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What it comes down to	By : melinda1293 Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 115219 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 7
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 46
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- 48
Epilogue 3. Christmas at the Burrow

“Have a nice holiday, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall called to him as Harry stepped into the hearth in her office, which was already dancing with emerald green flames.
Turning to face her, Harry smiled warmly. “Thank you Headmistress, same to you,” he replied. “And don’t let Hagrid drink all the mulled mead at New Year’s.”
“I can’t make any promises,” she responded with a tiny snort. “See you next term.”
Harry lifted his hand in farewell and shouted, “The Burrow!” He caught one fleeting glimpse of her hand rising in return, before she was whipped out of sight.
Harry was a regular visitor to her office. They used her floo to go to the Grimmauld Place most every weekend, or when they couldn’t get away for the whole weekend, at least to the Burrow every Sunday for brunch to spend their afternoon there. Harry always picked up Teddy at Andromeda’s house first and then carried him to the Weasley’s. Mrs. Tonks came with him at first, until she felt that Harry could take care of Teddy properly, but now she seemed to enjoy her afternoons away from the little one. Molly and the whole Weasley clan doted on the child, so she hardly need worry for his safety.
Sometimes, the tiny Metamorphmagus would turn his hair ginger on those Sunday afternoons to resemble the Weasley’s, much to Molly’s and Ginny’s delight. Little Teddy was a drool bucket, nearing nine months old with a total of six teeth in his whole head, but he knew how to use them. Harry’s shoulder still bore the marks from his most recent attack. Perhaps it was some of his father’s werewolf traits coming out in him.
Those casual, familial Sunday’s at the Burrow were always the happiest moments for Harry now. Buffeted by the people he loved the most, cocooned from the world, which still tried to snatch pieces of him at every opportunity. He knew that’s why Hermione insisted that both he and Ron join her back at Hogwarts for their lost final year. He knew she was hoping to protect him from the kind of chaos his life would likely be as a public figure.
Forever linked to Voldemort, Harry would be remembered throughout history as The Boy Who Lived, or The Chosen One, his life always defined by Tom, their fates irrevocably intertwined. Neither would truly die while the other lived. Not in people’s memories, anyway, and those in the wizarding world had long memories. To see Harry was to remember Voldemort. Harry despised it, but he could do nothing to change it.
He’d defeated Voldemort twice, survived the killing curse twice, escaped Tom, his Death Eaters, and death itself countless times so that people actually believed he was invincible, immortal. They were wrong.
If they truly knew how easy it would be, the effort it took to hold him together, and the number of people it required to keep him from spiraling out of control, their idolization of him would surely falter. They wanted their hero though, no matter how many had sacrificed their lives to bestow that title on him.
Harry wanted none of their hero worship, none of their accolades. He wanted to hide himself away, to fade into obscurity, to become merely a footnote in the annals of history. Left alone to live his life in peace with the people he cherished.
Reporters with The Daily Prophet and of course, Rita Skeeter, were always on the prowl for him during Hogsmeade weekends, but they could search for him there all they wanted. He was safely ensconced at the Burrow or Grimmauld Place, and if he did venture into Hogsmeade, it was always under his cloak, tucked into a dark corner of Abeforth’s bar or in one of his back rooms.
Harry occasionally made public appearances, when forced to do so, or when they were necessary, like during Kingsley’s inauguration, or to testify at a Death Eater’s trial. He understood his role, his duty, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He was present during the dedication service at the re-opening of Hogwarts to all those people, Order members, Hogsmeade residents, Hogwarts teachers, and students alike, who had lost their lives to protect it and him. He was there to receive the families when they were presented with their loved one’s Order of Merlin medals posthumously. Standing stoically for photographs, he shook hands with each of them while congratulating them, mumbling insufficient words about their family member’s bravery, and offering his condolences woodenly, while mentally then adding another I'm sorry beside their names to the list etched into his conscience. And he stood next to Kingsley at the awards ceremony for those who fought and survived, present when Ron and Hermione got their awards, and for Ginny’s and Luna’s and Neville’s.
He’d been honored as well, of course, but he didn’t like to think about that. It meant nothing to him. He had a job to do, a prophecy to fulfill, and he’d done it. That was all. He would have thrown the stupid medal away if Hermione would have let him. As it was, it was to be found currently still in its protective box at the bottom of his locked trunk, where it could stay as far as he was concerned, hoping never to see it again.
Photographers clamored for his picture, reporters vied for an interview, all of them desperate for an exclusive, begging Harry for his tales from his year on the run and his defeat of Voldemort. Jostling with each other for his attention, they crowded him, shouting questions, intrusive, offensive questions. They wanted to know how he felt now that Tom was gone, how he was coping with the loss of so many witches and wizards during that final battle, if he felt like he could have done more, how he’d survived a second killing curse, and what his plans were for his future. They even asked him about the nature of his close relationship with Ron and Hermione. That one came from Rita, naturally.
Harry gave them nothing. He never spoke a single word to any of them directly, much to their frustration. He’d leave it to someone like Hermione to recount those events for historians or possibly write them herself. Personally, he’d had too many dealings with the press to ever trust them to print the truth about him. Those people that mattered to him knew the truth, and the others could go to hell as far as he was concerned. He’d done his job, he’d rid them all of Voldemort. He wasn’t their Chosen One anymore. His future was for him to decide now.
He knew he couldn’t hide at Hogwarts forever, though. Harry intended to graduate and go on to Auror training, if they’d have him, if he could pass the mental evaluation, which would be no mean feat. But having this school year was giving him time to get his life back together and come to terms with all that had happened to him over the course of the previous year. He needed this intermission to heal before he could get on with his life. A life he never expected to be able to live, a future he’d never allowed himself to contemplate. Even now, when he did, the guilt sometimes overwhelmed him, the number of days, years that might still lie ahead for him at the expense of so many other, more deserving lives.
Sometimes, the fear of the great vastness of those possibilities, in that potential, would make him shake all over. It was more frightening than Voldemort, certainly more frightening than death. The challenge of living the rest of his life, of actually growing old, had never felt like a possibility. It was never something he’d truly planned for, and now that it was, he was totally unprepared for it. It made him feel almost disillusioned sometimes, like a promise unfulfilled, the prospect of so much time more daunting to him than anything he’d yet faced. Some days it was simply too much to deal with, and he would long for the blade against his skin. It was an urge he was never able to fully suppress. On those occasions, he would run instead, flee to Grimmauld Place and into the waiting arms of Ron and Hermione.
Every day was a constant battle against the memories. A war he waged within himself between remembering and forgetting. He made a promise to himself each morning that today would not be the day he succumbed to his desire for the blade, that today, just for one day, for twenty-four hours, he would resist. And so far, he’d kept his promise to himself and to Ron. Tomorrow, he would make a new promise and begin a new struggle to keep it.
Ron planned to follow him into Auror training. Harry wasn’t sure if it was what Ron really wanted in a career, but he was simply unwilling to let Harry face anything alone, even his own future. It made Harry desperately sad in some ways, yet another sacrifice made on his behalf, but he couldn’t help but be grateful, too. It wasn’t as if he didn’t believe Ron was capable of being a good Auror, quite the contrary, in fact. It was selfish, but knowing Ron would have his back, that he could always turn around and find him standing there calmed him.
