From the Ashes

From the Ashes

Part Six

by Fourth Rose

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too -

While barred clouds bloom in the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue.

(John Keats, To Autumn)

* * *

To his own surprise, Harry has come to realise that he likes the sound of Pansy's laughter. It's loud and shrill, completely un-ladylike and probably got her told off by her mother when she was a child, but he's grown quite fond of it. Since he found out that she's incredibly ticklish, it has become his favourite kind of foreplay to tickle her mercilessly until she's shrieking with laughter and squirming in his grip and then pin her to the bed and kiss her quiet. Pansy doesn't seem to mind.

She, on the other hand, has surprised Harry by developing an interest in his ever-tense neck muscles. After watching him roll his aching shoulders for the fiftieth time after a long day at the Ministry one evening, she turned up in his bedroom with a bottle of an oily potion that smelled faintly of cinnamon and nutmeg, pushed him onto the bed and gave him a vicious backrub that hurt like hell, but left him blissfully boneless and more relaxed than he'd been in years. It has quickly turned into a regular practice that almost inevitably leads to sex afterwards - in fact, Harry can't help it that by now, the mere scent of cinnamon and nutmeg is enough to make him hard. He hopes fervently that Pansy won't ever come across a mention of Pavlov's dog because he'd never hear the end of it.

If, Harry muses, someone had told him at his wedding that he would one day enjoy sleeping with Pansy Parkinson, he'd have advised them to have their head examined. Yet, he can't deny that he does enjoy the nights when she'll leave her bedroom door unlocked or open his without bothering to knock, and judging by Pansy's behaviour, she seems quite satisfied with the arrangement as well. The only thing that troubles Harry is the fact that he's reduced to presuming what she might actually like and trying to interpret her reactions because she won't discuss the topic.

"For heaven's sake, Pansy, this is not a guessing game!" he says one night, his exasperation getting the better of him. "Why don't you just tell me what you really want?"

"Because neither of us can give the other what we really want," she answers matter-of-factly, and Harry feels as if a bucket of cold water has been emptied over him. Pansy turns away, pulls the covers over her bare shoulders and doesn't move when he gets up and leaves quietly.

It takes two weeks before he knocks on her door again and then another three nights before she opens it. She doesn't ask him to enter, though, but sticks her head out and snaps, "I'm sick of it, Potter. Go away and leave me in peace."

She is apparently expecting a scathing comeback, but Harry just replies with forced calm, "If that's what you want, Pansy," and goes back to his own bedroom where he lies down and closes his eyes, but doesn't extinguish the candles on his bedside table because he can't help feeling that this confrontation isn't over yet.

He doesn't move when he finally hears the door open and soft steps approach his bed. Only when the mattress dips from the weight of someone sitting down beside him, Harry opens his eyes. Pansy has her arms wrapped around her chest as if she were freezing in spite of the thick velvet dressing-gown she's wearing; she looks oddly frail in the flickering light of the candles.

All she says after a while is, "I'm sorry."

Harry shakes his head. "There must be something wrong with my hearing. I could swear that I just heard you say that you're sorry."

Pansy jumps to her feet, her eyes flashing angrily. "I did, Potter, but obviously it was a mistake. Good night."

"No, wait!" Harry grabs her arm before she can turn away and pulls her back onto the bed. "I apologise. I didn't mean to be -"

"- an arrogant bastard?" she suggests crossly.

"- impolite," Harry finishes without missing a beat. "I was just rather - well, surprised, to be honest. What are you sorry for? Don't tell me it's for denying me my marital rights for two weeks."

"I'm sorry because this is not how things were supposed to be," Pansy answers without looking at him. "I won't deny that I - that I've got used to you, irritating Gryffindor that you are. But I'm sick of pretending, and I... I just can't do this anymore."

Slowly, Harry raises a hand and turns her face towards him. "Pretending what?"

She still refuses to meet his eyes and remains stubbornly silent.

"Pretending that you don't wish it was him who's touching you instead of me every time we're together? You don't have to, Pansy, at least not for my sake, because I know about it. You say his name more often than mine when you're sleeping with me, after all."

At long last, she looks at him, though her expression is unreadable. "So do you, Harry."

For a while, there's silence.

Harry's voice is rough when he finally whispers, "I wasn't aware of that."

Pansy nods. "Seems we're both not very good at fooling each other."

"Perhaps we should stop trying and concentrate on what we have, then?"

"And what, exactly, would you say it is that we have - apart from an agreement to raise his daughter together?"

Harry takes a deep breath. "Pansy, listen to me. I'm unlikely to develop either burning passion or everlasting love for you - but I think I'm getting used to you, too. To all this," a vague gesture includes both them and their surroundings, "and everything else that's ours. It's" - he hesitates, desperately searching for the right word - "comfortable. I'm comfortable with you, I mean."

He isn't entirely happy with the sound of this statement, but he can't think of a better way to express what he's feeling. "I'm sorry if it isn't much of a compliment."

Pansy seems lost in thought; there's that curious half-smile in the left corner of her mouth when she asks, "Have I ever told you about Draco's reaction to our betrothal?"

Harry shakes his head in astonishment. "I didn't even know you were officially betrothed."

