Chapter Text
*.*.*.*
Wizengamot United to Bring Wizards and Muggles together! He Who Must Not Be Named will NEVER happen again - Wizard Quarterly (July 1998)
Couple of the Century Crowned! Harry and Ginny are engaged! - Accio News (Jan 2000)
“Ceremony of the Century - The Saviour Marries!” Enchanted Enquirer (December 2001)
“Can You Hear Me Now? Muggle Cell phones LEGAL” - Daily Prophet (March 2003)
“New Decade, Same Couple! Harry and Ginny WIN AGAIN!” - Daily Prophet (January 2010)
“Thank you for tuning in this evening with WWN: We hope 2019 is great for all of you! And with that, polls are leaning toward crowning Harry and Ginny Potter for the ninth year in a row as Wizarding Couple of the Year! Wonder what the happy couple is doing right now...”
*.*.*.*
-April 2019-
On an abnormally sunny Tuesday afternoon, in a large office near Muggle London, Harry Potter settles his divorce.
“If you want, we can continue the details about publi— Harry? Are you hearing me?”
Harry blinks and turns his gaze from the window. It’s beautiful outside—nothing but crisp blue sky and bright light. He can see a small surge of wildflowers in the distance, peeking around the square, and he aches to be on his broom. Spring has always been his favourite time of year—it has the best flying weather.
“Hm?”
“I know that this is a difficult time, but it is imperative that we discuss the terms of how you would like the press to—”
“No.” Harry shakes his head. “No statements.”
Neville folds his hands on top of his desk and stares at Harry. “I understand your reticence to discuss such a personal matter publicly, Harry, but you don’t really have a choice considering your influence.”
“My ‘influence’,” Harry echoes wryly.
It’s been over two decades since the Second War and Harry Potter’s prominence remains a staple in the wizarding world, frustrating Harry’s personal life and his vault account. When Ginny became pregnant with James, forcing her into retirement from the Harpies, she demanded Harry hire help. Their relationship had become too high profile to ignore, and she was desperate to safeguard the baby’s privacy. Neville came with glowing reviews, and Harry trusted him; they had, after all, fought in a war together.
How Neville kept Ginny's pregnancy out of the public eye until James was almost two months old, and hold the publications to two press releases with an extraordinary payback, Harry will never know. As a result, Neville has a direct funds transfer to pay for invoices and a retainer that would knock the knickers off McGonagall herself.
Neville’s expression softens to one of sympathy. “Look,” he says with delicacy, “I know you don’t want to announce your divorce to the masses. In fact, I hate that it's necessary. But as your solicitor, it’s my duty to inform you the best plan of action for sensitive situations such as these.”
Harry takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. He is abruptly and overwhelmingly tired. The ink hasn’t even dried on the parchment and he has to strategise about journalists looking for an opportunity to exploit the failure of his marriage.
His mind travels back to Ginny. Harry had hoped to see her, but by the time he arrived at Neville’s office, she was gone. He took care to conceal his disappointment.
It has been eight months of Harry sharing very few requisite minutes with her—often during their delivery of the children for holiday visitations or first day of school send-offs—the tension high and electric. Eight months of Ginny avoiding looking at Harry, taking more time than necessary to fuss over the kids. Eight months of nothing more than polite salutations and goodbyes.
Harry stands and walks to the large window of Neville's office, hands clasped behind his back. The sky is endless, and the itch in his palms grows. His skin buzzes with the sudden urge to get away. He wishes with vigour for a Muggle driving licence. It would be so easy to drive somewhere, anywhere—wind on his face, the heat soaking into his skin, nothing but a stretch of motorway, and endless possibilities.
Today would be perfect for that.
“Harry,” Neville says, his tone shifting to concern, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his desk. “If you want, we can settle this another day. I can put it off for a while, but I—”
“Do it,” Harry interrupts, casting a glance at Neville before turning back to the sky. “But keep the kids out of it… and Ginny. They’ve been through enough.”
Neville nods, reaching for his quill and a fresh piece of parchment. “We can have that arranged.”
“Good.” Harry feels restless. There is too much tension in his shoulders and the scratch of Neville's quill makes his fingertips twitch.
He swallows, bracing himself when he asks, “When she was here… did she—I mean—”
Neville sets his quill down and waits.