Christmas was going to be bittersweet this first year after the war, he realized as he stepped out of the kitchen hearth at the Burrow and into Molly’s welcoming embrace. His eyes landed on her beloved clock as they always did when he arrived, where one hand stood frozen. It was Teddy’s first Christmas, but also the first Christmas without Fred, or Lupin and Tonks. Andromeda agreed to join them after a bit of cajoling from Mrs. Weasley. It was her first without her husband or her daughter and son-in-law, and Molly couldn’t bear the thought of her spending the holiday alone.
Harry vowed to make sure holiday’s and birthday’s for Teddy were the special moments his had never been growing up with the Dursley’s, hoping to make up in some small way the enormous loss of Tonks and Lupin in his life. Harry knew he’d robbed this little boy of a wonderful father, stolen from his parents the happy years watching their son grow up that they so badly deserved.

“Hi, Baby,” Harry called softly to the child, trying to soothe him as Teddy rose up from his pallet on the floor ready to cry. Upset at finding himself alone, his bottom lip pouted, the corners of his tiny mouth turned down in a frown. The side of his little face was red and lined from sleep, his ginger hair matted to the side of his head as he woke from his nap and stared around in bewilderment.
Ron had nicknamed the poor child, Tiny Honks Pootin, or some variation of it, which always earned him a cross word from his mother, or a slap to the back of his head by Ginny whenever either of them were close enough to hear it. Arthur and George called the little cherub, Big Ted. Molly had several pet names for him. Harry just called him, Baby.
Teddy turned his watery eyes to Harry at his soft hoarse greeting, rubbing at them with his chubby fist. Harry was already off the couch ahead of anyone else, coming to gather him up before he let out a wail or tried to crawl away, before he could make his escape and carry out another assault on the Christmas tree. He was faster than he looked, and he’d already attempted to use the lower branches of the tree to pull himself up once today. Grasping at the shiny bobbles hanging just out of reach, he’d nearly toppled the tree onto himself before anyone could stop him.
Burying his face in Harry’s neck, Teddy clutched at the front of Harry’s new forest green jumper with his tiny hands when he scooped up the bundle in Chuddley Cannon orange footed pajamas into his arms. The pajamas were a gift from Ron, of course, which clashed with Teddy’s current hair color. He was warm from sleep and smelled like lotion, like baby powder and milk as he nuzzled his little compact body into Harry, already dampening his collar with drool while Harry rubbed his back soothingly and sat with him in the rocking chair.
Never remembering to get a burp rag to try and prevent the drool or milk or worse, from leaving a wet spot on his clothes, Harry returned to Hogwarts every Sunday evening wearing a shirt dotted with stains. Sighing at his forgetfulness, he turned his hand palm up, and crooked two fingers. The cloth soared into his hand, summoned wandlessly, and wordlessly from Teddy’s pallet on the floor. Harry tucked it down between them to protect his new, Weasley jumper from further harm as they settled back in the chair.
“Show off,” Ron muttered. “One of us would have chucked it to you if you’d asked, you know.”
Harry made a rude gesture in response and stuck out his tongue, not deigning to reply. Ron snorted and Ginny giggled. Harry didn’t realize that anyone was watching him, but he hadn’t given it a thought when he’d done it. It was just a convenience that had become automatic for him. Madame Pomfrey had revealed to the Headmistress, the propensity he’d shown for wandless magic during his capture, and he’d been having lessons with Professor Flitwick twice a week since term began.
Besides his new Christmas sweater, Harry was also wearing the most hideously garish pair of mismatched socks. They were a gift from Ron, in memory of Dobby. Ron was sporting the matches to the pairs on his own feet, saying there was no use letting them go to waste. As he was opening them that morning, Ron told Harry he’d planned to paint him a portrait, but couldn’t capture his likeness nearly as well as the one the elf had made for Harry years ago, which made George snicker at the memory of that hideous painting.
It was possibly the start of a new tradition, the socks. Harry hoped so, anyway. They reminded him of Dobby, but also of the Dursley’s and Dumbledore, too. Dumbledore once told him that the Mirror of Erised showed himself holding a pair of warm woolen socks. It wasn’t the truth about what the mirror showed him, of course, but Harry hoped that whatever great adventure he was now on now, his greatest mentor wore a nice thick pair.
It was funny, but socks seemed to be the gift to give this year because that was exactly what Harry had sent Abeforth for Christmas. He sent an enormous box of chocolates to Madame Pomfrey as well, more traditions he intended to keep. He’d also sent a box of chocolate frogs to Dudley with a note explaining that they were perfectly safe to eat, realizing that his cousin would probably be leery of them after the treats the twins had tricked him into eating that one time. He thought Dudley might get a kick out of collecting the wizard cards at the very least, and the idea that one of them just might be of his famous cousin, made Harry snort in amusement when he’d purchased them.
He and his godson rocked while listening to Christmas carols from the wireless, catching snatches of quiet conversation between Andromeda, Molly, and Hermione’s mother from the kitchen where they sat drinking eggnog and trading wizarding and muggle news. Harry fed him from his bottle while Teddy stared up at him. He was old enough to hold the bottle himself, but preferred Harry to do it for him on most occasions, and Harry didn’t mind. He was in no hurry to rush him along and had no worries or nagging guilt about spoiling him, either. He meant to, in fact.
Ron and Ginny went back to their game of chess once Harry and Teddy had settled themselves into a comfortable rhythm. Mr. Weasley continued napping in his chair, snoring softly, his afternoon kip undisturbed. Hermione had been curled up at the other end of the couch with a new book from Ginny, but she hadn’t returned to it. Instead, she watched him with his godson. It had become her most frequent practice, the watching him.
Naturally, a book was exactly what Hermione had given him as a gift. It was traditional after all. She’d presented it to him late last night, or perhaps early this morning when she’d come downstairs to find him sitting on the couch in the darkness as if she knew he’d be awake, restless, morose, and unable to sleep and wanted to keep him company. Her head on his shoulder as she lay against him under a knitted throw, they spent several hours then in companionable silence or else talking quietly while the rest of the house’s occupants slept.
Curiously, the book was written by a Muggle author titled; All Quiet on the Western Front. She explained that it was written by a German soldier recounting his experiences in the First World War.
“It’s a story about the bonds of friendship and lasting love, of great courage and devastating loss,” she elaborated as he stared at it dubiously under the glow of the Christmas tree lights, flipping the small tome over in his hands.
Harry thought it was a bizarre choice. Surely she understood that the very last thing he wanted to read about was another war. He still struggled frequently with night terrors over the last one. When he’d expressed his misgivings about her choice of literature, she told him that she actually thought it might help.
“More therapy?” he’d questioned with a frown.
“Perhaps,” she conceded. “But I think you’ll find some of yourself in those pages, Harry… A sort of kinship with those boys. I think you’ll find strength in their struggle, and a familiar empathy for their plight, as I did. I think it will help you to heal knowing that others have felt the way you feel, that you’ll find hope that the author survived unspeakable horrors and lived to tell the tale of his comrades and friends coming of age as soldiers in a devastating war.”
