Disclaimer: Do I give off the impression that I own this series? If so, I'm terribly sorry for misleading you.

Summary: The Aurors visit Zacharias Rigby, Boris tasks Harry and Ron with an odd task for extra gold, Harry and Hermione get pissed, a round of golf. The chapter length got away from me, but bear with me; a lot of the things that happen in this chapter set up the action-y chapters that are coming up.

Midnight Blues

Part II: Among Thieves

5.) Birmingham Crawling
or,
Blow Your Top

"So you're working for the Aurors, now?" The brown-haired man asks, sinking a putt; I step up to where my golf ball has landed, mere meters from the hole, and shrug conversationally:

"It's a temporary thing; once it's over, it'll back to vagrancy," I set up, doing a few practice putts myself. "Why; did Hermione tell you?"

William Granger gives me a severe look, fingering his golf ball. "Well, yes. But I get the distinct feeling she hasn't been telling me everything."

I tap the ball and it goes into the hole with little protest.

Golf is the great equalizer between myself and Dr. Granger, a man who has never quite forgiven me for Hermione choosing the Horcrux Hunt over him. I can't describe the pure, unbridled hate in his eyes when Hermione lifted that memory charm off him and his wife, Helen. He had nearly ignored every apology and explanation Hermione cried out; he simply walked up to me.

And decked me in the face.

I'm not one to turn the other cheek, and I had just started in the Merc business where everything is measured by personal honor (ironic, I know), so I wasn't about to take the punch (a slight against my so-called 'honor') lying down. I spat out the blood and returned the favor, sending William crashing back into the upholstery while Helen, Ron, and Hermione looked on in horrified astonishment.

Only as Dr. Granger slowly stood did I realize how well and truly fucked I was, but instead of charging me or disowning Hermione or something crazy like that, he put a hand to his mouth and wiped the blood. He stilled, looked at the red liquid on his hands, and suddenly, he began laughing, the maniac, and told me I had 'some balls'.

When the Grangers-turned-Wilkins-turned-Grangers-again returned to England, Dr. Granger invited me to lunch with him, where he began grilling me about my relationship with Hermione. I laughed and said it was Ron that Dr. Granger wanted; he was the one dating Herms. A few days later, Ron was asked to lunch, came back traumatized, and Dr. Granger asked me to play a round of golf with him.

And, with the exception of my two years in America, we've been doing the same every month since that day six years ago.

"Well, Hermione probably hasn't told you everything," I reply nonchalantly as we walk toward the sixth hole. "You remember how I lost my family fortune, don't you?"

"Voldemort, right? And then the goblins," Dr. Granger nods, "Hermione was beside herself for weeks she felt so bad about letting them pull the wool over her eyes."

I smile. "Eh, shite happens; I'm over it. In any case, the Aurors are hiring us on as outside help because Ron and I have some experience with Blood Mages—" I take stock of Dr. Granger's questioning look, "—people who use blood sacrifices to cast magic. The more a person uses it the more powerful their magic becomes, but it's a naturally corrupting force, eroding away at the user's mental barriers. A seasoned Blood Mage is usually an insane one."

Dr. Granger arches an eyebrow, a quirk he has passed on to his daughter. "Are there any Blood Mages that aren't insane?"

I smile. "There are some, but they're few and far between. Besides, any sane Blood Mage is likely in the States."

"Why's that?" Dr. Granger asks.

"The U.S. has always been at the forefront of magical civil rights laws, oddly enough, considering how long it took the muggles, whereas we Britons are an intensely backarsewards lot: we have severely restrictive laws written against Bloodies just the same as werewolves and vampires; the States have found ways to utilize these people. Blood Mages are often used for hunting monsters and hunting other Bloodies."

"Uh-huh. And why do the Aurors need you?"

"Like I said, Ron and I have experience."

We reach the teebox of the sixth hole and Dr. Granger begins to set up. "So, what exactly are you two dealing with, and is it going to affect Hermione?"

"You can drop the overprotective father act, Dr. Granger; Ron's not even here," I drawl as Dr. Granger drives his ball onto the green. "We can keep work and home-life separated quite easily. But if you must know, we've been dealing with a murder."

"A murder?"

"Yeah," I reply. "The skagboy son of an eccentric politician killed by radical terrorists with an admirable, but misguided goal... it's the stuff of cheap dime novels."

"Ooh," remarks the good doctor with a grin, "sounds shivery; mind elaborating?"

"Yeah, alright... So Ron and I were called in to a shitty Edinburgh flat with Tonks—"

"—Tonks is the one with the hair, right?" Interrupts Hermione's father, vaguely gesturing at his own hair. I place my ball on a silver tee and take a practice swing.

"Mmhmm," I intone. "So we're called into this shitty Edinburgh flat with Tonks, yeah? Dead guy right in the middle, looking a sight, real shady-looking gadge. You could tell he came from money at one point but seemed to have been on the brassic lint ever since. In any case, Tonks is trying to conduct an investigation while Ron's trying his best to annoy this Auror named Kenton—real tosser, that one—and suddenly, someone has the bright idea to flip the poor bastard over. And, story of my bloody life, on the other side is a message cut into his back."

The story is put on momentary hold as I drive the ball hard and fast onto the green. Not a bad shot if I do say so myself.

"Saying?"

"'Bring us the girl'," I laugh. "Those Bloodies sure do like their messages grandiose."

"What girl?" Asks the older man, a questioning gleam in his brown eyes.

I shrug. "Hell if I know. Probably some bastard bairn of Rigby's or something like that."

"Hm..." begins the good doctor thoughtfully, "So what happened afterward?" He questions, picking up his clubs.

"Well we figured they were targeting the bloke because his father is an anti-blood mage zealot and politician, and we assumed we might be able to find out more about 'the girl' from him, so we went to their quaint little mansion just outside Dundee..."

Dundee
(Three Days Earlier)

Ron whistles low. "Impressive. All Gothica-like."

This is his assessment of the Rigby home, and I can't help but agree. The Rigby Home is more castle than house, constructed by stone and brick with a dark, imposing facade. An eerie scotch mist descended low a couple of hours ago and the overcast sky does nothing but heighten the cold unfriendliness of the manor.

"I wonder if my parents had a house like this somewhere," I reply, wondering just how much I had lost in the war.

