks it might stop.

"Is there anything else you need, Mr Potter?" enquires his goblin guide.

"No, thanks," Harry says faintly. He stuffs his hands into his laden pockets and walks as quickly as he can back out into the night. The real Draco Malfoy suddenly seems like a rather intimidating prospect.

Shaking his head, Harry hurries down the steps and drifts back into the seething crowd. He allows it to carry him, extricating himself whenever he sees something of interest. Although the usual shops are still open, many of them festooned with lights themselves, the stalls draw him in, catching his eyes with trays of shiny things, tables full of bizarre foods he has never seen before, and stallholders in festive, brightly-coloured robes and hats, all vying for his attention and shouting over one another in their efforts to make a sale.

Harry ends up sampling two different types of mulled cider, four unusual cheeses and something crunchy that he can't quite identify (and doesn't, in truth, really want to) just to be polite. He buys a large slice of Drunken Goat cheese in honour of Lucius bloody Malfoy, and spends the next half hour humming Celestina Warbeck songs under his breath. He buys sparkly things for Lily, disgusting things for Al—including, but not limited to, a small eyeball that the vendor assures him will roll around the floor, spinning around and inspecting things, if left to its own devices—and an elf-made leather jacket for James that smells wonderful enough to tempt Harry to keep it, until he reminds himself that he has resolved not to dress like an idiot any more.

As the wind picks up, sending the lanterns swinging and the stallholders scrambling for their protective charms, Harry pulls out of the crowd and almost falls over a toothless old woman with a rack of long woollen scarves and bobble hats. Impulsively, he hands over five Sickles for a green and blue scarf and winds it around his neck.

"Warm, that, innit, love?" mumbles the old woman, treating him to a gummy grin.

Harry agrees that the scarf is indeed very warm and drifts on, picking up animated catnip mice for Frank, a case of limited edition whiskies for Ron (Borteg's 'curious flavours' range) and a handmade necklace of dull silver and colourful beads that he knows will look beautiful on Ginny, because her other self wears one almost exactly like it.

For Hermione, of course, it has to be a book, so Harry reluctantly abandons the midwinter carnival of the market and heads into Flourish and Blotts. He finds the perfect book for her in no time, and allows himself to be drawn toward the arts and crafts section, excitement bubbling inside him as he runs his finger along the spines of familiar titles: Working With Weird Woods, Your Muse and You: an Artist's View, Craftsmen: artistic or afflicted?, The Glassblower's Guide... Harry chews on his lip for a moment and then sweeps all four into his arms and stomps off to pay for them before he can stop himself.

He emerges, weighed down with paper bags, and is just contemplating another hot cinnamon swirl when he sees her. She is buying a sandwich from a man with a delicious-smelling but slightly grotesque pig on a spit some fifty feet away from Harry, and he calls out to her.

"Jenny!"

She turns, looking around for who is calling her name, face puzzled. It's dark and Harry is obscured by a constant stream of people; no wonder she can't see him. Gathering his bags more securely, he dashes across the cobbles and pitches up next to her. The expected flicker of recognition does not come, and Harry's insides turn cold. She doesn't know him. Of course she fucking doesn't.

"Er... yes, Auror?" she says uncertainly, glancing at his robes and putting a protective arm around the child at her side. Harry hadn't even noticed her. "It's alright, Allie, we aren't in trouble. Are we?"

"No! Of course not," he says hurriedly, glancing down at the little girl and assuming his most trustworthy expression. She blinks and moves closer to her mother. "I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else."

"Someone else named Jenny?" she asks in a soft voice, as though she doesn't believe Harry and is a little worried about him all at once.

"Yeah." He swallows hard, fighting to breathe against the numb horror that is spreading inside his ribcage. "Bit of a coincidence, I suppose. Sorry to bother you," he manages, nodding politely to her and walking as quickly in the opposite direction as he can.

Ridiculous. That's what he is. He has managed to retreat so far into a pleasant little bubble of unreality that he has almost managed to forget that the glimpse wasn't real. Jenny doesn't know him at all. She's never met him. She's not Fred Weasley's fiancée. Because Fred Weasley is dead.

Harry just keeps walking and is mildly surprised when he finds himself back outside the wall entrance to the Leaky. He turns and looks back at the twinkling lights for a moment, and then spells his way back into the pub, walks into the fireplace and straight back out into the Ministry Atrium, legs unsteady and hair full of ash. He fucking hates Flooing.

The corridors are quiet, Harry suspects because anyone with any sense has buggered off home already. Helga, of course, never leaves the office for the day until she's certain Harry no longer needs her, and as he shifts his shopping bags awkwardly and pushes open the door, a little spike of guilt makes itself known in the pit of his stomach.

She doesn't look up when he stomps and rustles into the room, or even when he drops a bag of jingling decorations and has to spend a minute or two chasing them around the floor. He stuffs the last one back into the bag and heads for his office, pausing at the edge of her desk.

"You can go home if you want, Helga."

"I have letters to write, Mr Potter," she says, continuing to scratch away with her quill.
"Right," Harry says softly, watching her for a moment and trying to imagine how it must feel to have one's usually compliant, downtrodden boss suddenly begin answering back and otherwise behaving like a madman. Impulsively, he reaches into one of his bags, withdraws a red and green striped candy cane and places it on the edge of her desk, next to her teacup, then disappears into his office before she can loudly mock his peace offering.

He sinks into his creaky chair, bags all around him, and carefully withdraws the illicit books. They're hardback and beautiful and full of vivid coloured photographs and intriguing diagrams, so different from his dry, black and white MLE-issued texts that he can't quite stop himself opening them all out on his desk at once, flicking through the pages and, for the very first time, understanding Hermione's enthusiastic assertion that "a new book is the best smell in the world".

Feeling oddly furtive, as though looking at glassblowing books in a Ministry office is in some way depraved, Harry flips through his new purchases. He loses himself in the glossy photographs and examines pictures of myriad tools he has owned and used, learning the proper names of many of them for the first time. He sighs, fingers splayed over a double-page spread of a silver-haired man carving an intricate relief into the legs of a large, ornate mahogany chair; as he watches, the man in the photograph narrows his eyes in concentration and examines his work, blowing the dust away and running calloused fingers over the smooth curves of the wood.

He wants to be that person again. The trouble is... he never really was that person. He was just filling in for a little while. He's a bureaucrat, not a craftsman. He can't even make a little table.

Suddenly irritable, Harry drops his face into his hands and exhales in a messy rush. It's all just a bit fucking much. He's had enough.

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself," he mumbles to himself. "Go home and see your children."

Black as his mood is, the pull of home is strong and, after taking a few seconds to regulate his breathing, Harry gathers up the books, hides them in his desk drawer beside the photograph of Maura, and collects his bags in preparation to leave the office for the night. For Christmas, in fact. Barring some major disaster, Harry doesn't have to return for almost a week. He's unsure how he feels about that, but he's not about to volunteer to work the holidays.

He locks his door behind him and turns to Helga, who is sitting behind her desk with her coat on, sucking primly on the candy cane. Harry smiles; he can't help it.

"Well, Merry Christmas, Helga."

"Merry Christmas, Mr Potter," she says. Her tongue flicks out to swipe minty sugar from her bottom lip and she drops her eyes for a moment as though considering something. When she lifts her black eyes to Harry again, her face is set. "I don't suppose I can persuade to attend Midnight Mass this year?"

Harry smiles with indulgence borne of many, many similar requests over the years. "You never know, Helga. This year might be the year."

She sighs. "I have definitely heard that one before." She stands up and puts on a black hat with knitted flowers on the brim. "I will, however, put in a good word for you."

"I appreciate that," Harry says, and he means it. Lifted, he holds open the door for Helga and they travel down in the lift in an almost companionable silence. He decides to Apparate home, holding tightly onto his shopping bags as he makes the jump to a quiet part of Willoughby Drive. As he approaches the house, he can see Ginny moving around in the brightly-lit bedroom and Lily in the window seat, apparently attempting to teach Frank to play cards. He draws in a deep breath, tasting the sharp frosty air, and goes to join them.

**~*~**

Determined to wring every last drop out of the next few days, Harry does his utmost to push his sadness, his anxiety over the future, and his fear of the unknown quantity that is this universe's Draco to the back of his mind.

He plays with Lily and Frank in the frozen back garden, helps (watches) Al and Rose make biscuits containing every ingredient they can lay their hands on, whilst answering their questions about dragons, Basilisks and other dangerous creatures as honestly as he can. He suspects that Al has inherited his leap-before-you-look brand of curiosity, and realises now that perhaps it's best to take a leaf out of Dumbledore's book and arm him with as much information as he can. When he's not required, he leans back precariously in his chair and revels in their energy and chatter about Hogwarts. He finds himself watching Rose as she flicks dough at Al with bright eyes and obvious confidence, and the little tear in his heart inflicted by her lonely counterpart heals almost all the way.

Predictably, James makes himself scarce, eschewing his parents' and siblings' company in favour of visiting friends, holing up in his bedroom, and stalking around the village, looking moody. Quietly amused, Harry opts to leave him to it, and barely resists the urge to perform a victory dance when James accepts Friday night babysitting duty with relatively good grace, allowing Harry and Ginny to spend the evening at Ron and Hermione's dinner table, putting away herby chicken casserole, fresh bread, and good red wine.

It's surprisingly easy to pretend that everything is normal, partly because it sort of feels like it is. This Ron may lack a little of the confidence of his more successful other self, but he's warm and full of humour and it's fantastic to have him back. Ginny, clearly drawing comfort from her brother and best friend, looks more relaxed in the flickering candlelight than Harry has seen her in years. Even Hermione, who keep shooting him concerned glances when no one else is looking, seems to be enjoying herself. The affection that he feels for all of them swells inside him and chases away his uncertainty, at least for the time being, and that's good enough for him. These people may have slipped back to once-a-week friends in the glimpse, but he's not going to let that happen here.

Saturday morning is bright, crisp and dry. Harry dresses in his scruffiest jeans, wraps his new scarf around his neck and heads out to a rarely-used meadow behind the Burrow, broomsticks under his arm, Al at his side. Lily and Ginny, some way behind them, are conducting a whispered conversation, and Frank leaps and scuttles along the path on the end of a long, silvery lead, keeping pace with James, who is stomping through the long grasses with his hands jammed in his pockets.

"Why've you got all this time to spend with us, anyway? Have you been fired?"

"James!" Al gasps, scandalised. And then: "Have you?"

"No, I have not," Harry says firmly. "I'm just taking a bit of extra time off while you lot are on holiday from school. Is that alright?"

Al nods, tossing their makeshift Quaffle into the air and catching it. "I think it's good. Rose says you can go insane if you work too hard."

Harry glances at James, who is now stepping awkwardly so as not to trip over Frank.

"Yeah, it's okay, I suppose."

Harry smiles to himself. It's always nice to feel wanted. He scrambles over the fence into the meadow and sets about putting up an elaborate series of charms to keep their activities hidden. He doesn't think the Muggle residents of Ottery St Catchpole are quite ready for the spectacle of children on flying broomsticks.

Ginny and Lily elect to stay on the ground, arranging themselves under a tree with a flask of hot chocolate, but James and Al mount their brooms and kick off into the air with no hesitation. After a moment or two, Harry follows them.

