Anthony had worried when Terry first joined the Aurors. Had complained endlessly that it was dangerous and that they were going to have to worry all the time and that Terry didn't take good enough care of his health even when he wasn't fighting crime.

"Relax," Terry had said, when he'd finally gotten sick of Anthony's whinging. "For Chrissakes it's just 'til we get the Death Eaters rounded up again."

In May of 1998 there had been eleven known Death Eaters who had fled the Battle of Hogwarts before it'd been overwhelmed with reinforcements. The Aurors had caught three of them in the four months after the Battle and Terry had said, "See? It's temporary. God. I'm not planning to be an Auror forever."

Terry was not too fond of the Ministry of Magic, a trait he'd picked up from his parents. The Ministry was indecisive and unproductive, did little to protect its most needy constituents, and discouraged anything fun, like gambling or recreational substance abuse or dangerous exotic pets. He would never have gone to work there if he hadn't been eighteen and desperate to be needed.

But now he was in, he couldn't deny that he didn't hate it at all.

Nine months after the Battle, Terry was partnered with Solomon Dobbs when they caught up to the Death Eaters Selwyn and Kelly in an empty barn in Wales. It was the most action-packed night of his career thus far- he came out of it with four broken fingers and a split lip and half of his hair and part of his scalp burned off.

But Selwyn and Kelly came out of it restrained and wandless.

Terry had been minorly injured compared to two of the other three Aurors who had been there, and so he and Ron Weasley briefed Don Savage on the night's events as their colleagues went straight to the sick bay. Savage, the night shift Head Auror, shook Ron's hand, then frowned at Terry when he refused, citing his four broken fingers. He held them up, for illustration.

"What the fuck, Boot. Go get that fixed. Jesus Christ."

He took two sick days.

"I told you it was dangerous," Anthony said, when he and Michael visited that weekend. Terry was the first one of them to have moved out of his parents' house, and he and Megan Jones were sharing a two bedroom flat in London a few blocks from the Ministry. The doorframe was too small for Michael and Michael's wheelchair; it always took some creative maneuvering and subtle Shrinking spellwork to get them all situated. They'd been dealing with it for the last few months and Michael still felt the need to bitch about it whenever he visited.

"You've been in this job for a whole year now and how many unnecessary injuries have you gotten? Two hundred?" Anthony threw his hands up to punctuate this point.

"How many Death Eaters have we gotten?" Terry countered. Two hundred was a gross overestimate anyway. And the fingers had been fixed in no time flat. Admittedly, his hair would take more work.

"Not two hundred," said Anthony.

"Aren't you guys supposed to be in school?" Terry said.

"It's a Hogsmeade weekend and we have Apparation licenses," said Michael.

"You can Apparate the wheelchair?" said Terry. Whenever he saw Michael he couldn't help but wonder how the fuck his friend did anything. What was it like living in Ravenclaw Tower in a wheelchair ? He couldn't fathom it.

"You can Apparate anything you want with Determination, Destination, and... dogshit," said Michael. He'd gotten stellar marks on his Apparation test and most likely resented that Terry would question his talent. "We were worried, you prat. You got hurt. You're missing all your hair."

"We've been telling you since last year, you're gonna get yourself killed doing this job," said Anthony.

In fact only Anthony had been telling him since last year that he'd get himself killed doing this job. Michael had always been good about minding his damn business.

"Aha," said Terry. "You're here to say you told me so." With this revelation he swigged the rest of his lemonade.

"You aren't smart for figuring that out," said Anthony, in the snide way he got when he'd been proven right and wanted to rub it in. "I said I'd told you so within seconds of being here."

In Terry's work locker he kept a scrawled list of the Death Eaters still on the run. They had crossed off three already; the Monday he returned to work they crossed off two more.

"Six left!" said Terry. "Then you can all be rid of me."

"Can't bloody wait," said Megan Jones.

Their next lead on a Death Eater wasn't a new location or a new alias. Instead it was a new Death Eater. Three, actually, and Terry's list shot back up to nine.

That was just what happened when you relied on the Death Eaters themselves to provide rosters. They lied to you. Terry, though he'd naturally distrusted the many Death Eaters he and the other Aurors had interviewed, couldn't help feeling betrayed.

"They're all bastards," he complained, spread-eagled on Michael's bed. Michael and Anthony were dutifully not caring about or paying attention to him, their heads stooped together over a paper on decimals that Michael was writing for his new assistant librarian job, which was as boring as it sounded. "Liars and bastards."

"You would think you'd know that already," said Michael. "From when they tortured me. And set me on fire."