"Oh, it was nothing official yet, just an informal agreement between Lucius Malfoy and my father during our fourth year. The actual engagement was planned for the summer after we'd finished school, but by then, of course, it had all become obsolete due to the war."

She pauses for a moment, then continues, "I got the letter from my parents the next day during breakfast. Draco had skipped breakfast, so there was no opportunity to talk to him right then. Later on the same day, I was in the library when he came in with Blaise. They were talking without noticing me, and I overheard them mentioning the agreement. Blaise needled Draco if it was true that he was supposed to marry me, and when Draco said it was, Blaise asked him how he felt about it."

Harry finds himself picturing the scene: Zabini, eyes wide with curiosity, dark head bent together with Draco's white-blond one, whispering his questions - and Pansy, pug-faced and scowling, holding her breath behind a bookshelf and desperate to hear what Draco's answer was going to be. "What did he say?"

"He shrugged and said 'I'm content with it, I suppose'."

Harry blinks in surprise. Pansy's smile grows wider. "You see, I'd known Draco Malfoy since we were both toddlers. I knew who he was, and I knew how he was, too. I thought then - and I still think now - that even if I lived for a hundred and fifty years, that sentence would remain the most sincere and meaningful compliment I had ever received in my life."

Only now she's looking at Harry again. "Therefore, as my understanding of compliments goes, yours probably wasn't so bad either."

There's an odd lump in Harry's throat all of a sudden; he has to swallow twice before he trusts his voice to obey him again. "Do you think it will be enough, then?"

"It will have to be, for there isn't more, I'm afraid."

"It's better than what we started with, though, don't you think?"

"So it would seem," she answers slowly. "Still, are you really sure there's room for three in this bed?"

Now it's Harry's turn to smile. "Any bed that's big enough for you and me will have room for three, Pansy." He throws back the covers invitingly. "Care to stay for a while?"

She shrugs a little bit too nonchalantly; it doesn't match the warmth in her eyes. "Since I'm already here, I might as well." Her smile turns suggestive. "How about another backrub?"

Harry, grinning, answers with a theatrical groan. "Damn you for knowing all my weaknesses, woman!"

"I'll get the potion ready. Don't start without me, Potter, do you hear me?"

"Pansy, wait!" When she turns back, there's a trace of embarrassment in Harry's grin. "Would you mind switching to sandalwood scent or something? For decency's sake I'd rather not be turned on by the smell of gingerbread next Christmas."

He listens to her giggles echoing in the corridor when he slumps back onto the bed with a soft sigh.

Comfortable. It's not a bad thing to be, after all.

* * *

"No, sweetie, keep your fingers away from Daddy's - ack!"

Feeding soldiers to a toddler, Harry knows by now, is an act that would require at least three hands to come out of it unscathed - one hand to hold her on his lap, one to feed her, and one to keep her from smearing every surface within her reach with strawberry jam.

Pansy has her wand lying next to her plate; from time to time, she waves it in his direction to banish the worst of the mess. If he had a fourth hand, Harry muses while he shoves another slice of jam-covered toast into Lucia's mouth, carefully avoiding her sharp little teeth, he might even be able to do the clean-up himself, too.

Mim is hovering in the background, clearly disapproving of Harry's insistence to feed Lucia himself, but Harry doesn't care; it's rare enough that he has time for a lazy Sunday breakfast with Lucia and Pansy, and he's determined to enjoy it while he can. Lucia is growing so fast; it's probably just a matter of months until she'll be able to eat by herself and won't need his help any more.

Pansy watches them with an amused expression. "My mother says you're spoiling her rotten."

Harry merely shrugs and dodges Lucia's hand that is aimed for his glasses. He learned the hard way that glasses are a small child's best friends; ever since Lucia was able to reach out and grab things, Harry's glasses have been among her favourite targets. They're swathed in Unbreakable Charms, but unfortunately, Anti-smearing Charms weren't designed to protect against attackers armed with jam.

"She told me that your father spoiled you just the same way, so I suppose the worst that can happen is that she turns out like you."

The corner of Pansy's mouth quirks up at this. "I'm quite surprised you're willing to risk that."

Harry holds her gaze for a moment and can't help grinning at her. "At least I'll know what I'm up against, won't I?"

"'Nother!" Lucia says imperiously, and Harry quickly reaches for another piece of toast while Pansy turns back to her own breakfast.

While Lucia is munching her toast, Harry says nonchalantly, "I had a meeting with an old friend of yours at work yesterday."

Pansy looks up from her porridge and raises an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware there were old friends of mine at the Ministry."

"Really? You seemed rather friendly with Dolores Umbridge back in our fifth year, if I remember correctly."

"Umbridge?" Pansy snorts in a rather un-ladylike fashion. "God, I'd almost forgotten her. Don't tell me you really believe we liked her? She was a very useful idiot, but that woman was vile."

"Yes, I remember hearing Draco use those same words to describe her," Harry admits, "however, she's still at the Ministry. Fudge's downfall cost her her career, and she hasn't been able to get anywhere near her former position ever since Scrimgeour took over - she was handed from department to department because nobody wanted to keep her."

