Author's note: Chapter 1 of 5. A short-ish (novella-length) Auror casefic centred on Ron; mainly action, drama, and a decent helping of Romione. I should be working on my longfics but this idea grabbed me and wouldn't let go, so I took yet another detour. Ah well. Might be a little plodding at first, but stay with me! In the words of the old days: "R&R Plz!"
epaulette mate
noun (chess) - A checkmate pattern in which the losing side's king is unable to escape because its two surrounding parallel flight squares are occupied by pieces of its own colour.
i. Opening
August, 2001
"Potter! Weasley! My office!"
Gawain Robards' dulcet bellow echoed around the main office area in Auror Headquarters, but hardly anyone else looked up. Witches and wizards continued reading, drinking coffee, talking, and writing reports, swearing under their breath trying to think of the right words to put in. After all, yelling was just one of the Head Auror's default modes of communication, along with ordering around, grumbling, and not taking 'no' for an answer. Since he hadn't thrown a case file or even slammed his office door, most of the Aurors took no notice - save two.
Ron Weasley stopped doodling a League Cup on the margin of Snitch! magazine's writeup of the latest Chudley Cannons team roster, and swung his chair around; at the cubicle beside his, his best mate and partner in anti-crime since the age of eleven, Harry Potter, put down his tea mug.
"New case?" Harry wondered out loud, as they got up and began making their way through the maze of cubicles to the row of executive offices at the back of Auror Headquarters.
"Merlin, I hope not," Ron groused. "I still haven't finished writing up my report on the Bagman case."
"Yes, you were extremely busy working out the strategy for Chudley's new line-up, I saw."
Robards' door was open, so Harry leaned in and knocked. Ron heard Robards give a neutral-sounding grunt, which he and Harry interpreted correctly as "Come in".
Though now rounder and paunchy with age, Gawain Robards' thick broad shoulders and pugnacious permanent scowl still made him an intimidating sight, as if his fifty-odd years of Auror service and the reputation that went with that didn't do the job all on its own. He stayed bent over a pile of reports as Ron and Harry sat down, but he jerked his head without comment towards the Ministry-issue coffee-pot and mugs on the sideboard. Ron poured one for himself; Harry shook his head, declining the offer of a brew; and they sat and waited meekly for the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to finish.
After a minute, Robards looked up. "If you're not chasing up any active investigations, drop what you're doing." He extracted two photographs from the pile of parchment before him, and passed them to Ron and Harry. "This is the Ferreira family, from Brazil; André Ferreira, wife, and two children. André here's a real piece of work - he's the head of the fourth-largest magical organised-crime gang in Brazil, fought his way up from the streets, linked directly and indirectly to a hundred murders and half the illegal Potions trade in Rio. He gave the Ministério da Magia quite a headache… that is, until yesterday, when their Aurors broke his organisation, raided all his properties and arrested everyone from the underboss down. Over forty arrests in twenty-four hours. The only one they couldn't get was him."
Ron looked down at the photograph; it was focused on a young man and a shorter girl beside him, both wearing school uniform robes and hats, and smiling toothily. On either side of the children was an ordinary-looking, stout middle-aged man in business robes, and a woman dressed in a classic twinset and pearls, beaming proudly. André looked like a well-to-do importer of something posh, like fine wines perhaps; you wouldn't have guessed that he had anything to do with murder.
"Our André managed to get an International Portkey to London, just as everything was kicking off, and left the rest of his organisation to carry the can," said Robards. "Now he's requesting asylum, and claims that if we say 'nothing doing' and throw him back, as we usually would, he wouldn't last two days in the Brazilian nick. The other players in the South American underworld want to see him dead, and they'll do in his family too for good measure."
Harry rather boldly decided to interrupt Robards. "Why's that, sir? Surely a fallen rival is no longer a threat to them, let alone his children."