Nodding, Harry thanked her and agreed to give it a chance, but he’d not yet had the courage to immerse himself in it. There were just too many people here for him to feel like he could open himself up to whatever emotion it might stir in him as he read their journey through hell.
Smiling at him, Hermione watched Harry with his godson. Teddy reached up, his little fingers grasping at the watch on Harry’s wrist. Drawn to the twinkling lights from the Christmas tree that danced on its reflective face, he kept poking at it with his stubby fingers. His wispy hair changed to black before Harry’s eyes as he continued to suck half-heartedly on his bottle.
“That’s good, Baby, but it’s not nearly messy enough to match mine,” Harry told the now raven haired infant, smiling down at him and ruffling the wispy strands a bit.
Teddy grinned back around the nipple still in his mouth, as if he understood the joke. Despite what he’d said, Teddy did look remarkably like Harry now, though his eyes remained chocolate brown, like Ginny’s.
Stroking his round cheek with the back of his finger while Teddy chewed on the nipple happily, Harry studied him. His godson favored Tonks the most, he decided, when he was in his natural state, but sometimes, Harry could see Lupin there, too. Remus was there in his eyes, mostly. Other times, a hit of his father came through in certain thoughtful expressions Teddy occasionally made. Those glimpses made Harry’s heart ache terribly.
Harry adored this child, more than he thought he would ever be capable. He’d built a special bond with him, both of them orphaned as babies by Tom's bid for power. Teddy kept Harry from going off the rails sometimes when nothing else could. He’d run from his commitment at first, feeling too much guilt for getting his parents killed. Every thought of coming face to face with the little baby he’d glimpsed only in a photo, and the shame of knowing that he was the person responsible for causing him to be orphaned, made Harry miserable with remorse and threatened a total mental collapse.
Harry was a psychological mess, a poor role model for the child, so he’d selfishly resisted, but Andromeda wouldn’t allow it. She’d written to him, to his friends, and to the Weasley’s, pressuring him not to be an absentee godfather like Sirius. Reminding him that Harry was not in Azkaban as Sirius had been for so long, telling him that Sirius would have been there for Harry if he’d been able, had finally convinced him.
Sirius had also felt like he’d gotten Harry’s parents killed, and it was that, more than anything else, that made Harry relent. Teddy was his godson, and Harry had a responsibility to him, to fulfill his promise to Teddy’s parents. He couldn’t let them down.
Andromeda came in from the kitchen after a few minutes and took Teddy from Harry to change his nappy. When they returned, Teddy was wide awake and ready to play again. Harry sat with him on the floor, his back against the couch close to Hermione’s legs where she was tucked up with her book again. Ginny joined him when she and Ron had finished their game.
His heart pounded at her nearness as it always did, his mouth going dry. The familiar momentary panic at having her close washed over him again, but it was becoming less frightening. Harry was finally growing more accustomed to her, more natural around her again, though he was always aware of where she was in the room if she were present.
She made a point of sitting near him, even if she was talking with someone else, always nearby, but not crowding him, as if to simply reacclimatize him, to desensitize him to her presence. They shared classes at Hogwarts, shared the common room of Gryffindor tower, but it wasn’t the same as being close to her at the Burrow. It felt so much more intimate here on Sunday afternoons and especially now during the extended Christmas holiday where they slept under the same roof, shared a dinner table, all of them packed in tightly together with so many extra bodies so that she seemed always within touching distance, like she was now, sitting next to him on the floor.
He took a deep, shaky breath, inhaling Ginny’s floral scent into his lungs. Like Ron, she had a natural outdoorsy scent, but instead of woody and earthy, it reminded him of sunshine and the wildflowers in the Weasley’s garden. Closing his eyes for a moment, his heart constricting, he let it wash over him. He felt dizzy and disoriented when she was so near him, as if he’d been suddenly un-tethered from his mooring. Then Hermione’s foot brushed against his back, subtly reminding him of her calming presence. The gesture anchored him again. Letting out the breath he was holding, he opened his eyes as his shoulders finally relaxed.
When the vertigo passed, he refocused himself on his godson, entertaining Teddy with more wandless magic. Hovering his new stuffed wolf he’d given him for Christmas, Harry made it jog around him. Then he conjured colored balls of light in the palm of his hand before vanishing them again to the delight of the child and Ginny too, for that matter.
Today, for some reason, the conjured lights were simply hilarious to Teddy, though Harry had done it for him before. Perhaps because Ginny was making little popping sound effects when the light disappeared and reappeared in his hand. The baby belly laughed each time he reached for the light in Harry’s palm and it disappeared. On it went until Teddy was crying with laughter, tears rolling down his plump cheeks, drool soaking his bib. Drawn by his infectious laughter, everyone else at the Burrow had gathered in the room to watch him play with Harry, grinning or laughing at his joyous wonder of the fantastic game his godfather played with him.
“Pop!” Ginny exclaimed with a look of surprise on her face for Teddy when the light appeared in Harry’s palm once more.
Shrieking with delight, Teddy giggled madly again in anticipation before he’d even reached for it. Harry wished he could bottle up the sound and carry it with him, next to his chest, tucked safely in the Mokeskin pouch always around his neck with his other treasures. He wanted to be able to let it out on days he couldn’t be with the sweet child, when he needed the sound of his laughter to remind him of what it had all been for.
When he’d finally tired of the game, Teddy had a terrible case of hiccups, though it didn’t seem to bother him in the least. He spent a few minutes then fascinated by his own feet. Lying on his back on the bright turquoise knitted blanked trimmed with running grey wolves that Mrs. Weasley had made him for Christmas, he tried to stuff them alternately into his mouth as Ginny used them to play patty-cake.
Teddy reached for Harry’s glasses every time he leaned over him to blow raspberries on a foot he’d tugged out of his hungry little mouth or against his belly, which earned him a squeal from the happy baby. He’d broken Harry’s glasses so many times, that Hermione had performed an unbreakable charm on them finally in exasperation because Harry couldn’t keep the meaty little fists off them, but it didn’t keep the lenses from being smudged constantly with tiny fingerprints. The tyke was fast. Ron said he had Seeker reflexes, though all he ever got was a tweak on his nose or a tug on the earlobe by those lightening quick hands. Ginny fared about as well as Harry did, though. Teddy pulled her long hair sometimes when she wasn’t quick enough or didn’t have it pulled back in a ponytail out of his reach. Winding the fiery strands in his perpetually sticky fingers, she’d have to work for several minutes to untangle them when he got hold of her. Today, Harry actually helped free her from Teddy’s grasp, or tried to at least. The shaking of his hands may have been making it worse, but Ginny didn’t seem to mind.
Mrs. Weasley, of course, was a pro, and not the least bit rusty. She could hold his little squirming body one armed, bouncing him to soothe him if he was fussy while busily preparing their meal, or washing dishes at the same time. He’d actually seen her knit with Teddy in her lap once without magic, needles in both hands trailing yarn, deftly keeping them out of his grasping fists. She rocked and hummed to him all the while as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Harry didn’t know how she did it.
He sat at the table watching her with him now at the sink, cradling the baby while she prepared dinner, though there were a dozen or more available hands to hold Teddy. She patted his bottom, or stroked his head absentmindedly between tasks, feeding him tiny morsels with her fingers as she worked, without ever getting bitten by the little fanged monster. And yet, at the same time, she swatted at Ron, who’d come to steal a bite of his own on his way through.
