PROLOGUE

Mourning and Unmooring

Harry Potter laid his broken wand upon the headmaster's desk, touched it with the very tip of the Elder Wand, and said "Reparo." As his wand was resealed, red sparks flew out of its end. Harry knew that he had succeeded. He picked up the holly and phoenix wand and felt a sudden warmth in his fingers, as though wand and hand were rejoicing at their reunion.

"I'm putting the Elder Wand," he told Dumbledore, who was watching him with enormous affection and admiration, "back where it came from. It can stay there. If I die a natural death like Ignotus, its power will be broken, won't it? The previous master will never have been defeated. That'll be the end of it."

Dumbledore nodded. They smiled at each other.

"Are you sure?" said Ron. There was the faintest trace of longing in his voice as he looked at the Elder Wand.

"I think Harry's right," said Hermione quietly.

"That wand's more trouble than it's worth," said Harry. "And quite honestly," he turned away from the painted portraits to face his closest friends, "I've had enough trouble for a lifetime."

Their smiles were less buoyant than they might have otherwise been, weighted by fatigue and incredulity after all they'd seen and done, dragged down to the weary depths. When they turned to leave and Ron took Hermione's hand in his, the sunlight reached their faces and they lifted away, riling the bottoms in their wake. Harry stood mired as he watched them go, flotsam he'd believed long buried swirling all around him. He reached for it.

When they realized he was no longer following they turned, questions woven into their knitted brows. "Are you coming, Harry?" Hermione asked.

"I have another question for Dumbledore," he attempted an easy smile, but it was more difficult than it seemed, "you two go on ahead."

It was a sign of how eager they both were to claim spoils of the war which had united them in a shared, private purpose that neither called him on the obvious evasion. Ron caught Harry's eye, evidently satisfied by whatever he thought he saw there, and pulled at Hermione's hand. She regarded him quizzically for a moment, but then she and Ron exchanged a meaningful glance, and Harry saw the argument leave her.

"Meet us in the Great Hall when you're done, Harry," Ron said, tugging her along.

Harry's second attempt at a smile was no more convincing than the first, but it hardly mattered; neither of his friends had stayed long enough to witness it. He held the detritus close to his chest – discarded, waterlogged thoughts which now seemed to him invaluable treasures – as he ascended the spiral staircase.

««««»»»»

Trays floated gracefully, weaving throughout a sea of partygoers who crowded the festively decorated Ministry atrium. One gliding nearby was loaded with champaign flutes, bubbles sparkling in the dim light like a beacon, pleasant tinkling of glass their siren's song. Harry cast a few cursory glances in either direction before reaching out to claim one, slipping it quickly between the folds of his invisibility cloak. Raising the glass without lifting the cloak in the process was a bit awkward, but he managed it.

As fizzy courage burned his throat, Harry's eyes fell to the dais, a temporary construction which concealed the bastardized statue at the center of the atrium. He wondered if they'd discover a way to transfigure it back, or if they'd replace it, or if they'd simply keep it hidden. The final option seemed to him the most fitting, given the location. Smokescreens were the Ministry's default, even still. Case in point, the reason he'd stood atop the dais earlier that evening, flanked by Ron and Hermione as Kingsley Shacklebolt adorned them each with Orders of Merlin, first class.

After a monthslong funeral procession, the public was eager to swap mourning for celebration, the Minister had said. A gala at the Ministry to decorate three beloved war heroes was an ideal way to turn the page, he'd insisted. Seeing the 'Golden Trio' – Harry's lip had curled at Kingsley's use of the combined moniker the Prophet had coined – on the front pages would inspire the masses, he'd declared, it would herald the coming age of healing and reconstruction. Harry was surprised by how little time Kingsley spent in his post before resorting to political theater, and he'd told him as much, though privately the hope of moving on resonated.

In the months following the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry attended five funerals, the memories of which he would carry the rest of his days. Dennis Creevey refused to speak a word throughout his brother's ceremony. While Harry delivered a eulogy Mr. Creevy had swelled with pride, and Mrs. Creevy had dabbed eyes which refused to run dry. Harry hardly noticed them, his focus returning again and again to the sloping shoulders and haunted expression of a young boy facing a future made darker by the snuffing of his guiding light.