"Don't tell me Scrimgeour assigned her to your department now?" Pansy asks incredulously. "He wouldn't do you a favour like that, would he?"

"Definitely not," Harry agrees with a grim smile, "but Percy would."

After a moment of stunned silence, Pansy bursts into giggles. "I always said he should have been in Slytherin. How -"

"It seems she approached him, the stupid cow." Harry recalls Percy's appalled expression when he spoke about it, and he remembers feeling almost sorry for Umbridge then - embarrassing Percy by reminding him of the unwavering belief in the wisdom and righteousness of the Ministry he had possessed in his teen years was a huge mistake to make. "Tried to suck up to him by pointing out how well they'd worked together before the war, can you believe it?"

Pansy shakes her head. "Yes, because Percy loves nothing better than being reminded what a naïve fool he used to be. I knew the woman was stupid, but it seems I still gave her too much credit. What did she want from him?"

"A better job, obviously. Someone with a nasty sense of humour had assigned her to the Centaur Liaison Office in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."

Pansy laughs outright at this, and Lucia joins in with a delighted squeal, spraying Harry with bread crumbs in the process. "He sent her to you? And she accepted?"

Harry smirks. "By the time he informed her that I was waiting for her to show up in my office immediately, she had little choice in the matter."

He knows he shouldn't have enjoyed the talk with Umbridge so much, but he can't fool himself - he loved every minute of it. He's fully aware that he was giving in to his basest instincts there, but he honestly doesn't care overmuch. The memory of Umbridge squirming in her chair, her bulging eyes fixed on his right hand whenever he pushed his glasses up his nose - and he made sure to do so constantly - is something he will treasure to his dying day. It turned the faded marks on the back of his hand from a symbol of humiliation into a reminder of sweet revenge.

"And?" Pansy sounds impatient. "What did you do with her?"

Harry prevents another jammy attack on his face just in time before he answers. "Oh, nothing much. I assigned her a desk job where she can't do any harm, and I was quite friendly with her - I even told her I would take a personal interest in the way she carried out her work, and that she could rest assured I would take care of every problem she might encounter."

Pansy's face is shining with unholy glee. "In other words, she'll spend the rest of her days at the Ministry looking over her shoulder and wondering what you're going to do to her if she so much as blinks. Nicely done, Potter."

Harry gives her a mock half-bow which causes Lucia to make another futile grab for his glasses. "I admit, it was quite entertaining. Especially the part when I commended her on the groundwork she has laid for my current position, now that I am the one trying to strengthen the ties between Hogwarts and the Ministry. I took great care to mention that if it hadn't been for Educational Decree 22, I would never have been able to appoint Remus Lupin as the new Defence professor."

Pansy rolls her eyes. Harry knows how deeply anti-werewolf prejudices are ingrained in the minds of most purebloods, and he appreciates it that she never said anything about the matter during the long and difficult process of securing the job for Remus. "Please, Potter, as if there had been any need to invoke decrees - McGonagall all but kissed your feet when you said you'd find a way to get past the anti-werewolf restrictions so that she could hire him!"

"Yes, but Umbridge doesn't know that, does she?"

Pansy cocks her head to the side. "You really are full of surprises sometimes. Un plat qui se mange froid, huh?"

Harry gives her a blank look. "Beg pardon?"

Pansy sighs. "French proverb, Potter. La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid. Revenge is a dish best served cold."

"There's something to be said for that." Harry crams the last bite of toast into Lucia's mouth and shoves the plate away before she can try to play with it. "I had the impression that she didn't expect such a... Slytherin reaction from me, though. Didn't quite know what to do with herself."

"She should consider herself lucky," Pansy replies with a shrug. "If you had reacted like a typical Gryffindor, she'd have left your office on all fours covered in boils and sprouting tentacles."

Harry shoots her a glare, whose effect is somewhat hampered by the fact that Lucia chooses this very moment to plant another sticky red handprint on his glasses. She lets out a delighted squeal, and her smile that looks so much like her father's drives Dolores Umbridge from Harry's mind in an instant.

* * *

"Up, Daddy, up!"

Lucia gesticulates for Harry to levitate her higher so that she can hang the glittering bauble in her hand on a branch right at the top of the tree. Harry smiles and nudges her upwards a little bit more; he's constantly amazed how much she loves being up in the air, and he's very much looking forward to seeing her face when she unwraps the toy broom he bought her for Christmas. They're decorating the tree together as a birthday treat for her, since her birthday is so close to the Christmas holidays that there's not much time to celebrate it in its own right.

Once the bauble is securely in place, Harry lets go of the Levitation Charm and catches Lucia as she falls. This is a trick Pansy taught him - he'd never even have thought of trying it for fear of hurting the little girl, but he was quickly convinced once he saw how much she loves it. She lets out a thrilled shriek and wraps her arms around his neck, her fine dark curls tickling his cheek. "Again!"

Harry is about to cast another Levitation Charm when the door opens. He turns around with Lucia in his arms to see Pansy standing in the doorway, a piece of parchment in her hand and a strange look on her face. Lucia struggles to be let down and runs towards her as soon as her feet touch the ground, excitedly pointing at the tree. "Mummy, look!"