Death Eaters had tortured Terry and set him on fire as well, not that Michael ever bothered to remember that.

"They put your parents in Azkaban too," said Anthony helpfully.

"You're both prats," said Terry. "Now I'm stuck with the Aurors until we get nine Death Eaters."

"You know you don't actually have to keep whatever dumb promise you made at the start," said Anthony. "You can quit whenever you want to."

"I want to keep my dumb promise," said Terry.

"Very Gryffindor," said Michael. When they'd all been first or second years he would have meant it as a compliment, but it was anything but now that they were adults.

Terry shrugged.

"Lead on Goyle," said Megan, coming into the flat. "They'll brief the night shift tomorrow."

"Or you could brief me right now," suggested Terry.

"Too tired," yawned Megan, but she relented at Terry's expression. "They've got to send people abroad, he's in hiding in Germany."

"Ugh," said Terry. He had been there when they'd tracked Hargrove to Spain. International law was a bitch.

It didn't wind up mattering, the Aurors didn't send him to Germany. While Aurors Patil, Proudfoot, Savage, and Dobbs were hunting Death Eaters in Germany, Terry was stuck with new recruit Romilda Vane investigating art theft.

Not that art theft wasn't a worthy crime, or Romilda Vane wasn't a worthy partner, but Terry had no patience for either when Padma Patil got to run the international law gamut in the underground German Death Eater ring. His life was such shit- he hadn't gotten laid in months and he was twenty-two and already so boring that he went to bed at eleven-thirty every night and his parents probably needed a divorce and he was working this art theft with Romilda Vane.

And, of course, the fact that he was so upset he wasn't risking life and limb in Germany was forcing himself to admit something unpleasant to himself: he really liked being an Auror. He liked the prestige, the mind games, the chase, the puzzles, the uniform robes, the formal dress robes. Even as much as he hated that he was working an art theft with Romilda Vane he was enjoying that, too.

There were still nine names on the list after three and a half years. Hopefully they would keep moving at this rate and he could stick it with the Aurors for a while yet.

"Okay, so maybe Mrs. DuVern has a lot of people who might want to steal art from her," said Terry. Mrs. DuVern was internationally known among magical art collectors for being extremely wealthy and extremely annoying. Terry could only spend ten minutes talking to her at a time before he had to make an excuse. They'd been working on the case for two days and he'd been to the bathroom about twenty times. "We can still narrow this down. They knew the right window of time between her appointments. They knew not to Apparate onto the property, and to use the house elves' door."

"They're small enough to fit through the elves' door," added Romilda.

"Yes!" said Terry. Romilda could come off a little vain or shallow or arrogant or smug or frivolous but she had a good head on her shoulders sometimes. "They knew not to touch the door handles with their bare hands." Mrs. DuVern was also known for being extremely paranoid; on her four-hour outing she'd tricked her house out to deter potential invaders. And forgotten to turn them off, so Terry had burnt his hand badly the first time he'd gone to the bathroom.

"We just have to figure out who's close enough to have an understanding of her defenses," said Romilda. "And who hates her enough to steal a nude Merlin statue."

"I'd hate her enough," muttered Terry.

"Beg pardon?"

"Nothing," said Terry.

The art thief was Mrs. DuVern's nephew, who fallen out with her the month before. The Death Eaters' ring in Germany had included four from Terry's list and three who hadn't been on the list. Two of the seven had escaped the Aurors.

Three Death Eater steps closer to retirement, and then two Death Eater steps back. If only Terry had been there to help.

"Germany this, Germany that," said Anthony. "You don't even speak German. You don't even like sausage."

"There's more to Germany than sausage ," said Terry.

"Shh," said Michael harshly.

They were visiting Michael at his place of work. And realising that he was a real piece of shit when he was working. It was like if Madam Pince had been fifty years younger and a double amputee. It was just a school library and neither Terry nor Anthony (nor, indeed, Michael, before he'd gotten this job) had ever considered it worthy of the hushed, reverent tones Michael seemed to expect of them.

"You just got so worked up about it," Anthony said in a hissing whisper. "Most dangerous job yet- seven Dark fucking Wizards- and you got so worked up."

"It was the biggest bust of the year," Terry hissed back. "And they should have brought me. I'm their psychology specialist and an emergency medic. And I speak French."

"You do not speak French," Anthony whispered furiously.

"Shh!" said Michael again. Anthony and Terry gave him identically filthy looks, but they took their cues and shut up as he went back to his work.

"It's just you seem so bloody excited to risk your neck," Anthony whispered, after a moment. "It's like you actually like it and you're using that stupid promise as an excuse."

