Being moved onto a complex case meant that there were a metric fuck-tonne of case files to wade through, meaning the rest of the week's day shifts were spent sequestered away in a small meeting room in the back of the DMLE with Ozzy.
The pair had learnt what felt like everything they ever wanted to know (and more) about Ulrich Yew, the brains behind the whole smuggling operation, who was now locked up in Azkaban. What had been reported in the Daily Prophet some months ago was the tip of the iceberg in terms of sheer numbers of crimes the smuggling ring had committed – the court documents alone had meant the Ministry's Records Room had had to be magically expanded to fit them all comfortably. It was the biggest case the Aurors had solved in a decade.
The smuggling itself, while extensive and organised, was by far the most tame of all the crimes that Yew himself had committed. It was clear he was an extremely proficient potioneer, first trained in the Grindelwald days, after which he went underground, inventing Dark potions and testing them on both willing and unwilling subjects.
'It's a good job these potions haven't seen the light of day much,' muttered Ozzy darkly as his eyes scanned the files spread across the large desk. 'Some of them are fucking horrific.'
Harry stuck his hand out to accept the file Ozzy offered, though he grimaced as he flipped over the cover.
The first thing he noticed was that there were several battered and bent photographs, all of which were still — Muggle. Interesting.
It was only belatedly that he noticed the true horror of the photographs' contents. The pictures were, quite frankly, brutal. There were countless dead victims, many of whom looked to have sprouted extra limbs – hopefully after death. Among them were several depicting living people, quite possibly volunteers by the way they stood straight and looked at the camera. Each person had dozens of patches of skin in all different colours, resembling a gruesome patchwork quilt. Perhaps most horrifying were the animals that were only half converted into humans or – he shuddered at the thought – the other way round…
He shut the cover and pushed the file, probably with more force than necessary, away from him.
Ozzy was right. It was a blessing that Yew's potions were not well known, nor, it seemed, was his brewing ability. A swirl of nausea hit Harry as he thought of the utter devastation that could have befallen the country if Voldemort had known of Yew's ability. Thank Merlin for small mercies.
Swallowing, he pushed those thoughts to the back of his head. It did not do to dwell on grim 'what if's.
'Do we know who knows about these potions?' Harry asked.
'Well, it looks like some cases were first reported in the late 1950s, but they were never attributed to Yew himself,' answered Ozzy, who waved several very old, yellowing pages as confirmation. 'As for recently, most of the middle and upper part of the smuggling ring knew that potions existed, but from the Quicksilver court documents, most wrote them off as being a inventions of a crazy old bastard. I don't think anyone but Yew knew that he'd brewed them and tested them on people.'
Harry looked down at the pictures again. 'Who took these photos?'
'Yew himself. Admitted to it in court.'
He grimaced. 'Fucking hell. So he invented potions, asked his lackeys to import the dangerous ingredients, then brewed and tested the potions in his own basement or some shit?'
'Yeah, pretty much.'
'Lovely.'
They exchanged a dark look. Harry shook his head to try and rid himself of the grotesque images that had now burned themselves on the back of his retinas.
'Right, so what about this Edward Fontaris bloke we've been following?'
Ozzy's eyes closed and his voice took on a wistful (albeit mocking) quality. 'Our long summer nights together… stalking criminals… Good times.'
'Nothing quite like spending an evening together staring at another man's wife through the window of their home.'
'Makes you feel all cosy inside, doesn't it?'
'Quite.'
They laughed tiredly together. (If you couldn't laugh, you'd cry, after all.)
'In all seriousness, I haven't read his file. Arwen said it's in Records.'
'Alright. I'll go and get it from Records if you make me a cup of tea.'
'Deal.'
The Ministry's Records Room was off a short hall at the back of the DMLE. The door to it was small and unassuming, with no defining features distinguishing it from the store rooms that surrounded it. Nevertheless, Harry knocked on the third door on the left and moments later, it swung open of its own accord.
Stepping into the room, Harry felt the door shut behind him, and an almost oppressive quietness settled over the tall shelves.
Harry hated coming in here, mainly because it reminded him of the Room of Hidden Things at Hogwarts. One would expect a room full of important records and evidence to be tidy and smell like a library, but no, it smelt like stale coffee and the acrid smell of old glue. Plus, it was such an unimaginable mess that it made him wonder how someone didn't go mad from just being in here, let alone working in here. All day. Every day.
