OXFORD

Albus Dumbledore, formerly the greatest known wizard in all of history, retired from the limelight around the same time Harry Potter got himself thrown in Azkaban for a confidence scheme gone awry. He settled down in Oxford and started doing the things he'd always wanted to, which included anything Muggle in nature.

He bought Muggle clothing, shirts and pants that allowed him to fit in on a day to day basis.

He bought a television and he watched it occasionally when he was too bored to do anything else.

He started going to the track because his neighbor, a man named Phil, explained to him that it was a good place for retired guys like them to hang out.

Albus likes Oxford Stadium. He goes there two or three times a week and he does pretty well. Today, he's wearing a shirt that someone named Dean Martin made popular back in the 50s and he's betting on a dog Phil told him looked like a winner. He picks up his tickets and a cup of coffee and makes his way down to the paddock.

He's peeling an orange when Ron arrives next to him. He doesn't look up.

'I saw you in the paddock before the second race, outside the men's room, when I placed my bet. I saw you before you even got up this morning.'

Ron doesn't sit and Albus doesn't offer the seat next to him.

'How are you, Professor?'

'Never better.' He drops the orange peel on the concrete floor.

'What's with the orange?'

'My medi-witch tells me I need vitamins.'

There's a pause and he's tempted to look up at Ron, but he doesn't. Instead, he eats a slice of orange.

'So why don't you take vitamins?'

This time, he does look up and takes in the site of the youngest Weasley male. Ron smiles at him.

'You come here to give me a physical?'

Ron's smile widens. 'I got us box seats. Come on.'

They make their way across the track to Ron's box seats and once they're settled, the dogs line up to get ready for the race.

'Who are we rooting for here?' Ron asks, taking a bite of what Albus can only deduce is some frozen Muggle concoction he hasn't tried yet.

'Number four.'

The bell sounds, the doors open, and the dogs race onto the track, chasing the mechanical rabbit like they've never chased anything ever before. Albus' eyes never leave the race, but he keeps Ron in his peripheral.

'You gonna tell me what's going on or should I just say no now and get it over with?'

Ron smiles, takes another bite. 'Albus, you're the best there is. You're in Avalon. What do you want?'

Albus shrugs. 'Nothing. I've got a duplex now; I've got wall-to-wall and a goldfish; I'm seeing Minerva and she's working the unmentionables counter at a little shop in Diagon Alley. I've changed.'

Ron leans forward a little. 'Guys like us don't change, Albus. We stay sharp or we get sloppy but we never change.'

Albus glances over at him and frowns, says nothing. They both go back to watching the race.

'That your hound, in the back.'

Albus's frown deepens. 'He breaks late, everyone knows this.'

The dogs come around, nearing the finish line, and the entire crowd – heavy for a Wednesday – stands up and cheers. Over the noise, Albus turns to Ron and eyes him with the same expression he reserved for his students so long ago.

'You gonna treat me like a grown up at least? Tell me what the scam is?'

The noise continues and Ron leans in, whispers the figures and the idea and the eventual outcome into Albus' ears. He places an envelope in Albus' lap and stands, buttons the single button on his well tailored blazer, and heads out of the box.

Albus takes a deep breath and puts a hand to his chest. He looks at the envelope in his lap, thinks about it for a minute or two, and rips up the bet ticket. If it works out, he's not going to need to bet on the track – ever again.

SANTA MONICA

They're sitting in a bar, enjoying the air conditioning while Ron recuperates from his day of apparating. The bartender puts on ESPN, some American television station dedicated to sports, and a news item about the upcoming fights in Vegas drones on in the background.

'Albus makes ten,' Harry says, playing with his tumbler of whiskey. 'Ten ought to do it, don't you think?'

Ron shrugs, says nothing.

'You think we need one more?'

Another shrug.

'You think we need one more.'

This time, Ron says nothing and puts his head down on the bar.

Harry sighs, takes a sip of his whiskey.

'Alright, we'll get one more.'

Thanks for all the reviews and the alerts - I don't about y'all, but I'm having fun with it. :) Keep reading!