A/N: Early update because, why not. Happy reading!


The kitchen clock had just chimed 6pm in Ron and Harry's flat in Whitechapel. The pair of them had had a lazy day in the flat, doing very little but read and, in Ron's case, play chess. Ron was 2 hours into a very intense game with the chess set itself, the pieces trash-talking him with ruder and ruder insults as the game went on.

Glancing at the clock again, Harry sighed and stood up, downing the last dregs of his lukewarm tea.

'Right, I best be off,' he said to Ron, stretching.

'See you later,' mumbled Ron, making his move on the board. 'I'll probably see you at the office in the morning, I'm on days tomorrow.' He dodged the small shield that one of the knights had thrown at him in outrage.

'Sure. See you then.'

Harry strode down the hall away from the sounds of Ron arguing with the chess pieces, collected his deep red Auror cloak and stepped out into the street.

The late June air around him was thick and muggy. By the smell of it, some lucky bugger nearby was having a barbeque. A wave of disappointment and jealousy coursed through him at the smell – Ron was going to the Burrow that night to celebrate Percy's birthday. It had been a good few weeks since he'd seen the Weasleys and their various partners, and he fiercely missed their loud and chaotic get-togethers. Plus, he would absolutely kill for a barbeque and a beer right now, rather than have to go to work.

On the whole, Harry didn't mind night shifts. They took a predictable pattern: business as usual until about midnight, then four hours of self-hatred, where you questioned your life choices and wished for bed, followed then by a silly, delirious tiredness, fuelled by cups of tea and too much bad food. It wasn't all bad.

Tonight however, he rather begrudged the normal folk, who could clock off at 5pm and spend their summer's evening as you should – in the garden with your friends and a beer.

He walked along the street to the Apparation point, a dark alley between two long rows of brick terraces. He closed his eyes and felt the familiar gut-wrenching squeeze as he Apparated to the Ministry.


When he arrived at his desk, he plonked his bag and cloak down on the floor and took a cursory glance at the Manilla case file that had appeared on his desk. There was a fluorescent green note stuck to the first page with a virtually illegible sentence scrawled on it, handwriting he knew belonged to his mentor, Auror Davies.

Managed to swap you Dawlish for Ozzy. You owe me!

A happy relief flooded him and he chuckled. Perhaps this night wasn't going to be too bad after all.

The file itself wasn't a long one. They were on some sort of surveillance tonight, where he and a fellow junior Auror would have to sit outside some criminal's house and track their movements, looking out for anything suspicious. Dull as it was, it was easy money, but surveillance shifts could become unbearable if your partner was difficult. Or just a plain arsehole, like Dawlish.

'Alright, chap! Me and thee tonight, it seems,' came a cheerful voice from above him.

Ozzy's face appeared over the flimsy half-wall that divided the juniors' desk spaces. Ozymandias Whittard, or Ozzy as he was (for obvious reasons) always known, was a junior Auror a couple of years ahead of Harry. According to some of the girls in the office, he was 'effortlessly handsome'. It was probably his Gilderoy Lockhart-esque dazzling smile and wavy dirty-blonde hair, but Harry had always thought Ozzy would look more at home on an Australian surfer beach than tailing the country's petty criminals… But each to their own.

Harry had worked with him only a handful of times, but they had always had very enjoyable shifts together.

'Thank Merlin for that. I was apparently supposed to be with Dawlish tonight. Arwen swapped me.'

'Oh Christ, well I'm glad to be of service!' Ozzy replied with a wink. 'I'm going to get us both a cuppa, then we'll go, yeah?'

'Sure. I'll have a look through this quickly, work out where the hell we're going,' Harry replied, motioning to the file.

As Ozzy disappeared, Harry took a more in depth look at the file. Most of report was heavily redacted, thick black lines crossing vast quantities of each page. There was, unfortunately, nothing you could do to reveal the information underneath. All the Auror files had an automatic charm on them that redacted information based on the security clearance of the person who was reading it. (Or their wand, most likely.)