“Did she say anything when she came by?” Harry asks tentatively.
The stillness sits for a long time. When Harry chances a glance at Neville, he can tell that he's choosing his words with care. Harry is close to recanting when Neville speaks.
“She asked how you were doing,” Neville concedes.
“And?”
Neville's response takes the space of a few beats before he speaks. “I told her you were handling it as well as you can. That's the truth, isn't it?”
Harry nods, but the chilly panic thrums over his spine, a crashing wave in his chest. Ginny was the person who saw Harry at his worst, shaking and sweating in the dark from nightmares of death, murmuring soft words of encouragement in a sleep-laden voice urging him back to reality. She listened when he whispered about that year on the run, scared and starving. She held onto him when he confessed about choosing to live instead of dying.
Harry has the immediate urge to get the fuck out, and he rushes for the door as he instructs, “Owl me if you have any other concerns. I’ll have the invoice paid by end of day.”
“Hey, Harry?”
Harry continues to stare at the doorknob.
There's a breath of silence before Neville whispers, voice tight with sincerity. “I'm very sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Harry exits as fast as he can, not looking back.
An owl carrying a folded piece of parchment from Neville flies into Harry’s work office later that evening. The statement hits the press at end of August.
‘Wanted the kids to have a calm summer’, it reads.
The parchment crumples in his hand and he pitches it in the bin.
Just as well.
--
As a part of the divorce settlement, Ginny gets Grimmauld Place.
It makes sense, really. Harry says it’s because he didn’t want to cause upheaval to his family, that it’s the only home the kids have ever known. They were born there, had their first steps there. The memories are embedded into the very magic of the house.
Grimmauld Place never belonged to Harry. It belonged to Sirius and his family, was his godfather’s ancestral home, and even he ran away from it. Harry received it by default, a gift from a relationship that had infinite hopes and possibilities but in the end was hopelessly ephemeral. All that remains of family is the idea of legacy, their vaults, and their worn memories.
After the war ended and Harry moved into the townhouse, it was damp, dusty, and tattered. Hermione often asked if he needed help rearranging the furniture, removing screaming portraits, and mending the magic of the house. Harry declined.
He didn’t care about the aesthetics of the place. To him it was free lodging and one less concern while he immersed himself in becoming an Auror. Between travel for training and seeing Ginny during the holidays while she finished at Hogwarts, Harry didn’t have time to focus on interior decorating.
In truth, he spent his free time at Ron and Hermione’s. They had lived in a tiny flat all the way in Croydon before settling in their Ottery St Catchpole cottage. But even then their rough little flat was warm, lively, and safe. Harry relied on their presence during that year, the prospect of being alone with nothing but his thoughts and a less-than-enthusiastic house elf too depressing. He had seen his fair share of all things depressing.
He often believed he was overstaying his welcome, but he and Ron were in the same training class, and Hermione had late nights at St Mungo’s as a resident healer, so it worked. They had grown accustomed to living together, the only difference being they weren’t on the run, scared for their lives. They no longer had to concern themselves with how they would make it to the next day. But loneliness was another monster altogether.
They never talked about the nightmares.
Harry couldn't stop seeing death in his sleep, couldn't stop hearing Voldemort's soul lying under a bench, couldn't shut out the wails of sadness and fear. That anguish breathed within the walls of Grimmauld Place like a foul miasma.
Then Ginny graduated and moved in. She had a few months before her tryouts with the Harpies began, and nothing but time in between trainings. Harry was working often and late, and she filled those moments with renovating their home. Harry would come home to find the walls repaired and painted and new furniture for the bedrooms. Another late evening, he stood silently in the doorway and watched as Ginny painstakingly repaired the Black family tapestry, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she added Harry’s name under the vibrant golden embroidered scrawl of Sirius.
That was the moment Harry knew he was, without a doubt, in love with her.
Harry’s new home is nothing like Grimmauld Place: an elegant, newer construction flat in Hampstead. He chose it as a fresh beginning after his divorce. He wanted to have something beautiful, welcoming, and most of all, his own. The crown moulding, pergo floors, and plush furniture are all safe from rejection and pain and trauma. It’s the fresh start Harry has always wanted.
