Harry had to stifle a laugh as he watched his short sister, knock men twice her size to the ground. And it wasn't aggressive, like what he saw with Ginny and her brothers--Kicking, yelling insults, cursing and more yelling--no, this was much more calmer. 

Emma was standing in the centre of the room with a straight face, and her arms raised in defense. They had started their training about 3 months back and their trainers had decided to put them against eachother. The aurors were drinking water, and cooling down but the distillers had yet to finish. Another huge man, who could have towered over Ron quiet easily came running up to Emma with his fists raised and a scream, Emma simply ducked and using her leg,  swept his feet from under him, and finished while giving him a swift kick in the stomach. 

Ron came up beside Harry, "she still kicking ass?"

"I don't think she ever stopped," laughed Harry.

Ron shook his head in mock sympathy, "if only they knew what we did."

Yes, if only they knew that Emma relied on strategy, not strength. She was used to being underestimated, and used to twisting that to her advantage. Years of abuse and running from death had taught both the twins how to read people like a book. And Emma was a snake, or as she liked to call it, "delightfully diabolical."

Both Harry and Ron winced in sympathy when Emma kicked a guy where it hurts. 

The trainer called on them to stop and go home. Emma walked up to them with a grin, Ron tossed her a water bottle. 

"Thanks," she panted, shaking hands with some of the guys. "shall we?"

Harry and Ron stepped back to let her pass through first. They had to go to muggle- London, which was why they changed into jeans and t-shirts, with their coats pulled in close to try to escape the nip of November. Emma looked anxiously in the sky, while Ron peered in the German bakeries that had started popping up around Regent's Park. Harry followed his sister's gaze, the sky was grey and cloudy, night was silently creeping up on silent pays and watching Londoners shiver in the brisk air, hold hands or nurse cups of cocoa for warmth. It was a bad night for flying. 

"They're fine," said Harry, "I'm sure they're fine." 

"I know," mumbled Emma, "we're not there to put them in danger this time."

Harry opened his mouth to reassure her, but he couldn't stop his own mind from agreeing. "Exactly. So why are you worrying?"

Emma smiled ruefully, "old habits die hard."

"Voldemort's dead."

"He's risen once."

"So have you."

"Both twins turned to see Ron, leaning against a pole and glaring at them. "When will you two realize that the war was not your fault?"

An old insecurity uncurled itself in Harry, "how can you say that?" His hand curled around his last letter from Ginny, tucked safely in his pocket. Images came to his mind;

 A curly-haired witch. . . maniacal laughter. . . flying curse. . . a near hit. . . 

He closed his hand into a fist, "people died, Ron."

Ron looked to his feet, "yeah, I know."

Harry felt a pang of guilt, while the Weaslys were recovering, they had not healed. But before he could apologize Ron was speaking again. 

"It was not your fault for being born," he insisted, sounding a lot like Hermione and yet still Ron, "it was Voldemort's fault for targeting you, and starting an entire bloody war because he was a psycho. And remember," he gestured at them, "you won."

"We won," corrected Emma.

"Besides," Ron waved a brown bag, in front of their faces, the smells of pretzels and gingerbread squeezed out their long fingers and tickled their noses. 

Ron put an arm around both of their shoulders, and smiling, the friends began to walk into the London night.