From the very limited information he could read, their task was to go to somewhere in rural Gloucestershire and follow a man called Edward Fontaris. Reading between the lines, Fontaris was probably part of Ulrich Yew's old smuggling business, but in what capacity, he had no idea. Aside from his name, some pictures of his house and a map, there wasn't much more information.

In some respects, it was frustrating not knowing what or whom they were investigating. On the one hand, he understood the importance of not widely spreading classified information, especially information related to such a high-profile case. But at the same time, without knowing what the guy had supposedly done, how on earth were you supposed to gather meaningful intelligence?

Nevertheless, it had been drilled into him at training that Aurors had gone to prison for trying to tamper with redacted files – it was just part of the job that you just accepted and moved on from.

After a few moments, Ozzy returned. He held two very full cups of tea, which he charmed not to spill, then turned to face Harry.

'Right. Shall we?'

'Let's.' Harry grabbed the file and they made their way to the Apparation point.


A few hours later, the pair of them sat in a secluded bus shelter 50 metres or so from Edward Fontaris' house. The house was large, but not conspicuous, blending into the surrounding countryside, presumably so as not to draw attention. The sun had set and lights were appearing in the windows of the smattering of houses that surrounded them.

As surveillance spots went, this was a rather luxurious one. It was sheltered from the rain that was forecast for later, and the wooden bench was easy to charm into a fairly comfortable space to sit (or sleep if they had half a chance…). The bus shelter itself was completely invisible to the few Muggles that passed, although one middle-aged man had purposefully walked towards them only to reach the vague spot where the shelter used to be, look around, and return the way he had come, seemingly having completely forgotten why he was outside in the first place.

To any wizards, not that it was likely they'd be passing through this rural Muggle village, Harry and Ozzy would not be invisible, but would appear entirely non-descript, with no memorable features whatsoever highlighting them as anything other than a couple of Muggles waiting for a bus.

Ozzy was perched on the edge of the bench, looking through the Omnioculars at Fontaris' very empty house.

'So I hear Ron is thinking of leaving,' said Ozzy in a muted voice. In these situations it was hard to shake the desire to be quiet, despite knowing full well that no one could hear you.

Harry turned to him, surprised. 'Where did you hear that?' he replied.

Ozzy lowered his Omnioculars and tapped the side of his nose with his finger, gesturing that he was in on the secret. He grinned at Harry, who rolled his eyes.

'I swear you should moonlight on the gossip columns at Witch Weekly with the amount of shit you know!' Harry laughed.

It was true. Ozzy was known within the Auror Office as the King of Gossip, a title he wore with pride. Ozzy had the amazing ability to instantly connect with anyone, regardless of circumstance. He was the sort of person who automatically and immediately put you at ease, even if you had only just met, making you feel like you could tell him your deepest darkest secrets. He had an air of confidence that erred on the side of self-assurance rather than arrogance, which made him approachable and universally well liked. And, of course, he knew all of the office gossip.

This talent was extremely useful when extended to suspects, too. Nine times out of ten, they succumbed to Ozzy's expert mix of charm, openness and charisma, and sang like canaries. It was as if they were spilling their secrets to their best friend over a cup of tea, rather than to an Auror while under arrest. Even after they realised that they'd confessed, they didn't begrudge Ozzy for it because he was impossible to hate. It was the absolute masterclass in interrogation and was truly spectacular to watch.

'I had an inkling, but your reaction just confirmed it,' he admitted as they chuckled quietly. Ozzy passed him the Omnioculars.

'He's just disillusioned with it, I think. Not what he signed up for,' said Harry, bringing them up to his face and looking at the dark house.

'Yeah, I know that feeling. Robards' healing course looked good, though, eh?'

'Are you thinking of doing it?' asked Harry lightly.

'Oh definitely. Something a bit different. Got to work those old brain cells and all that!' he replied cheerfully. 'Plus, you're going to need a wingman, what with all the ladies that are going to be on the course.'

Harry felt his neck crick as he flung his head round to stare at him.

'What?'

'Well, you're going to apply for the course, aren't you? So you'll need a wingman, since Ron won't be there.'

Harry gaped at him. He hadn't told anyone but Ron of his desire to apply for the course. Hell, he'd not even decided 100% himself, yet.