"Ordinarily, yes. Except that to secure his asylum, André is offering to turn super-grass - he claims to have a lot of information on illegal activity not just in Brazil, but here in Britain as well. That's what's got the Wizengamot interested. Shortly afterwards, he received a death threat, or at least he says he did." Robards chuckled grimly. "Besides the fact that some of the more sensitive members of the Wizengamot feel badly about essentially dooming his wife and children, André Ferreira claims he has information on British Dark wizard activity as well as Brazilian, and that it'll be substantial." He gave another cynical snort. "Or so he says. Wait till we see the colour of his Galleons."
Quickly however, Robards' customary scowl returned. "We don't like being a haven for former Dark wizards, especially forcibly reformed ones like this bastard. We don't like saying 'no' to the Brazilian Ministério - they're kicking up a fuss, as you can imagine. But sometimes I have to look at the big picture. If Ferreira's information is worth it, both we and the Brazilians will reluctantly turn a blind eye to his former crimes. So over the next few days, representatives from the Wizengamot and the Department, including myself, will be meeting Ferreira to see if he can really offer us anything useful. Our negotiations will determine if he's worth letting go." Robards pointed one thick calloused finger at Ron and Harry. "That's where you two come in. While all this is going on, you'll be protecting the Ferreira family. While I don't really think anything will happen here on British soil, Ferreira insists on some kind of protection, sort of as an initial show of good faith, while we negotiate."
Oh, bugger. Ron groaned internally. Out loud, he said, "Come on, sir, surely the H.I.T. Wizards could do that…?"
"I'm assigning you and Potter, so it's you and Potter!" snapped Robards. "You're younger than I'd like, and mouthier than I'd like, Weasley, but you and Potter aren't completely rubbish at duelling, and Llewellyn tells me your Close Protection marks were halfway decent. I can't free up any other Aurors at the moment so you half-baked muppets will have to do, Merlin help me." He shoved a stack of parchment on his desk over at them, and stuffed more files into a briefcase. "These are the details. The house is in Hibis Close. Hurry up and get your arses over there. Don't worry, you'll be relieved - I'll get a shift system sorted out. Now bugger off, I'm busy."
Yeah right, Ron thought. It was just after lunch, and it didn't sound like arranging their reliefs would be high on Robards' priority list. More likely than not, it would be midnight before their reinforcements showed up. Bang goes another evening, damn. He'd been looking forward to a lazy end to the office day, and for Hermione to drop by Grimmauld Place for dinner, as she did most nights. But this was life in the Aurors, Ron knew. At the very forefront of anti-Dark wizard action. Here one day, elsewhere the next; writing reports, and then bodyguarding a fugitive family. And deep down, he knew he loved it.
Better drop Hermione a note, tell her not to wait up for us.
Hibis Close is a magical residential street in London, nestled in a Muggle suburb in the heart of Battersea. Surrounded by the Thames riverfront, Battersea Park, and Clapham Junction, it's near enough for convenient access on foot to all these places, and yet removed enough that the residents don't have to mix with the hoi polloi - in short, prime real estate for the very wealthy. The Muggles in this corner of Battersea are either old money or freshly-minted multi-millionaires, and they think of their suburb as an exclusive little corner of London. They don't know that an even more exclusive set of residents live in their midst, hidden behind a side-alley their eyes seem never to notice.
Ron and Harry had dressed up in Muggle style business casual, in button-down oxford shirts, dark blue jackets and chinos. They blended adequately into the swanky neighbourhood; Hermione kept them up to date on Muggle fashion, and she'd been brought up London upper-middle-class, so she dressed Ron accordingly. He had come to enjoy their shopping forays into Muggle London, although Ginny always rolled her eyes and mocked his choices, as a baby sister should.
"If only the Blacks had decided to live in a place like this, eh?" Ron remarked, admiring the neatly-trimmed lawns and hedges, and the rows of gleaming BMWs and Mini Coopers parked on the street, broken up by the occasional Rolls-Royce and Jaguar. "We'd have had a better view out the front windows." Though once an exclusive neighbourhood as well, Grimmauld Place - where Ron now lived with Harry - had fallen on bad times in the 70s. The houses there didn't look half as well-kept as these.