It didn't help that the dust in the air meant he always left with his eyes itching and him sneezing for England.
He'd said it before and would say it again: he hated coming in here.
Somewhere near the middle of the room was a single desk, remarkably uncluttered given its surroundings. On its surface was a comically large book, which completely dwarfed the man sat behind it.
The man looked up at his approach, lifting a pair of what looked like magical, green-tinted sunglasses off his face.
'Harry!'
'Hello Derrick. How are you?'
'Oh, I am very well, thank you, sir. Yourself?'
'I'm good, thank you. I'm here for–'
'Did you have a nice time at the Harpies party?'
An instant and involuntary warmth flooded his face at the mention of the party, which he tried his hardest to ignore. 'Yes, thank you. It was rather a wild night.'
'Yes, indeed. I had a lovely time,' Derrick rushed, speaking at a million miles an hour. 'I was with Emily a lot of the night, although she kept disappearing off to do her hair or speak to her friends. I did wonder if perhaps if one of her friends was unwell.'
'Oh?' It was the only word he could get in edgeways.
'Oh yes, she just kept saying she needed to talk to her friend and so she kept walking away and I wouldn't see her for a while. It was sad really because we were having such a nice time and it was really good to see her playing and having fun…'
As Derrick chatted, Harry nodded politely, although his mind drifted back to the party. He'd certainly seen Emily Parkin, the Harpies' Beater, that night – and all the rest of the team for that matter – and the team had spent a considerable amount of effort trying to, in Ginny's words, 'shield her'. At the time, he didn't think much of it, or perhaps was too drunk to care. But now it seemed fairly obvious that what they were shielding her from was Derrick's incessant attention (perhaps bordering on obsession?). There wasn't a rat's chance in a hell that Emily would return Derrick's affections, if that's what he was after – she was a good 20 years his junior, and already in a secret but serious relationship.
A strange sort of guilt swirled inside him at the thought. Uncomfortable… The sort of guilt you got when you didn't quite know why you felt guilty.
Looking at Derrick's smiling face as he babbled on about his night and how 'glowing' Emily had looked, he almost felt bad for the guy. Poor Derrick was probably just besotted and a bit oblivious. But then again, there was something just a little bit creepy about old Derrick that he couldn't put his finger on. It was what had made him feel so awkward at the pub and, if he was honest with himself, one of the reasons he disliked coming into Records. Perhaps it was uncharitable to think, but Harry certainly wouldn't be thrilled to have the full force of Derrick's affections directed his way, either.
There was just… something about him.
Sighing a little, he returned his attention fully to the matter at hand, though it didn't look like the Emily-flavoured monologue was stopping anytime soon.
'Hey Derrick?' he announced, probably a little too loudly. Thankfully, if Derrick noticed, he didn't let on. Instead, he just grinned goofily.
'Yes, Auror Potter?'
'I'm after the Fontaris case file, if you have it, please?'
'Certainly. Auror Davies dropped it off this morning saying you might want it.'
'Great,' said Harry, pleased to have directed the conversation back to what he'd come in here for.
'Something juicy?' Derrick asked over his shoulder as he rummaged through a drawer behind his desk.
'Pardon?'
'The case. Is it something juicy?'
Harry laughed awkwardly, images from the Yew file flashing in his mind. 'Err, no not really. Just potions.'
'Ooh, I loved potions at school.'
Inwardly, he groaned. At this point, he didn't have the time or the energy to get into a conversation about the weather, let alone one about Dark potions for a top secret open investigation.
'Did you? That's great. Wasn't really my favourite subject.' He replied weakly.
'Ta-dah!' Derrick cheered, presenting him a mercifully thin Manila folder. 'The Fontaris files. Ooh, that sounds like a crime novel doesn't it?' he chuckled.
'Ha, yes it does a bit. Anyway, thanks Derrick. I'll no doubt be back at some point.'
'See you soon.'
Before he could engage him in another conversation, Harry turned and hurried out of the room.
Stepping outside into the corridor, he sucked in a deep breath through his stuffy nose, immediately feeling better. There was just something about Derrick and that room and the dustiness and the fucking weird pictures he'd just seen, that made him feel all sorts of… off.
He tried to get a grip on himself, leaning against the wall of the corridor when a sudden thought made his stomach twist unpleasantly. Had he been rude to Derrick?
