Harry thinks this may just be the quietest the kitchen at the Burrow has ever been. Granted, he has been witness to many painful, hushed scenes here during the war years, but this silence is something different; it stretches between the four people sitting around the table, so heavy that Harry barely dares to breathe.

Beside him, Ginny bites her lip and flicks anxious eyes between her parents. He can't quite extinguish his guilt at letting her do most of the talking, but judging by the matching expressions of shock on Molly's and Arthur's faces, he knows they made the right decision. Ginny is diplomatic, perceptive and careful when it comes to the emotional stuff, and he is... well... not.

That said, he has developed a talent for reading expressions over the years, and is all too aware that the Weasleys are surprised and distressed by the news, even if he has no idea which—if any—words will help. Both faces are pale and lined, appearing older than usual, and though he knows that some of that tension has been caused by Great Aunt Mildred and her outlandish demands, that knowledge fails to mitigate his remorse. They have only been home for a couple of days. Harry had wanted to give them longer to recover from getting the old bat, as Molly calls her, back on her feet, but Ginny has somehow managed to talk him into 'getting it over with'; she has sent Lily off to Ron and Hermione's and squeezed his hand at regular intervals all the way up the winding path to the Burrow, as though trying to convince him that everything will be fine.

Which is how he has found himself sitting at Molly's kitchen table on a cold evening in mid-January, waiting for someone to bloody say something. There's a lot to be said for 'getting it over with', he thinks mutinously, staring into his empty coffee cup, but he is beginning to feel like he could still be sitting here this time next month, waiting for Molly to stop gaping at them with watery eyes and actually find some words. Any words will do at this point; he'd rather be yelled at and chased out of the house with a broom than endure another minute of this...

"Oh, Ginny," she whispers at last, tears finally overflowing as she gazes at her daughter. "Oh, Ginny, you can't be splitting up. You can't..." her voice trails off and she looks at her husband in desperation.

Arthur coughs and attempts to gather himself. "Have you thought this through?" he manages, putting a comforting arm around Molly's shoulders. He looks appealingly at Harry.

"We've done a lot of thinking," Harry assures, voice scratchy from underuse. "And a lot of talking. This is what's best for both of us. And the children."

"Oh!" Molly wails, bringing a wrinkled hand to her mouth. "They're just babies. Do they know about this?"

"They're pretty grown up, Mum," Ginny says, reaching for her mother's hand and finding a small smile for her that hurts Harry's heart. "They understand that it's better for Harry and I to be apart."

"How can it be?" Molly demands, gripping Ginny's hand so tightly that Harry catches a flicker of pain in her eyes. "I don't understand... either of you... this has come from nowhere. You just need some time, that's all."

Her eyes flash such anguish into Harry as she turns to look at him that all he wants to do is round the table and hug her to him, breathe in the familiar scent that has made him feel safe for almost as long as he can remember, and tell her that none of this is really happening. She's Ginny's mother; these are Ginny's parents, Ginny's family, but in all the ways that are important, they are his, too. Molly is his, and Arthur and Ron and George and all of them. If this goes wrong, he's not just losing his in-laws; he's losing the only proper family he has ever known.

Terrified, he pastes on what he hopes is a comforting smile and slides his arm briefly around Ginny's shoulders.

"It's been coming for a long time, Molly. I wish I could say that wasn't the case, but neither of us want to lie to you. We aren't angry at each other—it isn't anyone's fault. We still want to be friends."

Molly sniffs, draws a flowery handkerchief from her pocket, and starts mopping at her face with it.

"Oh, but... I just can't imagine you not together," she says, words muffled by the fabric. "There hasn't been a divorce in our family since—"

"I know, Mum," Ginny jumps in, presumably before Harry has chance to roll his eyes. "I'm really sorry to disappoint you," she adds, lowering her gaze, and the guilt that has been rolling around in Harry's stomach sharpens and stabs him between the ribs.

"I'm sorry, too," he says quietly.

Molly says nothing, instead disappearing behind her handkerchief and a cascade of soft, hiccupy sobs. Ginny lets out a small sound of distress and abandons her seat to comfort her; she kneels on the floor and wraps her arms around her mother, whispering to her and making a valiant but futile effort to contain her own tears.

Harry doesn't know where to look.

"Why don't we have a chat?" Arthur says suddenly. Harry's eyes snap to his. "You know, man to man."

Oh, god, yes, Harry thinks, nodding gratefully and scraping back his chair. He follows Arthur out of the back door, through the overgrown garden and into his shed. He can't remember when he was last here, but it's much the same as it has always been, and something about that, in the midst of the upheaval, is rather reassuring.

Inhaling the dry, musty air, Harry walks past a rack of tangled computer cables, lamp flexes and electric Christmas lights, ducks just in time to avoid an unravelling length of bright orange hosepipe as it slithers and crashes to the floor, and finally finds Arthur, perching on the edge of a dusty table and running his fingers over the glass plate of a beaten-up photocopier. The expression of affection on the old man's face is so earnest that Harry almost smiles.

Instead, he sits carefully on top of an ancient television set and waits. Arthur obviously has something to say to him, and he is more than willing to hear it.

At last, he sighs, abandons the photocopier and turns to Harry, brow creased and hands in his lap. Knowing how much he hates confrontation, Harry has to bite the inside of his mouth to prevent himself from leaping in and starting the conversation for Arthur.

"Harry," he says at last. Hesitates. "Harry... you're an adult now with a family of your own, and believe me, the last thing I want to do is talk down to you."

"I know that," Harry says, dragging his gaze up from where he's been watching a shiny beetle scuttling across the floor, and meeting Arthur's pale eyes.

"Good. Because I want to ask you... I want you to think about whether you've really tried to work things out, or if you're giving up because you're going through a rough patch."

Startled, Harry says nothing for a moment. "Erm, it's not really as simple as that," he says, recovering himself. He sighs. "Things have been bad for quite a long time, and we've both realised that we aren't getting what we need from being together." And we never will, he adds silently, drawing a veil over the ever-present image of Draco in his head.

Arthur laces his fingers together and regards Harry with a pained expression; he's uncomfortable, but determined, and in any other situation, Harry would be impressed with his fortitude.

"You know, if Molly and I had thrown in the towel the first time things got difficult, Ron and Ginny would never have been born," he says, pausing to allow Harry to absorb his words. "You have to work at a marriage, Harry. It's a commitment for life, you know?"

"I know," Harry says, struggling to keep a lid on his frustration but needing to, because this man means so ridiculously well; he always does. "And I love Ginny, but—"

"Isn't that enough?" Arthur cuts in, voice so soft that Harry feels sick. There's nothing but bewilderment and concern on his face, even as he regards the man who is walking away from his youngest child. His only daughter. His little girl.

"No," Harry says at last, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. It's no good. He's going to have to say it. Again. Harry takes a deep breath and reminds himself that although he is becoming weary of explaining his recent personal revelation to people, this is still Arthur's first time hearing it, and he deserves to hear it properly.

"Whatever it is, can't it be fixed?" Arthur asks, and Harry forces himself to meet his eyes. "Anything you need, Harry, anything at all—we can help. We're your family."

Breath catching in his chest, Harry forces the air out in a painful exhalation and shakes his head. "I really appreciate that. But we're just not the same people any more. And... I'm in love with someone else."

"What?" Arthur says faintly, and Harry just stares back at him, horrified with himself. He isn't exactly sure where that came from, but he wishes he could put it back in there.

"Er, yeah... I didn't really mean for it to come out like that," he admits, heart racing in a horrible, messy rhythm. He has no idea what he was thinking, coming out here. Right now he would trade this dark, cramped, expectant silence for ten sobbing Molly Weasleys, but that doesn't seem to be an option.

"You're... you're involved with someone else?" Arthur demands, brow furrowed in confusion.

Harry shakes his head, wrapping his fingers around the edge of his perch, clinging to the sharp edges of wood and the curve of glass as he holds eye contact with the man who has always treated him as a son.

"No," he says, feeling the line between truth and lies blurring into non-existence. "Nothing's happened."

"Then... Harry... does it really have to come between you and Ginny?" Arthur tries, but the strength is fading from his voice and now he just sounds sad.

"Yes. Because it's a man. I'm in love with another man, and I think that maybe I have been for a long time."

"Oh," Arthur croaks. "Oh." He lifts a hand and rubs vaguely at his face. His eyes, wide with shock, never leave Harry.

Half afraid that Arthur might be about to have a heart attack, Harry gets to his feet and crosses the cluttered floor, resting his hand on a wool-clad shoulder.

"I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

Arthur looks up, blinks, and seems to shake himself.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, Harry... you needn't look at me like I'm going to explode," he says, shuffling along the table so that Harry can sink down next to him.

Harry shrugs and scrapes his shoe through the dust on the floor. "You looked like you might for a moment."

Arthur says nothing for a long time, just resting his hands on his thighs and staring intently at the fallen hosepipe as though utterly puzzled to see it on the floor.

"It's not the first time I've heard something like that," he says at last. "Though I can't say I ever expected to hear it from you."

"Charlie," Harry murmurs, lips twitching into a small smile without his permission.

"We were the only ones to be surprised, Molly and I," he says wistfully.

"Actually, that's not true," Harry says, recalling a recent conversation with another of the Weasley men. "Ron was surprised, too. Very surprised."

Hearing Arthur's smile, Harry lets out a long, careful breath, but he still doesn't dare to look at him as they sit, squashed together, side by side on the rickety old table that creaks under their combined weight with every tiny movement. He wonders how Ginny is getting on in the kitchen.

"You know... forgive me, Harry, but I have to ask you this—you're sure it's not just a passing... fancy? That you're reaching a certain point in your life? Because it's natural to, er, question things," Arthur says, voice fading to a mumble, and, when Harry sneaks a sidelong glance at him, his face is flushed crimson.

"Don't worry, everyone else seems to think I'm having a midlife crisis, too," he sighs. "But no, that's definitely not what this is." Harry frowns, suddenly unable to cleanse his mind of the idea of a forty-something Arthur questioning his sexuality, even if he's fairly certain that was not what he meant.

"Ginny knows about this, doesn't she?"

Harry nods. "Of course."

"It was... difficult for Charlie. You know, at first," Arthur says, thoughtful. "He struggled with it. Are you... struggling?"

Touched, Harry swallows hard. Lets his eyes fall closed for a moment. This man is still the steady, accepting father figure he has always been—despite everything. He's incredible.

"No, I think I've already done my struggling," he admits, allowing himself to catch Arthur's eye at last. Contrary to all his fears, there is nothing but concern and love etched across the pale, lined face.

"That's good, because I doubt these next few weeks are going to be easy."

"I know. But Gin's a strong woman. She's going to be okay," Harry insists.

Arthur smiles slowly. "I know that. I'm not worried about her. I'm worried about you."

Startled, and slightly stung, Harry sits up a little straighter. "I'll be fine," he says, just about resisting the urge to add: 'I'm strong, too!'

"I think you will," Arthur concedes after a moment's consideration. "Just be careful. It's one thing running around after Death Eaters and quite another throwing your heart after some daft lad who probably doesn't deserve it." He shrugs awkwardly and closes his mouth, as though ashamed of the odd little moment of candour.

"Thanks," Harry says in an almost-whisper, and falls silent. He has no idea what else to say; the conversation has taken a rather unexpected turn, and he hasn't had to defend himself nearly as much as he had been prepared to.

"I'm just saying," Arthur continues, scratching his head and fixing Harry with a significant look. "I don't want you to give up on your marriage—that's the truth. But if there's really no way you can make things work, all I want is to see you happy and safe, Harry. Ginny is my daughter, and she means the world to me, but so do you. We haven't been here for you all these years just to turn our backs when you need us. Your parents... they were good people, son, and I hate to think what they'd say if we only treated you as one of our own when it suited us."

Harry chest tightens, stealing all of the words he thought he might say, and all he can do is throw his arm around Arthur and embrace him roughly, stung with relief when surprisingly strong hands come up to clutch at his back, grazing rough wool against the skin of his neck and filling his nostrils with the scent of woodsy aftershave and baking. He holds on for long seconds, allowing his fear and tension to pour out of him and evaporate into the stuffy atmosphere of the shed.

"Thank you," Harry mumbles as they pull apart, both pretending not to notice the telltale shimmer in the other's eyes.

"I can talk to Molly if you like," Arthur offers. "She'll probably take it easier from me, won't have to keep stopping to cry, and such."

Harry chews his lip. The offer is tempting, but something stubborn and irritating inside him is insisting that he be a grown-up and deal with this himself.

"I don't know..."

"Let me help you," Arthur says, seeming to sense his reluctance. "Please."

"Are you sure?"

Arthur smiles grimly. "I've known Molly for nearly sixty years; believe me, I'm the one to handle this. It's the idea of a divorce that's upsetting her, apart from the idea that you're both heartbroken and never to be happy again. Hers is the dramatic side of the family," he confides with a weary little sigh. "As for the rest, well, she's been through it once before. Look at her now, she's practically adopted Serghei."

Harry takes a deep breath and gets to his feet. "Okay. If you're sure."

Arthur nods, and Harry takes his leave, picking his way through the shed, back across the garden and into the house, where he finds Ginny and Molly, sitting side by side at the table, nursing cups of tea in silence. Impulsively, he swoops down on Molly and hugs her, whispering a final "I'm sorry" and a hopeful "See you soon" against her tear-stained cheek before exchanging glances with Ginny and Disapparating on the spot. As he touches down in Ron and Hermione's back garden, he realises that Arthur never once asked him for the name of the man with whom he had fallen in love.

**~*~**

Ten minutes later, Ginny appears on the frozen grass and makes her way over to Harry, hands in pockets. With a soft sigh, she lowers herself onto the back step beside him.

"How's she doing?" Harry asks.

"Well, she's not crying any more. I decided to absent myself when Dad came in and started muttering about Charlie."

"About that..." Harry drops his head onto his arms for a moment and then looks up at her, mouth twisting into a rueful smile. "It all just sort of came out."

Ginny snorts. "Yeah, there's been a lot of that lately, hasn't there?"

Harry groans softly, feeling the back of his neck heat despite the bitterly cold air.

Ginny nudges his knee with her own. "She'll be alright, I think. Just give her some time to get over the shock of the first divorce in the family for twelve billion years. Looks like Dad's going to help her with that, anyway."

"I hope so." Harry sighs. "Though I don't feel as though I deserve for them to be so understanding."

"It isn't about what you deserve," Ginny says, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "It's about them wanting to look after both of us—they're your family, too." She frowns and looks away over Hermione's neat flower beds. "Which is a bit weird now that I think about it."

Harry shakes his head and envelops her in a warm, coconut-scented, one-armed hug, pressing his smile against her soft hair. "Don't," he advises.

She leans against him for a moment. "Have you—" She breaks off and they both turn at the sound of Lily's shrieks and giggles of protest from somewhere inside the cottage: "Uncle Ron, put me down!"

Ginny shakes her head. "Have you done the announcement?"

Harry reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of parchment, which she takes from him, holding it close to her face in the poor light and scanning the words with narrowed eyes.

"Sounds good," she says at last, folding it carefully and handing it back to him. "It's strange, you know... once upon a time you'd have rather turned up to work naked than volunteered information to the Prophet. Everything really is changing."

"Well, hiding hasn't been working all that well for me, to be honest. I doubt it's going to get any better when they get wind of all this—which they will, whether I tell them or not," Harry says.

"I know," Ginny says. "It's not a criticism. It hasn't always been easy to watch every word that comes out of my mouth in public, you know."

"I'm sorry," Harry mumbles, dragging in a cool, deep breath and expelling his guilt into the air.

"Don't," she whispers, and then there's silence, but for the rustling of the trees in the wind.

Harry listens, still wrestling with the stark and thrilling fact that Draco Malfoy has kept the potentially explosive news of Harry's divorce to himself. He's had well over a week to do it, plenty of time, but Harry has combed through the newspapers every morning since their meeting at the Quidditch game, and come up with nothing. As he turns the folded parchment over and over in his hands, the tangle of anticipation and terror inside him crackles and burns brighter with cautious hope for this universe's Draco.

"I'd better go and get Lily before Ron gets her too riled up to sleep," Ginny says at last, resting hands on her knees and levering herself upright.

"Okay." Harry offers her a weary smile as she goes for the door. "I'll owl this in the morning. And... Gin?"

She pauses and looks down at him. "Yeah?"

"They'll want to talk to you—you should do as many interviews as you want," he says firmly.

Ginny shoots him a small, amused smile. "If I think of anything to say to them, which I doubt. Still, I suppose it's a novelty to have the option. Goodnight, Harry."

She pushes the door open, releasing a brief pool of light from the kitchen, the sounds of a giggly argument and the warm, herby aroma of sausages, and then she's gone, and Harry is left in darkness, clutching his bit of parchment and waiting.

