Author's note: Sorry for taking so long! Will be pretty busy this summer since I'm working a 9-to-5 job, but I'm working on this every weekend. I'm determined to finish this if it kills me.
CHAPTER SIX: GIVING CHASE
Ginny woke as she always did: slowly. It was bad, of course. As a future Syn Wyngyn operative, she would be required to wake on command or on attack, ready to pounce, on a daily basis. She should already, at this point, be like that, but she'd always slept like a rock and doubted the transition would be quick and smooth. Until then, though, she would just bow to her body's commands. And right now, that body of hers was sleep-sated and happy, if not reluctant to rouse – it knew it had work ahead of it.
Rolling onto her back, however, she froze. Something, or rather someone, was in bed with her, pressed snugly against her side. Eyes blinking open, Ginny made out a blurry black shape. Jet black hair.
And that was when she remembered the previous night. And Harry.
Without his glasses, and without the fierce strength of character that he wore like body armour and that she associated with him, he looked almost… frail. His hair, sticking out more than usual, made him look boyish and adorable. His shirt had bunched up and twisted around his abs when he'd turned on his side. Ginny watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the steady movement of his muscles, as he breathed. She could tell he was still in the thick of slumber, and she bit her lip thinking about the reason. Gosh, last night had been hell. She couldn't even begin to imagine what it had been like for him. To lose someone you cared about… Ginny wanted to reach out, feeling numb at the what ifs, but knew she shouldn't.
Despite her best intentions, before she knew it she was reaching out. Ginny cursed when she touched Harry's hair. It was short and felt coarse through her fingers. Harry made an undefinable "hmph" and rolled over his body. Suddenly Ginny had a view of his nice-fitting white boxers.
Damn Harry and his boxers, she thought for the second time that day even as she looked her fill, admiring his obviously well toned body. Powerful shoulders tapered into a narrow waist that then rose into two tight buttocks. Hidden beneath robes and/or Muggle clothes, she'd been able to appreciate his build but never the particulars. As for the judo gi, well, it was made of too thick a material to show anything. So now she could see most everything.
Pfft, any female with half a brain would be attracted to a specimen like him, she thought in bitter dismay.
Keep lying to yourself, Weasley.
The truth was, she wanted to feel the texture of him. Would he feel hot or lukewarm? Ginny realised she didn't remember. Or, if she did, her brain had promptly decided to shut down on that sole piece of information just now. Hence, she needed to jog her memory. She touched him.
He jerked when she did—her fingers were cool—but she reveled in the warmth of him. Good Circe, was he a bloody furnace underneath all that flesh? Had he always been that way? She suddenly remembered the answer—yes—but didn't remember ever feeling quite that hot.
And that's when it snowballed.
Slowly, lazily, like a supine cat, Harry began purring, moving, stretching. Mortified, Ginny snatched her hand back and was left with nothing else to do but stare as Harry stared back through one green-slitted eye. A sleepy smile stretched his lips and, when he spoke, it was gravely, as if he wasn't quite ready to wake up just yet. "Morning," he rumbled.
"Er, morning," Ginny stuttered stupidly, sure her face rivaled a tomato's colouring. Then she bolted p. "Um, we'd better get prepared. We have to go through the historian's lab records to see which texts were out that d—"
The green slit disappeared as Harry closed his eye. "Get some sleep, Gin."
"I'm totally awake."
Rolling onto his back again, Harry tugged his shirt down. That decency made Ginny feel that much better that she didn't see his pecs anymore when she looked at him. Which seemed it was all she could do. "I'm not. So come here. Let's talk." He patted the spot next to him and struggled to sit up against her headboard.
Cautious, Ginny crawled back onto her bed and sat next to him gingerly. "What about?"
Sighing heavily, Harry then met her eyes. The soberness in them was disconcerting. Just a moment ago he'd been smiling. Harry was a serious man to begin with, but he didn't overwhelm. Now he did. "What do you want to do?"
Well, speaking of overwhelming. That took her by surprise. "I don't understand."
Breaking his gaze away from hers, Harry leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He looked serene. She knew better. Harry was preoccupied. "Do you want to keep working with me to find Hermione or do you want to find Ron alone?"