That was far from Harry's intentions, but maybe being in such a hurry to leave the room wasn't such a friendly move, let alone interrupting Derrick while he was talking. But then again he just couldn't bare incessant talking. Never had been able to.
Merlin's beard… he was going to turn into Robards, wasn't he? All direct and impersonable. Arsehole extraordinaire, Ron always said.
He huffed, rubbing his eyes to relieve the dust-induced stinging, and set off somewhat irritably back towards the Auror Office. Next time he saw Derrick, he would be nicer to him and avoid being a complete dick. There was no point making an enemy at work, especially a man as harmless as chatty Derrick. (Even if he was irritating.)
Walking through the hum of the office calmed him slightly, helping to sooth his frayed nerves and push thoughts of Derrick out of his swirling mind.
When he opened the door to the meeting room, he was greeted by the dark grey eyes of Arwen who leaned back in her chair next to Ozzy, nursing a cup of, knowing Arwen, ridiculously strong black coffee.
'Afternoon, boss.'
'Harry,' came her stiff greeting. 'Derrick gave you the files?'
'Yeah, I've got them here.'
'There's not much in there,' she grumbled. 'Doesn't give much away, annoyingly.'
Ozzy looked at her, puzzled. 'Has Fontaris actually committed a crime yet? Can't we just arrest him and question him?'
'No, not yet. There isn't any evidence that links Fontaris to any Dark market activities, but we're fairly certain he's in on it, certainly the potions side of it anyway. That's why we're having to tail him 24 hours a day. He's bound to fuck up soon. The guy is a complete moron.'
Her frank and blasé assessment of their suspect pulled a short laugh from his lips. In stark contrast to the overly posh 'telephone voice' that Arwen had in Robards' office the other day; her demeanour had entirely reversed, returning completely to her normal sharp-witted, foul-mouthed self. Apparently even the fearsome Arwen Davies was not immune to Robards' intimidating nature.
'Right, so what are we expecting him to do?' Harry asked.
'The only meaningful intelligence we have so far is that Fontaris and others in the ring have been visiting potioneers and apothecaries up and down the country, asking about weird ingredients. Interestingly, this only appears to have started after Yew went to prison, but we're not sure of the importance of that, but it does seem too much of a coincidence not to mean something.'
'What's the evidence to suggest they're doing anything bar buying potions ingredients?'
'Well… there isn't really much.' Her face contorted into a mix of frustration and confusion as she said it. 'As Robards said before, we've had three shop owners come forward and say that they've had enquiries for odd ingredients – some notifiable, some not. All three owners have been questioned but refuse to go on the record about who these people were or any specifics. Presumably they're being threatened somehow.'
'Not unusual,' murmured Ozzy.
'Indeed.'
The three of them sat in silence while Ozzy flicked through the Fontaris file.
'Anything from the medical potioneers at St Mungo's about what potions these ingredients are used in?'
'No. Apparently the range of ingredients points to all sorts of things, from powerful Healing potions to Polyjuice. Veritaserum. Memory-altering shit. The works.'
'So they've essentially said that it could be anything?'
'Yep.'
'Great.'
Again, silence reigned as once again Harry's thoughts returned to the pictures in the Yew case. These potions were clearly bizarre and complex, possibly combined with old or Dark magic long forgotten. If they were alterations of existing common potions, then the potioneers would have picked it up in a heartbeat. No, these were entirely concocted, or at least based on potions so old that they'd fallen out of memory.
If they were to have any hope of working out what was potentially being brewed, they would have to scour the old Potions textbooks in the Ministry's library or search the Department of Mysteries' archives. Wasn't it the Unspeakables' job to invent spells and stuff like that – surely they'd have something on potions that could help them get even a little bit closer to the truth.
'Harry, I can smell your brain burning. Tell me what you're thinking.' Arwen flicked her wand and a whiteboard flew into the room alongside a Muggle marker pen. The intention behind it was obvious: a good, old-fashioned brainstorming session. It was like being back in training, being asked to 'show your work' when solving murders closed long ago, cases so complex even Sherlock Holmes would struggle to solve them.
But this was different. It may have been complex but it sure as hell wasn't closed… and that made it all the more nerve wracking.
Harry took a deep steadying breath and plucked the marker pen from the air, although he made no move to stand. The cool plastic of the pen grounded him slightly as his thoughts whirled in a thousand different directions. It was like trying to play an entire game of chess in your head but not quite knowing how to win the game.
