A/N: Thank you all again for the kind comments. As usual, sudden happenings at work got in the way. But I have nearly all of the last two chapters written, so this will be done shortly. Things are coming to a head anyway, this is chapter 3 of 5. TONS of action to follow!


iii. Queen Sacrifice

The essential ingredient of a combination is the sacrifice of material.

- Aron Nimzowitsch -


After the assassination attempt in Diagon Alley, Ron and Harry had hustled the Ferreiras home and more or less locked them in, while the rest of the Auror Office descended on Diagon Alley and ransacked the place. A team of Aurors tried to track down the witch, but found nothing; she had expertly broken her trail with a combination of rapid multiple Apparations and non-magical transport. This marked her out as having both an exceptionally high degree of magical skill, and great familiarity with Muggle transport; and hence, a formidable opponent. Gawain Robards and the Wizengamot carried on the negotiations with André Ferreira as if nothing had happened, but found the time to pull Ron and Harry aside for a quick debrief.

"Letters are pouring into my Office, Potter, Weasley; half of them want to know if I'll sack you for blowing up Diagon Alley, the other half want to know why you two appear to be the only Aurors I have who do anything at all," grumbled Robards. "How's your aim these days, Weasley? Are you sure you don't need specs as well? Not that they seem to help Potter out any. Have you two any idea just how many Galleons' worth of damage you two did?"

Ron glanced at Harry; his best mate was trying hard to look contrite and not smirk. This was Robards in a complimentary mood; he was a lot more shouty when he was actually angry.

The Head of the Auror Office waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Anyway, forget all that bollocks. You did well enough protecting Ferreira," he jerked a large thumb over his shoulder, "who's in there right now stewing because we've called his latest bluff and threatened to throw him back to Rio rather than put up with any more of his dragon dung. He'll break soon." Robards twitched his walrus moustache thoughtfully. "I didn't think they would really try it on, I'll grant. I thought Ferreira was talking up the threat, making a mountain out of a gnome-hill. Well, that's on me." He pointed a thick, blunt finger at Ron and Harry. "We know now the threat's real. They really are after his head. So in light of this assassination attempt, I'm officially placing the Ferreiras in lockdown. No more shopping trips, full security. Laird knows what to do, you boys mind her. Carry on."


"Lockdown" meant the Ferreiras were going nowhere, André included.

Thus, since André could not go to the Ministry, the Ministry therefore had to come to him.

But the Ferreiras' Floo had been disconnected from the Network, and Senior Auror Mavis Laird was not going to have it connected, even just for the day, even for the Wizengamot. "Ooh, let them whinge and moan, see if I care," she said blithely in her cheerful Scottish mother-of-four brogue to Ron, Harry, and Neville, as they made their plans in the guest-room they had commandeered. "I'm not taking the slightest wee chance of that lass slipping in through the Floo, and they can go telling tales if they like, Robards'll back me up," she said firmly. "Why else do we have a nice lovely fleet of Muggle cars for anyway? 'Tis not for lookin' all shiny and gleaming in the garage."

As such, the Wizengamot working group hashing it out with Ferreira was forced to drive by Ministry car the short distance through the heart of London from Whitehall to Battersea, where they were dropped off in front of the gate to Hibis Close. The working group, of course, came complete with a platoon of assistants. If any Muggles had been around, they would have beheld the interesting sight of a dozen men and women in odd-looking robes and hats emerging from the back seat of a single black Jaguar X-Type, and disappearing behind the thick oak alley gate that separated Hibis Close and Muggle Battersea.

Though he was off-shift, out of sheer curiosity Ron met them at the front door as they came in. The working group included Elphias Doge, the current elected Wizengamot Member for the Skelton seat up north in Yorkshire, and of course now the oldest surviving member of the Order of the Phoenix. He wrung Ron's hands in his own frail, liver-spotted ones, said "Do pass my regards to Arthur," and went on to the formal dining room, where the Wizengamot working group would spend the next hour arguing with André Ferreira. His assistant, a harassed-looking wizard who looked like a bald blonde version of Percy, hurried after him holding two bulging briefcases.

Ron pictured himself working at a job like that, and shuddered.

Bringing up the rear was Gawain Robards, who represented the DMLE at every round of negotiation with Ferreira. The boss grunted in greeting when he saw Ron, and disappeared without a word into the dining room. Ron slipped away upstairs before Robards got any extra tasks in mind for him.

It was Mavis and Neville's shift, and Harry's turn to get away from the Ferreiras, which meant he had probably spent the day lounging around the sidelines of the Holyhead Harpies' stadium, napping and gazing adoringly at Ron's baby sister while she was at practice. (The soppy idiot.) Meanwhile, Ron had slept in the guest bedroom, continued the Muggle novel about a French chocolate-maker and her daughter which Hermione had been reading so he could talk about it with her, did some desultory study on potions for an upcoming Auror training course, and checked the upcoming weekend's fixtures (Chudley versus Puddlemere; he made a mental note to avoid Oliver Wood for the next two weeks, as Oliver might bring up the match and he didn't want to spoil their friendship by hexing him).

