The Sacred and the Sinful: A Post-Hogwarts Harry Potter Soap Opera

The Sacred and the Sinful: A Post-Hogwarts Harry Potter Soap Opera

Chapter 1: This Side of the Road

Author's Notes: Special thanks to my betas, Riddikulusly, Grace, and Catherine.

This story will have multiple, possibly conflicting ships.

--

It had been over four years since the end of the Second War. During the war, Aurors had been lifted from patrol duty all over London to add to the ever-important battle ranks and as a result, black marketeering flourished rapidly in Knockturn Alley in the absence of organized law enforcement in the district and the surrounding areas.

Mundungus Fletcher saw opportunity as it came. There was money to be made from selling Venomous Tentacula seeds, smuggling Chimaera eggs, and poaching ramoras. It had been so ridiculously easy to engage in illegal trade without being caught that one couldn't afford to not participate. Even after the war, by the time the Ministry realized what was going on, the black market had been so strongly established that the reinstatement of Auror patrol in Knockturn Alley barely stemmed its success.

Thus, on one chilly night in the middle of September, Mundungus stealthily darted from behind a large stack of wooden crates down a narrow alleyway. When he reached the dark corner, he peered past the slightly uneven wall, spotting two Aurors in bright purple robes, sitting on two wooden crates and leaning lazily against a boarded window, sharing a bright turquoise bottle of Firewhiskey. As he watched, Mundungus instinctively reached for the flask in his trouser pocket, but found it empty.

At the next corner, Mundungus saw his client standing at the end of the alleyway. She looked as she always had when Mundungus saw her, leaning against the rough, brick wall with her hands in the pockets of her long, gray robes. A scarf was wrapped loosely around her head, in the vain effort to conceal the ends of her red hair. She slowly turned as she heard him walking towards her.

"Took you long enough," she said, turning her head to look back at the wall straight ahead.

"Couldn't Apparate; Aurors got the whole place warded," said Mundungus.

"I know. Lucky them, they don't actually have to be awake when they're on patrol duty. Did you bring it?"

"Same thing, two doses, the usual," said Mundungus, drawing two flasks from the tattered leather bag at his waist. The woman began to take them before Mundungus quickly withdrew his hands from her reach, dropping the flasks back into the bag just to be safe.

"Have we forgotten?" he said.

He could almost feel her roll her eyes as she held out a small money pouch. Mundungus took it and emptied its contents into his hand and counted the Galleons and Sickles.

"Satisfied?" said the woman.

"Use 'em well, don't come blaming me if something goes wrong," said Mundungus as he handed her the flasks.

The woman opened one of the flasks, releasing strong, acidic fumes into the air in front of them. Mundungus watched her hands as she screwed the top back on and went on to inspect the next flask. Her hands were thin and long, her nails were manicured and painted. Like over half of his clients, she came from a well off family who worked for the Ministry. These were the people who oiled the wheels of the black market. And the Ministry wondered how the hell illegal trade still had legs to stand on.

"Thank you," said the woman. "I'll owl you when I need your services again."

Mundungus saluted her as she swiftly walked down the alley, her robes brushing lightly against the wall. He headed in the opposite direction for his next appointment. It was just another night at the office.

--

"They're still bothering with the trials?"

Ron Weasley leaned back in his chair at the Auror office that he shared with Harry Potter, turning a piece of spare parchment into a lopsided paper crane with a lazy flick of his wand. The crane zipped across the room and whizzed weightlessly around Harry's head.

"Well, it's the law," said Harry dully, ignoring the paper crane. "They were all happy about making it law until they actually had to go through the process of trying every criminal they'd arrested after the war."

"Sorry for Sirius and all," said Ron. "But I still can't believe they're bothering with the trials. Witnesses right, left, and center, caught red-handed; they're guilty, no doubt about it. Hell, they already admitted to being in You-Know-Who's Inner Circle the last time they were tried."

"It's just a formality, really," said Harry. "There's no way the Ministry would let them get off."

Ron shrugged. There was a knock on the office door.

"Come in," Harry called at the door. It opened, and Natalie McDonald, the new secretary, rushed in with a small sheet of parchment.

"What's up?" said Ron, straightening up.

"It's a message from your wife," said Natalie, waving the parchment lightly.

"Hermione? Is she alright?" said Ron. "What did she say?"