Ginny's jaw dropped. As did her stomach. "That's not fair. You want to find Ron just as much as I do."
He raised a brow. "Do you want to find Hermione?"
What a question! "Of course!"
There was a short silence, broken by Harry's wry reply. "That's my point, Gin. We can't do both at once."
Ginny remained quiet until he dared to look over. Then she gave him a look to kill. "You suck," she ground out between her teeth. A moment later, inexplicably, tears began pooling in her eyes. She swiped at them angrily. "Dammit."
She heard a muttered curse, and then Harry gathered her awkwardly in his arms. "I just can't do both, Gin, please understand that."
She knew. She understood how that might make him feel like he would be splitting himself into two pieces, but it didn't mean it didn't hurt her, too. "It's a low blow, though, admit it," she said into his shirt.
He released a hard breath, nodding. "So what's your choice?" he asked wearily.
She was silent a long time, deliberating with herself. On the one hand, if they separated, she had a chance at finding her formerly dead brother—if he was alive. On the other, though, Harry needed someone to keep him grounded so he didn't slip into another black hole like the last time someone close to him had disappeared on his watch.
Regardless of the fact that Hermione was a grown woman, old enough to take care of herself, Harry still thought of her as his charge… over his best mate's grave. Over Ginny's brother's grave. Shivers ran over her.
Harry's arms tightened around her. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
Her throat hurt. She didn't want to care, but she did. Too much. "Let me go with you, okay?"
Harry drew away slowly. "You sure? Why?"
Ginny bit her lip, holding all emotions at bay with more or less success. "I just… don't want to be alone right now."
She felt his hands rub her back soothingly, yet couldn't help but feel like she was killing her brother once more in her mind by not being able to do this by herself. With Harry, she was grounded. Without anyone… she couldn't even begin to imagine. She even felt cowardly.
"It's okay. You're with me now."
And just for that, she wanted to cry all over again. Because it was partly true, and yet partly not. She pulled away sharply, not wanting to enter that zone. Wanting to get things done. She looked for her wand. Where the hell was it?
But Harry simply stood there, all askance, a curious expression on his face. "Gin?" he asked faintly. After a moment of merely watching her turning her bedroom over in her frantic search for her wand, he grabbed her arm. "Gin!"
She whirled, pulling away hard. "What?" she asked perhaps a bit more forcefully than she'd intended. Her skin still tingled from where he'd touched her.
Harry frowned. "What's wrong? One minute you're nearly crying your eyes out and the next you're—"
"It's nothing," Ginny replied quietly and began searching again for her wand. It made for something she could put her mind to without feeling ten kinds of stupid.
"It's not." Harry sighed irritably after a moment, rubbing his neck. "Gin, please, just stop for a minute, will you?"
She did, reluctantly, and crossed her arms without looking up. Harry stepped closer, drew her face up by the chin, and frowned again.
"Is this about… us?" When Ginny tried to look away again—anywhere!—he growled, "Look at me."
She looked up despite her best intentions, but remained silent. God, her hormones were crazy today. Three times now she'd been ready to bawl. What was up with her?
"Talk to me, Gin. You know you can talk to me about anything."
Not that, she thought with a bitter inner laugh.
"Please."
His face was closer now, painfully so. With just a tiny movement, she could kiss him, or run her hands over his broad shoulders and neck, or anything else that was equally tempting and totally forbidden. He's not your boyfriend anymore. You would do well to remember that.
Yet the next second, he was the one who kissed her.
She was the one who let him.
#
Ron barged into the room, jerking me out of my light sleep, and came up short when he saw me. At his vacant expression, I immediately sat up, brows knitting together. "What's wrong? Where were you?"
"Elders," he said shortly. "They wanted to… talk."
Growing suspicious of his demeanour, I frowned. "That's all they did, then?" I looked over his robed body, trying to remember if he'd looked in any pain when he'd walked in. I didn't think so, but then Ron had always been proud.
"I want you to come with me today."
In an instant all my remaining dormant neurons cried happily. "Why?" I asked, grinning despite my voice's cautious undertone.