It's been far too long since he last flew. The wind slices through his hair as he takes off; his heart races as he swoops into the air, a split-second of anxiety before instinct takes over and he's spiralling into the clear sky, angling the handle of his broom upwards, circling higher and higher. Within seconds the cold air numbs his face and he can barely feel the daft, exhilarated grin that stretches his mouth wide. The scent of frozen earth wild in his nostrils, he pushes himself higher and faster, allowing the rushing wind to cleanse him, to lift him, and to fill him with the fragile new belief that all things are possible.

Levelling out, he hovers and gazes down at the tiny figures on the ground below, just about able to pick out the vivid splashes of red hair and the glitter of Frank's harness in the sun as he chases wind-whipped leaf skeletons across the frosty grass and attacks them with his hind legs, making sure they are good and dead.

"Heads up, Dad!" bellows Al, and Harry turns just in time to see the ball hurtling toward him.

He catches it against his chest, tries to hide the fact that the force of Al's throw has knocked the breath out of him, and looks around for James.

"Call yourself a Quidditch champion?" James yells, reclining casually on his broom some fifty feet below Harry.

Harry sighs. This means war.

When the three of them return to the ground twenty minutes later, frozen, flushed, and breathing hard, Harry can barely feel his feet, fingers or backside, and he has to admit that while he has hung onto more of his flying skills than he expected, he is no match for the raw energy and enthusiasm of youth.

Actually, he thinks he's okay with that. Al seems delighted to have played a game with his usually workaholic dad, and even James is grinning and teasing him and generally forgetting to be disdainful. Harry accepts a deliciously hot mug of chocolate from Ginny, allowing a curious Frank to climb onto his lap and sniff his jumper and scarf all over as he gulps at the warming liquid.

He realises with a pang of sadness that this—a Saturday morning in a frozen meadow—is the best, most natural time he has spent with his family in years. In a few days' time it will all be over. Catching Ginny's eyes over the top of his cup, he wonders if it's the end of their marriage that has made this possible. If it's only the end of something that no longer works that has made them relaxed enough to enjoy the time they have left. To appreciate their children and hang on to the friendship that is still there, even after everything.

"You were really good, Dad," Lily says.

Harry snaps back to attention. "Er, thanks," he manages. "I hope I was better than that when I played at school, though."

"Were you better than Mum?" James asks, clearly trying to set a cat amongst the pixies.

"I've got more sense than to answer that," Harry says.

Ginny snorts.

"Mum?" Lily presses.

Ginny hesitates, rolling her empty cup between her palms. "I'm going to be diplomatic and say that we were both useful players, but... I think your dad was probably the star."

"I don't know about that," Harry says. "You were versatile. I only ever played one position."

"There's only one way to find out," James says, reaching for two brooms and looking between Harry and Ginny, an unholy smirk on his face, stray hairs escaping his quiff and waving around in the breeze.

Harry flicks an enquiring glance in Ginny's direction, intrigued by the challenge.

"Come on, Mum!" Al implores. "Please?"

For long seconds, Ginny says nothing. Then she sets down her cup, gets to her feet and holds out a hand to James for a broom. Al and Lily cheer.

"Right then, Potter," she mutters, turning away from him to mount her broom.

Harry inhales sharply, watching her long hair whipping in the wind and wondering if she had deliberately sought to remind him of Draco. When she looks over her shoulder and flashes him an odd little smile, he's almost certain she had.

"I'm so out of practice," she sighs.

Harry clears his mind of flapping green robes and blond hair as he jumps onto his broom.

"You're not old yet, remember?" he calls, taking off into the air with the ball under his arm.

Seconds later, Ginny streaks past Harry, lifting a hand to wave mockingly at him. From the ground comes the laughter of his children, and it spurs Harry on. Flattening himself to his broom, he shoots off after his soon-to-be ex-wife and secures his grip on the makeshift Quaffle; all of a sudden, none of it feels weird at all—he just wants to take her down.

"Go on, Dad!" Lily cries as Harry swings around to Ginny's right and pelts the ball at her with as much force as he can muster. She wobbles slightly as it smacks her in the side, but quickly recovers, plunging into an impressive dive to catch the ball and effectively destroying the last vestiges of Harry's guilt, along with his sense of fair play.

He swoops underneath her and she laughs, taking off at speed in the opposite direction. By the time he manages to grab the Quaffle back from her, he's slightly dizzy and his glasses have begun to steam up. Not only that, but he's now certain—had he ever wondered—that he would never have made a Chaser. The sound of his children's shouts and cries of encouragement from below (Lily seems to be cheering for him, Al for his mum, and James appears to be loudly critiquing everything he sees) spurs Harry on to engage Ginny in contests of speed, diving and feinting which buoy his confidence enough for him to snatch the ball from her and make off with it into the nearby wood.

The argument over who actually won the flying competition rages on between James, Lily, and Al as the five of them walk home. Harry walks a little way behind them, relishing the sun on his face, with Frank pulling on his harness at one side of him, and Ginny at the other.

"Do you think they're wondering why we aren't getting at each other?" she asks softly.

Harry chews his lip and watches Al and Lily giggling and trying to trip one another up. "Maybe. But they seem happy, don't they?"

Ginny nods but doesn't reply. She tucks her hands into her pockets and kicks up stones.

"We've been sleepwalking, haven't we?" she says eventually.

A sidelong glance reveals the brightness of her eyes. Harry swallows painfully. "Yeah. I really am sorry, Gin."

"I told you to stop apologising to me," she says, voice catching. "I'm not a victim. We're both adults and we both chose to ignore what has happening."

"Doom!" cries Al, throwing a theatrical hand to his forehead and staggering around on the path. When Harry looks at Ginny again, her eyes are still misty, but she's smiling.

"Yeah, well, I've come to realise that ignoring things isn't the best policy," he admits. "It's only taken me thirty-seven years."

"Here's another lesson for you," Ginny offers. "Regretting the past gets you nowhere in the future. That one's for free."

"You're a wise woman," Harry says.

"Not really. I got it out of that self-help book Hermione bought me last Christmas," Ginny admits. "I'll probably get another one this year. Maybe it'll be useful."

Harry laughs. It doesn't hurt as much as he expects it to. He hugs her.

**~*~**

By the time Sunday evening comes around, Harry has managed to almost completely immerse himself in the ritual of a family Christmas. He and Ginny spend the latter part of the afternoon barricaded in their bedroom, wrapping presents and trying not to succumb to the tangle of paper, ribbons, and Spellotape which has taken over the floor. The door is firmly closed and charmed to keep away curious eyes, but the muffled sound of James' incomprehensible music still manages to filter under the door, and Harry catches Ginny bobbing her head along with the beat more than once as she encloses gifts in shiny paper.

The sky outside is dark when Harry drops his last present onto the pile, peels a stray bit of tape from the back of his hand and stretches.

"We're going to be late," Ginny says, mending a small rip in some wrapping paper with her wand.

"You say that every year," Harry points out, yawning.

"And every year, we are late."

Harry scoops up a ball of crumpled paper and lobs it in the direction of his tomato clock. He does rather miss its smoke-belching copper counterpart, but there's something oddly charming about the eye that swivels to peer at him as it announces: "Five twenty."

"We've got ages," he insists, leaning against the foot of the bed and scrubbing at his hair.

"Five twenty," says the tomato.

"We've got ten minutes," Ginny sighs, surveying the chaos that surrounds them. "We're going to have to Floo."

Knowing that she's right and there is no point arguing, Harry nods wearily and picks his way across the carpet to the wardrobe to look for something suitable to wear for Molly's traditional Christmas Eve dinner.

Draco wouldn't make me Floo, he thinks mutinously, pulling a somewhat scratchy red jumper over his head. He ruffles his hair and inspects his reflection in the mirror, suppressing a grin as he realises how wrong he is. Of course Draco would. Especially if they were late. And, no doubt, he'd make a complete drama out of it, too.

"Your jumper's on backwards," Ginny says as she passes him on her way to the wardrobe.

"Five twenty," says the tomato.

**~*~**

They are five minutes late to the Burrow, and Ginny is a little smug.

Fortunately for Harry, who knows he would be taking the blame, Molly is stuck in the kitchen, caught up in what Arthur informs them is a 'gravy catastrophe', and therefore distracted. When she finally emerges, flustered and wearing a magenta apron that clashes violently with her hair (these days dyed an even more vibrant red than ever), she descends upon the family with open arms.

"Wonderful to see you, Harry," she murmurs, squeezing him tightly. "How are you?"

"Fine... good, thanks," he manages, flooded with guilt. He forces a smile as he looks down at her warm, open face, knowing she will be hurt terribly when everything comes to light.

"It's no good, you know, having my children all scattered about like this..." someone whispers in the back of his memory. The other Molly. "Why don't you and Draco get away from the city and have a look at one of these cottages?"

"You look tired, Harry. Are you getting enough sleep?"

He knows it will do no good to hope just yet.

"Probably not. I'm hoping to catch it up over the holidays, though," he assures her.

"Leave Harry alone, Mum," Ginny says. "What's for dinner?"

"I'm starving," Al puts in.

Harry follows Arthur into the living room, where nearly every Weasley relative and in-law has gathered. All the available seats are occupied, some by more than one person at once, and the room is thick with red-haired men, women, and children, milling around under the gaudy lights and brilliantly mismatched decorations.

"Have I showed you my CD player, Harry?" Arthur asks, pale eyes glowing.

Amused by his enthusiasm, Harry gravely examines the new addition to Arthur's collection, accepts a drink and a slap on the shoulder from Bill and waves across the room at Ron, who is receiving some sort of spirited lecture from Charlie's partner, Serghei. As Harry perches on the arm of a sofa, a small, fluffy dog emerges from the fray and jumps onto his lap. He strokes its head absently, picking up the strains of a familiar song, just audible above the rumble of voices.

"You're the curse-breaker, you broke me apart; you had me wanting, right from the start..."

Eyes widening in horror, Harry looks around the room for Bill; finally, he spots him, leaning against the windowsill and laughing with Hermione, apparently oblivious. Which is a relief of sorts. Still, it's rather disturbing to realise that Celestina Warbeck really is everywhere.

Dinner is a loud, unruly, delicious experience, and is everything Harry has come to expect. Molly presides over the meal with her usual bustling delight and instructions for everyone to eat more. Harry, suddenly finding himself ravenous, helps himself to some of everything, adding fragrant pools of the rescued gravy to his plate at regular intervals. He knows that there is a good possibility that this is his last Christmas Eve Weasley Dinner, and he wants to soak up every last drop of it. Looking around at the faces of his adopted family, he just hopes that, in time, they will forgive him.

That's what families do, after all.

His eyes linger on George. He is not sitting alone—Rose is on one side of him, and Fleur on the other—but the absence of Fred is almost as striking as it had been during those first few dark months. Catching him looking, George shoots Harry a curious glance across the table. Harry pushes away the memory of his encounter with Jenny and finds a smile and a shrug for George, who grins and stuffs a whole baby carrot into his mouth in one go.

As always, it takes a good half an hour to actually leave, and by the time they make it out onto the path, Lily is so weary that Harry lets her ride piggyback, arms looped around his neck. She's a comforting warm weight against his back as they crunch along in the dark.