Pansy smiles at her, although the smile doesn't reach her eyes. "That's very nice, sweetie. Do you want Mummy to help you decorating now?"

"Mummy and Daddy," Lucia says empathically, and Harry bites back a grin; it's rare for her not to ask for everything whenever she's faced with a choice. She knows by now she won't always get her way, but she never stops trying.

Pansy shakes her head. "I'm sure Daddy would love to keep decorating with us, but I'm afraid he has to leave now." Before Harry can ask the obvious question, she hands him the parchment. "Your secretary just sent this via Floo," she says in a completely different, businesslike tone. "There's an emergency meeting of the board of school governors at Hogwarts. McGonagall is dead."

Her expression softens a bit when he stares at her, completely stunned. "For what it's worth, Harry, I'm sorry. You'd better get ready immediately, they're waiting for you."

* * *

It's almost midnight when Harry returns to find Pansy waiting up for him in the living room. He slumps into the armchair next to the fireplace, takes off his glasses and rubs his burning eyes.

Pansy gets up to pour him a glass of Firewhisky before she sits down across from him again. Harry nods his thanks and takes a sip, enjoying the fiery warmth that spreads through him and drives out the lingering chill of the draughty Hogwarts corridors. Has it really ever been that cold there while he was a student?

"Well?" she says at last when Harry keeps silently staring into the fire. There's no impatience in her tone, but it's clear she's waiting for him to tell her what happened.

Harry sighs. "Madam Pomfrey and the healer they called from St Mungo's agree that she died peacefully, in her sleep."

Pansy lifts an eyebrow. "She wasn't that old."

"She wasn't old at all, but the last years were very hard on her. At our last meeting" - Harry has to pause for a moment to prevent his voice from cracking - "she admitted that it was all getting a bit much for her, that she felt weak and exhausted. She wouldn't hear of retirement, though; she said the school was her life, and that she couldn't imagine ever leaving it."

"When is the funeral?"

"Day after tomorrow. She left instructions in her will: a quiet ceremony, just for the students and a few other people with close ties the school - no official representatives, and no speeches. She didn't specify a location, so we'll bury her on the school grounds beside Dumbledore's grave. I'm sure she would have liked that."

Pansy nods; she seems deep in thought. "And then? She never appointed a Deputy Headmaster, did she?"

Harry shakes his head. "She said she wasn't prepared to make such a far-reaching decision while things were still getting settled at the school. That means the new Headmaster or Headmistress will be chosen by the board of governors."

"The election is scheduled already, too?"

"It'll be held right after the funeral, since all the governors are probably going to be there anyway."

"That's not much time to prepare."

Harry shrugs. "There aren't that many preparations to make. Winston Tofty has been on the board of governors for almost eighty years and knows the proceedings by heart. The Headmaster or Headmistress is usually chosen from the four Heads of Houses, unless another teacher applies for the position."

"Is that likely?"

"None of them are going to apply. Professor Sinistra told me that they all want a quick and smooth election so that the running of the school won't be disrupted."

"How very commendable." There's a strange edge in Pansy's voice, and she won't meet his eyes when he gives her a quizzical look. "I suppose you have already decided who is going to get your vote?"

"I've been thinking about it." Harry really wishes she would look at him. "As a matter of fact, I could do with a bit of advice."

She does a visible double-take at this. "You want my advice on the choosing of McGonagall's successor?"

"Why do you sound so surprised? You know that I trust your political instinct."

Her eyebrows recede almost up to her hairline. "You mean you'll treat this as a political matter? Potter, when did you grow up without me noticing it?"

Harry closes his eyes for a moment. "Pansy, I'm not in the mood for this right now."

"Right. Let's take a look at the possibilities, then." Pansy seems to tick off names from an invisible list. "Voting goes by age, doesn't it? That means the first few votes will set the tone, the last ones might tip the balance."

"Or their vote might make no difference at all because there's a clear majority already."

"Well, that's democracy for you. So, first to go is old Tofty, who was a lifelong friend of Dumbledore. He'll probably vote for the Gryffindor candidate, unless he's wary of werewolves - in that case, I suppose he's most likely to vote for Flitwick. Elladora Yaxley is a Slytherin to the bone, she's going to vote for Snape for sure. Who's next?"

Harry, who doesn't have Pansy's ability to keep hundreds of names and family backgrounds straight, thinks for a moment. "Either Wulfstan MacGraw or Carl Bones, I'm not sure."

"MacGraw is as much a Gryffindor as Yaxley is a Slytherin, so that's a vote for Lupin. The Bones have been Hufflepuffs since the dawn of time, therefore he should vote for Sprout, although I can see him vote for Lupin as well. Then there's that other Hufflepuff, Waldemar Burke - he has always kept out of politics, so I don't think he'll vote for Lupin or Snape since either could be interpreted as a political statement."

Harry shakes his head. "How do you remember all this?"