I could see something troubled him, but decided to let it slide this once. After all, I was heading out. No careless questions, or else I could be denied that simple gift.
"I have to work and I don't want to leave you here. You'll be safer with me."
And no one would inadvertently happen upon me, I reasoned silently where he left off. "Ron, I do have to go back to work one day. I've already missed one day."
Ron acknowledged my veiled query with a nod. "Of course, but not yet. It's not safe with Buchanan and whoever else out there."
But already I was making plans: first I'd pester the Aurors for a report on the most recent Clarke incident and see where their previous investigation was leading, and then I'd go to St. Mungo's to see Clarke himself. I wondered now if he'd healed enough to tell me his version of the second event in more detail.
I also wondered if Buchanan might be inclined to show up and tell me his side like a good man. Then I grimaced. Hardly.
Looking up, I met Ron's obvious objection to the expression I must have been wearing. I faced it head-on with what I hoped was an amenable smile that could sway him. "You could come with me…" I said smoothly. "I just have to get a few things done today."
"No," he said tersely.
"Please?"
"No."
I saw red at his refusal, but ploughed on and sauntered over to him. That's where I tested my womanly wiles on the man I'd jut begun to know inside and out. Over his Guardian's robe I splayed my hands, touching warmth. I'd always read about bodice-ripped ladies "innocently" using charm and sex to get what they wanted, and scoffed about it even to this day. What man would actually fall for such a weak ploy, I usually thought, and reached for another, hopefully more serious book to get lost into. However, now that I did need to change Ron's mind, the only plan that had popped into my head had ben the tried-and-hopefully-true method of yore. I prayed it worked.
Ron's taut frame began to soften under my fingertips, and as I reached his neck, his head lolled to the front, his eyes closing of their own volition. Charm seemed to work, until, "It's not going to work, Hermione."
Incensed that he'd found me out, my hands left him as I pushed away, raging aloud. "I do have to work, Ron! At least show up, pretend something is progressing."
He lunged and grasped one of my hands before I was too far away—"Wait just a second"—and bit his lips in apparent debate. "Okay," he conceded finally, "we'll nip to the Ministry real quick, but that's it. We can't be seen there too long."
I almost couldn't believe that he'd allow me even that. With a thankful smile I nodded my head and stepped into the circle of his arms. "Thank you."
Ron sighed and pecked me quickly. "I think this'll be my biggest mistake yet."
#
When I was six years old, my parents took me to work. In truth I was supposed to be shadowing my father to report how much of a hero he was to me for school, but mum was still dad's assistant then and so I followed them both through gum operations and root canal treatments. I loved it. Dad was a hero to them all and mum was his trusty sidekick. They didn't even need to talk to each other: mum handed dad the tools he needed and dad merely spoke the various teeth numbers or measurements that mum wrote next to the diagrams. It was like they were one and the same and only needed one another for completion.
Those days are now over for mum is now a dentist in her own right as well, but in life the two of them are still two parts of a whole. They still complete one another. It used to drive me nuts that they seemed to know everything about the other.
Until I met Ron, I'd never understood a kind of understanding that went deeper than the skin. Admittedly, Ron and I had bickered a lot in our days, but even then those maddening sessions had been about understanding each other but testing or being un- or knowingly obtuse about each other. All rather normal for us.
I'd never been very enthusiastic about working with Ron, thinking he was a slob and deserved to work with another slob like Harry. Sure, I'd had pity on them both sometimes, but I'd never been very much impressed with Ron's handiwork in particular, though I had always encouraged him to get better. Then the war had come, and maturity and circumstance had changed his behaviour, and I'd found myself with a real perfectionist mastermind bent on sharp results. That had boggled the mind. Unfortunately, I hadn't had much time to discover this new Ron, for we were assigned to command different troops.
Now I had the chance to study another Ron entirely: one of the most frighteningly gifted men on earth. Over and over I watched from the sidelines as he placated and battled against several Mages. What struck me was how alike Guardian was from Mage. Oh, not in intention, but rather in power. Mages truly were the antithesis of Guardians–I felt it in my bones. I had to repeatedly fight against nausea like the best of them, had to be careful to stay stooped right where I wouldn't be seen. Remaining quiet was the most difficult feat I'd ever had to accomplish. My brain wanted to explode and here I had to breathe quietly and slowly and swallow my helpless little noises. Willpower alone kept me silent through it all, again and again.