**~*~**

Two days later, the morning Prophet runs with 'Harry and Ginny Potter in Shock Split' on the front page, and everyone in the wizarding world—at least, everyone who can read, and everyone who knows someone who can read—knows about the split.

Harry can't say he's surprised that the news has made the headlines, but he still feels a little irritated when he thinks of the Malfoys' discreet little notice in the back of the paper, compared to this article which somehow manages to take up half of the front page. Their official statement is in there somewhere, but Harry has to search to find it amongst the speculation and not-quite-accurate details about their family life. None of it is particularly offensive, but Harry rolls his eyes at the suggestion that Ginny has left Harry because he has been holding back her 'illustrious Gringotts career', and the idea that the split is nothing but a publicity stunt, designed to 'boost the Harry Potter brand'.

Buried mid-column are the words that Harry had agonised over, had sat up all night writing, screwing up sheet after sheet of parchment and resisting the urge to throw things only because Hugo was sleeping in the next room.

It is with regret that Harry and Ginevra Potter (nee Weasley) announce that they are beginning divorce proceedings. The decision to separate was mutual and amicable and the couple remain on friendly terms. James, Albus Severus, and Lily Potter will remain at the family home at Willoughby Drive, Ottery St Catchpole, with their mother, but will also spend time with their father, who is looking for a property in London.

Reading the words now, at an oddly silent breakfast table, Harry sighs. He'd been fairly satisfied at the time, but now the words seem stilted and awkward. Still, he supposes no one will be concentrating on his dry little statement when they have the rest of the article to absorb. The picture the editors have chosen isn't a bad one; it's a shot of the whole family at Luna's wedding a couple of years ago. Everyone is dressed in bright colours, as requested, and even Harry is smiling, but now his anxiety, his restlessness, is so obvious, and Ginny just looks pale and weary.

"Well," Hermione says at last, setting down her copy of the Prophet and looking at Harry. "I think it could have been a lot worse."

"I agree," Ron says vehemently. He picks up his so-far-untouched bacon sandwich and takes a large, relieved bite. "To be honest, I thought they were going to write a load of lies, say Ginny'd been having an affair or something."

Harry glances between them, seeing the flicker of worry in Ron's eyes and Hermione's barely concealed fretting as she waits for his verdict.

"You're right," he says. "It could be a lot worse."

Hermione almost seems to deflate with relief at his words, and reaches for the teapot, avoiding Harry's eyes, as though attempting to convince him that she'd never been concerned at all.

"Uncle Harry?" pipes up Hugo, who has been picking through his cereal with silent absorption since the Prophet owls arrived.

"Mm?"

The little boy looks up at Harry with curious round eyes. "Are you going to live with us forever?"

"Er, no," he says, heart twisting as Hugo's face drops in disappointment. "But I'll still visit. You know, like I used to."

Hugo scowls and resumes his poking around in his cereal bowl.

Ron gazes at Harry over the top of his sandwich, obviously amused. Harry pulls a face at him.

"I think it's time to start looking for my own place."

**~*~**

Harry spends the rest of the week sifting through the details of properties for sale in London, weighing up the advantages and drawbacks of Muggle and wizarding areas and making list upon list as he sits at Ron and Hermione's kitchen table, sprawls across the Weasley-made quilt that covers his temporary bed, and hides in his office behind his memo mountain, trying to avoid the openly curious stares of his Ministry colleagues and taking refuge in Helga's wonderfully consistent disinterest in his personal life and sharp-tongued observations about the state of his health.

In between list-making and the usual tide of meetings, Harry finds time to meet with Ginny, drink more coffee than he should, and complete their side of the paperwork which will make their separation official and permanent. At lunchtime on Friday, they walk out of the imposing legal building into bright, crisp sunshine, not quite divorced but knowing it's only a document away now. It's a strange, disconnected feeling, squinting at Ginny in the sunlight and realising that in a week or two, when the last of the paperwork comes through, it will all be over. Still, he thinks of Draco and his pained expression when he'd explained that he was still waiting for things to be finalised, and knows it's better this way.

On Saturday morning, Harry gathers up his lists, dresses warmly, and collects Lily. He's been looking forward to spending some time with her, especially now that the boys are back at school, and he knows that she's anxious about the idea of her dad moving too far away; he also knows that it's time for him to move out of Ron and Hermione's spare room, and the idea of killing several figurative birds with one stone is appealing.

She's uncertain at first but slowly gains enthusiasm as she and Harry follow the estate agents around a variety of houses, inspecting the small, neat gardens of those on the outskirts of London, and hanging curiously over the railings of the balconies of those in the centre, watching the traffic with interest. For a girl who has never lived anywhere but sleepy Ottery St Catchpole, the city is new and thrilling, and Harry relishes Lily's excitement, allowing her to tug the list from his hands and pull him along the street to the next property, even if she doesn't really know where she's going, and even though she is definitely going the wrong way.

It doesn't matter. Suddenly, all he's concerned about is making sure that she knows she has a place in his life, wherever he lives and whoever he lives with.

"This one has a swing!" she enthuses, dashing in from the garden of a large suburban semi and almost barrelling straight into the very nice but painfully young man who has been explaining to Harry exactly why it's so important to have a modern fitted kitchen.

"Great," Harry says, amused. He extracts a bitten pen from his coat pocket and adds: 'pros: has swing' to his list.

"Got a nice big garden, this one," the man agrees, apparently pleased. "Lots of room for patio furniture, barbecues, having a kickabout, you know."

"A kick-about of what?" Lily asks, puzzled.

"I mean a game of football," the man explains, sketching a little mime for Lily's benefit.

Lily glances up at Harry, and then at the estate agent. "Well, we don't play football, we play—"

"Shall we have a look upstairs, then?" Harry interrupts, dropping a hand to Lily's shoulder and delivering a light squeeze. She blinks and then flashes her most charming smile at the young estate agent.

"I'm going to go and look for my room!" she announces, taking off at speed.

They follow her at a more sedate pace, and Harry is barely listening as the patter starts up again. Lily has chosen 'her' bedroom in every house they have viewed so far, and he is happy to let her. There will be room for all of his children, of course, but it's only Lily who is still willing to admit that she needs her dad, and he's bloody well going to be there for her.

"Ooh, skylights!"

"All double-glazed," the young man offers. "Weather-proofed frames."

Pros: skylights, Harry writes. He ignores the rest. It doesn't seem important.

By mid-afternoon, they have visited almost all of the houses on Harry's list; Lily is starting to flag, and she's not alone. Harry buys them each a cone of chips from a cafe full of blue-haired old women and they find a place to sit. Lily pulls her feet up onto the bench, tucks her cone into her lap and squeezes a sachet of ketchup over her chips with great concentration.

"So, what did you think?" Harry asks, biting into a chip and relishing the explosion of too-hot potato, salt, vinegar and grease on his tongue.

"About the houses?"

Harry nods. "Yeah. And you've got tomato sauce on your nose."

Lily pokes out her tongue and swipes away the ketchup with ease. "The tall house. The one with all the bathrooms."

"The townhouse?" Harry asks, surprised. There had barely been any garden there at all. "Why?"

"You liked that one best," Lily says simply.

Harry smiles, elbowing her in the side. "I want to know which one you liked best."

Lily shrugs. "I liked them all, apart from the one that smelled funny. Can I have the attic room?"

"You can have whatever room you want, Lil."

Harry ruffles her hair and dabs a chip into her ketchup. His daughter is perceptive, he'll give her that—he had liked the townhouse best. Tall and narrow, it had wound upwards on rickety staircases over four floors, from a basement kitchen to a tiny, neglected roof garden; the decor was plain and slightly shabby, and according to the brutally honest lady who had shown them around, it hadn't been lived in for a long time. She had seemed fairly startled that anyone wanted to view it at all, but Harry had loved it.

He knows why, too, even though he doesn't want to admit it. He likes it because it reminds him of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, and he's not sure how he feels about that, or even what he should be feeling. Even though the sensible voice in his head is insisting that this move should be a step forward, not a step back, the pull toward the characterful old house is intense.

"I did like it," he admits at last.

Lily licks her fingers. "I know. You had this daft smile on your face for nearly the whole time we were in there."

Harry grins, embarrassed. "Great, thanks for saying nothing and letting me make an idiot of myself."

"It's not my job to stop you making an idiot of yourself," Lily advises him.

"Isn't it? Whose job is it, then?"

Lily wrinkles her nose. "I don't know. I think maybe it was Mum's, so... I suppose you have to do it for yourself now."

Anxious, Harry shoots her a sidelong glance, but there's no trace of distress on her face; she's peering into the depths of her cone and fishing for chip fragments, apparently unconcerned. Harry breathes.

"I liked it because it reminded me of a house I lived in for a while when I was younger," he says, deciding that she's old enough and smart enough to have at least part of the truth.

Lily gazes up at him, surprised. "Before you met Mum?"

"No. I met your mum was I was eleven; this was later. It was during the war—it wasn't the nicest place back then and it was a pretty difficult time for everyone." Harry pauses, frowning as he folds his empty polystyrene chip cone with a crack. "I suppose it seems silly to be attached to it. It used to belong to Sirius Black, remember I told you about him?"

Lily nods gravely. "Well, then, it's not silly."

You don't know the half of it, Harry thinks, finding a smile for his daughter.

"Okay," he says. "The townhouse it is."

"Can we paint it purple?"

Harry lifts an eyebrow. "All of it? Don't you think that'll be a bit much?"

"Dad. I meant my room," Lily says, just for a moment managing to look deeply disparaging.

"Ah, okay. I don't see why not. When the sale goes through, which I think it will, because it doesn't look like anyone else wants to buy it, you can come over and help me decorate."

Lily smiles and stretches out, letting her arms and legs flop groundwards like a starfish.

"Mum says it's good that you're getting your own place," she says.

"I think it's good, too." Harry hesitates, but in the end has to ask. "How is your mum?"

Lily closes her eyes and doesn't say a word for several seconds. "She's okay."

"Really?" Harry prods.

Lily opens one eye. "Yeah. She's sad sometimes, but when I asked her... she said she was sad before a lot of the time, and that was worse. I don't really know why."

Harry knows why. He nods, swallowing down the curious mixture of relief and shame that rises up in his throat. "I want her to be happy, you know."

"I know," Lily says, still regarding him carefully with one brown eye. "She is sometimes. It's just weird that everyone went away at once, and now it's just me and Mum in the house. Sometimes it's good, though—last night we made fairy cakes and put cucumbers on our eyes."

Harry smiles. "At the same time?"

"Dad, you're not funny."

"Sorry."

"I miss you, though," she says, and now both eyes are open and pinning Harry to the spot, making him ache.

"I miss you, too, Lil," he rasps, taking a chance and holding out his arm for her.

After a moment, she shuffles closer on the bench and tucks herself against his side, pressing her face into his coat and hugging him tightly.

"Have you fallen out with Grandma and Grandad?" she asks eventually, voice muffled by the heavy wool of Harry's ancient overcoat.

"No, why would you say that?"

"I went to their house after school the other night, and I must've walked quicker than usual because they didn't realise I was there at first. I heard them talking, and Grandma said she wanted to call you and Grandad said she should leave it until the dust had come down, whatever that means."

"Settled," Harry murmurs distractedly.

"What?"

"Until the dust has settled, it's an expression. It means... when something big has happened, like if there's been an explosion, and you wait for everything to settle down so that you can see where you are, and figure out what to do," Harry explains, knowing he's making a hash of it.

Lily nods her understanding, eyes narrowed. "So... who exploded?"

Harry bites down a smile. "Your grandma, I suppose, but don't tell her I said that."

"James said she'd be upset," Lily muses. "I suppose he must be right about some things."

"I suppose so," Harry agrees. "She was upset, but don't worry. It'll be okay. If she wants to talk to me, then that must be a good sign."

Lily gazes at the ground, apparently unconvinced.

"Look," he says, wrapping his hands around her shoulders and holding her at arm's length, forcing eye contact. "I'm not going to let this break us up. You and me, and James and Al, and Grandma and Grandad, even me and your mum—we're a family, and families stick together, no matter what."

Lily stares at him, eyes large, and bites on her bottom lip. "Do you promise?"

Harry promises, and all the uncertainty in the world doesn't stop him from meaning it.

**~*~**

Feeling cautiously optimistic, both about the prospect of his new home and a conciliatory meeting with his surrogate mother, Harry presses on with his work, hangs fast onto the strings of his responsibilities, tries to avoid making a nuisance of himself in his friends' home, and even manages to find a civil word or two for the reporters who have now taken to leaping out at him from behind bushes and accosting him outside the Ministry. He suspects that word of the recent drop in his hostility levels has spread amongst them like scrofungulus, and now they're everywhere.

The odd thing, though, is that, while the frequent questions are a mild irritant, Harry can't seem to muster the all-consuming rage for the opportunistic buggers that used to come so easily. He's just not as angry these days, he supposes, and that must be a good thing.

When he returns from work on a cold, dark Wednesday night, rain-splattered and head full of bewildering columns of numbers, he walks into a silent, empty cottage. Puzzled but too tired to give it much thought, he picks up the post from the mat and trudges toward the kitchen, opening the letter addressed to him as he goes, the thought of hot tea encouraging him to continue putting one foot in front of the other.

"I got the house," he mumbles to himself, lips twitching into a weary smile as he scans the words, fingers grasping the thick, heavy paper in delight, terror, and triumph in equal measure.

Sagging slightly, he leans against the half-open kitchen door, trails across the tiles, dumps all the letters on the worktop and reaches for the kettle. Idly, he wonders who left the lights on; Hermione will do her nut if she finds out.

"That's wonderful news, Harry," someone says, and he nearly drops the kettle.

He whips around, water sloshing heavily inside the copper pot, and meets the nervous eyes of Molly Weasley, who is sitting at the table with her hands folded in her lap, as though she's been waiting for him.

He lets out his breath in a rush and immediately feels like an idiot. "You scared me to death," he admits. "I don't know what kind of an Auror that makes me."

"A tired one, by the looks of you," Molly says. "Why don't you come and sit down?"

Harry hesitates for a second or two before reluctantly relinquishing the kettle and depositing his weary body in the chair opposite Molly's. "Where is everyone?"

"Back at the Burrow. I told Arthur he could buy supper for everyone from that new chips and fish shop in the village," Molly says, an indulgent glimmer in her eyes.

Harry smiles. Takes a deep breath. "So... how are you doing?"

"Actually, that's what I came to ask you," Molly says softly. "I hope you can forgive me for leaving it so long."

Her hands, freckled and crepey, twist in her lap as she regards him, making him uncomfortably aware of her frailty, however hard she tries to hide it with her no-nonsense maternal stare and the stoic set of her shoulders that the passing of time has done nothing to diminish. Even as she smiles at him, he can see the shame pulling at the corners of her mouth and something inside him tugs painfully in response.

"I don't need to forgive you," he says roughly. "You're allowed to be upset."

"You're a good boy, Harry," she says, reaching across the table and squeezing his wrist. "You know... it's difficult for a mother to realise that she has missed something so important. I couldn't... I still can't believe that I didn't realise you were both so unhappy."

Harry sighs. "I know. But... if it's any comfort, I don't think we knew, either. We were just... sleepwalking," he says, remembering Ginny's description and realising that it's the most accurate one he has. Molly's face creases with sadness and Harry grabs her hand. "It's going to be okay," he insists.

"Arthur and I talked about what you said," she says. "You know, in the shed."

Harry swallows hard. "Yes, I thought you might've."

"And I just want to say that it makes no difference to me. None at all," she says fiercely, leaning across the table toward him, eyes blazing.

Taken aback by the sudden vehemence, Harry just nods, unable to form a coherent response.

"I love you, Harry," she continues, barely blinking, and if Harry weren't so entrenched in the gravity of it all, he would probably find it amusing to witness this little old woman staring holes into him and offering words of love from between clenched teeth.

"I know," Harry manages at last. "I love you, too."

"Good. So you know that I won't abandon you, disown you, or... what was it?" She drops her eyes for a second or two and, to Harry's growing bemusement, rummages in the pockets of her multicoloured cardigan and extracts a battered piece of parchment. She retrieves her reading glasses from the top of her head and puts them on to scan the words. "Ah, yes. 'Promise that you will not abandon, disown, or psychologically torture my father. He loves you and he can't help it if he's queer. Which is an okay word to use, don't worry, I asked a friend of mine who knows about these things.'"

Unable to decide whether to laugh, cringe, or hide his face in his hands, Harry manages a decent approximation of all three.

"Oh, god," he mumbles, snorting inelegantly and looking at Molly from between his fingers. "What is that?"

Molly folds the parchment and gives him an odd little smile. "That is a letter from James, which I received this morning. Well, some of it, anyway. There's plenty more, but that was the part that jumped out at me."

"Oh..." Harry bites his tongue just in time to stop himself from swearing. "I'm sorry. I'm sure he meant well, he was probably—"

"Trying to look after his dad?" Molly supplies, tilting her head to regard Harry.