'There are too many unknowns here. First, there's the fact that we have no idea what Fontaris and his cronies are up to when they're going into shops. There's a number of reasons I can think of.' He stood up and walked to the board. 'One, he and his team just like brewing potions. Just going in and buying ingredients for their… I dunno, hangover potions or whatever. A red herring.'
'Unlikely, but not out the realms of possibility,' said Arwen fairly. On the board, he wrote PLEASURE and circled it.
'Two, he's in there to scope out the supply chains of rare ingredients.' At their silence, he elaborated. 'What I mean is, they're a smuggling ring, right? Maybe they're trying to work out where apothecaries are getting such ingredients from so they could take out the competition or undercut or something.'
He added another circled word to the board: BUSINESS.
'Three, there's another reason. Something perhaps more nefarious, like he's trying to sell off Yew's recipes, or he's trying to work out whether they're even possible to brew, or–'
'Oh, so you mean Yew had bunches of theoretical potions, but he was arrested before he had a chance to test their feasibility?' said Ozzy.
'Exactly.' Hesitantly, he added the last word to the board, one that felt infinitely more weighted, more disturbing, more dangerous.
YEW.
Harry turned back towards the pair of them. Ozzy was staring at the board like he had a million thoughts and theories running around in his head. His eyes were spaced and he was gently stroking his bottom lip.
Arwen was uncharacteristically silent, though her face was a stark contrast to Ozzy's: blank and unreadable. 'And Ozzy? What do you think?'
Minutes of tense silence passed, before Ozzy's voice broke it harshly. 'He's working with Yew. Although I…'
Harry absolutely understood why he trailed off. The thought that Fontaris was still working for Yew, that there was any possibility that those truly despicable potions could still surface, was so utterly terrifying that it was no bloody wonder he didn't want to say it out loud.
Hearing it out loud only made it worse, made it more real. Call it Auror instinct, but now that it was said, there was no doubt in his mind it was true.
Yew's potions were still a threat.
Arwen nodded slowly before addressing them both, voice quiet and resolute.
'All three are possibilities that the Senior Auror team have discussed at length. The first two, business and pleasure, are fairly easy to ascertain, and we have Juniors researching round the clock to establish that as we speak.'
She took a deep breath before continuing.
'But unfortunately, the working theory is that Fontaris and his team of merry men are still working for Yew. In what capacity, we don't know.'
'Yet,' said Ozzy, flipping the files closed with an air of finality.
Arwen's answering smile could only be described as wicked. 'Yet.'
The next few days boasted a blissful reprieve to the complexities of work. Harry had spent his two days off running errands and sorting through the mountains of washing, trying not to think about work, or Yew, or potions, or Ginny, or any of the other stressors in his life. All things considered, he found himself surprisingly relaxed by the time Wednesday evening came around.
The truly spectacular meal Molly had just cooked helped considerably with that, leaving them all feeling woozy and content. Unlike so many of the Burrow's get-togethers, there were relatively few of them sat around the dinner table that evening, just Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny, alongside Molly, Arthur and Andromeda. Teddy, who had kept them all delightfully entertained throughout dinner, was sat on Harry's lap scribbling on the tabletop with a crayon. No one was paying him much mind as they chatted amicably about Andromeda's book club.
The evening had been so relaxed, so simple, so unburdened by work or adult life, that he wondered why he didn't come here more often. There was just something about the atmosphere, the dim lights, the couple of glasses of wine, the easy company, that made the mess of the past few weeks feel like it belonged in another person's life.
A night at the Burrow had been exactly what he didn't know he needed.
The old wooden door to the adjoining kitchen creaked open and Molly and Arthur appeared, offering each of them an old-fashioned wine glass. Without a word, Arthur pulled out a large bottle of mead from behind his back and, after opening it with a satisfying 'pop', charmed everyone's glasses to fill with the amber liquid.
An expectant pause came over the room as Arthur raised his glass.
'To Harry,' he said simply, his soft voice earnest, 'For getting onto the Healer course.' When Harry looked up to meet Arthur's gaze, he swallowed thickly, not expecting the pride and sincerity on the older man's face.
'To Harry!' chorused the rest of them, and Harry joined in the clinking of glasses, though felt his cheeks redden with the attention.