At five Ron got ready for his shift. Harry reappeared, looking annoyingly blissful. Then Mavis and Neville, looking excited.

"André's delivered," announced Mavis. "They made the point to him that they weren't going to take it all on trust that he had any information of value at all, that he had to show us a wee taster first. So he's tipped us off to a spot he knows where they stash contraband they smuggle in from Brazil, before selling it on. He's given us the location, and he claims it's just one of half a dozen other places of interest around Britain, stuffed full of Dark magic. Robards wants to hit it tonight, so we can confirm how good André's gen is. The sooner we know, the sooner we can pump him for the rest, and the sooner the Ministério da Magia will get off our backs. Robards is off putting the task force together right now, and he wants one of you two," she nodded at Harry and Ron, "to go lend a wand, because we're quite short-handed at the moment, as usual."

A raid! Now that was more like it! Ron couldn't help grinning from ear to ear. He looked at Harry, who was also smiling, and they held out their fists, while Mavis rolled her eyes. "Cloak, wand, stone… hah!" Ron crowed. "Wand jinxes Stone."

"Alright, go have fun," said Harry, smiling.

"You bet I will," Ron said, rubbing his hands gleefully. Proper Auror work, at last.


The farmhouse was all the way up north, in the Tyne Valley near Newcastle.

The little cottage was walled round with hedges of oak, blackthorn and bramble, with a mild Muggle-Repelling Charm to discourage cameras, trespassers, and nosy neighbours. A serene little stream cut a steady course through the rolling fields that surrounded the cottage. The fields were delineated into neat squares by hedges and hand-built dry stone walls - some of these walls were hundreds of years old - and sown with wheat, oats, clover and vetch. At nightfall the cows that grazed placidly on the pasture fields throughout the day had taken shelter in barns, but here and there the sheep dotted the fields in loose groups, for they preferred to sleep in the open.

The Aurors swooped down on the house at around midnight. Witching hour, when the Muggle world was mostly asleep, and the skies were pitch-black and concealed the brooms that whispered across the night sky and circled the cottage at an altitude of two hundred feet.

The raid commander was Senior Auror Deirdre Monaghan, and Ron had successfully charmed her into letting him take top cover with Keith Rallison from the Flying Squad and Sophie Nesbitt, a local Magical Law Enforcement Patrolwitch. Ron went to unabashed lengths to be assigned broom duty on any operation which called for it. He looked down now on the cottage from his trusty old Cleansweep Eleven, flying in formation with Keith and Sophie. They had begun the approach from over a mile out, circling closer and closer, keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary with the help of the Night Sight Spell.

Down on the ground, four Aurors approached the cottage on foot, making their way up country roads and across fields, from the four cardinal points of the compass. There were more Aurors and Patrolwizards hidden behind the nearest hill, every one of them under Disillusionment Charms, to blend better into the night. Every so often the Aurors paused and cast spells to check for alarm charms and trap jinxes, and disable them. Hermione had once said, with an expression of distaste, that this Auror procedure resembled what Muggles called "minesweeping"; Ron had gathered that the phrase referred to a deadly kind of Muggle trap, and didn't press for details.

"Ah don' knoo tha' place," Sophie observed in her broad Geordie accent as she flew next to Ron on her sturdy but ancient Whitmore Welkin, a broom nearly as old as the Silver Arrow. It must have been a hand-me-down, because Sophie on the other hand wasn't much older than Ron, he thought she'd been a Hufflepuff from Percy's year. "We knoo everyone rahnd 'ere. The Senior brough' us rahnd the neighbour'ood when ah joined up, so's to get to knoo our patch."

Well, clearly you know it less than you thought, Ron stopped himself from saying. PWs like Sophie Nesbitt were usually acquainted with just about everyone and everything that happened in their patrol areas. Their assistance was invaluable to any Auror operation, as they were often even more up-to-date than Aurors from that area, and their information was more relevant. Mum or Dad were probably the most knowledgeable about general wizarding gossip in Devon, but to get to know crime, Ron would look up the Senior Patrolwizard in charge of the West Country. That was what the Auror Office considered proper local knowledge. "Where's the nearest wizard family?" he asked.

"The Rutherfords, way over tha' way," Sophie pointed with her chin east. "Respec'able old family, boot they ain't stook oop aboot it, y'knoo? No' like," she glanced sideways at Ron, "thoose Sacred Twenty-Eight an' all. Their yoongest's just had a bairn, the most adorable wee girl y'ever seen, she let me hold her when me and my mum went over for tea. Reckon tha's a Mooggle's house, most like," Sophie nodded down at the farmhouse. "Safest place to hide gear like you're lookin' for."

"The house isn't on the Wizarding Ownership Registry records," said Ron, "so it's Muggle, or unregistered."

"Pipe down," said Keith urgently, "it's kicking off down there."