"Did you see how long Serghei's hair is now?" Ginny says, crossing her arms for warmth. "I thought Mum was going to attack him with a pair of scissors."

Harry yawns. "I think she's learned her lesson about hair interventions by now," he says.

"I think his hair's cool," Al offers.

"Unfortunately, Al, I think you've inherited my mop, so it'll probably always look exactly like it does now," Harry says.

"Bah," Al declares, and takes off down the path toward the house.

Once inside, the kettle goes on, and the most important part of the festive ritual gets underway. Harry watches, initially, from the periphery, marvelling at how smoothly everyone takes up their roles, and that the whole thing is conducted in near-silence. Ginny and Al disappear into the kitchen and return with a cup of tea—to which James solemnly adds two sugar cubes—and a handful of parsnips, which are laid carefully on a tin tray near the fire. Harry is so caught up in observing that he almost forgets his part—applying the Warming Charm to the teacup—and has to be prodded into it by Lily, who then scuttles over to the tree and fetches the stockings for hanging on the fireplace.

All three are extremely threadbare, having been made by each of the children in Mrs Cardle's reception class at the village school. James', the oldest and tattiest of all, has a hole in the toe, and the much-loved teacher's glittery letters now spell out 'JAM' thanks to ten Christmases-worth of filling to bursting point with Fizzing Whizzbees and chocolate Galleons and the tiny model broomsticks that he still (secretly) collects.

Al's is a little grubby; there are chocolate stains on most of the felt stars, but Mrs Cardle's carefully applied letters remain, and both of his unusual forenames take up most of the front of the stocking. Harry vividly recalls a young Al pointing out that Miss could have saved a lot of glitter if she'd just gone with the two-letter version of his name.

Lily's is, somehow, almost as pristine as the day she brought it home, though it now features the words 'and Frank' in silver ink and Ginny's neat handwriting. Just in case Lily's furry shadow might somehow be forgotten on Christmas Eve.

With everything in its place, everyone settles on the largest sofa in a comfortable, drowsy silence; even Al is too tired to make a noise. By half past eleven, all three children are drifting, despite their best efforts, and Ginny's eyelids are beginning to droop.

"Time for bed," Harry mumbles, poking James with his foot and receiving a glare in return.

Yawning, Ginny stumbles to her feet and chivvies Lily, Al, and James up the stairs. She peers into the darkness after them, making sure they are out of earshot, and then turns to Harry. "I'm going up, too. It's your turn to do the stockings."

Light with weariness, Harry waits in his comfortable sprawl until she has turned away, and then sticks his tongue out at her retreating back. With some effort, he unpeels himself from the sofa and retrieves the box of stocking gifts from their hiding place at the back of the hallway cupboard, tucked up in the folds of his invisibility cloak. Once he has distributed the little presents (making sure that Lily and Frank get the silver-wrapped things, Al the green and James the red) he filches a candy cane from the tree and gnaws on it thoughtfully, thinking of Helga and smiling to himself.

Tired though he is, Harry doesn't feel quite ready to get into bed with Ginny and attempt sleep. Contemplative, he wanders around the room and crunches the peppermint candy until it splinters in his mouth and sticks his teeth together. When, at last, he comes to a decision, he doesn't allow himself time to question it—he suspects it's a little too late in life for him to try dialling down his spontaneity, and he likes to think that sometimes it serves him rather well.

He scribbles a note for Ginny—just in case—throws on his coat and scarf, and leaves the house. It hasn't escaped his notice that he seems to be making a habit of wandering off at odd hours, and he can't be sure what that means. All he knows is that the glittering, frostbitten night is calling out to him, and he has neither the energy nor the inclination to resist. He also knows that what he's doing doesn't make an awful lot of sense, but right now, that doesn't seem to matter.

Take the unknown road now. He can do that.

Taking a deep breath, he concentrates on his destination—or at least, what he hopes is his destination; he's relying on second hand memory, after all—he closes his eyes and Disapparates. When he opens his eyes, he can see the large stone building, lit up in the darkness, just a couple of hundred yards down Cadogan Street, which isn't at all bad, he thinks. He is just rearranging his scarf and missing terribly the blue-flecked wool coat that kept him far warmer than the ancient, slightly moth-eaten thing he's currently wearing when his attention is caught by a flicker of movement along a nearby street, and he turns.

What he sees sends a jolt of warmth through him so unexpected that his fingers slip on his coat buttons. Two figures in bobble hats are making careful progress down the icy street, both carrying familiar-looking canvas bags. After a moment or two, both stop at an occupied doorway; one drops into a crouch and rummages for hot soup and a paper-wrapped package while the other strikes up a conversation, nodding seriously every now and then, handing over a leaflet from a coat pocket.

He watches them for a moment, fighting the ridiculous urge to dash up the street, separate one of the do-gooders from their bag and hand out the packages himself. He's ashamed of that fact that he has never even thought of helping the less fortunate at Christmas when his other self has been out there doing it for years. Alright, so he donates to various charities (any good cause that asks, according to Ginny) but it's only money. It's not as though he really needs it.

He sighs. Closes his eyes briefly.

"What are you angsting about?" Draco demands, hoisting his canvas bag over his shoulder and turning sharp grey eyes on Harry.

"I'm not angsting," Harry lies. "I'm thinking."

Draco snorts. "I can tell the difference, you know. I've known you for long enough."

"You keep telling yourself that," Harry mutters, crunching along past empty shop doorways and following Draco to their next assigned street. In truth, he probably has been angsting; he keeps thinking about how much Lily would enjoy this. He's not sure about the others, but his youngest child has Little Miss Philanthropist written all the way through her like seaside rock. When she's not taking part in sponsored silences and swims and stand-on-one-leg-athons, she's organising her own charity drives and pressing her classmates into action, raising money for anything fluffy, sick, injured or disadvantaged.

"Harry Potter, if you don't stop looking so sorry for yourself, I'm going to leave you at home next year," Draco declares, face utterly deadpan.

Harry's eyebrows shoot up. "Are you serious?" he demands.

Draco laughs until the cold air is filled with the sound. "No, you idiot," he says, slinging his arm around Harry's waist. "That's what you said to me the very first time we did this, remember? Such cruelty."

"'Scuse me, mate?"

Harry blinks. The two people with canvas bags—both men, he realises, now he can actually see them—are standing in front of him. Both have young, friendly, cold-pinked faces and are looking at him expectantly.

"Sorry, yes?" he forces out, trying to look ordinary and not at all like a man who has stopped in the middle of a London street to daydream.

"Got the time, please? My watch's stopped," explains the shorter of the two men with an apologetic smile.

Harry checks his watch. "It's ten to midnight." Anxious, he glances over his shoulder at the church. He thinks he can already hear the carols. "Sorry, lads, I'm going to be late," he calls, taking off across the road and heading for St Mary's.

Having no idea of the etiquette of church services, Harry tiptoes inside, smiles at anyone who makes eye contact with him, takes an order of service sheet from a beaming old lady and hopes for the best. All the pews are stuffed full, but he's quite relieved to find a place to stand at the back, well out of the way. The air is colder here than it is outside, and Harry is glad of his coat and scarf as he and the rest of the congregation let out their breath in white clouds. Still, the air smells wonderful: a mixture of the rich, damp aroma that comes only with old stone buildings and reminds him of Hogwarts, and the soft burn of the candles that flicker from the altar and fill the vast space with gently-moving shadows.

After a quick scan of the pews, he easily picks out Helga; he'd recognise that rigid posture anywhere. She's sitting three rows from the front, wrapped in coat, scarf and gloves, gripping her service sheet tightly but gazing straight ahead as she sings along with the carols, apparently word perfect.

Harry smiles and busies himself with his own paper leaflet. He attempts to join in with the singing, having no excuse not to participate with the words right in front of him. When the priests and altar boys and girls file in and the service begins for real, though, he falls silent and soaks up the atmosphere, breathing in the heavy scent of the incense and listening to the soft chanting in Latin, the calls from the altar and the murmured responses of the congregation.

He knows that Helga invites him here for the good of his soul, and he's never been much convinced about the existence of an all-powerful god, but here in this place tonight, there is hope in the air, and he can only trust that a little piece of it will stick with him when he leaves. He finds the ritual of the service so soothing that he leans against a stone pillar and just breathes it all in; when the elderly man next to him suddenly sticks out his hand and booms, "Peace be with you!" Harry startles, hesitates for a moment, and then returns the greeting and the handshake, bewildered.

"Peace be with you, sir," someone offers from behind him; he turns and shakes hands with a smiling teenage girl. Seconds later, he is prodded lightly in the back and twists around to realise that everyone standing behind him also wants to shake hands. Harry takes a deep breath and jumps in.

By the time all the handshaking has been completed, the service is almost over. Harry watches the Communion with interest, leaning back against his pillar and wondering just what Draco would make of this. And how hard Ginny would laugh if she knew where he was.

"So, is finding Jesus part of your mid-life crisis?" says the Hermione in his head.

"I'm not finding anyone," he mumbles to himself. "I just wanted to see what it was like." The old man on Harry's right looks at him askance. He closes his mouth.

As the pews begin to empty, Harry makes his way carefully through the crowds and hangs around in the vestibule, waiting for Helga. She spots him immediately. Astonished, she fights her way over to his side and then stands there looking up at him with her mouth slightly open.

"Cat got your tongue?" he says gently.

"Mr Potter! What on earth are you doing here?" she splutters.

Harry laughs. "Well, you've only been haranguing me to come for the last ten years. I thought it was a beautiful service, actually."

"You were in there?" she cries, glancing back into the church. "The whole time?"

Harry scrubs at his hair, a little sheepish. "Well, I was a few minutes late, but you wouldn't expect anything less from me, I suppose."

Helga's mouth curves into a small smile and her black eyes sparkle. "I'd love to know what's got into you, Mr Potter. Whatever it is, I dare say it's doing you some good," she pronounces.

Harry flushes and chews his lip. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says evenly.

"I highly doubt that," Helga says, arching a disdainful eyebrow. She holds out a gloved hand and the smile is back. "Peace be with you, Mr Potter."

As Harry clasps her hand and returns the greeting, he's suddenly very aware of all the years he has spent thinking she doesn't like him. For once, he's quite happy to be wrong.

**~*~**

Ginny is either sleeping or pretending to be when Harry slips back into the bedroom, eyes heavy and shivering all over. He crawls into bed, squashes the lumps out of his pillow and drifts quickly into sleep.

There's a light at the top of the stairs.

"Listen."

"Make me."

Scowls. Narrowed grey eyes. Bitter laughter. All ineffectual.

"I don't believe in much of anything, Potter."

"What about truth?"

Words lost in the darkness. A moment of clarity, shared, finally.

"Time to wake up, you lazy bugger." Draco's voice. Harry forces his eyes open.

"Hm?"

"We're going to be late for my parents if you sleep any later, and we all know that cannot end well."

"Oh... fucking hell," Harry mumbles blearily. "Is it Christmas day?"

Draco smirks. "It's a shame for you. Isn't it, Frankfurto? Isn't it?" He stares down at the snake with the most earnest expression Harry has ever seen on his face, but Frank merely flicks out his tongue and slithers up to rest his head on Harry's drawn-up knees.