'How do you do that?!' he cried incredulously, as Ozzy tipped his head back and laughed heartily. His laughter was infectious, and soon Harry was cracking up too.

'I repeat: I had an inkling, but you just confirmed it, mate.'

The pair of them bantered and laughed the whole of the rest of the night, chatting amicably to pass the time until the shift was over.


However enjoyable the shift had been, Harry was extremely grateful when the relief team arrived at 8am. It meant that only 20 short minutes stood between him and his bed.

They handed over to the day shift – not that there was much to tell – and mumbled a goodnight (good morning?) before Apparating back to the Ministry to collect their things. Back in the office, he waved tiredly at Ozzy, who yawned in response, and trudged back to his cubicle. As usual for this time of the morning, the office was a hive of activity, which only made him more desperate to go home and sink into the depths of his bed.

All of a sudden, Ron burst into his cubicle, scaring the shit out of him.

'Morning, Auror Potter. You're looking ultra-alert this morning! Nice night?' he said, entirely too chipper.

'Can you just… not?' pleaded Harry. He felt almost hungover. Bed was so close.

'You're late finishing this morning… what's that all about?'

'Relief team was late again.'

'Too bad.'

Ron hovered in his cubicle as Harry gathered his bag and filed the paperwork in the correct place. When Harry turned around to leave, Ron looked at him sheepishly.

'You alright?' Harry asked pointedly.

'Emma stopped by this morning,' he blurted out.

'Right…'

'Said she needed to speak to you. Urgently, apparently.'

'Bloody hell.'

He was entirely too tired for this shit. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his finger and thumb, screwing his eyes up so that he saw stars. It was oddly relieving.

'Okay, fine. I'll deal with it later.'

'Alright, mate.' Ron clapped him on the shoulder sympathetically as Harry passed him. 'Sleep well.'

'Later,' he mumbled back.

How had his night turned from very pleasant to distinctly unpleasant in the matter of 5 minutes? What was so urgent that Emma had gone over to his flat when she knew he wouldn't be there? To be fair, she had probably texted him, but he didn't have his mobile phone on him. Not that he really knew howto use it, anyway – he only had a mobile to keep up appearances with the Muggles he interacted with. Actually using it seemed a step too far into the Muggle world.

Various scenarios crossed his mind as he made his way back to his flat, kicking his shoes off as he shut the door behind him. Perhaps she was unwell, or that something bad had happened. No, surely she would have asked Ron to pass that message on if that was the case?

Maybe he was in trouble – that was more likely. Though what he was in trouble for was anybody's guess. That would have to be a puzzle for later.

As he walked through the kitchen, a note on the table drew his attention.

Harry, call me, please. We need to talk. Emma

He sighed as he read it. Yes, that definitely seemed like he was in trouble.

He slowly trudged up to bed, his legs getting heavier with each step. He was entirely too tired to deal with this now.


He woke suddenly to a loud banging. He immediately sat up and looked around blearily trying to get his bearings. It was light outside, but that meant nothing in those long summer days between night shifts.

Thump thump thump.

Someone was at the front door. After a few moments of fumbling around for his glasses, he gave up and Summoned them from where they'd fallen behind the bedside table. He threw on a T shirt and tracksuit bottoms and groggily dragged himself down the hallway.

Knock knock knock knock knock. It came more insistently this time.

'Hold on, I'm coming!' Harry shouted with irritation. They didn't normally get Muggle post, so it can't have been the postman. Everyone else knew better than to knock on their door when either one of them could have been on nights.

He flung open the door. It was Emma.

She'd obviously come from work – she wore her typical black pencil skirt and blazer combo – but her long blonde hair, which was usually very neatly pulled back into a bun for work, fell loosely over her shoulders. Her expression was a mixture of nervousness and irritation – she'd probably been hammering on the door for quite some time.

'Hey,' he greeted.

'Did you not get my messages?' she asked tersely.

'No, sorry, I was asleep,' he replied.

She ignored him and strode past him into his flat. He vaguely shut the door behind her.