Ron and Sophie fell silent, and looked down at the cottage from above. Ron felt the itch of adrenaline in his fingers and toes reach a peak, and he mentally checked that he had his wand, even though it was gripped firmly in his fist, his other hand steering the Cleansweep. His eyes darted every which way, scanning the cottage, the hedgerows, the fields of sheep.

"Close to one hundred feet," Keith ordered, and they tightened the circle of their orbit, until it felt like they could almost reach out and touch the cottage, like it was a large doll's-house for the doll-sized wizards and witches around it.

The Aurors had surrounded the cottage.

One pair went up to the kissing-gate at the back of the house, and paused to check for jinxes.

Ron leaned forward slightly, watching the two Aurors as they worked on the gate.

The hedges burst into bright orange flame with a sudden, eye-watering flash of spell-fire; Ron swore and rubbed at his eyes; and a Caterwauling Charm began howling. The bushes and trees which surrounded the cottage in a rough square were all alight with pillars of fire that seemed to reach for the flyers, far above the low roof of the cottage. The flames lit up the night sky and illuminated the fields for miles around; in every direction startled sheep bolted away from the fires, letting out bleats of fright. The sky above the cottage became uncomfortably hot, and the updraft of heated air batted their brooms about.

"Well, that's torn it," snapped Keith irritably. "Bunch of duffers!"

"Should we go help?" Sophie asked.

"No, we stay up here," Keith said firmly. "Our job is to stop anyone trying to get away by broom, and watch for anyone else on their side coming in to help."

In any case, the Aurors on the ground had quickly managed to break through the wall of fire. It was not Fiendfyre, thought Ron in relief, remembering that other time he had flown above a raging inferno. More Aurors and Patrolwizards were flowing down from the nearby hill, each one marked by cones of wand-light as they picked their way through the fields as fast as they could. Sheep bolted out of their way with more loud, terrified bleating. With lots of shouting and swearing and ordering about, on all sides the Aurors cleared gaps in the burning hedge and charged towards the cottage.

BLAM!

There was a loud thunderclap of sound, even louder than the Caterwauling Charm; the entire back half of the cottage burst up and outwards, disintegrating in a million fragments of stone and wood, spitting up a gigantic cloud of smoke and dust. Sophie screamed as the blast flung them and their brooms high up into the air and showered them with debris. The force of the blast flung her and her broom end over end; it took Ron all his strength and flying skill to stay upright, riding the blast. A large lump of stone hit him painfully on the knee, and he swore again.

Did Ferreira lead us into a trap?! Ron wondered, even as he fought to regain control of his broom and fly back down. But why would he? André wanted the deal, didn't he? It was in his best interest to cooperate, wasn't it? Was his information wrong? Had anyone been injured? There had been Aurors near the cottage when it exploded. Damn, I hope nobody was caught in that blast…

"There!" snapped Keith, pointing with his wand. "He's legging it!"

The front door of the cottage had opened, and a young wizard dressed only in boxers and a T-shirt had dashed out and across the front garden. He waved his wand, and the bit of burning hedge in front of him uprooted itself and jumped aside, leaving a gap for him to run through, and then jumped back into place as soon as he was through.

Ron dived his broom down after him, followed closely by Keith and Sophie. Shouts came up from the Aurors and Patrolwizards who'd caught sight of him, and spells and hexes flashed and streaked in the night. "Impedimenta!" Ron snapped out, but his spell fell short, kicking up mud at the wizard's pounding feet.

"He's going to Apparate!" yelled Sophie from behind, her Whitmore Welkin struggling to keep up with Ron's Cleansweep Eleven.

"Anti-Apparation Jinx's up!" Keith yelled back tersely.

Broomless and unable to Apparate, the outcome for the running wizard was never in doubt really. Just as Ron closed to thirty yards of the fugitive and was taking careful aim with his wand, another Auror's jinx struck the wizard and he fell, tumbling head over heels in the grass and mud.

Ron, Sophie and Keith landed on all sides of the fallen young wizard, surrounding him; but there was no real need for their help. He struggled ineffectively against the Impediment Jinx that tied him down, and the nearest pursuing Aurors caught up quickly and secured him with handcuffs.

It was a bit of an anti-climax, thought Ron, as he felt his muscles and senses slowly unwind, untense. But he had participated in enough of these operations by now to know that it was all often hours and hours and hours of boredom, only sometimes breaking out into brief moments of deadly violence. PW Sophie Nesbitt however was not as experienced, and her eyes bugged out as she took in the scene; the wreckage of the cottage, the debris-strewn fields, the yelling Aurors and Patrolwizards running here and there, the whole scene illuminated in the orange glare of the magical burning bushes which were still resisting attempts to put them out.

"...fookin' hell," she breathed in a whisper.

One of the Aurors cuffing the wizard looked up, and said in an even broader northern accent, "Oh aye, 'tis noothin' bu' a wee bother, pet," she said. "Come noo, love, oops a daisy," she said to the wizard, hauling him to his feet.

"Leave off, ya fookin' bastards!" snarled the wizard, shoving at her with his shoulder.

"Behave, or ah'll giz yer a smack, so ah will!"