"This one makes no sense," he advises Harry. "Never has done."

Draco scowls. Pokes Frank, who ignores him.

"It's not his fault. He has other talents... probably."

"What are you saying about me to that snake?" Draco demands, arms folded.

Harry smiles and pets Frank's shiny head. "Nothing that isn't true."

"Often wonder what it is for," the snake muses, little black eyes glinting.

"That's not very nice, Frank," Harry says. The words feel spongy and muffled in his mouth.

Someone laughs, and it's not Draco. Disoriented, Harry opens one eye.

"Gin?"

"Obviously," she says, perching on the edge of the bed and peering down at him in the muted light of the sunrise. "Does the cat talk in your dreams?"

"Er, yeah. Sometimes," he mutters, rubbing his eyes and attempting to ground himself. He's here, at home. At Willoughby Drive with Ginny and the children. Of course he is.

"Merry Christmas," Ginny says softly, mouth twisting into a tight little smile. She fiddles with the belt of her robe and stares down at the bed clothes. "This is going to be strange."

Harry scrambles across the bed until he is sitting beside her and laces his fingers through hers.

"It's going to be okay," he says, and the belief in those words, wherever it comes from, is so powerful that when she looks up and meets his eyes, he's almost certain that she believes them, too.

A cautious knock at the door is followed by Al's hopeful voice. "Are you up yet? Can we go downstairs? It's eight o'clock!"

"Just about," Ginny mutters under her breath. "Go and stick the kettle on, Al. We'll be down in a minute."

There's a small celebratory sound from the landing and then the clatter of Al's footsteps as he makes his way down the stairs with more enthusiasm than grace.

Harry and Ginny exchange glances, dress in a contemplative silence and head downstairs to the kitchen, where they find Al, Lily, and Frank gathered around the kettle, ludicrously bright-eyed for the hour, and James, lounging in a kitchen chair, bed-headed and feigning indifference.

Harry takes a second or two to absorb the odd little scene, to fold it up and lock it away for later, then he coughs lightly. All four turn to him. "So, has he been?" he teases.

"Dad," James groans, making a face.

"James," Harry mimics, mirroring the disdainful expression back to his son and throwing himself, as best he can, into his last family Christmas.

**~*~**

By the time the presents have been opened and the turkey has been eaten, Harry is beginning to feel overwhelmed. He knows it's completely unhelpful but his mind keeps insisting on throwing up comparisons of everything from the gift-opening process (loud and unrestrainedly joyful) to the food preparation (everyone pitching in to produce something imperfect but delicious), weighing them against his experience of Christmas at the Malfoys'. He can say with some certainty that he doesn't miss one little part of that stiff, formal ordeal, but he does miss Draco. He really fucking misses Draco.

Still, knowing he has no option but to force himself to relax, Harry pulls himself together. He steers well clear of the firewhisky that he would usually enjoy on Christmas day, because the last thing he needs is another prod in the direction of maudlin, but he joins in with the after dinner games, eats too many chocolates, and listens to his children's arguments with irrational affection.

Watching them is bittersweet, because they have no idea what is about to happen to their family. Harry tells himself that it's best to let them believe that nothing has changed, just for a little longer, but he's not sure any more. Perhaps all they are doing is making things harder.

When he glances at Ginny, which is frequently, she somehow manages to look both on the edge of tears and hugely relieved all at once. Harry thinks he knows how she feels. It's as though a weight has been lifted, and whilst he's glad to no longer have to carry it, he aches with missing the familiar burden. Dragging in a deep breath, he picks up his glass and heads to the kitchen for a refill, making it only two or three steps before tripping over something on the floor and just about rescuing himself from a concussion on the corner of the fireplace.

"Al, come and pick up this eye before someone breaks their neck!"

"Sorry," Al mumbles, mouth full of Cockroach Cluster. He scrambles across the rug on hands and knees and stuffs the eye, still whirring and spinning, into his pocket.

Curled in an armchair, Ginny shakes her head slowly. She doesn't look at Harry or open her mouth but she doesn't need to; her expression clearly conveys 'you bought the blasted thing, you idiot' and Harry doesn't have a leg to stand on. He doesn't mind too much, though; his last minute gifts are a hit.

He has already observed James—through a not-quite-closed-enough bedroom door—posing in front of the mirror in his new leather jacket, pulling such theatrically moody faces at himself that Harry had to stifle his laughter behind his hand for fear of giving away his position. Lily has spent much of the afternoon draped in colourful, glittery accessories, and Ginny is wearing her new necklace. As he had predicted, it suits her perfectly, and, every now and then, she glances down to where the polished beads lie against her chest, a strange little smile tugging at her lips as though she can't quite believe Harry's thoughtfulness. Several years'-worth of panic-bought silk scarves and pot plants will do that to a person, he supposes, finally meeting Ginny's eyes with belated remorse.

"I've been a terrible husband," he mouths, looking down at her, glass gripped tightly in his fingers.

"Not all the time," she says softly, eyes warm and shimmering. Smiling properly now.

"Mum, I can't find a towel," Lily announces, appearing in the doorway with a dripping Frank over her shoulder.

The cat miaows plaintively and digs sharp claws into Lily's skin, as though daring her to forget about his plight. Harry can't help thinking of the other Frank, who so enjoyed the water that he'd have gladly taken the disgruntled cat's place. That said, Harry isn't sure how Lily would feel about bathing a six-foot python. Al, on the other hand...

"Cats don't like water, Lil," James offers, ruffling both cat and owner on the head as he heads for the stairs, perhaps for another posing session. Lily scowls and Frank swipes at James as he passes, but even Harry can tell that his heart isn't really in it.

"Cats who don't like water shouldn't roll around in other people's chalk pastel dust," Lily retorts. "He looked like a whiskery Puffskein."

"Oww," says Frank, blinking big green eyes pitifully.

"Did you look in the airing cupboard?" Ginny offers, yawning.

Lily wrinkles her nose. "There's a big spider in there. Frank is frightened."

"I'm sure Frank is," Ginny murmurs, making no move to leave her chair.

"I suppose it's up to me, then," Harry says. As he stashes his glass on the mantelpiece and edges past the sodden cat to reach the stairs, he's tempted to just draw his wand and hit Frank with a Drying Charm—or, at least, he is until he remembers what happened the last time he tried that. Those panic-driven scratches took weeks to heal properly. He'll just go and get a towel.

After finding a cat-sized towel in the airing cupboard and offering festive greetings to the large black house spider within, Harry emerges onto the landing, only to walk straight into James.

"Sorry, Dad," he mumbles, stepping back and examining the half-eaten mince pie in his hand with unusual intensity.

"Wasn't looking where I was going," Harry admits, holding up the towel by way of explanation. He hesitates. James doesn't look up, and a taut, uncomfortable silence stretches out between them. "Is everything alright?" Harry manages after several long seconds.

James bites his lip. Rests one hand on the balustrade. "Dad?"

Harry's fingers tighten around the old towel with such force that the worn fabric squeaks unpleasantly against his fingernails. "Yeah?"

James looks up, and it all at once hits Harry how grown-up he looks. Clear-eyed, strong-jawed, at least an inch taller than his father now, he's almost a man. Some sentimentality that he thinks he can blame on Christmas makes Harry want to bound across the landing and hug James tightly, but he doubts James will like that, so he stays put.

"James?"

He opens his mouth and then closes it again. "Thanks for the jacket, Dad," he mumbles, stuffing the rest of the mince pie into his mouth. What happens next leaves Harry speechless. James lets go of the balustrade and catches Harry up in an awkward mixture of hug and manly backslap. Before he has chance to react, James has disappeared back into his bedroom.

"Dad, did you find a towel?" Lily calls anxiously up the stairs.

"Oww," says Frank, clearly unimpressed.

Harry stares down at the towel as though it is some sort of foreign object. Ah, yes. "Coming!"

**~*~**

Ron and Hermione's Boxing Day soiree is wonderfully distracting and Harry manages to get through almost the entire evening without giving headspace to Boris, Draco, or his marriage. In truth, the cottage is so full of children and food and the spirit of serious competition that it's difficult to think of anything much besides whether or not his disguise (Transfiguring his clothes into a rhododendron bush) is better than Ron's (shrinking himself down and hiding among the gnomes), or where his next bowl of Christmas stew is coming from.

The fact that everything is much the same as usual insulates Harry against the confusion that exists outside of this little group and these little traditions. Rose, still her sparky old self, he's delighted to note, greets them at the door, breathless and grinning, with tinsel in her hair.

As they pile into the cottage, Al is already showing off his eye.

"Cool," she breathes, taking it from him and watching it spinning around. After a second or two, she leans in and whispers something to Al, of which Harry only catches, "... want to see?"

Al grins and throws a "See you later, Dad!" over his shoulder as they thunder up the stairs and out of sight, giggling.

When Lily falls in the garden and scrapes her knee so badly that, despite Harry's best efforts at healing and Ginny's best efforts at distraction, she is on the edge of tears, Ron allows her to choose the film for the evening.

Which is how Harry finds himself watching 'Rebel Without a Cause' while squashed into an armchair with new-James-Dean-devotee Lily at his side and Hugo draped across his feet, accidentally kicking Harry in the shins every time things get exciting. Al and Rose are watching avidly from a large ottoman, all but taking notes on new-old ways to create havoc; James somehow finds himself sharing a sofa with Hermione, who glances between him and the actors on the screen with far more amusement than Harry suspects is advisable. Ginny and Ron, taking turns in an armchair on the edge of the crush, are immediately nominated as snack-fetchers and drink-refillers, and disappear into the kitchen every now and then, returning with pumpkin juice and hot buttered popcorn.

Everyone eats and drinks until there's a good chance they will burst, as is customary at any Weasley-run event, and by the time the film is over, Harry is seriously considering Apparating right out of his chair and into bed, bugger the rest of them. He doesn't, of course, but the walk home seems long and uncomfortable. He thinks he will be rather relieved to get back to work, if only to ensure he doesn't eat himself to death.

He still isn't hungry when the tomato wakes him for work the following morning. Ginny has the morning off and has been relishing the prospect of an extra lie-in, so he leaves her sleeping and creeps out of the house without breakfast. The Ministry Atrium is quiet and the hallways even quieter, but he doesn't realise just how ridiculously early he is until he walks into the office and Helga isn't there yet. Despairing of himself, Harry locks himself in his private office and throws himself into answering his mountain of memos, determined to draw something useful, however small, from his restless disorientation.

When he looks up some time later, wrist cramped and fingers sporting several paper cuts, the calendar on his desk catches his eye. Wednesday the twenty-seventh. He's been back here just a week. It feels like longer.

He is so absorbed in his paperwork that he jumps when Helga raps on his office door.

"Come in," he calls, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses and absently sticking his quill behind his ear.

Helga hurries in and closes the door behind her. "Auror Weasley is here to see you," she says, and then, lowering her voice, adds: "He doesn't look very well."

Harry folds his arms atop his stack of parchment and leans forward to address Helga. "Just when did you become so fascinated with everyone's health?"

Helga merely snorts, but there's a glitter of humour in her eyes. "I'll send him in, then?"

"If you don't mind."

