CHAPTER THREE: THE LUCKY LEPRECHAUN
Harry left The Leaky Cauldron by Apparating this time—he truly hated the floo network. When he arrived at the Ministry of Magic, he headed immediately to Hermione's office. Surely a day had been enough time for her to dust off her runes book.
The Magical Law Enforcement department was on the same floor as the Auror offices, so naturally he ran into the Head Auror, Robards, as he made his way to Hermione's office.
"Sir," Harry said politely.
"Potter," Robards acknowledged. "Are you making any headway in the art thefts?" he asked Harry.
"Not much, still, sir," Harry hedged. "But I'm investigating a lead right now that I'm hoping will prove fruitful."
"Keep me updated, Potter. MacMillan Senior is riding my arse about this."
"Well he can investigate it himself, if he wants it solved so neatly," Harry said. "Why'd they pass it to us, anyway? These types of crimes are usually for his office, anyway."
Robards shrugged. "Something about being overworked… and keeping you busy."
"Keeping me busy?" he asked incredulously. "Surely he means good press."
Robards shrugged again. "Just let me know what you find; I'm off to a press conference about that incident in Leicester Square."
Harry waved in farewell and continued to Hermione's office. He found her pouring over a tome at her desk, finger following along with her eyes on the page.
He knocked to get her attention, and she jumped. She looked just as neat as she had the morning before, when they'd been called in to work at the crack of dawn.
"Oh, hello, Harry," Hermione whispered.
"Hullo, Hermione," he replied.
She looked at him as if she were appraising him before whispering, "What brings you to this corner of the ministry?"
"Why are you whispering?" he asked.
Her pinks turned pink. "Sorry, old habits die hard," she apologized, speaking at a normal volume now.
Old habits? he wondered but didn't comment aloud.
Whenever someone had a strange reaction to something inconsequential, he often concluded that it was a remnant of the war. Merlin knew he had his own odd reactions to seemingly stupid things, himself. He knew that while he, too, had suffered during the war, he hadn't suffered in the same ways that his peers had. He shook himself of his imaginings of what it must have been like for her and returned to the subject at hand.
"I just came by to check on your progress with that rune," he said.
"Oh, yes," Hermione said. She pulled a larger tome out from a drawer to her left and placed it on top of the one she'd been reading with a thunk. She flipped the book open to a page that had been marked with a muggle post-it note. "Here it is. The nyd rune."
Hermione pointed at the picture on the page, and sure enough, there it was—the rune that had been carved into the floor of the chateau. "What does it mean?" he asked.
"Nyd, sometimes known as nauthiz or naudh, means need, or a hardship, or the relief of discomfort. It's a fire rune, which in and of itself could complicate the meaning behind the carving…" she trailed off.
Harry scratched his head. "I was hoping this would lead to an answer, rather than more questions," he told Hermione.
"I was, too, though I should have known better. Anyone who would take the time to carve a rune at the scene of their crime would ensure that we wouldn't get any true clues from it."
"What does it even mean that they would use it? That specific rune?" he asked.
"My guess?" Hermione asked, closing the book. "Most likely, the thief left it as a message of some sort of guilt, or desperation, or a mixture of the two. But I'm no psychologist."
"You could be, I bet," Harry replied.
Hermione shrugged. "That would require a lot of University and even more training," she said primly.
He grinned. "Could I borrow that book to scan into the file?"
"That's fine," she told him. "I'll come by and pick it up at the end of the day."
"Thanks, Hermione. I know this gave us even more questions, but it's something!"
Hermione heaved the book off her desk and held it out for him. He grabbed it from her, not surprised in the least that it was as heavy as it looked. "Well, I'll see you later. Happy reading!"
"See you," she said, distractedly. She was already back to what she'd been reading when he walked in.
He hurried to the Auror offices, making sure to stop at the copy spell station to make a copy of the page with the rune information on it. The copy wizard looked bored as he ran his wand over the page, and Harry briefly wondered why they had a position that existed solely to make copy for Aurors. It seemed like a waste of gold to him—maybe it was an economic thing.
He walked back to the desks, hoping to find Neville and fill him in on Hermione's findings. Neville luckily was at his desk, so Harry quickly caught him up.
"Stranger and stranger," Neville commented.
"Agreed," Harry said. "We're no closer than we were before."
"We may have to wait for another theft," said Neville.
"Merlin, I just want this damned case to be over," Harry said. "It shouldn't even be ours."
"While you're not wrong, it's the least dangerous case we've had in a while," his partner grinned. "It's nice taking a small break."
"I'm sure Hannah appreciates it," he replied.
"Oh, she does," Neville said, eyes staring down at the rune on the page. "We obviously have a thief that studied ancient runes in school."
"That's a rather large pool of suspects," Harry told him. How he wanted to stop thinking about this case… there were other things that he could be thinking about. Like Ginny Weasley.