He tells himself all of this, despite the unease of silence that’s in the air when he comes home. He tells himself that he loves the way the sunset spills onto the bright walls, even though they are bare. He tells himself that he finds comfort here, lounging in his living room while watching random Muggle shows on the telly, but when he reaches out to brush his fingertips across the nape of Ginny’s neck, his hand falls through the air and lands heavy on his thigh.
Sometimes, late at night when he’s lying in bed, Harry hears a faint echo of his children laughing and wonders if this flat knows just how lonely he really is.
*.*.*.*
Draco hates hospitals. He hates the sterile smell, the over-bright lights, the cold, cold air. He especially hates being in the small cramped office of Healer Howard Smith.
The office is too small for the large oak desk encompassing over half the space. Accolades, training certifications, and photos of hosted events cover every bit of the pale yellow walls. When a wave of nausea hits, Draco tells himself it’s from the inconsistent flutter of the pictures and not from what being in this room means.
He stares out the only window. Nothing but clear blue skies as far as he can see, speckled by the brightness of the sun. In the distance, there’s a flock of geese coalescing into a perfect vee formation. Draco wishes he could be amongst the birds right now or channel days of his youth, flying around on his broomstick at the manor.
Astoria’s hand brushes against his, and they fold together comfortably, fingers laced.
“Please don’t fret,” she murmurs.
“That’s a particularly difficult task considering the circumstances.”
Astoria frowns, taking a sudden interest in the decorated walls. “I know,” she says in a quiet voice. “I’m sorry.”
Draco lifts her hand to place a gentle kiss on her wrist. “Don’t apologise, there's nothing to—” He swallows. “It’s just—”
“I know,” Astoria says. “I know.”
Then the office door clicks open presenting Healer Smith, a short man with a wiry, bushy mustache that reminds Draco of Professor Flitwick. The wizened man shuffles to his chair and taps his wand on the arm, a loud groan emitting as it adjusts for his height. Once comfortable, the Healer pulls from the folds of his robes a stack of parchment he briefly studies before setting on the desk. He folds his hands on top of them and clears his throat.
“Mr and Mrs Malfoy, we have looked over the latest test results and it appears that the condition is causing the blood cells to degrade at a more aggressive rate than we had anticipated. Unfortunately, because of the hereditary link, and the body’s rejection of potions and treatments to slow progression, we recommend a move to palliative care.”
“What...what does that mean?” Astoria asks, her eyebrows furrowing.
“It means that we can provide assistance for you in the way of managing your pain and other distressing symptoms. We can also assist with any psychological, social, and even spiritual support for you and your family. However,” Healer Smith says and frowns, “actual treatment of the condition is no longer indicated.”
Draco blinks, glances to Astoria staring into the distance. Her eyes widen in disbelief and she shakes her head, small wisps of brown hair falling over her cheek.
Astoria’s mouth opens and closes before she babbles. “I—I don't understand, I mean—two months ago it was getting better and, and—” Astoria’s voice catches and her mouth slams shut so hard that Draco hears the clatter of teeth.
Draco’s stomach lurches. He will surely be sick in this Healer’s office and he doesn’t care: fuck decorum and class. His face is burning and his vision blurring. This can’t be happening. None of this can be happening. He’s just in some insane, demented dream and surely Draco will wake up and they’ll be home in their humble cottage on the beach, Astoria next to him, peaceful and beautiful in her slumber. He'll wake her up this time, maybe even tell her about this terrible dream. She will listen and they’ll go back to sleep, just the two of them, the crashing waves of the ocean their lullaby.
He waits for the nightmare to end, but the air is so thick and warm. Draco pulls at the collar of his shirt to catch a solitary breath, to help unclench the vice grip in his chest so he can finish this. Soon it can be a distant thought, a vague idea, and he can bury it away.
But reality sets in.
This isn’t a dream Draco will wake up from. Astoria’s face contorts in confusion and anguish, her chin quivering, eyes scared and unsure as she ducks her head, drawing in a deep and slow breath. She clutches Draco’s hand, the pressure a firm ache.
Healer Smith speaks again, but his voice sounds morphed and distorted, making Draco unable to comprehend a single word. He’s dizzy, the room tilting on its axis and Draco wonders for a brief moment if he will faint, but he gets his bearings. There's something more important he needs to know, one more question he needs to pose that is imperative.
