Authors' Note: Much love, thanks, and insanity go out to Jade Maxwell for her help with betaing this chapter.
Chapter 2: Fridays
It was a Friday. Draco Malfoy hated Fridays above all other days of the week, even Mondays. Friday was the day when Draco was supposed to go to Hogwarts to tell stories and answer questions about the Second Voldemort War. It was not that he minded the job. Draco actually liked going to talk to the children. I always wanted a large family, he thought, remembering how lonely it was growing up without siblings in the Manor. Talking to the students was one of the highlights of his job.
No, what made Draco hate coming, were the memories he was forced to endure. Draco would ever admit it to anyone else, hell he even had a hard time admitting it to himself, but it hurt. It hurt to see that familiar stone castle, with its turbulent lake, wide green lawns, and wondrous Quidditch Pitch. There were too many memories he would love to forget, and most of the time he could, pushing remembered scenes and conversations to the far recesses of his mind. Yet, no matter how deep he pushed them, no matter how hard he denied their existence, they always resurfaced at the sight of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
"You'll be next Mudbloods!" a second year Draco yelled. The sight of the words written on the wall beside that damned cat thrilled him. Yes, now all of his father's dreams could be realized. There would finally be no more muggle-borns in Hogwarts. Maybe he could somehow find out who the Heir was, maybe he could help them. Maybe his father would be proud…
Draco cursed as that particular year resurfaced in his memory. He had meant it then. Every single hated filled word. Yes, he would have helped Tom Riddle or Ginny Weasley, really, at that time, just the same person, kill his fellow housemates, and now, in the solitude of his private carriage, he felt ashamed. Only twelve years old and he had wanted to kill, to torture, to purify- his father's lovely euphemism, as if it was an excuse for murder.
Draco watched as Harry Potter appeared in front of the judges with the cup in one hand and the body of Cedric Diggory in the other. He could not explain how, but in that moment, Draco knew that the Dark Lord had returned. It worried him that the thought didn't bring joy, excitement, or pride like he had thought it would. Draco felt an entirely different flurry of emotions at his hunch: anxiety, doubt, fear. Yes, sitting in the stands of the Quidditch Pitch watching Harry Potter being carried off by Professor Moody, and Diggory's body being levitated away on a stretcher, Draco was afraid. Even after hearing all of the glorious stories his father told him about the revolution against the Mudbloods, Draco was still very afraid.
Sneers at Potter and whispers of hope from his fellow Slytherins brought Draco out of his musings. Everything would be ok. Father had promised. Besides if the Dark Lord really was back, then the fun was only just beginning. And no matter what happened, he would be safe. He was a Malfoy after all, and a pureblood. He had to be safe. Father had promised.
But, Draco remembered, he hadn't been safe. A pureblood Malfoy or no, when the going got tough, sacrifices were made, and Draco had found out the hard way that the Dark Lord considered him expendable. His father's own stupidity had seen to it that he wasn't around to break his promise to his only son. But Draco had taken his safety into his own hands. He hadn't fought against the Dark Lord because he cared one way or the other about the issues surrounding the war. No, at seventeen, he had offered his help to the Order for one main purpose: to save his own skin.
"Traitor." It was said in a pain filled voice laced with fury. A seventh year Draco looked at his lover in astonishment. What? A traitor? But he didn't…his eyes widened in understanding. The boy. Yes, he had known about the plot. Had known everything right down to the time and place. And he had done nothing, nothing at all to stop it, and because he had been jealous. And now the boy was dead.
He hung his head, for a brief moment, ashamed of himself. His lover took this action as an admission of guilt. A blow to the chin brought his head up forcefully. Another to the stomach brought him to his knees. Draco didn't even fight back, didn't even try to bring his hands up to somehow protect himself. He deserved it. Besides, he didn't feel the blows anymore. What was physical pain, after all, when his heart and soul were being ripped to shreds?