Pansy gives him a superior look. "Breeding and practice, Potter. Who - ah, yes, Isabella Hitchens should be next. One of her ancestors was a Black who got disinherited because she married a Muggle. She herself is a half-blood and a Ravenclaw - I'd say Flitwick for sure. Hestia Gamp will probably vote for Snape, and Michael Dippet for Lupin - although one of his ancestors, who was Headmaster himself, was a Ravenclaw, so he could choose Flitwick too. Arnold McMillan is a Hufflepuff, although most of his relatives are Slytherins - Sprout, I'd say, although he might vote for Snape too since Snape saved his son's life during a mission for the Order."

By now, Harry's head is spinning, but Pansy almost looks like she's enjoying this. Once again, Harry can't help comparing her to Hermione as he remembers her from their time at school.

"Livius Rosier's immediate family was among the neutrals, and he has always been desperate to distance himself from his Death Eater relatives; that's why he got the position when Lucius Malfoy was removed from the board. There's no way he'll vote for Snape - Flitwick, perhaps, since Rosier's grandmother was half-goblin like Flitwick's mother, but I think he'll vote for Lupin. And finally Calliope Flint - a Slytherin family who was careful never to be associated with the Dark Arts. She might just vote for Snape, but I doubt it - Flitwick is more likely, I'd say."

She takes a deep breath. "Where does that leave us?"

Harry sighs. "Judging from what you just told me, I'd say the most accurate prediction is: Anything can happen. Which is pretty much what I thought before."

Pansy makes a face. "Well, I'm glad I could be of help. Is there anything else you already know that you want me to tell you about?" When Harry doesn't take the bait, she adds in a calmer tone, "What does it matter, anyway? We both know who your vote will go to. You're the youngest member of the board, you might even be the one to make the final decision."

"So you're all right with me voting for Remus?"

Pansy's surprise is obvious. "Why on earth should you care about that?"

Harry holds her gaze as calmly as he can manage. "Let's pretend I do care, shall we?"

"Fine." Pansy leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. "I think you're making a huge mistake."

"Why am I not surprised." Harry is tempted to mirror her posture and finally settles for folding his hands in his lap. "So I shouldn't vote for Lupin. Is that because he's a Gryffindor, or because he's a werewolf?"

"Both," Pansy replies with astounding honesty. "The last two Headmasters have been Gryffindors, and it's never a good thing if one house becomes too dominant, especially now that its main rival has been reduced to the status of the underdog. But Lupin is more than just a Gryffindor - he was a prominent member of the Order and a close associate of Dumbledore. That means his political affiliations are extremely obvious, and that's bound to alienate all those who don't identify with them. Then, of course, there's the werewolf thing."

She holds up a hand to cut off Harry's protest before he even gets a word in. "Spare me the lecture, Potter. I know that he's a good teacher, and I also know that he's harmless, and that it's irrational to hold a condition which is not his fault against him. I still can't help it that the idea of a werewolf teaching my daughter makes my skin crawl, and you can be sure that many others will feel the same way without trying to be rational about it. You weathered the uproar you caused when you gave him the Defence post, but I assure you that was nothing compared to what will happen if he becomes Headmaster. You were able to survive one Lupin-related scandal thanks to your popularity, but I'm not sure your reputation can take another so soon. You must do what you think is right, Harry, but please think carefully whether it's worth risking everything you've accomplished so far."

Harry is loath to admit it, but she is voicing concerns that he has silently been pondering himself. The part of him who will always remain a rebellious teenager wants nothing more than to tell all those narrow-minded bigots to go fuck themselves and make Remus Headmaster because it's the right thing to do. However, his teenage years are long past, and even though he isn't even thirty yet, he feels as if there's very little left of the angry, reckless boy he was at the time. Back then, he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he'd never have thought of treading carefully because of it; now it's a little girl's future he's balancing in his hands, and it has taught him to think twice about every step he takes.

"I'll think about it."

Pansy rises from her chair and bends over him to give him the quick good-night peck on the cheek that has become their customary signal that there won't be any bedroom visits that night.

"You do that."

* * *

Harry didn't expect the election of a new Hogwarts Headmaster or Headmistress to be quite so public.

There must be at least five hundred people crammed into the Great Hall - current and former students, teachers, parents, Ministry employees, and reporters, all dressed in deepest black, are filling every last spot in the hall that isn't taken up by the huge table in the middle around which the members of the board of governors are seated. The four candidates for the post are sitting at the staff table, the huge hourglasses that usually keep count of house points suspended in mid-air above their heads. They will keep count of the votes as soon as the Ministry representative who is in charge of the proceedings asks each of the board members to announce their choice.

The mood is sombre, which is hardly surprising right after a funeral; it seems as if the weather wanted to add to the gloomy atmosphere, because the enchanted ceiling is covered in thick, dark clouds that promise snow later in the day. Harry thinks it's oddly fitting for a day like this; he remembers Dumbledore's funeral, where he felt the summer day was mocking the mourners with its brilliant beauty. McGonagall's grave will be covered with snow before nightfall, and by then, she will hopefully have a successor she would have been happy with.

Harry feels deathly tired and strangely restless at the same time; he has hardly slept last night, but even after hours and hours of debating with himself, he still hasn't come to a decision. Since he is the last to cast his vote, he can afford to wait and see what happens, and there's a part of him that hopes the decision will be taken out of his hands by the other board members who vote before him.