“How long?” Draco interrupts, his voice shaking. He hates how he sounds right now: broken, scared, small. He hates that his emotions are so open, so obvious, so raw. But knowledge overpowers emotion.
“Given the rarity of the condition and the lack of research, we cannot provide an exact—”
“I don’t give a bloody fuck about your research; I want to know how long we have!” Draco explodes, pivoting forward and slamming a fist onto the desk. Astoria’s grip unravels from their clasped hands to gently grasp at his knee.
“Draco,” she murmurs, her head finally lifting. Their gazes meet and Draco’s anger bleeds away.
Healer Smith’s eyes flicker between them before he leans back in his chair, a solemn expression on his face. “Given the aggressive behaviour of the curse, I would estimate four to six months.”
The colour vanishes from Astoria's face, her mouth gaping in shock. Draco's eyes sting, dampness threatening the edges, and his throat grows tight as he finally tears his eyes away from Astoria to stare at the corner of Healer Smith’s desk. He blinks to assuage the sudden, overwhelming urge to lose his composure in this stifling office.
“Four...four months,” Astoria repeats, breathless. “That’s barely—that’s—I may not be able to see Scorpius start his third—?”
And now Draco cannot stop the tears from spilling over as Astoria covers her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. Draco reaches for her then, wrapping his arms around her frail, quivering body. He whispers soft assurance as Astoria’s small hands fist his waistcoat, tears damp on his neck as she keens. Everything inside of him shatters.
“I am truly sorry about this,” Healer Smith says, his voice a distant sound to Draco’s ears, but sympathetic nonetheless. “I wish there were more options.”
August is in four months. Scorpius will begin his third year.
--
Over the next several weeks, Astoria leaves the cottage before Draco awakens, and returns in the afternoons after lunchtime. When he enquires about her activities, she tells him she’s out with friends, working on the farming co-op up the road, or shopping with Daphne and Pansy.
He knows there’s more going on, but he doesn’t press the issue. Astoria will tell him when she’s ready—if she’s ready. When he tries to talk about her illness, Astoria refuses and says, “There’s no reason to go over this again, Draco. Nothing will change.”
So Draco takes the time alone to continue his research. His determination to find ways of extending Astoria's life has become a growing obsession despite his wife's calm acceptance of her fate. He reads Muggle medical studies about bloodborne illnesses and innovative treatment plans; looks into “alternative medicine” only to find it’s a load of bollocks. He reads and reads, searching the internet for hours, losing himself in case studies he finds in Muggle libraries.
His current rabbit trail is a new chemotherapy whose symptomatology is not as aggressive. Unlike typical chemo, the common side effects of chronic nausea, fatigue, and hair loss are almost nonexistent. Perhaps they could discuss this with Healer Smith and Hermione if Astoria will listen.
He glances down at his wristwatch for the time. Astoria’s been gone for almost the whole afternoon.
When illness took a toll on Astoria’s health while she was pregnant with Scorpius, the urge to keep her safe and comfortable became priority. Draco wanted to start somewhere new, somewhere that was bright and bold and the complete antithesis of Malfoy Manor. It was Astoria's idea to move to the coast, her love of the sea luring them there. The hamlet they settled in is much smaller than their respective ancestral lands and manors, the vast difference the precise bulk of its appeal.
When she leaves like this, Draco’s mind wanders, fueling the never-ending anxiety in the pit of his stomach. Astoria knows about his chest pains and nightmares, but she doesn’t comment on them directly, just places a casual hand on Draco’s shoulder before conjuring a glass of cold water for him. Sometimes, when the sensation hits so acute and sudden, she opens the windows and allows the sea breeze to fill the room, humid air tangy with salt, instructing Draco to close his eyes, take deep breaths, and listen to the sea.
He's looking for his mobile as the fireplace flashes bright green and Astoria emerges. Her hair sits in a loose plait, falling over one shoulder, and she’s wearing her favourite wizarding robes—a dark purple satin with sparkling gold filigree around the edges. Her skin looks paler than usual with dark circles under eyes, and cheeks flushed.