"Tha's Robbie Tweedie," Sophie noted with some satisfaction. "The Tweedies, well, everyone knows them. Bad uns. This is a little oot of their usual way though… they usually hang rahnd dahn the coast."

Local knowledge, thought Ron. They watched as the Aurors manhandled the wizard into the back of a nondescript Vauxhall Astra, one of the few vehicles the Auror Office possessed, usually used for transporting offenders when no Floo was nearby. There was a bang and the car Disapparated. "So, not at all surprising to see him involved, eh?"

"Nope," said Sophie, popping the 'p' for emphasis. "Whole lot of 'em's no use to man nor beast."

Aurors and Patrolwizards swarmed over the cottage. Two Aurors sat back on their heels on the grass, their wounds being tended to. Ron guessed that they had been the ones nearest to the explosion that had destroyed half the cottage. With Sophie at his elbow, Ron ambled up to the house and stepped cautiously into the living room. What had once been a cosy little English cottage was now a half-collapsed wreck. Every stick of furniture had been smashed into kindling, the floor was carpeted in bits of glass and splinters of wood, and the kitchen had vanished; in its place there was only a huge gaping hole in the south-west facing side of the house, as if a gigantic dragon had taken a huge bite out of it.

Senior Auror Deirdre Monaghan stood in front of a door off to one side of the hallway that had led to the kitchen; the door opened onto steep stone steps going down into what appeared to be a cellar. She nodded at Ron and Sophie, and then at the steps. "The stuff's here alright, heaps of it. But don't go down, Gary's still giving the lot the once-over. Our Curse-Breaker," she explained to Sophie in her quick Irish lilt. "There's no room to swing a Kneazle anyhow, you'll get in the way."

"Bloody hell, wha' happened to the kitchen?" said Sophie, awestruck.

Deirdre went over to the remaining bit of debris-strewn kitchen floor and nudged a charred lump of rock or wood with the toe of her boot. "Some kind of Blasting Curse," she said, "magnified and bound with blood magic to… whatever this was. Amulet maybe. And this," she waved negligently at the remains of the kitchen, "is one reason why it's illegal. A curse of this strength would easily have killed a Muggle, maybe even a wizard."

"Fookin' hell!"

At the sound of footsteps from the cellar stairs, Ron turned around; a tall stocky wizard in dust-covered denims leaned half out of the doorway, resting his elbow on the floor. "Jolly decent haul, Deirdre," he remarked, wiping sweat out of his hair. "So far we've got two ritual daggers, a bag of zombie powder, about a gallon of unicorn blood," he frowned in distaste, "and a bone flute, human tibia by the looks of it. And that's for starters. There's more chests we haven't opened up. They're well-protected, so we have to go slow. Couple of nasty foreign curses we need to sit down and work out," Gary said with a wry grin.

"Right, thanks. Foreign curses, eh? Well, the informant is Brazilian, if that helps any," said Deirdre. She turned to Ron. "Did you get all that? Head back to London and tell Robards what we've picked up so far. Be interesting to see what else our boyo can get us."

Ron thoughtfully got back on his Cleansweep and took off from the front yard, heading for the nearest Floo which was in Newcastle. If André really does deliver, maybe it's not so bad after all.


The customary scowl on Robards' face eased a fraction as he received the news, which meant that he was pleased.

"At least now we have some indication that André Ferreira isn't fobbing us off with a handful of Lobalugs," he grunted. The Head Auror thought about it for a second more, sitting there in his voluminous dressing gown in front of the drawing-room fireplace of his house. His scowl returned to normal. "Damn. Now we have to come through on our end of the bargain. Well, we'll see what the Wizengamot says in the morning. Back to work, Weasley," Robards ordered.

Ron took his head out of the Floo, shaking his head ruefully. It was just like the old codger to treat him as if he'd just come back from holiday, instead of joining a house raid and flying a broom all night. He looked at his watch; it was half past three. Two and a half hours until he was off, and today was his turn to leave the Ferreira house.

He Apparated from the Auror Office to Battersea, and made his way back to the house. Mavis was home with her children, but Neville was awake, and Harry of course on duty. Ron told them the good news and the boys grinned at each other like they'd pulled off a prank, and opened celebratory bottles of Butterbeer, there in the Ferreiras' glitzy kitchen.

Ron was in a fine mood when he went off-shift. Near lunchtime he went to the Ministry canteen on Level Eight, and sat down in a quiet corner with a cup of tea and a satisfyingly large piece of sticky toffee pudding. He was halfway through it when he spotted his lunch date trotting in with the rising tide of Ministry workers streaming in, and he waved her over.

Hermione suffered a peck on the cheek from Ron, and then pushed him away; she disapproved of public displays of affection at their workplace, on principle. She tsked at the remnants of his toffee pudding. "You'll ruin your lunch," she observed.

