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The Great Hall's enchanted ceiling showed a promisingly clear Saturday morning, though Harry barely noticed it through the steam rising from his porridge. He was too focused on the way Hermione methodically sectioned her grapefruit while reading the Daily Prophet, occasionally making small sounds of disgust at whatever Rita Skeeter had written. Ginny sat across from them, buttering her toast with the kind of aggressive enthusiasm that suggested she was imagining it was someone's face.
"Oh, brilliant," Ginny said suddenly, her knife pausing mid-spread. She was looking at the notice board that had materialized near the Gryffindor table. "Hogsmeade weekend. About time—I need new quills and Honeydukes' entire stock of chocolate cauldrons."
Harry's spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. The forest near the village. Sirius. The perfect opportunity clicked into place like a well-oiled lock.
"That's today?" he asked, trying to sound casual despite the sudden quickening of his pulse.
"Tomorrow, actually." Ginny's eyes gleamed. "Our first proper public outing as Hogwarts' most scandalous throuple."
Hermione lowered her newspaper with a soft rustle that somehow managed to sound disapproving. "People will mind their own business."
Ginny's snort could have stripped paint. "Oh, Hermione. Sweet, naive, brilliant Hermione." She leaned forward conspiratorially, though her voice carried to at least three nearby tables. "The entire school's going to be watching Harry Potter parade through Hogsmeade with two girlfriends. By Monday, half the girls in school will be drafting applications to be number three."
"Should I prepare a formal interview process?" Harry asked dryly. "Essay questions? Practical demonstrations?"
"Well, Susan Bones already submitted her resume yesterday," Ginny said with a wicked grin. "Very... thorough qualifications."
Harry felt heat creep up his neck. "We're not inviting Susan."
"Why not? She's got excellent references." Ginny waggled her eyebrows. "Two of them, actually. Very prominent."
"Ginny!" Hermione hissed, though Harry caught her fighting a smile.
"What? I'm just saying, if we're collecting the set—"
"We could call ourselves the House Cup," Harry said before he could stop himself.
Ginny's delighted cackle turned several heads. Even Hermione covered her mouth to hide her laugh.
"That's terrible," she said, but her eyes were bright with amusement.
Harry pulled parchment from his bag, already composing the coded message in his head. =
"I need to send a letter with Hedwig," he said, keeping his voice neutral. "Order from that catalog Hermione mentioned."
Hermione's eyebrow twitched—she hadn't mentioned any catalog—but she caught on quickly. "The one with the defensive texts? Good idea."
As Harry wrote, carefully embedding the meeting confirmation between innocuous book orders, he became aware of a prickling sensation at the back of his neck. The angry-hornets buzz of someone glaring. He didn't need to look to know it was Ron, probably sitting with Seamus and Dean, probably stabbing his eggs like they'd personally betrayed him.
The friendship felt like a phantom limb sometimes—four years of muscle memory making Harry want to turn and share a joke, only to remember the amputation.
"He's doing that thing again," Ginny said quietly, and Harry knew she meant Ron. "Where he tries to set your head on fire with his eyes."
"Let him," Harry said, sealing the letter. The wax made a satisfying snap. "I've faced dragons. I think I can handle my ex-best friend's temper tantrum."
But even as he said it, Harry caught Ginny's expression—part sympathy, part frustration. She'd lost a brother in this too, in a way.
Hedwig swooped down as if summoned, landing with perfect poise despite the butter dish in her path. She held out her leg imperiously, amber eyes conveying that this letter better be important enough to interrupt her morning hunt.
"It's for Padfoot," Harry whispered as he tied the message. Her entire demeanor shifted, affectionate now, nipping his finger gently before launching herself toward the ceiling.
"So," Hermione said, folding her paper with crisp precision, "tomorrow we brave the masses?"
"Tomorrow we give them something to talk about," Ginny corrected, then paused. "Actually, you know what the best part is? Lavender Brown told me yesterday that Padma Patil's been asking about you, Harry. Something about 'powerful wizards' and 'ancient customs.'"
Harry groaned. "You're joking."
"Nope. Apparently, your little dragon stunt's got half the girls reconsidering your market value." Ginny's grin turned predatory. "We might need to start charging admission for the Harry Potter Girlfriend Experience."
"I hate all of you," Harry said without heat.
"Liar," Ginny and Hermione said in unison.