“I was just about to ring you,” Draco says, as he rises from his chair, setting down his laptop. “I didn’t know when you would be back and—”
Astoria continues to brush Floo dust off her robes, takes one glimpse at Draco, and walks over to the french doors to open them. The smell of the sea and sand immediately wafts into the room, melodic tones of the waves calming Draco’s shattered nerves. A slow, appreciative smile creeps across his face.
“I'm going to make some tea,” Astoria says, now meticulously arranging a vase of fresh daisies on the coffee table. She turns towards the kitchen.
Everything about the living room is Astoria. Draco sees her in the bright teal pillows scattered across the loveseat, the crocheted blanket laid over the white wicker chair, the artfully placed framed photos on the mantel—some that she took with her new muggle camera, something called a DSLR. The pictures don’t move, which took time to become accustomed to; Draco studies them religiously in the evenings during the sunset, completely in awe with Astoria’s keen eye.
A few moments later, Astoria enters the room carrying two steaming mugs. She hands one to Draco before settling down on the loveseat, tucking her legs under her robes. He takes a careful sip, a comfortable silence lapsing between them before he asks, “What are you thinking about?”
Astoria looks into her mug. “I think we need to be honest with ourselves, listen to the Healers, and plan to have the best summer we've ever had.”
“I’m not going to give up on this...on you.”
Astoria fixes her gaze on him and quirks a dark eyebrow. “Acceptance isn’t giving up.”
“Are you saying you believe what Healer Smith told us?” At her silence, Draco shakes his head, tendrils of unease prickling along his spine. “Astoria, we need to get a second opinion!” Draco declares. He sets the mug down on the mantel and paces. “It is completely impossible that his estimation is correct. I just read a case study about a blood curse that infected a family for twenty generations, and—”
“Hermione recommended Healer Smith because he is the leading expert on blood-borne diseases,” Astoria reasons. “Including those that are curse-based,” she adds when Draco opens his mouth to argue. “Draco, no one who has this curse lives longer than forty in our family. It’s written in our history.”
“But they didn’t have the information or technology that we have now!” Draco insists.
Astoria sets her mug down with care on the coffee table and rises from the sofa. Draco stops pacing when she places a gentle hand on his elbow, his shoulders sagging in exhaustion and defeat.
“I don’t know how you can just accept this,” he whispers hoarsely, peering out the window in front of him. The sky is cloudy and grey and it reminds him of the Scottish skies, of the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts with the wind smacking against his boyish face as he chases a mess of black hair.
Astoria’s touch is gentle and warm on his arm. Draco shakes his head free from those inconvenient imaginations and turns to her. “Don’t you want to…to live?”
“Darling,” Astoria whispers, cupping his face. Her hands are small, comforting and reassuring. “I am so sorry that you have to deal with this unbearable situation. If I could take away all this pain for you, I would.”
Draco clasps his hands around her wrists, leaning forward so their foreheads touch. His voice shakes when he speaks. “I can't lose you,” he whispers.
“You won’t,” Astoria promises. “I will make sure of that.”
-June 2019-
“Thanks for coming with me, mate,” Harry says to Ron as they watch Grimmauld Place expand into view. It’s Harry’s weekend with the kids, and mercifully Hermione and Ron have volunteered to have a small sleepover with all the children for a night as Harry catches up on work. There’s a heavy presence of guilt that he’s handing off the first weekend of their summer holiday to their aunt and uncle, but needs must.
Ron gives Harry’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Of course. I know it’s hard to wrangle the whole lot alone. Besides, Rose is chuffed to show off the new Fortnite upgrade. She’s determined to kick Jamie’s arse.”
Harry chuckles as they walk to the gate, surrounded by the familiar magical thrum of the wards. It settles oddly, leaving Harry unbalanced.
“Do the wards feel different to you?” Harry asks as they reach the top of the steps in front of the door.
Ron considers the question and shakes his head. “Why?”
The door opens to Lily’s glowing and happy face; she flings herself around Harry's waist. Harry squeezes her shoulders in a tight hug as he gently hauls her into the hallway, listening to her natter about a new game she’s downloaded on her mobile.
“You collect dragons,” she goes on at a rapid pace, leading them to the kitchens down below, “and then you get money, and you can level them up, and then buy more dragons and—”
“Lily,” Ginny says exasperatedly, her head inside the larder. “I told you to go upstairs and finish packing!” When she pops out to continue her admonishment, she glances between Ron and Harry and raises an eyebrow, holding her gaze on Harry. “Too scared to come alone?”