"Yeah. Look, I'll write back to him and tell him that he shouldn't speak to you like that," he says, dropping his hands back to the table. Secretly, he rather wants to hug James and raise his pocket money, but he suspects this is one of those 'act like a responsible dad' moments.

"No need," Molly says, tucking the letter back into her pocket. "I've already written to him and told him that, seeing as I have no intention of doing any of those things, he could stop worrying and start studying." She smiles then, and Harry can do nothing but smile with her.

Relieved and drained, Harry rests his chin on one hand and lets his gaze drift indolently around the kitchen. The soft light makes the scrubbed pine table glow, and the sound of the rain slapping against the windows wraps Harry in such a sensation of warmth and safety that he can almost forget that his boots are waterlogged, his robes are damp, and his brain seems to be pounding against the inside of his skull.

"Why do these conversations always seem to take place at kitchen tables?" he muses, covering a yawn.

"Because the kitchen is the heart of the house," Molly says. "Why do you think we always had Order meetings in the kitchen in the old days?"

"I hadn't really thought about it," Harry admits, and Molly's expression is suddenly one of good-natured reproach. Harry has never been happier to see it.

"I know Ginny knows more about this than she's telling me," she says, putting Harry on the spot once more. "About this man."

Harry looks down at the table, stomach roiling. "There's nothing to worry about, Molly. Nothing's happened. I think it's best to... deal with one thing at a time right now."

Molly makes a small sound of dissatisfaction. "Charlie was afraid to talk to me at first," she says, almost in a whisper, and Harry looks up. "I don't want you to be afraid to talk to me."

For a brief moment, she looks terrified, and then, just as quickly, it's gone, concealed behind the usual cheerful, expectant smile.

"I'm not," he reassures. "I promise."

Molly stares at him for several seconds before heaving herself out of her chair, apparently satisfied. "Shall we have a cup of tea?"

Harry nods gratefully. "Brilliant. Can I have a look at that letter?"

**~*~**

Lightened by Molly's visit and fortified by a huge, warming supper at the Burrow with Lily and her grandparents the next night, Harry finds that the rest of the week trundles by quite nicely; he flies through his memos, signs off on everything that takes his fancy, and alarms Helga by dragging a chair up to her desk and chatting to her as he eats his lunch. The certain knowledge that he's not about to lose his family and that he will be able to move into his house in a week or so cuts a sharp, glittering stripe through his guilt and apprehension, and he's beginning to feel as though he can deal with anything.

Anything, it seems, except shopping for clothes.

Having put it off for as long as possible, Harry finally caves on Saturday morning after catching sight of himself in the spare room's full-length mirror and realising that he can no longer in good conscience allow himself to walk around dressed like a sixty-something librarian. He heads into London, without a scrap of a plan this time, and spends an enjoyable hour or two procrastinating wildly, wandering in and out of little furniture shops and putting aside tables and sofas and beautiful tapestry rugs for his new house. With Molly's advice in mind, he spends an obscene amount on a big, old solid oak kitchen table and matching chairs, and then, oddly excited to be choosing his own furniture for the first time ever, he gathers lamps and little cupboards and a whole new set of shiny red cookware.

He solicits the help of an enthusiastic young salesgirl at Bedknobs and Blankets who seems delighted to help Harry choose new linen, quilts, and a fantastic wrought iron bed frame with a permanent Charm-Chilled mattress, which, she tells him, is, "awesome, honestly, sir, I've got one at home."

Reluctantly, and many, many Galleons lighter, Harry steps back out into Diagon Alley and starts on the far less agreeable task of buying himself a decent wardrobe. He could have done with Lily's honesty and eye for colour, but she is ice skating with her friends from school, so he's on his own. He supposes she can come over to the cottage tomorrow and laugh at his efforts, but it's not really the same.

Bewildered, he walks from one brightly-lit shop to the next, hoping for something to jump out at him, but it doesn't seem quite as simple as that; the fancier the shop, the less stuff there is in it, and the more the smartly-dressed salespeople gaze at him with curious, doubtful eyes, as though they know he doesn't belong. He has spent a good ten minutes flicking through a rack of patterned shirts and frowning when one of them approaches him, coughs lightly and waits.

Harry looks up. This one is older than the others, older than him, even, and he relaxes a fraction.

"Can I help you?" he says, voice soft and careful.

Harry sighs. "Honestly, I've no idea."

The man's lips barely move, but his pale blue eyes sparkle. "If you tell me what you're looking for, I may be able to find it for you," he offers.

Harry chews his lip and thinks. Stares down at the rack of loud printed garments and knows they're not him. Not either of the hims, in fact. What he's looking for, he realises, is some sort of compromise between the high fashion wardrobe of his other self and the part of him that likes comfortable, worn jeans with holes in them. He imagines Draco leaning over his shoulder and heaving a dramatic sigh.

"And this is why you don't buy your own clothes. You have no idea what you're doing."

Caught between longing and the desire to stand on the imaginary Draco's foot, Harry looks up at the man who is offering to rescue him and smiles.

"I don't like these shirts," he declares, wrapping his hand around the cool metal rail. "If that helps."

"It's a start, sir," the man says delicately.

"Good." Harry looks at him hard, trying to assess his reaction to the honesty that is about to emerge. "I just don't want to look old any more."

The man's eyes gleam. "Come with me."

**~*~**

Over the next hour or so, Harry tries on what feels like everything single item in his size on the shop floor, quickly surrendering to the superior knowledge of the man with the sparkling eyes, who appears at regular intervals to pass him another stack of shirts, trousers and sweaters and then waits patiently for him to emerge from his velvet-curtained cubicle. After the first few outfits, Harry's self-conscious awkwardness starts to fade, and he presents himself openly for approval, staring thoughtfully at his reflection in the many gleaming mirrors as the salesman flits around him, straightening a lapel here and smoothing down a shirt front there, flicking ties and scarves around Harry's neck and then frowning and whisking them away for reasons which are a mystery to Harry.

"Turn around, Mr Potter, just so that we can see how that coat moves with you," he instructs.

Nonplussed, Harry obeys, thinking that this coat—a calf-length woollen overcoat, which is at least the fourth in a succession of similar garments that he has tried—moves with him just fine. Even so, he knows all too well that he knows less than nothing about this stuff. His attempts to dress himself over the years have, he now sees, been woefully inadequate, and in the absence of Draco, his best option is to trust this man. He's quite possibly the politest individual Harry has ever met, and though he has never once asked for Harry's measurements, every item, without exception, that he has offered has fit him perfectly. Harry is reluctantly impressed.

"Very good," the man murmurs, tapping long fingers against his face in contemplation. "Try the jade cashmere with those trousers, perhaps?"

Harry ducks into his cubicle and rummages through his pile of sweaters, attempting to decide between two fine-knit jumpers in almost identical shades of blue-green.

"Why are you so useless when it comes to colours?" Draco's voice echoes in his head, making him close his eyes and drag in a deep, steadying breath. "You're supposed to be an artist."

Harry shakes himself, turns around and waves both sweaters at the man. "Which one of these is jade green? They both look the same to me."

The pale eyes gleam and the smallest twitch of a smile graces the man's lips as he indicates the garment in Harry's left hand. "That is why I am here," he says evenly.

Harry grins, ducks back behind the curtain and exchanges the heavy coat and fitted shirt for the gloriously soft sweater, resolutely tucking in the price tag before he can catch sight of it.

"Right then, what d'you think of this?" he asks, striding out into the room with the mirrors and presenting himself, straight-backed, arms held out for inspection. At this point, it really doesn't matter if he looks like a tit. There's no one here but the two of them, and he's bloody well determined to do this properly... if he does, perhaps he won't have to do it again for a long time.

"Mr Potter, I do believe that is your colour," the man says, eyes darting from Harry to his reflection as he smoothes an invisible crease from a sleeve and nods slowly.

"Really?" Harry scrubs at his hair, uncertain.

"Yes. Look at your face—it looks alive," the man says.

Harry follows his gaze, pleasant surprise flickering inside him as he realises that the man is right. The deep, vivid colour makes his skin look healthy, his teeth whiter and his eyes bright green and sparkling behind his glasses; it's incredible. All those years he has wasted wearing sludgy colours seem to fall away, and the man who stares back at him from the mirror looks so much like his other self, the man from the glimpse, that it's all Harry can do to tear his attention back to the salesman, who is hovering behind him, expectant, with eyebrows raised.

"Yeah," he manages at last. "You're right."

The man inclines his head gracefully. "I'm glad you agree."

"I suppose I'd better have it, then," Harry says.

"Very good. Though... I think we still have some way to go."

"I know, I know," Harry assures, grinning and heading back into the cubicle. "I'm quite aware that you haven't finished with me. What's next?"

**~*~**

By the time Harry finally lets himself into the cottage, laden with bags, and having spent more money than his conscience wants to acknowledge, darkness has fallen thickly and there is a savage nip in the air. Grateful for the fire that he can feel even before he fights his way into the living room, he sniffs at the soft aroma of tea and wonders if there is someone around from whom he should hide his purchases. In the end, though, he just flops into an armchair next to the fireplace and dumps his bags at his feet. Through half-closed eyes, he regards his tatty old jeans and scuffed boots. He wonders if he'll miss them.

"Harry, is that you?" Hermione calls from the kitchen. "Do you want a cup of tea?"

"Hermione, I would sell one of my kidneys for a cup of tea," he sighs, closing his eyes.

"Well, let's hope it doesn't come to that," she laughs, the creaking of the ancient floorboards announcing her arrival in the living room. "I'm just boiling the kettle again, so—oh, my... have you been shopping?"

Harry opens his eyes and tilts back his head, regarding her over the back of his chair at a twisty, almost-upside-down angle. "Absolutely not."

"Really. What's in all these bags, then?" Hermione asks, folding her arms and fixing Harry with a knowing grin.

"Er... toys for poor children," Harry improvises.

Hermione snorts and steps around the chair, crosses the rug, and settles herself in front of the fire, within easy reach of Harry's bags. Sighing, he twists back around and attempts a stern glare, but it doesn't stick for even a second; the amusement on her face tells him that much.

Suddenly, her eyebrows shoot up and she leans forward on her hands to get a better look at him.

"Have you had your hair cut, too?"

Harry rakes his fingers through his hair uncertainly. "Not much," he mumbles, all at once very aware of himself. Hermione's intense, calculating gaze isn't helping, either. "I was in there for ages for the amount of hair she actually cut off," he complains. "She said it's on-purpose messy instead of haven't-got-a-clue messy, whatever that means."

"I can't believe it," Hermione says, sitting back on her heels and shaking her head.

"Me neither. I have to put stuff on it," Harry divulges, fishing a small, shiny red tin from his pocket and throwing it to Hermione, who catches it neatly and examines it.

"Smells nice," she says, screwing the lid back into place. "And it looks good, really—I'm just a bit startled."

"No, really?" Harry grins.

Hermione sticks out her tongue and lobs the tin at Harry's chest with more force than necessary, scowling when he catches it in one hand.

"I think it's good... you've never really made the most of yourself," she says.

Unsure whether or not to be offended, Harry lifts an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

Hermione flushes, but when she looks at the floor, her eyes fall upon the bags. "So, what did you buy?" she demands, looking up, all traces of embarrassment gone.

"Just a few things."

"Show me," she wheedles, swaying slightly from side to side like a python scrounging for bacon.

Harry hesitates.

"Ron and Hugo are upstairs, you know," she says casually.

"Doing what?"

"Pretending to be submarines, the last I heard, but I'm sure I could persuade them to come downstairs if Uncle Harry was putting on a fashion show..."

"Okay, okay," Harry interrupts hastily. He has no desire to model his new wardrobe for Ron, who always does an appalling job of covering up his amusement, or Hugo, who is at that painfully honest stage, and is unlikely to hold back if he thinks his Uncle Harry looks like a troll in drag, though probably not in so many words. If he's honest, he's quite worried about wearing some of them in front of anyone, despite what the smiley-eyed salesman might have said.

"Fantastic," Hermione says, sitting back on the rug, face lit up in a triumphant smile.

Harry sighs and reaches for the first bag, extracting a pair of tailored charcoal-coloured trousers with a pointlessly fiendish fastener. "I'm not putting them on," he says.

"I don't need you to. I have an imagination," she advises him, reaching out and running the heavy fabric between her fingers approvingly. "Very smart."

Relieved, Harry puts them aside and shows her several more pairs of trousers and three pairs of fitted, terrifyingly expensive jeans: one dark, one light, and one with ripped patches and bleach splashes that the man in the shop had informed him were 'the thing to be wearing right now'.

"Now, these I would like to see you in," Hermione says, holding up the fashionable jeans and gazing at them with something like envy. "You're a brave man."

Harry snorts. "Well, we'll see about that if I ever actually put them on."

He rifles through the remaining bags and finds the jade green sweater, holds it up to his face and raises an expectant eyebrow.

"Ooh, that's lovely. I'm beginning to think you had help with this."

Harry drops the sweater into his lap and shoots her a withering glance. "Of course I did. If I was on my own, I would have come home with even more brown crap." He fishes out another knitted thing, this one in a rich dark red. "What about this one?"

"I like it."

"And this?" A black shirt with dull silver buttons.

"Very classy."

"This?" A dark blue t-shirt with unusual white stitching and a ragged, frayed hem.

"Harry, I have a feeling that is incredibly trendy," Hermione says, smiling.

"Behave. And this one?"

"Er... interesting?" Hermione hedges, nose wrinkling at the sight of the garment Harry is holding up.

He gazes at it, feeling now more than ever that the otherwise astute salesman has made a strange mistake with this one. It's just very... orange. And no one needs that many zips, especially when none of them seem to do anything except get in the way.

"Bit much?"

Hermione laughs. "Just a smidge."

Harry grins and tosses the bizarre orange creation (that the salesman had assured him would make him look 'right on trend') into the nearest bag. "Ah, well. One out of what feels like several hundred isn't too bad for a failure rate."

"I think that's your midlife crisis shirt," she says, ducking out of the way as Harry tries to swipe at her with a bag full of t-shirts.

"I think you promised me a cup of tea," he points out, flopping back into the chair.

She gets to her feet, still giggling, and pats his knee as she makes her way back into the kitchen.

"Periscope up!" yells Hugo, followed seconds later by an almighty clatter, a splash, and the sound of Ron making what seems to be whale noises.

Remembering Hermione's warning, Harry gathers his bags and stuffs them into the cupboard in the spare bedroom. Then, with a strange, jittery feeling of relief, he piles anything brown, old, or shapeless into a heap on the floor, hanging onto just one scruffy pair of jeans—the ones he's wearing, just because—he draws his wand and banishes the lot.

**~*~**

After dinner, which he cooks, in an attempt to give Hermione a night off, Harry retreats into the spare bedroom and tries on all of his new clothes again, turning this way and that in front of the mirror and trying to remember the salesman's advice about what goes with what. When he's reassured himself that he doesn't look like the male equivalent of mutton-dressed-as-lamb, he flops back onto the bed and listens to the soft rumble of his friends' conversation as it filters underneath his door.

"I've put Hugo to bed," Ron says, clomping heavily across the living room floorboards. "Do you want to—"

"Ron, keep your voice down," Hermione hisses. "You'll wake Harry."

"He won't be asleep," Ron insists, dropping his volume a fraction. "It's only half past eight!"

"He said he was going to his room and he looked really tired," Hermione insists, and Harry can just picture her crossing her arms and fixing Ron with her most formidable stare.

Somewhat affronted, Harry raises himself up on his elbows and stares once more at his reflection—he doesn't look all that bad. In fact, he thinks he looks healthier and more alert than he has in months. He drops back onto the bed and rolls his eyes at the ceiling. He's probably spent more time looking in the mirror today than he has in his entire adult life up until this point, which is a little bit worrying.

"... doesn't need mothering, 'Mione," Ron is saying, a little more loudly now.

"Oh, and you'd know, would you?" Hermione snaps hotly.

Hands on her hips now, Harry thinks. Eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, cheeks flushed.

He groans and throws a Silencing Charm at the door, then folds his arms over his face. The last thing he wants to do is stir up pointless arguments between his best friends; his move-in day for the new house cannot come quickly enough. They've been wonderful—accepting him into their home without question, folding him into their family life as though he's always been there, and never once asking when he's planning to leave—but he suspects that they're reaching the point when they're just being polite. They need some space, and he needs to be around some people who won't feel the need to tread on eggshells around him.

Suddenly heavy with an exhaustion borne of frustration and too much shopping, Harry kicks his piles of clothes onto the floor, wriggles out of his shirt and trousers and slides under the covers. He doesn't care that it's half past eight on a Saturday night. He's going to fucking sleep, and tomorrow he's going out.

**~*~**

He wakes just as the sun is coming up, feeling refreshed and energised, and opts to exploit the fact that Lily is an early riser, and Ginny, by nature—therefore at weekends—is not. He owls her a quick message, in which he reminds her to write a note for her mother, grabs juice and the cheese muffins left over from last night's dinner, and sets out to meet her.

