Years of Struggle began as an idea that wouldn't leave me alone: Harry Potter, driving a London taxi under a pseudonym, pulls over and picks up a fare, late at night. The fare turns out to be Draco Malfoy, who has just completed a musical engagement.

These are short stories, somewhat loosely connected, that evolved from that single idea. They aren't edited for continuity because Years of Struggle isn't meant to be a unified work in that sense. The unifying element is the struggle so many go through to grapple with their past, their personalities, the difficulties of establishing and maintaining relationships, parenthood and just making a living in a tough world that so often doesn't take our perspective into account.

I claim nothing. The characters and fictional venues appear in the Harry Potter books written by JK Rowling, or are derived from the same. There is no schedule for completion. The stories will tell us when they are finished.

Regards, Bfd1235813

The Cabman

The cab with the striking livery of crimson and gold sat at the curb, awaiting the return of its master. He was inside the cabman's shelter on Russell Square, taking little slurps from a cup of scalding tea. The jolts to his tongue from the hot liquid helped him filter out a conversation between two football fans, one Manchester City and the other Arsenal. They were missing something, upstairs. The cabman knew better. Stamford Bridge was sacred ground, the Shed the Holy of Holies. A citizen walked up to the window and cleared his throat. The proprietor looked over and nodded.

"Be right there," he said.

Some of the drivers were finishing up and heading back out to their cabs. The movement of chairs and bodies had a cue ball effect on the others. The hot mug of tea wasn't as compelling once Harry Potter saw the face at the window.

"Got to run," he said, a minimal explanation but it wasn't the business of anyone else. If he wanted to leave half of a fresh mug of tea, Henry Poulter must have had a good reason.

"Need a ride?"

"If we can, for a bit," said Dean Thomas, a boarding school classmate of Potter/Poulter's.

Potter looked his cab over and smiled before he unlocked the door. Taxis could sport advertisements, which they did, some with considerable élan, some with subdued good taste. Harry Potter drove a taxi painted in crimson and gold, the corporate colors of a private bank owned by three old boys from his house at boarding school. An overwhelming percentage of his fellow Londoners had no idea of the significance. For the select few who did, it was understood the taxi was available to them at no charge, should they need it when they were in an impecunious state.

"Where?" asked Potter.

"Home to Hampstead, eventually," said Thomas.

"Do we need that long?" asked Potter.

"I…" Thomas replied.

Harry Potter shifted gears, checked his mirror and pulled away from the curb, headed for Hampstead, probably for his former home.

Dean Thomas sat in the back seat, looking out the window. A little rain began to spot the windshield, as yet insufficient to justify turning on the wipers.

Harry let the passing London scene occupy his mind. He focused on driving. Harry had passed the course to get his license as a London taxi driver, so he was expert in The Knowledge. He could take his taxi, and passengers, pretty much anywhere in London in a safe and efficient manner, relying on what he carried around in his head.

Driving a taxi and keeping current with every detour, closed street and infrastructure project was therapeutic. Harry Potter could not let his mind drift. He did not ponder youthful hijinks, call up memories of delightful vacations or think about the hilarious thing one of his children said.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Harry," said Thomas.

"What is it?"

"Oh, I don't know if this is a very good idea, Harry," Thomas replied.

Harry had to take hold of himself in order not to pull to the curb and throw Dean Thomas out of his cab. He took a moment to clear his head.

"Dean, this is family," said Harry. "Do not think you will get away with showing up at the shelter, getting me to leave half my tea and join you outside so we can drive all the way to Hampstead and then leaving me wondering what is wrong. The children are fine, I think, or you would have spoken right up. It must be Ginny."

Harry let it hang. Ginny was Harry's wife. Ginny Potter, although she was known as Ginny Weasley from her days playing quidditch for the Holyhead Harpies.

"Yes," said Thomas. He added a sigh, a long one. Harry thought he must be thinking.

"Who is Henry Poulter?"

"Dean, that's me," said Harry. Henry Poulter was his name for London bureaucracy. Henry Poulter was the name on the license on display for passengers. Lots of people knew the name Harry Potter. Lots of those people were of no interest to Harry Potter and he wished to conceal his birth name from them, lest they seek to engage him in tedious conversation.