"Just you watch me," said Ron, grinning. And yes, he ate up all of the steak-and-kidney pie they ordered for lunch, while listening eagerly to Hermione talking about her day at work, and shared his toffee pudding with her for afters. He had a great appetite, as always, but being with Hermione, ah, that made everything taste even better. He feasted his eyes on her, admiring everything; the trim way she ate; the way she held herself, dignified with upper-class poise; the sparkle in her eyes when she talked animatedly about the legal report she was writing up; her obvious mastery of wizarding law, and her enthusiasm for the subject. As he always did, Ron felt he could just sit and gaze at her for hours and hours.

"You look tired," Hermione said. She reached out across the table and touched Ron's cheek; Ron revelled in the feel of her thumb rubbing the bags under his eyes. "Long night? How are the Ferreiras…?"

"Shhh," said Ron. He slipped his hand into his pocket for his wand, and muttered "Muffliato". Then, with their conversation secured from the chattering Ministry workers at lunch around them, he told Hermione about the raid. She hadn't heard anything about it from Padma; that meant nobody who'd gone on the raid had shot off their mouths about it (yet).

"Well, that's good news, isn't it?" said Hermione carefully.

"At least we'll get something out of it," said Ron. He'd ranted at Hermione about João and the night-club incident already; she had been darkly amused that he'd had to go into a Soho strip club in the line of duty, as it were, and said she'd wished she could have gone as well. "I still hate that we're stooping to making deals with them."

"We've been over this before…"

"Yeah, and I still hate them," Ron retorted. "André's every inch as bad as Scabior or Yaxley was, we should toss him into Azkaban and throw away the key. Mrs Ferreira is a snooty, stuck-up bitch." Hermione gave him a disapproving look, so he added, "The Brazilian Aurors think she helped out in André's gang of Dark wizards, so she ought to do some Azkaban time too. João is an evil little shit, he's like Draco was in fifth year, before he got all weepy and stuff. The only good apple in the bunch is Ana."

"She sounds nice."

"She's just a poor kid landed with a load of Dark wizards for a family. She wants to get away from them and train to be a Healer. You should meet her," said Ron. "She could tell you about wizards in Brazil, you'd like that."

"I would," smiled Hermione.

"She's looking forward to meeting you too. I told her my girlfriend's the most brilliant witch of our age," said Ron, with exaggerated smugness. "My girlfriend," he added, for emphasis. Hermione swatted him.

It was a good lunch date.


Half past five found him and Harry in the Ferreiras' kitchen, finishing takeaway curries as they took over the shift from Mavis and Neville. Ron was surprised to hear that the Wizengamot were still in the dining room with André Ferreira.

"What's up?" he asked. "It's past dinner time. Thought that lot would've knocked off by now."

"I suppose they're in a hurry to finish the deal," said Neville. "Though it beats me that there's so much to talk about."

"The devil's in the details, laddie," said Mavis Laird. "They have to be specific about which of Ferreira's charges'll be dropped, while trying to figure out what each other knows and doesn't know - from Ferreira's view, no point copping to a murder if we don't know about it, y'see? And there'll be contracts for good behaviour and such. We ain't giving him a pardon for all crimes past and future, oh no. Ferreira'll have to work out how to demand as much gold as he can get, and how much information to offer for it, while not giving away enough details that we can work it out for ourselves. And our lot'll have to haggle him down, while taking care not to appear desperate. And it'll all be done by hints and guesswork, 'cos both sides'll be wanting to get as much as they can, while giving up as little as possible. S'like poker - y'can't offer too much or too little, while not knowing how much is too much or too little."

Ron, Harry, and Neville exchanged glances, and shook their heads. It all sounded terribly complicated. Poker? Fred and George had been best at that, easily working out the odds and bluffing the other Weasleys. Ron's game was chess, where all the pieces were known, and the board was open for all to see. Poker made his brain hurt.

Mavis checked her watch. "Well, the shift's yours, Harry, Ron. Neville, get some rest. You two hold down the fort, I need to go to the office." As Senior Auror, she often had multiple investigations ongoing at once. Mavis worked overtime practically every day.

Ron thought back to the brief quarrel he'd had with Hermione. What happens when I reach Senior? Could I put in the kind of hours Mavis does? More importantly, would Hermione stand for it?

He went upstairs to check on everyone. The first floor of the townhouse held the palatial master bedroom suite, a study, and a bedroom facing the back garden, which Ana had taken. The second floor held João's room, Crabbeinho and Goylezalez's, and the guest room the Aurors had commandeered. The housekeeper couple lived on the third floor. Ana was in her room, and greeted him with a grin when he knocked on her door.

"I have been studying," she said, showing him her textbooks and papers, although they were all in Brazilian. Although she'd said she hadn't had many friends, it seemed she had enjoyed her schoolwork; Ana chattered away about Castelobruxo, and explained the Brazilian grades; Excelente, Muito Bom, Suficiente, Deficiente, and Inferior. "They say that there's a worse grade than I, B for Burro," said Ana, "but I don't know if that's true or not. I've never seen anyone get a B."

"We have something like that too," Ron smirked, wondering if anyone had really ever gotten a Troll.

"Do you think I'll be able to get into Hogwarts?" Ana asked.