“That’s my cue,” Ron interjects pointing to the ceiling, and taps Lily on the shoulder. “Show me your favourite dragon while I make a valiant attempt to peel your brothers away from their Xbox.”
Lily snorts. “Good luck with that!” she says as she follows Ron out of the room, continuing her dragon monologue.
Ginny flicks her wand towards the hob, unduly concentrating on the kettle with an enthused sense of attention, her back facing Harry. Her hair sits up halfway, soft curls cascading down her back, a flattering black dress stretching over her hips. Harry’s never seen that in her wardrobe before.
“Did you change the wards?” Harry asks, choosing to focus on a more salient subject than his ex-wife’s new sartorial choices.
Ginny turns, furrowing her eyebrows. “No?”
Harry glances towards the wide, glass-paned kitchen doors that leads out to the garden. It’s engulfed in black, the night sky a velvet canvas. Even the moon is hiding.
“They felt different.”
Ginny turns away with a frown. “The house knows you don’t live here anymore.”
Harry tightens his hands into fists and tries to quell the clawing grief inside of his chest. The tension between them is palpable, thick, and suffocating.
He changes the subject. “Going somewhere?”
“Yes,” Ginny says as the kettle whistles. She spells two mugs out of the cabinet, adding milk and sugar to one before floating it over to Harry. “I’m going on a date.”
Harry almost spills the tea over himself. He takes too big of a gulp, burning his tongue. Fucking hell. Ginny doesn’t miss a beat, her lips resting over the rim, blowing even breaths, eyes focused on Harry.
“Is this going to be a problem for you?” Ginny asks, expression inscrutable.
Harry shrugs, shaking his head. “Of course not.”
She stares at Harry for a minute before taking a calculated sip of her tea. “Good.”
And then there’s the stampede of footsteps down the stairs, a burst of protests from the kids, coupled with a sharp whistle and Ron piping, “Oi, you lot, quit it, or I will have your Aunt Hermione make you read the whole history of Ingolfr the Iambic, including the poems!”
Ginny and Harry turn towards the cacophony, and then each other, before breaking into laughter.
“Oi, Harry!” Ron yells from upstairs, “Quit your lollygagging, say bye to Gin, and let’s go!”
“You better go,” Ginny says with amusement. “Don’t want Ron bursting another blood vessel in his eye. Hermione will shit kneazles.”
“I heard that!”
“You were meant to!”
Harry walks to the stairs, stops, and turns back to Ginny. “You look beautiful, by the way.”
Ginny’s eyes widen in surprise, a hint of pink blossoming high on her cheeks. “Thank you.”
Harry nods and ascends the stairs. Later, when he’s alone at Ron and Hermione’s in their small living room, files and paperwork spread across his lap, all he can think about is the way Ginny’s hair curled over her shoulders in perfect, flowing waves.
Then he realises the last time he took Ginny out for a date, a proper date, was before Lily was born.
--
Harry mentions Ginny’s date later that week at lunch with Hermione. They’re sitting in their usual spot, a sequestered corner of a frequented wizarding cafe near St Mungo’s, used for both proximity to Hermione’s job and also for the amazing coffee. This week Harry is in charge of the food, so he brought their favourite: Indian takeaway.
Hermione’s fork stops midway to her semi-open mouth, butter chicken threatening to kamikaze onto her pristine lime-green robes. Harry’s cheeks flush at the obvious shock on her face and he averts his eyes, his vindaloo suddenly in desperate need of deep inspection.
“Harry,” she begins, her tone cautious as she sets her fork down. “I don’t understand how you’re surprised about this.”
“I’m not,” Harry says. Hermione looks unconvinced. “I’m not!”
“You have been separated for over a year. What did you expect?”
Harry stabs at the basmati rice, the fork standing in a solitary salute, his ravenous appetite vanished. He didn’t know what he expected, if he was being honest with himself. He isn’t arrogant enough to assume that Ginny would be abstinent—hell, he’s had more than enough one-night stands to help assuage sexual frustrations—but he wouldn’t say he is dating.