As students began filtering out for weekend activities, Harry noticed the whispers following them—not quite pointing, but obvious enough. Tomorrow would be worse. Tomorrow would be a statement.
Good, he thought with sudden fierceness. Let them talk. He had more important things to worry about than gossip.
The abandoned classroom smelled of dust and failed experiments—a combination Harry was becoming intimately familiar with. Afternoon sunlight slanted through grimy windows, casting long shadows that seemed to lean toward him like eager pupils waiting for instruction.
"Right," Harry muttered, rolling his shoulders. "Shadow duplicate. Can't be that hard. I've already made swords, shields, and that thing that might have been a hat."
"Pretty sure that was supposed to be a helmet," Ginny said from her perch on a desk, swinging her legs. She'd positioned herself perfectly in a shaft of sunlight, making her hair glow like copper fire. Harry suspected this was deliberate.
"It had ear flaps."
"Viking helmets have ear flaps."
"It also had what looked like a tea cozy on top."
"Revolutionary design. You'll start a trend."
Harry focused on the shadows pooling in the corner, trying to remember what he looked like. Black hair, definitely. Glasses. Some sort of face, presumably. The shadow rose obediently, forming a vaguely humanoid shape that looked like someone had melted a mannequin and tried to reconstruct it from memory.
"That's..." Ginny tilted her head. "Is it having an existential crisis?"
The shadow-thing was indeed drooping, as if contemplating the meaninglessness of its existence. Harry let it dissolve with a frustrated wave.
"Maybe I'm thinking about it wrong," he said, pushing his glasses up. They immediately slid back down—the classroom was oddly warm for December. "I can't see myself properly while I'm casting."
"Tragic, really. Missing out on all this." Ginny gestured at him with theatrical flair. "The heroic jawline, the artistically messy hair, the way you squint when you're concentrating—"
"I don't squint."
"You're doing it right now."
Harry deliberately widened his eyes. Ginny laughed.
"Here's a thought," she said, hopping off the desk. "Try copying me instead. You can look at me while you cast, get the proportions right."
"Create a shadow-Ginny?"
"Exactly. Think of the possibilities." Her grin turned wicked. "You could have two of me."
"The castle would never survive."
"Coward. Imagine it—double the Ginny, double the fun. We could take turns with you, or—"
"I'm begging you to stop talking."
"—coordinate our efforts. Really explore the tactical applications."
Harry was grateful the shadows hid his blush. "Standing right there, please. And no commentary."
Ginny positioned herself in the center of the room, striking a pose that was somehow both ridiculous and oddly graceful—one hand on her hip, the other behind her head like a vintage pin-up.
"Seriously?"
"You want accuracy, don't you?"
Harry focused on the shadows behind her, studying Ginny's outline. Shorter than him, a little athletic build, hair that fell past her shoulders. The shadow began to rise, taking shape with more precision than his previous attempts. It matched her height, her stance, even suggested the fall of her hair.
"That's actually not terrible," Ginny said, circling the shadow-duplicate with interest. "Bit flat, though. Like someone pressed me in a book."
She was right. The shadow-Ginny was recognizable but obviously artificial—a paper doll pretending to be three-dimensional.
"Can you make it move?"
Harry concentrated, trying to make the duplicate wave. Its arm lifted jerkily, like a marionette with tangled strings.
"Creepy," Ginny said with approval. "Very 'possessed doll in an abandoned toy shop.'"
"Thanks for that nightmare."
"Anytime." She moved closer to the shadow-duplicate, examining it with scientific curiosity. "You know what would be really useful? If you could control actual shadows. Not create them, but manipulate existing ones."
Harry paused. "What do you mean?"
"Like..." Ginny looked around, spotting a mouse scurrying along the wall—the classroom's permanent residents were well-fed on dropped sweets and crumbs. "Could you control that mouse's shadow?"
The idea hadn't occurred to Harry. He'd been so focused on creating shadows, shaping them from darkness, but he always used shadows of objects. Never the shadow of living things.
"Only one way to find out."
He let the shadow-Ginny dissolve and focused on the mouse. Its tiny shadow skittered along the floor, perfectly matching its movements. Harry reached out with his magic, trying to grasp it the way he would raw shadow-stuff.
Nothing.
The shadow ignored him completely, remaining stubbornly attached to its owner.
"Maybe you need to ask nicely," Ginny suggested. "Shadows like you, don't they? They do what you want?"