Then: "Oh fuck- you actually do like it and you are ."

"Shh," said Terry.

"I just don't get why you wouldn't just tell us," said Anthony. "It was that easy. 'Hey Michael, Anthony, I actually enjoy my job.' What happened to no secrets between friends?"

"Oh like we've ever been that honest," said Terry. "I had to hear it from Michael when you lost your virginity." Redirection was and always would be the first and most effective line of defense for their mess of a friendship.

It worked like a charm; Anthony turned on poor Michael, who wheeled his chair backwards in retreat. "I told you that in confidence."

"And Terry told you in confidence when he got arrested for public indecency last year," retorted Michael, who was not getting dragged into this without a fight.

"God damn it, Anthony," said Terry, though he'd kind of expected Anthony to be incapable of keeping his mouth shut on that.

"Well you told him about my tattoo," said Anthony defensively.

"Well Michael only likes his girlfriend on top," snapped Terry.

"Terry!" said Michael.

To be fair, that one had been unwarranted. Michael was mostly minding his business. "Okay, never mind," said Terry. "Maybe there are no secrets between friends."

They all fumed in mutual betrayed trust for a moment, arms folded and scowling.

"I didn't tell you about that thing because it was awful," said Anthony, apparently too polite to say the word "sex."

"I didn't tell you I liked the Aurors because I didn't want you to worry," said Terry. He was dying to know more about Anthony's reportedly awful first time but not yet. He had a sense of decency.

"Come on, Terry," said Michael. "We were always gonna worry about it."

"Well don't," snapped Terry. "I'm a grown-up, I can handle myself."

"You called me last week because you bought a new telly and didn't want to read the directions about what to plug where," said Anthony.

He had a point there. "Clearly I should have called Michael, who knows where to plug things."

Anthony scowled. "It wasn't awful just 'cause of me. Fuck you."

"Right, it was her fault," said Terry, now curious enough to forgo his sense of decency. So long as this conversation wasn't pointed at him he was happy.

"What, d'you think I'm that much of a-"

"Terry," interrupted Michael, before Anthony could get going. "We were worried, is all."

"You didn't need to be," said Terry, inexplicably frustrated with this lackluster justification. "I don't take stupid risks. Maybe you remember that."

In their first seventh year, Anthony had constantly broken minor rules and caused minor scenes, and Michael had less constantly broken major rules and caused major scenes. Terry, on the other hand, had been the last seventh year in the DA to retreat to the Room of Requirement and the only one who'd never been Cruciated twice in a row.

"Maybe I do," said Michael. Anthony glanced between the two of them and, wisely, kept his mouth shut; Terry glanced away.

If either Anthony or Michael had taken the opportunity to point out that Terry's lack of stupidity in seventh year had been less a lack of stupidity and more a lack of courage, they'd be back on even footing- but they were too nice for that, so it hung heavily between them for a long, still moment.

Anthony silently followed Michael back out to the library.

They talked themselves in circles, that was the thing. They veered in an even, predictable loop through their normal conversations about their stupid lives and then they headed straight back into their worst topics, argued, then steered away.

And then a month later they looped back around.

Michael didn't talk to Terry for a week before apparently getting bored with his own pettiness. The three of them met up for coffee and, like usual, talked about the stupidest things they possibly could.

They were talking themselves in circles; soon enough they'd be right back where they started.

The two remaining members of the German Death Eaters' circle were next tracked down to Belgium, with three more Death Eaters. This time Terry did get to go abroad. Even though he was literally living with Megan, the Aurors' office had a thing about gendering the rooming situations, so Terry wound up sharing with Harry Potter.

They'd been colleagues for five years but Terry was still the slightest bit intimidated by him. He'd saved the world, after all.

Harry was an intense bloke. And Terry back when he was fifteen had had a little crush on him. It was inevitable- he'd watched him outfly a dragon on a broomstick and then yell at an entire group of his classmates and yet be surprisingly tender as a teacher. Of bloody course he'd gotten a crush.

But he was over it now. He was an adult.

Just then Harry was poring moodily over the list of Belgian phrases they'd been given, concentrating like it was the key to saving the world. Terry was towelling his hair and peering out the window when he noticed it- faint rippling in the near distance, just outside the hotel's gates.

He hadn't been in the Aurors five years without picking up a few instincts. "Oi Harry," he said, swinging himself flat against the wall out of eyeshot of the rippling. "There's someone magical out there."