"You could have gone home by apparition, Dean, and you didn't, instead you found me for a trip home by Henry Poulter's taxi. What is it? Does Ginny want me to take the children early? Stretch it out? Swap vacation periods?" Harry asked.

Ginny and Harry had married shortly after Ginny's eighteenth birthday. They had three children at roughly two-year intervals, James, Albus and Lily. Ginny had played professional quidditch as long as she could before James was born, returned for one season between James and Albus, and retired after Albus' birth.

Harry studied for his license. They kept busy, too busy, perhaps. Ginny found herself at home with two young boys and a baby girl, married to a taxi driver. Harry spent many hours behind the wheel. He tried to explain to Ginny that driving was the best thing he had found to keep his demons at bay. Ginny tried to explain that marriage to what amounted to a non-magical chauffeur did not meet some of her deep-seated personal needs.

Both tried; neither one got through. Ginny rekindled a relationship with an old boyfriend. She asked Harry to move out, which he did.

"Your mother and I work better this way than we did when I was underfoot all the time," Harry told his sons. "I'm working on finding some relief, someone else who can drive, like I do, so the cab can keep moving and I can take you guys more. I know she'd like that."

The children were skeptical. Lily Potter was too young to remember a full-time Harry Potter presence at home. She'd be growing up thinking Dean Thomas belonged there. If not for the children, Harry would agree with her. Ginny and Dean were much more compatible than Ginny and Harry.

"Okay," said Thomas. "Here it is. She can go back with the Harpies."

"To PLAY?" asked Harry. The words came fast: Mother of three little children; Out of the game four years; No, five years; Travel; Birthdays.

"Not to play, Harry, assistant coach," Thomas broke in. "It's a great opportunity for her. You know how the Weasleys are when it comes to quidditch."

Harry concentrated on driving. It wouldn't do to become angry, much as he would have liked to. He was a professional. Dean Thomas told the truth. The whole Weasley family, except for Ginny's brother Percy, were obsessed with the magical society's Beautiful Game.

"So she sent you out in the rain," Harry observed. "To do what?"

"Ask you over," said Thomas.

Harry didn't miss the humor, although Dean Thomas would have been hard-pressed to find it. Harry had a phone, a necessity in the non-magical society where he spent the majority of his time. He could also get mail by the usual magical owl postal service. Dean had been dispatched to go find Harry Potter.

"Dean, keep this to yourself because I have no interest in hurting Ginny, not in the slightest," Harry said. "It's pretty clear to me that I will never, ever understand her. Are you sure this is what you want? Or is it what Ginny wants and your choice is between Ginny and not-Ginny, take it or leave it?"

Dean studied the buildings, lights, shadows and shiny streets. Several long sighs ate up some miles.

"I fell, hard, back at school," Thomas began. "Then, that whole year. You know what happened to me. Afterwards, we couldn't click. You seemed to click with her. I was happy, for both of you. Right up until she decided she wanted something different. Then I had to admit I'd never gotten over her. Never got anything going with anyone else, not that lasted. Here we are, aren't we? Not ideal, at all, any way you look at it."

Harry drove, silent, thinking. Thomas sat quietly, apparently enjoying the ride and looking out the window. Harry thought Dean Thomas had spoken some fairly profound words. Harry Potter wasn't the only Gryffindor who felt compelled to waste time on self-reflection, it seemed.

"It's the children, isn't it?" Harry asked. "That is what she needs, to make it work for the Harpies, and for you, right? She sent you out for someone to take the children."

"Harry…" Thomas began, until Harry held up his left hand, flat, in a 'STOP' signal. Thomas saw the knob at Harry's left wrist.

"When?" Harry asked.

"She has to be at the training ground, soon, a day or two, I think," said Thomas.

"Here we are," Harry said as he pulled into the short driveway in front of a compact suburban house.

Dean Thomas reached inside his jacket for his wallet.

"No, Dean," Harry said. "Tell Ginny of course I'll take them. Let me know when to come for them. You and I are even. Best keep that to yourself, of course."

Dean laughed. He understood. They both knew Ginny.