Lavender Brown's funeral was attended by every Gryffindor Harry remembered, and many he didn't. Far too much time had been spent showering Harry with praise and gratitude. It was unseemly, though only he – and Lavender's aggrieved parents – had taken notice. It was a small grace that, with so many speakers, Harry was moderately less self-conscious of the brevity of his remarks. It was a funny thing, how he could know someone so long without ever truly knowing them at all.

Nymphadora Tonks and Remus Lupin were buried together alongside Tonks' father in what was easily the highest profile service of them all. The collection of friends, family, dignitaries, and reporters dwarfed even that of Rufus Scrimgeour's well-attended service. Harry sat next to Andromeda who held Teddy in her arms as the Minister declared their fallen family war heroes and awarded them Orders of Merlin. It struck Harry as peculiar that Teddy, still just an infant, was the only attendee who hadn't cried.

The most sparsely attended funeral was held for Severus Snape. The late potions master had not, despite Harry's repeated petitioning of the Minister, been awarded an Order of Merlin. Nearly all the events which unfolded during the Second Wizarding War had been sealed and filed away to collect dust in restricted Ministry storage rooms, and it was therefore hard to justify decorating Snape when his role in felling Voldemort would forever remain secret. Harry declared him a hero anyway, though only Ron, Hermione, and Professors McGonagall, Sprout, and Flitwick were present to hear it.

Fred's funeral had been the toughest. The Weasleys were a family known for their perseverance, their indominable optimism, for a joy which seemed to permeate any space in which they gathered. Harry had never witnessed them in such a state of grief. His heart physically ached as he watched each of Fred's survivors wail and shout and whimper their love and sorrow, but it was George's speech which truly gutted him. His quiet, somber agony was as unnatural as the absolute stillness of the twin his tears fell upon. It hollowed Harry so thoroughly that he'd hardly noticed Ron squeezing his hand throughout.

Harry counted all seven deaths amongst many other reasons he hadn't deserved bring propped on a stage that evening to have fancy metal pinned to his chest while camera bulbs burst and sycophants applauded. Ron and Hermione deserved the recognition, though, and that was some consolation. He spotted them as the thought occurred, talking to a handful of gushing admirers who'd crowded around them. Ron hung a large, freckled hand on Hermione's waist. Hermione let her head lean nonchalantly against Ron's shoulder as she listened to someone speaking. Harry downed his champagne.

He'd just vanished the glass and was preparing to snag another when he realized the elderly witch he'd been tailing was nowhere to be seen. He scanned the room but couldn't find her, nor could he find the middle-aged wizard with hat which matched hers and nose hair long enough to bridge the gap to a bushy moustache. His suspicions, it seemed, had been well founded. Champaign forgotten, he weaved unseen between the crowd towards the back of the atrium and the lifts waiting to pull passengers into the abyss.

He slipped in silently behind a man wearing robes of the same horrid dusty plumb color as his hat, just managing to tug the fringe of his cloak through before the doors closed. A smooth voice announced their arrival at level nine, and Harry steeled himself, keeping his footfalls light and the gap between them wide as he tailed the man out of the lift. He paused near the door to Department of Mysteries, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder before ascending the stairs to its left. Harry released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding as he began his climb.

With his ear pressed to the door at the end of the path, a familiar sense of unease settled over Harry, and he spared a regretful thought for his foregone second glass of champaign. His suspicions were confirmed when the sounds of shuffling subsided, and the low, rumbling voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt read the names of the accused. He folded his invisibility cloak, tucked it away, and entered courtroom ten.

Kingsley's voice faltered as the doors swung wide, and though he didn't spare them a glance, Harry felt the eyes of each member of the Wizengamot tracking his progress towards a seat in the observation pews. The Minister cleared his throat; Harry stared up at him, defiant. "Mr. Potter, though your presence is always appreciated, this trial is not open to members of the public. I regret I must insist you see yourself out."

Harry cringed inwardly at the words he prepared to say, but kept his face neutral as he stood and said them anyway. "I am not a member of the public, Kingsley. I am the savior of the wizarding world, the chosen one, and the reason this trial can occur at all. I have relevant testimony regarding this trial, and I regret that I must insist it be shared." He raked his gaze over the legislative body. "I'm certain the esteemed Wizengamot will demand all facts be relayed so that they can reach a just verdict."