The way she looked that night, it was obvious it wasn’t just for a shag. Ginny wouldn’t put in that kind of effort unless it was something serious. Harry knows it isn’t fair to Ginny to assume she would remain single alongside him. He just didn’t expect that it would affect him this way.
When he chances a glance at Hermione again, her eyebrows remain raised in anticipation. He shrugs.
“Don’t you want her to be happy?”
“Yes,” Harry replies without hesitation. “Of course I do, it’s just...” He trails off, slouching back in his chair before crossing his arms against his chest. “I don’t want it to be...” He gestures with a vague wave around the cafe.
Hermione takes another bite.
“She’s my family,” Harry says, “I don’t want to lose that.”
Hermione’s expression shifts, the frown on her face morphing to one of concern and sympathy. Her brown eyes shine a little, and Harry turns his attention to the other patrons and their lunch. He can’t look at her when she gets like this, it makes his chest bubble in that all-too-familiar way that only Hermione can accomplish.
“You’re never going to lose that, Harry.”
“Right.”
“Harry,” she starts, her voice tight.
“I spoke to Neville,” Harry says, in a feeble attempt to change the subject. “I have to give a statement for the Daily Prophet in August. I told him to leave Ginny and the kids out of it.”
Hermione waits for Harry to speak. He can tell that she isn't buying it. She clears her throat. “You don’t have to deal with this alone, you know. Ginny is just trying to figure things out. It takes time.”
“So you’ve told me,” Harry mutters flatly.
“Have you considered that she’s waiting for you to come around? You’ve lived in that flat for almost ten months. I mean, have you ever asked her over?”
“What’re you on about? She comes over all the time!”
“I don’t mean when it’s the obligatory kid-swap, Harry.” Hermione rolls her eyes. “I mean have you ever genuinely asked her to come over to talk?”
Harry sighs. He pushes the takeaway container to the middle of the table, his appetite vanishing. Hermione demanded these lunch dates two weeks after he had moved out and separated from Ginny. He considered it a nuisance at first; after all, the last thing he wanted was to discuss the failures of his marriage, but he quickly realised that Hermione avoided the topic of his divorce. He found himself appreciating their time together.
She never mentioned Ginny without being prompted, nor did she ever ask about the catalyst that resulted in the ultimate break. Instead, she would ask about his week, about her godchildren, or about his work. Hermione did this, despite the demands at St Mungo’s, the demands of being a mother of two, and the demands of being married to one Ron Weasley.
When Harry asked why she did this for him, she blinked and said, “Because I love you, Harry.” As if it was the most obvious reason in the world.
Harry understands that he has people who love him. He’s aware that Ron and Hermione have literally risked their lives for him before, but everything is different now. They have their own family, they have jobs, they have responsibilities. Harry has those things, too, but in his times of uncertainty, he always had Ginny to keep him steady. She kept him sane and safe.
Now he doesn’t have Ginny, and Ginny doesn’t want him. She’s dating someone else, and maybe this new person will keep her steady and make her feel safe. Maybe this new person will be there for her when she needs them the most instead of running away from all the questions, requests, and commitments.
Maybe this new person will give Ginny everything he never could.
Harry is jolted from his thoughts by the warm clasp of Hermione’s hand, stretched across the table, to rest on his elbow. Her eyes are so full of sadness that Harry has to look away for a moment. His arms unfurl from across his chest and he entwines her fingers with his. He doesn’t want to make her feel this way, but it’s been ten months since he moved into his flat, and he’s realising the loneliness that surrounds him when he comes home alone every night. Harry hates the awkward visitations, he hates the way the kids stare with longing at the fireplace for a firecall from their mother. He hates that he did this to himself and that how he’s losing everything.
“Harry, I didn’t mean—”
“I don’t want to lose my family,” Harry confesses, interrupting her. “Not when I didn’t have much to begin with.”
“Talk to her,” Hermione insists. “Make time and talk to her.”
A buzz whistles into the air and Hermione reaches into her robes and pulls out her mobile. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she says, her voice filled with regret. “I have to get going.”
They hug and depart and while Harry won’t admit it, he feels better, even if it’s marginal. He considers going back to work, but is too distracted and he knows if something pressing happens that Tracy, his secretary, will contact him. He sends her a courtesy text asking to clear his schedule for the rest of the afternoon.
Harry Apparates home.