'Come on in,' he said as he shut the door behind her. He'd meant it light-heartedly, but he wasn't sure he'd managed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. She rolled her eyes as she kicked off her heels, and practically stomped her way down the hall towards the kitchen. Clearly he hadn't…

He sighed as he followed behind her. In the kitchen, she made no move to sit down, or talk for that matter, so he busied himself with making a cup of tea for them both. The silence was awkward, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why.

He placed their mugs in the middle of the kitchen table and took a seat. Hesitantly, she sat down opposite him, looking very much like she didn't want to be there. Their positions reminded him briefly of interrogations he'd done at work, and he almost snorted with the image of it. Hopefully this wasn't going to be as bad.

Chewing on her lip across from him, she looked uncharacteristically nervous as she stared at him. It was unnerving, seeing her like this. She was usually full of things to say and entirely too eager to fill an awkward silence, so much so that Harry had hardly got a word in edgeways on their first proper date 6 months or so ago. She had apparently been so nervous that she had talked almost incessantly, perceiving every beat of silence as 'awkward' and in need of filling. Ever since then, thank God, she'd calmed down… he was quite sure their relationship would not have survived as long as it had if she'd been a babbler.

But now, he almost wished she would fill the silence. There was no point putting it off after all… whatever it was.

'What's up, Em?' he said with false cheer. Cheery was the last thing he was feeling. He tried to smile, but it probably didn't have the reassuring effect he'd gone for.

She looked at him and promptly burst into tears.

Merlin's beard.

On instinct, he reached out over the table and took her hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. His track record of dealing with crying women could only be described as pitiful. Things in this department hadn't improved much since he snogged a crying Cho Chang in the Room of Requirement in fifth year… Nowadays he usually put his foot in it and made it worse or just awkwardly stood there, not having a clue what to say.

Of course, this wasn't the first time he had survived through Emma's crying in the short course of their relationship. Indeed, she did rather have a flair for the dramatics, with the slightest comment or action from someone at work (…or someone in the street, or one of her friends, or one of her housemates, or something in the newspaper…) almost inevitably causing an angry meltdown – or 'toddler temper tantrum' as Ron called it. Hermione had been a little more diplomatic, saying that perhaps she was just highly strung. Nevertheless, the last time she'd seen him, Hermione had delicately suggested that perhaps Emma was rather too high maintenance for him.

'She's right for someone, but I just don't see that someone being you,' she'd said. The pitying look on her face had been almost unbearable. But he supposed both of them were right.

Emma sobbed as they sat there. He patiently stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, waiting for her tears to die down. When they finally did, he tried again, more delicately this time.

'What's happened?' he said as soothingly as he could.

She sniffed and wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

'I-, I-… I need to tell you something,' she said, her voice thick.

'Okay…'

She looked at him again and wailed, succumbing to fresh tears. She stood up and hurried round the table and flung herself into his lap. Startled, he put his hands round her awkwardly. Now he had even less of an idea what was going on. Her letter had almost screamed that he was in trouble, that hehad done something wrong, so what the bloody hell did she have to tell him that would make him be in trouble? And also, what had he done that had made her nervous and upset, rather than the angry he was expecting? He could deal with angry screaming matches all day long, but this, he had truly no clue.

It was frustrating as fuck.

'Emma,' he pleaded as she sobbed into his neck. He could feel the wetness of her tears against his skin. 'What is going on?'

She took a deep, shaky breath.

'I cheated on you,' she mumbled.

He blinked. 'Sorry. What?' His voice was cold, even to his ears. He didn't care. She pulled back to look at him. Her lips were trembling and she was obviously on the verge of more tears.

'I slept with Mike.' Her voice cracked as she said it, but he heard it loud and clear.

Suddenly, he was up on his feet, pushing her off his lap and striding over to the opposite counter. He just couldn't be so close to her right now. He pressed his hands into the cool surface of the worktop and watched as the edges of his fingers turned white with the pressure. He could hear her hysterically shouting behind him, but he was no longer listening to the words. He wasn't interested in hearing them.

He dropped his head and took in a steadying breath. In. Out. Again, in. Out.