"Hey," Ron's voice prodded me softly after some time. It was only then that I realised all battle sounds had died some time ago. I crouched at the far end of some back alley amid Dumpsters and overflowing trash. This was… the fourth site we'd Apparated to. Ron was sweating from the exertion they'd all tolled on him. Now he pulled me up, holding me steady when I swayed.
A fleeting expression passed through his eyes even as he grinned. "I'm tired of this. Let's go to the Ministry."
#
Silken fire travelled clear down through every nerve ending Ginny possessed, obliterating any rational thought she should have had at the sheer stupidity of what she was allowing. Mindlessly, though, she clutched Harry's shirt, drawing him closer to her yet. He remained rooted fast, though, with his eyes wide open, and kissed with what she qualified as half-enthusiasm. Dammit, she thought, and pressed herself toe-to-breast against him, seeking hotly. Don't shut me out, not now, please God don't shut me–
He cradled her face, eyes closing of their own volition, but he stayed distant even as he licked and bit and she did the same.
Then he sighed and everything was over. With a heavy hand on her chest, he pushed Ginny an arm's length away and then silently turned toward her bedroom door intently, leaving her gaping and gulping air in his wake.
"That's it?" Ginny cried after him. "You just kiss me and leave like nothing happened?"
Harry halted just beyond her door and turned back around. A frown marred his forehead, and then he touched his mouth with idle fingertips. Ginny knew exactly what he touched–her own mouth tingled and burned. Slowly he met her glare, as if afraid to lock eyes with hers, and dropped his arm. "I think you've answered the question. It is about us." Then he turned once more and left with an air of finality.
Ginny could only shout after him as he locked himself into her bathroom. "Yeah? Well you've answered it, too!"
#
When Harry reappeared at last, dressed, his hair still damp, and a closed-off expression painted onto his face, Ginny was at the stove, slapping pancakes onto a plate that she shoved at him. "Here you go. Enjoy." And she, in turn, fled around the corner and into her bathroom. The showerhead hissed to life again.
Fifteen minutes later, they were both ready. Harry made the mistake of taking her elbow, meaning to Side-Along Disapparate with her. Ginny, however, hissed and shoved, producing her wand with a pointed glare. "So. Where to?" she bit out.
His face fell. God, what a mess. This wasn't supposed to happen to them. Investing too much into each other could be disastrous, to say the least. So why did he feel like crap? "Um, the hospital, and then we can hit the historian's again," he said as neutrally as possible, but it was hard to keep everything bottled in. He had a right to emotions, too.
She nodded sharply and disappeared under his nose. A second later he had joined her, but already she was marching resolutely toward the historian's room, bypassing the desk nurse who sputtered a storm after her. Harry shrugged distractedly at her as he jogged after Ginny, who stopped just outside a well-lit room. The only patient, Bert Clarke, was sitting up and eating a large bowl of jello. Laid out on the adjustable bedside table was the morning Prophet.
Ginny swooped in. "Good morning, Mr Clarke."
His spoon clattered to the table, and he frowned. "You. You were here last night. I told you everything I know."
Harry closed the door behind him with a soft click, willing Ginny to come off her high horses. "Not exactly," he said, taking a cleansing breath.
"I don't understand," Clarke said with a shake of his head.
Ginny crossed her arms on her chest and leaned her hip against the windowsill. "What about the book? As a historian you must know what your shelves contain," she pointed out. Smoothly she ploughed on. "What book was the man referring to when he… began asking questions?"
Underneath the table, Harry saw Clarke wringing his hands. Good, they were getting somewhere. "What was so important to the man?" he prodded gently. "I'm Hermione Granger's fiancé. Whatever concerns her, concerns me. I want to find her."
Ginny gazed outside, her body gone rigid.
Clarke glanced up quizzically. Harry tore his gaze from Ginny's back. "She's disappeared," he explained succintly. The older man's eyes widened, and the wringing of hands redoubled.