Ana's papers were full of Es and Ms. What a girl to have achieved this out of a family situation like the Ferreiras. "Hogwarts would be proud to have you," he said honestly, and Ana beamed.

Ron made sure everyone was in the house; other than Ana, he didn't stop to chit-chat with any one of them. João made some gibe or other but Ron didn't even bother listening to the end of the brat's sentence before he shut the door, let alone register whatever he'd said. Then he made his way back downstairs.

He found the hallway a complete babble of activity and chatter.

Even the Ferreiras' huge and opulent townhouse looked cramped and small with twenty or so wizards and witches of all ages crammed in it. It appeared that today's meeting had just broken up; André Ferreira, Gawain Robards, Elphias Doge and the rest of the Wizengamot working group and their entourage bustled around, putting on coats and shawls and hats, stuffing parchment in briefcases, fetching odd items or just standing around talking. Although he looked calm and he kept his talk strictly non-business, chatting with a stately, elderly witch about the tropic-themed furnishings of his home, André looked piqued and put-upon. Ron guessed that this meant the day's discussions had gone well for the Ministry, and poorly for him. Good.

Robards saw him looking and, while pretending to stroke his moustache, tapped his lips twice. Say nothing. Ron blinked once, slowly and deliberately, to acknowledge. The Head Auror beckoned him over, but when he went over his boss merely stood there in silence, surveying the scene in the hallway with his usual scowl. "Well?" Robards grunted.

Ron could only guess that Robards was asking about the protection job. He answered carefully, "The house and the family are secure. Everyone's where they should be, this time."

Robards grunted. He'd had choice words to say about João's escapade. "Slower than Streelers," he grumbled, watching the Wizengamot dawdle as they packed up. The front door was open, Elphias Doge's young assistant was standing on the steps waiting for his boss.

The Boss is in a good mood, thought Ron, to be this chatty. Robards wasn't the hail-fellow-well-met how-are-they-treating-you sort of boss. Frankly, he was downright abusive to his Aurors, or so Hermione and Ginny thought. Nonetheless he commanded the respect of the whole Auror Office, not by being warm and friendly, or funny and engaging, or caring (or appearing to care) for the well-being of his men and women. No, he had their respect because he was right here in the trenches, by Ron's side, slogging through the long hours and late nights with his Aurors, fighting the criminal practitioners of the Dark Arts, as sharp an investigator and dauntless a warrior as he had ever been through some fifty years as an Auror.

If I quit the Aurors, what kind of person would my new boss be, Ron wondered…

BLAM!

Something in the house exploded.

Ron was nearly thrown off his feet; the walls and floors of the house shook and trembled, and the deep bass THUMP! of the blast seemed to pulse into his very bones.

That came from upstairs! Ron thought. His wand was out and in his hand before he consciously thought of drawing it. Around him, the Wizengamot representatives were exclaiming in shock; Elphias Doge was swearing wheezily; one elderly witch had fallen over and was picking herself up off the floor, hair and robes all askew, while the others fussed over her. Ron's eyes flashed over the room. Where's Harry? Where are the Ferreiras? André?! He was here just a moment ago - where is he now?! More loud bangs and cracks from upstairs, now screams and shouts; there was definitely a duel going on.

"An attack!" growled Robards. He had his wand out also, and the light of battle in his squinting eye.

"Sir, we need to get them all somewhere safe," said Ron urgently, gesturing at the Wizengamot group.

Robards nodded. "Do you have a bastion room in this house?"

"No room for one; no basement or cellar or anything," Ron replied. More blasts upstairs; the house shuddered again. "The formal dining room is as secure as it can be, sir. Could you hole up there with them, shield the door, and call for reinforcements? I'm going upstairs."

"Go, now," Robards ordered. "I'll get word to the Office and call out the H.I.T. Wizards, then stay here and defend this bunch." To the Wizengamot working group he barked, "Back inside the dining room! Move it!" He began grabbing people by their elbows and shoving them.

It had gone rather alarmingly quiet upstairs. Ron looked around. A vase of flowers had fallen over and lay in pieces on the floor. He picked up a large cowhide carpet; folding it double, he traced a pattern on the carpet and muttered "Duro," and then "Protego infigo." He thought for a moment, and then Transfigured a handle to his makeshift shield. The Auror Office didn't bother issuing shields because they didn't last long in a duel, but Ron reckoned it might give him a split-second's chance, and he needed every advantage going up the stairs.

Stairwells are tricky. They're narrow and cramped, you're caught like Plimpies in a barrel, and your head is the first thing that appears on the next floor, most conveniently for an ambusher looking to take it off. So Ron held his shield over his head as he went up the stairs, scanning every inch of open space. What he could see of the first floor hallway was already pitted and scorched with the marks of the duel. The instant he could, he reached up, stuck his wand over the edge, closed his eyes and yelled "Fulminate!"

Dazzling white light burst from his wand; as it did Ron ran up the last few steps, his shield up, and ran into the first room opposite the landing, the only bit of cover available. No way he could stay in that dangerously exposed hallway. As he worked the doorknob he heard a crack! and the banister rail exploded in a shower of wooden splinters. There was nobody inside the room - a study - but he heard Harry call out, "Ron!"