As he climbs the small hill at the end of Willoughby Drive, shoes slipping on the dewy grass, Lily peers down at him from the top and laughs. Her hair flaps in the wind like a pennant, seeming to glitter in the muted pinks and golds of the sunrise, and, just for a moment, she looks frighteningly grown up.

"Come on, Dad!" she calls, holding out a hand to yank him over the last few feet of the climb. He stands at the summit, breathing in the exhilarating smells of winter, wet earth and frosty grass.

"Did you leave your mum a note?" he asks, poking the tip of his wand out of his sleeve so that he can apply a surreptitious drying charm to the grass. "I don't want her waking up and panicking."

"Of course," Lily says, dropping to the ground and crossing her legs. She looks up at him, eyes anxious. "Is everything okay?"

Harry smiles and lowers himself to sit beside her, wondering what Draco would have to say about people who sit on the grass in their new, expensive trousers. He has a good idea.

"Yes. I just wanted to have breakfast with my best girl," he says, producing the muffins and apple juice with a flourish. "Is that a crime?"

Lily giggles, and there's a small part of Harry that strongly suspects that she thinks her dad is a bit of an idiot. Oddly, he doesn't mind all that much.

"No," she says, rolling her eyes and accepting her share of the food. Taking a huge bite of cheese muffin, she sighs happily and gazes out over the sleeping valley. Harry watches her, swallowing a mouthful of icy cold juice and relishing the waves of contentment that come up to roll over him.

"Did you have fun yesterday?" he asks after a moment.

Lily grins. "Yeah, it was brilliant. Jeanette taught me how to do a jump. I fell over quite a lot, but I'm getting it!"

"Very impressive," Harry says, returning her grin.

"Thanks. Maybe you and me can go one day," she says, flicking him a hopeful glance.

"Ice skating?" he clarifies, secretly unnerved by the idea.

"Yeah. If you want to, I mean." Lily pauses, chewing on her lip for a moment. "It's been really nice doing stuff with you," she says in an almost-whisper. "Before you and Mum split up... you never had time."

She flushes and falls silent, tearing a huge chunk out of her muffin and stuffing it into her mouth as though trying to prevent herself from saying anything else. Harry's heart swells and aches and he twists his fingers into the cold grass with the effort of keeping in the apologies that he knows are useless.

"Absolutely, I'll give it a go," he says at last. "I'll probably fall on my arse after ten seconds," he adds, hoping to make her smile, and it works. "It's been nice doing stuff with you, too. Eat your breakfast."

**~*~**

Harry can't help smiling to himself as he slip-slides down the hill and heads back to the cottage, mentally replaying Lily's flattering review of his outfit. Apparently, he looks "pretty cool, Dad", which is a first, and more than good enough for him. Still dead set on clearing off for the day and giving Ron and Hermione the chance to do... well, whatever it is they do when he's not around, he creeps back through the hushed house, grabs his work robes, and heads back out before Hermione can hear him and ask him if he wants a bowl of porridge.

The Ministry is relatively quiet, but there are still enough people scurrying around to make the place feel alive, and to remind Harry that, although he doesn't work weekends any more, there are plenty who do. He collects a couple of sympathetic nods and four somewhat staggered variations on "Good morning, Mr Potter, is everything alright?" as he makes his way to his office, and is amused enough to smile and assure his colleagues that yes, he has come to work on a Sunday, and no, they needn't worry that the world is crumbling into dust.

His office is oddly barren without Helga, and he finds himself wondering what she does with herself at the weekends. Even she has something better to do than sit at her desk on a bright Sunday morning, he thinks, and immediately buries the realisation under a pile of anything he can find before it can ruin his good mood.

Leaving the office door wide open—more because he can than anything else—he drops into his chair and eyes his memo mountain without enthusiasm. It seems to have increased in size since Friday afternoon, so much so that Harry wonders idly if the little purple buggers are breeding. Resignedly he reaches for his quill and makes a start.

Five minutes later, he has abandoned his task in favour of turning slowly in his chair, arms dangling at his sides, staring at the ceiling and feeling inconveniently turned on. It's all very well trying to be productive and a good friend and all of that admittedly important stuff, but it's no good if he can't shift the memory of Draco unhelpfully-hot-right-now Malfoy from his mind.

"Harry," he rasps, breathing harsh, eyes burning desperation as strong, sweat-damp fingers scrape and grasp at Harry's back, urging him, demanding him. "Hurry up, Blaise'll be here in a minute, and... oh, fuck yes... I don't know about you, but I wasn't planning to include him."

Suddenly, the eyes flashing fire into his aren't those of the Draco sprawling in wanton disarray across the sofa at number twelve, but the ones belonging to the frosty, black-clad man at the Quidditch match, the man who says, "What do you want, Potter?" and makes Harry's insides tie themselves in knots.

Harry groans, wrapping his hands around the arms of his chair. For some reason he can't stop himself from smiling, but he's doing his best to ignore the growing hardness beneath his robes, because even if he hasn't been doing the most sterling job over the last few weeks, he does draw the line at wanking in the office. Apart from anything else, it just seems sad.

One thing is becoming abundantly clear in the midst of all this madness. That man has taken up permanent residence in his head, both versions of him and a confusing amalgamation of the two, one with harsh words and a warm smile, and he has neither of them, but he wants so much that it's painful, and now that he's alone, he seems incapable of thinking of anything else. It's all very well having Lily or Ron or Hermione or a stylish clothing salesman to distract him, but he knows that even the most resilient of his defences are unlikely to hold up for much longer.

He suspects that he shouldn't be leaping straight into... well, anything, but especially this, after the end of his marriage, but the need to know, to find out about this Draco, is infinitely stronger than any of the rational voices in his head. Despite his words to Molly about taking things one step at a time, the idea of waiting is becoming more intolerable with each minute that passes.

Harry throws his feet up onto the desk and leans back in his chair, drawing in and releasing a slow, calming breath. He needs a plan, or if not, at least some semblance of an idea of how he's going to go about this.

"The most powerful tool you can give your enemy is a lack of preparation," he mumbles, automatically pulling up the words from the Auror Code of Conduct, despite not having read it in years. "But he's not your enemy, you idiot. Think like a normal person."

"Erm... are you talking to me?" comes a reedy little voice.

Harry jumps slightly and peers out into the corridor through the one door he has deliberately left open, and the other, which he has apparently left open by accident. A little man with a long, white beard and thick, horn-rimmed glasses is standing in the outer doorway and gazing enquiringly at Harry.

"No, sorry, I was just... thinking out loud," he admits, taking his feet off the desk and attempting to look professional, even though it is probably far too late.

"Ah, not to worry; I was just passing," the man says. He turns to go and then pauses, granting Harry a crooked smile. "It is better to think out loud than to never think at all."

With that, he nods at Harry and bobbles off down the corridor. Harry buries his smile in his hands, strangely fortified by the unsolicited advice. After a moment, he folds his arms, chews on his lip, and considers his options.

He could wait. He knows that Draco will be at the next Quidditch match, Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff, and that will be an easy starting point for a conversation. That said, the match isn't taking place for almost a month, according to James, who has now begun to owl Harry with all manner of Quidditch-related news, and a month is a very long time. At least, it seems like a very long time right now.

For a minute or two, he toys with the idea of casually hanging around outside Gringotts, where he would have a strong chance of running into Draco accidentally-on-purpose, but quickly discounts it when the sensible part of his brain reminds him that not only does Ginny work there, too, but acting like a crazy stalker is unlikely to be the smoothest first move, all things considered.

Frustrated that he seems to be back to square one already, Harry pushes off with his foot into a savage spin, bracing himself against the inevitable dizziness and moodily contemplating Draco's Sunday morning; he's probably rattling around in his manor, where people can walk around for days and not see each other.

Harry skids to a stop, friction heating the sole of his shoe as it drags against the rug. Heart speeding, he jumps to his feet and hurries, somewhat unsteadily, down to the Atrium.

**~*~**

The air in the lane is cool, but the almost-midday sun shimmers over the parts of the grounds Harry can see, draping a gauzy curtain over the lush lawns and the distant manor house. It's all quite beautiful, and is barely recognisable as the stark, run-down property he remembers from the war.

Shaking away the unhelpful memories, he peers through the ornate, hand-forged gates, taking care not to touch them until he has ascertained that they are not hexed to send a shock down his arm or turn him into a fieldmouse. Through the haze, he catches sight of a group of peacocks; he counts ten of them clustered around the edge of an elaborate water feature, watching and squawking with apparent delight as the fountain shoots jets of shimmering water twenty feet into the air. As he watches in silence, one of the birds turns to look at him, tiny black eyes gleaming with intelligence.

Irrationally struck by the feeling that he's under suspicion, Harry looks away and instead focuses his attention on the gates, expertly feeling out the wards, crouching to run a careful hand just fractions of an inch from the metal, sensing the hum of protective magic and noting with interest that the 'keep the fuck out'-type spells he has been expecting are completely absent here. In fact, the security is very ordinary, and he knows he could dismantle it in a matter of seconds, but he doesn't want to.

Because, alright, it's probably more than a little unhinged to turn up at Draco's home without an invitation, and he'll be the first to admit that he can't really count logic as a friend right now, but there's impulsiveness and there's breaking and entering. Harry scrubs vaguely at his hair and casts his eyes around for some sort of bell or summoning device, but draws a blank.

It's almost as though these people don't want visitors, supplies a little voice in his head.

Harry ignores it and scowls. He knows—somewhere deep down and well-hidden—that he's being stubborn and reckless and all kinds of other rash Gryffindor things, but it's near impossible to care when he misses Draco so fiercely. He also knows that the Draco who lives at the other end of this drive is, in essence, a different man, but he has to try. Better to make a complete fool of himself than spend the rest of his life wondering.

"Stop that," someone says reproachfully, then there's a flutter of feathers and one of the peacocks scuttles out of a flowerbed and past the gates before disappearing into a bush. Harry cranes his neck, hoping to locate the source of the voice. It's soft, female, refined—familiar.

"Hello?" he calls hopefully.

For a moment there is no response, and then a tall figure emerges from the mist, walking across the lawn toward the gates. The woman is wearing smart, dark trousers, a long cardigan and carrying a flat, rush-woven basket full of flowers over one arm; her large floppy hat obscures her face from Harry's view, but the long, loose blonde hair is a dead giveaway. Even so, Harry can barely believe that the woman approaching him with trowel in hand and elegant, loose strides is Narcissa Malfoy.

As she draws close, Harry realises that the disparities between this woman and her counterpart in the glimpse are not restricted to their attire. This Narcissa seems older and more worn than the acerbic, taut-faced matriarch that had given Harry a hideous glass swan for Christmas, and for some reason, Harry is more intimidated than ever.

"Auror?" she enquires, pale blue eyes fastened upon the uniform Harry has forgotten to remove. "Is something wrong?"

"No, Mrs Malfoy, I just—"

She looks up, meeting his eyes at last. "Oh! Auror Potter!" She pauses. "Is something wrong?"

"No, I... I've come to talk to Draco, if he's around," Harry manages, putting everything he has into keeping his hands at his sides and resisting the urge to shrug like an awkward teenager.

"I see. Is he expecting you?" she asks, shooting out a hand to secure her hat as a particularly tenacious gust of wind rattles through the bushes and snatches at her hair. Her refined, cut-glass accent is the same as ever, but the words lack the bite that Harry has come to expect—the question is just that—a question—and she gazes at him expectantly, tucking her trowel into her basket and reaching for her wand.

"Probably not," Harry admits, and this time, nothing in the world can stop him reaching up and scrubbing at the back of his hair.

"Draco told me that he saw you at Hogwarts recently," Narcissa says matter-of-factly, wand dangling at her side, rolling back and forth between pale, slender fingers.

"Ah, did he?" Harry mumbles, skin heating. "I went to see my son play—he's a Beater on the Gryffindor team—played a good game, actually, I'm very... proud of him," he finishes quietly, realising that he's waffling, and uncertain whether or not the light of amusement in Narcissa's eyes bodes well for him.

"I'm very proud of my son, too," she says evenly, tapping at the gates with her wand and standing back as they swing open for Harry to pass.

"Thank you," he says, stepping inside and waiting as she performs an intricate little locking procedure. When she sets off up the drive, he hastens to follow, taking a moment or two to match his stride to hers and opting to keep his mouth firmly shut—he's inside now, and already being treated with much more politeness than he has allowed himself to expect; all he has to do is not fuck it up.

He can do it. The grounds are a more than adequate distraction, full of darting creatures, beautifully kept lawns, and splashes of vivid flowers that Harry suspects have had a bit of a helping hand to be flourishing in the middle of winter. The air is cold and sharp with the fragrance of fresh soil, as well as something bitter and sophisticated that whips into his nostrils from Narcissa's hair and clothes.

"I believe Draco is in his study," she says as they reach a bend in the drive and the house looms into view once more. "I dare say he will be surprised to see you, Auror."

I dare say he will, Harry agrees silently. Instead, he says, "You don't need to call me Auror, Mrs Malfoy. I'm not on duty."

Narcissa casts him a measured sidelong glance. "I was merely trying to be polite," she says, letting out a little sigh that seems to convey mystification rather than disapproval. "As, I imagine, were you. How do you prefer to be addressed?"

Harry hesitates for several seconds, continuing to crunch along beside her in the gravel. None of this is really going as he had expected, but he can adapt. He thinks.

"Just Harry is fine," he offers eventually.

"As you wish." She rummages in her basket and retrieves a small, gleaming pair of secateurs, and Harry stops, fascinated, as she bends to snip a cutting from an odd, spiky plant that has seen fit to grow at the edge of the drive, several yards from the nearest flower bed. She examines it with interest and tucks it into her basket with what looks like a stasis charm of some kind. "It has been strange to watch so many of the old formalities disappear," she confides, gazing at Harry and drawing herself upright. "But change is the nature of things. Progress is often confusing." She grants him a barely-there little twist of a smile, and Harry wonders just what happened to the cold, tight-lipped woman he remembers.

"I'm not a huge fan of change, either, Mrs Malfoy," he says, the surprise making him candid. "But sometimes it's for the best."

Narcissa lifts an eyebrow and stalks away across the lawn. Harry doesn't know what else to do but follow her; for all he knows there's no getting into the house without her. When he catches up with her, she's peering into a flower bed full of gently swaying white and pink blooms.

"Do you think these azaleas have gone over?" she asks suddenly, holding onto her hat once more and glancing up at Harry.

"Er... I don't know too much about plants, I'm sorry," he says, but looks obligingly into the flower bed anyway.

Narcissa sighs and stows away her secateurs. "I suppose I ought to give them another day or two."

Relieved, Harry nods vigorously as though his approval actually counts for something in this bizarre situation.

"Your grounds are beautiful," he says impulsively, remembering that with Hermione, another unexpectedly keen gardener, a compliment on her hydrangeas or her flowering hedgerow will get him out of almost any sticky situation. And, even though the idea of fitting Hermione and Narcissa Malfoy into the same little box is absurd, Harry decides to trust his gut and hope for the best.

The pale eyes warm almost imperceptibly and the delicate lines around them crease in approval as she nods and heads back to the driveway. "Thank you. I find gardening very therapeutic."

"Do you do all of this yourself?" he asks, pressing his advantage.

"All of the interesting parts," she says. "We have groundsmen to deal with the grass and prune the trees and such. Are you interesting in gardening, Harry?" she asks politely, all at once seeming like a visiting dignitary rather than the wife of a Death Eater who hasn't seen him for almost twenty years.

Harry fumbles for an answer, eventually settling on the truth. "Not really, but I appreciate nice things as much as the next person."

"I wondered if perhaps you were trying to ingratiate yourself with me in some way," she muses, continuing to gaze steadily ahead as they approach the house.

"Why would I do that?" Harry asks faintly, attempting not to panic.

"I don't know." She glances at him, face inscrutable but eyes alight with interest. "It's intriguing, though, is it not?"

Harry says nothing. He has no idea what to do with this woman, but he has a sinking feeling that she knows exactly what to do with him. And there's nothing he can do but go along with it if he ever wants to talk to Draco.

"I was sorry to hear about your family situation."

Harry catches his breath, startled by the tactful description of his divorce. "Thank you. I think it was for the best, though."

Narcissa shoots him a sharp look as they climb the stone stairs and enter a grand portico. She pulls open a heavy oak door and pauses. "That is not for me to judge, Mr Potter. Harry." Clicking her fingers, she adds, "Bilby will show you to Draco's study."

A very familiar house-elf appears in the entrance hall with a loud crack and gazes up at Harry with huge round eyes. Biting down on the pull of recognition that makes Harry want to wave and inquire after Senka, he thanks Mrs Malfoy for her help and follows Bilby down a series of corridors.

"Master Draco's study, sir," the elf announces, and disappears before Harry even has time to thank him.

