Privet Drive was having a warmish day. Its cobblestone road never existed, and its paved road glistened in the sun. There was not even a hint of magic in the air, it seemed, and that's it regarding the road and weather of Privet Drive.
Or so the residents of Privet Drive thought. The glisten, we will soon learn, actually came from none other than the current resident of whatever house number is the one where Harry Potter grew up. Whatever number that is, Harry is there. With the Dursleys still in hiding and preferably most of the Dursleys dead, Harry treated his former childhood prison as a home. Ron and Hermione, both pregnant with each other's child, would visit at times. They didn't live too far. Harry would warn them about the dangers of male pregnancy, and Hermione would scoff.
"Oh, pishaw, Harry. The magic is sound and perfectly safe. I invented the spell myself. Ron will be fine. He likes it." Is something Hermione might say. Ron, of course, would avert his eyes from Harry's gaze and shift uncomfortably. His eyes, Harry would sometimes notice, were bruised. To clarify, they were always bruised, but Harry only noticed some of the time.
Ginny would also visit Harry. They would smooch and get into some heavy petting, but eventually Harry would notice that Ginny kind of resembles Ron, and that would lead to confusion and frustration and disappointment. They would awkwardly put away their boners and wetties, and then talk of the incredible boredom that has come from Voldemort being dead, and how neither of them is qualified for any job that's not killing Voldemort or liking each other. Maybe a few more smooches and then she would leave, an overnight bag never even being packed/considered.