'Thank you everyone. It means a lot.' His voice sounded strange to his own ears and he took a sip of his mead to try and clear it.
Molly's warm hands rested on his shoulders as she bent down to kiss the top of his head. 'We mean it. We're so proud,' she said quietly, words only for him.
'Thank you, Molly,' he croaked back, reaching up to squeeze the hand still on his shoulder. Although he was shit with emotions, particularly those of the 'parental' variety, he desperately hoped that Molly and Arthur understood what their love meant to him.
Because it meant the world.
Teddy kicked Harry's shin impatiently, clearly bored and unused to the lack of attention. The little boy arched his back and looked straight up at Harry with an impressive scowl on his face, the whole picture accented comically by the tips of his hair turning a devil red. Combined with his pout, it was really quite adorable, which was probably not the desired effect.
'What's up, Ted?'
Andromeda effected a fake stern voice and said, 'I think it's time I took somebody home.' She pulled a tired Teddy from Harry's arms and Summoned his shoes, holding the boy steady as Molly and Arthur each wrestled a shoe onto squirming feet.
'Bye Teds. I'll see you after playgroup on Friday,' Harry said, ruffling Teddy's hair.
'Can we chase the pigeons?'
'Of course we can. Be good for Nana.'
With quick 'Congratulations' to Harry and a wave to the others, Andromeda and Teddy disappeared in a flash of green Floo flames.
'So Harry,' asked Molly, who was settling herself between Ginny and Hermione across the table from him, 'Why did you apply for the Healing course? I thought you liked being an Auror?'
He pondered the question for a moment before answering, trying to articulate the thoughts he'd never once collated — not for lack of wanting to, just because no one had ever actually asked him, including himself.
'I do like being an Auror, I just—' he started. His eyes dropped to the table — it was a lot easier to focus when Ginny wasn't in his direct line of sight. He cleared his throat before starting again. 'I've sort of felt… a bit lost with the Aurors recently.' An anticipatory silence fell over the table as they waited for him to continue, the pressure to articulate his thoughts fully becoming more and more constricting in his throat.
Molly must have noticed, for she prompted him quietly to continue. 'How so?'
They met eyes for a moment, and what he saw there was nothing but kindness in her brown eyes, so much like her daughter's that he could almost imagine he was talking only to Ginny. It helped, marginally. 'I think I went into the Aurors for the wrong reasons. The place I was in when I first joined wasn't… err—' Again he trailed off, not quite knowing what to say or how to say it.
Arthur came to his aid, a bemused smile crossing his face. 'You weren't in the best frame of mind, shall we say.'
You could say that again.
Although he could feel the heat rising on his cheeks, he shot Arthur a sheepish smile.
'Yeah, well. I went into it with quite a lot of anger and… disillusionment, I suppose? I just did it because it's all I knew and all I thought I wanted.' Once again, the silence of the room weighed heavily. 'I've realised over the last few years that perhaps that wasn't healthy, and that dragging around that kind of resentment is probably not going to make you into a nice person to be around.'
Inexplicably, his eyes flicked to Ginny. He swallowed before looking back at the table. 'And I don't want that.'
A long breath escaped his lips and he felt like the weight of a thousand bricks had been lifted, though he couldn't put his finger on why.
Molly reached across the table and grasped his hands in her own and squeezed. He looked up from their clasped hands to find her eyes boring into him, this time filled with happy tears, accompanied by a wide, almost bittersweet smile.
'You mother was training to be a Healer before she joined the Order,' she said quietly, kindly. 'Did you know that?'
Harry's eyes returned to the table for he couldn't look at Molly for one more second. The sting in his sinuses so intense, so sudden, that it took almost everything in him not to cry right there at the table. The image of his mother, young and smiling — and probably not even entirely accurate — swam across his mind. She would have been the same age as he was now — 21 — but instead of just starting her career, she was just ending it. Not that she knew that, of course.
It hit him all of sudden, but not for the first time, how fucking sad it was that she couldn't live the life she deserved. The life he so desperately wanted to share with her and Dad. The reminder, when it did come, was as harsh as it was painful, not lessening in the slightest with every instance.
Swallowing, he looked up at Molly and tried to smile, grateful beyond words that she'd shared this with him, no matter how painful. 'No, I didn't.'
Next to him, Ron stood up slowly, in a manner that was probably meant to be subtle, but ended up being completely the opposite. His chair scraped loudly on the floor as he pushed it back, and he hovered half-sitting, half-standing, as if he'd been caught with his hands in the cookie jar.