The punches did not last long however. Draco could hear his lover's harsh and ragged breaths. Just the sound of those breaths spoke of so many emotions: disbelief, sadness, anger, and betrayal. The swish of robes and the thud of heavy footfalls told Draco that his lover had left him.
Leaning his head back on the cushion, Draco closed his eyes. Yes, all of the other memories made him angry or sad or remorseful, but that one… that one made him ache. His lover had not only left him in the corridor that day, but had left him for good. Draco, of course, had been too stubborn and prideful to give chase, then and in the years to come.
All of the pain he had felt six years ago resurfaced, leaving him drained and exhausted. He sat there wondering what his life would be like if he had swallowed his pride and gone after his love. Merlin knew all his relationships after that hadn't worked. He had tried in relationship after relationship to find what he had been dumb enough to let slip away. Yet, no matter how many lovers he took to his bed, none of them even compared. Regardless, Draco thought, forcing himself to sit up and open his eyes, he was not one to wallow in self-pity, and he had a job to do.
As his carriage came to a stop before the steps leading up to the huge oak doors, he brushed off his Auror robes. He stepped out, and stood for a moment looking up at the castle. Yes, he had a job to do. Besides, he reminded himself with a smirk, it was a big castle. Certain people could be avoided.
~~~
Harry Potter was in heaven. The new brooms Dumbledore had ordered were in- Nimbus 2000s- and he had decided the test each and every one. Just as a safety precaution, naturally. It wouldn't do to have one of his students injured because one of the thirty new Nimbuses was faulty.
Harry grinned as he took the reduced packages out of his robe pocket and enlarged them. After unwrapping each broom carefully, he stood back to admire them. The design and form of the Nimbus 2000 hadn't changed since his first year. While they were not as magnificent as later models, for first years, some who were just learning to fly and play Quidditch, they were perfect. Picking up the first one, Harry mounted it and pushed off.
Being on a broom that was far inferior to his own Firebolt did not stop Harry from enjoying himself. The Nimbus was a little slower, a little less sharp in the turns, but it was still a great broom to fly. He grinned as he pictured the looks on his student's faces when they saw his treat for them. The new brooms would definitely make his job easier.
And to top it all off, it was a Friday. Friday was the day Harry didn't have classes, thus giving him a free day to do what he pleased. Like flying brooms, Harry thought with another grin. He remembered from the years that he had attended Hogwarts that Friday was the worst day to try and teach students anything. The excitement of the upcoming weekend never failed to distract even the most studious Ravenclaws. Hermione, of course, would deny it until she was blue in the face, but he had caught even her gazing longingly out the window on occasion. He felt sorry for his co-workers who had class today.
A few hours later, Harry had finished testing all of the brooms, and had replaced the Cleansweeps in the broom shed. Now on his walk back up to his quarters, he thought about what to do with the rest of his day. He had missed lunch, but Dobby would send him up something if he asked. Therefore, it was a toss up between reading the book he had started a couple days ago (Most Daring Quidditch Maneuvers of All Time), or working on his research for the Order. He sighed as he gave the password (snitch) to the portrait and walked into his quarters. He really just felt like sitting down with some lunch and the book, but the research for the Order was important and, even if he didn't feel like doing it at the moment, fascinating.
Getting into the shower, Harry thought about what he was currently working on. With the Voldemort Wars definitely over and done with (not even the soul of Voldemort was left), the Order of the Phoenix was starting to organize documents about battles, POWs, spy information, etc. Harry smiled remembering the look on Hermione's face when she had seen the sad state the Order files were in.
The problem, however, did not come in organizing the whole lot. Though a very daunting task, considering that the First Voldemort War had lasted eleven years, and the Second Voldemort War had lasted six, it was relatively straight forward. No, the problem came when they found discrepancies in the documents.
Harry had, among other problems in his pile, an Order member being in two places at the same time, conspicuous orders being given from an unidentified source, or the mysterious disappearances of both Order members (albeit minor ones) and POWs. During the Wars, such discrepancies would hardly be noticed, or if they were, any excuse was readily accepted as fact. They had had better things to worry about, oh like, I don't know, saving the Wizarding World, than following up on every inconsistency they found. But the aftermath was a perfect time for such activities.