Barely breathing, Harry knocks at the door and waits.

"Come in," Draco calls, sounding distracted. Harry steels himself, turns the handle, and pushes the door open to find Draco sitting at a vast, mahogany desk, leafing through bits of parchment and frowning. "Did you manage to settle him down?"

Harry hangs onto the door handle, pressing cool metal against his skin and casting around desperately for a good way to let Draco know that, in all likelihood, that question had been meant for someone else.

"Er, no," he says before he can stop himself.

Draco's eyes snap to his and narrow immediately. He flattens both hands to the desk as though preparing to spring to his feet, but he doesn't reach for his wand, and Harry clings to that fact as he moves away from the door, gently closes it behind him and waits for Draco to say something.

"How the fuck did you get in here?" he demands, incredulity pushing the aggression out of his voice.

"Your mother let me in. We walked up the drive together."

"Why on earth would she do that?" He eyes Harry's robes with suspicion. "Did you tell her I was in some kind of trouble?"

"No." Harry shrugs. "She saw me at the gate, and I said I wanted to talk to you. Apparently she decided to trust me... which is to her credit. I'm very trustworthy," he adds, flashing what he hopes is a charming smile and then immediately wanting to cover his face with his hands.

Draco sighs and seems to sag, loosening his alert posture and leaning back heavily in his chair.

"I wish I could say I was surprised by that," he mutters. "What do you want from me, exactly?"

"Just to talk," Harry says, watching pale eyebrows draw together in bewilderment and equally pale fingers tap in a perfectly balanced rhythm against carved wooden chair arms.

"Forgive me my suspicion, Potter, but I find it hard to believe that you are so hard-pressed for conversational partners that you would turn up uninvited to the home of someone you have never really liked on a Sunday afternoon."

Harry sighs. "Can I sit down?"

Draco grants him a look of weary exasperation and then flicks out a negligent hand to indicate an overstuffed leather chair that sits next to the unlit fireplace, several feet from the desk. With a cautious twist of triumph, Harry crosses the floor and lowers himself into the chair, which is fantastically comfortable and immediately moulds itself to his shape.

"Has it occurred to you that I'm here because I actually want to talk to you, not because I haven't got anyone else to talk to?" he asks, making bold eye contact and relishing the way the silvery eyes widen the tiniest fraction at his words.

"Honestly?"

"If that's possible."

"Bugger off, Potter. No. It did not occur to me. I have no idea why."

Harry smiles, grabbing at the little stab of petulance that penetrates the cool, jaded exterior.

"Well, I'm here now, and you haven't even tried to throw me out, so you might as well give it a go," Harry points out, words somewhat muffled as he yanks his heavy brown robes over his head and then folds them messily on his lap.

Draco blinks, momentarily lost for words. "What on earth have you got on?"

Harry glances down at his tailored black trousers and silver-grey buttoned-sweater-cardigan thing. "Clothes?" he attempts.

Draco snorts. "It's odd, isn't it? I think this is the first time I've ever seen you wearing something that fits you properly."

Harry gazes back at him calmly, biting down on his embarrassment. If he hadn't been so focused on peeling off his robes and trying to appear relaxed, it might have occurred to him that not only was Draco going to notice his new clothes, but he was going to have something to say about them. Draco's eyes are everywhere, and though Harry is pretty sure he is assessing the cut of his new trousers, the quality of the cashmere, and other such things that only he understands, the wriggling sensation in the pit of his stomach fires up immediately as he remembers those eyes raking over him with other things in mind. He remembers those eyes dark with lust and feels naked, even though he's far from it.

When Draco looks up again, Harry swallows dryly and shrugs. "What? Is there something the matter with my clothes?"

"No, bizarrely enough," Draco says with an almost disappointed sigh. "Although you seem to have neglected to button your fly."

Horrified, Harry glances down at his trousers, only to find that all the buttons are neatly fastened, and when he looks up slowly, Draco is smirking. Harry scowls, heart hammering, wishing he could kick the smug idiot in the shin. And then kiss him.

"Thanks for that."

"You're welcome. I thoroughly enjoyed the look on your face."

"I can tell," Harry says drily. "Now aren't you glad I came here? Who would you have to torture otherwise?"

Draco shrugs negligently. "I don't know, I do enjoy hiding things from Bilby occasionally... but actually, I think he enjoys that. It certainly keeps him out of my father's way."

Harry nods, wondering if this Lucius Malfoy has mellowed in his attitude toward house-elves over the years. He can't help but doubt that anything has changed much since his appalling mistreatment of Dobby, and Bilby's jumpy behaviour has so far done nothing to disabuse him of that notion.

Draco arches an eyebrow, and Harry realises he's been staring and saying nothing, which is always a good start. "You're a humanitarian," he says eventually, mouth twitching.

"Goodness, that would have been a compliment if you'd've meant it," Draco murmurs.

"I don't think you're ready for real compliments," Harry says, grinning. "Maybe next time. We'll work up to it."

"You're planning to do this again?" Draco asks, and though his eyes are wide, Harry knows him well enough to deduce from his posture that his surprise is entirely feigned.

Harry leans back in his chair. "You seem like you need a friend."

Draco makes an odd little sound and rakes a hand through his neat hair, ruffling it slightly. "Good grief. Are you going to burst into song? Please give me plenty of warning so that I can stun myself."

Amused, Harry allows a tiny smile to break free. "You're avoiding the subject."

"Do you blame me?"

"No. You might be surprised to know that I think you're a decent human being," Harry says rashly.

"I assure you I'm not."

"You're a pain in the arse, Draco. That's what you are."

Draco crosses his arms over his chest and stares at Harry. "Excuse me?"

Harry's stomach tightens, and he makes a concerted effort to edge the other Draco out of his mind; if he's going to achieve anything more than making a complete idiot of himself, he needs to concentrate on the man in front of him.

"How would you prefer to be addressed?" he asks, realising too late that he's borrowed the expression from Narcissa Malfoy. Cross with himself, he forges on with a little more challenge than is probably advisable. "By your last name like we're still at school?"

Draco sighs. "Fine. Despite the fact that you are just as uncouth as you were when we were at school, I think we're both a bit too old for that. I certainly feel like it."

Harry smiles. "You aren't old yet."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Draco advises him. Shivering suddenly, he rises from his chair and slips past Harry to examine the fireplace, one black-clad arm grazing Harry's shoulder as he passes.

"I'm not trying to flatter you," Harry says, and it's the truth, though he thinks he would give it a try if he believed it might help.

"No, of course not, you're trying to talk to me," Draco murmurs, still with his back to Harry as he pokes around in the grate and produces a series of clanking sounds. "Perhaps I'm not in a talking mood."

Harry twists around to watch him leaning over and shaking his head. "Alright then. I'll start."

"I feel like I'm in therapy," Draco complains, finally slashing his wand through the air and lighting the fire. The room quickly fills with the warm, comforting scent of magic and smouldering wood.

"And yet you haven't asked me to stop," Harry points out.

Draco stares into the fire for a moment and then returns to his chair, depositing his wand on his desk.

"Yes, well. I'm bored."

Harry rolls his eyes, secretly encouraged. "I'm divorced," he offers.

"Already?" Draco demands, a note of irritation in his voice.

"Yeah. I got the last papers a few days ago."

Draco picks moodily at his sleeve. "I'm still waiting for mine."

Harry wrinkles his nose in commiseration. "What's taking so long?" he asks, not really expecting an answer.

"The last I heard, Astoria's lawyer was trying to dig up some sort of dirt on me so that she could drain me of half the contents of my vault and the last of self esteem." He meets Harry's eyes for a fraction of a section, just long enough for him to see the bitterness simmering below the surface.

"I'm sorry," Harry says, grasping the arms of his chair to prevent himself from mimicking Draco's finger-tapping; he doubts that would be well-received. "I got the impression it was all pretty amicable between the two of you."

"Between the two of us, yes. Between me and that avaricious legal harpy... well, let's just say that it's a testament to my self control and my mother's reasonable streak that we haven't come to blows." Draco releases a short, controlled breath, but his agitation flares out around him in an invisible corona, charging the air and sending tingling currents over Harry's skin.

Harry doesn't know why he does it, but before he can stop himself, he's sitting up in his chair and prodding at what is clearly a sore point. "What sort of dirt?"

Draco eyes him sharply, then sighs, seeming to lose heart. "Nothing that's true. I think she'd like to suggest I'd had a string of affairs or something equally sordid. Astoria's a smart woman; I'm sure she could sink me if she wanted to. I don't think she will, but every time that awful woman comes up with something, it drags the whole thing out a little bit more."

Intrigued by Draco's words and astonished by the weary honesty, Harry says nothing for a good few seconds. He wonders if Draco has decided, after years of bitter rivalry, that he wants to confide in Harry, or if he's just tired of letting it swim around in his head and doesn't have anyone else to talk to. Perhaps he's drunk, Harry muses idly. Or has had a blow to the head. Anything's possible.

"Sounds like a nightmare," he says. "Wouldn't it be easier to just give her what she wants?"

Draco's mouth twists into a sour little smile. "Astoria is independently wealthy. She doesn't want my money any more than I want hers. She just doesn't want to come out of this looking weak."

"I suppose I can understand that," Harry says evenly, closing his mind to the part of him that is protesting violently at the very idea that Draco is suffering like this for the sake of misplaced pride. "So, what's the lawyer's angle?"

Draco's smile is almost—almost—genuine as he replies: "She's working for a percentage."

Harry sighs. "Women are strange."

Draco laughs, and the dry sound reawakens the squirmy feelings in Harry's stomach. "I'll drink to that. In fact..." He pauses, fixing Harry with a speculative glance, then clicks his fingers. Less than a second later, Bilby appears next to Harry's chair and jumps at the sight of him.

"Yes, Master Draco?"

"Fetch the Borteg's and two glasses, please," Draco says, and though it is an instruction rather than a request, the politeness does not escape Harry's notice. Nor does Draco's apparent predilection for insanely expensive firewhisky.

"Bilby is bringing it straight away," the elf says, sketching a strange little bow and disappearing.

"He might be a little while," Draco advises, stretching lightly. "I think that bottle was one of the things I hid the last time I was in the kitchen."

Harry grins, flooded with a fresh new wave of warmth for this man. "And that is a perfect example of why you need some assistance with occupying your time."

"Fuck you, Harry Potter," Draco says, refined accent and stifled yawn taking much of the edge from the words. "I have plenty to do with my time, especially when Scorpius is at home."

"I bet you miss him," Harry says, and, noting Draco's defensive expression, adds, "I miss mine when they go back to school. And I miss Lily now that I don't see her every day."

"Are you really living in the Weasleys' cellar?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Their spare bedroom, actually, and only for another week or so. Where did you hear that?"

"Gringotts. It's more of a gossip mill than Hogwarts; the goblins hate it." He shrugs, and then, in a soft voice, admits: "And yes, I do miss my son. We're rather close."

As Harry tempers a smile, Bilby reappears with the bottle and two heavy cut crystal glasses, which he places on the edge of Draco's desk.

"Did you find it alright?" Draco asks solicitously, leaning forward to gaze at the elf.

"We was finding it in the vegetable box," Bilby advises him, blinking earnestly. "Behind a cabbage."

"What sort of cabbage?" Harry asks, thinking out loud.

Bilby turns to him, lacing his spindly fingers together and granting Harry a deferent nod, as though the question is a perfectly logical one. "It was a Savoy cabbage, sir."

"Thanks," he says, trying not to laugh. "It's important to know these things."

Draco glances at him, eyes bright, and dismisses the elf with a mumbled "thank you" and a careless wave of his hand. "You're enjoying yourself," he accuses, pouring a generous measure of whisky into each glass and handing Harry's over with a brush of fingertips that makes him catch his breath.

"Thanks." Harry inhales the spicy smoke that has begun to curl from the surface of the liquid. "Yeah, I am enjoying myself. It's one of the new things I'm trying out these days."

"Enjoying yourself is a new thing?" Draco says, affecting disdain.

"Well, not completely, but I'm trying to do it a lot more often," Harry says. "Anyway, that's rich coming from you, you miserable bastard."

For long seconds there is silence, during which Harry longs for the ability to stuff his careless insult back into his mouth, and then Draco bursts into laughter. He's surprised, that much is obvious, but the sound is warm and startlingly unguarded. Before long, Harry is laughing, too, and it's a wonderful feeling.

"No one has spoken to me like that in a very long time," Draco sighs, grinning behind his glass.

"Have you missed me?" Harry asks innocently.

"Like a hole in the head," Draco says, pulling himself together for long enough to lean over and touch his glass to Harry's.

Harry nods and raises his glass without a word. He reclines in his squashy chair and takes an appreciative sip. It is immediately obvious why Borteg's Own is the most expensive firewhisky on the market; the stuff is incredible, managing to be smooth, smoky and delicately spiced all at once, with a fiery kick to the back of the throat that is startling but not at all unpleasant.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you have ridiculously expensive taste," he says, blowing a gentle stream of smoke into the air and watching it drift toward the ceiling in the winter sunshine.

Draco lifts an eyebrow. "And what would you know about high end firewhisky?"

"Enough," Harry says, grinning. "That Mr Borteg's an odd bloke, isn't he?"

If anything, Draco's eyebrow manages to climb further up his face. "Oh, yes, he's a very strange man. My mother likes him; she says he's an eccentric."

"I'm not arguing with that," Harry says, beginning to like this Narcissa Malfoy even more.

Draco sets his glass down on the desk. "I'm still not entirely sure what you're up to," he admits.

Harry shrugs. "No hidden agenda, I promise."

"A Gryffindor promise," Draco muses. "Interesting."

"I try to be," Harry says. "Do you know what else is interesting?"

"The mysteries of the universe? Celestina Warbeck's popularity? The reason you're here?"

"Yes. But no. The fact that you didn't tell anyone what I told you at the Quidditch game."

Draco frowns. "Who was I going to tell? The press?"

Harry says nothing. Draco narrows his eyes and pins him with a pointed stare, but Harry doesn't miss the flash of hurt and it lifts him for a second or two before the guilt seeps in.

"Is that what you thought I'd do?" Draco asks quietly.

Harry shrugs. "I didn't know."

Draco sighs heavily. "I suppose my history is against me on that front."

"People change," Harry offers.

Draco looks away from him as he drains his glass. "Do you really think so?"

"I know so."

"You're a sickening optimist," Draco says, lip curling slightly. "Still."

"Well, alright, some things don't change," Harry concedes. "But, well, look at your mother. She's nothing like the way I remember her."

Draco snorts. "Sorry, Potter. We'll try harder to appeal to your sense of nostalgia in future."

Exasperated, Harry swallows the last of his firewhisky and sets the glass down on the stone surround of the fireplace. "Harry," he corrects. "And that's not what I meant. I was just trying to make a point."

"And what exactly was it?"

Harry rakes agitated fingers through his hair and shoots Draco a withering look. "That sometimes people change."

Draco taps his fingers and gazes steadily at Harry as though peering right inside him and weighing up the integrity of what he finds. When he speaks, his words are careful and measured. "Yes, well, you'd be different, too, if you'd had to look after someone like my father for nearly twenty years."

"Your father's ill?" Harry asks quietly, more jarred by the idea than he thinks he should be.

"That's one way of putting it," Draco says. "It's complicated. In fact, I'd rather not talk about it."

"Okay," Harry concedes, stamping on the urge to say, 'Well, you brought it up' and instead casting around for more conciliatory words. "What I said about your mother, though—I didn't mean any harm. She was very friendly to me, and I suppose I was just surprised."

The grey eyes are unemotional but Draco's voice is tinged with intrigue as he asks: "Did she talk to you about the gardens?"

"A little bit," Harry says. "She asked me if I thought her azaleas were dying."

Draco smiles faintly. "She must be very interested in you. What did you tell her?"

Mystified, Harry shrugs. "I told her I didn't know much about flowers."

"That's a shame. Neither do I, but it doesn't excuse me from azalea watch."

Harry has no idea how to respond to that, so he doesn't, shifting instead in his seat so that he catches the warmth from the fire more effectively, and stretching out a lazy hand toward the flames.

"So, why did you break it off with Ginevra?"

Harry's eyes snap to Draco, who is lounging elegantly in his chair, one foot crossed over the opposite knee and features arranged in an expression of sly curiosity. The brutal thump of his heart against his ribcage steals his breath for a moment before he forces himself to answer the unexpected question. Sort of. "What makes you think it was me who ended things?"

Draco's mouth twists. "Just a hunch."

"Oh, really?" is all Harry can muster and he hates the way this man can play with his emotions, even without knowing it.

"Yes. There's always someone who really makes the call, however stubbornly both parties may insist that everything was mutual and harmonious and lovely," Draco says, eyes flashing uncomfortable understanding into Harry's. "I was the one who pulled the plug in the end, and I suspect that you were, too."