"Usually." Harry tried again, this time attempting to coax rather than command. The mouse's shadow remained unmoved, as if protected by some invisible barrier.
"Hm." Ginny's thoughtful hum usually preceded either brilliant insights or terrible ideas. "What if living things have shadow sovereignty? Like, their shadows are part of them in a way object shadows aren't?"
"Shadow sovereignty? Did you just make that up?"
"All the best magical theories are made up on the spot. Ask Hermione."
As if summoned—and knowing Hogwarts, that was entirely possible—the door opened and Hermione entered, carrying an armload of books that suggested she'd been ravaging the library again.
"Ask me what?" she said, then noticed Harry's exhausted expression. "You've been overdoing it again."
"I've been experimenting," Harry corrected. "There's a difference."
"Yes, one ends with discovery and the other with you passed out in a corridor." She set her books down with a thump that raised dust. "What kind of experimenting?"
"Harry can't make mice shadows disobey," Ginny announced. "We think they're sovereignty-protected."
Hermione's eyes lit up in that particular way that meant Harry was about to receive a lecture. "Oh, that makes sense! Living creatures have magical auras, even non-magical ones. Their shadows would be extensions of that aura, which would naturally resist external control."
"Naturally," Harry muttered, slumping against a desk. The failed attempts had drained him more than he'd expected, as if the mouse's shadow had actively fought back.
"Think about it," Hermione continued, warming to her theme. "If you could control living shadows, you could essentially puppet people. Make their shadow move and they'd have to follow. It would be the ultimate dark art."
"As opposed to all my other completely light and normal abilities," Harry said dryly.
"Your abilities aren't dark," Hermione said firmly. "They're just... morally flexible."
Ginny snorted. "That's what I'm calling everything from now on. 'Professor, I'm not cheating, I'm being morally flexible.'"
"That's not what I—" Hermione stopped, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Why do I bother?"
"Because you love us," Ginny said sweetly. "And our morally flexible shadow puppet shows."
Harry pushed himself off the desk, determined to try once more. "Let me attempt something else. Maybe I'm approaching it wrong."
He focused on the shadows cast by a row of old chairs, trying to make them stretch and dance. As usual, the shadows of objects moved without much effort.
"Hermione, could you cast a Lumos? I want to see how light affects my control."
"Of course." Her wand tip blazed to life, bright and steady.
The shadows recoiled from Harry's touch like they'd been burned, skittering away from his magical grasp. Even the shadows of simple objects—desks, chairs, books—became slippery, impossible to hold.
"That's... interesting," Harry gasped, feeling like he was trying to grab water with his bare hands. "Turn it off, please."
The moment Hermione extinguished her wand, the shadows rushed back toward him, eager and apologetic, like dogs that had been forced to stay outside.
"So bright light interferes with your control," Hermione mused. "That could be problematic in a fight."
"Only if someone thinks to use it." Harry tried one more shadow manipulation, making a chair's shadow rear up like a striking snake. The effort sent sharp pains through his temples. "Most people don't immediately think 'Lumos' when facing an opponent."
"Most people aren't facing someone who controls shadows," Ginny pointed out.
Harry wanted to respond, but the exhaustion was settling into his bones like cold water. Every attempt had felt like pushing against an invisible wall that pushed back twice as hard. His magic felt bruised, somehow, as if he'd discovered an entirely new way to overextend himself.
"I think that's enough for today," Hermione said, studying his face with concern. "You look ready to fall over."
"I'm fine."
"You're swaying."
Harry hadn't noticed, but she was right. The room had developed an unfortunate tendency to tilt.
"Maybe a small break," he conceded.
Ginny moved closer, her hand sliding along his arm in a way that was definitely not meant to be purely supportive. "I can think of several ways to help you feel better," she said, her voice dropping to that particular register that made Harry's exhausted brain spark with interest. "Very hands-on recovery methods."
"Ginny," Hermione said, though her tone was more fond than scolding. "Harry needs actual rest."
"Rest can be very... therapeutic," Ginny continued, her fingers tracing patterns on Harry's sleeve. "Especially the kind that involves lying down. Together. For medicinal purposes."
Harry felt his face heat despite his exhaustion. "I'm not sure that's what healers mean by bed rest."
"Shows what they know." Ginny's grin was positively wicked. "I bet our way is much more effective."
Hermione sighed, though Harry caught her fighting a smile. "As much as I'm not entirely opposed to Ginny's... recovery suggestions, you genuinely need to rest first. Later tonight, after you've eaten and actually recovered, then we can explore alternative therapeutic methods."