“Is that yummy?” she asked the baby, feeding him a finger full of creamed potato she’d cooled by blowing on it.
Teddy looked like a dog that had been fed peanut butter, as his little tongue poked happily in and out of his mouth. Then he bounced in her arms and clapped his hands together. Wrinkling up his nose, he snorted his reply, clearly asking for more.
“You sweet darling,” she cooed and kissed his grubby little palm.
Smiling at him, Molly continued to natter away at Teddy as she worked, and he jabbered back at her, the two of them lost in their own language. Who knows, after so many kids of her own, Mrs. Weasley might have actually understood the gurgling infant, Harry was surprised to find he was beginning to himself.
Harry couldn’t help but watch them, marveling at these exchanges with fascination, as he pulled apart a head of lettuce for a salad, picturing his mother holding him like that when he was a baby. He was suddenly reminded of the final battle as he watched Molly with Teddy, his abject fear at seeing Hermione and Luna and Ginny battling Bellatrix, knowing he needed to fight Voldemort, to finish him, yet terrified that Bellatrix would kill them if he didn’t stop her.
His fear of her was almost greater that Voldemort. Harry felt sure that Bellatrix was trying to strike down any woman she believed Harry held affection for, like a jealous lover attempting to rid herself of her rivals. When her killing curse narrowly missed Ginny, he forgot about Voldemort entirely and headed straight for Bellatrix. Running at her, still hidden under his invisibility cloak, he felt like he was moving in slow motion. He felt terror, like he had in the dungeon trying to stop her cursing Ron and Hermione, as if he were suddenly living out his worst nightmare. But Molly knocked him aside before he’d reached her and began to duel Bellatrix herself, showing the same kind of fierce instinct to protect her child as Harry’s own mother had for him.
Completely stunned, he just stood there as Molly began to duel the powerful witch, the one that made him tremble with fear. Paralyzed as if by Dumbledore's powerful curse on the tower again, his whole body tingled with magic as he watched Molly strike Bellatrix down. He was only brought out of his state of shock when Voldemort screamed at her loss and turned his wand on Mrs. Weasley. Harry had been moved to action then. He couldn’t let Tom to take her away, too, not from Ron and Ginny.
Still invisible, Harry stepped in front of Molly. He would not allow Tom to rip her away from her family, from him, the only mother figure he’d ever known. His body had ached all over, and it hurt to breathe, like when he was in the dungeon. He could feel the heat building in him again, those same destructive flames sizzling under his skin. Harry struggled to contain them as he pulled off his cloak and revealed himself at last.
“What is it, Harry dear?” Molly asked him, catching him staring wistfully at her, breaking him out of his thoughts with his hands held suspended over the bowl.
“Nothing,” he replied quickly, dropping his eyes to the table as she walked over to him, and he hastily went back to shredding lettuce.
Mrs. Weasley reached out to stroke Harry’s head, smoothing his hair like she had Teddy’s. She always did that, always seemed to know when he needed her reassuring touch, and he loved her fiercely for it. Despite his own guilt at their profound grief, she and Arthur had never once blamed him for Fred's death.
Removing his hands from the bowl, he grasped hers, holding it against his warm cheek a moment. Then he stood up suddenly and wrapped his arms around her, startling her with his uncharacteristic affection and making Teddy squeal at being squashed between them. Blinking rapidly and clearing his throat, he planted a soft peck on her cheek and one on Teddy’s forehead before quickly walking away to collect the plates and start setting the table. Harry left her standing there, bewildered beside the table, but he didn’t want her to see his eyes watering.
He knew that one day the Burrow would be overflowing with grandbabies and great-grandbabies for her to spoil. One was already on the way. And she would have enough love in her heart for all of them, maybe for all the other orphans in the world that crossed her path, too, like she had for him when they’d met on the train platform. But right now, that endless well of affection was all for Teddy, who needed it the most. Like Harry, Teddy would never have siblings, would never remember his parents, but also like Harry, he’d been adopted by the Weasley’s. He’d gained a huge extended family. He would grow up with the next generation of Weasley’s, surrounded by love. Something for which Harry had been deprived in his own childhood. Teddy would never live in a cupboard, never be denied food or affection. Giving Teddy the Weasley’s was the best gift Harry could give his godson, more valuable than all the gold in Gringotts.
Teddy’s happiness, the Weasley’s happiness was what it came down to for Harry. It was the reason he kept fighting. Dumbledore was right when he’d told him to pity the living and not the dead, for the living had to continue to endure, to live a life diminished by the loss of each person who’d left them behind.
He could never return to Arthur and Molly their son, Fred, or restore Teddy’s parents to him. He couldn’t make them whole. The hand on that clock would never again move. He knew that. But to see them finding happiness in their lives once more was the reward for all he’d suffered. It was a sacrifice he would make, without hesitation, over and over again for their continued safety, an insufficient reparation for all they had sacrificed for him.
Mr. Weasley came up behind his wife and slid his arms around her waist. She patted his cheek as he kissed her on the neck. Harry looked away from them, slightly embarrassed by the display of affection, which turned to mortification at the sudden memory of the nickname Arthur had given his wife that he’d once been most unfortunate to overhear.
“What can I do, Molly dear?” Mr. Weasley asked.
“Nothing, Arthur. Why don’t you just take him and call the other children and our guests,” she suggested, passing Teddy to him.“Supper’s nearly ready. We’re going to be a bit cramped, I’m afraid.”
“We’ll manage. Come on, big boy,” he said genially, bouncing Teddy as he strode from the room.“Let’s go collect our hungry brood, then.”
They had Christmas dinner. The first without Fred, Remus, Tonks, and so many others, though Hagrid, Andromeda and Hermione’s parents were there. Charlie too, and Bill and Fleur, who’s pregnancy was really beginning to show on her slim figure, which only added to her beauty, making her even more radiant.
They were more than a bit cramped. Harry, Hermione, Ron, Percy, Ginny, and George sat on the floor in the sitting room because the table was full. Hagrid alone took up almost an entire side of the table so that only Charlie could squeeze in next to him. All the remaining seats in the house were also occupied and still they’d had to conjure more and find places to wedge them in, but Harry didn’t mind in the slightest. He actually preferred the Burrow bursting at the seams and filled with talk and laughter.
Hagrid had surprised Harry with a new owl for Christmas. Harry never got around to replacing Hedwig even when he’d gone with Dudley and his aunt to Diagon Alley in late September to help Dudley pick out a large eagle owl he’d named Lennox, after his favorite boxer, Lennox Lewis. Harry had looked at all of them, but he just wasn’t able to bring himself to pick one. Hagrid had bought Hedwig for his birthday, though, so Harry thought that it was fitting that he purchased Harry’s second familiar, which was a male this time. Hagrid had already named him Zosimos, which he pronounced Za-see-mous. He said it meant ‘Able to Survive’ in Latin. Harry hoped the name suited the owl because in his experience, being able to survive around him was more often than not, a prerequisite for the job.