"She wanted you to know that she's at St. Mungo's," said Natalie. "And there were a lot of other words that I'm not sure I'm allowed to say at the office," she added in a smaller voice, turning pink.

Ron took the parchment from Natalie's hands and skimmed through it.

"The baby's coming," he said hurriedly to Harry.

"What?" said ever-eloquent Harry. The baby wasn't due for another two weeks.

"I have to run. Can you tell Perkins that--?"

"Yeah, I'll let him know," said Harry, before Ron could finish his sentence.

"Thanks," said Ron appreciatively, swiftly taking his cloak and his hat from the rack next to the door and exiting, followed by Natalie, who closed the door softly behind her.

As Harry stood up, the paper crane stopped flying and fell on his head.

--

Draco Malfoy loosened his tie and dropped his quill onto the desk, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his slightly disheveled hair. It was late, and Draco hated to receive bad news late.

A house-elf popped its head into the office. Draco had the urge to blast it out of the room to release some of the tension, but that would inevitably make it more difficult for him to receive whatever messages he needed to receive.

"Master Malfoy, sir, there is a visitor here to see you, sir," it squeaked nervously, holding the door ajar.

"Let him in."

The house-elf opened the door wider, and Blaise Zabini strode in, carrying a black leather briefcase. The house-elf scurried away, closing the door behind him. The sound of its footsteps softened, before disappearing completely. Blaise set the briefcase down gently onto the desk in front of Draco with both hands. Draco straightened up in his chair.

"Is that the shipment?" he said, fingering the shining clasp of the briefcase.

"Seventy-five packets of Venomous Tentacula seeds delivered in fifteen cartons from Sutterley's Finest English Tea importers," replied Blaise, smoothing down the front of his pinstriped business robes.

"Good, then we can ship them out on schedule," said Draco. That was one thing he no longer had to worry about. "Thank you."

"Don't even think about it. Next time you want me to bribe my own employees and endanger my tea importing company to help you make more money off of illegal trade, let me know."

"Stop pretending you don't make gold off of the market."

Blaise smirked and took a seat in the posh, leather chair in front of Draco's large, oak desk.

"Did you hear about tonight's capture?" he said in a darker tone.

Draco groaned. It was only a matter of time before the topic cropped up in the conversation.

"The insider just owled me," he said, taking the briefcase and stowing it safely under his desk. "Five members of the Inner Circle captured, isn't it? Damn Potter and Weasel. And the rest of their Ministry minions."

"What do we do now?"

"We get them out," said Draco simply.

"Easier said than done," said Blaise, leaning back.

"We'll do what we have to," said Draco. He had a plan, or a skeleton of plan, formulating in his mind.

"You sound like you have an idea," said Blaise.

"I do," said Draco. But he needed coffee first. Blaise was going to spend all night tearing his plan to shreds in an attempt to "revise" it. Where was the wretched house-elf?

--

"I hate it."

It was six o'clock the next morning at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Hermione Granger-Weasley lay in her bed, flushed, exhausted, and beaming at the sleeping baby girl in her arms. Ron sat next to her on the bed, feeling as if Merlin himself had flown down on the wings of an angel and dropped the most beautiful treasures in the world at his feet.

"Honestly, Ron," said Hermione.

"What?" said Ron, throwing his hands up in the air. "It's not even a real name. It's a type of fish."

"Selma, Ron, not salmon."

"I couldn't tell the difference."

Hermione shook her head, rolling her eyes.

"What about Elizabeth?"

"No objections to Muggle royalty or anything," said Ron, grinning. "But I don't know if our daughter would forgive us for giving her a name that sounds bloody awful with the name Weasley."

"Elizabeth Weasley does not sound bloody awful," said Hermione. "In fact, I rather like it."

"Fine, that can be our back-up plan," said Ron dismissively.

"We already have a Plan B, though," said Hermione. "And a Plan C. And a Plan D, for that matter."

"Right. This can be our Plan Z."

"Ron! You can't hate it that much!"

"Watch me," said Ron stubbornly.

"Fine," said Hermione. "How about... Amelia?"

Ron paused.

"No," he said.

"Why not?" said Hermione.

"Just... no."

"Ron Weasley, Amelia Bones was a great woman, may she rest in peace."

"Yes, but she's dead."

"Your point being?"

"She's dead. She was murdered. I don't want our daughter to be murdered by a Dark Wizard at the age of thirty-five and found three days later by Muggle law enforcement."