Harry scowled as he got out of the shower. He really did need to get some of it done. Yet, as he changed into his favorite pair of jeans and a red t-shirt, he decided to hell with paperwork and research. It was Friday and he was going to do what he damn well pleased. After placing a fire call to Dobby to order some lunch, he flopped down into his favorite chair. Harry sighed a contented smile as he picked up his book and began to read.
~~~
Ron dropped gracelessly into the chair, and plopped his feet up on top of his desk as he leaned back. It's Friday, he thought with an aloof grin. If there was one thing Ron loved more then chocolate frogs, it was Fridays. Fridays meant freedom. The last day of work before the weekend when he was free to do what he pleased, away from the watchful eye of his boss and more often than not dangerous creatures. As much as he loved his job, there were only so many times one could be hit by a club, bitten with large fangs, and even stabbed at by some creature in a week.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. The small hand was directly on the eight while the longer one lingered at the six. Never too early for a chocolate frog, he thought as he dropped his feet back to the floor. He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and pulled out the candy. The thought of chocolate frogs on a Friday only made the day seem to go better that it already was. At least, it did until Ron heard a crash of thunder that rattled the glass windows of the Ministry office in London.
Ron scowled as he dropped his sweet back into the top drawer and slammed it shut. If there was one thing that could ruin his mood, even on a Friday, it was a storm. He hated- no loathed them. Hate was too nice of a word for storms. The clash of thunder, the flash of lightening, and the downpour of rain meant no Quidditch game with the rest of his co-workers at the end of the day. Personally, Ron never minded playing Quidditch in the rain, but his co-workers were a different story.
He turned away from the window and the rain that had put a sour note on his day, and glanced around the compact office for something to keep himself sane until quitting time.
The office was quiet; the only sounds were the rain beating against the glass and his fingers tapping against the arms of his chair. Yep, the office was completely dead, Ron concluded as he glanced around the room and wondered if there was even work today. Only a few of his co-workers were actually in the office; the others must have been called off on assignments.
Leaning his head against the back of the chair, Ron spun around as he stared at the ceiling. The sound of the gears creaking with each turn echoed off the silent walls until finally one of his annoyed co-workers stalked over and stopped him from spinning.
"Sorry," Ron muttered meekly as the co-worker walked away. He turned back to his desk, and tapped his thumbs against the wood. What I wouldn't give now for a troll to trample a village, he thought to himself as he glanced at the clock on the wall. The large hand seemed to be stuck on the damn eight still. Maybe it was broken?
Or maybe Merlin has just answered my hopes, he thought as the door down at the end of the office was pulled open, and an elderly looking chap walked in.
"Weasley!"
Ron perked up in his chair as the wizard called his name.
"Woman says an Erkling tried to attack her child in the back of their hom-"
"Yes!" Ron shouted as he leapt to his feet and earned confused glances from his co-workers. So, that was not the best way he could have handled the news. It was not often you heard a person scream a joyous 'yes' when a child had just been attacked by a fierce creature. Luckily, his fellow workers already understood him well enough to realize what he had meant, and as a result, no one even batted an eyelash.
All it had taken was a rough blow in the stomach by a Thestral's hind legs that had sent him flying into the tree behind him, to gain the respect, although quite a few worried glances were thrown his way when they discovered that Ron didn't mind in the least. He could now match Harry scar for scar in a Battle Wounds Contest much to his excitement. The incident had landed him in St. Mungo's; though there had really been no reason for him to visit the magical hospital with only a broken rib. It could have been easily healed by any of the Whiz-Meds on duty with the team, but his co-workers at the time had insisted he visit the hospital after he managed to croak out a victorious cry as they picked him up off the ground.
The boss jabbed him in the arm with a quill. "Weasley!"
Ron snapped out of his daze. "Oh, right." He shook his head. "What?" He asked confused and earned a wary glance from the boss. The boss handed him a sheet of parchment. "Go check it out and try not to cause any more damage."