"Did the Blacks care that much for the neighbours?" Harry thought about it for a moment. "Maybe they would've, if it impacted their property prices. This way." The entrance to Hibis Close was between two townhouses, behind a wooden alley gate made of thick oak under a brick arch tastefully overgrown with clematis.
They emerged in the middle of a short street completely enclosed by nine large Edwardian townhouses; four linked together on the opposite side of the street, three on this side, and two detached, one at each end looking down the length of the street. Trees and flowering bushes lined the street, as well as a couple of ornate iron lamp posts wrought with floral hibiscus blossom designs.
"Nice. Fleur used to rent a flat here when she was dating Bill," said Ron. "He said the place is chock full of moneybags with bloody cauldrons and cauldrons of gold - goblins, bankers, Americans, people from all over the world." He pointed at the large house on the far end. "That's the Ferreiras."
Harry took out his wand as they approached the house, and cast discreetly. "Muggle-Repelling Charms," he muttered, almost to himself. "A basic night-time intruder alert, linked to a Caterwauling Charm. That's it."
Ron snorted. "Practically defenceless." The Aurors had taught him and Harry all about professional paranoia. They didn't consider a building secured until it was blanketed with anti-intrusion jinxes, hardened enough to withstand the attentions of a giant, and mined with Apparation traps that dropped you into the middle of darkest Dartmoor if you set one foot wrong. And Ron and Harry - who still received the occasional death threat by owl post from the few surviving Death Eaters on the loose - had absorbed all that the Aurors had to teach them with enthusiasm.
Harry nodded at the front door. "Let's go say hello."
The Principal himself answered the doorbell, as if he had been waiting for them.
Señor André Ferreira was swarthy, stout, broad-shouldered, only slightly shorter than Ron and Harry, and had the remnants of a penetrating look of cunning in his dark brown eyes. He had short curly jet-black hair and was neatly dressed in a well-tailored open-collared shirt and sport jacket, clearly still trying to preserve the look of a powerful, well-connected, shady man of business, but the strain of having his organisation wiped out and struggling to keep himself from being finished off was obvious. André Ferreira's greeting was confused and there was a distracted air about him as Harry and Ron introduced themselves.
"Good day. You are the Aurors sent by your Ministry? Come in, come in." Ferreira's accent was thick, but he spoke slowly, and that helped.
The house was most tastefully furnished in modern wizarding style, sleekly elegant in shape and yet evoking a sense of old-world grandeur, with a distinct Brazilian twist. Bespoke hand-worked furniture and shelving units decorated with intricate palm-frond-inspired scrollwork lined the walls; more cornicing done in the same palm-frond design crawled across the ceiling; the furnishings made extensive use of rattan and bamboo; the parquet flooring underfoot was rich brown teakwood; and the carpets were not woven, but whole neatly trimmed pieces of fine butter-soft cowhide.
"Posh," muttered Ron to himself, as he and Harry studied the house and considered its vulnerabilities.
Harry turned to André Ferreira. "Could you please gather all your family and everyone in the house? I'd like to speak to them. Everyone," he emphasised, "including your bodyguards, servants, the staff…"
"Certainly."
'Everyone' turned out to be two bodyguards, an ancient housekeeper and her equally-prehistoric gardener-handyman husband, and the rest of the Ferreira family. They gathered in the drawing room on the ground floor just off the hallway. Ron immediately stood in front of the big bay windows looking out to the front garden, half watching the street, half watching the Ferreiras and their entourage.
"Good day." Harry cleared his throat a little nervously, shot a glance at Ron that reminded him of meetings in the Room of Requirement, and began to address the group. "I'm Auror Potter, and this is Auror Weasley. The Ministry of Magic has assigned us to ensure your security while, uh, Mr Ferreira's discussions with the Wizengamot are ongoing…"
Ron smirked as Harry shot him another subtle I hate public speaking look while he continued talking. He surveyed the motley group. The two bodyguards were big strapping fellows, all that was left of Ferreira's gang; he mentally nicknamed them 'Crabbeinho' and 'Goylezalez'. He couldn't tell if they were reeling from the impact of being in exile along with their boss, or if they were actually dim. They just stared at him and Harry and tried to look tough and intimidating, which was probably in their job description. The elderly couple, Mr and Mrs Carvalho, seemed harmless enough. They were Brazilian too and had been employed by André Ferreira to look after his British holiday home for nearly two decades now. They stared uncomprehendingly at Harry as he talked about defensive charms, talismans, and passwords. More than once Ron saw their eyes flick up to the faint scar on his forehead.
