The rest of the day was a bloody waste. Mrs. Henshall once again told them they were 'useless piles of dragon dung;' the search in her house showed no result; and Wren, despite her splitting headache, was the one to go into a Muggle police station. She'd apparated, and had to question and Obliviate an officer. In the recent years, with the development of technology, the Auror officers with Muggle, or semi-Muggle background - in Wren's case, that would the multitude of Muggle schools all over the world she'd gone to while her Dad travelled with his Quidditch team - were encouraged to familiarize themselves with the procedures of the police and to use it to their advantage. Wren was pretty poor at Legilimency, but she scrambled through, and then quickly wiped the bloke's memories. She was in and out of there in half an hour; and met up with Greengrass, who was bricking it on the pavement. By then, Wren was hungry, narked off, and beyond irritable.

"So?" he asked; and she almost hissed at him.

"So nothing. I checked buses, trains, and even planes. Either he left by foot, or he's still in the city. There's a tracking spell on him; so he hasn't left by Apparition or a Portkey. So, now all we have left is good old Auror work. Chasing leads, looking into evidence. Do you think you can manage?"

Greengrass nodded sheepishly, and Wren scoffed and apparated into the MAB without waiting for him. The bloke was a bloody nuisance, if you asked her.

On the outside the Manchester Auror Branch was an old trimidated building in the Ardwick area; and a newly renovated, pleasantly air-conditioned space inside. Wren registered her wand with the visitor services and took a lift to the third floor.

Her local liaison was a smart enough bloke, by the name of Yusuf Mandari. Wren enjoyed working with him. They coordinated their intel; and he assured her that as soon as anything changed, or any flags went up, he'd immediately rang her up. By then, Greengrass had caught up with them and edged into office.

"And don't worry. We have all possible alarm systems in place. He's not getting out of the city," Mandari said with a smile. "Go, have rest. Is the hotel alright?"

They'd spent the previous night in the hotel; and it had been more than alright. Among other things, the mattress and the sheets Wren had enjoyed last night were times better that the narrow bed in her rented flat. She knew she should invest in better - or at least some - furniture for her place; and have more than a mug, a bowl, and two spoons in the kitchen; but she spent so little time there that she just couldn't be bothered.

"The hotel is ace, ta." She smiled to Mandari. "Any suggestions on a nice food place near it?"

The bloke gave her couple options; she thanked him and left, followed by the silent Greengrass.

They stood in a lift; and she knew he was almost squirmy from discomfort. Served him right. They'd be back in the Ministry by now, had he not been an incompetent twat. The perp would have been nicked; and Wren would be heading to a pub with her mate Thea.

"Do you want to grab a drink while we wait for their call?" Greengrass asked in the same meek tone of his.

And that's when Wren remembered about Durinson, and that drink she'd sort of promised to him, and his card in her pocket... and how fit he was. Oh sod it.

"I have a..." Whatever the bloody hell that invitation for a drink had been. "I've made plans for tonight. I'm meeting up with ... a person," she finished awkwardly. That's just rad. The pauses were truly telling, weren't they, Wrennie?

"That was quick," Greengrass muttered under his breath. Wren whipped her head and stared at him.

"What's that?" Was he hinting she was a slag?

"I mean... sorry." Greengrass grew distinctly paler. "It's just we came here yesterday, and you already... Sorry, nevermind. It's none of my business."

"Exactly. None of your sodding business." Wren glared at him. "And I do have a partner, Arthur." Well, that was half true - but the judgemental prick didn't need to know it.

"I thought you broke up. Higgins from the Muggle Affairs mentioned you and Weasley broke up, and..." Greengrass bleated.

"Seriously? Can you be any more unprofessional?!"

The bloke winced away.

"Instead of gossiping about other people's private stuff, you, Higgins, and the likes of him should process the perps correctly, so no one has to fix your botched up paperwork afterwards. Knobs!"

Wren turned away from him. She could bet that was a sigh of relief she'd heard from him when the lift doors opened. She scoffed and apparated to the hotel lobby.