Harry exhales slowly, allowing the growing flicker of hope in his chest to warm him. "Were you? We can talk about that if you want."

Draco snorts. "You were the one who wanted to talk. Tell me why little miss perfect stopped being good enough for you. I'm intrigued."

"Don't talk about her like that," Harry snaps, almost certain that the sharp edges are for show, and yet unable to stop the anger flaring, just a little bit. "She's a good person."

"I know she is, Potter," Draco sighs. "Harry. I know she doesn't like to admit to working with me, but we are practically colleagues. She's terrifyingly decent, just like you are."

"Oh," Harry says softly. Wrong-footed and vulnerable, he sits up straighter, wanting to make himself seem large and impressive, because he certainly doesn't feel it.

"I won't pretend I'm not interested in what went wrong, though," Draco goes on. "From the outside you appeared to be a perfect family. People are always shocked when they find out that things aren't so perfect underneath."

"Which people?"

Draco lifts a careless shoulder. "People at Gringotts. People in Diagon Alley. Just people."

Harry makes a face. "I don't know why any of those people are interested in my marriage."

"You really don't, do you?" Draco says, eyes searching Harry's face.

"Nope."

Draco grants him a rueful little smile. "You never were very good at being famous."

"No, not really. You'd have loved it, would you?"

"Maybe when I was an idiotic teenager," Draco admits. "But I like the fact that most people don't really pay any attention to me these days. I've come to appreciate the peace and quiet."

Harry smiles, holding out his glass when Draco proffers the bottle. "You don't want to change places, then?"

Draco arches a pale eyebrow and fills his own glass without a word.

"We weren't in love any more," Harry says at last, having tried out several explanations in his head and realised that, at this stage, anything approaching the truth will send Draco running for the hills.

"Being in love to start with is somewhat of an advantage," Draco offers, tracing a finger through the drifting smoke from his firewhisky.

The implication jolts Harry, and he shakes his head. "Why, then?"

Draco lifts his hand and rubs distractedly at his temple, dislodging a sizeable swathe of hair, which flops and dangles into his face. He doesn't seem to notice. "Why? All the usual reasons. Money, tradition, reputation. You won't be surprised to hear that finding a pureblood family willing to marry into ours was almost impossible after the war. Of the few we found, Astoria was the only one who was smart enough not to drive me insane and stable enough that I wasn't going to worry about being murdered in the night."

"Fucking hell," Harry says without thinking.

Draco laughs shortly. "Indeed."

"So you never..."

"Loved her? No. Not like that. Which is why my story isn't interesting."

"I'm not sure mine is, either," Harry admits. "I just... suddenly realised that I wasn't living and I hadn't been for a long time. It turned out that I wasn't the only one who felt that way."

Draco's eyes are dubious, but he seems to accept Harry's explanation for the moment. "So, how exactly do you plan to start living?"

Harry gazes at the floor, biting down on a smile, and when he looks up, Draco is watching him expectantly, eyebrows raised. "I'm not exactly sure. It's a work in progress."

Draco says nothing, and they finish their second drinks in an almost comfortable silence. When Draco sets his glass down and turns his chair back to his desk, Harry rises, sensing his cue to leave; he's reluctant to outstay his welcome, even though the visit has been... surprisingly successful.

"Well, this has been interesting, but you're going to need to find yourself someone else to talk to, because I have work to do," Draco says, shuffling through papers and folders.

"Do you like your job?" Harry asks impulsively as he reaches for the door handle.

"Don't be ridiculous. No one likes their job."

"Right," Harry says, sadness tugging at his insides. As he turns to go, though, he catches a glimpse of the contents of some of those 'work' folders. Their contents are distinctly unfinancial in nature—photographs of well-known public figures and pages of scribbled notes. He raises an eyebrow and nods to Draco. "Thanks for having me," he says, almost automatically.

Draco says nothing, but when Harry glances at him one last time as the door closes, he's tapping his fingers on the desk and almost smiling.

**~*~**

When he arrives back at the cottage, he finds his friends in the garden. Hermione and Hugo are throwing a ball around and giggling at some unknown joke, while Ron watches from the back step and quietly demolishes a slice of apple pie. Both look rested and content, to Harry's immense relief, and he quickly finds himself drawn into the game, which continues until Hugo is quite blatantly covering yawns and the sun is dipping below the horizon.

He wakes easily the next morning and takes advantage of the deserted kitchen to brew some decent coffee, throw together some breakfast and flip through the Prophet before work. He splutters on the bitter liquid when he reaches page four and finds multiple images of himself staring back at him and looking thoroughly bewildered, as though they have no idea what they're doing in the photographs at all. The small article that accompanies them can be summed up as: 'Look! Harry Potter has been shopping!' and he reads it several times, snorting his amusement into the cold air of the empty kitchen.

"Mr Giles Hargreaves, of Hargreaves and Co. Men's Outfitters, looked after Harry during his unusual shopping spree," Harry reads to no one in particular. "When asked for news of Mr Potter, he simply said: 'Mr Potter is a very accomplished man and we are delighted to have his custom'."

Harry grins. So, the sparkly-eyed salesman has a name. And his own fancy clothes shop, apparently. He should have known. Less of a surprise is that fact that Mr Giles Hargreaves is an unspeakably discreet individual, and it's rather refreshing to realise that not only is it far from the end of the world to appear in the gossip columns, but that, actually, not everyone wants to sell him out.

And, he thinks, as he pulls on his robes and makes his way to the office, Draco Malfoy just may be one of those of those trustworthy few. Caustic, guarded, and bitter, yes—but trustworthy. Harry believes that now, and it's an exhilarating thought.

The next day, unable to rein it in any longer, Harry scratches out a quick message and sends it off with one of the Ministry owls before he can change his mind. It's a light, casual, undemanding sort of message... he thinks. It's a message that says, hey, I'm just dashing off a quick note, not too worried about whether you respond, just saying hi... he thinks.

He thinks it's fine. Mostly. There's only a little part of him that's saying, oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh fucking bastarding hell.

When, by Sunday night, he hasn't received a response, that little part of him has begun to shout and dance around, as though trying to hammer into his frazzled brain that he is useless, and now, worst of all, he's needy.

And yet, something, something dangerous, the part of him that occasionally wants to step in front of buses to see what will happen, rises up and compels him to write a second letter. Just a nice, casual... oh, fuck it. Hermione finds him sitting by the window, paralysed by horror as the owl swoops out of view, taking with it his last chance of not looking like an utter cock.

"What's the matter?" she asks, brow creased in concern. She touches his shoulder gently.

Despondent, he turns to her, trying to summon the words to explain his situation with having to actually explain it. "I think I'm losing the plot," he sighs.

"Oh. In a... properly going insane sort of way, or a really bad day sort of way?" she tries, her face the picture of delicate curiosity.

Harry looses a hollow laugh. "Somewhere in between, I think."

She nods. "Alright. That's it. We're going out."

"Where?" Harry asks, but before he knows what is happening, Hermione is hauling him to his feet, dragging him into the hallway and directing him to put on his coat. Startled, he obeys, taking a few steps back when she bellows up the stairs for Ron, who appears after a moment, looking dazed, and is also ordered into his jacket and hat.

"What's going on?" Ron demands as Hermione shrugs into her own coat and prods him out into the chilly evening air. "Is Hugo still at my mum's?"

"Yes," she replies, locking the door and tucking an arm through each of theirs as they crunch their way down to the road. The relentless drizzle that has plagued the entire weekend slaps against Harry's face as he walks and he scowls. "And we're going out for a bit; everyone's gone a bit stir-crazy, and Harry's apparently about to lose his marbles completely."

"Are you?" Ron asks, ducking around Hermione to meet Harry's eyes.

"More than likely."

"Sorry, mate," Ron commiserates.

The soft, glowing lights of the village pub soon loom into view, making Harry feel oddly nostalgic. This is, of course, the place where his life changed forever.

"Right," Hermione announces as they step into the warm, beery atmosphere and shake the rain from their coats and hair. "I'll get the first round. You find somewhere to sit."

Harry and Ron exchange glances. It doesn't seem prudent to defy Hermione right at this moment, so they seek out a little round table in the corner and sit down. Sunday nights are quiet, and Harry easily picks out Grady and Watson in their usual spot, apparently absorbed in conversation. Hermione carefully sets down three pints of beer and releases several shiny packets of snacks from between her teeth.

The sight seems to tickle Ron and he grins; something about his best friend's bright, open smile tips Harry over the edge, too, and before Hermione can even sit down, they are both laughing uncontrollably. She watches, baffled, for a moment, and then dissolves into giggles, too, dropping onto her stool and leaning heavily against the rickety table. It's been far too long since they've laughed together like this, and Harry is grateful for the reprieve.

"I have no idea what that was about," Hermione says, still breathless, after a minute or two. "But here's to Harry's new house!" She lifts her pint glass and then takes a long gulp at the brown liquid.

"Absolutely," Ron says. "You sure you don't want any help moving in? I can probably still get tomorrow off if I say it's a family emergency or something."

"Thanks, Ron, but I'll be fine. I'll probably be calling you in some decorating-related panic before long so you might as well save yourself for then," Harry advises.

"Why would you imagine I know anything about decorating?" Ron mumbles, ripping into a packet of obnoxiously fishy snacks.

Harry shrugs and slurps at his pint. "You can hold a paintbrush, can't you?"

"I don't know, mate. You might want to call in a professional."

"I'm happy to help, Harry," Hermione says. "I can take time off, too, now that we've finally hit a break in those union negotiations."

"Bloody goblins," Ron mutters into his glass.

"I wouldn't have a job if it weren't for those bloody goblins, you know," Hermione points out.

"I know, but then you could get a really exciting job and have loads of stories to tell me." Ron throws a fishy snack into the air, catches it in his mouth, and grins.

Hermione rolls her eyes and then crosses her arms, defensive. "I have stories."

"I'm sure you do, 'Mione," Harry says stoutly.

Ron snorts. "Oh, yeah, those ones about four-hour meetings are nearly too thrilling."

"I hear things," she says with a mysterious expression as she lifts her glass to her mouth.

"Go on," Harry presses. Gossip will take his mind off Draco. Possibly.

"I've heard that Franz Fitzwilliam is a crook. I've heard that he's making dodgy deals with secret organisations and making sure MLE turns a blind eye to their activities."

"In return for what?" Harry asks, gripping the edge of the table.

"I don't know exactly. Money, I expect," Hermione says. "I'm sure they have plenty of it to throw around, the horrible Muggle-hating buggers. And apparently he's holding his meetings in some really weird places—Muggle places, right under their noses. So, there's a story for you," she finishes triumphantly.

Harry's heart pounds. If the glimpse can be trusted, it's far more than a story.

Ron shakes his head. "There's always someone who wants to stir the pot, cause a bit of trouble. I know Fitzwilliam's been a bit of a maverick in his time but he's a good man."

"I don't know." Hermione shrugs her shoulders. "Could just be a rumour, you know how gossip flies around over there. Seemed a bit odd, though."

"So what exactly did you hear?" Harry pushes, leaning forward on his crossed arms.

"Just what I told you. It's been flying around in bits and pieces for a few weeks now, but I doubt there's anything in it, Harry." Awkward, Hermione stares into her drink as though the beer foam is suddenly of great interest to her. "Just trying to make the point that my job isn't without its thrills."

"I was only teasing you," Ron says, nudging Hermione with his elbow. "You don't need to have an exciting job. You're exciting enough all by yourself."

Harry smiles and absorbs himself in the riddle printed on his beer mat as Hermione sniffs and allows Ron to press a loud kiss to her cheek. He crunches on a crisp and ponders.

"You look deep in thought," Hermione says after a moment.

"Hmm. What has a head, a tail, is brown, and has no legs?"

"An unfortunate dog?" Ron offers.

Harry snorts. "What about a tadpole?" he muses.

Ron drains his glass. "Are tadpoles brown?"

"I'm not sure," Harry frowns. "Let's say yes."

Hermione laughs and takes the crisps back from Harry. "It's a penny," she says.

Harry turns over the mat for the answer. "You're right. Obviously. That's quite clever... a head and tails. Well done, 'Mione."

"Nope. I don't get it," Ron sighs. "Clearly, I'm an idiot."

"A penny, see," Hermione says, rummaging in her trouser pocket and coming up with a handful of change. She flicks the shiny brown penny across the table at Ron. "You're not an idiot. One side is heads, the other tails. 'Heads' is obvious, but I don't know why we call the other side 'tails'. One of those strange things, I suppose."

Ron examines the tiny coin, holding it between thumb and forefinger. "A Muggle penny. Well, that's cheating," he announces, dropping it back into Hermione's hand and getting to his feet. "Who wants another drink?"

**~*~**

Early the next morning, making sure to leave the spare bedroom that has been his temporary home as immaculate as he found it, Harry buttons up his new coat, hoists his bag full of shrunken-down boxes over his shoulder, and leaves for London. In spite of the overcast sky and heavy rain, Harry's mood is buoyant, and he makes light work of the Apparation and subsequent dash through the downpour to reach his new house.

He finds the estate agent on his front step, sheltering her hair from the slanting rain with a leather briefcase.

"It's all yours, Mr Potter," she says, handing over the keys and the last of the paperwork. "God, what an awful day."

Harry grins. He thinks it's going to be rather a good one, actually.

He thanks her, shakes her hand, and lets himself into the house. In the pin-drop silence, all he can hear is his own breathing as he wanders into the large, open hallway and looks up, following the rise of the winding staircase with his eyes until he feels slightly unsteady. The place smells musty and forgotten, and everything is coated with a layer of dust, but he can see past that. The structure is sound, the original tiles and floorboards beautiful, and he thinks he will enjoy scrubbing and painting and making the place his own.

After scouting around for a place to hang his coat—the wooden knob at the end of the staircase will have to do for now; it's clean enough after Harry has wiped it with the sleeve of his old sweater—he clatters down to the kitchen, throws the windows wide open and rummages in his bag. At last, he finds what he is looking for and restores it to its proper size with a flick of his wand. The box Hermione had pushed into his hands as he left the cottage now sits on his dusty counter top, quite unremarkable but for the word 'ESSENTIALS' written across the topmost flap in large, neat capitals.

Harry opens the box and laughs. He unpacks a tiny travel kettle, teabags, sugar, a little carton of milk, a packet of chocolate biscuits and a selection of menus for local takeaway restaurants. At the bottom of the box, underneath a bright red mug and a spoon is an odd, squishy packet containing something soft and green, across which is emblazoned the legend: '24-hour armchair! Comfort on the move! Just add water!'

Grinning, Harry eyes the sink and wonders if he might just have time for a drink before his furniture starts to arrive. Having only taken two days' leave from work, he is putting his faith in the employees of those Diagon Alley furniture shops to actually turn up with his purchases during this small window of time. It's only eight thirty in the morning; he supposes that all he can do is wait.

Five minutes later, Harry is sitting in the middle of what will soon be his living room with a cup of tea in one hand and a biscuit in the other, listening to the beating of the rain on his lovely sash window and resolving to buy Hermione a present as soon as he can. Perhaps a book she doesn't already have, if such a thing exists. The rehydrated chair is surprisingly comfortable, if a little old-lady-ish in design; it has a soft, velvety finish and excellent back support.

When the first delivery man knocks at the door, Harry leaps out of his chair and greets him with enthusiasm, offering to help with the manoeuvring of the gigantic dining table and apparently endless chairs, but the second—bearing his bed and a selection of matching items—appears while he is down in the kitchen with the table-and-chairs man, and even as Harry is dashing up the stairs to meet him, the third arrives.

"Got some lamps for you, Mr Potter," he says cheerfully, nodding to delivery man number two and swiping rain-soaked curls out of his face.

"Nice lamps, them," the second man approves in a broad West-country accent.

"Thanks," Harry says faintly. "Come in."

As he turns, the gate creaks open again. "Mr Potter?" asks a young woman with a blonde ponytail and a little trolley piled with boxes. "Delivery of some paint?"

Suddenly wishing he could just leave them all on the doorstep and finish his cup of tea in peace, Harry sighs. At least they're here, he tells himself. That's the main thing.

"Alright," he tries again, stepping back so that the doorway is clear. "Everyone in, and we'll take it from there."

Over the next few hours, Harry barely has time to think, let alone stop. Despite the freezing weather, his thin sweater is sticking to him and his hands are hot and sore from lifting, pushing, and carrying countless items of furniture. By the time the lady from the kitchen shop arrives with his shiny new cookware, he's starting to think that he might have gone a little bit mad. Still, by late afternoon, he thinks that, at the very least, everything is roughly in the right room, and the deliveries have slowed to a manageable trickle.

Gazing wistfully at his green chair, Harry turns to the wall of his living room and starts to scrape away the nineteen-seventies-style orange and brown wallpaper. He is all too aware of the mammoth cleaning task that lies ahead, and tempting though it is to leave everything else until tomorrow, he persuades himself to carry on with the promise of hot food.