The one thing that brings a small, satisfied smile to his face is the fact that Minister Scrimgeour claimed he was unable to attend and sent Percy in his stead to oversee the election. Scrimgeour probably considers the obvious snub a posthumous punishment for McGonagall who denied him the opportunity to give a speech at her funeral, but Harry is quite sure the only one who's made to look bad by his absence is Scrimgeour himself. Percy, on the other hand, has been handed an opportunity to move into the spotlight that may prove very helpful in the long run, and the look he gave Harry before he stepped between the candidates and the board of governors indicated that he's very aware of it.

He seems much calmer than Harry feels and makes it through his opening speech without faltering. The candidates don't get to speak; the board members have agreed beforehand to keep the ceremony as short as possible, and since they all know the four Heads of Houses and their backgrounds, there is no need for introductions of any kind.

A hush falls over the Great Hall when Percy raises his wand and points it at the empty hourglasses, which glow silver for a moment. "I will now ask each member of the board of governors to give their vote to the candidate they consider most worthy of the post of Headmaster or Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Professor Winston Tofty, please cast your vote."

The old man who's sitting at the table right across from Harry rises with some difficulty and announces with a surprisingly clear voice, "I vote for Remus Lupin."

A murmur goes through the hall; the hourglass over Remus' head glows red for a moment before a single, ruby-coloured stone drops into the lower half. Harry watches him out of the corner of his eyes, but Remus' expression remains unchanged.

Percy silences the whispering spectators with a stern look before he continues. "Mrs Elladora Yaxley, please cast your vote."

The witch beside Professor Tofty looks just as old and frail as he is, but she swiftly gets to her feet and declares, "I vote for Severus Snape." This doesn't come as a surprise to anyone, so the crowd remains quiet, although Harry can see plenty of dark looks all around. Snape's name has been cleared, but there are many who have neither forgotten about his past nor forgiven him for it. If Snape is aware of it, he doesn't give any indication; his expression remains cold as the emerald-coloured stone drops in the hourglass above his head.

"Mr Carl Bones, please cast your vote."

Mr Bones bows slightly in the direction of the staff table when he answers, "I vote for Pomona Sprout." Professor Sprout doesn't seem too pleased about this; to Harry, it looks as if she didn't have the slightest desire to become Headmistress.

"Mr Wulfstan MacGraw, please cast your vote." McGraw's vote puts Remus in the lead again.

The first real surprise is Waldemar Burke's vote for Flitwick. Everyone had Burke down for either Snape or Lupin, and Harry realises he's not the only one who considers the choosing of Flitwick a compromise that both of the most prominent rivalling fractions might be able to live with.

Former Ravenclaw Isabella Hitchens seems to think otherwise, since she chooses Snape over Flitwick. Michael Dippet and Hestia Gamp, however, seem to have stronger House loyalties and vote for Lupin and Snape respectively. With only four more voters to go, Lupin and Snape are tied in first place with three votes each now. It's obvious that it will be one of them in the end, and Harry isn't surprised at all when neither Arnold McMillan nor Livius Rosier waste their votes on the runners-up. McMillan's vote for Snape and Rosier's for Lupin lead to another tie between the Heads of Gryffindor and Slytherin, and the crowd is beginning to whisper excitedly once more.

"Silence!" Percy bellows indignantly, reminding Harry of their school days for a second. "Mrs Calliope Flint, please cast your vote!"

Harry's thoughts are racing; he'll need to come to a decision within the next few seconds. Mrs Flint will undoubtedly vote for Snape, which leaves Harry two options - he can follow his heart and vote for Remus, which means that the election ends in a tie between Remus and Snape. By law, a tie leads to a run-off vote, which would give Remus another chance. Or Harry can admit defeat, demonstrate his willingness to find the middle ground by casting a useless vote for Flitwick, and live with the fact that Snape will become the next Headmaster.

It's an outcome he wouldn't have thought possible before the election; public clearance or no, Snape is far from being redeemed in the eyes of a big part of the wizarding population, and Harry honestly didn't expect that so many board members would have the balls to vote for him.

Congratulations, Harry, it looks like your little campaign in favour of poor downtrodden Slytherin House was more successful than you realised.

By now, Harry is used to the fact that whenever his own thoughts decide to mock him, they inevitably end up sounding like Draco. He's far from being amused by this turn of events, but he still bites back a grim smile at the realisation that Draco would have loved to see him get bitten in the arse by his own oh-so-clever schemes.

Then Harry feels his insides turn to ice at the sound of Calliope Flint's voice.

"I vote for Filius Flitwick."

There is dead silence for a moment, which is broken by Mrs Yaxley murmuring (louder than she probably intended since she's a bit deaf) with a hint of disgust in her voice, "Well, that's it, then."

Mrs Flint doesn't look at Harry when she sits down again beside him, and Harry suppresses the sudden urge to kick her under the table. Here's one who, for some reason, decided not to show her Slytherin colours when it really mattered, and her decision leaves Harry in a bigger dilemma than he anticipated. He's the only one left to vote now, and Pansy's prediction has actually come true: He is the one to make the final decision. Remus and Snape are tied at four votes each; Flitwick, at two votes, is out of the race.