After a breath, Clarke slowly unlocked his fingers and licked his lips, nervosity evident in his drawn features. "There was… Miss Granger asked me some questions a few days ago about an ancient prophecy that could be found in the book… Mysterious Magical Orders: From the Druids to the Nazis and Beyond, was the volume's title… and the prophecy was The Oldest Prophecy, otherwise known as The Legend of the Guardian. Auror Buchanan–he's from the Arson department if I'm not mistaken–was there to collect the book as evidence of the fire when we talked about it. The next day he came to my office and asked what it said."
When he wouldn't answer, Buchanan had left. Shortly thereafter, someone dressed in what had appeared to Clarke as dark hooded ceremonial robes had appeared and demanded the same question. Keeping quiet had earned him his resulting stay in the hospital.
Clarke's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "The robes were the same as Honos's and the one who flamed my lab."
Instantly, Harry snapped up. "Who's Honos?"
Clarke sighed. "The man who saved me in the fire. You saw the clean spot?" Harry and Ginny both nodded. "That's where I stood."
Harry sensed Clarke was about to add something, though it seemed to bother him. "What?" he asked the man.
Clarke bit his lip. "There's something else. I spoke of this to Miss Granger. I think they were both… superpowered." He put up a hand, warding off any interruptions they might have offered. "I think Honos is a Guardian."
Ginny whirled. "You mean like a guardian angel?" She snorted derisively. Harry almost heard her think out loud: What next? Jesus Christ himself?
"No." Clarke narrowed his eyes at her. "Rather like the Guardian Brotherhood. The prophecy spoke of it."
Ginny cocked her head, pursing her lips. Harry blinked. "What?"
"The Legends?" Ginny said. "Come now, Mr Clarke, they're fairytales."
He stared at her hard, making her feel smaller and insignificant. "Have you ever seen a mere witch or wizard ward off a Fiendfyre spell?"
She and Harry gaped, and locked eyes.
"That's right. And the last I saw of Miss Granger was after my attack, in my lab."
A beat passed, and then Harry tore his gaze from Ginny's. "Where can we find this Honos?" Silently he noted all the information he'd just gleaned: Honos, Guardian Brotherhood, Auror Buchanan–Arson department, Mage Society, Oldest Prophecy, Legend of the Guardian, Mysterious Magical Orders.
Brows raised high, Clarke guffawed. "You think I know?" But suddenly a pensive expression overtook his face as he whispered feverishly to himself. Harry thought he heard the words "Odin" and "warriors", but couldn't be sure. "Ha," Clarke uttered after a time. Then, more excitedly, "Ha!"
Ginny bristled. "What?"
Clarke raised sparkling eyes. He looked ten years younger in that moment of triumph. "I think you may find him in Valhalla."
Harry's hope was dashed. Just like that. "Valhalla?" he asked faintly. "What the–"
Ginny rolled her eyes heavenward. "I think the man may have been hit on the head too hard and too many times." Indeed, Harry was beginning to have second thoughts about questioning the man. Maybe it wasn't such a great idea after all.
"No," the man himself answered. "The prophecy says specifically 'children of Odin' in talking about the Brotherhood. Odin's 'children', or army, are said to reside in Valhalla."
"Right. And where do you suppose this Valhalla is hidden?" Ginny said.
"Certainly not out in the open," Clarke replied.
A very strange concept lurked in the back of Harry's head. "Out in the open," he murmured to himself. "Inside the closed." What's closed? he though suddenly, and in his mind's eye he saw the closed. Locked doors, barren houses and buildings, mausoleums… earth. "Underground," he said louder then, feeling chilled of a sudden. Yes, it had to be in the ground.
Clarke made an "hmph" sound and nodded slowly. "Yes, it's plausible."
"If it was Scrambled and Untraceable, if there was no other mode of entry, a person would be hard-pressed to Apparate to it accurately," Harry continued, catching Ginny's eye again. Like Syn Wyngyn, with talismans. He would be willing to bet that she'd come to the same conclusion, for her eyes shone with sharp understanding and an even stronger urge to get moving.