Hermione looked down at the baby.

"But I like the name Amelia."

Ron shifted.

"You do?"

"Yes, and we could call her 'Emmy' for short, and that would be so sweet."

Ron shifted more.

"Please?" said Hermione, looking at him with wide eyes.

Ron looked at the baby, and then at Hermione.

"Fine," he said. "Fine, you evil woman."

Hermione beamed.

"Amelia Molly Weasley," she said.

"Funny, it didn't take us this long to figure out her middle name."

"It's perfect."

"I'm glad you like it," said Ron, getting off of the bed. "Now where's the closest place I can find coffee? I'm going to die of exhaustion pretty soon."

"Right, because you just spent hours in labor?" said Hermione sarcastically.

Ron paused, and then settled back down next to her.

"Y'know, I think I'm fine right here."

--

Pansy Parkinson sat at the café with Daphne Greengrass, watching shoppers bustle about the shops in Diagon Alley outside their window over their morning tea and breakfast. Pansy wished that Daphne would stop spending her resources so liberally, but alas, Daphne was never one for restraint.

"What happened to the galleons I gave you last time?" said Pansy, turning back to Daphne.

"I told you already," said Daphne in a hushed voice. "I just need to... replenish my resources."

Pansy raised her eyebrows as she gently ran a manicured finger along the rim of the china saucer.

"Are you sure this counterfeiting business is right for you?" she asked coolly, lifting the teacup to her lips.

"I've been making a profit, Pansy, as you know from the gold you collected last time," said Daphne darkly.

"That was six months ago," said Pansy delicately, but she couldn't argue with that.

"Pansy, just give me the money, and I assure you, I will return it, interest and all, as I always do," said Daphne in a low voice.

Pansy pursed her lips. She sighed.

"How much do you need this time?"

Daphne smiled.

"I knew you'd see it my way," she said, taking a slip of parchment out of her leather purse.

--

"Ron, why didn't you wake me?"

Ron finally had his coffee. He also had his sister, wide-awake, punching him in the arm.

"Dad said you were sleeping, and I didn't think you'd be so happy if I woke you," he said hastily.

Ginny rolled her eyes.

"But you can see her now," said Ron, hoping she wouldn't punch him in the arm again.

Ginny walked right past Ron into Hermione's hospital room.

"Why yes, you're welcome," said Ron to nobody.

Ginny gasped delightedly like a child on Christmas morning as Hermione gently placed the bundle into her ready arms.

"The head, support the head."

"Hello, Emmy," Ginny cooed at the baby. "You are so adorable and so beautiful. Oh, yes you are. Yes you are--"

Ron turned to Hermione.

"I'm a mess," said Hermione, smiling nevertheless.

"No," said Ron. "Okay, yes, a bit, but you're beautiful. Glowing."

"--And when your mummy's off at work, being brilliant and smart," Ginny was saying, still in her baby voice. "And your dad's faffing around lazily, being no help at all--"

"Hey!"

"You'll always have your Aunt Ginny to come to for advice," said Ginny. "And sweets," she added.

"Stop corrupting my daughter!"

"Too late," said Ginny, in mock sorrow. "I heard Fred and George's ruckus was the first thing little Emmy heard when she came into this world. Isn't that right?" she cooed cheerily. Ron sighed resignedly as Hermione laughed and Ginny returned to the baby.

--

Daphne was glad to have finished off that morning's transaction successfully. She swept a strand of brown hair out of her eyes, turned around... and walked right into another woman.

"Well, well, Daphne Greengrass."

Daphne forced a smile.

"Edgecombe, is it?"

"Marietta. Pleasure, I'm sure."

"Of course," Daphne replied, trying vainly not to imagine how much Marietta had already seen and heard.

"And I'm sure that all of those stolen Galleon serial numbers in your purse are just for the Goblins' benefit?" Marietta added, smiling coldly. "In case they happen to lose their copies at Gringotts?"

Daphne tried to keep her cool, but the curtain of humidity in the air was thickening unstoppably. Marietta continued to smile expectantly. Daphne took a deep breath. The glass had shattered, and it was now time to clean up the mess.

"How much will it take for you to keep your mouth shut?"

--

"You did not."

"I did."

"You did not."

"Clearly, I did."

"You bought our daughter pajamas in a violent shade of magenta."

"They're Chudley Cannons pajamas! Look, the logo and the original slogan!"