"What can you tell me about Ginny?" he asked impulsively.
"Ginny?" Neville asked, confused. "What about her?"
"Is she single?" Harry asked, blushing darkly.
"Oh," Neville said, comprehension dawning. "Yeah, she's been single since she left Hogwarts, actually."
"Interesting…"
"Potter?"
"Yeah, Longbottom?"
"If you hurt her, I'll have to kill you."
"Noted," Harry grinned, and then turned serious. "I'm sure you guys went through a lot together."
"We did. Nobody else will ever understand what it was like." Neville's voice was haunted.
It had been five years since the war, and Harry didn't think the echoes of it would ever leave any of them alone. He still had nightmares most nights of things he liked to pretend had never happened… but they had happened, he reminded himself. And he had survived. Everyone around him had survived what had seemed impossible.
What was worse—dying in the struggle or surviving and remembering it all? He wasn't always sure, but here he was anyway.
"I heard she was very brave those years at Hogwarts when Voldemort had taken the Ministry," Harry commented.
"Oh, very brave. But it's not my story to tell," his partner told him, blue eyes serious. "I'm not sure she'll ever talk about it."
"I don't," Harry answered. This was the most he'd said on the subject in ages. But it was always there, in the back of his mind, like a dark cloud. The secrets owned the silence sometimes. Harry pushed the unpleasant images from his mind, focusing instead, again, on Ginny. Her long, coppery hair, those freckles, her warm, amber-coloured eyes.
After a period of silence, each of them lost in their own minds, Neville changed the subject to the latest Quidditch rankings—namely, the Chudley Cannons being third in the league. "I'm just saying it's ungodly and unnatural," Neville continued.
"You're telling me!" Harry laughed. "And the Cannons' fans are insufferably obnoxious about it!"
Neville guffawed right as Hermione Granger walked into the Auror offices.
"So, this is what you boys do when you're supposed to be investigating—Quidditch talk," she quipped.
"Hello, Hermione," Neville gave her a lopsided grin. "We were talking about the Chudley Cannons standing in the league."
Harry handed the book to Hermione silently, and she grabbed it from him as she looked at Neville.
"Ron—that's Ron Weasley," she explained to Harry before turning back to Neville. "Has been so unbearable about it! Every time I run into him, it's all he can talk about."
"That's Ron for you," Neville chuckled.
Harry suddenly felt very left out of the conversation. He sometimes wondered what his life would be like now if he'd attended Hogwarts instead of getting whisked away from his life with the Dursleys' by Sirius and Remus when he was 7. He would probably be a completely different person—a childhood on the run hadn't been what he assumed was normal. On the other hand, it may have provided more normalcy than anything the Dursleys' had, if his dim memories of Number 4 Privet Drive were correct.
He tuned back into their conversation and found that they were now talking about the case again.
"We're running into dead ends," Hermione was saying. "Without any new leads, this could easily turn into a cold case. I've gone over the reports from the Muggle police numerous times, and can't find anything of value from them, either."
"I have a CI who is checking in with the known fences," Harry told them. "I'm meeting with them tomorrow for lunch, so I'll keep you briefed on that."
"Oh good," Hermione replied, glancing at her watch. "Well, I had best be off. I've an independent research project I need to get back to. Have a good night, boys." She smiled and waved as she left.
Harry and Neville looked at each other. "Merlin, I forgot that she was like that," Neville told Harry. "But she is right about one thing. It is closing time for the day."
Harry looked at the clock on the wall and realized that Neville was right. Where had the time gone? He hadn't accomplished one thing today.
This wasn't often the case in his busy career as an Auror, so he accepted it with a shrug and grabbed his cloak. "What are you and Hannah up to tonight, mate?"
"Oh, the usual. Dinner, getting Alice ready for bed, and then reading on our separate sides of the bed and passing out with the lamp on, I'd imagine."
"You make married life sound so appealing, Longbottom," he joked.
Neville grinned. "I do what I can. And honestly, I wouldn't trade it for the world."
Harry smiled back and wondered if he would ever feel the same.
They walked to the Apparition points and nodded at each other before they both disappeared with a crack.
When Harry reappeared, he was on the street near his flat. It was beginning to drizzle, so characteristic of England, and he hurried up to his flat. At least it was a warm drizzle, with autumn looming ever closer, he kept expecting the temperature to change.
He changed into dry, non-work clothes. He opted for trousers and a t-shirt, instead of robes. He sat down on the sofa, wondering what he was to do with his evening. Merlin, he needed friends outside of work.
Had he always been so lonely?
He wasn't sure.
Finally, he jumped up from the sofa, after sitting there for several minutes doing nothing, and decided that he'd take himself out for dinner and a drink.
Who knew? Maybe he'd make a friend.