Kingsley bristled at the use of his name in lieu of title and seemed prepared to argue, but Harry's words were already having their desired effect on the witches and wizards flanking him. Kingsley's eyes tightened almost imperceptibly the moment they both realized Harry's gambit had succeeded, smoothing his expression and holding his hands wide in a gesture of good will, his smile not quite meeting his eyes. "The court is grateful for the council of the hero of the Second Wizarding War," he proclaimed to murmurs of agreement.

Harry took his seat as the trial proceeded and thought of Dumbledore, of what he might say if he knew Harry had followed his example in this moment as well, that he'd come to the defense of those who the Ministry was determined to make examples of. He thought of the accused and wondered if they felt the same sinking despair which had once settled heavily in his own stomach when he'd sat where they did now.

When Kingsley invited him to speak – begrudgingly, and by invoking the moniker The Prophet adored yet Harry despised – he stood. "It still feels strange to be referred to that way, Kingsley. I was just a child, just like so many others caught up in the war, just like Draco Malfoy." Harry looked at him for the first time since he'd saved him in the Room of Requirement, then immediately wished he hadn't. Malfoy looked terrible; his robes were torn and dirty, his cheeks sunken and waxy, the splotchy dark circles around his eyes like bruises. An unbidden thought of Sirius the night they'd met in the Shrieking Shack came to him, and he had to turn back to the court before he was able to continue.

"Draco was put in an impossible situation. When Voldemort tasked him with killing Albus Dumbledore, the price for his failure was set at the life of his parents. Whatever you think of Lucius and Narcissa, to Draco, they're mum and dad. Of course he would go to whatever lengths necessary to save them, who here wouldn't have done the same?" Harry ignored the skeptical glances and grumbled disagreements as he pressed on. "He tried, yes, but he didn't succeed."

A man with a head which seemed small on his shoulders, smaller still topped with an overlarge hat, leaned forward with a sanctimonious sneer. "It is an established fact that Draco Malfoy killed Albus Dumbledore."

"What evidence was that fact established on?" Harry challenged; he caught a glimpse of the man's pursed lips before he leaned back into the shadows. "I was there that night, I saw Severus Snape cast the curse which killed him, a fate Dumbledore knew of and accepted; encouraged, in fact." He spoke louder to be heard over the rising grumbling. "Fetch a pensive if you don't believe me, I'll show you. Absent a crime he did not commit, what is Draco accused of?" It was rhetorical, but he waited a few moments for attempted answers which didn't come. "He shouldn't be punished for the crimes of his father; Dumbledore recognized that, so do I, and so should this body."

"Narcissa Malfoy," he continued loudly, quieting the small discussions breaking out amongst the Wizengamot, "saved my life in the Forbidden Forest." He ignored the thinly veiled alarm in Kingsley's stare, no doubt wondering if Harry was preparing to divulge classified details of 'dangerous magical theory which would be catastrophic in the wrong hands'. "Voldemort tried to kill me, he thought he succeeded, and he ordered Narcissa to confirm that he had. She felt my pulse, and at my request, she turned and lied in the face of the most dangerous man who ever lived. Her bravery saved my life, and in turn, all of yours."

"I rid this world of Voldemort." Harry let the statement hang in the silent courtroom, looking at the shadow shrouded faces of each witch and wizard looming overhead in turn. "I have demanded nothing in return, I expect nothing, but I am asking that justice be served here today. Draco is guilty of nothing, and though Narcissa Malfoy's efforts to support the resistance may not be widely known, they were crucial to our success just the same. I urge you to you reach the same judgement I have and dismiss the charges against them."

Harry waited, determined not to squirm as they conferred amongst themselves, watching closely for any indication of where the cards might fall. He could feel the Malfoys' stares boring into him, but he did not return them. After what seemed an eternity, the Minister leaned forward. "What of Lucius?"

"What of him?"

Kingsley looked to his left, then his right, then at Harry who caught a spark in his eye that made him wonder if he'd been hoping for this outcome all along. If so, he'd played his part convincingly. Draco and Narcissa Malfoy were acquitted, though Draco by a much slimmer margin. Harry didn't wait for Lucius's sentence to be handed down; he knew Azkaban awaited him. He avoided looking towards the Malfoys as he passed them and exited, hopefully for the final time, courtroom ten.

««««»»»»

One moment was blissful silence and absolute darkness, and the next, jarring pounding and undesired morning light. "Harry! Breakfast!"