"Nah," replies Ron, "The Potters were a very naturalistic clan, a load of bloody tree-huggers. I heard that when your family had a fiefdom back in the Middle Ages, your great-great-great-whatever made his city among the oak trees in a northern forest and raided the muggle nobility and gave to his own people."

"Ron," I deadpan. "You just told me the story of Robin Hood."

"No I didn't."

"The only difference is that there's some sort of overgrown tree fort in your version of the story."

"Well maybe the muggles stole the story," Ron shrugs.

I shake my head. "No they didn't. Otherwise Robin Hood would be far more vilified than he is; in case you didn't notice, muggles and magicals didn't get along all that well back then."

"Sure they did!" Ron cries emphatically. "Arthur and Merlin worked together to create Camelot, the very first magical-muggle integrated society!"

"Oh sure," I reply sarcastically. "But you forget that we had the witch hunts, the Spanish Inquisition, the reason Hogwarts was built... oh, and in the nineteenth century when one very bored wizard decided it would be fun to use gutting spells on Whitechapel prostitutes."

"Hey, man," Ron defends callously, looking at the manor. "You sow those seeds and you'd better be prepared to reap the whirlwind."

I'm totally stunned. "Jesus, mate. How the fuck did a man as socially and politically retarded as you land Hermione as your girlfriend?"

"I lied about my sensitivity and had a whole shite-ton of luck," grins Ron.

I can't help but smile back. "Well, you said it: be prepared to reap the whirlwind."

Tonks taps my shoulder. "Ready to go in, Merc-boy?"

"As I'll ever be," I say, turning to Ron, who nods once. Tonks and Greengrass lead the group toward the imposing manor, at which Ron makes several indecent cracks about Greengrass's arse and Kenton flashes him a disgusted look. Ron grins. Daphne, however, hears his last crack about bouncing a sickle off her rear and glares sharp daggers at him.

Ron ceases to grin.

Barrett and I sigh loudly; looking at each other upon harmonizing, we both crack a small smile. It's a small moment of levity between two men on the opposite sides of the law.

Tonks pretends not to notice and crosses the front yard, a marble fountain of cherubs pissing water into a basin as the centerpiece. Along a long flight of slate-gray steps we climb, Ron bemoaning the climb the whole time.

"Shut up," Greengrass sternly orders. "It's not even twenty steps."

"Well, we're not all as fit as you," Ron sneers, which, soon enough, turns to a leer. Of course, Ron isn't usually this perverse, but I suspect he's doing this to get under the Aurors' skins. After all, if we're forced to help these miserable fucks, why not have some fun whilst doing it?

"Potter," growls the blonde, palming her face in exasperation. "If you don't reel back that walking prick; I'll make sure he can never use it again."

I smile jauntily in response. "You heard the lass, Ron-boy."

"But..." Ron moans, but otherwise remains quiet.

Tonks stops in front of a large oaken door with a charred black knocker in the shape of a Welsh Green's head. She pulls back the heavy latch and raps three times and the door opens nearly immediately, revealing a house elf. He's a happy thing, wearing clothes that had likely been given to him from someone besides his master, but I can see it in his eyes. Though elves are treated better these days, there's still that shame in their eyes: these are creatures who have had their lands and livelihoods taken from them by men, and were forced as indentured servants for centuries. House elves may not live long or well, but every one of them has a strong memory, and it will take a long time for them to forget who they once were.

"Can Blinky help yooz?" The little elf asks, trying to puff his chest out but failing miserably.

"Auror Corps," responds Tonks smoothly, holding up a shiny badge. The rest of Aurors follow suit; Ron and I feel just a little bit out of place. "We're here to speak to Zacharias Rigby about his son, Alan."

The elf nods quietly, mournfully. "Alan was a good boy..." at that, he trails off into silence. There's an awfully uncomfortable moment where all parties are silent, only to be broken by the Elf's soft tone: "Please wait while I get Master." The sharp crack of elvish apparation fills the foyer as we are left to our own devices. As if on cue, as if God himself is mocking us, a crack of thunder, not unlike the sound of the House Elf apparating, rolls through the sky and it weeps uncontrollably.

I've always liked rain (Sirius claimed it was because I was born during a thunderstorm), but seriously, time and place, damn it. In any case, here we are, in the rain, waiting for Zacharias Rigby to come back to the door.

"Brilliant!" Ron sneers at the sky and sums up exactly how I feel in one word.

Tonks, however, looks at us with something akin to incredulity. "You two are idiots," I nearly bite off a response, but Tonks taps my head with her wand and casts an impervious charm, which I hadn't thought of. "Sometimes I wonder how you managed to survive the war."

The warmth of Tonks's magic flows through me as I respond levelly. "Who said I did?"

Tonks merely casts me an appraising look and an upraised eyebrow to boot. Without responding, she also casts the charm on Ron's coat; he thanks her tersely and without much feeling, still likely grassed at being forced to work with Aurors. And so it continues for several minutes: Kenton and Barrett have a conversation regarding wand cores, Greengrass and Tonks survey the building, and Ron tries (unsuccessfully) to convince me the story about my great-great-great-whatever isn't stolen.

Finally, after what seems to be an eternity and far too many mental images of men in tights, a severe-looking, elderly gentleman opens the door. It doesn't take a genius to see this is Zacharias Rigby; he looks like an older, healthier version of his drug-addicted son. Upon opening the door, he regards us with an expression that can only be described as genuine disinterest, mirroring the utterly bored look on Ron's face, before looking down at his House Elf:

"Thank ye' Blinky, ye've done well," he praises in a heavy Scots brogue. Blinky looks as if the bloody Queen herself has just knighted him and apparates away again, as chuffed as I've ever seen any house elf. Suddenly, Rigby is looking at us again. "Well? Git intae the house."

He doesn't have to ask us twice; Ron and I shoot past the threshold of the house and out of that chilly rain. Tonks and co. follow soon after, but Rigby is only looking at one person: moi.

Now, I don't know why he's looking at me specifically, but it's a little unsettling. Usually, if a person looked at me that long, I'd be looking for the nearest available weapon. But before I can, Tonks coughs loudly, drawing Rigby's attention away from me:

"Ah kno' wae yir here fir," he intones grouchily, as if angry to have been interrupted in his staring contest. "Yir here ta tell me 'bout me son."