She finally changed out of the Muggles and took a shower. There was still the question of supper, of course - and of the card sitting on the bedside table in her room. She plopped on the bed, and stared at the paper rectangle, while drying her hair. It was quarter to eleven though. Chances were the bloke was peacefully asleep in his bed. Or someone else's bed, gleefully supplied her inner voice. Wren's inner voice was a bitch. But hey, it's not like she'd judge if he were! Sex positivity, man! But she would prefer not think about it - or him altogether.

But she couldn't avoid it now, could she?

Wren stretched to her mobile and quickly entered his number. She didn't need her photographic memory; the number was the same as before; and that one was etched into her noggin.

Sorry for the late text. We're staying in the city for another day but I don't know for how long. If still here in the evening tomorrow, I'll text. OK?

She stared at the draft for a bit, and then deleted 'OK?' After all, she wasn't asking, was she? She was stating. That's right; that was the new Wren Leary. Wren Leary 2.0. The new Wren didn't mumble. She stated.

She added a signature, and hit 'send.'

The phone bleeped couple minutes later, while she was still spread on the bed like the Vitruvian man, staring at the ceiling, not thinking about Thorin Durinson.

Just clocked out. If you aren't knackered, we can still grab that drink. Did they put you in the Griffin's Head in Levenshulme? Usual place for Ministry visitors. TD.

Wren reread the text; rolled on her stomach; and thumped her head to the cover. That was of course no fun at all; a nice sturdy desk would work better.

She exhaled and typed, One drink. I am in the Griffin's Head. Suggest a place nearby, and give me the time that works for you. But soon. I'll conk out in an hour.

She decided to give it a 'tear off a plaster in one move' treatment. After all, he was right - they were exes; it was a somewhat coincidental that they ran into each other. Although, not so much, since she was an Auror, and he worked in a wizarding hospital. But anyroad, it'd been six years; it's all been done and forgotten.

She only had her work robe with her - the same licorice coloured, double breasted boring robe; and once she got dressed she gave herself a dischuffed look over in the mirror on the wall. She looked like a typical Ministry shiny bum, but what could she do?

She took the Floo network to the pub; and being her usual manically perky self she was there fifteen minutes before the arranged time. She once again told herself 'sod it,' and decided she'd just relax, have a drink, and play it by ear.

The pub was small and cosy. The gaffer pointed at the table in the corner, the only empty one.

"It says 'reserved' on it," Wren shouted to him over the wailing of some folk wrock at the background.

"It's for them healers. One rang up earlier, said you'd be coming."

Wren thanked the wizard, and tucked herself behind the table. Would you look at that - years went by, and nothing changed. She was once again in a privileged position of being in a space specifically reserved for one Thorin Durinson. First, it had been the Prefect Bathroom in Hogwarts - exclusively his, locked up and unused; repurposed for His Majesty King of Slytherin's casual shag; with a giant shagathon futon in the middle of it. Then there were best seats in the best pitches around the country. And theatre seats. Now it was a table in a pub. Grand.

Another burst of the Floo powder exploded in the fireplace; and Durinson stepped out of the green flames. And of course, he had changed. Bugger.

A bespoke black jacket, knee length; charcoal waistcoat; narrow black trousers; and a swan-neck white shirt - all Wren had to say was 'bloody hell.' The Durinsons had always been particular in their choice of clobber - keeping it traditional, and yet trendy and elegant. Thorin Durinson was basically a male equivalent of a Veela. When they'd been an item, she would sort of forget how blindingly attractive he was, him being 'just Thorin' to her at the time. Or 'Mo Cuishle', her inner voice reminded her; to her and only to her he had been 'Mo Cuishle.'

Not at the moment, though.

Bleeding hell.

Bleeding, bleeding hell.

He sauntered towards her, with a beaming grin on his clock. Two goblets were following him, floating behind him off the counter. He just had to have his special, of course. Posh git.

"Leary." He threw the coat he'd carried on his arm onto the back of his chair; and the goblets landed on the table with soft clanks.

"Hi." Wren gave him a plastic smile. "Good to see you."

"Is it?" he asked, and picked up his bevvy. He sipped, and then licked the white foam off his upper lip.

Oh in the name of Merlin's pants.