Movement out on the street; Ron turned his head and watched a young girl of about eight and her governess exit a house three doors down, with a Crup on a leash; then turned back, making a mental note to get the Auror Office to check up on the neighbours.
Mrs Ferreira fiddled with the heavy gold earrings and bangles on her wrists. She looked like any other rich old lady in her early 50s, more a veteran of cream teas and flower shows than crime. But the Ministério da Magia thought she might know more about the organisation's activities than the average trophy wife, although they didn't have solid evidence. After all, she had been with André since their teens, since he was a low-level thug and she a night-club singer.
Sitting beside her were the children.
Ron took one look at João Ferreira and thought to himself, spoilt. The Brazilian wizard was draped languidly across a sofa, looking at Harry through bored, half-lidded eyes; João reminded him of Draco Malfoy, albeit a slightly taller, swarthier, more muscular version. (And not with muscles that had come from honest manual work, like Ron's brother Charlie's, but the kind that spoke of long leisurely hours spent at the gym pumping and preening.) As he watched, João pointed at some snack from the sideboard, and Crabbeinho went to get it for him. The kid barely acknowledged the underling's service.
Spoilt prick, Ron thought.
On the other side of the sofa, seated beside her mother, was Ana Ferreira. Her file said she was seventeen, still in school, and she reminded Ron of a lighter shade of Parvati Patil back in sixth year, or perhaps a browner Gabrielle Delacour. She was lanky, had very dark long wavy hair touched with blonde here and there - it appeared wholly natural - and a wide mouth that would be quite pretty, if it wasn't pursed with concern as she listened attentively to Harry. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap.
She looks scared. Good. With any luck, she'll be as meek as a mouse, and won't give us any trouble.
"...so rest assured, we'll work together with you to keep your lives as normal and undisturbed as possible while keeping you protected." Harry heaved a sigh that Ron correctly interpreted as thank heaven the talking's over. "Any questions?"
Of course there were, and mostly asking about things that had already been covered, which Harry repeated for emphasis. "No, you are not under arrest, but one of us," Harry gestured to himself and Ron, "will need to accompany you wherever you go, so we will have to coordinate any travel plans. Yes, the Floo will be disconnected for the time being. You can buy or rent post owls from Diagon Alley. Yes, Mrs Carvalho, you'll have to arrange for groceries to be delivered…"
When the questions died down Ron took out a pouch from his pocket, and shook out seven small pendants on the coffee table in the middle of the room. "These are Trace Tailismans," he said. "They'll help us find where you are, anywhere in Britain. Wear them on a necklace or bracelet at all times, even in the bath if possible."
The group eyed the Tailismans suspiciously. Then André Ferreira took one, and put it in his trouser pocket, and everyone followed suit silently. João Ferreira held his up to the light, gave an ostentatious sniff of disdain, and then stuck it in his pocket.
"Right," said Harry. He addressed André Ferreira directly. "Now, could you please show us around the house?"
Together with the housekeeper, Mrs Carvalho, André Ferreira brought Ron and Harry on a quick tour of the townhouse, showing them every room and every corner of the property - or at least, what they claimed was every room. Amongst the files Robards had given Ron and Harry was the builder's plan of the house filed with the Wizarding Ownership Registry and Leyline Division, the little Ministry office whose job it was to authorise construction and keep track of all magical property in Britain. They weren't just going to take Ferreira's word that he was showing them everything, they would check what they saw against the plans.
There was a guest bedroom on the second floor with an en suite bathroom, a nice view of the back garden, and a decent writing desk, and they commandeered it. As Ron spread out the house plans on the desk, Harry went round sealing the room with privacy charms. "We need to secure the house quickly, or Robards will have our heads," said Harry, coming over to look at the plans.