Zosimos was a handsome barn owl, still a juvenile, and not nearly as large as Hedwig had been, but not miniscule like Pigwideon, either. He was somewhere in the middle with beautiful, intelligent, onyx eyes, so stark against his pure white, heart shaped face, which was outlined in reddish brown. That same ginger coloring covered his head and then blended with gray and white across his wings and tail with tiny gray spots all over like freckles.
The second unexpected gift he received came wrapped in brown paper with twine string. It was a lovely, worn, leather bound book, much like the journal given to him all those months ago by Hermione when he couldn’t speak, which he still kept with him, Ginny’s notes still tucked safely in the back. It was a hand written potions book, and there was a note inside the front cover, though Harry already knew who it was from by the familiar miniscule writing covering its pages, having studied the script all through his sixth year.
The note read:
Harry,
I was mistaken. Your nature is much more like your mother’s than I could admit, or perhaps bear to witness. I wish to apologize for the things that transpired between us. I deeply regret them.
Wishing you peace,
S. Snape
P.S. I thought you might find this journal instructive in your future endeavors. My last appeared to have served you well.
No one had seen or heard a word from Snape since he’d fled Hogwarts, no one except Harry, Ron and Hermione, and Harry believed no one ever would. Snape, like him, was finally free. Free of his Master’s yoke, whichever wizard to whom history would remember him loyal, for Harry would forever remain mum on that subject in the press, too. Other than what he’d revealed to Tom in those final moments of the battle, Harry never spoke another word about him. Snape didn’t want Dumbledore to reveal his true nature, so Harry wouldn’t either. All the things Snape had done, good or bad, all the sacrifices he’d made, weren’t Harry’s secrets to disclose, nor were they his tales to tell.
Harry still didn’t know how he felt about Snape. He didn’t know if it was forgiveness or just acceptance, but there was at least no longer any outright malice towards his former potions professor. Perhaps it was simply an understanding of the man and his choices, mixed with pity and weirdly, admiration that he felt now. Still, he would be happy to live the rest of his life never coming face to face with him again. Harry’s reflections on the wizard and his feelings about him were best viewed at a distance. He still owed him a swift kick in the bollocks, but Snape would get more than that if Ron ever saw his greasy head again.
Having viewed Snape’s memories in the Pensieve, Harry had finally understood why the man had despised him so much. But the love he’d had for Harry’s mother disturbed him, too. Snape had wanted to own her like a prized possession. He wanted to control her, and perhaps, trap her like a princess in a tower. It was a possessive love, an obsession, in Harry’s opinion, which had dominated Snape’s life and ruled all his actions, even after her death. Plus, it was just creepy.
Harry turned the book over in his hands, examining the cover, flipping through the dog-eared pages full of tiny diagrams and markings out. It was Snape’s own potions journal, instructions for the potions and spells his former professor had invented himself, or improved through his prodigious skill, including, Harry noticed, the minty salve and the hideous torturous healing draught that Harry despised. Flipping to the last page, to place the letter protectively inside, Harry found something that made his lips quirk in a tiny smile. Written in all capital letters: THIS BOOK IS THE PROPERTY OF THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE

“Ron, you’re whole family is downstairs!”
“So?”
“So… it’s too early. What if George and Charlie or your Mum decides to come upstairs? Not everyone’s gone to bed yet. They’ll hear!”
Harry’s back was against the wall of Ron’s bedroom from where he’d been shoved up against it unceremoniously by Ron when he’d come up to bed.
They were sharing Ron’s room again over the Christmas holiday, just as they had during almost every visit Harry had over the years with the Weasley family, though never quite like this. Hermione was bunking with Ginny again and was none too happy about the arrangement, either. She scowled at them crossly every morning over the breakfast table. Even though she lived in separate dorms from them at Hogwarts, Hermione knew that away from school, in Ron’s private bedroom, the two of them were getting up to things in the night, and she was being left out.
She was right, of course. The camp bed setup for Harry’s use had barely been slept in. They spent most of each night pressed together on Ron’s old bed, spooned against each other’s naked bodies on threadbare Chuddley Cannon sheets. Covered by the faded orange comforter, Ron slept squashed against the wall with Harry dangling off the edge until he either fell off, or was pushed off by Ron if he got too hot in the night from the furnace of heat constantly radiating from Harry’s body.
Ron stood in front of him now. His arms were braced on either side of Harry’s head as he leaned into him. Tilting his head back, giving Ron access to his neck, Harry exposed his throat, eager for the feel of Ron’s lips against his skin despite his weak protests. His hand gripped Ron’s bicep as if to pull his arm down, to pull away, but he was really hanging on as Ron began attacking his neck.
The full moon had coincided with the Christmas holiday, and it had Harry’s desire running wild tonight. He could smell his own arousal and Ron’s. It smelled like pungent spices and musk, but also shame.
There was always an element of shame in sex, for Harry, anyway. He felt shame in his desire for it, shame in the act itself and who he was engaging in it with, particularly in the things he occasionally did with Draco, or the things he begged from Ron sometimes when his anxiety was high. He didn’t think Ron or Hermione felt the same, but he would never stop loathing himself for taking what they offered him, for needing it so badly. The shame was in his inability to say no to it, and in not regretting it more when it was over. He told himself it was time to let them go, to give them back to each other, but at the first touch from either of them, his resolve crumbled and the shame intensified.
He’d infected them, both of them, and he’d have to live with that for the rest of his life, he knew, but he couldn’t give them up, couldn’t live without them, and he hated himself for it. He needed them to keep him sane, to hold him up, and to hold him together, to keep the outside world at bay, and they did it without complaint, but he knew it was wrong. He knew in his heart that he was using them, asking too much of them, but God help him, he couldn’t stop, even if his life depended on it because he would fall apart without them, and not just Ron and Hermione. It was Ginny, and the Weasley’s, Dean and Luna, Neville and Abeforth, Madame Pomfrey, Hagrid and the rest of the Hogwarts staff, too, even Draco.
It was as if they were all in a kind of choreographed dance around him, sliding seamlessly between tempos and partners, twirling around him, handing him off between them. Moving in circles, in layers, they weaved in and out of each other as they passed him between themselves, keeping him on his feet, never letting him fall.
He closed his eyes. The smell of cinnamon and the forest filled his nostrils as he breathed in deeply, inhaling Ron’s scent, that strange mixture of spices and earth that was Ron’s essence, into his lungs, absorbing it into his skin.
“Door’s locked,” Rom mumbled against the hollow of his throat, “Imperturbable charm.”
Licking his way up Harry’s neck, Ron whispered nasty things against his damp, heated skin, making vulgar suggestions into his ear as he ran his hands all over Harry’s body. Saying things he wanted to do to Harry, things he wanted Harry to do to him, which caused Harry’s head to swim, his pulse to pound, and his dick to throb.
Harry hurriedly unbuckled Ron’s belt. Overwhelmed by the urgency of his need, he tried to slide, somewhat awkwardly, down the wall. Ron halted him with a hand to his chest, and he went to his own knees in front of Harry, instead. Working his belt loose, and then his trousers and boxers down to his thighs, Ron freed Harry’s cock to take him into his mouth. Harry hissed as his bare, still slightly sore arse, pressed against the cold, rough textured wall.