"What does he look like? Honos," Harry specified, vibrating with the same kind of urgency that she displayed.
The older man lifted a shoulder. "Never seen him close like. But he's tall. Lean. Seems young. Fierce."
"What's Buchanan's first name?"
Clarke frowned in remembrance. "Kyle, I think."
Already Ginny was moving. Harry grasped her arm as she passed him. "Thank you," he shot over his shoulder.
"Ministry?" Ginny asked as they walked briskly toward the entrance hall of the hospital.
Harry gave a nod and then stopped once they were inside the secured hall. "Yes. We need to find this Buchanan and the prophecy. That way we'll know what Hermione knew and it might help us find her."
Every second they were getting closer to her, he could feel it in his bones.
#
"You'll have to wear normal clothes, of course. And uncover your hair."
Call me childish, but I really didn't want to look out of place in an environment that prided itself on its dividuality and nothing else. Okay, so maybe I was afraid of attracting undue attention to ourselves. That was the point.
Ron stared down at himself like he'd never seen his attire before now, and hesitated for a moment, but finally nodded and Transfigured his Guardian robes.
"Auror?" was my guffawed reaction.
He shrugged good-naturedly and grinned. "I always wanted to be one, remember? And I'll fit right in."
Of course he would. Ron looked and acted like a leader. As he took my hand and we side-along Disapparated over the distance that separated Newcastle from London, I thought up a lie–Liar! Lawyer! Liar!–to explain his presence with me should anyone ask. Secretaries liked to gossip and legal secretaries especially–I often wondered how they got any work done on a busy day, but they somehow managed to juggle chatter and long dictations. Such a fine specimen of a man would surely make those tongues go wagging.
When we finally reached our destination–the Ministry–I had it. "You're Jack Bailey from the Arson department."
Ron nodded imperceptibly, his attention already on the milling crowd around us. It was nearing the end of the day–Friday–and many Ministry employees had accumulated bank time during the week, thus enabling them to start the weekend early. Ron's body had tautened just that little bit that told me everyone was suspect. Who would recognise him? Who would attack? Who would stop and stare too long? I watched, too, fascinated by his focus, but sensed nothing out of the ordinary. This was my scene, I knew it well.
"Is there–" I began, only to be interrupted by Ron's brusque grip and pull on my arm that urged me to move like we should.
"Come on," he said tightly as we ploughed counter-current through people. Ron's demeanor was getting to me. What could he sense that I could not?
This was insane. "Ron, hold on," I said, planting my feet and tugging my arm free.
Ron whirled and damn near snarled in my face. "I'm Jack, remember?"
"Then unhand me," I hissed, "and stop acting like this. I'm a lawyer and you're an Auror and that's it." That meant no holding hands.
He took a deep, calming breath, but didn't turn to continue. "They're here," he breathed tensely and held me in place when I would have stared over my shoulder. "Harry and Ginny," he explained. "They must be looking for you."
Horrified, I couldn't even move. "What?" I cried hoarsely, and then caught the full meaning of They're here. They would see him, I was sure of it. He towered over most and his shock of ginger hair drew the eye. "You need to cover your head. Get low. They'll see you!"
"No. We need to move. Now."
We ran-walked toward the emptying lifts. When I turned, I suddenly saw him, Harry, narrow his eyes as his eyes nearly touched us. Then the lift doors closed and I saw no more of him.
#
Ginny touched his shoulder and drew his attention back to her. "Come on, I just registered our wands. We're good to go."
Neither speaking nor acknowledging anything she'd said, Harry just moved forward like an automaton toward the lifts, a curious emptiness about him. Straight gaze, faraway eyes, creased brows.
"What's wrong?" she asked quietly as they slowly ploughed through the throngs of workers and visitors.
"There's something weird going on. I thought I just saw Ron."
"Sorry," she offered to a man she'd just bumped into. To Harry she responded, "Believe me, I'd know if he worked at the Ministry." Her father and brother would make sure their Weasley pride was known.
He shook his head as if to clear it. "I know, it's just… I saw someone who might have looked like him. Tall, red hair…" They boarded the lift and, sensing her silence and discomfort, he turned his head. And slammed into pity. "Dammit, Gin, I'm not going around the bend. Trust me."