She retreats into the main office, and, moments later Ron appears. Harry draws in a sharp breath. He looks terrible. Ron has always been pale, but right now his skin is almost grey, freckles standing out in shocking relief against the pallor. He leans against Harry's door until it clicks shut and then allows the solid wood to take his weight as he stares, hollow-eyed, into the room. Even slouched, Ron is still strikingly tall, but at the same time, he looks smaller than Harry has ever seen him.

He leaps to his feet and rounds the desk, alarmed. "What's the matter?"

Ron blinks. "You and Ginny are splitting up," he rasps.

Harry's heart stutters, and just for a moment, the floor seems to tip beneath him. "What?" is all he can manage, even though clarification is the last thing he needs.

"I know," he says, scrubbing at his fringe with his robe sleeve. "I know about you and Ginny."

Feeling unsteady, Harry lowers himself onto his desk, sending quills and memos flying everywhere and barely noticing. "How?"

"I brought biscuits," Ron says suddenly, staring at the crumpled paper bag in his hand as though seeing it for the first time. "I think I'd better sit down."

"Yeah," Harry murmurs, nodding vaguely and conjuring a chair for Ron next to the desk. He watches his friend cross the floor and sink into the seat, then takes the proffered bag of biscuits, heart pounding. "Thanks."

Ron takes a deep breath, appears to compose himself, and meets Harry's eyes. "Gin told me last night... while everyone was watching the film."

Harry stares, hurt and confused. He lifts a hand with the vague intention of raking it through his hair. Lets it drop. Shakes his head. She agreed. She agreed to wait until after Christmas. He realises that their discussion was about keeping things together for the children, but he'd thought... he feels oddly like he's been punched in the gut. Not only that, but he has no idea how to interpret Ron's fretful disposition. He doesn't seem angry, but Harry knows better than to assume anything these days.

"I can't believe this," he says at last. "I was just sitting there watching James Dean having a scrap while she was in the kitchen, just..."

"It wasn't like that," Ron interrupts, sounding stronger now, more like himself. "It's not her fault, mate, I promise."

The blue eyes that burn into his are miserably sincere. Harry relents. "What happened?"

"I caught her crying in the kitchen. I asked her what was wrong... at first she wouldn't tell me, and then..." Ron lifts his shoulders in an awkward shrug. "She said she couldn't lie to her big brother."

Harry winces, pretending not to notice the catch in Ron's voice. His fresh feelings of betrayal begin to fade, leaving only a dull weight in the pit of his stomach. "We weren't trying to keep it from you. I just thought it'd be better if we dealt with things after Christmas and everything was out of the way. I'm not sure it was the best idea I've ever had, but..." Harry sighs. "I just wanted to make things easier for them."

"I just can't fucking believe it," Ron says, exhaling heavily and sprawling in his chair as though he's forgotten how to use his spine. "I mean... how long have you been pretending to be happy? Ginny wouldn't tell me much."

On hearing this, a little of the heaviness inside him disappears. For a moment, he considers glossing over the truth, telling Ron that this was a quick, clean decision and omitting the fact that the split was a long time coming. He quickly abandons the idea. Ron is his best friend, and he deserves to know more than half a story.

"Officially, for about a week. Really? I don't know. Years, I think. We're good friends, but that's not enough." Harry wraps his hands around the edge of his desk and looks at the floor. "Not any more."

"Don't you love her?" Ron says abruptly.

Harry looks up sharply. Fiercely. "Of course I love her."

"But you're not happy."

"No."

Ron leans across the desk and pulls a huge biscuit from the bag. "Double chocolate," he says absently, taking a huge bite and chewing thoughtfully. In the midst of everything, Harry finds himself impressed by Ron's faith in the ability of food to solve almost any problem. "I knew things weren't perfect, you know," he admits after a moment's chewing.

"Really?"

Catching Harry's surprise, Ron nods, a small smile flickering around the corners of his lips. "Yeah. Even me, eh? Wasn't hard to notice that you were both fed up, but... this is just... to be honest, I always thought you'd work it out, whatever it was. I never imagined you not being together."

Ron falls silent and looks away from Harry, instead opting to make another dent in his biscuit.

Caught midway between grief and exasperation, Harry takes the quill from behind his ear and fiddles with it, immediately thinking of Draco and really wishing he wouldn't. It isn't exactly a helpful direction for his mind to take at this minute. If he's really, really honest—just inside his head—he's cautiously relieved that Ron doesn't seem to want to knock him out, whatever Ginny might have to say on the subject. He probably deserves it, one way or another.

"If I thought there was a way to work things out, Ron, I would," he says. "I know this sounds like a crappy old cliché, but... I think we've just grown apart. I want her to be happy."

"What about you?" Ron asks, cutting right to the troublesome part of the whole equation. "Do you want you to be happy?"

"Yeah, of course. Eventually," Harry says.

"What is it that you want? To make you happy?" Ron presses, and a tiny part of Harry that feels a lot like Draco wants to stuff his mouth with biscuits until he stops asking questions.

The whole truth, he reminds himself. Well, at least most of it.

"Well..."

"Because, you know—I know this sounds ridiculous, but this whole thing is kind of ridiculous when you think about it, isn't it?" Ron shifts in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and gazing up at Harry, horror struck. "All I've been able to think about since last night, apart from when I've been trying to figure out what the bloody hell went wrong with you and Ginny, is... what happens if Hermione suddenly decides that some other thing makes her happier than I do?"

Harry allows himself a moment to extract the question from the tangle of words. The idea of Ron or Hermione ever finding another person more content to put up with their quirks is a faintly ridiculous one, Harry thinks, but it wouldn't be such a bad thing for them to appreciate each other a little more. Not that he's one to talk, but it's always easier to rationally analyse someone else's relationship.

"I don't think that's going to happen, Ron. You and Hermione were made for each other."

Ron smiles, and Harry knows that smile. It's the smile that makes it obvious to anyone who cares to notice that Auror Ronald Weasley loves his wife at least as much as he did... well, not quite the day he met her, but not long afterwards.

"That's what I thought about you and Gin," he admits, as the corners of the smile turn sad.

Harry shakes his head. "No. We're different. We love each other but Hermione would do anything for you."

"What if it's me?" Ron says suddenly, eyes widening. He slumps back into his chair with a groan. "What if whatever happened to you happens to me? Hermione reckons you're going through a midlife crisis, you know."

"I've heard," Harry sighs. "What happened to me is not going to happen to you, Ron," he promises.

"How do you know that?" Ron taps anxiously at his chair arms with long, freckled fingers, and it occurs to Harry that he hasn't seen his best friend so agitated for a very long time. Nor has he ever imagined the two of them having such an emotionally candid conversation; perhaps Ginny was right after all.

Harry frowns and tightens sweat-slippery fingers around the edge of his desk for support, wondering just how to answer that question in a way that will reassure Ron without giving him a heart attack.

He lets out a long, careful breath. "How do I know that? Because I'm fairly sure that you aren't about to realise you're gay any time soon. That's why."

Ron gapes. "You're not serious."

Harry shrugs and lifts one corner of his mouth in a self-conscious half smile. "It's not the only reason things went wrong for us, but I think it's a pretty important one."

"But... I mean... are you sure?"

It takes all of Harry's self control not to squirm and fidget on the desk as his subconscious helpfully bombards him with images of ballrooms and showers and fragrant oil in softly-lit bedrooms. He coughs.

"Yes."

"But you've been with Ginny for..." Ron frowns. "I mean, I'm not... it's just... are you sure?"

Harry almost laughs this time. "I'm sure. You're right... maybe labels aren't all that helpful. I just... just trust me, okay?"

Ron flushes slightly. After a moment, he nods. "Could still be a midlife crisis," he adds in a quiet voice.

"You never know. I know that would make Hermione happy."

Ron snorts. "So... Ginny knows about this, then?"

"Yes."

"Was she upset?"

"She wasn't surprised," Harry admits.

"I've always been a bit rubbish at picking stuff like this up," Ron sighs, reaching for another biscuit. "Everyone knew about Charlie before me. I think I had to actually see him kissing Serghei when he thought no one was looking to believe it. Fucking hell," Ron mumbles, biting into his biscuit and shaking his head slowly. "You're like Charlie!"

Harry raises an eyebrow. "I think Charlie is a lot cooler than me."

"Meh, Charlie's cooler than everyone," Ron says through a mouthful of crumbs. "What are you going to tell Mum and Dad?"

Harry suppresses a shiver. "Nothing yet. I'll deal with that when the time comes. I'm concentrating on what I'm going to tell the kids right now."

"Kids are resilient," Ron offers, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "The only reason I mention Mum and Dad is... well, I don't think there's ever been a divorce in our family. It's sort of a matter of pride with them."

Harry sighs. Preoccupied, he takes a biscuit from the bag and bites into it, savouring the sweetness of the chocolate and the heavy, sticky texture that gives way to his teeth and sticks to the roof of his mouth. "Great. I'll look forward to that, then." He pulls a face at the rug. "Thanks for the warning, though. What did Hermione say?"

"She doesn't know yet," Ron says, and Harry is flooded with warm gratitude. He knows how much it must have cost Ron to keep such a huge secret from his wife, even for a few hours.

"Thanks," he whispers, and Ron shrugs, suddenly awkward. "You can tell her, if you want. I don't really want you to have to keep it yourself for another week. Just... it stays with you two, okay? The last thing we need is for one of the kids to hear some sordid rumour before we get chance to sit down with them."

Ron nods, and for a minute or two the office is silent, save for the crunching of biscuits and the relieved, slightly quickened breathing of two men who have talked about their feelings and survived.

Finally, Ron wipes his chocolatey hands on his robes and looks at Harry.

"Do you need somewhere to stay?"

**~*~**

After Ron has departed (reluctantly, following a memo that flies right out of Harry's fireplace to remind him that his presence is required at a team meeting down the hall), Harry swivels around in his chair in slow circles, wondering if he has, in fact, shot himself in the arse by insisting that he'll be fine and refusing, as gratefully as possible, Ron's offer of his spare room as a temporary bolthole. Now that the office is quiet once more and he has the space and the last biscuit to help him think, he concedes that sometimes he is obstinate in declining help just because it comes naturally, not because it makes sense, and it quickly becomes obvious that this is one of those occasions.

The fact that Ron hadn't pushed the point suggests that he knows Harry just about as well as anyone, and this realisation makes Harry smile wryly at the ceiling as he continues to rotate.

It's the best option he has, at least for the moment. Harry knows that he will be the one to leave the family home, both from the brief discussions he and Ginny have managed in the privacy of their bedroom over the last few evenings, and the simple fact that he is the one who spends less time with the children, works longer hours and, in truth, feels responsible for the whole thing, despite Ginny's frequent assertions to the contrary. The chance to start again is equal parts exciting and terrifying, but he knows it's not quite time for that yet.

Ginny will probably be astonished to hear that he wants to make an announcement to the press, but he's ready to take control. Better that than give some opportunistic photographer the chance to snap him viewing houses in London and splash it all over the gossip pages. The press aren't going away, after all; they're probably always going to be interested in him, and perhaps, if he starts playing the game a little instead of being so combative, they stop being quite so rabid. He isn't naive enough to believe that he'll ever be treated with the friendly respect that he received in the glimpse, but a shift in that direction would certainly be appreciated.