"Harry!" Sounded like he was calling from the master bedroom at the front of the house, thought Ron.

"One witch! In the bedroom at the back!"

"Right!" Keeping his shield pointed towards the back-facing wall of the study, he went over to the front-facing wall, and used a powerful Carving Charm to cut a neat hole through wallpaper, insulation, and brickwork. Harry's head appeared in the opening; he looked grim. Ron glimpsed other people in the bedroom behind him, probably the Ferreiras. "Is she the same bint from Diagon Alley?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Harry. "She managed to get in somehow, but that's not important; we haven't got much time, can't let her get her bearings. We go after her together, yeah? On my mark?"

Ron nodded. "You kick it off, then I'll take point."

"Cover your eyes."

Ron crouched by the door of the study. He had time for a deep breath. Then Harry's Dazzling Charm blasted the first floor hallway with light. As it faded, Ron stepped out, his improvised shield in front of him; he saw an indistinct robed figure in the doorway of one of the bedrooms, partially shielded by the jamb, and he shot a non-verbal Stunning Spell at it. A jinx rebounded off his improvised shield, the force of it slamming the edge painfully against his cheek. Then he lost his footing and his legs shot out from beneath him, and he fell heavily to the floor, which was now slippery beyond all possibility.

Over his head Harry threw a curse; the battered bedroom wall finally gave way and collapsed in a cloud of bricks and dust; Harry made a spiralling jab with his wand and the dust cloud turned into a miniature localised dust-devil, whirling around and around inside what was left of the bedroom. Within the dust cloud, glimpses of a flailing figure could be seen.

Ron jabbed his wand at the floor, concentrated, and said, "Refixo!" It remained as slippery as ever with whatever jinx the witch had placed on it. He tried again: "Finite Incantatem!" That worked; the floor returned to its normal texture, and he jumped to his feet. The dust cloud suddenly shot their way at gale force speeds, stinging Ron's cheeks with bits of sand; as a chunk of brick struck his shoulder painfully he jabbed his wand out and yelled "Evanesco!" The dust vanished, but not before a spell shot out of the murk and slammed into Ron's improvised shield; the former carpet burst into fragments and Ron cried out as pain shot up his arm and he stumbled to the floor again with the force of the blast.

But there she was, standing in the ruined back bedroom, nothing between her and Ron and Harry now. Ron thrust his wand out, at the same moment that Harry pointed his.

"Stupefy!"

"Expelliarmus!"

The witch reacted with all the speed Ron remembered from Diagon Alley, ducking and dodging, blocking their jinxes and flinging back a few of her own. Deflected and blocked curses and hexes hissed and burst deafeningly all around them. But just as before, there was no way she could keep this up, and all three of them knew it. Slowly but surely, covering each other, Harry and Ron advanced until they were almost out of the hallway and standing right outside what was left of the demolished bedroom wall, and a mere twenty feet separated the combatants.

The witch nimbly dodged another of Ron's Stunners, seemed to frown in concentration for a moment, then jabbed her wand at them and yelled in a harsh, accented voice: "Avada Kedavra!"

The jet of deadly green magic came flying straight at Ron and Harry.

In a close-quarters duel like this, crammed in the hallway of a house, there's really nothing one can do about an oncoming Killing Curse, except duck and pray, and that was what they did. Ron threw himself aside and hugged the battered floor as closely as he could, and watched the spell miss him by inches. Sickly-green light shone from it, lighting up the hallway weirdly, and the air around it seemed to burn as it passed with a howl that Ron wasn't quite sure was just the wind or… something.

The Killing Curse streaked down the hallway, narrowly missing Harry as well, struck the far wall and blasted bits of brick from it.

Ron and Harry exchanged shocked looks, scanned each other - he's alive, thought Ron with relief - then turned their attention back on the witch. She had taken that instant of their distraction to blast out the wall of the bedroom facing the back garden and pull out a broom from somewhere. She flung another jinx backhand as she swung her leg over the broom. Ron threw up a Shield Charm that deflected the jinx into the ceiling; deep slashes appeared in the ceiling panels, like the claw-marks of a jaguar. As she planted her feet firmly and kicked off Harry rolled over on the floor and snarled, "REDUCTO!"

The broom shattered into fragments of teakwood and twig; the witch screamed as she fell down and out of sight.

Ron and Harry leaped up and ran to the gaping hole that had formerly been the first floor back wall of the house. For a moment the two of them stood there, panting and catching their breath. Down below, the witch scrambled to her feet. She directed a curse at the high walls surrounding the garden; the blast shivered the spell-reinforced masonry and brought down a couple of bricks, but the wall stayed intact; it would take ages for her to break through, and she knew it. Now she half-ran, half-stumbled towards the shed at the end of the garden. Ron shot a spell down at her; it ploughed into the grass at her heels and she screamed something angry over her shoulder. "Where does she think she's off to?" he gasped.