Harry groaned and fumbled at the bedside table for his glasses, blinking blearily as the world came into focus. The utter banality of this room never ceased to amaze him, even moments after being forcefully roused from sleep. When he first arrived, had assumed the explanation was Percy taking all his decorations and personal affects with him when he moved out of the Burrow. "Eerie isn't it," Ron had said the day they carried Harry's belongings down from his room, "it's like he never left."

Harry had enjoyed staying in Ron's room while it lasted, but that all changed once Hermione returned from Australia to attend their pinning ceremony. He'd steadfastly ignored Ron's repeated suggestions that he stay in Ginny's room, just as Ron ignored Harry's repeated insistence that would never happen. His stomach turned over as he thought about heading down for breakfast for reasons which had nothing to do with Mrs. Weasley's cooking. He'd always enjoyed his time spent at the Burrow, but like so much else, it didn't feel the same following the war.

He and Ginny had hardly spoken to one another since the Battle of Hogwarts. Shouting 'Breakfast!' while pounding on the door, rather than gently knocking and poking her head in as she'd once done, was just one of many clues evidencing their changed relationship. He suspected the reason she avoided him like Dragonpox was to get out of confessing she was seeing Dean Thomas again, a fact which bothered him far less than her running out of every room he entered. If anything, it was a relief; an easy out he likely didn't deserve but would take regardless.

George hardly ever showed his face. Whenever Molly successfully cajoled him into joining a meal, he was quiet and reserved; two words Harry never thought he'd use to describe the once energetic and irreverent prankster. Arthur's days at the Ministry were long with them being in full damage recovery mode, his absence further contributing to the aura of loneliness surrounding his consistently plaintive wife. Ron and Hermione were all over each other at any given moment, of course. To be fair, they did make efforts to include him; but it was strained, and they didn't seem to enjoy time spent together any more than he did.

Making a quick decision, Harry pulled on yesterday's clothes and grabbed his Firebolt before stomping down the stairs. He snagged a scone on his way through the kitchen, threw a hurried and apologetic excuse over his shoulder, and nearly ran right into Mrs. Weasley when she stepped into his path. He nodded placatingly as she reminded him of his promise to help decorate, assuring her he hadn't forgotten as he squeezed around her. The scone settled his stomach and the wind on his face settled his mind as he took a lazy, winding path through the hills of Devon.

The plan that evening was to come together and celebrate the lives of those they'd lost, their contributions to the war, and the indelible marks they'd made on those who remained. Everyone seemed excited, but Harry couldn't match their enthusiasm; parties seemed the same as funerals to him lately, only with brighter clothing and moderately less difficult conversations. It had been George's idea though. If George was turning a corner, Harry wanted to support him, even if he did half suspect it was only a ruse that would allow him to get tossed. Molly refused to permit him alcohol, going so far as to charm his room – and eventually the entire Burrow – to prevent it. It was a ruse, Harry was prepared to support him in that as well.

That evening as Harry was nursing his fourth glass of gin, Kingsley Shacklebolt sidled up next to him, having come straight from the Ministry it seemed given his formal attire. "You made quite an impression on the Wizengamot, Harry. No doubt the Malfoys would have fared far worse had it not been for your intervention." When Harry didn't respond, still puzzling out whether he was cross or impressed, he added, "You have a knack for persuading people. Have you considered entering politics?"

Harry snorted, the sound coming out a bit more derisive than intended, though only just. "Don't worry, Kingsley," he said flatly. "I'm not after your job."

"That's a relief," the Minister's laugh was a deep and pleasant sound, a tool often put to better uses than trying to convince Harry that the war hadn't made him just as cynical as the rest of them, "I'm not sure I could stop you."

"You didn't seem like you were trying to stop me," Harry ventured. "In the courtroom, I mean."

Kingsley sipped his drink, regarding him in silence, but Harry didn't bother trying to parse meaning from his curious expression. His gaze trailed over the crowd of partygoers, dancing and talking animatedly beneath floating fairy lights. Each of those accursed things had needed to be charmed individually; it had taken the three of them nearly an hour, though it might have taken less time had Ron and Hermione spent more time charming the lights rather than each other. Lost in an unwelcome cavalcade of images he'd just as soon forget, Harry was taken by surprise when Kingsley eventually responded. "It's the Chief Warlock who presides, I was simply there as an arbiter of the court."

Harry's laugh was a high-pitched, mildly embarrassing reminder of his growing intoxication. "Politicians are supposed to be good liars, Kingsley."