Tonks looks alarmed. "How did you know what happened?"

Rigby coughs, and looks away for a moment and pats his robe down, trying to locate something. When at last he does, the man's beady brown eyes widen and one arm immediately dives into his pocket. "Haud on, it's jus' in me poakit."

He pulls his hand out from the folds of his robe, clutching a worn piece of parchment paper. "This came by owl post." He hands it to Tonks, who reads it, looks back at Rigby, and passes it wordlessly to Greengrass. Daphne reads it as well, then shoves it into my chest.

"I think our first question might be a bit obvious," Tonks quips as I survey the parchment, finding a copy of the message scrawled onto Rigby Jr's back, "who is the girl?"

I hand off the missive to Barrett as Rigby responds. "Ah've nae clue wae thair oan aboat. But, Alan's a'ways had a penchan' for picking up strays. Coul' hae been a bairn he rescued during one of his crusades."

"Crusades?" Asks Tonks, interested.

"He eywis wis ay a saving disposition," Rigby explains. "Wis a skagboy himsel', but he didnae like it when parents hit the smack and kept the kids from them."

"Sounds more like a nonce if you ask me," Ron whispers in an aside to me.

"That's a bit quick to judge, don't you think?" I question, trying to be the voice of reason. "He could have genuinely been trying to help the kids; I've met crazier people with noble goals."

Ron raises his arms in mock defense. " But, you know how it is, mate. I'm not being shirty; why the bloody hell would a skag-addict give half a rat's arse about little kids unless they're giving him something in return?"

"You're right. It doesn't fit. But still, doesn't mean he's a blooming nonce!"

"Just a suggestion," quips Ron, looking back to Rigby, who continues to speak in that slow-as-molasses Scots:

"Coul' hae taken 'the girl' from her junkie parents, if they wir even alive tae begin with, an' handed her tae the Ministry, if she was magic. An' considering Blood Mages are lookin' fir her, Ah'd say she is."

I lean over to Ron with a questioning glance. "This bloke's on the Wizengamot?"

"Yeah," replies the redhead with an arched eyebrow, as if to ask what's wrong with that.

"This bloke, who can barely even speak English, is a well-respected politician?" I whisper; Ron shrugs:

"Yeah," he repeats.

"This country is fucking hopeless."

Ron laughs softly. "Yeah, you may be right about that."

"So you're saying there's a possibility that your son handed off an orphan girl to Ministry, and now Blood Mages are after her," Greengrass asks for clarification.

"Ah'm nae sayin' anythin', lassie," Rigby disagrees emphatically. "Ah'm simply sayin' it's what the boy did. Ah don't keep tabs on him; if Blood Mages were aftir a lass he knew aboot, that's his problem, no' mine."

That's where I'd have to disagree. If the Blood Mages were intending to get the location of this 'girl' from Rigby Jr, they wouldn't have gutted him and carved the message into his back, and they certainly wouldn't have sent Rigby Sr. a letter; they would have waited an tortured Alan Rigby until he gave up the girl. I can already tell old man Rigby is lying through his teeth about something, and it seems Tonks has her own suspicions: her eyes narrow at the old man, but she holds her tongue:

"Did you see your son recently at all?"

Rigby nods. "Only a fortnight ago; he visits every so often, usually to beg off more skag money, but he didnae do that las' time he was here."

"What was different about that time?" Asks Greengrass, a notepad and a quill that worked like a fountain pen in hand.

"Nothing," smiles Rigby. "He did nothin'. He came to the house and wen' up to his room we set up for him when he needed it. Didnae talk to my wife or me, and he didnae leave that room fir, likesay, a day."

"Have you been in this bedroom of his since?"

"Only to clean some," is Rigby's response.

"Would you mind terribly if we took a look at the room?" Asks the metamorph, to which Rigby nods emphatically:

"By all means, be ma' guest!" He exclaims, "though Ah'll ask for Misters Potter and Weasley to stay behind. Ah do nae recall either of them graduating from auror school."

Tonks regards us thoughtfully, and for a moment, she looks as though she's to disagree, but she ends up motioning for us to wait in the foyer with Rigby Sr. while the graduates go hunt through Rigby Jr's bedroom.

To say the ensuing moments are awkward is a huge understatement. It is made even more awkward when Rigby casts a silencing charm on the living room and turns to Ron and I.

"Mr. Potter," Rigby calls gruffly. "I'd nivir thought ah'd see the likes o'you slummin' with Aurors."

"Oh yeah?" I indulge the old radge, leaning against a wall and crossing my arms. "And where would you think you'd have seen me?"

"You seem more like an MI-7 man, really," he pauses, looking to a small box on the mantle of the fireplace across the room. "D'you smoke?"

"Not often," I reply, "but if the occasion's special enough..."

"Wha'bout you?" He gestures at Ron.

"Special occasions, mate," Ron repeats after me.

"C'moan then, ah'd think a joab offer is a special occasion," Rigby replies as he heads to the box and pulls out three cigars, handing them to us. "Cuban. A friend of mine in the American government managed to procure these."

Rigby produces a flame from the tip of his wand, holding it out to me to light my cigar. I oblige and Rigby moves on to Ron, who gives the elder man an unreadable look before allowing Rigby to do the same.

I have to admit, the job offer interests me just the tiniest bit; what could Zacharias Rigby possibly even want with me? And how would he even know about me? Since our cooperation with the government was limited to covert operations, it's unlikely that every Wizengamot member just trips over our names like that. If so, we really have to rethink our living arrangements.

"Don't look at me like that," Rigby chides. "Ma' son wis a drug-addict an' a wizard. He wis a well-informed drug-addict an wizard. You know, you wee bairns have made quite a name for ye'selves 'mong the collective, putrid scum of magical society."

"I don't know whether to be proud or frightened," remarks Ron, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Be proud," grins Rigby, "it'll make a nice change from shame, Mr. Weasley."

There's only one thing Ron hates more than a personal insult, and that's an insult directed at his family. I half expect Ron to charge the plonker, snarling like a starved dog, but he simply blinks and doesn't respond.

I'm impressed.

"Very charming, Mr. Rigby; it's almost enough to cover for the fact that you failed your family in a similarly spectacular manner," I say in Ron's defense; Rigby blinks as well, uncomprehending. "Well, your son was a smackhead. And you hid him out of sight, out of mind, rather than help him. If that wasted life isn't your fault, I don't know what is."