"Splashed across the chest in orange on pajamas that are magenta!"

"She'll look cute in them!"

"Ron, I want our daughter to grow up with a sense of color coordination that you don't seem to possess. How is that possible if she wears magenta pajamas to bed every day for the first month of her life?"

"You are being unreasonable," said Ron.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," called Hermione.

The door opened and Harry came in with two brightly colored balloons and a pink stuffed bunny.

"Harry!" said Ron, dropping the Chudley Canons pajamas on the bed.

"Why didn't you call me earlier?" said Harry, walking across the room and leaving the balloons with the others.

"Perkins said you'd gone back home, so I figured you'd be sleeping," said Ron. "And plus, there was the fact that --"

Harry saw Hermione flash Ron a warning look, and Ron backpedaled furiously.

"And there was, er, the fact that... the baby was sleeping," he finished lamely.

"Anyway, the baby's in the neonatal wing," said Hermione quickly, smiling, and Harry got the impression that she was pushing him into something. "You're going to go see her. Ron'll take you."

Harry and Ron walked down the hall to the neonatal wing. Ron still looked a bit shell-shocked.

"So," said Harry. "You have a baby. You're actually a dad now."

"I know," said Ron. "I'm going to find a way to screw this up."

"No you won't."

"I always do."

"That's what you said at your wedding," said Harry, grinning at the memory.

"Still can't be sure I won't."

St. Mungo's new neonatal wing was painted in pastel yellow with pink and blue painted birds charmed to fly around in whimsical spirals. There was the large, circular nursery in the center of the wing, with brightly colored mobiles, charmed wall hangings, and stuffed animals. It was calm, warm, and welcoming.

"We reserved a private nursery room," said Ron, leading Harry to a row of doors at the left of the nursery. "Of course, that was before we saw that the regular nursery had a dome ceiling, but..."

"You reserved a private nursery room?" said Harry. "You can do that?"

Ron didn't answer. They reached the room, and he pulled out a key from his pocket.

"So you can go in and see her," said Ron. "And I'll be back with Hermione."

"What? You're not coming in?"

Ron didn't answer. Instead, he opened the door and almost pushed Harry into the room before turning around.

"What?" said Harry, turning around too, but all he got was the door in his face. Shaking his head, he turned around, and saw Ginny sitting in the rocking chair with the baby cradled in her arms, gaping slightly.

Harry had known something was off, with Hermione's pushing and Ron's uncharacteristic reserving of a private nursery room. His smile faded.

"Hermione didn't say you would be coming," Ginny said in a small voice.

"Funny, she told me I would be coming," said Harry darkly, wondering if it was wrong that he was cursing Ron and Hermione in his head.

Harry couldn't remember the last time he felt this stupid, but he had a faint inkling that it must have been around the time Aunt Marge first visited the Dursleys. He was facing the person he had been positively pining for like some pathetic, underfed dog for the past two years, he had just fallen for the clumsiest rendition of The Parent Trap ever, and he was holding a pink stuffed rabbit. Ginny stood up and put the baby back in the bassinet.

"Look, I'll leave," said Harry, already turning around. He didn't want to talk to her.

"Wait, Harry," said Ginny.

"Yeah?"

"I haven't seen you in awhile," Ginny said, holding his gaze. "It's as if you've been avoiding me. But I must be wrong, because Harry Potter wouldn't avoid a confrontation, would he?"

Harry averted his eyes. He'd returned from hunting Horcruxes with Ron and Hermione to find out that Ginny had moved on to date some Ravenclaw pretty boy that she'd met at Hogwarts while he was gone. She had broken up with the boy later that year, but that hadn't changed the fact that she couldn't, or wouldn't, wait for him.

Ever since, his interactions with Ginny had become more formal, if not noticeably awkward. The few times they'd met, they managed a smile, a handshake, and even some light conversation, but nothing was as laid-back, casual, or easy as it had been before he'd left. Harry supposed that it was probably partially his fault that he didn't get Ginny back when he'd returned; he had been gone longer than he had anticipated, and he couldn't expect Ginny to become a nun and take a vow of celibacy until he finally came back, but despite all of that, Harry couldn't help but feel hurt and angry.

"I'm sorry if it feels that way," he replied, refusing to meet her eyes through her efforts to hold eye contact.

Ginny inhaled deeply, wearing a look that clearly told Harry that she was repressing the urge to yell at him.