Naturally, it ruined the quietness of the moment.
Across from him, Ginny rolled her eyes and laughed under her breath. 'You fucking oaf.'
'Ginevra!' snapped Molly, though the rest of them laughed, the nostalgic spell well and truly broken. Once again Ginny rolled her eyes, but it was more irritated than fond as she looked at her mother with a fierce expression on her face.
'What? He is an oaf!'
'It's not that, it's your language! It's not very lady-like.'
'Yeah, well I'm not very lady-like am I, so you keep telling me,' Ginny huffed.
Molly visibly bristled and, like Ginny's, her tone was fierce — a side of Molly he'd not seen before. 'Enough.' The single word left no room for argument, but in its delivery crushed the easy-going atmosphere in one fell swoop, leaving a pressure cooker of almost palpable discomfort in its wake.
'Anyone want a cup of tea?' announced Ron loudly, in an entirely Ron-like attempt to dissipate the tension. If George were there, he no doubt would have sniggered. But George wasn't here, so what was left was an awkward kind of middle ground that Harry had no idea how to comprehend, let alone navigate.
Hermione came to the rescue by asking Ginny a question that, being Ginny's roommate, she most definitely already knew the answer to.
'How's the training going now you're in London, Ginny?'
'It's brilliant, thanks,' said Ginny quickly and too brightly. 'It's been hard work and I'm exhausted all the time. I hardly spend any time at the flat.' Ginny's voice had a strange, forced kind of edge to it, as if she were putting on a show but was not quite convinced of the part.
'You ought to take some time off between games, Ginny,' said Molly somewhat bluntly. 'It's not good to fly around all day and party all night.'
Ginny's cheeks flushed — to an outsider it might have looked like embarrassment at being chastised by their mother in front of an audience, but Harry wasn't an outsider, and the blush was most definitely anger.
'Can you not?' Ginny said forcefully, turning to face Molly indignantly.
'I'm not doing anything!'
'Yes you are and you know it. And for your information, I haven't been partying all night and flying around—' she spat the words like they were venom. 'I haven't been out since before my birthday, and I exercise 5 days a week, because it's my job.'
Silence washed over the table at that: surely a stunned one from him and Hermione, mere spectators in a seldom-seen spar between mother and daughter. However, by the resigned look on Arthur's face, this argument was clearly not seldom.
Harry had no idea what to make of the situation; really he'd had no idea that there was any animosity between the pair until Ron had told him a few weeks prior. At the time, it had seemed strange to hear that Ginny and her mum were clashing, but now it was played out in front of him, it seemed all the more confusing to him. What the root cause of it all was, he had not the foggiest idea. That was a question he'd have to ask Hermione.
Or perhaps Ginny, if she'd let him.
Once again, Arthur stepped in, his kind and gentle tone soothing the situation like a balm. 'How did your meal with your friends go? For your birthday?' Harry could almost see Ginny's anger deflate in response to her father's neutral question.
Ginny sighed, her once rigid back relaxing and leaning against the back of the dining chair. It struck Harry how tired, almost defeated she looked in that moment — more so than he'd ever seen her.
'Yeah, it was lovely, Dad. The girls took me to a restaurant not far from the training ground.' With a small smile, she continued, 'They made me a cake with a Quaffle on it that they'd charmed so that if anyone but me tried to eat it, these little icing Bludgers would attack the person's hands until they stopped.'
The mood lightened considerably after that, with Ginny explaining in increasingly animated detail what presents she'd gotten from her teammates, and what they were planning to do in their time off before the next match. Ron regaled them with a hilarious and rather ridiculous story about a Danish half-vampire he'd come across at work — a story no doubt embellished and exaggerated to raise a laugh or two. After all, that was Ron's gift: to be able to make them all laugh, most especially when things were tense or awkward.
Long after the sun had set and they had retired to the living room, Arthur spoke again. 'So Harry. What are the Auror Department going to do now that its losing three of its finest Aurors?'
'You surely don't mean me, Dad?' joked Ron from where he sat on the threadbare but ridiculously comfy sofa, arm languidly draped over Hermione's shoulders.
'Don't be silly, Ron. Of course he means you. You're a fabulous Auror and I'm sure you'll be greatly missed,' huffed Molly, eyes never leaving her knitting needles. (A bright yellow hat if Harry were to hazard a guess.)