Rigby puts on his best 'why-I've-never-been-so-insulted' face and gives us a patronizing look, combined with a sad shake of the head.

"There's no need to get so self-righteous, Mr. Potter. Especially oan Mr. Weasley's behalf. Insulting it may be, but no less the truth; shame's been the Weasley motto for three centuries. A bit of pride would be welcomed. In any case, I dun mean yeh nae harm. If Aurors are using yeh, you probably dunnae havta worry aboot the law."

"Can we get on with it?" Ron snarls, impatient.

"Yes, ah s'pose that's what we should be daen," Rigby takes a short puff of his cigar. "Yeh see, ah've got a joab for you."

"You've mentioned that," I deadpan.

Rigby glares, annoyed, before he continues. "Ah've taken the liberties of contacting the... appropriate agents to mete and dole such things. They'll give yeh the details in a few days."

"Will they?" I ask, "then why are you telling us? Why not let the 'appropriate agents' contact us?"

"Because these appropriate agents may call with a strange request. You'll know the joab when yeh see it. I just want to make sure yeh know tae dae it."

He nods to me once and disables the silencing charm as Tonks and the rest of her lackeys appear over the banister of the stairs, coming down with flummoxed looks upon their faces:

"We didn't see anything, Mr. Rigby," Tonks informs once she reaches us. "We'll keep in touch if we find anything out about your murderers."

Present Day
London, UK

"So?" Mr. Granger asks, "Did that call ever come?"

I nod, setting up another tee and driving the ball onto the green:

"Yeah, it came two days later, which was yesterday, actually."

Birmingham, UK
One Day Earlier

The call comes on a night when I'm confined to the flat by myself since Ron and Hermione have gone out to dinner to work out their floundering relationship. I can just imagine it, two strong and nearly diametrically-opposed personalities trying to work out relationship problems.

Something tells me the night isn't going to end well for either of them.

But, I guess I've got my own relationship troubles as well. You see, Ginny and I haven't shagged for ages, and for good reason, too. One of the things about dating a girl you feel nothing for other than a distant sense of affection is that it really ruins the sex life. Every time I have sex with her, I feel like I'm using her as a semen dumpster. It makes me feel horrible. So we don't shag. Ginny seems happy enough having gone a month-and-a-half without a shag but I feel like I'm carrying bricks in my trousers by now. And considering Ginny is still in France, they'll be boulders before long.

I mean, seriously; I saw Hermione come out of her room in a simple flouncy dress for her date with Ron and felt a twitch of arousal. At Hermione, of all people. Who didn't do a single sexy thing but exist. My best mate's girlfriend! My sex-starved mind, unbidden, made a meal out of that dress, visually imparting to me just all the things I could do to her while she was in that dress. Or, better yet, out of it.

Needless to say, I felt like such a piece of shite when the two left for their date.

So here I am, Ginny in France, Ron and Hermione far away in London for the evening, and me breaking the much-touted bro-code between Ron and myself with far too dirty images of his girlfriend (and my other best friend) running through my mind. I know I'll feel even worse if I run to the shower and take care of the semi I've been nursing, so I look to something, anything that can distract me from my raging libido.

I try television for a time, but that fails when I see a topless brunette on the show I'd been watching. It's probably my fault for watching HBO, but, nevertheless, it reminds me of that highly intimate video between Ron and Hermione. So, my useless fucking brain forgets all about Ron's involvement (which surely would have killed any and all any rising sense of eroticism), and instead, chooses to focus on Hermione in such a way that all my depraved meditations fly back from whatever cognitive lockbox they'd been shut in and return to the forefront of my consciousness.

I groan, wishing for someone to obliviate me that very second, but alas! No luck, none at all. I am saved minutes later, however, by the call. When I see it's Boris that is ringing me, I feel a great rush of affection for the man who is saving me from the abyss of my own sexual hangups. Business! No time for loneliness or sex-deprivation during business!

"Boris!" I greet happily. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You owe the pleasure to a client who asked specifically for you."

Specifically for me? It must be Rigby, then. "Details?"

"All the details will come with the package, which will be given to you tonight," Boris replies.

"Galleons?"

"Two-thousand each," Boris replies. "Twelve-thousand galleons in total for both jobs."

"Is the client trustworthy?" I ask Boris; I couldn't really get a read on Rigby when we spoke but Boris has always had the preternatural ability of seeing through a person's lies.

"As trustworthy as they come," Boris assures, which is enough to get me on board; his information has saved my life more than once.

I nod before I realize that there's no one to nod to and flush in embarrassment. "Done," I say crisply into the receiver and the line clicks dead.

I turn to the window overlooking the Birmingham skyline, all thoughts of loneliness gone.

Hermione enters the flat with red-rimmed eyes and I get a message from Ron through a two-way coin similar to the one Hermione had made for the DA that he'll be staying at Shell Cottage for the next few days.

If Ron is actually staying with Bill and Fleur, then that leaves me to correct whatever catastrophe he and Hermione have caused. Have I ever mentioned how I'm shite at emotions? Particularly when they involve Hermione? Two hours ago I was hoping and praying that somebody would wipe clean the dirty images of her forever instilled into my mind, how the shiteing balls am I supposed to have an adult conversation with her now?

"Hermione?" I call out quietly as I open the door to Hermione and Ron's bedroom, trying to mask my discomfort with the whole scenario. "Are you okay?"

Hermione looks up, wiping tears from her eyes. They look just as luminous as they did when she left the flat; I guess she's been using that no-runny mascara Ginny's been badgering her about for months. Her dress is wrinkled at the bottom, as though she's been clenching and unclenching the fabric for hours now. She sniffles before answering:

"Oh. Harry," she said with little preamble and just as much enthusiasm.

Something snaps to life within me and I walk over to her, sitting on the bed and wrapping a friendly arm around her. "Hey, are you alright? You need anything? A cuppa, maybe?"

She croaks out something too low for me to hear.

"What was that?" I smile softly. Her eyes meet mine and she repeats what she said, louder this time:

"I said, 'firewhiskey'."