"It'll take ages to charm all of this." Ron went over to the window. The back garden was bordered by the high brick walls of the adjoining Muggle properties, made invisible to Muggle eyes and charmed with Muggle Repelling Charms so that they would never even think of climbing over. But that would not deter a wizard intruder at all.
"We'll just do the basics for now," said Harry. "Anti-Apparation Jinxes over the whole place. Reinforce the walls and seal every window from access."
"We should also jinx the garden boundaries and lay a couple of traps," said Ron. "Here and here," he said, pointing at the plans.
"Good idea. But after we put up basic security on the house." Harry sighed. "We'll have to tell them they're not going to be opening their windows or taking tea on the terrace for a while."
Ron sniggered, and punched Harry in the arm. "Rather you than me, mate."
"I shouldn't be taking all the limelight, why don't you take the floor this time, maybe the Ferreiras will pay closer attention to you…"
"Oh, I can tell they already love you."
Later that day, Ron was busy magically sealing off the big bay windows in the drawing room, charming them so nobody could touch them much less open them, and turning the glass one-way so nobody could see in from the outside. The door opened, and someone slouched in and threw himself carelessly on the sofa.
João Ferreira.
Ron ignored him, turned his back, and got on with the window. A few seconds later, he heard a lofty, "Could you get me a beer?"
If João Ferreira was more likeable, and he'd at least added a 'please', Ron would have considered it. As it was, he relished turning around and telling him, "No. I'm neither your minder nor your housekeeper, and I've a job to do."
João shrugged, went over to the drinks cabinet in the corner, and got himself a Butterbeer. He opened it, and took a long swig. "Not bad," he said, as if surprised.
Ron ignored him, and concentrated on casting a powerful Shield Charm to protect the window.
"You're good at duelling?" There was a hint of challenge in João's tone.
"I've fought a bit," said Ron shortly. Since I was fifteen, you spoilt, stuck-up little twat. He glanced over his shoulder; João was sprawled on the sofa, drinking.
"Against Brazilian wizards? No, I do not think so," said João, with a smug grin that clearly implied, you'd have lost if you had. "Things are different in Brazil. More… brutal." Ron continued to ignore him. "Ever kill anybody?"
"No, I haven't," snapped Ron, turning around. "Have you?"
João favoured him with a superior smile. "You know who the Ferreiras are, yes? What do you think?"
Ron snorted. According to the Ministério da Magia's files, João had only ever done extortion gigs for his father. He'd never duelled anyone, let alone murdered anyone… that they knew of, Ron allowed. But he didn't really think the overgrown lad lounging on the sofa in front of him really had it in him. Perhaps his father had recognised the spoilt brat for the fool that he was as well, and kept him away from the dirty work. "Yeah, I know what scumbags your lot are. But you, I think you're just coasting on daddy's reputation, son." Ron borrowed the word from his Dad, knowing it would annoy the Brazilian lad, who in truth was only two years younger than himself.
"You think we are scumbags," said João, savouring the word. "Given your way, you would be putting us in prison, right? But your government assigned you to protect us. Why? Because you need our information. So run along and do your job," he said, with a superior smile. "I can't wait for this to be over, and be free."
"You can feel free to fuck off right now."
The Brazilian youth only chuckled and finished the Butterbeer, leaving the empty bottle carelessly on the table.
Arsehole, Ron thought, as he stalked from the room. He'd walked right into that one. It had been the whole reason for the conversation from the start, he realised now, too late. The brat wanted to put him in his place. Shouldn't have bothered giving the twat the time of day. Should've just ignored him.
He worked his anger off on all the first floor windows, but his concentration had been ruined and he took longer than he should have, as he had to re-do quite a few of the spells. With passive defensive charms, you had to take time and care to get them exactly right. Screw up a spell in a duel, and you knew the result more or less immediately. If you miscast a Fire Shield or a Caterwauling Charm, however, you'd only know about it when the house burned down, or when you'd had your throat slit in your sleep because the alarm didn't go off.