Harry sighs and lowers his feet to the floor, using his rubber-soled boots against the rug to slow his spin. He leans on the desk, feeling dizzy, and lowers his face to the surface, inhaling the mingled aromas of wood polish and ink and parchment. He'll owl Ron later. It'll be fine.

When Harry gets home, the ground floor is completely devoid of children. Puzzled, he peers into each room in turn, but finds no sign of life other than a weary-looking Ginny, leaning against the kitchen counter and cradling a cup of aromatic tea close to her face.

"Where are they all?" he says at last, stripping off his robes and seating himself on the edge of the kitchen table in jeans and bobbly jumper.

"Upstairs," she says, blowing the steam away from her cup. "Doing the homework that they've all suddenly remembered they have to have finished in a few days."

Harry nods, understanding at once. "I remember it well." He is just wondering how to tell her about Ron's visit to the office when she says:

"You'll never guess who my new business client is."

Thrown off course, Harry frowns. Blinks. "Celestina Warbeck?"

Ginny's freckled nose wrinkles in distaste. "No, thank goodness. It's a company called Zabology, and it's run by—"

"Blaise Zabini," Harry finishes faintly.

"How did you know that?"

With an odd squiggly feeling in his stomach, Harry scrambles for a lie. "Er, I saw something about him in the paper. Have you met him yet?"

Ginny shakes her head, looking mutinous. "No, but from what I can remember, he was a pretentious tosspot," she grouses. "One of Malfoy's cronies, wasn't he?"

Harry stares at her as a wave of calm sweeps over him. He smiles. "You should give him a chance."

Ginny snorts into her mug. "Do you know something I don't?"

"I just think we're all old enough for second attempts at treating each other like human beings," Harry says, already wondering about the non-glimpse Blaise Zabini, how he is and what he's like, and deciding instantly that, one way or another, he must find out.

"Well, we shall see about that," Ginny says. "How was your day?"

"Ron came to see me," Harry blurts before he can stop himself.

Ginny blanches. Stiffly, she sets her cup down on the counter and presses both hands against her face. "Oh... shit, I'm sorry, Harry."

"I know."

"He knew I was upset and he just kept asking... and he hugged me, and I just couldn't..." Ginny trails into silence. After a moment, she takes a deep, ragged breath and drops her hands from her face, wrapping her arms around herself for protection.

"I'm not angry, Gin. It was probably unrealistic to think we could keep it all in when everyone's so close."

She sighs, scuffing her socked feet against the kitchen tiles. "Maybe you should be."

"What, angry?"

"Yeah. I keep having this crazy thought that maybe all this would be easier if we just started yelling like we're supposed to," she admits.

Harry leans back, grasping the edge of the table to anchor his weight, and looks up at the ceiling, hoping to somehow pluck reason out of the air. "I don't think that's true, somehow," he offers.

They both startle as James' music begins to pound obnoxiously from the floor above. "Turn it down!" Ginny yells, drawing her wand and aiming a transparency spell at the ceiling. There is some muffled cursing followed by a marked reduction in the volume of the music. Ginny's wand clatters on the marble worktop as she drops it and sighs. "Neither do I, but it's difficult to know one way or another at the moment, isn't it?"

Harry has to agree that it is. He has faith that things will get easier, if only because the thought that they might not makes him want to crawl into his closet and hide among his old man jumpers until all of this has been forgotten about. And that's not really an option for a thirty-seven-year old Gryffindor father of three, so... faith it is.

He thinks Helga would be proud.

**~*~**

Over the next few days, Hermione makes herself such a fixture in his office that Harry wonders quite how she's managing to get any work done at all. When he finds out that she's been turning up at Gringotts for lunches and post-work coffees with Ginny, he almost begins to genuinely fear for the future of goblin-human relations. Almost—it's still Hermione, after all. He finds himself amused and touched by her insistence on dividing her time equally between himself and Ginny, just in case either of them might think for a moment that she was taking sides. As if she would. Hermione has—quite literally—made a career out of diplomacy.

"Ms Granger-Weasley is here again," Helga announces, sounding somewhat bored by the sixth or seventh similar announcement in the space of two days. "Is there something the matter with her?"

"I knew there was something going on," she says, so frequently that by Friday afternoon, Harry has taken to keeping a tally on a scrap of parchment hidden beneath his perpetual memo mountain. She has also developed a fondness for not-really questions like: "How many times do I have to remind you that you can't do everything on your own, Harry?" and "Did you really think we wouldn't want to help you after everything we've been through together?"

Harry knows that she has a point, and he also knows that Hermione is hiding behind scolding him because she's worried and she cares and because scolding comes naturally to her. He pretends exasperation because that's just his role in the way things are and have always been, but beneath it all, he's grateful for her—for both of them. Knowing that there are at least two people willing to take some of the weight for a while makes everything just a little bit easier.

On Friday afternoon, Hermione brings information that improves Harry's mood even further.

"Hello, Helga," she calls brightly, moments before the door to Harry's office swings open and Hermione admits herself without asking permission from the gatekeeper. The fact that Helga doesn't say a word speaks volumes; apparently, where Hermione is concerned, she has given up.

Hermione flops into the spare chair, which has been so heavily used over the last few days that Harry has decided to just leave it there. She passes him a paper cup full of coffee so rich-smelling that Harry groans softly, holding the cup under his nose and allowing the aroma to awaken his weary senses.

"Thank you," he sighs, reluctantly setting down the cup and waiting for the coffee to cool.

"You're welcome," Hermione says, helping herself to a jam tart from the box left by Ron at the end of his morning visit. "I have good news. Well, not for Great Aunt Mildred, but it is for you."

Harry frowns, puzzled. "Nope," he says after a moment. "You're going to have to explain it to me. Small words, please; I'm tired."

Hermione nods, pulling her feet up onto the chair. "Well." She licks strawberry jam from the back of her hand. "I just finished a firecall with Molly—I wanted to check that she could still look after the kids tomorrow night so we can go to that dinner party Ron's godawful partner is having." She pauses, rolling her eyes. Harry is still confused. "Anyway, she was running around like a headless chicken trying to pack and make arrangements for the next couple of weeks. Apparently, Great Aunt Mildred has come down with a terrible case of Kneazle Pox and is insisting that Molly and Arthur go down to Cornwall and look after her," she finishes triumphantly, fixing expectant eyes on Harry.

Hardly daring to believe his good fortune, Harry stares back at her. "So... they're going to be away for a while?"

"Yes."

"Both of them?"

Hermione nods. "That's what she said. Apparently, she's very demanding."

Harry smiles slowly, revelling in the spread of cautious relief through his veins. He feels guilty for delighting in an old woman's misfortune, but he has met Great Aunt Mildred and he doubts a Hippogriff could take her down, much less a case of Kneazle Pox, and she may have just bought him a couple of weeks' grace.

"That is absolutely great news, 'Mione, thank you," he sighs, leaning back in his chair. "Maybe by the time they get home, I'll have figured out what to say to them."

"I don't think it'll be as bad as you're imagining," Hermione says gently, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Harry finds a smile for his bearer-of-good-news. "Let's hope not."

**~*~**

New Year's Eve is a quiet affair, for which Harry is grateful after a somewhat chaotic Saturday night full of children and a bewildering array of noises. He had, to Ron's delight and Hermione's dismay, invited Rose and Hugo over for the evening, allowing their parents to attend the godawful dinner party as planned. Now, as Harry stands in the kitchen with bits of paper stuck to his hands and clothing, the house is calm and near-silent. James is staying with a school friend whose name Harry can't recall, but whose nose ring had made him appreciate his son's restraint for the first time; Al is at Ron and Hermione's cottage, probably running riot with Rose for the second night in a row, and Lily... Lily has been working hard. She and Harry have spent most of the evening at the kitchen table, adding the important artistic touches to her Black Death project. Having been allowed to stay up, she had pronounced the work completed just after eleven o'clock, joined Harry in a celebratory mug of hot chocolate, and trundled off to bed, sleepy but satisfied.

Ginny comes and leans on the kitchen door frame as Harry is walking around the table, gathering up the debris of their artwork. He can't say he has helped all that much, mostly just the colouring-in of various lurid illustrations and the gluing of bits of paper to other bits of paper according to her careful instructions, but she had seemed to appreciate the help, and the time with her dad. The smell of glue and paper and pencil-sharpenings is wonderfully evocative, and with it comes the comforting memory of primary school art lessons and the realisation that perhaps he has always enjoyed being creative.

He smiles easily at Ginny as he slots pencil crayons back into the tin in their proper places, resisting the urge to shove them anywhere they will fit and clicking them back in colour order to form a shiny wooden rainbow.

"You've got glitter on your nose," Ginny says at last.

Harry frowns. He doesn't remember using any glitter, but he lifts a hand to his nose, rubs lightly, and it comes away sparkling. "I have no idea."

"I tucked Lily in."

Harry smiles gratefully. "Did you manage to convince her to go to sleep?"

Ginny nods, pulling her sleeves down over her fingers and wrapping her arms around herself. "Eventually. She was worried about you having to tidy up by yourself."

"Well, as you can see, I've coped admirably." Harry indicates the neat stacks of paper and the hovering sheets that are still drying several inches above the table.

"I'm impressed," she says. Her eyes glow softly in the dim light and she lets out a gentle sigh. "You know what they say about what you're doing at the New Year, don't you?"

Harry stops what he's doing, holding his breath as though knowing something unpleasant is coming. When he exhales, the sound seems deafening in his own head. "Yeah... but it's not like you to be superstitious."

Ginny slants an odd smile in his direction. "I know. I suppose it just seems a little bit too close to home this year."

Harry catches his breath and looks down at the table for a moment. "I suppose so."

"My mum is, you know. Superstitious. She always used to say that whatever you're doing at the stroke of midnight is what you'll be doing for the rest of the year."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "What if you're sleeping? Or on the toilet?"

Ginny rolls her eyes. "I don't think you're supposed to take it quite so literally."

"Sorry," Harry mumbles, mouth twisting in a rueful smile. "I'll stop attempting to lighten the situation with humour; I'm clearly not very good at it."

Ginny smiles, too, looking very much like she's trying to stop herself. "That sounds like a good idea," she whispers, and something in her tone wrenches his heart. This is real, adds his subconscious, as though he needs to be reminded.

"Tea?" he offers, for want of a better idea.

"Thanks," Ginny says, and then there is silence.

Harry absorbs himself in the familiar ritual, pouring and brewing and stirring, wondering vaguely what Draco would think about his mismatched old cups, none of them stripy. Ginny takes her tea and disappears into the garden with it. He watches her for a moment through the kitchen window, happy to respect her unspoken desire to spend the last of the old year apart, even though it feels strange and unsettling. When she settles herself on the rickety bench and casts a shimmering Tempus charm, Harry turns away and heads up the stairs.

He checks on Lily as he passes, finding her sleeping peacefully with Frank stretched out at her side. On Al's door he finds a note, placed so far above his eye-line that he hasn't noticed it before now.

Dad – don't forget to make a New Year's resolution. Mine is to eat less brocolly broccoli broccoli.

Harry laughs and slips the note into his pocket. In the bedroom, he sits on the end of the bed, picking at the dried glue on his hands and remembering the ritual of the resolution circle, the promises spoken out loud. There might not be anyone here to witness his words, but, as Harry stares at his hazy reflection in the mirror, he thinks perhaps that doesn't matter.

