It takes place in the Ministry, of all places.

It had surprised nobody that Harry, in the gaps and shambles of the Auror Department, had been promoted after only a year and a half. After all, he had saved the world. The Auror department had passed hands three times, three different Chiefs, and the latest one, Dobbs, had put Harry and Neville in charge of the recruits from after the war.

Ron had found it hilarious, had joked to Hermione over a beer that Harry had always been the real boss, and now it was formalized. Right now, Ron finds it much less hilarious. He stands outside Harry's office-small, but bigger than his own- and imagines walking away. Imagines sticking it out. He's left Harry before. He wonders if this is the same thing.

He's nervous. He imagines his sweat is about three seconds from turning him into a sodden, blibbering heap on the floor. That would be a right laugh. Maybe it'd make it really clear that he wasn't cut out to be an Auror.

Hermione always said (teasing smile, that little dimple on the right side of her chin, something like a swallowed giggle in her voice) that he needed to learn how to just rip off a plaster. He's trying, at least.

He takes a deep breath, really more for appearances than anything. Straightens up, so he can at least be taller than Harry.

Then knocks on the door.

"Only took you twenty minutes," says Harry's voice from inside. Ron opens the door and ducks in.

"Hey, Harry," he says.

"What do you need? Paperwork signed off?"

Ron reminds himself that Harry is not just his boss, but his best friend. "No, I'm here for something a bit more," he says, but trails off.

Excellent work, Ron.

"I'm leaving the Aurors," he says. Might as well be blunt. Harry seems to freeze, puts down the parchment he was reading.

"The Death Eaters are all rounded up," says Ron, suddenly feeling the need to explain himself. "And we have enough men- and women," he adds, suddenly thinking about Hermione, "to deal with the, you know, black market and petty crime."

"I know," says Harry. There's a pause, while Ron assumes Harry tries to discern a reason. "What are you going to go? I know Hermione can support you both, but-"

"George offered me a job," says Ron. "And I figure, you know, the more people around George, the better-"

"Yeah, definitely," says Harry. He's damn hard to read at the worst of times- Ron can read people well, usually, but Harry has grown so used to closing himself off.

But Harry is thinking, clearly, his hand moving idly to touch his scar. He still does that. Ron can't decide if it's concerning or endearing.

Actually, most of Harry's habits fall under that category.

"I'm sorry about this," says Ron. "I really am. I don't mean to, y'know, leave you-"

He cuts himself off before he can say again, but he swears that something in Harry's face heard it just as loudly as if Ron had said it. Ron knows, knows too well that Harry forgives him far more than he himself ever will, and he kind of hates it. Hates and loves it.

Something else that's concerning but endearing, Harry's trust.

"I understand," says Harry. He shifts his chair, swings to the right. The left. The right again. "You know," he adds, "I kind of knew."

"Knew?" says Ron. He sits down in Harry's guest chair. The one for meeting attorneys and witnesses and informants.

"It's not your thing," says Harry. His glasses are dusty; Ron wonders if he knows, or if he's just gotten used to it. "So, the joke shop, then?"

"Yeah," says Ron. "I figure- well, I've never been the hero type-"

"You think you haven't," amends Harry. Ron pretends not to hear it.

"But one thing I've always been good at is getting a laugh, and we could all use one anyway."

Harry grins. "Might be a more dangerous line of work, working with George. Are you sure about this, Ron?"

"I've been sure about this for a few months," says Ron.

"Ron?" says Harry, opening a drawer and rifling through whatever papers are there.

"Yeah?" says Ron, suddenly, irrationally, worried.

Harry scribbles something on the bottom of a paper and hands it to him. A resignation slip. "Take care," he says. "And make kids smile, would you?"

Ron thinks about his brother, suddenly. George flitting around the store with the biggest, least forced smile he'd seen in a year, the day they'd reopened the store. George and Lee sitting together with the old Potterwatch equipment that night when the store closed and telling the listeners that life went on, the store was open, they're okay.

"I will," he says.

Harry stands up on the other side of the desk. "Thanks," he says.

Ron can't fathom why Harry would say thanks for leaving the Aurors. Is he that bad?

"Why?" he asks.

"For finding out what you want," says Harry. "I'm happy you did."

"Oh," says Ron.

"Yeah."

"Thanks."

He can't really say anything else, so he tells Harry he'll see him 'round and leaves, feeling inexplicably peaceful, like everything is going to work out.