For just a heartbeat, Harry considers chickening out and still voting for Flitwick, but he's too much a Gryffindor to go with that impulse. It's going to be either Remus or Snape, and the choice will be his and his alone.

The weight of the world on your shoulders, Harry. Isn't that what you like best?

All eyes are on him now; a deep hush falls over the crowd as Harry looks up to the staff table and tries to imagine Albus Dumbledore sitting there with his eyes twinkling down at him from behind his half-moon glasses. The choice between what's right and what's easy has never seemed more difficult, particularly since the times when Harry thought he always knew what was right are long past. These days, he has to live with the realisation that nothing is ever easy in the long run, and no choice can therefore ever be truly right either.

He thinks of Lucia, smiling at him with Draco's pale eyes shining in her tiny face, and of Pansy's carefully blank expression when she told him to think carefully about his choice. Dumbledore's tired old face flashes through his mind in a halo of green light, replaced by the image of Draco's body crumpled on the floor at Ron's feet.

"Mr Harry Potter, please cast your vote."

Harry rises slowly. His eyes are still on the staff table, where both Remus and Snape are staring straight ahead without meeting his gaze. The image that suddenly stands out clearly in his mind is that of an eleven-year old Draco on the Hogwarts Express, holding out his hand towards him. He'll never know whether it would have been for better or worse if he'd taken Draco's hand, but he realises that he needs to decide now whether he can muster up the same kind of nerve that Draco showed then.

He takes a deep breath and tries to channel the cool, detached tone that Draco always used during the war when he was trying to hide that he was worried or afraid.

"I vote for Severus Snape."

* * *

Harry steels himself when he sees Remus coming towards him. He has been able to avoid him for a while in the commotion that followed the election, but now Remus has him cornered, and Harry has no idea what to say to him.

Remus, however, doesn't even give him time to speak; he merely grabs him by the shoulders and says in a voice that's trembling with emotion, "Harry, I hope I don't come across as patronising, but I've never been prouder of you in my entire life."

For a moment, all that Harry can do is stare at him, taking in the haggard face that's lined with premature wrinkles and the hair that's completely grey now. Yet he can't remember a time when he has seen Remus' eyes shine as they do now, and the feeling of relief that washes over him is so intense that it makes his head spin.

"Remus, I'm sor-"

"Don't," Remus interrupts him sternly, "I don't want you to apologise for doing the right thing, especially since I know how hard it must have been for you."

"I hope you don't expect me to kiss your feet in return for your magnanimity, Potter," Snape's cold voice speaks up next to them, making both Harry and Remus jump. "In case you do, I assure you you'll be disappointed."

Harry straightens his shoulders and offers Snape his hand, who takes it out of sheer surprise. "My congratulations on your election, Headmaster. I'm sure you'll work tirelessly for the benefit of the entire school." He lets go of Snape's hand when he adds, in a less formal tone, "Of course, I also promise you that there will be hell to pay if you don't."

Surprisingly, Snape's sour expression lightens a bit at this. "It's reassuring to know you're still the same arrogant bastard you always were, Potter."

"There are some things you can always count on, Headmaster." Harry gives Snape a smile that is all teeth. "In case I'm not available to kick your arse, you can always rely on Professor Lupin, who, as the runner-up in the election, will take over the position of Deputy Headmaster. I trust the two of you will cooperate smoothly."

Remus seems hard-pressed to bite back a snicker, and Harry is beginning to feel better. Snape gives him a strange look, as if he weren't sure what to make of him. "I must say I'm beginning to look forward to seeing your daughter among my students, Potter."

Harry notices how Remus stiffens at this remark that must sound like a threat to him, but Harry, who knows that Snape is perfectly aware whose daughter Lucia really is, recognises it as an expression of grudging respect that can't have come easily to the new Headmaster. He makes a mental note to tell Pansy that between the two of them, she and Draco eventually seem to have taught him to speak Slytherin.

* * *

"Mr Potter?"

When Harry turns around, he's faced with one of the young Prophet reporters who usually cover the political topics. There are three or four of them, and Harry can never tell them apart; at least one of them seems to be around wherever he goes, but they all look the same to him.

"What can I do for you, Mr -"

"Abercrombie, Sir, Dorian Abercrombie from the Daily Prophet. I wanted to ask whether you'd agree to give me an interview about the school governors' most peculiar choice in the Headmaster election?"

"I'm the youngest member of the board of governors, Mr Abercrombie, I'm hardly qualified to speak for -"

"Please, Mr Potter, you're the Head of the Department of Magical Education, and it's well-known you and the new Headmaster were never friends, to put it mildly. I'm sure the public is dying to hear about your reasons for your astounding decision."

Harry sighs. "Fine, I'll give you your interview. There's just one condition," - he snaps his fingers, and the Quick-Quotes Quill hovering over the young man's notebook slides back into his pocket - "I will get to read your transcript before it's published, and you won't print anything I didn't approve first."

The reporter gasps. "You can't do that!"