Holding him by the hips, Ron swallowed him whole, sliding him completely in and out of his mouth, between those full, kiss swollen lips, against his thick, talented tongue, and down his slick throat in slow, rhythmic strokes while Harry gripped him by the hair, squeezing his eyes shut against the pleasure.
Ron made short work of Harry, bringing him quickly to orgasm. Harry held his breath to keep from yelling out and bringing the whole house down on them, when he came. He was dizzy, weak in the knees, grateful he was leaning against the wall when Ron stood again and kissed him.
Tasting himself on his lover’s tongue, Harry let Ron plunder his mouth and roughly grind against him while his own hands grabbed fistfuls of ginger hair. Then Ron stepped back and slid Harry’s glasses off, tossing them onto the camp bed while Harry tried to toe off his trainers without tangling himself up and falling down.
Ron looked Harry up and down a moment, his eyes dark, his swollen lips parted, and then, without a word, he turned him. Pressing Harry’s chest and face against the wall, Ron went to his knees again. Stepping out of one leg of his trousers, which were now pooled at his ankles to widen his stance, Harry braced himself against the wall by his forearms for what was coming as Ron ran his hands over Harry’s arse. Examining the still pink marks from his own handprints, Ron soothed the bruised flesh before spreading him open with his thumbs. Then he ran his tongue around the tight ring of muscles to begin preparing him.
“Oh, God,” Harry moaned at the contact, pressing his forehead hard against the wall. His legs started to shake. It felt so good, and even though he’d already come, he found himself hardening once more.
The marks on his arse were another thing that made him feel shameful, but Harry had been desperate last night. Dreading having to face this first Christmas morning in the absence of so many, he’d had to beg Ron again because Ron hated doing it.
The first time it had happened was soon after the battle, and they were in a tiny hotel room in Darwin. Hermione was sleeping over at her parent’s, leaving Harry and Ron alone in the room together at night. Seeing his own face staring at him from the cover of the newspaper, Harry had crawled over Ron’s lap to collect the Daily Prophet from the side table and Ron had slapped Harry’s bare arse in mock irritation. The slight sting of Ron's hand against his tender flesh, followed by the rush of heat, and the shock and unexpectedness of the blow made Harry go instantly hard.
“Oh, fuck!” he’d yelped, flopping down across Ron’s lap. “Do… do that again, Ron.”
“What?” Ron spluttered.
“Please,” Harry begged, pressing his face into the mattress in embarrassment of his reaction and the humiliating realization that he desperately desired more. “Hit me harder.”
“Harry, I—”
“Please,” he pleaded, writhing in Ron’s lap while Ron soothed the spot, rubbing his bum in small circles.
Then Ron reluctantly removed the hand, before returning it again swiftly. The sound of his palm making contact with Harry’s skin cracked in the room, and Harry moaned with both pleasure and pain, burrowing his ridged rod between Ron’s thighs.
“Again!” he demanded, his voice muffled against the bed sheets he had gripped in his fists while he trembled with anticipation, trying to hold himself steady and not hump Ron’s lap.
Perhaps against his better judgment, Ron obliged, striking him in the same spot as the previous one so that the skin flared and burned. Harry gasped at the shock of pain, but wanted more. Much more. Whimpering, flooded with disgust by his actions, but frantic for more, he lifted his hips to present a better target, which caused his cock, dripping with arousal, to slide between Ron’s tightly pressed thighs. After about five more blows, Harry was howling, his arse on fire as he came onto Ron’s lap.
“F... fuck me now,” Harry ordered breathlessly, still shaking violently from the echoes of his powerful orgasm, and burning with shame.
“Harry, I don’t think I should,” Ron argued.
But Harry was having none of it. Ron was hard, too. Harry could feel it. He was thoroughly aroused, if not by his own actions, then certainly by Harry’s reaction to them.
“I need it,” he moaned, rolling his hips to grind against Ron like some kind of cock hungry whore.
“This is a bad idea,” Ron growled, but he was already sliding out from under Harry to crawl between his legs.
Harry pulled his knees up, his chest still flat against the mattress while Ron pressed a wet finger against his entrance.
“Just do it, Ron!” he demanded, irritated by the delay in the punishment he suddenly craved.
“No!” Ron denied him angrily. “God damn it, Harry! I’m not doing that.”
Harry whined in frustration, his forehead pressed against the mattress as he pushed back against Ron’s hand impatiently. He felt desperate, stymied by Ron’s refusal, but he didn’t continue to argue, and soon enough, Ron was pounding into him. Hammering his prostate over and over, Ron pulled Harry into him by the hips while tears leaked out of his eyes and into the sheet below him.
“Harder,” he grunted before the breath was forced out of him again as Ron slammed into him, his stomach slapping against the bruised flesh of Harry’s backside.
“Shut up!” Ron gasped.
Harry came again when Ron had begun painting his insides with his own orgasm before falling onto Harry’s back. Then, unable to hold it in any longer, Harry started weeping in abject misery. Wallowing in self hatred at what he’d just made Ron do to him, he wailed in agony as the grief trapped inside him for so long finally broke free and flooded out of him.
“Don't… don’t tell Hermione,” he sobbed. “Don’t tell her about this… please, Ron.”
“I won’t,” Ron whispered, wrapping his arms around Harry and pulling him against his chest. “I promise. Just hush now. It’s going to be all right. I won’t tell her.”
Ron held Harry’s shaking body against him then until the tremors wracking him subsided and he’d finally cried himself out. He whispered soothingly to Harry, stroking his hair until Harry fell asleep again in his embrace, exhausted and emotionally drained.
He’d kept his word. He hadn’t told Hermione, even when Harry had asked for it again. He’d tried not to because he knew Ron hated it, and Harry hated making him, but sometimes he couldn’t help it. Then he’d found Draco, who was willing to do more than Ron. Unafraid to inflict the kind of pain on Harry that he desperately craved, Draco willingly gave him the outlet he needed to satisfy the desire for violence and humiliation that Harry couldn’t relieve in any other way.
The good news was that he finally seemed to have worked much of the rage out of him during his sessions with Draco. He hadn’t felt the unbearable need for punishment for a while now. The last time he’d seen Draco was in mid November, and last night was the first time he’d been driven to ask Ron in a very long time.
The stress of the holiday and being in such close quarters with everyone, especially Ginny while the moon was full, had just overwhelmed him. He’d felt as if his skin was on fire all day yesterday. It itched and burned until he thought he would go mad. That, coupled with the sounds and smells surrounding him and bombarding his senses, had pushed him over the edge. Thank God, Ron could see his torment and obliged him without complaint.
The aching soreness of his arse every time he sat down today and the slight chafing burn when he walked had distracted him and kept him calm enough to actually enjoy himself for much of the day. Harry owed Ron much more than the fuck he was about to allow him for keeping him from being the complete loon he knew he would have been today without it. He’d tried to show his thanks earlier, but Ron had stopped him. Maybe later tonight he would get his chance, he thought as Ron continued to rim him expertly.
Probing his hole, Ron fucked him with his slippery tongue and long, nimble fingers until Harry was begging his best friend to fuck him with what was between his legs, instead. So Ron did. Casting a quick lubrication charm, he eased into Harry slowly. Harry grunted against the slight pain of being stretched open, though the muscles were relaxed, and he was totally ready for the invasion of Ron’s considerable cock into his tight passage. When Ron had fully seated himself, Harry pressed his forehead against the wall again, panting at being filled so completely.