They were silent the rest of the ride.
#
"Buchanan?" The buxom secretary lifted thin eyebrows even as she gazed at him through lowered lashes. "You're not the first to ask. Mark over at Employment said he hasn't worked for us in years. Left in the middle of an operation. I heard from an Auror here that it went from batshit to hell and he might have wanted out. Lot of people died. 2006, Marc said it was. Why are you asking, Mr Potter?"
His name still went a long way into getting where and what he wanted. Point in fact: getting in-house information about ex-Auror Kyle Buchanan.
The secretary leaned forward, her way-out-there cleavage in excellent view. "Weren't you also an Auror, Mr Potter?" she asked in conspiring tones. "Whyever would you quit a job that suited you so well?"
He heard a smothered snort a few steps away. Seated in a straight-back chair, Ginny pretended to read Auror Eye. She gave off the illusion well, except that her eyes moved too slowly.
Harry leaned his hip against the desk, smiling pleasantly at the blonde but keeping an eye on Ginny. "Better opportunities elsewhere, I'm afraid," he replied toothily.
The blonde's brilliant smile faltered as she glanced at the petite redhead in the sitting area. "Oh, of course," she said. Seeing that the other young woman was busy, she rallied nonetheless. "I'm just sorry I missed you before you left. I came here the month after." So she'd looked for the date of his resignation. Her well-kohled eyes told him how sorry she really was.
Ginny shot up after a moment, throwing the magazine she'd been reading away. Her eyes were narrowed and her hair gave her expression that much more fire. "You said someone asked about Buchanan. Who?"
The receptionist blinked, taken aback by the brusque interruption of what she clearly considered a private conversation. "Uh, who are you?"
Ginny didn't miss a beat. "Ginny Weasley. I'm Mr Potter's partner. Who asked about Buchanan?" Harry had to hand it to her; she was focused.
"Er…" The blonde hesitated and retreated back into her seat with a meek little blush. A mournful expression duelled with consideration in her face before she relented. "Well, I don't really know her name. She's in here often enough but…" Her hesitation was telling: she didn't really care. "All I know for sure is, she works in the Office of Law."
Harry's body tensed. "Hermione Granger?" If there was too much hope in his voice, he didn't care. Dammit, he needed to find her.
She pursed her lips. "That must be it. She's not really well-liked around here."
Nearly hanging over her desk, he demanded, "Does anybody know where Kyle Buchanan lives now?" he asked again. Probably not, he thought, but he had the worst hunch.
"Umm, well, if you asked Mark, he might be able to–"
"Call him. It's urgent."
#
The Aurors hadn't been able to glean much of anything definitive on the two attempts at Mr Clarke's life. In a way, it was reassuring that they would probably never know the complete truth about it. Rather, the mystery would be pushed to a storage room where foggy cases were relegated to gather dust. Quite a grim future, this case. No suspects, no cause of accident in both cases, no detailed reports. Dates, hours and claimant were all the known information they had. But the Brotherhood, and therefore Ron, was safe, and that mattered to me.
Patience is a virtue, apparently. I hate the saying, but it always pays off to be careful. I love being in control of the information, but I do a thorough research beforehand so I don't end up flat on my back. I knew one of the players on the gameboard–Ron–but that was about it and it wasn't enough to go on before I accused anyone. We had to be sure that Buchanan was our man before we moved, we had to find him one way or another, and we had to be careful about it all.
Either way, Ron and I ended up going to St. Mungo's together after our brief visit to the Ministry. Immediately as we Disapparated from the Ministry's golden foyer, I felt Ron's shoulders unlock and ease with relief.
"You okay?" I asked in a murmur, wanting to stop and feel his yielding warmth.
"I'm fine," Ron replied gruffly. "Just glad that's done. That was close."
"Would it be so bad if they'd seen us?" I mused aloud. To the nurse at the front desk I said, "We're here to see Mr Bert Clarke. Is he still in room 406?"
"It would," Ron said quietly.
The nurse looked down her glasses at the list of patients and murmured a Rearranging spell. "Ah, yes he is, although he might be up and about."