"Accio," he murmurs, holding out his hand for the tomato clock.

"Eleven forty-six," it informs him.

"I will..." He hesitates. Chews his lip. "I will be a better father."

Bright green eyes stare out of the mirror at him. Mocking him. This is fucking hard. It's easy to promise something that doesn't really matter, but he supposes that's the point.

"I will appreciate my friends, because they put up with a lot."

He sighs and closes his eyes, dropping his hastily-constructed barriers until the ache inside him overflows, making his eyes sting and his heart hurt.

"I will take the unknown road. I will find Draco Malfoy."

**~*~**

"How are we supposed to do this?" Ginny asks, flopping onto the bed beside Harry, who is lying flat on his back, sprawling sideways across the sheets, fully dressed. With James and Al now home, Harry and Ginny are hiding in their bedroom, procrastinating.

"I don't know. But someone once told me that his parents took him out for his favourite dinner to tell him they were getting a divorce, and he could never eat it again. So... we should probably try to avoid that."

Ginny shoots him a sidelong glance. "Was that Dean Thomas, by any chance?"

"Ah. You heard the same story."

"Yeah. And I remember thinking at the time that people were crazy to get divorced. I mean, no one in our family seems to ever split up..." She lapses into silence, looking as though she wants to cover her face with her hands and disappear completely.

"I know," Harry says faintly.

"Sorry," she mumbles, resting her head against his shoulder. "You've probably heard it over and over, haven't you?"

"It's come up once or twice this week," Harry admits.

"I thought so. I also kind of thought I would've come up with some sort of strategy by now."

Harry takes a deep, fortifying breath, pulls himself upright and holds out a hand to Ginny.

"Come on."

She blinks up at him anxiously. "What?"

He grabs her hand and pulls her up. "Strategies are very much overrated. The more you think about it, the more you'll worry about it. Let's just do it, okay?"

Ginny rests her hands on her thighs and lets out a long, controlled breath. "Okay."

Five minutes later, Harry has assembled the family around the kitchen table, where they sit, clutching hot drinks and wondering what exactly they should do next. Lily looks apprehensively between Harry and Ginny, a stripy ball of fur vibrating gently on her lap, while James and Al exchange glances.

"What's going on?" James says at last, the impatience in his voice not quite masking the unease.

"Er..." Ginny begins, and then dries up.

Harry jumps in. "Your mum and I need to talk to you about something."

Al's eyes go wide. "Has someone died?" he asks in hushed tones.

Harry tries very hard not to smile. "No, Al. No one's died."

"Oh," Al says, and it's difficult to tell if he's relieved or disappointed. Strange child.

"Anyway..." Harry hesitates, knowing there is no going back after this and hovering on the edge, gathering his nerve. "Your mum and I... we've been talking, and... we both love you all very much, but..." Harry falters, catching the light of understanding in his oldest son's eyes and forcing himself to continue, to finish it. "We're splitting up."

Lily catches her breath and clutches Frank tightly to her. While Al's eyes flick to Ginny, searching for confirmation, James never looks away from Harry.

"I'm sorry," Ginny says, barely above a whisper. "But it's going to be okay—we're not angry with each other; we're still going to be friends. Just because we're not together doesn't mean we're not a family," she insists, voice growing stronger now. "It's not you, it's just us—our marriage—it's just not working any more."

Briefly, Harry squeezes her hand under the table. He says nothing, wanting to give them space to absorb the information and to react. When the silence stretches out into minutes, though, it takes all of his restraint not to break it. He concentrates on his breathing, on the drip of the tap into the sink, and, eventually, James speaks.

"I know."

"You know what?" Ginny asks, sounding puzzled.

James glances at Al, who bites his bottom lip and shrugs. "That you haven't been happy."

Harry doesn't have time to be startled before Al jumps in. "We've known for months," he says helpfully, and James kicks him none-too-subtly under the table.

Ginny turns to Harry, face a mask of helpless astonishment. "Now what?" she mouths.

"I have no idea," he murmurs, eyes flitting between his children. "What makes you say that, James?"

"I'm not stupid, Dad. I can tell when you're unhappy. You hardly talk to each other any more, except for the last few days, which is... weird," he says, frowning.

"I know you're not stupid... I didn't realise," Harry says, raking both hands through his hair and attempting to ground himself.

"I tried to talk to you the other night, but..." James shrugs, apparently taking refuge in awkwardness.

Heavy with guilt, Harry nods. He knows James is telling the truth, and now it seems ridiculous that he hadn't pushed him to talk at the time.

"So... you two have been talking about this?" Ginny asks.

"Yeah. We were worried about you," Al says stoutly.

Harry shoots him a small smile. "You too, Lil?"

She nods, just as James is saying, "Of course not!" and then, "Al!"

Al blinks. "What?"

"You told her!" James hisses, appalled.

"Why shouldn't he tell me?" Lily demands hotly, fixing James with a fierce stare.

"You're too young," James mumbles, folding his arms and looking away from his sister. Harry, watching the argument unfold with morbid fascination, doesn't really blame him; she has learned that glare from her mother, and many a stronger man than either of them has quailed at the sight of it over the years.

Lily bristles. "I am ten years old, James. I'm not a baby!"

"She's not, you know. She already knew something was up," Al points out.

"Whose side are you on, exactly?" James snaps, and Al shrugs, falling silent.

"I don't think anyone should be taking sides," Harry says, and all eyes are on him. "Er, right, so... I have to admit, this isn't really going the way I expected it to, but never mind. Does anyone... want to ask anything?" he tries.

"Are we going to move house?" Lily inquires, eyes large and appealing.

"No," Ginny says. "You, Al, and James are going to stay here with me... if that's what you want," she adds, growing uncertain.

Al chews on his thumbnail. "Where are you going to go, Dad?"

"I don't know, yet," he admits. "Not far, don't worry. I'm going to stay with Ron and Hermione for a little while."

"Can we come and stay with you sometimes?" Lily asks tearfully, clutching Frank as though he's keeping her afloat. He doesn't seem to notice; in fact, he doesn't even seem to stir in his sleep.

Harry swallows hard, heartbroken to think that Lily even imagines he might leave her behind and not look back. "Of course you can, Lil. And Frank. All of you can. I'll make sure I find a house with plenty of bedrooms."

"I think it'll be okay to stay with Mum, then," Lily pronounces seriously. Ginny smiles.

"Me too," Al says, unexpectedly putting his arm around his sister in a show of solidarity.

"Why don't you want to be together any more?" James says suddenly, shattering the fragile calm.

"We aren't happy any more," Ginny says, picking at her teacup. "We care about each other and we've realised we'd be happier if we weren't together."

James regards his mother evenly. "I don't believe you. Did one of you have an affair?"

"Hey," Harry warns. "Don't speak to your mother like that."

James snorts. "Why not?"

"Because she loves you and this is hard for her and we didn't bring you up to throw accusations around like that," he snaps, meeting his son's eyes. Seeing them widen at his harsh tone, he makes an effort to slow his breathing and unclench his fingers; he doesn't know where the flash of anger has sprung from, but it's not going to do any good here.

"I know," James mutters, eyes downcast. "I just want to know the truth."

"It is the truth," Ginny says. She's protecting him, and he doesn't know whether he wants to hug her or shake her.

"It is the truth," Harry agrees, heart pounding. "But there is more to it."

Ginny inhales sharply. She turns. "You don't have to," she whispers.

"I think I'd like the start the New Year being honest," he says, and he is so fortified by these words that he manages the difficult ones almost without hesitation. "I've learned a lot about myself recently, and one of the things that I've learned is that I'm... erm, I'm more interested in men than women."

"You like boys?" Lily asks, nose wrinkled in contemplation.

Harry nods. "I suppose that's about the size of it, yeah."

"They smell, do you know?" she adds.

Harry smiles, even as a small part of him aches violently for Maura. "I'll keep that in mind."

"That's not true," Al says, all eyebrows and indignation. "I smell brilliant."

"Not when you've been out playing Quidditch, you don't," Ginny mumbles into her cup.

"Uncle Charlie's gay, isn't he?" Al muses, ignoring his mother. "He's done alright for himself."

Ginny snorts, and the only thing keeping Harry's face straight is the fact that James—the unknown quantity, the one whose reaction worries him most—has not said a word.

Ever inquisitive, Al keeps him occupied with questions like: "Didn't you know you were gay before?", "Does this mean you're going to grow your hair long?" and "Aren't you a bit old for all that anyway?"

Ginny scrapes back her chair to allow an emotional Lily to perch on her lap, squashing Frank between them as she loops her arms around her mother's neck and holds on tight, no longer caring about whether or not she looks grown up.

Eventually, James folds his arms on the table and gazes at Harry. He opens his mouth to speak and Harry holds his breath.

"Doesn't make any difference to me, Dad, but—what's Grandma going to say?"

Bewildered, Harry stares at James. He doesn't know quite what to say to that, but there's a small bubble of relief growing rapidly in his chest and he almost smiles as he says:

"Thanks for your support, James—we'll worry about Grandma when she comes back from Cornwall, shall we?"

"That reminds me," Ginny says, resting her chin on the top of Lily's head. "I know it's not very nice, but we need you to keep this to yourselves for a week or two, just until we sort everything out with the newspaper."

"Why?" asks Al.

"Because otherwise they'll write things that aren't true and everyone will be upset," Ginny says darkly. "Especially Grandma."

"I can't even tell Rose?" Al gasps, clutching theatrically at the edge of the table.

"You can tell Rose, of course you can," Harry says, as though it's obvious.

Al wriggles in his chair, relieved. Harry drags in a long, deep breath and glances around at his family, taking inventory. Ginny, wiped out but relieved, is cradling a sad but resilient Lily and an ever stoic Frank. Al is possibly more curious than ever, and James, now apparently satisfied, is leaning back in his chair, watching over the whole scene with a calm acceptance that is way beyond his years.

Harry is still in one piece, and that is quite enough to be going on with.

James stretches, tips his chair too far and only just recovers his balance in time. Like a cat that has just fallen from a piece of furniture, he adjusts his position and glances around to check that no one has seen anything. Harry hides a smile.

"Dad?" he says after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"Put the kettle on."

**~*~**

On the evening of the first of January, Harry throws his work robes, a selection of his old man clothes, and his tomato clock into a bag, hugs his children, assuring them that he'll see them very soon, and moves into Ron and Hermione's spare bedroom. He only takes what he needs for now, reluctant to drag out the process or to let Ginny know that he has noticed her tears. That night, he lies awake, unable to sleep in the unfamiliar-smelling bedroom with no one by his side for the first time in years, thinking about James' question and trying to imagine what his parents would have to say about the situation. There's no way of knowing, of course, but the hazy memory of his mother's warm eyes and his father's small, encouraging smile is soothing, wrapping around him until he drifts gratefully into unconsciousness.

On the third of January, he and Ginny see James and Al back onto the Hogwarts Express. When the train has pulled out of sight, he scans the platform, seeking out blond hair and black clothes, but draws a blank.

"He's in Edinburgh," Ginny sighs, heading back toward the main station. "Probably took Scorpius straight to school himself this year."