His palms lay flat, his fingers curling, nails digging, trying to find purchase against the painted plaster when Ron began to move. Weeping strings of clear pre-come onto the hardwood floor, Harry drew patterns with it as his own cock bobbed between his spread legs with each of Ron’s thrusts. He cried out when Ron found that spot inside him and brushed against it on every other collision into him, unable to keep silent tonight against the explosion of sensation it caused in him. Harry was whimpering, mewling piteously by the time Ron reached around and ran his finger over the head of Harry’s aching cock.
"Oh, God. Please, Ron!" he begged, desperate for Ron to wrap those teasing fingers around him. Forcing his cock to slide through Ron's tightened fist with each of his thrusts to bring on his own orgasm.
"No," Ron growled in his ear. "I want you to come from just my cock alone tonight."
Harry whined in protest. "You cruel bastard," he gasped. He would have reached down and done it himself, but he couldn't without having his face smashed into the wall as hard as Ron was pummeling his arse.
"You love it when I'm cruel," Ron countered, still circling the rim of Harry's cock maddeningly with his finger. "Don't you?"
"Yes!" Harry admitted in a hiss. And he did. God help him, he did.
Soon enough, Ron got his wish. On the first convulsion of Harry's cock, Ron finally closed his hand around him tightly, heightening his pleasure. Harry was biting down on his own arm to muffle the scream of relief while his vision dimmed and sparks of light popped before his eyes as Ron came inside him with a growl of his own.
Stroking Harry’s spent cock lazily then and sucking great lung-fulls of air while Harry tried to blink himself back into full consciousness, Ron rested his weight against Harry’s back while he softened inside him before sliding out. Then he reached for his wand to help clean up the mess he’d left Harry in, and the wall, and the floor, and their discarded clothes, after tucking himself back into his boxers and kicking off his own trousers.
“Hermione is going to be pissed she didn’t get to see that, but I couldn’t wait to see if she was going to try and sneak up here tonight,” Ron told him, breathing hard as Harry worked his jumper over his head, his sweaty body making the job difficult. “You’re so bloody shaggable, Harry.”
“Thanks,” he replied dryly, letting out a derisive snort. “I guess I’ll have to take the blame then. I just hope she doesn’t want me to make it up to her right away if she shows up. I think I might be shagged out for a bit. I nearly blacked out from that last one.”
Ron grinned at him. “I’m sure we can find other ways for you to be useful,” he said and lightly slapped Harry on his sore arse, making Harry gasp and his damned indefatigable cock jump again.
“Oh, good. Well as long as I can be useful,” he replied sarcastically, rubbing his flaming cheek in pleasure. “I’d hate to be a disappointment, especially not on Christmas.”Stepping past Ron, Harry made his way, on wobbly legs, slowly to the bed and lay face down, his arms thrown out to the sides.
“You all right, mate?” Ron asked, sounding a bit worried.
“Yeah ‘m fine,” he mumbled against the pillow. “Just knackered.”
Putting a knee on the bed between Harry’s legs, one hand braced next to his head, Ron leaned down and ran a hand up Harry’s spine. Pushing down, using two fingers and his thumb to dig into the muscles, he massaged his way up from the dimples of Harry’s lower back, still moist with sweat from the workout he’d just had with his hot jumper still on, up to his neck while Harry groaned in appreciation.
“Are you sure? You seemed kinda down today.”
Harry turned his head to the side, letting Ron work on his shoulders and neck now with those strong, talented fingers. “You don’t have to worry over me all the time, you know? Take a day off, Ron. I’m okay, really. It’s just the first Christmas… There are so many that aren’t here.”
Pausing a minute, Ron leaned farther down and planted a kiss on Harry’s spine, between his shoulder blades. “Yeah,” he whispered in agreement, and then slid further down, kissing him in the curve of his lower back. “I know.”
Harry moaned. “You need a shave,” he told him on a sigh as Ron’s chin scraped against his tender skin. “I’ve got whisker burn in places I really shouldn’t.”
Ron chuckled. His breath blew against the fine hairs and over-sensitized skin on Harry’s back, making it prickle with gooseflesh and causing Harry to shiver. The mattress dipped a moment as Ron left the bed.
Harry lay there with his eyes closed, boneless, and totally relaxed from Ron’s ministrations. He listened, feeling content to remain right where he was in this prone position for the rest of the night as Ron removed his remaining clothing. He wasn’t budging from this spot, he decided. Ron could take the camp bed tonight, Harry thought, feeling too weak and relaxed to move, like all his muscles had been liquefied.
When Ron returned to him, Harry smelled the mint only a second before Ron’s hands were on him again. He let out a yelp of surprise as a slick, freezing digit slid into the cleft of his arse, followed by Ron’s thumb as he massaged a dollop of Madam Pomfrey’s ointment into Harry’s abused skin.
“Damn it, Ron, that’s cold!” he gasped, trying to clamp his legs together, clenching his muscles.
“Hold still,” Ron commanded. “And spread you legs for me.” His other hand was on Harry’s back, between his shoulders. As Ron pressed down with what felt like his full weight to hold him in place, he wedged a knee between Harry’s thighs.
“Fuck you! You could warn a bloke, you know?” he growled in outrage, still struggling to turn over, crawl away, or pull Ron’s hand from between his legs with little success. “Where the hell did you get that stuff from anyway?”
Ron held him pinned to the mattress while Harry squirmed under him, attempting to wriggle away from those cold invading fingers.
“There. Better?” Ron asked when he’d managed to work the ointment between and around Harry’s still slightly swollen arse cheeks, his inner thighs and his perineum despite the fact that Harry had been a most uncooperative patient.
“Uh… yeah, I guess so,” he said grudgingly, panting slightly from exertion and from the numbing cold that seemed to be spreading outward, taking his breath away. “Now it just feels totally bizarre. Instead of the slight burning, it’s freezing and numb.” He shivered. “I think my bollocks have shriveled up and gone back up inside me from the cold. They might never drop back down again now. So thanks for that, git.”
Ron snorted, peeling off Harry’s mismatched socks and tossing them to the floor. “You shouldn’t have complained, then. I keep that stuff in my bag. It’s dead useful. Besides, I like the way it smells on you.”
“Yeah well, it feels like you just shoved ice cubes up my arse and let them melt between my legs. I don’t think that stuff is supposed to be used there.”
“Jeez. Stop being so stroppy.”
Ron stroked the bottom of each of Harry’s feet once with that still icy digit before crawling over him to take his spot on the bed. Lying down with his back against the wall, Ron threw a leg over Harry’s while Harry turned his head to look at him. Budging up slightly, grudgingly for Ron, Harry stubbornly continued to remain spread eagle on the mattress, taking up more than his share of space on the tiny bed.
“You spent a lot of time with Ginny today.” Ron announced quietly once he’d settled on the bed as comfortably as he could. He watched Harry for his reaction to the unexpected comment, but Harry didn’t respond. “I think she’s still in love with you.”
Harry stared at Ron a moment, before pulling up reluctantly to rest on his forearms.
“You still care about her, too. Don’t you?” Ron continued.