"Erm... I don't think getting drunk is the appropriate response," I reply. I say this, not because I want to deprive her of some solace over whatever it is that happened between Ron and her, it's that Hermione's a lightweight. She'll likely pass out by the third pint. That and the inherent childishness (her words, not mine) of the pastime are the reasons Hermione usually refrains from drinking. If she actually wants to get pissed, she must be in a bad way.

Hermione laughs a hollow laugh. "Well I say it is, so if you're not joining me, then get out of my way."

Ah, shit. "Alright, Alright!" I exclaim. "I'll drink with you, but you'd better tell me what's going on between you and Ron."

Hermione stops in her tracks and turns to look at me, outraged incredulity written on her face. "I'd better? Are you really telling me that?" She grinds out. "What, tell you like you told me about Hannah?"

Ouch. That's a low bl... well, no, that's actually a fair question. I don't have a right to ask her about anything considering the many lies I've told her.

"Or like how you told me that you and Ron kill people for money?"

"Bad people," I feel the need to defend my decisions.

"Ha," Hermione derides, her once luminous brown eyes narrowed in distaste, a cold mask of indifference falls over her pretty face. "That's what Aurors are for, not you."

"I thought we were okay," I begin; Hermione cuts me off.

"You thought wrong, Harry," her voice doesn't rise, she doesn't shriek, it's a defeated whisper. And that makes it so much worse than if she had raged like a volcano. "We're not okay; why would I be okay with you doing what you do!?"

I feel a twitch of annoyance. "Tell me, Hermione, why is it that Aurors should be allowed to clean up the world while the rest of us sit around on our arses? Does government-sanctioned murder somehow change that it's still murder!?"

"No!" Hermione shouts, retreating to her moral high ground. A part of me is happy about that; seeing Hermione look so defeated makes me want to lose hope as well. "But there's a procedure, an Auror handbook! They aren't breaking the law!"

"They're pawns!" I yell right back. "We all are. I sell my services to the highest bidder, they to the government. The difference is, I get to choose who I'm going to be a pawn for and determine for myself whether that cause is just. They just have the Ministry's word and a handbook to justify their 'work'."

"But they have rules; what do you have, huh!? Your personal judgment!?" Hermione flings back nasally. "Oh wonderful, because we all know how great you are at that!"

"Still better than blindly following someone else!" I scoff, and sneer at the woman. "You and your rules. You're bloody trapped by them, utterly blinkered. It's always been your weakness; 'look to the man, he'll tell me what to do! Big brother, big brother, guide me!'." I finish in a horrible falsetto impression of Hermione's voice.

She, for her part, catches the Orwell reference; if looks could kill... "And your problem is that you've never bloody had any!" Her cursing immediately shuts me up; I don't think I've ever heard Hermione drop a swear like that and it roots to my spot when she does.

But Hermione isn't done: she gets right up to my face, which is amazing, given that I'm a head taller than her.. "You've been a waif for seven years!" She rages, "Never any focus, always disappearing for weeks at a time, parading strange women around the flat—"

"What? I'm dating Ginny, not some random slag off the street, and we sure as shite haven't made pornos of ourselves,—" Hermione at least has the goddamned decency to look abashed, "—so we're hardly parading. Besides, why does who I date even matter!?"

"I—that's not the point—" Hermione trips over her words for a moment and seems to decide it's more prudent to continue screaming at me. "Don't change the subject, Harry Potter! The fact is, you've lied to Ron and I for years; for years, you've been holding secrets from me!"

She stops, breathing heavily, taking a few moments to compose herself. I've only seen Hermione this livid a few times, and it's always been frightening: she reminds me of the old Norse stories of valkyries bringing fallen warriors to their brutal heaven; there is something both graceful and dangerous about her. But I squash that notion and step up to her:

"Well I'm bloody fucking sorry for you," I say in a tone that sounds anything but, "but the world isn't fair. Sometimes, you get robbed blind by madman in a nun's frock. And sometimes people don't tell the truth. Sometimes we don't tell the truth for good reason!"

Suddenly the the room explodes in color as I feel myself sway from that wicked right hook Hermione sends careening into my cheek. She's actually really strong, enough to stagger me, and I kill people for a living, and for a moment, I feel the way Malfoy must have all those years ago. I stand upright, reigning in my anger. I deserve this far more than Ron does, considering how often I've lied to her. So I'll take her rage like a man and hope I can fix this somehow.

"Always the excuses! 'I have a reason to lie to you, to shun you, to treat you like you're lower than dirt'! Well, Harry, what is it? What is that reason!?" Her voice reaches fever pitch, beseeching me for an answer, any answer. But I don't give her one. "You're still lying to me," she remarks incredulously.

"I'm sorry," I apologize hopelessly.

She looks heartbroken. I can't blame the lass; she and Ron are on the outs and it must feel like I don't trust her at all. Hermione turns away from me, subconsciously shaking. "Why can't you tell me?" She whispers.

"I—" I try to start but trail off, unsure of what to say.

Hermione just grunts, that emotionless mask back over her face. "Are you coming or what?"

"What?" I ask, "Where?"

"Where do you think?" Hermione snaps; I flinch. She doesn't look the least bit apologetic. I suppose I deserve that.

Our walk to a pub is brisk; Hermione rushes as if she doesn't want to be anywhere near me, but she never leaves me behind, always slowing down enough that she stays a step or two ahead of me. Suddenly, on the corner of the street, as we're waiting for streetlight to change, she slumps against the wall of an apartment building:

"Ron and I are finished," she says, her voice once devoid of hope. It's emotionless, like she's stating a fact out of one of our old Hogwarts textbooks; it puts me in a melancholy mood as well.

But, at least she's talking, right? I'll take whatever I can get from her. "Really? You've... broken up before, you know. Twice, if I remember correctly."

She sighs. "I think this time, it's for good. At the cinema, I wanted to watch one film; he wanted to watch one of your brainless action films. We fought over that. At dinner, we fought over our meals. He didn't show the least bit interest when I talked about work, and I'm afraid to say I didn't listen to what he said either. Then we got into a huge blow-up over this Siberia thing of yours. We're just... tired of each other."

"Tired?"

"I—" Hermione stutters, "I—I don't know what it is! All I know is that I'm feeling capable of saying it's over. And Ron is, too."

I nod a few times, itching the few days growth of stubble on my cheek. "Erm... well, for what it's worth, Hermione... I'm sorry."

