After the Fact

He checked his wristwatch: 12:17. Late again. It was the damn press, he told himself. Always keeping him badgered with questions, until he lost track of where he was supposed to be, and when. With a sigh, Harry redoubled his pace down the familiar cobblestones of Diagon Alley, heading for the newly designed north end, where the new gleaming white tower that was the rebuilt Gringotts reigned over every smaller structure in sight. The end of the war may have changed a lot of things, Harry reflected as he gazed upon the building, but not the fact that Gringotts was still the most respected--and terrifying--wizarding bank in all of England.

But Harry wasn't headed for Gringotts today; he took a sharp left and headed for a smaller, newer establishment: the Stargazer. A ridiculous name, in Harry's opinion, for what was little more than a place for the wizarding wealthy to bump elbows and sip champagne, but it was taking in so much business since its opening during the rebuilding of Diagon Alley that he figured there must be something going for the place. And of course, his current meeting would be here. This particular old school associate would have chosen nowhere else.

It's business today, just business, Harry told himself, which was somewhat comforting. It meant that small talk would be a minimum, and since he was already late, he could beg off early with the excuse that he had loads of work still to get done without being horribly rude.

He pushed open the door of the lobby and was immediately ensconced in the deep, woody smell and dim, romantic lighting. A very pretty witch in a black cocktail dress awaited him at the hostess stand.

"Welcome to the Stargazer," she said. "May I help you?"

"Yes," Harry said, approaching the podium. "I have a noon reservation; my other party is probably already here."

"Of course, Mr. Potter. We have your table all ready," the smiling witch said, motioning to a small wicker basket on the corner of the stand filled with thin metallic stars. Harry nodded to her, then reached in a grabbed a token.

He was instantly transported to the floating dining room above. He tossed the Portkey into the appropriate basket at the entrance of the dining hall, where two white clad greeters stood smiling.

"This way, Mr. Potter," said the one on his left, guiding him through the crowded restaurant towards the table he had requested near the windows. Fewer people would see them there, and obviously, no one would be walking by to look in the windows. The Stargazer, a chic circular building, hovered above the streets of Diagon Alley, floating gently in a familiar path so that the diners could take in a view of the shoppers below without the obnoxious interruption of people constantly peeking in.

As the crossed the room, Harry steeled himself for an hour of unpleasantness. Just don't think about any of it, he told himself as they neared the last row of tables. Forget it ever happened. Just business. Business today, business next week, then you can move on.

"Here you are, Mr. Potter," said the cheerful waiter, stopping abruptly in front of a round table for two. Jerked out of his thoughts, Harry glanced across the table at his companion and froze.

Her head was turned away from him, gazing out the window, and for a moment, he thought he was at the wrong table. But he knew her instantly, instinctively, and the shock of her presence hit him like a punch in the stomach. He inhaled sharply; he hadn't anticipated her being here, her joining them. No one ever wanted to make things easy for them, did they?

She turned as the waiter said his name, pulled out his chair, and the vibrant mane of red hair flipped back over her shoulder. He was mesmerized, as he'd always been mesmerized by those glossy locks. How many times had he twisted those strands around his fingers, caressed those gorgeous curls?

His eyes found hers, and he registered the shock in her face. She hadn't been expecting him either, it seemed, and she was right not to. It had been at least a year since they'd spoken...was it more? It seemed like more, to him. Every day he'd spent without her at first had seemed a decade. How many times had he restrained himself from running back, from finding her? How many times had he, in his utmost agony, called her name? Screamed her name?

"Ginny," he breathed, and the word itself wrenched him from his shock. He realized he was still standing stupidly beside his chair, the waiter gone, the restaurant still noisy and spinning about him.

"Harry," Ginny said, only the slightest waver in her voice. "You...they sent...I...didn't know you worked for the Ministry now."

"No," he said, sitting down at last as his senses returned to him, placing his folder on the table. "I wouldn't have expected you to. It hasn't been long. Four months, maybe."

"Oh," she said, glancing at his folder, emblazoned with the Ministry seal. "Well...that's good. Really good. Do you like it? The work?"

She was prettier, he thought, if that was even possible. There was something about her, some kind of happy glow that radiated from her whole posture, even taken aback as she was by seeing him there. She had always been confident, always fiery, always ready for something new and challenging; he had loved that about her. He could see it still, that fire, there behind her eyes when she glanced up at him. It wasn't as raw, now, though. She didn't burn...she glowed.

"I do," he said after a pause. "It's not stressful, but it keeps me busy. I deal with people a lot...with clients, with the press. I've been working towards this meeting for a while now, actually."

"Yes, I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I'm afraid my husband's rather too ill to be out on business right now, but I can discuss whatever you need to and relay it back to him. Any papers you need signed, I can take to him, and we'll have them returned to the Ministry as soon as possible."

"Ah," Harry said. That explained it. And Ginny wasn't one to sit back and let her husband handle everything; she was fully capable, and she let him know it. "I'm...sorry to hear it. Is he often ill?"

Her eyes flashed, reminiscent for a moment of the famous temper she'd had as a schoolgirl. "Not as often as the tabloids indicate," she replied delicately. "Those reporters are soulless. They've been poking around the estate for weeks trying to catch a picture of him, and I told them, he's just overtired. And combined with a bad case of the flu, of course. His...injuries...after the war have left him rather susceptible to illness, you'll remember."