“This isn’t the pillow talk I was expecting,” Harry responded, deflecting the question. “I really don’t think now is the time to ask me how I might still feel about your sister. Not while I’m lying naked next to you in your bed, right after I just let you fuck me stupid against your bedroom wall.”
Ron smiled. “I’m just saying. I still think things can work out between you two if you want them to and will let it.”
“Right,” he scoffed. “I’m sure she’d be just fine finding out about all this.” He twisted his wrist to indicate the two of them. “And with Hermione, too. That conversation would go over real well.”
“I think you underestimate her. If I know my sister, she already knows, or at the very least, suspects what’s going on. It doesn’t seem to have dampened how she feels about you.”
“You’re completely mental, Ron. Just shut up, all right?” Leaning in, he kissed Ron briefly on the lips to soften his harsh words, then rolled over, pressing his back against Ron’s chest and nestling against him.
He didn’t want to think about Ginny right now, or explore what was in his heart. It was still too painful sometimes. They’d just finally worked themselves back into a close friendship. Harry could be in the same room with her now, alone even, without feeling completely panicked, or feeling like he might burst into tears if she touched him. He wasn’t ready for more than that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Harry knew she still cared for him, or who he had been, at least. He didn’t need Ron to tell him that. But he was living in a kind of limbo, still not reconciled with his past, nor solidified into his future, and still leeching off his best friends. Harry wasn’t sure who he was, anymore. He only knew he wasn’t who the public thought he was, and he wasn’t who Ginny thought he was, either. They loved an image or a memory of him, not the reality of him.
Seeing Ginny everyday at Hogwarts was agony because he couldn’t turn himself back into that boy again. Yet he wasn’t able to resist being close to her, either. He was constantly riddled with guilt for not being able to end his other relationships for Ginny, for not letting her move on to someone who was truly good for her. He was too big a coward to tell her the truth about himself, and unable to end the fantasy he knew she still harbored that the Harry she remembered would eventually comeback to her. Worst of all, he was corrupting her, too. Unable to let go, he dragged her through this pain with him. She didn’t know him anymore, and he couldn’t tell her who he really was, or what he’d done while they were apart, but he was still so in love with her. It’s what hurt the most.
Harry had actually tried to encourage Dean to reconcile with Ginny, once, to put an end to his own hope, but Dean wasn’t interested. He’d actually laughed in Harry’s face at the suggestion.
“Ginny doesn’t want me, mate,” he’d told Harry, shaking his head. “She never did. There’s only one person who’s ever had her heart, and it was never me.” Then he squeezed Harry’s shoulder consolingly.
“You’re a good friend, Dean,” Harry whispered miserably. “Better than I deserve.”
Slinging his book bag over his shoulder, Dean turned back to face Harry, looking him in the eyes. “Then as your friend, you should know that when I tell you you’re a fucking twat for trying to send me back into the lion’s den again with that vicious woman, that I mean it with all the love and respect in the world. Blimey, Harry! She’d rip me apart if I tried to go another round with her, that is, if you didn’t get to me first.”
Harry still remembered the mix of disappointment and relief he’d felt watching Dean as he’d left the dorm.
“Next time, can’t I just tell you what a great lover you are? How you can make me come with just your words, or something like that. Isn’t that what normal people do after they have mind blowing sex?” Harry grumbled to Ron, tugging on the single pillow they were both trying to share, taking more of it for himself.
Ron remained silent, but Harry felt like he could feel his best friend smirking at him, and then after a minute, he pulled the blanket over them both.
“Night, Harry,” Ron sighed, sliding a hand down Harry’s arm before curling it around his waist.
Tucking his face into Harry’s neck, he pressed his lips to Harry’s shoulder, his breath blowing against Harry’s warm skin. It was comforting, and Harry relaxed back against Ron completely.
“Night,” he whispered.
He dreamt of Bellatrix that night, of how she looked when he’d faced Voldemort in the forest, the way her bosom swelled over her tight corset. But it was a memory, not a nightmare. He remembered the excitement in her face at the sight of him, the anticipation of the meeting of her two greatest obsessions. It was bizarre, or perhaps not, that it was she who held his focus, instead of the mortal enemy he was facing off against. Absurd that he’d dwelled on her breasts, of all things, while awaiting his imminent death.
He still had nightmares all the time at Hogwarts, mostly about what had happened to him at the Malfoy’s, which, of course, featured Bellatrix heavily. Luckily he and Ron shared a dorm with just Dean, who at least had some understanding of what Harry had been through, having lived through his own time in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor at Bellatrix’s mercy. Dean never seemed put-out or even mentioned all the nights Harry had woken him with his screams. The only time Harry was ever really free of the nightmares was when he slept with Hermione and Ron next to him. The comfort of their bodies so close to his seemed to keep them at bay, giving him peace.
Harry lay awake, blinking in the darkness after the dream, concentrating on regulating his heartbeat and breathing. It was a technique he employed in an effort to relax himself back into a state where he might again be able to sleep and tonight, it was working.
Beside him, Ron gave him a hard shove suddenly, and Harry, unprepared, slipped onto the floor. Snorting, he got to his feet again and stared down at Ron who was now sprawled on his back in the middle of the bed, snoring contentedly. Harry crawled back onto it, remembering that he owed Ron a thank you.

Luna and her father came for lunch on Boxing day, and she brought along Neville and his grandmother. Harry sat at the kitchen table holding Teddy with Ginny sitting beside him, as usual, while he tried to listen with interest to Xeno and Luna’s outlandish tales and Neville’s much more mundane ones, but no less enthusiastic of his days working at the Apothecary. Teddy reached for his glasses before Harry could stop him and immediately put them in his mouth to coat them with slobber. Hermione rolled her eyes from her spot opposite him as Harry chuckled, trying to pull them out of the child’s grip. Ginny took them from him and wiped the lenses clean on her shirt.
Harry smiled at her gratefully, feeling his cheeks flush slightly as she handed them back, and he nervously slid them back on. He readjusted the squirming baby in his lap before turning back to their guests to pick up the thread of their conversation. Harry felt genuinely happy, calm and content as he stroked Teddy’s bright purple hair while he slapped his chubby palms on the scrubbed wooden table, reveling in the racket he was making.
“You’re a natural, Harry,” Luna told him, watching Harry carefully with those magnifying eyes as Teddy now inserted a tiny finger into his even more miniscule nostril and began rooting around industriously. “Someday, you’re going to be a great father.”
Her words seemed to echo out at him from a great distance, spoken in his own voice. He’d said almost the exact same words to Teddy’s father the day he was born, yet Remus had hardly had the chance to prove him right. He would have, though, Harry knew he would have. The thought made his heart constrict as his face went redder.
Ron arched an eyebrow. Then he winked at Harry from across the table before taking a sip of his tea while Hermione blinked the wetness from her eyes.
Maybe, he thought pulling Teddy’s hand away and holding it as he reached for the cloth draped over his shoulder to wipe it clean. Maybe someday he would.
Giggling, the natural golden eyes of his father twinkling mischievously up at Harry, Teddy slowly raised his free hand to return a finger to his nostril so that he might continue to mine for bogeys.
Harry sighed. He’d have to master being a good godfather first.
One step at a time, he thought. One little baby step at a time.

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What it comes down to