"Promise?" Ginny asked, directing the question at both of them.
"If Harry's recovered enough," Hermione said primly, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the pink tinge to her cheeks.
"I'll be very recovered," Harry said quickly. "Extremely recovered. The most recovered anyone's ever been."
Hermione was already packing up her books, shooting them both fond but exasperated looks. "Come on, Shadow Boy. Let's get you some food before you strategically nap through our Hogsmeade plans."
As they left the classroom, Harry noticed the mouse had returned, seemingly unbothered by his attempts to hijack its shadow. It sat up on its hind legs, whiskers twitching, almost like it was laughing at him.
Even the mice were critics now.
But Ginny's question lingered. If living shadows were protected, independent, sovereign... what did that mean for his abilities? What doors was he trying to open, and more importantly—remembering Lady Peverell's warning from his dream—what might be waiting on the other side?
The shadows in the corridor seemed to whisper possibilities, none of them entirely comforting.
Night - Gryffindor Common Room
The fire crackled low in the Gryffindor common room hearth, casting dancing shadows across crimson furniture. Well past midnight, the tower lay silent except for three figures tangled together on the plush sofa nearest the dying flames.
Harry's exhaustion from shadow practice had vanished entirely, replaced by the familiar heat pooling in his stomach as Hermione's lips moved against his. Her hands tangled in his messy hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan into her mouth.
"Someone could come down," Hermione whispered against his lips, even as her body pressed closer. Her practical nature warred with desire, creating that delicious tension Harry had come to adore. "The stairs—"
"Are charmed," Ginny interrupted from where she knelt between Harry's legs, her fingers working at his belt buckle with practiced ease. "I may have tweaked them earlier. Anyone tries to come down, they'll suddenly remember urgent homework." Her grin was pure mischief. "Live a little, Hermione."
"That's—" Hermione's protest died as Harry's tongue traced the sensitive spot just below her ear. "Oh, that's actually quite clever."
"I have my moments." Ginny's voice carried smug satisfaction as she finally conquered Harry's belt. The metallic clink seemed impossibly loud in the quiet room. "Besides, after watching you two dance around each other for years, I'm not letting a little thing like propriety ruin my fun now."
Harry's hands found Hermione's waist, fingers sliding beneath her jumper to trace the warm skin underneath. She shivered at his touch, her academic composure cracking further with each caress. The firelight painted her skin golden, highlighting the flush spreading down her neck.
"This is still crazy," Hermione breathed, but her hips rolled against Harry's thigh, betraying her arousal. "Anyone could—fuck!"
The curse escaped as Ginny freed Harry's cock from his trousers. Nine thick inches sprang forth, already hard and glistening at the tip. Even after months together, the sight still made both girls' breath catch. Ginny's brown eyes darkened with hunger as she wrapped her hand around the base, her fingers barely meeting.
"Merlin, Harry," Ginny purred, pumping slowly. "Every time I see this magnificent cock, I wonder how we got so lucky." Pre-cum beaded at the tip, and she caught it with her thumb, spreading the slickness down his length. "I was very surprised, but I wonder how miss Books over here reacted when she saw it, did she faint?"
"I did not faint," Hermione protested weakly, though her eyes remained fixed on Ginny's ministrations. "I was simply... surprised by the proportions."
Harry groaned as Ginny's hot breath ghosted over his cock. She was teasing. Her tongue darted out, barely grazing the sensitive head, and his hips bucked involuntarily.
"Patience," Ginny chided playfully. "We have all night." She placed open-mouthed kisses along his shaft, worshipping every inch with lips and tongue. "Want to savor this. Want to taste every bit of you."
The wet heat of her mouth finally enveloped him, and Harry's head fell back against the sofa. Ginny had always been enthusiastic, but tonight she seemed determined to destroy his control entirely. She took him deep, relaxing her throat to accommodate his length, her nose brushing the dark curls at his base.
"Fuck, Gin," Harry gasped, one hand tangling in her fiery hair while the other continued exploring Hermione's curves. "Your mouth... shit..."
Hermione watched with dilated pupils, her breathing ragged. The sight of her girlfriend's lips stretched around their boyfriend's cock never failed to ignite her like a fire. She captured Harry's mouth again, swallowing his moans as Ginny established a rhythm.