She puts on a ghost of a smile, one that reminds me of the real Hermione, just underneath that mask. "Don't be. That's what the alcohol's for."

"Are you sure—"

"—Yes I'm bloody well sure!" Retorts Hermione snappishly. "Honestly, I'm tired of staying stoic and while you and Ron lie to me like it's nothing! I just want to have one night to feel sorry for myself. One night to run away from my problems. You know, like you do? Is that too much to ask?"

"Ouch, Hermione," I deadpan. "Words hurt, you know?"

"For you," she says thoughtfully as we get the all clear to cross the street, "they should do far more than just hurt."

I stop on the crosswalk. "What do you want from me? I've made mistakes, yeah, I'll be the first to admit it, but I can't do anything about them other than apologize. So really, what is it that you want?"

"I want you to be my friend, for one night. Open and honest."

She pauses expectantly, awaiting my answer. I can't be open and honest, but I don't want to lose Hermione as a friend, too. And that, honestly, outweighs most potential dangers of being truthful. But I try to play it safe, anyway:

"Okay. But I'm going to warn you now, there are some things I can't tell you."

Hermione sighs again, running one hand through her golden-brown tresses. "I suppose that's all I can ask for."

"You know, Harry, I know you better than anyone in the world, even if you don't think I don't." Hermione slurs an hour and a half later, a little drunk.

"Really, now?" I ask, unsure as to whether this is Hermione or the sixth pint she's having that's speaking. That's right, six. She's breaking records tonight.

We sit an a pub not unlike the Leaky Cauldron down in London. It's a surprisingly clean watering hole called 'The Boar', maybe not quite on par with the 60's-era spy-flick-Bond-cliché Seamus went with for his own bar, but the homeliness of it all is very calming: there's a roaring fire not too far from us and just a few customers, and it's mostly people quietly keeping to themselves or those they came in with. All in all, it's a pretty nice place to get pissed.

Hermione giggles, which is a frightening prospect in and of itself. "Yes, really, Misss-terrr Pottt-errr," she enunciates slowly, as if pronouncing a particularly difficult spell's incantation. "And if there's anything I have taught you, it's that bottling things up isn't good for you."

"So I've been told," I smirk into my own drink.

"You said you'd talk when we got here. So, talk."

"About?"

"Well, everything." Hermione smiles placidly, putting me on the spot. "I tell you everything." Her cinnamon eyes entreat me to speak; however, I'm sitting there opening and closing my mouth like a fish while practically going hypertensive. How do I tell her anything about my life post-Hogwarts? It's a conundrum, and a drunk, expectant Hermione staring me down is curiously nerve-wracking.

"I wouldn't know where to start," I shrug noncommittally, hoping she'll accept that answer.

She doesn't. "How about Hannah Abbott?" Hermione asks, knocking the pint back. "Why don't you tell me how you two... became one?"

Well, that's sort of easy; maybe this won't be as hard as I thought. One swig of bitter ale and a thoughtful moment later, I launch into an abbreviated version of my meeting with Hannah three years ago.

We actually met when I was in America; Hannah had just been assigned to Shepard's group, but had been given some extra leeway to hunt down a very dangerous Blood Mage who had unleashed a Wendigo on a podunk little community in South Carolina, the very same Wendigo I had been paid by the village brass to kill. I caught sight of her outside a rinky-dink tavern at the edge of town where all the locals had gathered to forget about the rampant cannibalism caused by Wendigo possessions; her unmistakable blonde hair swept out behind her as she outdrank the barhoppers. Amid a coterie of amazed barmen, luminous green eyes caught sight of mine, and instead of fear, all she showed was amusement. And then, she winked.

And I fell in love.

It wasn't that hard to suss out why she was in the Carolinas; Hannah was a horrible liar. So we shared the commission in hunting down the Wendigo and tracked its essence back to a forest where the Bloody made his home. Several hours and a well-aimed reductor from a hundred feet away later, we were finished. Hannah and I were running on combat highs; it was only a matter of time before the bedroom came into the picture.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

"So, then you dated for a year?" Hermione questions, her eyes heavy-lidded. It looks to be about time to take her home before she gets too drunk and ends up doing something she'll regret come morning.

"A year and a half. It was pretty on and off while I was in America and she came back to England, but once I came back we were a couple for real."

"Except no one knew about it other than Ron."

"Right. Hannah was undercover on a big case involving a group of Blood Mage terrorists, the very same ones that would bomb Pinafore place six months later, and she couldn't afford to let any details of her 'other life' escape, particularly the one about Harry Potter, notorious hunter of blood mages and all things dark, being her boyfriend. Even Ron wasn't supposed to know, but he happened to... erm... walk in on us mid-coitus."

Hermione's eyes widen just a smidgen, which I note makes her look like a brown-haired doppelganger of Luna's, then she pitches forward with that soft, but full laugh of hers. Her joy at my embarrassment makes me just the tiniest bit defensive:

"Well it's not like I taped myself," I attempt to regain the comedic high-ground.

"No," Hermione laughs harder, face flushed by inebriation, "it's even worse! You were caught in flag—in flagran—in flagrante—in whatever."

"Yeah, well, fuck you too, Hermione," I say without any malice, at least Hermione's having some fun and not thinking about her own messed-up relationship. "In any case, I think it's time we headed back."

"But I don't want to," she bemoans, clutching her pint to herself like a small child.

"You're drunk."

"No, I'm not."

"You are."

"Am not!" Hermione crosses her arms and gives a vigorous shake of the head.

I won't be dragged into this childish argument, so I stand up in front of our booth and entreat her to do the same. "Stand up, Hermione." The woman in question eyeballs me distrustfully. "If you stand up, for just a second, we can stay. Please?"

She nods and tries to stand, but as soon as she does, Hermione stumbles pitches forward into my waiting arms with a pitiful 'Oof' as her nose smacks into my chest. "See?" I ask. "You're drunk, and we're going home."

"Hmmph," she huffs, but doesn't make to move away, so I have to extricate myself from her and lead her by the hand (a curious role-reversal to our earlier Hogwarts days when she led me by the hand everywhere we went) outside the pub. Some stray witches and wizards look surprised to see Harry Potter leading a totally plastered Hermione Granger out of a pub, but I try to hurry along to the nearest Apparition Point, which is nearly two kilometers away.