Exhausted and sore, Harry finishes the wallpaper stripping by nightfall, and traipses down to the imaginatively-named 'Pizza Pizza' to retrieve his reward. It's hot, greasy, and to Harry, right at that moment, the best thing he's ever tasted. Reluctant to spread dust and grime all over his new furniture, he sprawls in his squashy green chair and lights a fire in the grate. He feels strangely alone without the knowledge that his friends are only a firecall away, and resolves to connect the place up to the Floo Network as soon as he returns to the Ministry.

Fortified by the intake of cheese and carbohydrates, Harry works later into the night, singing absently to himself as he rips down revolting wallpaper, yanks up shabby carpets, and, with a little bit of magical help, scours the yellow-brown stains from the ceilings, all the while definitely not thinking about Draco and those fucking letters. Finally, too tired to think about showering and putting on new bed linen, he collapses into the temporary chair, still fully dressed, and falls asleep.

The temporary nature of the chair in question is brought back to Harry with a sharp thump as he finds himself dropped onto the bare floorboards the next morning.

"What the fuck...?" he mumbles, blinking stickily and rubbing at his face.

The chair has vanished. Twenty-four hour fucking chair.

Grumbling, Harry heads down to the kitchen and makes a cup of tea, which he drinks sitting on the (very permanent) counter top and admiring his vast new table. The cool breeze sweeping in from the back yard smells wonderful, and has already seen off the scent of disuse that had shrouded the basement room just hours before, leaving a warm aroma of wood, tea, and shredded wallpaper. It's beginning to smell like home.

**~*~**

Harry is startled to open the door to Ginny at around four o'clock that afternoon, but she's smiling and carrying a pot plant, and Lily is at her side, and he has, at last, had a shower and changed, so it's alright.

She steps into the hallway, eyes sweeping the staircase and the high, moulded ceiling, while Lily peeps into all the ground floor rooms in turn before running to Harry and hugging him around the middle.

"Dad, you've done loads already!" she cries, grinning.

"Thank you." He slings an arm around her shoulders. "Looks better, doesn't it?"

"Yeah! You got rid of the horrid wallpaper."

Ginny lifts an eyebrow.

"It really was horrible," Harry tells her.

"I believe you. I brought you a plant," she says, handing over the pot. "Every new house needs a plant."

"Thanks," Harry says, meeting her eyes and ignoring the sadness that tugs at his chest. "How are you doing?"

Her smile is fragile but genuine. "I'm okay, Harry. You don't need to worry about me."

"I'll always worry about you," he says, and next to him Lily seems to stiffen. "We're friends. That's just the way it goes for me." Lily exhales slowly and leans against him.

"Alright. I think I can deal with that," she says, and her next smile lights up her face. "This place is going to be amazing, isn't it? Like a nice version of—"

"Grimmauld Place?" Harry supplies.

Ginny nods. "If I'd known, I'd have brought you a portrait instead." She glances at Lily, who has wandered away to examine an ornate doorknob. "Filth! Scum! By-products of dirt and vileness!" she whispers, eyes theatrically wide.

"Oh, yes," Harry says, grinning. "I've been missing her."

"Thought so."

Harry gazes at her for a moment, at her neat work robes and her heavy hair pinned carefully back from her face, her clear eyes and relaxed posture, and feels a little more of the hot guilt inside him dissolving into nothing.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" he offers. "I'm all set up."

"I'd love one, but I haven't really finished work yet; I took a late lunch so I could bring Lily over. She's really excited about all this, you know," she adds, dropping her voice. She doesn't say 'don't let her down' but she doesn't need to.

"Well, I appreciate it," he says, smiling and holding on to his plant as she kisses Lily on the forehead and Disapparates.

Left to their own devices, Harry and Lily exchange gleeful glances.

"What do you want to do first?" he asks.

Lily beams. "Paint."

"Painting it is," Harry says, finding a temporary spot for his plant and heading for the stairs, Lily bouncing along behind him. "You said you wanted to paint your room black, didn't you?"

"Dad," Lily reproves, managing a sigh and a giggle at once. And then, thoughtful: "I bet James would like a black bedroom, though."

Harry imagines he would, too. Once upstairs, he does a not-terrible job of Transfiguring a dust sheet into an overall for Lily so that she doesn't splatter her pristine school uniform with purple paint, and then they set to work. Harry performs Celestina Warbeck numbers until his daughter is helpless with laughter and he somehow manages to get paint in his eye. Lily, in between painting and giggling, teaches him a variety of lateral thinking puzzles—Mrs Harbottle has apparently been setting one each day as a challenge for the class, and Lily is of the opinion that knowing them will help Harry to find a man.

"When you're ready, of course," she adds, shooting him a stern look, which is somewhat undermined by the fact that she has a long purple smudge across her nose. "I think it's quite important that you seem clever."

Harry laughs. "You don't think I'm clever?"

Lily sighs. "Yes, but you have to make sure people can tell you're clever. You know."

Amused, Harry nods solemnly and tucks the advice away for later.

When everything that can be covered in purple paint has been covered in purple paint, Harry and Lily clean themselves up in the huge second floor bathroom, scrubbing at their faces with flannels and splashing violet-coloured water everywhere. At Harry's suggestion, Lily takes photographs of the remaining bedrooms so that James and Al can decide where they want to sleep, too.

"I think James'll like this one," Lily opines, lining up an extra-careful shot of an oddly-shaped room with several large mirrors embedded into the walls. "He likes to look at himself."

Harry snorts. She certainly seems to have the measure of her brother.

"And," she says, a minute or two later, "I think Al will like this one, because it has big windows."

"Big windows are good," Harry agrees.

"He likes light," she advises him, striding across the bare boards to snap a picture of the room from another angle.

On impulse, Harry hugs her. "Are you okay, Dad?" she mumbles against his chest.

He is.

Ginny returns for Lily after a few hours and diplomatically says nothing about the crispy streaks of purple in her hair; Harry has managed to spell away the little spots on her skin and clothing but the paint in his daughter's hair has refused to budge.

Alone once more in the silent house, he fits sheets and pillowcases for his new bed, and starts to unpack the boxes he has brought from home. From his old home. It's a meagre collection of belongings; he hadn't wanted to take anything from Ginny or the children that he didn't really need, or that didn't belong to him. He unloads stacks and stacks of books and records onto his new shelves, carefully hangs his invisibility cloak in his new wardrobe, and tears open a box marked 'BATHROOM', which contains toiletries, his spare shaving kit, and a couple of towels. Sighing, he carries the box into the hallway and pauses. Something is moving in there.

Poking aside a hand towel, he peers into the box. A second or two later, something large and black scuttles over his shaving brush and perches atop a bottle of cologne, appearing to stare up at him with calm interest.

Harry smiles. The airing cupboard spider has come with him. It's been sitting in the box all this time, living on fuck knows what, and waiting. Delighted for reasons he can't understand, he sets down the box, scoops up the spider, and installs it carefully on the second floor staircase, tipping his hand so that the spider can cling to the nearest banister.

"I know you're a bathroom spider, strictly speaking, but I think you'll like it here," he says, and, with the feeling that everything really is going to be alright, he returns to his room and crawls into bed.

**~*~**

"I see your time off has done you some good, Mr Potter," Helga observes as she passes him his messages the next morning.

Harry smiles. "Was that a compliment?"

"With faith, all things are possible," she advises him, reaching for her quill. "How is the new house?"

"Not bad at all, actually. There's still a fair bit of decorating to be done, but I'm pretty pleased with it so far. I got this new fancy mattress," he confides. "Best night's sleep I've had in years."

Helga lifts a dark eyebrow. "I could not be more delighted to hear that, Mr Potter."

Shaking his head, Harry heads for his office.

"You have a meeting at ten about the revised rules for the transportation of magical devices in non-magical areas," she calls, just before the door closes.

"Can't wait," he mutters, dropping into his chair and shifting in place, attempting to find a comfortable position in his heavy robes. It's a slightly warmer day today, and the fabric feels scratchy where it touches his skin and restrictive everywhere else.

He's reading his memos when the owl flies into the room. Puzzled, he leans over his desk just in time to see Helga's bony hand yanking the door closed behind it, having seemingly just allowed the owl to swoop through the office unchecked. Bizarre woman.

Realising he has read the last twenty or so messages on complete autopilot and will have to read them all over again, he sighs and sweeps the lot into a messy pile. He takes the roll of parchment and fishes out a few broken biscuit bits to entertain the owl while he reads.

Al's somewhat chaotic handwriting is a nice surprise, and he is quite happy to abandon his memo mountain for news of life at Hogwarts.

Hi Dad,

Hope you're enjoying your new house. Lily has sent me a picture of her bedroom. It's a bit purple if you ask me, but I like it. She said you got paint all over you and she didn't get any on her. I liked the room she picked for me, too, especially the windows. I hope you're not feeling to lonley in the house on your own. I have written to Mum as well and she is okay. Sorry if this is a bit messy but I'm writing this in bed and the pillos are a bit lumpy. Almost forgot, Rose says hello. We have been joining loads of different clubs this term, just to see if they're any good. Rose is rubbish at gobstons, but Scorpius is brilliant.

Lily says you had some time off from work to do up the house. Where can I apply? I would much rather do decorateing than herbology. Professor Sprout dispairs of me. She didn't say that but I can tell. Anyway, it's alright for you – I bet your job is dead exciting. I hope I have a job like that when I'm older, but James says he reckons I'll end up in the kitchen with the houselves. He's got a bloody cheek, Dad, he told me he never got an 'O' in Potions and I got one last week!

Anyway, I digress. Scorpius says I do that a lot. I hope you are well and hope to see you at the next Quidditch match. Don't forget! Ravenclaw v Hufflepuff!

Lots of love,

Albus Severus Potter

Harry stares down at the letter, aching inside. Al looks up to him, thinks his job is exciting. What kind of a role model is he, exactly?

"No one likes their job, do they?" he mumbles, Draco's careless remark filling his head.

But that's not quite true, is it? The Draco in the glimpse loved his job, and so did the other Ginny. They both spent plenty of time grousing, but they cared about what they did and wouldn't have swapped their careers for anything, especially not for the dry desk jobs they have settled for here. And his other self... Harry sighs, glancing down at the drawer where he knows his glassblowing books are hiding. His other self was brave and adventurous and alive with creativity. He would never have stood for meetings about reviewing the decisions made in other meetings.

"Mr Potter?" Helga calls, knocking sharply on the office door. "You're going to be late."

Harry closes his eyes. Feeling defeated, he slips Al's letter into his pocket, grabs his quill and hopefully the right folder, and slopes off to the meeting room. He thinks, at this point, he'd be quite happy to trade places with Al. He'd even sit through double Potions.

With Snape.

**~*~**

Harry emerges from his transportation meeting and makes it seven or eight paces down the corridor before Jeremiah from Improper Use materialises and drags him back into the conference room because "we might as well, while it's free, Harry, and I've been meaning to pick your brain about a potential area of overlap between our departments..." Harry acquiesces, keeping his professional front in place, even though he's kicking and screaming inside.

By the time he makes it back to his office, it's almost three o'clock and he's tired, hungry and inching toward the end of his tether. Helga, perhaps sensing his mood, says nothing as he stalks through her room to his own office and kicks the door shut behind him. He sits heavily and scowls at his memo mountain, his stack of papers and publications to be approved, and his scribbled list of upcoming meetings.

He hasn't missed any of it. He doesn't care about any of it.

And the thing is, even through the heavy shroud of his discontent, he can see that the person doing this job—this important job—needs to care. It needs to mean something. He thinks it meant something to him once, too. But things change. People change.

Breathing rapidly, Harry opens the drawer and takes out the books and the newspaper clipping. He unfolds Al's letter and reads it again, devours the colourful pictures of the smoke and metal and brightly-coloured glass, spreads his fingers out over the rough newsprint and hurts with missing Maura. He just sits there, transfixed, until the thought crystallises in his mind, and when it does, the force of it almost knocks him off his chair.

What the actual fuck am I doing?

I'm not that person, he thinks, slumping back in his chair and digging his fingers into the armrests. I'm not the person who belongs in the glimpse. But that doesn't mean that I have to be this person.

And alright, he can't make tables. Maybe he'll never be able to make tables. But he can blow glass, at least a little bit, and he can make art that people are willing to pay for. Taking all that into account, he finds himself wondering just what would be crazier—leaving all this behind for something risky, or staying because it's easier. It's not as though he needs the money; it's never been about that. If he's honest, he's struggling to remember what it is all about, and that has to be a bad sign.

In the end, that is enough for Harry. And this isn't.

Quietly, he clears out his desk, retrieving his personal items and shrinking them down until he can slip the lot into his pockets.

"Just going to have a word with Fitzwilliam," he tells Helga, who nods and continues scratching away with her quill.

The carpet seems thicker along the corridor to Fitzwilliam's office and the air tastes crisp and conditioned. As Harry lets himself into an anteroom similar to the one in his own office, he takes a deep breath and throws himself at the mercy of his impulsive courage.

"Good afternoon, Mr Potter," murmurs the young auburn-haired secretary, waving him through after a brief hushed exchange with Fitzwilliam through a crack in his office door.

"Thanks, Calendula," he says, forcing a smile, and then he's in.

Franz Fitzwilliam closes the file he is reading and looks up at Harry expectantly. He's a large man, imposingly built, with a mane of iron grey hair and a strong, chiselled jaw. Harry remembers being intimidated by him at one time, but as he stands here now, all he can think of is the fact that he's quite possibly a dodgy bastard. Perhaps someone will find out one way or another, but it's not going to be him.

"Spit it out, Auror Potter. I've got a meeting in half an hour," he says good-naturedly, gazing up at Harry with pale green pebble-like eyes.

Harry nods. "Right. I'm resigning."

Fitzwilliam blinks, apparently lost for words. At last, he pulls himself together and indicates the empty seat opposite his own. Harry perches on the edge of the chair and waits for a response.

"You're resigning."

"Yes."

"For pity's sake man, you can't be serious," Fitzwilliam insists, drawing heavy brows together in consternation.

"Completely serious, I'm afraid," Harry says, keeping his voice steady even though he is almost bubbling over with adrenaline and the not-unfamiliar feeling of what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-exactly.

"You can't just leave."

Harry ignores the vaguely menacing tone and gazes back at him blandly, folding his hands in his lap and remembering to breathe. "Actually, according to my contract, my only obligation is to find and train a replacement, and I'm more than willing to do that."

Fitzwilliam says nothing for a long time. His expression is almost impassive, but Harry can just about detect the flickers of panic, dismay and reluctant acceptance of the facts as they flash across the angular face. When he focuses on Harry once more, the flickers have died away and he steeples his fingers serenely as he speaks.

"Auror Potter, the department, and, indeed, the Ministry, is very fortunate to have you. Losing your years of experience, your expertise, and—I'll be frank—your reputation, will be a considerable blow. The Minister himself, I'm sure, will be very disappointed to see you go."

"Yes," Harry concedes. "He probably will. But the Minister is an old friend and he will understand."

"I see." Fitzwilliam closes his eyes briefly. "Auror Potter... it pains me to say this, and I hope you don't think badly of me, but is there perhaps an issue we can resolve here? Hours, workload... a new secretary? Pay?" he tries, obviously hesitant.

"No," Harry says quickly. "It's not about that. And Helga stays. I absolutely insist."

"Fine. Pray tell, then, what is so important that you're willing to sabotage your career for it?" he demands, and though Harry doesn't really want to tell this man about his plans, his curiosity is satisfying.

"I'm making some changes in my life," Harry says simply.

"So I've heard," Fitzwilliam offers.

Harry bristles but sets his face and focuses on the thought that he'll be out of here soon enough.

"Yes, well, I don't want to be an Auror any more. And I think someone who has passion for the job should have it. Which is why I'm recommending Ron Weasley," Harry says. "And if you don't have any objections, I'll start training him as soon as possible."

Fitzwilliam coughs. Gazes wearily at Harry. "Auror Weasley is a strong choice. He's due a promotion. But... there must be something we can offer to convince you to stay."

"I'm sorry, my mind is made up," Harry says, stomach flipping violently. "I've cleared my desk. I'll be back in the morning to go through the groundwork with Auror Weasley." Unable to sit still for another moment, he stands, shakes hands with a startled Fitzwilliam and heads for the door.

"Auror Potter, do owl me if you change your mind..."

"Thanks." He meets the pale green eyes for his last time as an Auror. "I won't, though."

"Nice to see you, Mr Potter."

"You too, Calendula. Have a nice afternoon."

As he walks back through the corridors, carpet seeming to thin back down to standard levels as he goes, he realises that though Fitzwilliam is—was—technically his superior, there is no doubt about who had held all the cards in that office, and it hadn't been the Head of Magical Law Enforcement.

Harry reaches his office and pauses for a moment, watching Helga, who is still scribbling away.

"Hi, Helga."