With a nod we were off, and I pressed Ron on, wondering about his comment. "If I'm right," Ron started, "Harry and Ginny are trying to find Buchanan to see if he might know something about your disappearance."
I snorted, unable to help myself. Know something? He knew everything about that moment! "They couldn't find him, could they?"
Ron threw me a sidelong glance that spoke volumes as the lift doors claimed us. "If I can't find him…" He shook his head grimly. "No. The Society's headquarters are likely much like ours. Untraceable, Scrambled, and all. But they could probably find something about his past," he added carefully.
The lift slowed and stopped, admitting a throng of passengers–nurses on break. Pressing myself closer to Ron, I lowered my voice so we wouldn't be overheard above the din of conversation. "What do you mean?"
"His past. Where he lived, how he lived, who he was," he explained just as quietly.
My brows lifted as I considered those possibilities. Then I nudged him. "You've done your research?"
The lift stopped a second time to let us out. Ron kept silent until we reached the relative silence of the corridor leading to Clarke's room. I'd already grown used to the secrecy thing. "Yeah."
"And?" I pressed him.
His hand tightened infinitesimally around mine. "And he didn't have it easy," he said shortly just as we reached the right door. It was open a crack, revealing a shaft of dying outdoors light. Someone shuffled at irregular intervals inside. I strained to see inside, but whoever was in there wasn't in my line of sight.
When Ron pushed the door open at last, Clarke turned his head sharply, concentration still etched onto his face. He wobbled visibly when he saw me and gripped something more solid than the braces that currently supported him. Then a brilliant smile broke out over his ruddy face. "You? I thought you'd disappeared!"
As I walked into the dull white-washed room I felt that kinship that linked Clarke and I, that understanding that made us so similar. "How are you, Mr Clarke?" I asked kindly.
He laughed lightly, gesturing to his braces as he sat. His high spirit as well as his fast healing was a relief. "Well, thank you. They told me I ought to move around, keep in shape." He nodded at Ron who stood off in the corner. "And who is that? Not your kidnapper, I hope," he said with a wink.
"Er…" I looked to Ron for some help, but the bugger wouldn't step in. "No. Auror Bailey and I," I started, remembering the name I'd stuck on him, "are working on a case together. He agreed to spend some time here before we went to lunch."
Clarke narrowed his eyes at Ron when he glanced back. Something in his demeanor had changed. He knows, my brain chanted dully. He senses it somehow. It was the height, the breadth, everything that made Ron stand out, save for the hair and perhaps the eyes. It wasn't enough to make alarms go off in Clarke's head, but he was intelligent and observant enough to see the other physical similarities between the Guardian Honos who'd saved him and the man before him now. My palms sweated. Meanwhile, Ron took the examination calmly.
And then it was over. I let out an audible breath, to which Ron responded with a subtle pointed look in my direction. "So would you mind answering some questions?" I asked at once in a rush.
"Ha," Clarke laughed, "you sound just like your fiancé and his partner."
Ron pushed himself off the wall in one graceful movement. "When were they here?"
Blinking, Clarke thought back. "I–they were here an hour ago, at least."
Just before they'd gone to the Ministry. Something was up. Apparently Ron thought so, too. "What did they ask? What did you say?" he demanded.
They'd wanted to know what he knew of my disappearance. Nothing. And then they'd asked what I'd been working on that could lead them to me. The prophecy. Buchanan. Clarke had led them to Buchanan, to the Employment department of the Ministry that would tell them the same thing they'd told me: he didn't work for them anymore. Naturally, Harry and Ginny would find it odd that the man was still passing himself off as an Auror and they'd give chase just like we were. And where would that lead them? To us.
Breaking away from the conversation, I studied Ron's reaction to this bit of news. How was he taking it? Nothing showed in apparence, but beneath… Yes, there was a bit of tension in his jaw, in how he held himself. It bothered him, but he was saving face by appearing relaxed for Mr Clarke's sake.
How uncanny. The four of us were looking for the same man, albeit for different reasons. Maybe it was time Ron showed up at last.
Author's note: Time to stretch my creating muscles...