"Harry," Hermione muses aloud when we pass through a small, deserted park, looking at the stars of the cold February night. "Do you wonder why we're here?"

I can't resist a smile. "Feeling philosophical tonight, Miss Granger? I dunno, we're here and life sucks, I guess. Never really thought of purpose beyond that."

"Nothing? At all? You never thought of what you want out of life? Or are you just—what is it Americans say—'living the dream'?" Hermione's eyes look clearer than I remember. Either she sobers really quickly or she's been fronting how drunk she's really been all night.

"I don't want—" I start, a lie is the first thing that comes to my lips. I guess it's one of the gifts and curses of being a criminal: I can lie with the best con-men, but sometimes lies roll reflexively off my tongue, too. But why lie? What's the point of doing that to Hermione? "I don't know, Herms. But I don't want this."

"Don't want what?" Hermione asks as I search my own soul and past for what I have.

And as I do so, a powerful sense of hatred for my lot in life rises within me. "This!" I shout, causing Hermione to flinch. "Not having a cent to my name! I work for arseholes! I work for rich arseholes! Fighting with you, dating a girl I barely even like, let alone love, because my fiancé was blown up by terrorists I'm supposed to hunt down now! And I'm yelling at you because, aside from Ron, no one else gives a shit! Oh yeah, Herms, I'm living the fucking dream!"

"Harry, maybe we should—" Hermione begins but I continue, taking a moment to calm myself.

"I want the other stuff," I reply, looking away. "The stuff I could have had: enough money that I don't have bash in a bloke's skull for it, a family I love, friends I don't hate... people who care."

"You don't think we care?" I hear Hermione say behind me. She takes a deep breath, and suddenly, I feel the soft pressure of her hand on my arm. I look back to see her chewing her lip and staring straight into my eyes: "You know I worry about you, Harry," she says quietly, "more than anything in the world."

It doesn't escape my notice that Ron goes unmentioned, but then again, Ron's always been the most kept-together of us three, so maybe there's just less to worry about. The spite and annoyance I felt but moments ago flees like a thief into the night, leaving me only with a sense of weariness, and a tiny bit of warmth in knowing at least someone out there cares for me:

"I know," I reply; she slips her hand into mine, and rests her head on my shoulder:

"I worry..." Hermione insists, "I worry because there's a difference between an Auror and a mental case with a loaded gun, and I don't want you to be that."

I let out a wintry chuckle. "Don't worry, I'm neither. I'm not like you; I'm a rage-fueled psychopath at best and a cold-blooded killer at worst."

"Like me?" Hermione asks, after a short pause.

"You know, I'm not a good person. Not like you are," I reply. "I was born fighting another man's fight, and I'll probably fight other people's wars until I die, a tool for their use. That's what I am," she pulls away to look back at me, horrified, but reaching understanding. "I am a gun."

"No," Hermione interjects, before quietly staring at the stars with me.

"No?" I question, confused. "No, what?"

She shakes her head, brown curls flaring. "No. I refuse to believe it. You are a person; you're not a wand or a gun or whatever you think you are."

"Mhm," I agree without any feeling, mildly amused at Hermione's behavior; it's a bit precious if I do say so myself. Hermione's response is to pick her head off my shoulder and glare:

"You don't think so?" Ah, the rhetorical question, it's the go-to weapon of every woman, and this time, I'm not biting, choosing instead to remain silent and stare at her. When I don't respond, she sighs, threading a hand through her hair, squeezes my hand with the other, and intones with clear eyes. "You are."

She must have sobered by now.

She sounds so serious, so utterly sincere that I can't help but smile faintly, feeling warm and fuzzy inside as Hermione leans in to rest her head on my shoulder once more. That's her precious optimism coming into play; thing is, I think I'm finally starting to understand it.

"Come on," I disentangle myself from her. "We should get back to the flat."

Hermione nods; no other words need be spoken.

There's a soft knocking at the door.

It rouses me from a light sleep, beset by hallucinogenic dreams of spears and brown-eyed women with Scottish accents. The pain in my back tells me I've been sleeping on our lumpy couch, which, despite the best efforts of Hermione, Ron, and I, still remains lumpy even when transfigured.

With a guttural growl, I lift myself up from the sofa when the knocking comes again. My memory from last night's a bit fuzzy, but is jogged when I spot Hermione curled up on the loveseat by the couch. The rapping at the door becomes a little more insistent as I take my time to stretch and take a look at the clock on the wall over the television.

5:30 AM. Who could possibly want anything right now? I wager it's nothing good. I immediately feel for my wand, in its holster around my left arm. When I'm sure it's there, I move cautiously to the door, only opening it a crack before I see Ron's baby blues staring back at me.

"Ron," I say by way of greeting.

"Hey mate," he whispers. "I'm gonna collect some of my stuff while Hermione's still asleep. She didn't give you too much trouble after I left, did she?"

"Nah," I deadpan. "She only went out to get blindingly drunk and yelled at me about Hannah."

"Oh. Ouch. Sorry mate," He pats my shoulder sympathetically. "I should be gone before she wakes up."

"Best get moving then," I jab a finger in the direction of his and Hermione's bedroom. "I think the only person she's angrier with than me is you."

"That's comforting," drawls Ron as he moves past me. I return to the lumpy sofa and watch Hermione's sleeping form, her face hidden underneath a curtain of wavy brown hair and contemplate what to do about my two best friends. And myself for that matter; it feels like the famed 'trio' of ours is dissolving before our very eyes. Hermione and Ron have been clashing for weeks, if not months before the revelation of our job status, and she and despite the great strides made yesterday, she and I are not okay.

All the confidence I felt at the graveyard has been robbed from me; we're not okay, and I don't know if we will be okay. Hermione shivers, moaning sleepily and curls into an even tighter ball in an attempt to get warmer, so I conjure a throw and place it over her. I have to stifle my laughter when she softly babbles something in gibberish which might be a thank you, and then proceeds to clutch the blanket like teddy bear.

Confident that I've given Hermione what she needs for a good night's rest, I join Ron in the bedroom and watch as clothes go flying from the closet and into the suitcase. I squint and notice most of his closet is empty, which gives me pause.

"You aren't leaving any of your clothes here?"

"No," replies Ron. "Why would I?"

"For when you move back in?"