Harry put the list down and approached the window, then immediately tackled Terry to the ground as the room above them was punched inward, as if by an enormous and invisible giant. Funny thing- even when they were both fumbling for their wands to react to a fight they had expected to start themselves the next day with more backup, Terry couldn't tell if he was out of breath from being tackled as the room imploded, or if it was because, for four glorious seconds, Harry Potter had been on top of him.

"You're insane is what that means," said Michael. "Totally off your nuts."

"I know I'm insane," said Terry, croaking through his wounded throat. He had already had a pain potion in the last six hours but he would kill to be medically allowed to have another. "Come on. Just tell me whether it means I have a crush or not."

"It means you haven't gotten laid in too long," said Michael. "That's what it means."

"Why are you asking us?" said Anthony, in a bitter and unpleasant tone. "Not like you ever ask our advice or opinions in things."

"Go on ahead and say it," said Terry. This was understood by all three of them to mean that he was fine with whatever whiny comments Anthony was preparing to hurl at him, mandated bedrest and hand, chest, and throat injuries and grieving a dead coworker or not.

"The Aurors are a disaster ," said Anthony immediately. "Come on. One dead, everybody wounded, all over five Death Eaters who weren't even in England. And you only caught two and now you're on bedrest for a week. Come on. It's not worth it, Terry, you'll die horribly and- missing limbs, and gangrene, and broken bones- and, and blood- and I'm gonna tell you I told you so, at your funeral."

"We went over this," said Terry. "I don't want to quit. I'm not going to quit. Suck it up and worry."

"You're a dick," said Anthony.

"Likewise."

When they were twenty-six Anthony got a second job playing piano at the Leaky Cauldron and Michael proposed to Susan Bones for the first time.

Terry's list had four names left on it. He'd started with eleven and, in seven years, gotten through seven. At this rate he'd be out before he was thirty, hopefully. He'd made such a big fuss about this being temporary and his friends all thought he was an idiot.

But Susan Bones had said no, and Anthony had ended up hating his new job, since it sapped away all the time he'd had in the evenings, so who was the idiot really?

Not that Terry was being petty about his friends' misfortunes. He felt very bad about both affairs- Anthony needed the money but undoubtedly needed the time to himself as well, and Michael had been in his relationship for seven years, which to Terry seemed long enough to start considering marriage.

But still- ha.

And then ten months later, there were three. For all intents and purposes this ritual had become as important to the Aurors division as it was to Terry- when Megan scratched the name out they all cheered. "Three, three, three, three," chanted a few of the older Aurors and Romilda Vane, who was drunk. Terry took a little bow.

His friends just didn't know about these parts of the job- the camaraderie and the ceremony and yes, the puzzle solving and the hunting and the fighting.

It had been long enough that they'd stopped bugging him about it at every opportunity, though Anthony would still twist his mouth and say rude things on occasion. It was at least an equal thing. If he wanted to, Terry could say as many rude things about Anthony's life choices as he wanted. Anthony was an ice cream scooper and clerk, and a bar pianist. And as far as Terry knew hadn't gone on a date in years.

They popped champagne- the Death Eater Jerome Rosier had taken them months of work to track, following false lead after false lead, and the fact that he was locked up now was plenty of cause to party.

"Good job, everyone," Savage was saying. "Good job, everyone."

Terry looked sideways at Megan. "Three's a charm, right?"

"No the fuck it's not," she said.

He grinned.

"Come on in," he said, ushering his friends in as quickly as was reasonable. "Mrs. Taylor doesn't like when people loiter in the halls."

"Mrs. Taylor? The nice old one?" said Michael, getting himself stuck in the door.

"Ugh," muttered Terry, who had forgotten the logistical problems of Michael visiting. Lately they all went over to Michael's, which was really Susan's, which had big enough doors for Michael and enough room for them all. "Hold on."

"Shit," said Michael, then- "Shit! Watch it."

They shut the door behind and Michael fixed his shirt huffily. "Sorry," muttered Anthony.

"Mrs. Taylor actually thinks me and Meg are in a gang now, I think," said Terry.

"What?" said Michael. "Why?"

"Cause all our visitors have weird scars or missing limbs and we both have bizarre schedules and come home in long dark coats and hats."

"Oh."

Anthony and Terry had a seat and Michael put his brakes on.

"We're down to two Death Eaters, is why I asked you over," said Terry.

"Two," repeated Anthony.

"And they've got leads on them both," said Terry. "I mean, we do. We think they're together. I legally can't tell you where, though."

"I don't care," said Michael, who obviously did.

"I'm gonna quit once we get them," said Terry. "I swear."