Ron grabbed his cloak from the rack with a cheerful grin and stalked toward the fireplace. Perhaps the day was beginning to look up.
~~~
Pansy walked toward the house with her shoulders set and in a purposeful stride. She had just walked into the office, after a short lunch date with Hermione, when her boss sent her out on another breaking report, address in hand. Apparently a child had been attack by an Erkling in the Hogsmeade area and as always the Daily Prophet would have to be the first to get the latest news. It would be a by the book situation. A simple, flash the person in charge her special privilege pass, get the interview, and then get home to Hermione. She grinned as she thought of the other reporters who would have to wait for the eventual press conference to get the news.
Once wizard and witch reporters use to be like what muggles would call the paparazzi, always popping up on the scene and trampling the evidence before the Aurors or other Ministry officials had the chance to sweep. That was until one of the first laws had finally been passed a year after Voldemort's defeat. The law simply stated that no reporters were to be allowed on the scene unless they had a special privilege pass. Otherwise, those without the credentials would have to wait until the official press conference given by the Minister of Magic or one of the officials on the scene.
What she did not expect to see was the horde of reporters standing outside the thatched roof cottage with their wizard cameras. As though the weather was matching her mood, it decided at that moment to force out a deep rumble of thunder which fit her scowl. This was supposed to be a Friday. To Pansy, Fridays were supposed to be a piece of cake. There was not supposed to be any reporters to push through to get to the news. There was not supposed to be any rain that clouded her vision and soaked her pad of parchment that she had forgotten to water proof. There was not supposed to be a Colin Creevy!
"Creevy!" She cried and tapped her foot incessantly as she caught sight of the tall blond haired young man standing in the crowd of the flash photographers. "What are you doing here?" Creevy worked as a free-lance photographer for the Daily Prophet and was often sent out with the reporters to a scene.
Colin glanced at her. "Got called out with Jace." He gave a short wave before turning back to the cottage and attempting to get another picture.
"Jace is here?" Pansy nearly whined. Jace Jones was another one of the hot shot reporters for the Daily Prophet. He was an American reporter, who had come to London just after the war with Voldemort had ended, and he had the audacity to hit on anyone who wore a skirt. Literally. No matter if you were a leggy model wearing slacks, he wouldn't look twice at you. Put the same model in a skirt and he'd be all over you. Needless to say, Pansy always remembered to wear slacks to work. She didn't think Hermione would take to it too well, and she really didn't feel like writing the article describing her girlfriend's trial for murder. It was only her luck that the one day she had been forced to wear a skirt by the lack of clean laundry, he happened to be in the vicinity.
"Parkinson!" She groaned to herself as she heard Jace call her name. No, there was definitely not supposed to be a Jace Jones on a Friday.
She turned and greeted him with a scowl plastered to her face. "Jones," she replied dryly. "Why aren't you in there interviewing someone already?" Why would the Daily Prophet even send me out if they already had someone on the scene? She thought as she tired to glance over the heads of the other reporters.
"You know that hot tempered red-head from the creature department?" Jace asked. "He's not letting anyone on the scene."
Pansy bit her lower lip to hold back a groan from escaping her as she caught a glimpse of red hair above the crowd.
Apparently the Fates are against me, she thought. She blinked back the rain drops that fell into her eyes and looked again at the mess of red hair that stood out in the crowd. Yes, at the front of the crowd was Ronald Weasley holding back the reporters from trampling the scene as his team worked behind him. Merlin forbid that out of all the people in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, it had to be someone who would not cooperate with any reporters.
Even though Hermione was a reporter, Pansy knew Ron had never liked reporters. She supposed it was because during the entirety of the war, the Weasley name had appeared in a lot of papers. And it wasn't always good coverage, she thought as she remembered back to a particular mission that had gone wrong while Bill, the oldest Weasley, had been in command of the forces. The mission had turned out to be a trap that ended in a blood bath between the opposing forces.