"I wasn't—" Harry insists, more out of habit than anything else.

"Harry."

"Sorry."

"I'm going back to work." She touches his arm, eyes appealing. "Look after yourself."

Harry does his best. He gets as much sleep as he can, he goes to work, he attends meetings, and he remembers to eat, even though he feels less than comfortable invading someone else's breakfast table every morning; Hermione watches him, hawklike, pushing extra toast and bacon under his nose and monitoring his mood carefully, while Ron chats to no one in particular about the day ahead. It doesn't seem to matter how welcome they try to make him feel, he's still an intruder and he's still floating in limbo—married but not married, effectively homeless, and still thinking about Draco Malfoy far more than is helpful.

On the first Saturday of the year, Harry leaves the village behind and travels to Hogwarts, where, from what he has gathered from James' complaints, the last planned Quidditch game of the Autumn term is taking place, somewhat later than scheduled due to adverse weather conditions. The new rules, also according to James, state that matches are now to be called off at the slightest coating of frost on the broomstick handles; remembering the heavy snowfall throughout December and his son's penchant for exaggeration, Harry doubts that it's quite as simple as that, but there's a little part of him that feels slightly aggrieved—he's fairly sure that Dumbledore would have sent them up there in a fucking blizzard during his own Hogwarts days. Still, he does rather prefer to have James in one piece.

Even if James himself is extremely hacked off by the whole thing.

"Oh, brilliant," he'd groaned on hearing that Harry was planning to attend the game. "The first time you come and watch me play in ages and we'll get flattened because we haven't had enough time to train."

Harry had tried pointing out that the Slytherin team would have exactly the same disadvantage, but had quickly realised that there's little point trying to reason with a wound up Gryffindor Beater, even one with blue streaks in his hair.

When he gets to the pitch, almost all of the stands are full of students and teachers, all chanting and clapping as the two teams make their way out onto the grass. Hurriedly, Harry wraps his old house scarf around his neck and races up the creaky steps of the nearest empty stand. Slightly out of breath, he emerges into the morning sunshine at the top and realises that the stand isn't quite as empty as he'd first thought.

The man turns around at the sound of Harry's footsteps, sending his heart crashing against his ribs and his fingernails cutting into his palms. He has absolutely no idea what to say.

Draco lifts an eyebrow. "What do you want, Potter? I'm trying to watch the match."

"I... er..." Harry clears his throat, both relieved and offended when Draco turns back to the pitch. Harry hears the whistle and the whoosh of the wind around the players as they rise into the air. With those eyes focused elsewhere, he finds some words at last. "I just want to watch, too. James is playing."

"I know," Draco says drily. "He's hard to miss."

Bristling, Harry takes a few steps into the rickety wooden box and forces himself to remember that this Draco has had a very different life from the one in the glimpse, all because of something Harry himself did or did not do. He takes a deep breath—wood, earth, lemons—and pushes his irritation away. It would be so easy to start an argument, and he supposes that's the point—it's always been easy to argue with this man, and that's not what he wants any more.

Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets and watches Draco. His absorption in the game is fascinating to observe; so much so that Harry almost forgets to speak.

"Is Scorpius playing?" he asks at last.

"He's a first year," Draco says quietly. And then, with a touch of bitterness: "I think those kinds of exceptions were only made for you."

"That was a long time ago."

"It certainly feels like it," Draco says without looking around.

Harry says nothing, just watches the hem of the long black coat whipping around Draco's calves in the breeze that slants in from the pitch and the determined flicker of the charcoal grey scarf tucked in around his neck. He rests his hands on the barrier of the stand and allows himself to lean just a fraction, though his posture is still straighter than Harry's best efforts, and Harry doesn't know why he's surprised to notice that Draco isn't wearing a wedding ring. He looks at his own bare ring finger and swallows hard. He's been wearing it, just until everything is out in the open, but something had made him leave it on his bedside this morning.

"I'm sorry about your marriage," he says softly.

Draco snorts. "Are you?"

"Yes."

"I didn't come here for a fight, Potter," he says, sounding weary.

Harry joins him at the barrier, just in time for James to swoop past on the tail of a speeding Bludger. "Neither did I. I came to watch my son play Quidditch."

Suspicious grey eyes flick to his for a fraction of a second, and then back to the game, just in time to see the Slytherin Keeper dive left instead of right and allow Gryffindor the first goal of the game. He winces, looking at Harry again as though holding him personally responsible for the slip-up. Harry ignores the implication, instead taking the opportunity to study the pale face. He looks tired, and even up close, his severe hairstyle makes him look as though he's going bald, but he's still beautiful. Still striking, even without his colours and stripes, and even if that frown is permanent. Harry doubts it is, but he's not about to test that theory just yet.

Uncertain, he ignores the presence of the man next to him and focuses on the game. From what he can see, James' fears were unfounded; the Gryffindor team are skilful, tight, and disciplined, streaking about the pitch in blurs of scarlet and gold. Unfortunately for James, though, the Slytherins are just as capable, and the two well-matched teams make for an exciting game. Several minutes in, James coasts past their stand, bat held loosely as he takes a moment to catch his breath, and almost falls off his broom at the sight of his father and Mr Malfoy standing quietly side by side.

"Alright, Dad," he calls, recovering himself, waving his bat in greeting and taking off into a sudden spiralling dive, black and blue hair flapping behind him.

"I think that was for your benefit," Draco observes.

Harry smiles. "I expect so."

"He didn't expect to see me, did he?"

"Do you blame him?"

"I don't know what you're trying to suggest, Potter, but I am always here. I haven't missed a game in years," Draco says, tapping his fingers on the wooden barrier. One, two, three, four, five with the left, and one, two, three, four, five with the right, Harry counts automatically.

"I didn't know that," he admits.

Draco's mouth twitches into an almost-smile as Slytherin score a goal. "You don't know everything."

Harry sighs, exasperated. "I know that," he mumbles, rubbing at the uneven surface of the wood with his thumb. "I just imagined you'd go and watch a professional team play these days."

"You imagined?" Draco repeats, shooting him a sharp look. Harry shrugs, feeling a flush creeping up the back of his neck. "I like it here, if you must know. I'm a school governor."

"Oh," Harry says. He has no idea how to respond to that.

"Good grief, have I managed to shut you up?" Draco murmurs, eyes still on the pitch. Though heavy with sarcasm, there is no edge to his tone, and Harry catches his first glimpse of his Draco underneath the stiff, frosty exterior.

"I think you'll have to try harder than that," Harry says.

"Are you planning to be here often?" Draco demands, tapping his fingers again. "I usually have this stand all to myself."

"How do you manage that?"

"The students don't like it. They think it smells funny."

Puzzled, Harry sniffs at the air. He can't detect anything untoward. "I can't smell anything."

Draco smirks. "Of course you can't. It only ever takes a couple of Dungbombs before the first game of the year. They soon learn to stay away."

"You are extremely unsociable," Harry observes. Oddly, it's not a criticism; he's just struck by how solitary this man is, how many barriers he must have constructed to conceal the warmth that Harry knows, he knows, is beneath.

"That's a new one," Draco says, unruffled. "Have you been talking to my ex-wife?"

"No. I really am sorry about that," Harry tries.

"That's interesting. Why do you care all of a sudden?"

Harry hesitates. "I just do, alright? I wouldn't wish that experience on anyone... however much of a cock they might have been to me in the past."

"I think you'll find that—"

"Alright, we were both cocks. Better?"

Draco laughs but still doesn't look at Harry. "Much."

"Am I allowed to be sorry now?" Harry asks, knowing he's pushing it. Needing to.

"Don't bother. Astoria and I have been separated for a long time—nearly two years. We wanted to wait until Scorpius went away to school to start all of that messy legal business, but these things rarely go to plan. I'm still waiting for it to be finalised."

Astonished, Harry watches the Slytherin Chasers and attempts to pull together a coherent response. They streak past the stand in formation, the two on the outside carefully guarding the one in the centre as she swoops toward the Gryffindor goal hoops, Quaffle under her arm, and as Harry watches her put it neatly past the Keeper in red, he can't help feeling that things are starting to go his way.

Deciding it will be politic to hide his glee from Draco, he says, "It must've been difficult to live together for all that time."

"Not really. You could probably walk around for days in the Manor without seeing anyone," Draco says carelessly.

Harry heaves a sigh and scrubs at his hair. He's infuriating. Of course he is. It's not as though he ever expected any of this to be simple, but it's easy to remember why this haughty, scornful idiot has always driven him to near-madness.

"Why are you so difficult to talk to?" he asks without expecting a response, just letting the question hang in the air.

Draco snorts, leaning precariously over the barrier to watch the two Seekers diving for the Snitch and almost colliding. Shaking his head, he straightens up, to the immense relief of Harry, who had been seconds away from reaching out and grabbing the back of his coat.

"Maybe I'm confused about why you suddenly seem to want to be my friend," he offers.

"I'm just being polite," Harry says weakly, just about resisting the temptation to hex himself in the face.

"I think fucking not."

"We're sort of in the same boat," he says before he can think better of it. "Ginny and I are splitting up."

Draco's eyes snap to his, sharp and searching. "You're lying."

"Why would I do that?" Harry demands, wounded.

"It would have been in the paper, Potter; I'm not that naive." Draco turns his attention back to the game.

"We haven't announced it yet," Harry admits. "It'll be common knowledge in a week or so."

Draco blinks. His fingers tighten around the barrier and as he turns to Harry once more, the wind whips a strand of his hair free of its severe, slicked down style; he stands there, quite unaware, and Harry rather inappropriately wants to smile.

"Maybe I'm missing something, but are you mad? Why on earth would you tell me that?"

"Maybe I don't have anything to lose," he admits. "Everything is changing."

Draco turns away from the barrier at last and folds his arms across his chest. "And now you trust me? I don't know why I'm surprised that you're not making sense. You never have."

"You don't mean that," Harry murmurs. He turns, heart racing, and rests his arms on the barrier, looking out just in time to see James whacking a Bludger into the Slytherin Seeker, which knocks him off course and allows the Gryffindor Seeker to capture the Snitch. The stands erupt into cheers and applause, and even Draco is clapping politely beside him.

Harry joins in, wondering if what he's just done is brilliant or idiotic. It's usually impossible to tell until long after it's too late. Perhaps, though, it will be a test. A dangerous test, he supposes, but there's nothing much he can do about that now. If Draco goes public with the information, it will hurt, but he will know that this man isn't the Draco he is hoping for; he is too embittered and too far removed from the man in the glimpse to ever bring himself to love Harry Potter. If he doesn't, then just maybe, despite the austere appearance and the maze of protective walls, his Draco is in there somewhere.

"I'm sorry about your marriage, Potter," he says, pausing at the top of the stairs.

Harry nods, granting him a small, grateful smile. "Thanks."

Draco turns and heads down the spiral staircase, long coat flapping behind him. Harry watches him go until his knees turn to water and he scrambles to lower himself onto a hard wooden bench before he ends up on the floor. He leans against the wall, heart hammering unpleasantly, wondering if he's really planning to put himself through this all over again.

"Dad!" James yells, swooping into view and hovering just outside the box.

Harry takes a deep breath and goes to congratulate his son.

The next part is up to Draco.