"Harry, Derek was more than two years ago," she said, in a voice forced calm, breathing heavily. "I've even broken up with him already. Why can't we just move past that?"

"That's not the point."

"Then please do me a favor and tell me what is," said Ginny, her voice rising slightly and a pink blush creeping into her cheeks. "Because I'm getting tired of trying to figure out what it is on my own."

"I still can't believe you dated him," said Harry, aware that he was starting to sound like a child. "He was such a swot. A swotty Ravenclaw. I wasn't aware you were into boys like him."

"I can be into whomever I bloody well please, thanks," snapped Ginny, her eyes blazing.

"Really? We're going to do this here?"

"Harry, you stopped writing," said Ginny, advancing slowly on Harry, who didn't bother to step away. "We never got to see each other. You were gone for almost two years, and you never told me anything. I had to read about you ending up at St. Mungo's three times from the Daily Prophet. I heard about you finding Voldemort's headquarters third-hand from George. Even Pansy Parkinson knew about you killing Peter Pettigrew before I did! How do you think that made me feel? These were things that I was supposed to have heard first, from you, not the papers, and not the school busybody! Every day that you were gone... they just... they dragged on and on and on for what felt like forever. I'm sorry, I got tired of them."

"I was off fighting in a war," said Harry angrily, his own voice rising. He could feel hot, angry waves breaking the surface, but he didn't feel like trying to gain control again. He had held it in too long. "You just couldn't wait, could you?"

"Harry, that's not fair, and you know it," said Ginny. "I did wait. I waited for you to come back. And I still wait for you. I wait for you to come around every time you shake my hand when you used to hug me. I've waited for you before, and I still do."

Harry turned around.

"Harry, please," said Ginny, but Harry was gone. He said what he wanted to say, and he wasn't going to hang around for any longer than he needed to.

Ron and Hermione were snogging on the bed when Harry got back.

"Oh!" said Hermione as Harry came in.

"What?" said Ron as Hermione flapped her hand at his knee.

"Dismount," Hermione whispered.

"Harry?" said Ron, peering at him as he got off of Hermione's bed.

"That was unfair," said Harry shortly, taking his cloak off the plastic chair next to the door.

"Harry!" Hermione called after him as he left, but Harry closed the door with a snap and looked down.

Damn. He still had the rabbit.

--

Draco looked up from his owl post over to Pansy, who was carefully reading the business section of that morning's Daily Prophet as she had a cup of tea, leaning against the windowsill.

"Pansy, I'm going to be out of town next week," he called, tearing open another envelope.

"Again?" said Pansy absently, flipping through the Prophet.

"It's business," said Draco shortly, vanishing the scraps of parchment from the coffee table with his wand.

Pansy looked up from the newspaper and raised her eyebrows, her lips betraying a hint of a smile.

"Draco," she said coolly, returning to her reading. "When you get out of that warehouse of illegal goods and piles of laundered gold, be sure to get me something."

"Oh, Pansy," he said wearily, attempting to play innocent for a few moments. But Pansy wasn't stupid, so he didn't bother. "Yes, of course, I'll bring you something back."

Pansy smiled, still focused on the newspaper.

Draco watched her read for a moment, and then returned to the rest of his mail. He tore open the next envelope, and saw a few short lines of small, neat, familiar script.

Read this morning's paper yet?

Meeting tomorrow evening at eight.

And get yourself a good alibi this time.

--DG

Draco looked up from the note.

And get yourself a good alibi this time.

He stood up and walked over to the bay window where Pansy was standing, slowly turning the page of the newspaper with one hand as she took a sip of tea. He lowered the paper, and she looked up at him with a slightly surprised look on her face.

"Pansy? How would you like to go to Paris tonight?"

Pansy looked down at the paper, and then lifted her gaze back up to Draco again, raising her eyebrows.

"And to what occasion do I owe this sudden wish of yours for a French rendezvous?" she replied delicately.

"Do I need an occasion to treat you?"

"Most people don't, but it seems that you usually do."

"Would you like to go, or not?"

Draco could tell that no matter how aloof and uninterested Pansy acted, her insides were, at this moment, probably twirling around, doing an exuberant tango. Pansy smiled.

"Fine," she said, briskly returning to her article.

"Good," said Draco, kissing her on the forehead. He returned to his mail and congratulated himself on a job well done; that was a superbly romantic proposal, if he did say so himself.