Or perhaps it was resentment. In all the time during the war, Ron had never been mentioned in the news, despite his own great achievements as Order strategian. Instead, it was keyed in on Harry or some other Weasley family member. Not once had Ron been mentioned by name and for that Pansy did feel some sympathy toward the fiery tempered red-head.
"Any news, Ron?" Pansy smiled as she finally managed to shove her way through the crowd and walk up to him. First rain, she thought as she glanced toward the sky bitterly, and now I have to try and deal with him.
~~~
Perhaps the day was looking up my arse, Ron thought as the last person he wanted to see greeted him. The situation had been going smoothly as he held back the reporters while his team swept the scene. And by sweeping the scene, Ron did not mean that his team was actually using brooms to sweep the ground as he saw Harry do once. He had chalked up the incident as another strange muggle ritual he would never understand because who in their right mind would use a broom to sweep the floor?
The entire day had been beginning to look up until Pansy Parkinson had to rear her pug nose. He put on the most polite smile he could manage as Pansy stopped directly in front of him with her notepad and quill already out, ready to take any news Ron had to offer. Bloody reporters. Ron often wondered what possessed Hermione to take the occupation in the first place.
"Sorry, Pansy," Ron said. "You know the rules. Closed scene." He smiled smugly. Perhaps not allowing Pansy onto the scene of the crime would make up for the horrible weather. "You'll have to wait for the press conference just like everyone else."
Pansy scowled. This was not going the way she had expected. "I have a pass, Weasley."
"Doesn't matter," he replied. His smug smile was only fueled by the scowl on her face. Like I care that she has a little cheap laminated card, he thought. She is not getting in here. "I'm in charge and you'll just have to wait for the press conference."
"Men," Pansy muttered under her breath as she turned away from Ron.
"What was that?" Ron inquired behind her.
"Nothing," Pansy said as she flashed him a smile over her shoulder. Hmm... Perhaps- She turned fully around so that she faced Ron again. "You will be joining Hermione and I for dinner tomorrow night, correct? Harry will be there too, you know."
"What time is it again?" Ron asked as Pansy watched him dig through his pockets.
Obviously, looking for that extra chocolate frog he always carries, she thought ruefully before flashing him a quick grin. "I'll let you know the time if you at least give me the name of the victim?" You would think if you knew the person in charge you'd get an exclusive, she thought bitterly.
Ron rolled his eyes. "Like I'd fall for that." Really? How thick does she think I am? He smirked. "Besides, I thought Slytherins were supposed to be more sly than that?"
"We are," Pansy smiled smugly as she wriggled a chocolate frog in front of Ron's nose. "Missing something?" If Pansy knew one thing from her time spent with Weasley, it was that chocolate frogs were his weak point. Pansy had never understood the strange addiction Weasley had with chocolate frogs.
"Why you conniving little-" He reached for the chocolate frog, but she held it away from his grasp. "Give me that!" He snapped.
"Give me the name of the victim!" Pansy snapped back as she continued to keep the chocolate frog from his grasp. "I know you work for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, obviously an animal attacked someone! I want a name, Weasley." She narrowed her eyes dangerously at him. She could care less that the other reporters had begun to cast curious glances as their conversation became more heated.
"You know the rules, Parkinson," Ron stated calmly very aware that they were being watched by the other reporters and his team members were behind him. Bloody women. It was a wonder to him why he even bothered with them some times. "You'll find out when everyone else does." He sighed. This is getting childish, he thought as he tried to grab for the chocolate frog and she pulled it from his reach once again. "This is ridiculous, Parkinson. Hand over the chocolate frog," he demanded.
It was easy for the two of them to fall into these little arguments unless Hermione was around. She supposed it was how Draco and Hermione were with each other, although granted Draco's comments were much better than Ron's.
"You're impossible, Weasley," Pansy replied as she tossed the chocolate frog into a puddle in the gutter. "Go fetch." She turned on her heel and stalked away, leaving Ron to scowl after her, each thinking the same thing: Bitch!