In the end, he decided to go to a new pub in Hogsmeade. It would be less crowded than anything in Diagon Alley, he reasoned, and less busy than the Three Broomsticks. The pub was owned by an Irishman that Harry thought was his own age, Seamus Finnegan, and named something apt: The Lucky Leprechaun.
When he walked in, it wasn't crowded at all. Strange, as it was dinnertime, but Harry wasn't going to look a Unicorn in the mouth. He sat at the bar and ordered a steak and kidney pie with an ale. "It's elf-made," the bartender informed him.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Is it fair trade ale?" he asked.
"Oh yes—all the elves who make the ale are compensated," the bartender reassured Harry.
Harry probably would have drank the ale if it hadn't been fair trade, but it did make him feel better all the same. Elf rights were becoming a big deal, finally. Of course, part of that was due to Hermione Granger championing the cause and making the plight of elves—house and other types as well—more visible to the wizarding public. He hadn't ever genuinely believed that elves were happy as slaves, no matter what the wizards and witches around him, and even some elves, had told him. He'd always figured it was a result of brainwashing.
He drank his chilled ale and listened to the sounds of the pub around him as he waited for his steak and kidney pie. This was what peace sounded like: unhurried chatter and the clattering of silverware in a public place.
Someone sat down on the stool next to him, and out of an instinct from long ago, he was instantly on alert.
"Woah there," they teased, placing a hand on his shoulder. "It's just me."
He looked, heartbeat slowing, to find Ginny Weasley next to him, touching his shoulder. He gulped, heartbeat picking back up just as quickly as it had slowed down.
"Hello," he smiled at her, embarrassed. His cheeks were warm, and he knew it had nothing to do with the ale. "Fancy meeting you here." You stupid arsehole, Potter. Couldn't think of anything less cliché?
"Hi," her returning smile was beautiful. "Are you eating alone?"
"Yeah," Harry said, taking in her appearance. Her hair was so shiny, so soft looking… She was wearing a black leather jacket with a yellow t-shirt underneath and tight black trousers. He swallowed hard. "You?"
"Just came to have a quick drink," she explained. "I just left my parents' house. We have supper together, just them and I, on Wednesday evenings."
"That sounds nice," Harry said. "It must be hard to get one-on-one time with them in such a large family."
"It is," Ginny told him. "Well, not as much now that we're all grown. As a kid, it could be difficult. I probably had it easier than the boys did, in that regard, though," she admitted. "Sorry, you probably really don't care. We don't even really know each other."
Harry smiled at her, his eyes crinkling a little in the corners. "I don't mind, really. Besides, I think I'd like to get to know you more."
He couldn't tell if she looked surprised, or if it was his imagination. It had been forward of him—he couldn't seem to control what he said around her.
"I feel the same way," she admitted carefully. He watched as she bit her lip, teasing the corner for a moment before she let it go and smiled radiantly. "So, what do you do for fun?"
His breath caught in his chest. What did he do for fun? Did he have any hobbies? He couldn't think of any now.
"You mentioned that you'd followed my Quidditch career," she prodded.
Oh, Quidditch. "Yeah!" he was finally able to reply. "I really enjoy Quidditch. I always wanted to be able to be on a real team," Harry admitted. "But never had an opportunity growing up. I've played small-sided games with my godfather, his husband, and some of their family and friends. I've always loved to fly."
Ginny grinned. "Me too. I used to steal my brothers' brooms from the shed and sneak out at night to practice."
The bartender brought Harry's steak and kidney pie, placing it in front of him before asking if he needed a refill on his ale and taking Ginny's order (something called a Moscow Mule). "Yes, that would be great. Thank you."
Turning back to Ginny, he said, "That's pretty sneaky of you."
"Well, I was desperate to learn, to do what the boys could do. They'd never let me play with them," she shrugged and gave him a sly smile. "You've never done anything sneaky?"
"No, never," he deadpanned. He was able to keep a straight face for a moment before he started to chuckle.
"That's what I thought!" she crowed.
The bartender refilled Harry's ale and brought Ginny's mule, and neither of them said anything for a moment.
"Now tell me, Mr. Potter," Ginny was still smiling. "Tell me one sneaky thing you've done in your life."
Harry thought for a moment. There were loads of things, though most of them were for the sake of staying alive during the war. Were there any sneaky things he'd done for fun, or to prove himself?
"Well," he began, "There was this one time…"
Hours later found the two still chatting. The lighting in the pub had darkened, and neither Harry nor Ginny were sure what the time was. Neither had checked their watch or the clock on the wall in quite a while.
They were giggling together over something or another and the bartender kept looking at them pointedly. This, of course, made them break out in a new round of giggles.
"D'you want to go on a walk with me?" Ginny asked him.
Her cheeks were pink, her eyes alight with merriness.
"Definitely," Harry answered, hoping—fruitlessly—that he didn't sound overeager. If he did, Ginny either didn't notice or didn't care. She grabbed his hand, tugging him toward the door.