The redhead pulled back slowly, hollowing her cheeks to create delicious suction. Her tongue swirled around the crown, dipping into the slit to taste the steady stream of pre-cum. Harry produced so much—another magical quirk that both girls had come to appreciate immensely.
"You taste incredible," Ginny murmured before diving back down. She took him to the root again, holding him there as her throat constricted around him. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes from the effort, but her moan of satisfaction vibrated through his entire length.
Harry's control frayed further as Ginny bobbed faster, her hand working what her mouth couldn't take. Wet, obscene sounds filled the common room—the slick slide of lips on cock, Harry's desperate groans, Hermione's hitched breathing. The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney, as if responding to their passion.
"Hermione," Ginny pulled off with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting her swollen lips to Harry's cock. "Come help me. He's close—I can feel him throbbing."
The brunette slid off the sofa to join Ginny on the floor. The plush carpet cushioned her knees as she leaned in, inhaling Harry's musky scent. Her analytical mind catalogued every detail—the prominent veins, the angry red color of the head, the way his balls had drawn up tight.
"Together?" Hermione asked softly.
"Together," Ginny confirmed with a wicked grin.
They moved in unison, tongues meeting at Harry's tip before trailing down opposite sides of his shaft. The dual sensation nearly undid him—Hermione's tentative but thorough exploration contrasting with Ginny's confident enthusiasm. They kissed around his cock, tongues tangling as they shared his taste.
"Fucking hell," Harry groaned, his hands finding both their heads. "You're both so perfect. So fucking perfect."
Ginny took him deep again while Hermione focused on his balls, sucking one then the other into her warm mouth. The brunette had discovered early on how sensitive Harry was there, how the gentle attention could push him from aroused to desperate in seconds.
"That's it," Ginny encouraged when she came up for air. "He loves that. Watch—" She demonstrated by pressing her tongue flat against the underside of his cock, dragging slowly from base to tip. "Right there, that spot makes him crazy."
Hermione followed suit on the next pass, marveling at how Harry's entire body tensed. His cock jumped against her lips, another surge of pre-cum coating her tongue.
They found a rhythm, trading off who took him deep while the other lavished attention on his shaft and balls. Harry's breathing grew ragged, punctuated by curses and their names falling from his lips like prayers.
"Close," Harry warned through gritted teeth. "Fuck, I'm so close. Where—"
"Hermione hasn't tasted you tonight," Ginny said decisively, guiding Harry's cock toward the brunette's eager mouth. "All yours, love. Take all of it."
Hermione wrapped her lips around him just as the first pulse hit. Harry's roar echoed off the stone walls as he came, his cock jerking violently. Rope after rope of thick cum flooding Hermione's mouth faster than she could swallow. It overflowed, dripping down her chin despite her best efforts.
Ginny was there immediately, licking the excess from Hermione's face before kissing her deeply, sharing Harry's taste between them. They continued gently stroking him through the aftershocks, coaxing out every last drop until Harry whimpered from oversensitivity.
"Fucking incredible," Harry panted, boneless against the sofa. "You two are going to kill me one day."
"But what a way to go," Ginny smirked, giving his softening cock one last kiss.
Hermione conjured a warm cloth, cleaning them all. "That was... intense."
"And we're just getting started," Ginny promised, her hand sliding up Hermione's thigh. "Harry needs a few minutes to recover, but I have some ideas about how we can pass the time..."
Outside the tower windows, snow began to fall, but inside their small circle of warmth, the night was far from over.
Tomorrow
Harry kept finding himself positioned between Hermione and Ginny like some sort of protective formation, though he suspected he was the one being protected—from the stares that followed them like particularly persistent ghosts.
"Stop walking like you're heading to your execution," Ginny said, bumping his shoulder. "You've faced dragons. A few nosy students should be nothing."
"Dragons were simpler," Harry muttered. "They just wanted to burn me alive. These people want to dissect my personal life."
"Some of them want to do more than dissect," Hermione said dryly, nodding toward a group of fifth-year Ravenclaws girls who were watching Harry like he was a delicious piece of candy.
The village appeared through the morning mist like something from a Christmas card that hadn't quite decided if it was charming or ominous. Harry could smell woodsmoke and butterscotch from Honeydukes already.
"Right," Hermione said, stopping them just before the main street. "Ground rules. We're acting natural, which means no excessive public displays—"
"Define excessive," Ginny interrupted, already linking her arm through Harry's.