Emma was silent now. He could picture her standing behind him, nervously wringing her hands, unsure of what his reaction would be. He had no idea what reaction she wanted from him… expected of him.

Of course, to have a reaction, he would have to know how he was feeling in the first place. And that was the issue: Harry didn't know how he was feeling. What was he supposed to feel in this situation? Anger? He could get angry, no problem at all. He could shout and he could argue and he could tell her that he never wanted to see her again, and be done with it. He could do that.

Maybe it was sadness she wanted? Maybe he should cry with her and convince her that she had truly hurt him, and that it would break his heart if she ever did it again. Of course, it wasn't true, but that hardly mattered right now… at least he didn't think it did.

He supposed he could even turn the tables, try to convince them both that he was ultimately the one to blame… that his failures had pushed her into the arms of another man, or some such clichéd bullshit. He could say that he would do everything in his power to make it right.

But of course, all of these reactions required that he give a flying fuck what the outcome was. And at this point, he didn't. He just felt nothing.

'What do you want me to say?' The words were quiet and plain.

He pushed himself away from the counter and turned to look at her. The defeated look on her face said it all: he had not given her the reaction she wanted, and it hurt her. He hurt her. Conversely, he knew his own face was expressionless because he felt no real emotion to express.

'I don't know,' she said after a beat. 'Anything.'

A sigh fell from his lips as he shut his eyes, trying to feel anything, anything, other than just apathy. She deserved more than that.

'I just–… I just don't know what you want from me.'

Her lip trembled and a single tear dropped again down her face, following the path of so many others before.

He tried again. 'We haven't been right for ages, Emma. Surely you must see that?' He was pleading now – she had to understand.

'It meant nothing, I promise,' she begged. She was crying in earnest now. 'We can work it out, can't we?'

His eyes screwed shut and his thumb and forefinger rose to rub the bridge of his nose. This was so much more than her fucking her colleague. As much as she probably wanted to believe it, this was not a singular small fuck up that could be navigated and forgotten about. This was the straw that would ultimately break the camel's back. This was two people being forced to confront the uncomfortable truth: they were not meant to be together. Short of saying those words, he didn't know how else to get her to understand. At the same time, it was clear that saying those words would break her heart, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

'But-, but I love you.'

'No,' he snapped, eyes flying open. The words were like a gunshot straight to his forehead, something soul crushing and entirely unexpected. For the first time, an unidentified emotion swelled rapidly within him, immediately fogging his senses. 'That's not fair. You don't get to tell me that for the first time right now.'

'But it's true!' she almost wailed.

'No, it's not!' he shouted back. 'You're only saying that because you don't want to face the fact that it's over!' He felt his voice crack as he near shouted the words. The emotion, whatever it was, was overtaking him, making it nearly impossible for him to see or hear or breathe. He was losing control, and he would not let that happen.

He desperately tried to focus on his breathing as they stared at each other in an ugly stalemate. They were both breathing heavily, taking huge lungfuls of air like they'd just run a marathon. He had to gain control of himself, to lock away these emotions in a vault in his mind, to only be released and processed when he was alone. Right now, he just needed for her to understand, to accept that it was over.

'But baby, I–' she started.

'Don't call me that,' he snapped. She didn't get to say that to him. Not now.

He took another deep breath and continued as calmly and kindly as he could manage. 'There is nothing that can fix us, Em.'

She looked nothing short of devastated, pulling her chest into herself like she had been burned. A small, heart-breaking sob left her lips as her head fell to her chest. Her long blonde hair flopped across the front of her face, obscuring it from his view, although he could hear her tears as they fell silently from her face and splashed on the floor.

This was the right thing to do. So why did he feel like the worst person in the world?

He walked towards her slowly, hand reaching up of its own accord and tucking a curtain of hair behind her ear. At his touch, her face turned up to him and a flash of pleading hope crossed her face. But as soon as her eyes met his, the look faded, leaving nothing but a sad resignation.

His eyes roamed her face, silently taking it in for the last time.

'Bye, Em,' he said softly. He touched her cheek gently and turned away, walking down the hall and out of the door.


A/N: Let me know what you think! Any reviews and comments are most welcome 3
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