When Ron was done he was still fuming, so he thought he'd head down to the kitchen and find something to eat.
The kitchen was well-equipped with large gleaming stoves and pots and a tall glass-fronted dresser full of fine china and silver utensils. Off to one side was a wine room and the pantry, which Ron made a beeline for. The inside was stocked with food, kept cool and preserved with a Larder Spell, and there was a large icebox as well. He helped himself to a biscuit from a jar, found some bread, cheese, and onion pickle, and carried the lot out on a plate to eat on the countertop by the sink.
The Auror Office frowned on nicking food from the Principals; Ron and Harry were supposed to bring their own or get takeaways. But right now knowing that he was eating the Ferreiras' food made it taste even better. Bit by bit, bite by bite, Ron felt himself calming down. Food did make him feel better, there was no denying it. Hermione said it was because he'd grown up poor. Oh, Hermione…
Ron's pleasant daydreams about his other-best-friend-turned-girlfriend were interrupted by a slender figure that appeared in the doorway, and froze upon seeing him.
Ana Ferreira.
Oh no, not another one of Ferreira's bloody kids. "Hello," Ron said gruffly, stuffed in the last of his bread, and turned to give his plate a quick rinse in the sink.
"Hi. Do you mind if I get a snack?" asked Ana. Like João, her English was fluent though with a touch of foreign accent, but unlike her brother, her tone was soft and polite.
"Sure. 'S your house, innit? I'll just clear off," muttered Ron.
"No, please… please stay."
It was the little plea in her voice that did it. She sounded like Hermione or Ginny did when they were scared, and Ron… however much he despised the Ferreiras, he couldn't bring himself to ignore someone who sounded so forlorn. Besides, on second thought… Ana was still a schoolgirl, so far as he knew innocent of anything other than having arseholes for family. Reluctantly, he nodded, and sat down at the kitchen table. He wondered if Ana would get herself some kind of exotic South American snack, and was slightly disappointed to see her just layer cheese and cold cuts on bread.
"Thank you for protecting us," she said, as she built her sandwich. She poured herself a glass of milk, and put more biscuits on a plate.
"I'm just doing my job, um, Ana," said Ron. Hermione said it was good to say people's names, it helped him to remember them and helped to make them feel at ease.
She smiled at him, and pushed the plate of biscuits at him. Ron took a biscuit; it felt only natural. "Have you been an Auror long?" asked Ana, taking a small bite of her sandwich.
"Three years," Ron replied. "Harry as well."
"Have you always worked together?"
"More or less, for the past ten years." Ron couldn't help but give a tiny smirk at Ana's look of surprise. "He's been my best friend since we sat in the same compartment on the train to Hogwarts. We've been through a lot together."
"Yes, the war. Even in Brazil we have heard some of the stories, and many people know the name 'Harry Potter'," said Ana. "So you are his best friend? I suppose you were involved in the war, then."
Oh, you have no idea, thought Ron. "Me and Harry were in the thick of it," he said, and waited for her to inquire further.
But Ana only nodded. "We have had our own troubles in Brazil," she said. She looked uncomfortably away when she said that.
Too right you have, thought Ron, your dad did his bit of it. "I'm sorry to hear that," was what he said. Who ever said Hermione hadn't been able to teach him tact? He took another biscuit, and decided to change the topic. "You know, my brother Bill had a pen-friend from Brazil once. He wanted Bill to go to Castelobruxo for a year and meet him, but," Ron shrugged, "my parents couldn't afford it. He sent Bill a hat that shrivelled his ears up!" Ron laughed as he finished the story.
Ana made a face. "That is cruel!"
"A bit, I guess," said Ron. "Fred and George thought it was hilarious; nobody else did. Ginny cried, I think - she was very young. Funny, it doesn't seem so bad now." Now that I've seen what really Dark magic looks like.
Ana seemed to be counting in her head, then said, "How many brothers and sisters do you have?"