"I suppose I'll have to work on that part." Harry clinked his glass against Kingsley's, accepting a toast which hadn't been on offer. "Ah," he added brightly, his smile turning a bit more genuine, "Minerva, it's wonderful to see you!"

Harry followed his gaze to Headmistress McGonagall, striding their way wearing robes which matched her hat and made Harry wonder if she owned any clothing that wasn't emerald green. Based on her slightly unsteady gait, Harry suspected she had also taken a liking to the open bar. "Hello Kingsley, Harry. I saw the pictures of the medal ceremony in this morning's Prophet. Quite the affair from the looks of it, I am sorry I wasn't able to attend."

"That's alright, Headmistress."

"Harry, please, it's Minerva. Unless, of course, you've decided to return this semester after all?"

"Not a chance, Harry and I are going to be Aurors." Harry perked up, straightening his posture and schooling his face without really considering it as Ron slung an arm over his shoulder.

"Auror training requires several N.E.W.T.s," Hermione, ever the voice of reason, reminded him, "none of which you have earned."

"They waive that requirement when you're a fancy war hero, right boss?" Ron winked at Kingsley, and Harry hid under cover of the groups shared laughter to give Ron a discrete once over. Recalling the horrid dress robes Ron begrudgingly sported at the Yule Ball all those years ago, Harry decided he had absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about this evening.

"So long as I don't have cause to reevaluate that decision, Mr. Weasley," Kingsley said, his stern tone at odds with a conspiratorial wink.

Grandstanding, exerting undue influence, trading special favors; and that was all just in the last week. Harry was repulsed both by how well suited Kingsley was to the swamp, and by his own naivety in believing him someone capable of draining it. "Only the Head Auror reports to the Minister, the rest of the DMLE reports to him." Harry ignored Ron's pointed look and Kingsley ignored Harry's snide remark as he turned a well-practiced smile on Hermione.

"I understand the Unspeakables have extended a similar offer to you."

"Yes, but I feel it's important to get my full education before beginning my career," Hermione said primly. "I would be doing myself a disservice, otherwise."

"I just want to kiss you to stop you saying such ridiculous things." Ron's rm fell from Harry's shoulder as he tried following through on his threat.

"Headmistress," Hermione began, ducking her head and shaking it at Ron's grumbling, "will we remain in our houses this year? I've been in touch with some of the returning students, and most believe we will. I'm wondering, however, if this will this be a repeat of our seventh year, or if will it be classified as an eighth year, in which case…"

Harry tuned out Hermione as he tossed back the last of his gin, silently thanking her for unintentionally providing a distraction which he used to slip away and find a replacement. As he cast about for the nearest drink tray, his eyes landed on George who was sitting atop a folding chair away from the other partygoers, his feet propped up on another, staring directly at him. He lifted his hand and gave a weak wave, and when Harry hesitantly matched it with one of his own, George raised a bottle of firewhiskey and cocked his head.

"There he is," George crowed, wobbling unsteadily on his perch as Harry drew near, "the man of the hour."

"Hardly," Harry scoffed, "this isn't my party."

"You're the man of every hour." Harry didn't recognize the expression he saw on George's face just then, but it was gone before he could ponder it too long. "What do you say you and I get out of here and indulge?" He raised the bottle, waggling it along with his eyebrows.

"I've never been a fan of firewhiskey."

"That only means you haven't had enough practice," George said sagely. "I'll show you how it's done."

"Not much to indulge in, from the looks of it."

George fumbled for his wand before pointing it at the bottle, taking it from nearly empty to entirely full in an instant. "There, fixed." He gave Harry a cheeky grin as he hopped up with more finesse than Harry would have expected by his slightly slurred speech; not that he was in any position to criticize. "Come on, Mr. Hero."

Harry pulled a face. "Not if you call me that."

"Sorry, Mr. Chosen One," he quipped, taking a healthy draw before offering the bottle to Harry. Harry confirmed it tasted just as dreadful as it had the last time he'd tired it then handed it back. "Come on, before anyone notices the guest of honor has departed." George beckoned him with exaggerated waves as he began ambling down the path.

"I mean it George, enough with that," Harry called, but he was already following.

They plopped down near the pond, the celebration reduced to dim lights and muted echoes of revelry in the distance. Harry wondered when the sounds of other people's happiness turned from an invitation to a reminder of his own lack thereof. The silence stretched on as they passed the bottle between them. Harry didn't acquire a taste for it so much as an appreciation for the way it inured him to his own thoughts.

