"Please tell me we're getting paid overtime for this, Harry," Ron muttered out of the corner of his mouth, fixing his eyes on Harry's in the mirror behind the bar. He absently swirled one finger through his gin and tonic and noted that even glamours with Harry's power behind them could not subdue the unruliness of his hair. It stuck stubbornly on end even in its current dark blond incarnation, gleaming dully in the dark, smoky air of the muggle nightclub.
"Somehow I doubt Moody is feeling fiscally generous toward the team that puts more collateral damage expense reports on his desk than the rest of the corps combined. How much was that yacht we ran into London Bridge? And don't call me Harry. It sort of defeats the purpose of being undercover," Harry returned wryly, draining his beer.
"The yacht wasn't our fault—how were we supposed to know the bridge supports had magnet charms plastered all over them? Besides, the pound to galleon exchange rate complicated things. Who knew Muggles would notice little old us in a small high-speed water chase when they miss the Knight Bus every day?" Ron asked, leveling what he hoped was a menacing glare at a couple of unsavory types purportedly playing poker at a nearby table. Where did Moody find these dives anyway? Some of them made Knockturn Alley look like a fieldtrip for Hogwarts First Years.
"Ron, for someone who supposedly has some skills in espionage, you're frighteningly unaware of your effect on the world. Like right now—we're supposed to be two unfriendly strangers, not childhood friends out for a drink," Harry murmured, turning away from Ron more fully and sweeping a glance down the bar. The sultry jazz quartet on the miniscule stage covered most of their conversation when combined with the low buzz of voices and clink of glasses and bottles.
"But we are childhood friends out for—oh, right, sorry," Ron whispered apologetically. "Shut it, here she comes!"
"I'm not the one—dammit," Harry hissed, before seeming to forget entirely about Ron as a sleek brunette in a black fringed dress sidled up to the bar. She placed a tiny beaded black handbag on the bar, took out a compact and began to apply dark red lipstick, pouting at herself in the mirror and studiously ignoring them both.
"Uh…" Harry began, and gulped. "Nice night for an evening, huh? Do you live around here often?"
Ron sprayed his drink across the bar, lightly showering the bartender and earning himself a dark look as the heavyset man wiped a towel over his balding head. Ron tried to control his choked mirth as Harry turned brick red even through the glamour and the girl eyed him in sardonic disbelief.
"Sweetheart, with a line like that, I hope you can do other things with your mouth than talk," she drawled, flipping her glossy brown curls over a creamy white shoulder and snapping her compact shut. "A Long Island Iced Tea, please," she ordered confidently as Harry got out his wallet.
As Harry seemed to settle into the conversation Ron observed with a hint of pride that Ginny's glamour charm was flawless. Nursing his second drink more slowly, he had to admit that after not seeing his little sister for months as she attempted to infiltrate her way into the social circles of Death Eater sympathizers, it was hard to hear her voice but not be able to see her true face. It was draining to have her gone for such extended periods of time, but even he had to admit that no one could match Ginny for smooth transition from one face and personality to another, and the information she fed Hermione had proved invaluable to the Order. He just wanted to be able to look into her eyes and see that she was taking care of herself, unable to hide from Weasley sibling scrutiny. Ginny had a tendency to push herself too hard, but now she was so adept at hiding her true self that she sometimes seemed merely a dedicated, beautiful but brilliant stranger—the image she projected in the dim light of the club. The days of threatening to tell Mum about her sneaking out with Dean after curfew seemed far away and innocent.
Ron shook himself and swept the ring of faces and dark corners of the club again, knowing that as per the plan, Harry would be totally oblivious to anything but the girl he was chatting up. Tuning an ear into their conversation, Ron had to admit that for a gay bloke and despite his comically flustered start, Harry could actually feed the birds some lines. Glancing over, he saw Harry run an idle finger up Ginny's arm as he stared down into her upturned face and felt a strange clenching in his stomach.