Ron scoffs. "Harry," he says, "you're a good guy, and you're a lot smarter than I am, but sometimes, you're a moron." I don't rise to the bait, merely look at him expectantly, in the same manner Hermione often uses on me. "I don't think I'm moving back in."

"Merlin," I sneer. "You two are so defeatist. Of course you won't move back in if you think that way."

"Defeatist?" Ron questions, smiling hollowly. "I'm just being realistic about it; it's usually you that's so pessimistic. And maybe you should stick with it. Optimism doesn't suit you."

Just then, another knocking comes at the door. And this time, it's not nearly as soft as Ron's was. We look to each other and ready our wands.

"Stay in here," I say. "It's probably no one, but if it is, I could use a surprise attack."

Hermione stirs in the living room as I rush to open the door, coming face to face with something I expected even less than an armed assailant.

I blink owlishly, surveying the little girl in front of me. Why the hell is there a seven year-old on my doorstep? I mean, she could be very distantly related to Hermione, I suppose, but her hair's too dark and her eyes are too light for the two to be family.

She also blinks at me, hesitantly waving. "Hi."

"Erm... hi," I reply, looking around for any adults. "Can I... help you?"

"I don't know," she answers, looking shy and sounding cryptic at the same time. It's an odd combination for a child.

"Um... okay, then. Are your parents around?"

She looks down, a sad expression overtaking her. "No."

"Where are they, then?"

"I don't have any," she replies.

Great. I'm already broke as shite; I don't need strays! But she gives me such an innocent look, it tugs at my heartstrings. Fuck heartstrings, seriously. I'm about to respond when I hear Hermione's groggy voice:

"Wha'cha doin, Ha—" she pauses to yawn loudly. "—Harry?" Hermione walks up behind me and pauses, also staring at the little girl. "Who's she?"

"I'm Lauren!" The girl cries aloud, stomping her feet. "Mrs. Rigby told me I'd be safe here. She took me here and left before I could go back!"

"Rigby?" I question confusedly, before it hits me. "Ron! Ron! RON!"

There's a crash and a tumble before Ron comes sprinting out of my room, wand at the ready when he also spots Hermione and I with a little girl at just past three in the morning. "What the fu—Who's the crotch-dropping?" He asks, lowering his wand cautiously.

"She's the girl," I reply. "Rigby's girl."

"The one the Bloodies are after?" He asks and I nod. "Then get her to the Aurors, we can't fucking have her around here when Bloodies are gunning for her and anyone she's around." I turn to Hermione to get her opinion as well, but she's already crouched on one knee and baby-talking the girl, who giggles at the grown woman's voice. Hermione looks up, eyes sparkling:

"She's so cute!" The brunette exclaims in total un-Hermione-like fashion. "Can we keep her?"

Okay, maybe she's still a little drunk.

And Lauren, for her part, manages a brilliant smile.

"So a little girl shows up on your doorstep and Hermione suddenly decides she wants to keep her?" Dr. Granger eyes me dubiously. "That doesn't sound like something my little girl would do."

I laugh nervously, as I refrained from telling Mr. Granger about the pub so Hermione could talk to her parents about her kind-of-sort-of break-up with Ron on her own time, and I left out the part that occured prior to Boris's phone call, mainly out of self-preservation instincts. I don't trust a nine-iron-holding Dr. Granger with knowledge of my (admittedly wrong) private thoughts toward his daughter last night.

"Well, I dunno, I hear women do a lot of strange things when they're, you know..." I trail off, hoping Dr. Granger gets the hint.

He doesn't. "When they're, you know, what?"

"...Ovulating," I finish.

Dr. Granger's expression crumples right before he palms his face in exasperation. "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't want to know what you're talking about. Ever."

"Fine by me," I quip, turning back to the green. "But I probably would have kept the girl anyways, regardless of what Hermione said; two thousand galleons are nothing to sneeze at."

"So, who is she? The dead Rigby's daughter?"

"Nah," I shrug. "Her name's Lauren Cunningham. No one knows where or who the Cunningham came from, only that she's named it. She doesn't even remember anything beyond a year-and-a-half ago. Apparently, that's how the living Rigby's wife says the dead Rigby found the girl a year ago: wandering Edinburgh streets with a name-tag around her neck like you'd see in a hospital."

"And she's been with Alan ever since?"

"No, she stayed at the manor with Zacharias and his wife. Apparently, the room Tonks and the rest of the aurors searched was actually Lauren's."

"And they couldn't tell the difference?" William asks, incredulous.

"What?"

"Well, there's a huge difference between the bedroom of a seven year-old girl and a twenty-something year-old man."

I shrug. "I never saw the room for myself; Mr. and Mrs. Rigby could have kept it that way to keep from arousing suspicion."

"So, then? What do you plan to do with her?"

"Hold on to her until my contact tells us we can give her up," I reply. "In fact, I'm having dinner with him tonight, so I can find out more there."

"I see," Dr. Granger says, and then, he does something strange. "Be safe out there."

He pats my shoulder and smiles. I can't help but return the expression:

"I will."

There's a long silence, and it feels almost like it's between father and son. And honestly, I wouldn't mind if my father was like William Granger.

"How about we finish this round?" Dr. Granger asks, pointing at the fairway. I nod and start to move downfield:

"I thought you'd never ask."

A/N: I think the chapter length got a bit away from me, particularly during the Harry/Hermione shouting match, but you honestly didn't believe I was going to leave their argument as a one-off in the graveyard, did you? Next chapter, we'll have the world's most awkward dinner, freezing cold temperatures, and Hozhen.

Chapter Notes:

Zacharias Rigby speaks in Scots tongue, which is why his dialogue is so much different than Harry's, who was raised relatively close to London, and therefore has a sort of stereotypical RP accent, or Ron's, who, given where Ottery St. Catchpole is located, should have Devonshire accent.

Nonce is slang for a sex offender.

The whole 'I am a gun/wand/weapon' mentality Harry has is a driving force behind most of his actions.

To head off any pairing questions, there is still no pairing and there is no planned pairing. The H/Hr scenes are awkwardly sexual on purpose, because it's from Harry's POV, and he admits to being sex-deprived. From third-person or Hermione's perspective, that section of the chapter would read entirely differently. Nor does it mean, just because Ron and Hermione are all depressed about it, that there's no chance of R/Hr getting back together.

Thanks for reading!