"No snogging," Hermione said firmly. "No groping. No anything that would give McGonagall heart palpitations."
"So I can't even check Harry's Quidditch muscles for proper development?" Ginny asked innocently. "What if it's a medical emergency?"
"Then St. Mungo's is that way," Hermione pointed vaguely northeast.
"Shame," Harry said with mock solemnity. "I was planning to carry you both through the streets bridal-style. Really give them something to talk about."
"One at a time or stacked like luggage?" Ginny asked.
"Dealer's choice."
Hermione's eye roll could have powered a small Lumos charm. "Can we please just have one normal outing?"
The answer, Harry discovered within thirty seconds of entering Honeydukes, was definitively no.
The shop's warmth hit, thick with the scent of chocolate and peppermint. Every surface gleamed with sweets.
"Three Galleons says someone mentions your 'arrangement' within five minutes," Ginny whispered, examining a display of color-changing caramels with feigned fascination.
"No bet," Harry replied, watching a Hufflepuff third-year actually walk into a shelf while staring at them.
They escaped Honeydukes with minimal casualties—just one extremely awkward conversation with Ernie Macmillan about "alternative relationship structures in magical society" that Hermione handled with the kind of patient explanation usually reserved for particularly slow first-years.
The Three Broomsticks was worse. Or better, depending on perspective.
They found a table near the middle—Ginny had vetoed Hermione's suggestion of a corner booth with "We're not hiding, we're revolutionizing"—and Harry felt every eye track their movement like he was a particularly interesting Quidditch play.
"So," Ginny said once they'd ordered, "did you know Marcus Belby tried to impress one of the Beauxbatons girls by juggling bezoars?"
"He didn't," Hermione said, horrified.
"He did. Dropped one in her soup. She hasn't spoken to him since, though that might be because she's still trying to figure out what he was attempting."
Harry let Ginny's gossip wash over him, grateful for the distraction. She had an encyclopedic knowledge of Hogwarts drama that would have been concerning if it wasn't so useful.
"Oh, and speaking of Beauxbatons," Ginny continued, stirring her butterbeer with deliberate casualness, "guess who's been asking the Ravenclaw girls about you?"
Harry's stomach did something complicated. "Who?"
"Fleur Delacour."
The butterbeer Harry had just sipped tried to exit through his nose. "What?"
"Mmm-hmm. Padma told me Fleur's been very interested in your background, your interests..." Ginny's grin turned wicked. "I thought she hated your guts, but maybe now she wants you in her—"
"Ginny!" Hermione's scandalized voice carried across three tables.
"—good graces. What did you think I was going to say?"
Harry was saved from responding by Cedric Diggory's appearance. The Hufflepuff champion stood by their table with Cho Chang, both looking like they'd stepped out of a "Attractive Couples of Hogwarts" calendar.
"Harry," Cedric nodded, genuine warmth in his voice. "Glad to see you're recovering from the first task."
"Glad to see you recovered from being set on fire," Harry replied.
Cedric laughed. "Fair point." He glanced at Hermione and Ginny, then back to Harry with something that might have been approval. "Enjoy your weekend."
As they left, Cho gave Harry a small smile that seemed to say she knew exactly what kind of arrangement they had and found it more amusing than scandalous.
"See?" Ginny said. "Revolutionary."
The warm moment shattered like poorly-cast crystal when Ron entered with Seamus. Harry's former best friend stopped dead in the doorway, his face cycling through expressions like a malfunctioning Sneakoscope—surprise, anger, hurt, more anger.
For a moment that stretched like taffy, they all just stared at each other. The pub's noise seemed to fade, leaving just the sound of Harry's heartbeat and the crackle of the fireplace.
Ron's jaw worked like he was chewing particularly tough words. Then, with a look that could have curdled fresh milk, he turned on his heel and stalked back out.
"Well," Ginny said after a moment, her voice carrying a mix of disappointment and anger, "that was mature."
"He's hurting," Hermione said quietly.
"He's being an arse," Ginny corrected. "There's a difference."
Harry said nothing, watching the door swing shut. The phantom limb of their friendship ached, but differently now—less like loss and more like an old scar in cold weather. Still there, still noticeable, but no longer debilitating.
"Come on," he said finally, raising his butterbeer. "We've got a reputation to revolutionize."
Ginny's laugh was bright enough to chase away shadows—though Harry noticed the actual shadows in the pub still leaned toward him, eager and patient as always.
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