"Thinks it's a broom shed, maybe," Harry replied. The witch blasted the door of the shed off its hinges and ran inside. Ron wondered how she would react on finding that there were no brooms inside, just spades, rakes, and compost. Seconds later she ran back out and towards the house, her wand held up high. Harry shot jinxes at her, impacting on her Shield Charm or kicking up the grass; he said urgently to Ron, "She's going to go through the house, head her off!"

Ron was already tearing down the stairs. He bolted round the newel at the bottom, dashed up the hallway, flung open the kitchen door just as the witch made it in, and swept his wand in a wide arc yelling "IMPELLO!"

The kitchen was suddenly a raging hailstorm of household goods. Every pot, pan, kettle, cup, plate, the dining table and four chairs, and the block of knives next to the basin jumped into the air and threw themselves at her; the witch batted most of them aside with a single slash of her wand and threw up her arm to protect her head, but then she screamed as a heavy stockpot slammed into her side and a bread-knife razored across her cheek, narrowly missing her eyes.

"P-p-protego!" she gasped, but she was a touch too slow; from behind Ron, Harry conjured a rope that whipped around her ankles and yanked her off her feet, and she went down with another scream. Her hands flailed wildly and her Shield Charm went flying upwards to the ceiling.

Ron saw his chance. "IMPEDIMENTA!" he snapped.

And finally, it was over.

Even though she was immobilised, Ron watched over the witch as Harry wrestled the wand out of her grip. He recognised her definitely as the witch from Diagon Alley; the same exotic olive complexion, thin hawk-like nose, and scowling blue eyes under thick black shoulder-length hair. Splinters were stuck in her scalp, and her cheek was cut to the bone and bleeding torrentially. Up close he realised she appeared to be in her mid to late 30s. She was dressed in robes that resembled a Wizengamot Administration Office worker's; and Ron realised that this was how she had sneaked in right under their noses. Pretended to be with the Wizengamot working group. Everyone assumed she was someone's assistant. Ron felt a stab of begrudging admiration for the sheer boldness of the move. "Are the Ferreiras alright?" he asked Harry.

"Mr and Mrs Ferreira is, and Ana," said Harry, panting. "She got João. Hit him with a Killing Curse meant for André. She brought down Goylezalez too I think, while I was trying to shove everyone into the master bedroom. You'd better tell Robards. Where is he, by the way?"

"Barricaded in the dining room with the Wizengamot. Watch her, yeah?"

João's dead. Ana isn't, nor André. Ron wondered how he ought to feel about that as he briefed Robards. The Head Auror didn't seem unduly upset; he relaxed visibly as Ron told him that André Ferreira was alive. The reinforcements were coming, though delayed because of the Anti-Apparation Jinxes that had been put up around the house. Two H.I.T. Wizards came charging through the front door and began escorting the Wizengamot representatives into a Ministry Rolls-Royce, their wands out and heads scanning every which way. Robards left them to it and followed Ron back to the kitchen.

Harry had handcuffed the witch. She couldn't conceal her disappointment, but she didn't seem exactly heartbroken either. As Robards and another H.I.T. Wizard gripped her by the shoulders to escort her to the custody cells in the Auror Office, she said almost conversationally, "You cannot hide them forever."

"Right, well, that's as may be, but it'll be a while before you get anywhere near them," growled Robards. "It's Azkaban for you for twenty years to life, since you've done in the young 'un; d'you think it was worth it?"

But she didn't reply to that, or say anything else at all, as they took her away.

Standing there with Harry in the utter mess of the kitchen, Ron found himself panting, and trembling, and weak all over; he suddenly remembered the flashes of the spells flying near him, and realised how close he had come to being cursed. Curious how he hadn't noticed at the time, yet now he was replaying every second over and over in his mind and couldn't stop. He sat down on the floor, leaned against the wall, and breathed deeply. Across from him Harry too was sitting down, his hand propped up on one knee and holding his wand loosely; Harry caught his eye and grinned tiredly. "Alright there, mate?" said Ron.

Harry let out a chuckle, almost a giggle. "Nice one, Ron."

"You didn't do so bad either."

Harry shrugged. "How was she, on a Quirrell to Voldemort?"

"Mm, reckon maybe a Dolohov. Not up to Bellatrix."

"Ah no, not old Bella."

Ron wondered what it said about them, that he and Harry found it funny, this very private joke of theirs. Some things you really just kept between yourself and your best mate. The one time he had mentioned it to Hermione, she had been quite unamused; extremely, stridently, and loudly unamused. But they only joked like this when they'd come close to severe injury or death. That jet of green flashing past… Ron was still replaying the duel in his head. In time, he'd stop fixating and get on with work, but for now, he was content to sit here on the floor, catch his breath, look at his best mate and giggle.

From somewhere upstairs he heard a wail, and then sobbing.

Ron and Harry glanced at each other; there was a regretful look on Harry's face now, and he was no longer grinning. "They've found out about João," Harry said quietly.

"Yeah," said Ron. Poor Ana. "Fuck."


A/N: Two chapters only to go!