She looks up. "Hello, Mr Potter."

He crosses the rug reluctantly and sits on the edge of her desk. This already feels vastly more difficult than the conversation with Fitzwilliam, and he's suddenly struck by just how far he and Helga have come. He's going to miss her.

"I'm leaving."

"Now?" She glances at the clock, bemused. "It's a little early for that, Mr Potter!"

Harry hides a smile. "I know. I mean I'm leaving this job. I resigned."

She stares at him, mouth slightly open. Out comes the rosary. "But... but what will you do?"

Harry lets the smile out. "I'm going to make glass, Helga."

She frowns. "Why?"

"Because I want to. Don't worry, I've insisted that you stay on. My replacement will need someone to pray for his soul and keep him organised, too."

"Your replacement... oh, good heavens. I don't mean to pry, Mr Potter, but—"

Feeling oddly light, Harry laughs. "Pry away, Helga."

She blinks. "Is this because of your family problems?"

"No. This is because I'm tired of sitting behind a desk and I want to escape from this office before I get too old to care," he says.

"Oh, dear," she sighs, clicking away with the little beads. "You'll never get to be Minister for Magic by making glass."

Harry shakes his head and wraps his fingers around the end of the desk. "I don't want to be Minister for Magic. I want to make things. Interesting things. Beautiful things."

Helga's thin mouth twists as though she cannot comprehend such a desire. "You would have made a wonderful Minister, Mr Potter."

Harry laughs. "You don't have to call me Mr Potter any more. And no, I don't think I would've, but thank you anyway. I appreciate the thought."

Helga sighs. "I'll bet Mr Fitzwilliam was terribly upset."

"He wasn't too impressed, I'll give you that. But he'll be alright," Harry assures her.

"I don't know what to say," Helga admits.

"That'll be a first," Harry says.

She scowls, little black eyes glittering. "Who am I to be working with, then?"

"Ron Weasley. I'll make sure he's well behaved."

"Oh, yes, the noisy young man," Helga muses, and Harry pretends he doesn't hear the increased speed of the rosary-clacking under the desk.

Harry laughs. "I'm sure you'll have him whipped into shape in no time."

Helga's lips twist into an almost-smile. "Jesus loves you, Harry Potter," she says at last.

"Thanks, Helga. I'll miss you." Harry gets to his feet and shoves his hands into his pockets in an effort to suppress his instinct, which is to hug her.

"You'll see me tomorrow," she points out, eyebrow flickering.

He opens the door. "I will. What am I going to do without you?"

**~*~**

Harry isn't entirely sure how he ends up in Diagon Alley. It could be the fact that when he walks out of the Ministry, he just doesn't feel like going home, or it could simply be the fact that he's still running on impulse and lets his mind wander a little as he Disapparates. Either way, here he is, blinking in the bright afternoon sunshine, heavy robes slung over one shoulder as he relishes the delicious breeze that flutters down the alley.

He allows the stream of shoppers to catch him and wanders along, idly wondering if anyone is taking his picture now, for a staggering 'Harry Potter walks around in public' exposé.

Let them snap, he thinks. He doesn't give a fuck.

When the vicious growl of his stomach reminds him that he's ravenous, he follows his nose to the source of that fantastic aroma of fresh bread, and is just about to push open the door of the Dragondale Deli when he sees it.

His workshop.

It sits, just yards across the cobbles, and Harry's delight at seeing it is all but dashed away as he takes in the sad, disused condition of the little building. His heart is wrenched painfully as he approaches what was once—or is somewhere—his workshop, but he can't stop himself from peering through the dust-caked windows, sighing at the skylights which are so dirty that they barely let any light pass into the building. It's almost empty, from what he can see, containing nothing but a few crates, some scraps of parchment and several spiders.

No one is even using it. Harry glances back at the deli and then stares through the grimy windows once more, trying to see it as he remembers it. After a moment, he shrinks down his robes, stuffs them into his back pocket, and walks into the little deli. When he reaches the counter, he orders a roast beef sandwich from a young, spiky-haired man and drums his fingers on the granite surface. Chews his lip. Hesitates. And then:

"This building here, is it yours?" he points across the cobbles.

The lad frowns, puzzled, and pauses in his wrapping of Harry's sandwich to look up at him. "No, sir, I only work here on a Wednesday. I can't afford a building."

Harry looks quickly down at his hands, shaking with silent laughter. "Right, okay, thanks."

There's an exasperated sigh, and then an attractive dark-haired woman emerges from the back room. She is wearing the same embroidered purple shirt as the confused young man, and has apparently overheard their exchange.

"One of your friends using the brain cell today, Darius?" she asks, and the young man pulls a rather rude face at her before smiling beatifically at Harry and handing him his sandwich. "It's alright," she confides to Harry, "he's my brother. You wanted to know about the storeroom?"

Harry wants to protest at the dismissive title for his lovely little workshop, but it's not her fault.

"Yes. Do you know who it belongs to?"

"Why, out of interest?" the woman asks, weaving around her brother to lean on the counter.

Harry drags in a deep breath. "I want to buy it."

The woman's dark eyes widen in astonishment. "Oh, sh... goodness, I didn't expect you to say that."

"What did you expect me to say?" Harry asks, intrigued.

"Oh, I don't know—just, you're an Auror, aren't you? I thought maybe someone had broken into it."

I'm not really an Auror any more, he thinks, but manages to hang onto his self-restraint.

"No, nothing like that. So, do you know who owns it?"

"My dad," she says.

"Can I speak to him?"

The woman and the boy called Darius exchange glances. "He's Greek. He doesn't speak very much English."

Harry's heart sinks. "Please," he appeals, fixing her with his most charming smile.

It seems to work. She disappears and returns a minute or two later with a tiny elderly man, who scrunches up his little eyes and scrutinises Harry with grizzled interest.

"Papa," says the woman, grasping her father's shoulder. "This man wants to buy the storeroom."

Harry gazes down at the little man who is the only thing standing between him and his workshop. Suddenly he wishes he had left his Auror robes on, just for a little longer.

"Why you want?" the man rasps. "Is no good. Too damp for store grains."

"I don't want to store grain in it," Harry explains. "I want to make it into a workshop... er, a place to make glass," he amends, catching the old man's confused expression.

"Make glass?" the man repeats. He looks at his daughter and indicates the plate glass window at the front of the shop with a wrinkled hand. "Glass?"

"Er, yeah," Harry says. "But not windows. Art."

The old man's face crinkles in bewilderment, and before his daughter can attempt to translate, Darius, who has been chopping salad vegetables without a word, suddenly launches into a string of rapid-fire Greek. The old man listens, nodding along as his son waves a bread knife around demonstratively.

"Ah, yes, yes," he says at last. "Strange man, want buy this building."

Harry supposes he is a strange man, but he can deal with that. He also supposes that this little bit of madness is heading straight for the gossip columns, but he doesn't care. He needs his workshop back.

"I'll give you anything you want for it," he offers. "Name your price."

The woman murmurs something to her father, and he waves her away, grinning at Harry.

"This I know, Kari," he says. "You Harry Potter? My son says you Harry Potter." He squints.

"Er, yeah," Harry says. "Does that make a difference?"

The little man leans almost right over the counter to get a better look at Harry, and then mumbles to his daughter. She nods, smiling and flushing.

"My dad says he bought the storeroom for five hundred Galleons. He says..." She pauses, glancing at her brother, who looks extremely amused. "He says that he'll sell it to you for three hundred if you have your picture taken with us."

Harry laughs. "That sounds very reasonable."

Half an hour later, Harry emerges from the deli with a set of keys, a workshop, and three new neighbours. Still humming with the thrill of his impetuous decisions, he finds himself a bench and devours the huge, complimentary piece of pantespani, which Kari has assured him is the best cake he will ever eat. She's not wrong, he thinks, licking orange syrup from his fingers.

Contented, he restores 'The Glassblower's Guide' and settles on his bench, truly enjoying the photographs and illustrations for the first time. Now, anything is possible.

**~*~**

He has just finished dinner (sausage and mash, eaten awkwardly with one hand as he holds his book clear of rogue drops of gravy) when Ron and Hermione arrive. He opens the door to them with his stomach in knots, but his friends greet him with smiles and compliments on the location of the house, neither of them looking as though they have heard any shocking news today. Harry isn't sure if that's better or worse than a chorus of 'what the hell have you done?'-s because now he has to tell them himself.

"Nice place," Ron approves, pacing around the hallway with his hands in his pockets.

"Thanks. You up for some painting?" Harry asks hopefully.

Ron laughs. "I came prepared," he says, whipping a roller from his coat pocket and waving it about. "Dad gave it to me—weird, isn't it?"

Hermione snorts. "I've got something for you, Harry," she says, flashing him a mysterious smile, and for the first time he notices the large straw bag over her shoulder. "Enjoy your painting," she calls, taking off up the stairs, hair and bag bouncing behind her.

"There she goes, selling etiquette for good intentions," Ron intones, voice sombre.

Harry turns questioning eyes on his best friend. "And since when were you an expert on etiquette?" he laughs.

"I'm not. It's just something her mum says," Ron admits.

"Ah. Well, not to worry, I've known her long enough to trust her if she wants to go exploring," Harry says. He slings an arm around Ron's shoulders and steers him toward the stairs that lead down to the kitchen. "Come on, I've saved all the best painting jobs for you."

"Be gentle with me," Ron groans. "I've been out in the field all day, my back's killing me from crouching down, hiding from idiots."

"You haven't been in the office all day?" Harry asks cautiously.

Ron shakes his head, stepping out into the kitchen. His nose twitches. "Not since this morning... have you had sausages?"

"I may have. I also may have left four in that very pot," Harry says, indicating the shiny red casserole containing the leftovers. "Which can be yours if you help me paint this kitchen."

Ron's eyebrows disappear under his fringe. "You don't have to bribe me, you know..." He shrugs. "But it does help. Where do we start?"

**~*~**

Hermione appears in the kitchen an hour or so later, flushed and bright-eyed, and sits cross-legged on the dust-sheet-covered table, waiting for Harry and Ron to finish the first coat of off-white paint. The kitchen looks bigger and brighter already, but Harry hasn't yet managed to say a word to his friends about walking out on the Ministry; for some reason, the words keep sticking in his throat.

"Right," Hermione announces, the second Harry and Ron lower their rollers. "Come on." She leaps from the table and gestures for them to follow her, which they do, knowing what's best for them by now. Baffled, Harry jogs up his staircase after her, listening to Ron clomping along behind him and mumbling to himself, until finally they emerge onto the roof terrace and all becomes clear.

Hermione has transformed the tiny, neglected space into a sparkling, beautiful outdoor grotto. The clutter and dead plants left by the previous owners have been swept away, and Harry's new wrought iron table and chairs now take pride of place in the midst of ceramic pots and wooden boxes full of vibrant, green plants, vivid flowers, and minute, glittering magical lights.

He grins at Hermione, who is clutching her empty straw bag and grinning back.

"My housewarming gift," she explains.

"It's fantastic," he says, hugging her tightly, scratchy bag and all. "Thank you."

"Did you get the flowers I chose?" Ron whispers to Hermione as Harry releases her.

"Yes," she laughs. "Our housewarming gift, I should say. Ron chose all these ones," she says, pointing to a series of rough wooden boxes filled with flowers. "Gladiolus for strength of character, peony for healing, zinnia for friendship." She smiles. "And these are from me." She indicates another box, and Harry recognises the flowers immediately; Narcissa Malfoy has some just like them. "Azaleas. Of course, the traditional meaning is 'temperance'." She wrinkles her nose. "But... it also means 'take care of yourself for me', so... call it a gentle reminder."

Harry suspects that falling in love is making him somewhat sappy, because he can barely resist hugging Hermione again. As it is, he slaps Ron on the shoulder and swallows the daft lump in his throat.

"You're brilliant, both of you," he rasps, lowering himself into a chair and gazing out over the city. "Shit, I haven't even made you a cup of tea or anything!"

Ron laughs, slumping into the chair next to him. "You're obsessed with tea, mate. You're worse than my mum."

Harry shoots him a sidelong glance. The cold wind lifts Ron's heavy fringe from his forehead, revealing a smudge of white vinyl silk. He wonders if getting covered in paint is a family trait.

"I can do better than that," Hermione announces, producing a flask from god-knows-where and pouring out three mugs of hot chocolate.

"Oh, nice," Harry breathes, wrapping his hands around his cup. "Thank you."

"Truly, we are old," Ron says, and for a while the only sounds are the muffled rattles and blares of distant traffic and the satisfied slurping of three hot chocolate drinkers.

Finally, Harry sets his mug down on the table with a clank. "So. Today I quit my job and bought a workshop in Diagon Alley."

Hermione and Ron burst into laughter so appreciative that Hermione has to be slapped on the back several times to stop her from choking on a marshmallow.

"I'm serious," he says, once she has her breath back.

Ron shakes his head. "Don't be daft... you haven't?"

"I have. And I've recommended you for the position." Harry pauses, taking in Ron's stunned expression. "Actually, you've pretty much got the job, unless you murder someone in the next twelve hours or so."

"Harry, you... you actually are serious, aren't you?" Hermione says quietly, threading her fingers through Ron's and squeezing. "Breathe, Ron."

"Why?" Ron manages, regaining his lung function at last.

"Because I don't want to do it any more. I haven't for a long time. I know you'll think I'm crazy, but I want to make things. I want to go to work every day and enjoy myself. I want to play with wood and glass and wear jeans to the office. It's not the right job for me any more, Ron, but it is the right job for you. You deserve it."

"You want to make things?" Hermione asks, eyes searching. "I didn't know you could make things."

Her tone is genuinely curious rather than derisive, and Harry finds a smile for her as he shrugs. "Neither did I until recently. Look, perhaps it is all part of some midlife crisis, but maybe I've actually figured out what I want to do with myself. And you know... if it's all a disaster, we can sit here and have a laugh about it in six months' time, and I'll try something else."

"You've just got an answer for everything, haven't you?" Hermione says faintly.

Harry grins and downs the rest of his hot chocolate. "I've done a lot of thinking."

"Seriously, though, Harry," Ron says, brow furrowed, "I appreciate you recommending me, I really do, but are you sure you want to just chuck everything in?"

"I've already done it. Handed in my notice. I'll be coming in to help you settle in, and then that's it."

"Mate," Ron insists, expression torn. Harry knows how much he wants the job, but he also knows that Ron never expected to get it this way. "The thing is... you're probably feeling a bit... you know, not yourself at the moment..."

"Don't worry. This is nothing to do with me and Ginny. I promise you, I've wanted to do it for a long time, and I know you'll be a hundred times better at it than I ever was. It's time for me to step aside."

"Harry... bloody hell. Me, head of the Auror Department!" He turns to Hermione as though seeking confirmation that he's not hallucinating. "I can't believe it."

"No more full days in the field," Harry reminds him with a smile. "And you'll believe it tomorrow, when you've got Helga grilling you and trying to convert you to Catholicism."

Hermione, who has been gazing at him with wide, startled eyes, seems to snap out of her reverie.

"Harry, I think you're mad," she announces. "And I think you're brilliant."

With that, she flings herself out of her seat, wraps her arms around him, and squeezes until he can barely breathe.

"Your office is massive, isn't it?" Ron asks, grinning.

**~*~**

Unsurprisingly, Thursday's Prophet runs with 'Potter Quits the Ministry' as its front page headline.

Harry scans the article over Helga's shoulder as she and Ron attempt to get to know one another the next morning. It's going better than he could have expected, but he still has a feeling that there's going to be an considerable transitional period, and he's fine with that. The pressure has all at once been lifted, and he's happy to spend as much time helping Ron to find his feet as is necessary.

Leaving them alone for a minute or two, he nips off to the bathroom, and when he returns, the owl is just sitting there on top of his ex filing cabinet, staring at him as though he has done something unspeakably offensive. The bugger manages to chew on his fingertip for a moment as he wrests the parchment from its leg, but then he has it, and he sucks his finger irritably as he reads.

Just three words and no signature, but he doesn't need one.

Are you insane?

Every hair on the back of Harry's neck stands up and he grins, grateful that he has his back to Ron and Helga. Quickly, he grabs a quill and adds his own message.

Probably. Meet me for coffee at the cafe on Vine Street tomorrow, and I'll tell you all about it. 2-ish?

He attaches the scroll to the grumpy owl's leg and watches it take flight, clipping Ron as it swoops carelessly past him and out into the corridor.

"Alright, mate?"

Harry nods. He thinks he's alright. He may have just asked out Draco Malfoy—sort of—even though he hasn't even been responding to his non-asking-out type messages... but he's alright.

Ten minutes later, though, in the middle of an explanation of signing off on documents, the owl returns with:

Fine, but you're paying.

Harry apologises to Ron and sends back: Cheapskate.

Draco's final message reads simply: Wanker.

Harry smiles, shoos the owl out of the office before it bites him again, and returns to the matter at hand.