It was no secret that Molly was upset about Ron's decision to leave, despite it being in the works for some months now. Although rare in comparison to the other Weasley siblings, disagreements between Ron and Molly had arisen several times since Ron had worked up the courage to tell her the news, and he'd complained bitterly and frequently since then about how she 'wouldn't let him make his own choices'.
It was all rather dramatic, really, though Harry did wonder whether Molly's irritation at Ron somehow stemmed from her much more potent anger with Ginny.
But then, what did he know? After all, he was just a clueless spectator of someone else's family dynamics.
However, in that moment he was eager not to start another Weasley war, so Harry jumped at the chance to answer Arthur's question.
'Well they're not really losing me, as such. And Ozzy is such a menace that they're probably glad to be rid of him for a bit.'
'Ozzy Whittard?' asked Arthur. At Harry's nod, he continued with an amused smile. 'I've heard a lot about him. Quite the character by all accounts.'
'I swear I know more about Ozzy than I do about Ron these days, Arthur, the way they harp on about him.' Hermione laughed before turning to Ron. 'It would be great to actually meet him one day, you know.'
'Yeah, well.' Ron's ears had turned rather pink. 'About that… I wondered what you'd say to having a party? Round at ours, Harry.'
Surprised, Harry asked, 'What, a leaving party?'
'Yeah. Get everyone there, including Neville and Seamus and that. Seems such a long time since we've all got pissed together for a genuine reason.'
'Ron!' Molly's outraged scold went entirely ignored.
'Sounds great,' said Harry. It was highly unusual for Ron to ever organise anything beyond 'Shall we go to the pub?', that it felt almost like he had to say yes just on principle. But then, getting some friends round did sound pretty good. Not a party as such, because parties were crowded, underwhelming and always shit… No, just a get together. Some drinks, some food, probably some music, and that was it.
'Yeah, alright then,' he agreed, 'But you're organising it.'
'Done.'
A few moments of contented silence passed before Ron sighed wistfully. 'Ahhh, Ozzy. Really gonna miss that bloke.'
Harry smiled as Hermione laughed, rolling her eyes good naturedly as she playfully bantered with Ron about his 'massive man crush'. As he watched his friends, it once again struck him how much he needed this night, surrounded by the closest thing he had to family.
Without conscious thought, his eyes landed on Ginny, her long legs curled up underneath her as she sat in a large wingback chair across from him.
Tonight was the first time he'd seen her in the flesh since The Incident, and they'd only scarcely spoken via letter since. As such, he wasn't any clearer on where they stood now than when he'd first read that life-altering note.
As for what she was thinking, that was infuriatingly unclear too. Was she as confused as he was about where they stood? Did she find herself thinking of him as much as he unwittingly thought about her?
Looking at her now — absentmindedly inspecting the ends of her hair, her eyes taking on an absent kind of look — reminded him vaguely of looking at the full moon: strikingly beautiful but yet so desperately far away. He wished more than anything that her face was the open book her brother's was, so he could read her emotions and thoughts to his heart's content, to see the answers in her face without him ever having to ask for them outright.
Because he wasn't sure he could ask for them. For if they left this relative safety of no-man's-land and wandered purposefully into acknowledging what they did, there was the frightening possibility that there was no way out… no way out without him hurting her or her hurting him. And both had dire consequences that he wasn't sure he had the strength to face.
As if she could sense his thoughts, or his eyes on her, or both — most likely both — she looked up directly at him. They locked eyes for a long second, and suddenly her eyes transformed from dull absence to dizzying intensity, like she was reading his soul from across the room. A small but entirely unique smile crossed her face then, familiar even though he'd not seen in years. It was a smile so honest, so warm and so completely genuine, that seeing it so frequently back when they were together had almost conditioned him to feel—
To feel hope. Hope that one day, he could be happy.
And hope was what filled him as he tried to return her smile, knowing full well it fell short of the mark. Because he knew, by the very slight lift of one side of her mouth, the latent mischief slipping through, that whatever happened from now on — whether they never acknowledged the night of his birthday, or whether they talked about it every night from here to eternity — he knew that things would be okay between them.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Your reviews mean the world to me, and I do a happy dance every time I get an email about one. As always, come and find me on Tumblr and chat all things HP with me! sedge64 xx
