Unrequited: I'm a Veteran. Seen it all. There's only one thing worth remembering: Auror has to make sacrifices. Sometimes that means dying…sometimes it means letting others. Neither's easy. HBP, Moody and Tonks. Every Auror has a weakness…what's yours?


Even for newcomers to the Ministry of Magic, the assorted witches and wizards of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were always the easiest to spot. The most harried, most haggled, most haphazardly dressed in a bizarre mixture of robes, pyjamas, and sometimes nudity as they stumbled from the emerald green flames of the vast floo network, they were the busiest, most raggedly, and most terse. And Arthur Weasley, head (and secretly the largest offender) of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office was no exception.

He'd been up all night finishing that above-top-secret Snorkack report. Then the chickens had gotten out again this morning, and no amount of accio ever seemed to gather the squawking flock back into the coop. Feathers had flown, droppings were scattered, and he'd dropped his patched briefcase in the mud when one of the speckled idiots had flown into his face. He'd woken Molly—as if she needed anymore worrying—who seemed to think the Burrow under attack, and even Ronald, moaning and yawning with his rumpled red head stuck out the uppermost window.

"I'll get it, dad," Ginny had said, laying down the Daily Prophet and obediently gathering them up with coaxing and clucking.

He'd singed his cloak going through the floo network—the powder Molly'd gotten from Diagon Ally had been discount, and, he secretly suspected, been both out of date and cut with powdered dragon dung. Even when the Ministry had still been denying You-Know-Who's return, floo powder had gone into short supply. It was the safest, quickest means of magical transport. No one had wanted to be caught in the open if the rumors surrounding that Diggory boy's death had been true after all. Even Hogwarts had sent students home for Holidays using the castle's vast expanse of chimneys rather than risk the exposure on the Hogwarts Express. Dumbledore's doing, he was certain of it, despite that Umbridge woman's short-lived regime.

But that hadn't been the worst of it.

He'd had paper planes—and owls, for the love of Merlin!—buzzing around his head from the moment he'd entered the Ministry. "I'm coming, damnit!" Someone had placed them on high alarm, as ordinarily they'd be circling his desk. They whizzed around his head as he trotted doggedly through the halls, and even bungled behind him to the elevator, where he'd stopped cold.

Percy.

A wave of anger, embarrassment, and guilt hit him all at once, and he could feel his face flush pink. Arthur wanted to say something, but his third eldest remained stony and silent. So he endured the misfortune of sharing an elevator with his estranged son.

"Your mother worries," he said when the rickocheting cart came to a sudden halt. "Send her an owl sometime?"

But Percy Weasley said nothing. To be honest, Arthur would have been shocked if he had.

A routine, hectic day. There'd been sightings of a possible magic car, but further investigation revealed an intoxicated Muggle driver with impressive, albeit entirely accidental, ramping abilities mistaken for flight. Another Owl from a Hogsmeade busybody, complaining about Aberforth Dumbledore's continual experimentation with fire-breathing goats—Care of Magical Creatures Office, Return to Sender, Arthur sighed. And lastly a pair of cursed dancing shoes, centuries old, that turned red-hot when worn and forced the wearer to dance himself to death.

How Grimm.

But despite the hardships, the long hours, and the thankless nature of his job, Arthur Weasley would be lying to himself to say he'd have it any other way. The Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office allowed him to tinker with the things he loved best, allowed him continuous access to that mysterious and fascinating Muggle world, and allowed him to engage in civil activity, protecting the wizarding populace, without putting his life on the line like the Aurors or Hit Wizards. Certainly every wizard dreamed of joining their elite ranks as a child, taking down the next Dark Lord as Dumbledore had done in his prime…but childish dreams tended to fade once one had children of his own.

…and Arthur Weasley had seven. Six boys, one daughter, on which he doted. He wasn't all that certain of this Dean Thomas fellow, but Ginny was a fifth year now, as Molly reminded him (and he rather wished she hadn't—fifth year! The things they'd done, sneaking out of Gryffindor Tower at night!), and entitled to her privacy.

"Whatever happened to that Potter boy?" He'd harrumphed only yesterday morning, after Pigwidgeon had whizzed in the open window at the breakfast table and sent a letter splattering into his porridge.

"Dad!" She'd flushed as red as her long hair, running upstairs to read it.

He liked Harry Potter. Parentless, raised by Muggles, famous as Merlin, if truth be told, but still so surprisingly humble. And a good friend—a truly good friend—to his Ronald. Bill had his looks, Charlie had been so athletic, and Percy both brilliant and determined. Freddy and Georgie had always been popular, since infancy had had each other and the uncanny ability to make him laugh (even when Molly insisted they needed scolding). But Ronald…well, Ronald had been the youngest of five brothers with two parents busy with six other children. He'd never been good at making friends, and trudging off to work the morning Molly put him on his first train to Hogwarts had been one of his worst days as a parent. How he'd worried! But the Potter boy had been there, and from what Molly (and Ginny, Ginny hadn't stopped prattling on about it for months!) had said, he'd taken to Ron immediately.

Lunchtime rolled around, and the cursed shoes—no doubt having passed at one point through Burgin and Burkes or some other Knockturn Alley establishment—had finally been exorcised and incinerated. The magical windows to his cupboard-sized office promised afternoon sun and a chance to escape the mundane.

He fancied a sandwich, perhaps fish and chips, in downtown London. Why not? He'd had a tiring day, not even half-finished. He had no way of knowing the day was to grow longer still.

Outside it was foggy, dismal, and bleak. No proper weather for July. But he bundled up, bumbled along the sidewalk, admiring the Muggles—the automobiles! The shopfronts! The strange ecelectric gadgets! All of it splendid, all of it without magic!—and for a few precious moments he was able to forget the sun wasn't shining, his job dead-end, and a son who hated him.

He'd grabbed a rather delicious, rather greasy basket of fish and chips, salty and scrumptious, and headed back to the office, munching happily. There was some commotion far off in the distance, sirens in the city, but he thought little of it. These Muggles and their primitive, albeit ingenius, technology were always causing fires or trouble of some sort. He walked back to the office, whistling.

He placed a quarter into the red phone, and down he went, unsuspecting, unassuming, and completely unprepared. For a moment, the Ministry of Magic was exactly as it had been for the last fifteen years.

Then the silvery spectre of a toothsome fish swam out of nowhere, shouting with the terrible voice Alastair Moody.

"AT ARMS! AT ARMS! THE WIZARDS GO TO WAR!"

Chaos. Panic. Aurors racing, witches screaming, Scrimgeour shouting for order, order!

Arthur Weasley dropped the basket, hot fish and chips falling unfinished and forgotten to the trampled stone floor.