A few years ago, Harry would have lost his temper at this point. Now he merely gives the young man a cool look (wishing he'd ever learned the trick of raising a single eyebrow) and replies calmly, "You'll find that I can, Mr Abercrombie. Write about me whatever you please, but if you want to quote my words, I'm going to make sure they're accurate. If you can't live with that, there will be no interview. Take it or leave it."

The young man looks extremely put out, but it's clear from his expression that he knows he has lost. "What about the freedom of the press?"

Harry merely shrugs. "What about it?"

The journalist deflates visibly, clearly giving in to the inevitable. "Would tomorrow, eight o'clock be a good time? I can come to your office, if you'd like."

"Fine. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Harry watches the young man's retreat and fleetingly wonders when exactly he stopped thinking twice about wielding the power he has. He isn't sure whether it's a good or a bad thing that he did, but he supposes it's something that comes with the job sooner or later.

* * *

"How could you, Harry?"

Harry, who is going over the CV of Snape's preferred candidate for the vacant Potions post, raises his head at the sound of the angry, familiar voice. "Hello to you too, Hermione."

"Mr Potter, I'm so sorry!" His secretary, a nervous young witch just out of Hogwarts, appears in the doorway behind Hermione with a flustered expression. "I told Miss Granger she needed an appointment, but -"

Harry holds up a placating hand. "It's fine, Isabel, don't worry. Just close the door and don't let anyone else in while Miss Granger is here, all right?"

There's a good chance Hermione is going to yell at him, and he doesn't need witnesses for that. She didn't announce her visit, but Harry expected her to show up sooner or later - sooner, in fact, given the magnitude of the issue at hand.

He's not particularly looking forward to the confrontation, but he can't help seeing it as a kind of test run for what is to come: If he can make Hermione understand his reasons, there's a chance he'll eventually convince everyone else who considers him a traitor, a madman, or both right now.

He offers Hermione a seat on the couch and sits down beside her; he doesn't want the barrier of his desk between them right now. There are bright red spots on her cheeks, and for a moment, he wonders whether she's about to slap him.

"Are you going to answer my question?"

"How could I vote for Snape, you mean?" Harry does his best to sound calm. "Hermione, is it really that difficult to understand why it was the only thing to do for me?"

"Well, I certainly don't understand it!" Her voice is shrill, as if she were trying very hard not to yell. "Unless you were worried that your wife would - "

"Leave Pansy out of this, please, she had nothing to do with it." Harry is still calm, but there's a clear warning in his tone.

Hermione looks away. "If you say so. But Harry, it was up to you to make sure Remus finally got some recognition, and you let him down! It would have been a huge step towards overcoming all those horrible prejudices about blood purity and dark creatures if a werewolf had been elected Headmaster of Hogwarts!"

"I know that, Hermione. Don't you think I'd have loved to give Remus that position?"

Hermione frowns. "Then why didn't you - "

"This isn't about a campaign for equal rights," Harry interrupts her, "and as much as I may personally want to see Remus get what he deserves, it isn't about him or me, either. It's about the school, and the next generation of wizarding children."

"But Snape, Harry? Have you forgotten what he -"

"Forgotten?" Harry can't help it that he is finally getting louder, too. "You seriously believe I could ever forget? I was there, Hermione, I saw him kill Dumbledore, remember?" He pauses for a moment to regain his composure; the last thing he needs now is to lose his temper. "That's the reason why it was so important that I made that choice, don't you see? Our world is still torn apart, split into different fractions who loathe and distrust each other. If we keep perpetuating that split by cementing things the way they were up to now at Hogwarts, with Slytherin House marginalized and despised by all the others, the next war is only a matter of time. I will detest Snape until my dying day, but I had to vote for him - I can't ask anyone else to take such a leap of faith if I'm unwilling to do it myself."

Hermione is biting her lip now, but Harry notices with some relief that the angry flush of her cheeks is receding. "I didn't quite think about it that way."

"It's what you once told us, remember? That all the Houses needed to stand together if we were to have a chance against Voldemort?"

Her shoulders slump, and Harry knows only too well she's thinking of Ron too now. "A lot has happened since then."

"Yes," he replies firmly. "We fought a war, and we eventually won it. That means it's over now, and we need to find a way to leave it behind us unless we want to keep fighting endlessly." He reaches for her hand, and she doesn't pull it away, even though her expression remains troubled. "Hermione, I have a little girl back home who I want to grow up in peace, without being taught to consider some of her classmates the enemy like our generation did. If that means I have to make public gestures of reconciliation towards the likes of Snape, I'll grit my teeth and do it. Is that so hard to accept?"

Hermione's face softens at this, and Harry feels a huge weight being lifted from him. "No, if you look at it like that, I suppose it isn't." She gives his hand a squeeze before she asks, "How is she doing?"

"Lucia?" Harry points at the array of photographs on his desk. "See for yourself. She's growing faster than you would believe, and she keeps both Pansy and me on our toes. You must come and visit us again soon."

Now she is finally smiling at him. "You know, Harry, it comes as a bit of a surprise, but being a father suits you."

Harry smiles back, almost giddy with relief. It's one of these precious moments when he's convinced things are really going to be all right one day, no matter how long it takes. "Tell you what, Hermione, it came as a bit of a surprise to me, too."