Cidley MacMillan has been Head of the Auror Office for exactly five years.

Five years he's spent dealing with the toughest criminals the Wizarding World has to offer. Three times he's been sent to St. Mungo's after being struck with a fatal curse, and three times he's survived. He's supervised the training of nearly two hundred wizards and witches in the trainee program, and one-hundred-and-ninety-three of those have finished that program and gone on to be successful Aurors themselves. The Minister once named him Boss of the Year. Cidley's proud to say that he's even worked with the great Harry Potter himself—not to mention the brilliant Hermione Granger.

He's worked with Ronald Weasley too, but he prefers to forget that experience.

Cidley walks into his office one Monday in early August, whistling a tune he's heard on the Wizarding wireless. He wishes his secretary, Joya, a good morning and asks her about her weekend. When he sits down at his desk, everything is in perfect order and the stack of papers in his inbox is precisely two inches thick; the perfect amount to finish before he leaves at four o'clock, so he will arrive on time for his nephew Ernie's birthday party. Perhaps he can even grab lunch at Kerfluffle's later on; his diet can wait one more day—

His brain freezes momentarily when the door bursts open, slamming against the wall with enough force to rattle the portraits; his predecessors let out terrified wails before fleeing their frames.

Cidley gapes up at the face of one very angry brunette. "Ms. Granger?"

"Curse—boyfriend—unknown—him." Granger gives up on words and jabs a finger towards the door. The man standing there looks a combination of confused, guilty, and terrified; he's also picking his nose and the tip of his wand is emitting enough sparks to constitute a fire hazard.

He looks familiar. Tall, gangly, red-haired, and freckled; a relative of Percy Weatherby, perhaps?

Joya pokes her head in through the door frame, shooting a sideways look at the possible-Weatherby-relative. "I see Ms. Granger's already brought him in. I'll call your wife, Mr. MacMillan, and let her know you'll be late."

"Why?" Cidley blurts out.

Joya tosses it over her shoulder even as she disappears from view; "Auror Weasley has been accused of assault and potential murder."

Pansy Parkinson doesn't like Ronald Weasley.

Weasley's a Gryffindor, first of all. That's more than enough reason to not like him, but he's also a blood traitor. And that's not even mentioning the person he's pals with; Harry-bloody-Potter. The Dark Lord was a wacko, sure, but that doesn't mean Pansy likes the way the Wizarding World worships the Golden Trio for "defeating" him (riiighhhtt. Because three teenagers can easily beat an infinitely powerful sorcerer.)

Pansy Parkinson doesn't like Ronald Weasley.

But could he kill someone?

"Auror Parkinson, you were present at the first incident?" MacMillan asks, looking in her direction. He looks desperate for someone else to take over. Pansy wonders how he ended up as Head; he's about as bright as Vincent Crabbe, and Crabbe managed to fall out of a Muggle airplane two years ago.

She pointedly ignores the other three residents of MacMillan's office and looks straight at her boss. "Yes, sir. Mr. Justin Finch-Fletchley visited our office to pick up some reports for the Minister, as he does every month. With no provocation, Mr.—ah, Auror?" she places a delicate stress on the title, with just the slightest hint of questioning; she finds her victory when she hears a low growl from her coworker—"Auror Weasley simply attacked him. Quite brutally, in fa—"

"Yes, yes, that's quite enough," Potter interjects hastily. "Look, that was just a bit of a fistfight. MacMillan, Ron would never curse someone—"

"Yes, he would," Granger hisses, breathing heavily through her nostrils. "Act first, think later—right, Ronald?" she sends the redhead a dagger-eyed stare.

Pansy blinks. Why is Granger so angry with Weasley? After all, it's just Finch-Fletchley, not—

Oh. Wait.

Right. No wonder the woman's furious; Pansy actually feels a tiny prickle of sympathy. Granger will probably be sobbing her heart out in half an hour, when the anger wears off.

"What?" MacMillan looks bewildered.

"It wasn't me!" Weasley whines for the fifth time in as many minutes. "So I threw a few punches—he threw back! What reason have I got to curse him? Look, just give me Veritaserum and ask me if—"

"There are so many things wrong with that statement," Pansy muses aloud, cutting him short without even raising her voice. This keeps getting better and better. "How 'bout this for starters, Weasley; we know you had a motive, and Veritaserum can no longer be used with accuracy."

"Can no longer be used—?!"

Even Potter is cringing. The news has been all over the Wizarding World for two weeks; Weasley must be truly dense.

MacMillan finally seems to catch up. "Let me get this straight. Auror Weasley, you initiated a brawl between yourself and Mr. Finch-Fletchley. Three hours later, he turns up cursed and you have no alibi."

Ignoring Weasley's pathetic protests to the contrary, Pansy waits for the inevitable. A moment she's dreamed of, one she will relish for years to come. One of the Golden Trio sent to Azkaban; just two more to go.

"Right. I'm afraid I have no choice in the matter; until further evidence appears to prove either your innocence or guilt, Mr. Weasley, you will be suspended from the Auror Office and placed under guard."

The strangled cry that erupts from her throat is not the exclamation of victory she was prepared for.

MacMillan glances around, oblivious to the dreams he's just shattered. "Potter, how about you—"

"No!" Pansy gasps out. "You can't do this! He—we know he did it, you can't just leave him under guard—and with Potter! His best friend! How do you know he won't just be left to his own devices?"

The man is all smiles as he pronounces her doom. "Very well, then—you can guard him, Auror Parkinson."

Ronald Weasley knows he should be thanking his lucky stars he's not in Azkaban.

Except he's just been informed he's to be babysat by a Slytherin until somebody proves he didn't curse Hermione's bloody boyfriend, so he figures he has the right to be a little upset.

And what the hell did they mean, Veritaserum can't be used?

What a mess.

Sitting out here in the reception area, they can hear Parkinson's furious screeches right through the door; the receptionist, Joya, is making phone call after phone call to various departments; but the Golden Trio is just sitting in silence.

Hermione abruptly drops her face into her hands and begins to cry.

Instinctively Ron reaches out to comfort her—but Harry's already there, and he sends Ron a warning look.

Ron backs off instantly, staring at the floor instead.

There is nothing they can do.

And so they wait.