George swirled the bottle, mesmerized by its eddying amber contents as he said, "Auror training, then? Is the plan to spend your entire life saving the townsfolk from Unspeakable evil? Bit predictable, isn't it?"

"There is no plan," Harry reached for the bottle, ignoring George's cocky grin as he uncorked it, "I never said yes to being an Auror. Ron just sort of said yes for both of us."

"You don't want to?"

Harry shrugged as he swigged. George's pale skin seemed to glow in the halfmoon light, his fingers fidgeting like a ghostly spider as it explored the earth between them. Harry pretended to squish it with the bottle, grinning lopsidedly as he looked up at George and found him staring right back at with an intensity that both frightened and emboldened him. "I think I want to leave."

"Me too," George admitted quietly. How had he gotten so close?

"Yeah?" Harry breathed.

"Yeah," he confirmed, his lips brushing Harry's, his voice too faint to even be called a whisper.

"We should." Recognizing the signs didn't make the moment it happened any less shocking, and it took a beat before Harry kissed him back. He could feel George's heartbeat through thin cotton; it was racing just as quickly as his own. Without breaking their kiss, George shifted his weight and leaned over Harry, easing him down to the grass. Harry's back was cold and wet as his shirt soaked through, but it was easy to ignore with George's warm, grounding weight pressing into him.

"Have you done this before?" George asked, short of breath as his hand trailed up Harry's shirt.

"No." Harry's hands explored George's long arms, the curve of his shoulders and the nape of his neck with more confidence than his shaky tone suggested he possessed.

"Me either. Do you want to?" Harry caught it lurking behind earnest brown eyes, a creature wrought from uncertainty and heart-wrenching ache that had slipped through the opening Fred created, still feeding on its host, still thriving. Though his need to banish the foul thing wasn't the reason he wanted George, it made it easier to set his fear aside and say, "Yes." George hesitated, like he believed what he heard but doubted whether it was said for the right reasons, an uncertainty Harry was intimately familiar with.

He grabbed the back of George's neck and pulled him into a kiss, ground his arousal against George's to prove he meant it. They littered the shore with their clothing, piece by piece, mouths separating only when absolutely necessary, hands ceaselessly exploring. The faint sounds of the party were drowned out entirely by the blood pounding in Harry's ears, George's heavy breathing, a chorus of gasps and moans escaping into the night. At last, the only happiness he heard was his own, was theirs. His skin seemed to burn anywhere George touched it, his every nerve firing with a kind of release he hadn't realized he'd been craving.

It was clumsy; full of fumbling hands, inexperienced attempts, and second guesses. It was perfect.

««««»»»»

Somewhere around his seventh or eighth whiskey, when the crowd had thinned to a mere suggestion of it's former glory, Ron realized Harry was nowhere to be found. Or was it his ninth whiskey? No, he was sure it was only the eighth; pretty sure. "'Mione, have you seen Harry?" he asked, scanning over her shoulder as they swayed to gentle music.

"Not since we were talking with McGonagall earlier, why?"

"Dunno, just don't see him."

"Maybe he went to bed. That's what sensible people do when they've had too much to drink," she said, all fond exasperation and poorly hidden scolding, "they go to bed."

"Harry's not sensible," Ron reminded her. "He hasn't been himself lately." His face screwed up in concentration as he flipped through recent evidence of Harry's peculiar behavior in his mind; turning down Ginny's offer to stay in her room, being all fidgety when he hung out with him and Hermione, and then there was the whole Malfoy incident.

"None of us have, Ron," Hermione said kindly. "I'm sure he just went to bed, where else would he be? Maybe we should go too, most of the guests have left anyway, and—," she broke off, the look in her eyes suspiciously close to concern. "Let's get going."

"I'm going to look around for him," Ron said, stepping away then stumbling as she grabbed his wrist and held him back.

"Ron," she said imploringly. What exactly she was imploring, Ron wasn't sure.

"What? He could be hurt."

"He's not," she let out a little huff and shook her head. She was pretty when she was frustrated; he had half a mind to frustrate her more often but he wasn't sure how, it always just happened by accident. "Take a quick look around, but then come meet me. Fifteen minutes, alright?

"You got it, 'Mione," he said, already scanning the dwindling guests for Harry. Ron was remarkably focused when he wanted to be. He fended off requests for conversation, offered drinks, and only helped himself to two measly finger sandwiches as he checked all the obvious places. Frustrated and with five minutes to spare before curfew, he withdrew his wand. It took a few attempts, but eventually, he managed to produce a patronus.