Michael and Anthony exchanged a glum look. "Look, mate," said Anthony after a moment. "All that shit I gave you- I mean, yeah, I meant it, it's a dangerous job and I hate having to worry so much about you, but-"

"Oh get over yourself," said Terry. "This isn't about you or how you felt about it. I made that promise when I was eighteen, is all."

Michael and Anthony exchanged another look, less glumly. "Very Gryffindor," said Michael finally.

"Thanks," said Terry. "I guess."

Terry had gone to the five year anniversary dinner of the Battle of Hogwarts, the one that had honoured the DA and the Aurors alike. He had hated it. Anthony went to almost every damn event, Michael's girlfriend did too, and Terry would never really understand why. The events were stuffy, formal, stiff. They strangled you in ceremony and then, the alcohol was so good it'd turn you off all the other alcohol in the world.

Michael never went. This was the second event Terry had been to since the first one, and the second event where he'd ducked out for a smoke and thought, Michael was right not to come.

"Hi," said Anthony's voice from behind.

"Hi," said Terry.

Anthony joined him, wrinkling his nose. He worked in a bar now- you'd think he'd be used to smoke and smells, but he made a point anyway of being constantly bothered by them. "Sulking?"

"Thinking."

"Same thing."

Terry exhaled and didn't answer.

"Did you really not tell us you liked the Aurors because you didn't want us to worry?" said Anthony.

"That was years ago," said Terry. "Come on." He glanced at Anthony, who's holding an empty wine glass. That explained it- Anthony got melancholy and philosophical when he was wine drunk. As opposed to hard liquor-drunk Anthony, who got pedantic and reckless. Terry just got weepy when he drank, which was way less fun.

"So?" said Anthony. "I'm asking now."

"Yeah," said Terry. "And I didn't want you to think I was stupid."

"You are stupid."

"Shut up."

They had been friends for seventeen years; even though it'd been over a decade since they'd been in school together they could fall so easily back into the same rhythm of goading each other into a fight and then falling away from it. They barely even upset each other anymore, saying these things.

"Why didn't you tell me when you lost your virginity?" said Terry. It was years later. Surely his sense of decency could be commended for the wait.

Anthony made a sound that could have been a laugh if it'd committed. "It was awful. I was really drunk. I mean- really drunk. She was a lot older than me. Never saw her again."

Terry hadn't expected it to be quite that awful. "Sorry," he said.

"It's fine," said Anthony. "I mean, it was a long time ago."

"Sorry I was gonna make fun of it," said Terry.

Anthony shrugged. "I'd have made fun of you if it were me."

"No you wouldn't," said Terry.

Anthony shrugged again; he wasn't going to lie but clearly wasn't going to agree either. They stood in weary silence for awhile longer before Terry put his cigarette out on the balcony railing and Anthony leaned over the edge into the chilly air and laughed to himself.

"What?" said Terry.

"Just thinking," said Anthony. "Terry- it was so awful. She wanted- oh, man."

Terry laughed too, content with the knowledge that Anthony was so damn uncomfortable talking about sex that he would never share any more than Terry wanted to know. "Oh man," he echoed, grinning.

Anthony nearly cackled.

"Oh man," he repeated. "Oh man."

Two months later they caught the last Death Eater, and after they'd ceremonially shredded Terry's list and popped three bottles of champagne and gone out to the Leaky Cauldron and sang raunchy bar songs and peppy political songs, and crashed on his and Meg's living room floor for the night and were hungover the next morning for work, he turned in his two weeks' notice.

"Two weeks!" he told his friends. "Two weeks and I'm out! I told you I'd keep my promise."

"What are you gonna do?" said Michael.

"Dunno," said Terry. "I guess I'll figure it out when I get there."

"You're a cliche," said Anthony, and gestured vaguely at Terry's torso with one hand. "Everything about you is a cliche."

"Well," said Terry. "That's fine by me."

They clinked their coffee mugs.

"What better way to quit the Aurors anyway," said Terry, "than with no plans for the future, no trade skills, and no hobbies or passions?"

"Very Gryffindor," said Michael.

"Mm," said Anthony in agreement.

"Yeah," said Terry. "Very Gryffindor."

Author's Note: Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

In my defense, I got nothing. No more empty promises anymore, here out. Someday I'll actually run out of hyperspecific crap to write for these guys, but that day was not 11 February, 2018, and it was apparently not 7 June, 2018 either. And no, it will not be 22 January, 2019. Anyway- apologies for another fic in which nothing happens at all and three idiots do nothing but argue and occasionally get badly injured.

Thank you for reading, would love any comments or feedback, and hope to see you again.