"Of course," Harry responded. "And as I remember, he usually recovers quickly." With your help, he added silently.

"He does."

A long, slightly awkward pause ensued, in which Ginny alternately gazed out the window and stirred her drink, and Harry became enthralled with the way her hair contrasted with the starched white of her sleeveless sundress.

"To business, then?" she finally prompted him, effectively ending the uncomfortable social aspect of their lunch.

"Yeah...yes," he corrected himself, opening his folder and drawing out the contracts. "Here, this should explain everything. It's a fairly straightforward agreement, a few publicity events, state affairs, things of that nature. Your husband's support is important to the Ministry considering his...popular public profile."

The corners of Ginny's mouth twitched upwards. "Who'd have thought it, back in school? Remember when Scrimgeour did this exact same thing to you, Harry? And now here you are, what is it? Five? Six years later? And now they're paying you to do it."

Harry frowned. "It's not the same, you know that, Ginny. They asked me to lie, and you and--"

"Yes, yes, I know," Ginny interrupted him. "We already support the Ministry." She paused, catching his eye. "I didn't mean to make you angry."

"You didn't."

A pause. She skimmed over the papers, turned a few pages, then put the stack back together. "Everything seems in order," she said. "Straightforward, like you said. I'll have them returned, signed, to your office within a day or two."

"Great," he replied, closing his folder and tucking away his pen into his robe pocket.

Another brief silence. Ginny relaxed, leaned back into her chair. It had been a shock to see him here, after so long, but she had nothing to fear, no reason to be ill at ease. Her life was in order, and so, it seemed, was his now. What was there to be gained from being stilted and formal?

"So...should we order?" she asked, indicating the menus on the table.

"Oh," Harry said, glancing down at his, as if he had forgotten they were in a restaurant. "I...I actually had better not. I've got a lot to do at the office today...that's why I was so late. Sorry about that, by the way."

"Don't worry about it."

"Thanks."

Silence.

"So, I should probably...get going," he said, making to stand up.

"Right. Sorry to keep you, I know you're busy," she said, leaning forward in her chair.

"No, not at all. It was good to see you."

"Harry," she said, suddenly leaning forward and placing a hand on his arm. He froze, half out of his chair.

"Before you go...tell me really...how have you been?"

Harry sank slowly back into his chair. Those eyes, sparkling with genuine concern in his direction, could have held him to his seat for the duration of another war.

"Really?" he said at last. "Really...I've been good, Ginny. Really good, lately. Things were rough for a while...I kind of lost touch with everyone for a bit there, but things are back on track...on a different track, I guess."

"I know Ron and Hermione were worried about you," she said. "And...I was, too. I'm sorry I never wrote; it was stupid of me."

"No," he said with a wry smile. "I'm the stupid one, Gin."

A small, sufficiently awkward pause followed in which he cursed himself for making such a remark. There was clearly nothing to be done about his past stupidity, so why bring it up again?

"Anyway, what about you?" he asked, breaking the silence. "From everything I've heard...and read...you seem happy...is it true?"

She smiled. "It is," was her answer. "I don't think there's ever been anything truer about me than that."

Harry swallowed with difficulty over the lump in his throat. "I'm glad," he managed. "I'm really, truly glad to hear it, Ginny. You deserve every kind of happiness, and...I'm glad you've found it."

"Me too." Pause. "I take it you're back in touch with Ron and Hermione?"

"Yeah. They helped me find this job. They've been incredibly understanding, considering everything I put them through."

"Did you expect anything else?"

"Not really."

"So, has Mum invited you to the lake house next weekend?"

"Yeah. It was about the first thing out of her mouth, after she asked me if I'd been eating."

Ginny laughed. "Of course. Are you going?"

"Not if you don't want me to."

Ginny's smile fell a bit. "Harry, that's nonsense. Of course I want you to go. There's no reason we can't be friends. Don't be so ridiculous."

"I just wasn't sure if it would be...uncomfortable."

"Harry, you fool. It won't be uncomfortable if you don't make it uncomfortable...but then, you always were socially inept."

"And now you're the socialite, all proper and calling me a 'fool' instead of a 'git' like you want to."

She laughed at that. "I've learned a few things," she admitted. "Picked up a few habits, lost a few. I've grown up, Harry. But I'm not different."

"No," he said automatically. "You're better."

Ginny could feel her cheeks growing pink. She glanced down at the table, then sipped at her water, looking for something to say. For a minute there, they'd been a shadow of what they used to be, casual and friendly. But there was so much they didn't know about each other, so many things between them, that for a moment she saw just how impossible it would be to move all those things out of the way of their friendship.

"Well," Harry said, standing up. "I suppose I'd better get back to the office."

Ginny stood as well. "And I should get home."

"Right," he said. "It's been good seeing you, Ginny."

"You, too, Harry. Don't be such a stranger. Promise I'll see you next weekend at the lake?"

He hesitated a moment, then, throwing caution to the wind, said, "I promise."

"Good. Then you're allowed to leave, for now. Good day, Mr. Potter," she said, offering him her hand.

And without a second thought, he took it, and before he turned and headed back out to the street, to the real world, he pressed his lips to the back of her hand, and replied softly, painfully, "Good day, Mrs. Malfoy."