"Alright mate, let's find Harry." He stumbled after the Jack Russel Terrier, congratulating himself on his genius as it bounded off toward the pond. It vanished near the edge, but when Ron looked around, Harry wasn't there. He wondered if patronuses could get drunk too, but then he heard it, a soft voice just around the bend. He walked towards the sound, then promptly wished he hadn't.

There was Harry – starkers – and George – also starkers – in what appeared to be a state of sexual bliss. Ron gaped in horror as they whispered to one another, completely oblivious to their uninvited guest, their eyes only for each other. The red mark on Harry's bum bore a disturbing resemblance to a handprint. Suddenly furious, Ron spun and stomped, then ran, toward the Burrow.

"Back with a minute to spare, I'm impressed. Oomph. Ron! What are you–?" Ron pushed Hermione against the bed and kissed her, rough and needy. It took her a moment to catch on – even smart people had their slow moments, he figured – but then she kissed him back, joining him in ignoring her questions and their entirely self-evident answers.

It was aggressive, animalistic, and raw. Afterwards, Hermione said it'd been the best they'd ever had, and Ron was entirely unsatisfied.

On the first day of Auror training – a week after the incident, as he'd termed it – Ron examined his reflection in the bathroom mirror and wondered what exactly he was in for. Harry had made several attempts to meet up with Ron since the party, but he'd begged off, not bothering to think of new excuses, just saying he was busy. To be fair, he had been busy lately. He and Hermione were in the process of moving into their new flat, his mum needed help at the Burrow, he'd been hard at work figuring out how to look Harry in the face after seeing things he could never unsee, normal life stuff.

Now the day had come, and he'd no longer have a choice but to see Harry. He wasn't sure he was ready, in fact, he was pretty sure he wasn't. He gave himself another quick once over, delivered a pep talk he wouldn't admit to delivering under penalty of death, and headed downstairs to kiss Hermione goodbye. He recognized her voice as he approached the living room, but he couldn't quite make out who she was talking to. "'Mione, who's there?"

"It's your mum, she's worried about George," Hermione called over her shoulder before turning back to the fire, adopting what Ron thought of as her 'patient mum' tone of voice. It was the same soothing voice she used whenever assuring him she'd killed a spider he'd stumbled across. Ron shuddered. "I'm sure there's nothing to worry about, Molly, you said yourself the clock has been acting strange lately. I'll come over and help you fix it, and then you'll see he's just fine. Alright?"

Puzzled, Ron watched as Hermione ended the floo call. "What's she on about?"

"Apparently George's hand on your family clock is pointing to 'lost'," she explained, dusting off her knees as she stood. "and she thinks he's actually lost somewhere. Personally, I think the clock is just being a bit philosophical. At any rate, I'm heading over to look it over." She took a step back, her eyes raking up and down his body as her lips curved into an appreciative smile. "You fill this out nicely, don't you?"

Ron smiled and leaned in to kiss her. "Tell mum I love her."

"I will. Let's go out tonight, you can tell me all about your first day."

"You got it," he smiled, pecking her once more on the forehead before dissapparating.

Auror training began with several weeks of classes, Ron had been less than thrilled to discover. Seated near the back of a classroom that forcibly reminded him of Professor Bins' dusty old lecture hall, Ron tried to assure himself that the similarity wasn't a sign of things to come as he watched other recruits filing in and selecting their seats. No one sat next to him, likely saving the seat for Harry, he assumed. Their instructor joined them the moment the clock struck eight, but Harry still hadn't shown.

"Good morning, recruits! I am Head Trainer Anders Cole; you may address me as 'sir' or 'Mr. Cole'. Now, I–," the man stopped abruptly, raising a bemused eyebrow. "Question already, Mr. Weasley?"

Ron felt his ears burn as a few of the recruits snickered, and he lowered his hand sheepishly as he cleared his throat. "Shouldn't we wait for Harry, sir?"

"As I'm sure you are already aware," he said slowly, narrowing his eyes in what Ron hoped was confusion and not premature disdain, "Mr. Potter has declined to participate in this training." Ron knew the instructor kept speaking because his mouth kept moving, but all he heard was a deafening ringing noise filling the room as he pictured George's hand on the family clock.

Lost.