"Oh, really? That's just fascinating. Please do tell me more," Ginny purred and stood up from the bar, latching onto Harry's hand and dragging him off to a corridor at the end of the bar. Ron followed them with his eyes, his hands gripping too tightly around his slippery glass. His leg began to bounce rapidly and he stilled it, unable to look away as Harry backed Ginny up against the wall. She dragged him closer by his tie and he bent to kiss her neck. Ron realized he was gritting his teeth as he watched Harry's hands slide down her waist, every line of his body so familiar that the blond hair did nothing to disguise him to Ron's eyes.
Ron's gaze narrowed, piercing through the gloom as he watched Harry's hips roll into Ginny's, the black fringe on her dress swinging with every move of her body. Harry was putting the moves on her very convincingly for someone supposedly interested in men. Was he enjoying this? Ron drained his glass and watched Harry's strong hand clutch Ginny's smaller one and then move to his pocket, continuing all the while to trace his lips across her face and throat.
Ron felt an answering reaction in his groin watching Harry's hips grind more intently into Ginny as he pinned her hands above her head. Ron found himself unable to take his eyes off the smooth rhythm of Harry's body. Did he move like that with his boyfriends? The slow jazz had given way to a faster pulsating beat that seemed to thrum through Ron's entire body, the other bar patrons forgotten as Harry writhed against the strange, dark-haired Ginny.
A small, hurt noise from Ginny pierced the fog of music and arousal and Ron shot off of his barstool, awareness of the mission crashing over him like a bucket of cold water. She was starting to struggle in earnest against Harry. Ron strode toward them rapidly, cursing himself for his distraction. He was supposed to break it up when Harry took things too far, but from the flash of real panic he could see in Ginny's eyes over Harry's shoulder, he had let it go on way too long.
"Get your hands off her, arsehole," Ron shouted, pulling Harry off with more force than he had intended as his anger with himself mixed headily with alcohol and this unexpected sexual excitement.
Harry turned slammed both hands against Ron's chest, pushing him off. He suddenly seemed very much a stranger as real rage sparked in his unfamiliar blue eyes. "What's it to you?" he yelled back.
Ron crashed into Harry, shoving him back against the grimy brick wall as Ginny darted out of the way with a squeak. Ron barely registered the click of Ginny's heels as she tapped quickly away down the dark corridor, feeling only Harry's hard body under his, the pulse in Harry's throat beating fast under Ron's hand as he held him against the wall with a hand on his neck. Ron's eyes went wide as he realized Harry would quickly notice his hard length if he remained pressed up against him. He jerked back as if scalded—the mission, stick with the mission!
"You and me, outside, buddy," he snarled, releasing Harry and shoving him toward the door.
"Fine, let's go," Harry seethed, shoving a parting elbow into Ron's side a little too hard. Ron stalked after him, throwing some Muggle bills on the bar as he watched the bartender place the fellytone back on the hook, probably deciding not to call the please-men since he and Harry were taking the brawl outside.
Ron barely had time to draw a lungful of blessedly smoke-free damp night air before he found himself pinned against Harry again, and this time Ron was the one backed against a wall. Harry grabbed handfuls of Ron's shirt, jerked him forward, and slammed him back against the brick, driving the breath from Ron's lungs.
"What is wrong with you, you idiot?" Harry hissed. "You should have broken us up five minutes before you did. She was getting scared!"
Ron felt his face flood with angry heat and grabbing Harry's incoming fist, swung his body around so Harry's arm was pinned high against his back, forcing him to double over.
"You're the one who was taking it too far, Harry," he breathed heavily, leaning over his pinioned friend's back. Harry fought to break Ron's hold, and Ron suddenly realized that Harry's struggles were making his firm backside move across Ron's still very much evident arousal. He jerked Harry's arm higher in surprise and heard him gasp in real pain.
"Shit, Ron! Just take the damn canister!" Harry's words were breathy with exertion, and Ron realized that the hand of Harry's pinned arm was loosely holding the mission's goal: a small cylinder containing encoded files on shrunken parchment, passed from Ginny to Harry and from Harry to Ron per the plan. Ron grabbed the tiny canister and released Harry, breathing hard as reality once again belatedly faded back in.