He threw about five galleons down on the bar, hoping that would cover their tab, and let her pull him into the moonlit night.
He stumbled a little over the threshold but managed to keep himself upright before toppling onto the cobblestones.
He looked around, taking in the sight of the village around him. He hadn't seen it in the dark since that last battle, all those years ago. The Battle of Hogwarts. His presence in Hogsmeade had triggered the caterwauling charm, drawing both ally and foe to him, creating an immediate battleground and setting the village alight.
"I love how Hogsmeade looks at night," Ginny was telling him, hand still in his. "It has a certain quality to it. It reminds me of happy days at Hogwarts."
"What was it like?" Harry asked, sensing about a million stories buried within her.
"Hogwarts?" she asked.
He nodded.
"It was… well, Hogwarts," she said. "It could be cruel, the castle. It could also be a gift. I learned who I was there, what I was made of. Of course, there are so many layers to each of us, that I'm already different than I was then. It's kind of like a fairytale, come true, with a seedy underbelly that colours all your happy times with shadow."
"That's a lot," Harry said. It sounded much more complex than the stories he'd heard from Sirius and Remus of their time there as Marauders. But that had been a different lifetime, a different war. Hogwarts had been his godfathers' safe place, their home. Ginny's Hogwarts had been a battleground—a study of the tenuous grasp they had on life.
"But I wouldn't trade my time there," she told him, her voice full of certainty.
They were walking down a side street now, not as well-lit as the main street had been. The moonlight shone in her hair and illuminated her amber eyes. She was so beautiful, he thought.
Something seemed to come over him, some strange sense of confidence, and he pulled her to him, caressing her cheek gently before placing his lips on hers.
He'd always heard Muggles use the expression that kisses should be like fireworks, and he had never understood until just then. Ginny Weasley's lips against his caused an eruption in his brain, a burst of synapses communicating with one another at a rapid-fire pace. Her hand fisted his hair, tugging gently as she deepened the kiss.
After what seemed like only a second and several lifetimes, they broke apart. Something within him had shifted, but he wasn't sure what. All he truly knew was that he wanted her lips on his again. He wanted even more than that: to feel her lithe body against his, to make her writhe in pleasure around him.
She was staring into his eyes, breaths coming out in soft huffs. He distantly thought he should be embarrassed by how hard he was against her belly, but he only felt desire.
"Ginny…" he said. His voice sounded husky to his ears. He watched as she bit her lip and stared into his face, like she was looking for something. He couldn't bring himself to pull away, but he knew that they shouldn't move so fast. Not with her, he thought. Merlin, how he ached to feel her around him, all wet and warm.
Ginny whimpered in his arms, wriggling against his hardness.
He stifled a moan. "We should each go home," he said reluctantly.
"Please, Harry," she whispered. "Please take me home."
She was trembling, and he couldn't resist the thirst in her eyes. "Okay," he said.
After a moment's concentration, they disappeared from the Hogsmeade alley and reappeared near Harry's flat. "We don't have to walk too far," he assured her.
They stopped to kiss again in the moonlight. Her body sealed to his as they kissed, her hands finding their way to his trousers. He twitched, and she groaned in approval.
"Ginny," he choked out. "We're almost there."
She nodded, disengaging her hand. He wanted to sprint up the steps to the building, and all the way up the stairs. On the third floor landing, he pushed her against the wall and kissed her again. Ginny moaned into his mouth, and he allowed himself to be the naughty one this time, letting his hand wander to her bum and squeeze before it trailed around her front, caressing her. She moaned again, hips bucking.
He chuckled darkly, kissing her again before pulling her up the remaining flights and into his flat. He turned on the lamp by the sofa as they found their way there.
"Please, Harry," she whimpered again.
"Please, what?" he asked, staring into her amber-coloured eyes.
"Please touch me," she answered. She pulled him towards her body and kissed him. He wasn't sure if his brain could take much more of the misfiring, but it felt like an eruption within him all over again. He groaned, hand fumbling with the button to her trousers. He rubbed her lightly above her clothes, feeling the damp underneath his fingers before returning to that damned button.
Finally, it snapped open. Hallelujah, he briefly thought before his fingers found their way inside Ginny's knickers.
Impatiently, Ginny guided his fingers inside of her. She was so wet, so warm. She was tight around his finger, hips undulating in a circular motion as if in search of more. His thumb found her button, rubbing it gently. As if that had been what she had been seeking, he felt her tighten even more around his finger before he added one more finger. It was her undoing.
With a breathy sigh, her legs began to quiver, and she was pulsating around him. Her eyes opened a few moments later, pupils dilated. She brought his mouth to hers and kissed him, tongue gently seeking entrance.
"Take me to the bed, Harry," she told him breathily.
Who was he to deny a lady such a request?