"One baby sister, and five brothers… well, four," Ron replied. As always, when he thought of Fred, Ron added a sad, mental Damn, damn, damn. I miss you, brother.
Ana had caught his mistake, and she was a sharp girl who could put two and two together quickly. She said, with sympathy all over her expression, "The war?"
"The war." There wasn't much else to say. Ron crunched another biscuit.
"Is that why you became an Auror?" Ana asked gently. "Because of… your brother?"
She couldn't have known it, but it was just the right question to ask. Ron couldn't help letting out a loud bark of laughter. "Ha! No! I joined because they let those of us who fought in the war against Voldemort get in even without our NEWTs. The British Aurors are damned picky, you know, they only take the very best and then only one or two every year. In fact, they hadn't hired anyone for years before I joined up. So if you're an Auror, everyone knows you're the elite. And the pay's excellent. I jumped at the chance." Ron gestured at himself modestly, "I thought it was the only way I'd get in, not being too brilliant in exams and all."
"Had you always wanted to be an Auror, even as a boy?" asked Ana wonderingly. "Isn't it dangerous?"
"It's one of those things all boys dream about, like playing Quidditch. Didn't you play 'Aurors and Dark Wizards' as a kid?" asked Ron with a grin.
Ana's face fell. "No. I… didn't have many friends. The friends I did have liked music and board games, and I liked to read."
Ron sensed he had stumbled on a sensitive subject. "Anyway… I'm pants at the job," he said self-deprecatingly. "Not like Harry, he's a natural."
"You do your job well, even for people you don't need to," said Ana. "You must know all the things my family did - why you are here."
"Do you?"
The Brazilian girl let the question hang in the air for a minute, gazing out at the garden through the large French windows at the back of the kitchen. Ron waited - his Auror training told him not to interrupt while she decided what to say, how much to reveal. Finally, she said, "It's not easy to keep secrets from family. Especially inquisitive children. Especially as they grow older."
So you do know, thought Ron. "What did you find out?"
"Enough." Ana looked down at the crumbs on her plate. "There was a boy at school… we were close… but things changed. When he said he could not stand being with a Dark wizard's daughter any longer, suddenly all the little clues came together. Only then did I realise why everyone else kept their distance." Ana sighed. "I don't think I'll miss Castelobruxo much. I didn't make many friends there."
"I'm sorry." Ron didn't know what else to say. He had to admit, he had been pretty dismissive of Ana at first, he'd lumped her in with all the rest of her odious family; if not downright evil, then spoilt, pampered, living off the fruits of evil. But Ana was like… was like Sirius, he realised. The one decent kid in the family, only she hadn't been as impetuous as Sirius and run off. Or maybe she hadn't had the opportunity. Sirius at least had been able to stay with Harry's dad and the Potters. Where could she have gone? And would André have sent his thugs to bring her back? "I suppose you couldn't, I dunno, leave?"
Ana hesitated, looked over her shoulder, and then said quietly, "I wanted to finish school first. I am studying… was studying to be a Healer. This is my last year of school, I would have finished in November. But then this happened…" She shook her head, shrugged helplessly. "I tell myself that, but maybe I was just making excuses. Maybe I wouldn't have done it. I'm not very brave, you know."
"I think your heart's in the right place," Ron said, and he realised as he said it that he really did think so. "You'd make a great Healer."
"Thank you," said Ana. "I hope… I hope I will be able to continue my studies here in England."
Of course you can, Ron was about to reply, when he realised what she really meant was I hope I won't die. He said gently, "Don't worry. You'll be alright."
"You and Auror Potter - you'll protect us, yes?"
Ron grinned. "Course. Harry and I've been doing this forever. Did you know, when we were eleven years old, we defeated a mountain troll and saved a girl? And she's now my girlfriend! Hermione's brilliant and she's very nice, I'll bring you to meet her sometime."
Ana relaxed visibly, just a little, and gave him a small smile. "Thank you," she said again.
Well, at least not all the Ferreiras are utter pillocks, thought Ron, as he got back to work. Still, that prick João's right - I can't wait for all this to be over.