Harry swung around and a sharp impact to Ron's jaw had him reeling back against the wall. He stared at Harry with wide eyes, the muffled music from inside the club seeming even more muted by the silence suddenly harsh between them. They stood in the fine February mist that added sheen to Harry's falsely blond hair and stared at one another, panting.
"Shit, I'm sorry, just…did you have to half break my arm?" Harry finally asked. Ron dragged a fist across the wetness on his lip and found a small trail of blood.
"No, I'm sorry, it was just weird seeing you with Ginny, and I don't know…" Ron trailed off, not knowing what he was most afraid to admit. It felt like he and Harry had been perilously close to fighting for real, and oh, God, he was still hard, even in the cold, cleansing night air.
"Look, just make the drop with Seamus, meet me back here in five, and we'll apparate out. It's been a long fucking night," Harry said wearily, turning to face the street and keep a lookout while Ron made the rendezvous.
Ron hastened down the alley to the rear of the club, keeping an eye peeled for Seamus and trying to reestablish his usual calm focus while on a mission. He never flaked out like this. He squinted down the dark sidewalk at a figure huddled against the wall, shaking slightly. Flattening himself against the wall of the building, he eased his wand out of the small of his back, the uneasiness between him and Harry silencing his instinctive desire to call Harry over. Drawing stealthily closer he saw the streetlight glinting off a familiar black leather jacket and the tension drained out of his body.
"Seamus? What's going on? I've got the drop right here." Ron crossed over to Seamus and squatted down. He laid a hand on Seamus' heaving shoulders and realizing to his chagrin that Seamus was sobbing, crying with great gulping breaths. "Mate?"
"Dean. Dean's dead!" Seamus spilled out, raising a tear-streaked face to Ron. "I had just picked up the portkey to come meet you from Hermione when the…the…the official owl came. 'The Ministry of Magic regrets to inform you of the death of Dean Alexander Thomas and requests your presence to identify the…the remains.' He was an only child and his parents were dead so he put me as his next of kin." Seamus' head dropped onto Ron's shoulder and he placed a crumpled parchment in Ron's hand. Ron raised it to the light in disbelief and his eyes unwillingly traced across it. The Ministry of Magic regrets to inform you…
Seamus was still talking into Ron's shoulder and Ron felt hot teardrops soak into his shirt as they huddled against the wall, half-hidden behind some rubbish bins. Dean was dead? He'd been round to their flat for butterbeer and quidditch on the wireless only last weekend, he couldn't be dead. Ron's mind seemed to be stuck between gears, unable to move forward or back as the mist coalesced into heavy rain, drowning out Seamus' desperate monologue.
Ron closed his fist around both the parchment and the thrice-damned canister of files that was the root of this hellish night. Seamus was in no condition to apparate to the next contact point in the convoluted chain designed to throw off pursuit that would eventually get the precious intelligence back to Grimmauld Place. That meant that the next contact agent would be left standing at his rendezvous point, dangerously exposed as he waited for the drop that never happened. Nor could Ron let the files remain so near their transmission point where they could be traced back to him, Harry, or Ginny and their very public confrontation. Shit.
Hefting an incoherent Seamus to his feet, Ron dragged him around to the back of the club where he knew Harry would be waiting. Rounding the corner, the bright green of Harry's eyes struck him, indomitable hair once again black and proudly sticking straight up even through the heavy downpour. Wasting no time, Ron shoved the gulping Seamus into Harry's arms without ceremony.
"Get him back to HQ—I'm going to have to make the next drop point. Don't wait up," Ron bit out.
"But, Ron, wait, what's going on? You can't make the next contact, you could be recognized, it's too danger—"
Harry's green gaze was the last thing to waver out of view as Ron apparated, leaving his friend staggering under Seamus' grief-stricken weight. He didn't even know how Dean had died, and given the way this mission had gone so far, Ron hoped fervently that the Ministry's next notification owl wouldn't be about him.
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