CHAPTER 1

The Deputy Head Constable

5 YEARS LATER

Years spent ready to fend off his brothers' pranks at all times had prepared Ron for a seemingly ordinary Thursday morning on which he might otherwise have been hexed to pieces. He sensed a shift upon entering the offices of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's Auror Office. The fine hairs on his neck rose to attention, and instinct shouted at him to dive. He landed on the floor with a thud before the door had even swung closed behind him, hardly a second before several curses collided midair, exploding with a deafening bang precisely where he'd just been standing. He was on his feet in a flash, his adrenaline drumming a furious beat only he could hear.

"What the bloody hell was that?" he shouted to a room full of stunned Aurors and clerks. Silence, heavy and absolute, hung thick in the air as he scanned the space. No one spoke, no one moved, no one seemed to even breathe as he glared daggers at each potential culprit in turn. He fixed his gaze on Henry Parsons, the least likely suspect and the most likely to crack. As expected, the timid little waif began squirming in his chair as Ron stalked toward him, pale hazel eyes frantically flitting about.

"Parsons," Ron growled.

"Sir?" Parsons squeaked, his voice cracking. A few poorly concealed chuckles rang through the room which Ron quickly silenced with one stern look.

"Up," Ron barked.

Parsons nearly fell from his chair as he scrambled to his feet. As the youngest Auror in their division, he was often dismissed by the others, and his boyish features did him no favors in that regard. His chin was narrow, his nose a button, and his lips were bright and shiny, giving him the appearance of always having just spit out his lolly. His rosy cheeks seemed even pinker than usual as he paled under Ron's intense scrutiny, and his sandy blond fringe was beginning to clump together as sweat beaded on his forehead. How he'd made it this far in the DMLE, Ron would never understand.

"Explain." Ron's voice was deathly calm.

"We thought you were Dorrington, sir."

"We?" Ron repeated incredulously. "You were in on this? Who were the others?"

"I, well, you see, that is," the normally well-behaved Parsons stammered.

"This was my plan, sir."

Ron turned and saw Anna Fedorov, one of his finest Aurors whose appearance matched the severity of her thick Russian accent. She was far from a troublemaker, but she also wasn't above getting her hands dirty when she felt it was warranted; the witch had a moral code as rigid as her posture. If she was involved, there was likely a justification itching to escape those thin, perpetually pursed lips. "I'm listening."

"We expected Dorrington to be next through the door," she explained with shoulders squared and hands clasped behind her back. "He left for the tea cart a few minutes before you entered." With any other member of his squad, this would be the point at which Ron would need to prod whichever quivering sod broke under his icy stare. But Fedorov was as unflappable as the slick black hair kept in an impossibly tight bun atop her head; it was one of many reasons Ron always tapped her for their most crucial missions.

"Dorrington took issue when Parsons requested his report on the Marsh Street case. He berated Parsons, then escalated the situation further by knocking over stacks of evidence the three of us had spent hours sorting. This latest incident is part of a broader pattern illustrating Dorrington's lack of respect for the chain of custody for official evidence. We felt it appropriate that he be punished for his actions."

As he waited for her to continue, Ron's eyes flicked unconsciously to the conspicuous scar running from her square chin up through one of her thick brows. No one knew the story there; her demeanor didn't exactly invite inquiry, and even Ron hadn't dared ask about it. When it became clear she was finished, he asked, "Who was the third?"

"Apologies, sir." Her lips twitched almost imperceptibly; she hadn't omitted that detail by accident, she'd waited to be asked before giving up one of her own. It was a show of loyalty, one reason she was universally respected – even by Dorrington, who Ron doubted was aware whose toes he'd stepped on with his little stunt – and another reason she was at the top of Ron's list. "Edwards helped us sort the evidence as well."

Ron spared a glance and a grunt for Edwards – a brutish looking bloke whose square face, hulking hunched shoulders, and permanent scowl concealed the fact he was likely the most intelligent member of the squad – before turning back to Fedorov. "Congratulations."

She blinked at him, and Ron gave himself a mental pat of the back for managing to throw her, even if just for a moment. "For what, sir?"

"Your promotion."

"My promotion?"

"I assume that, seeing as you're doling out punishments now, you've been elevated to some new position of authority in my squad room." The moment he stressed the word, Parsons went back to squirming a few desks away, which made sense; if Fedorov was getting told off, what chance did he stand? "I only wish someone had let me know," he added, feigning regret, "then it might have been a cake delivery you nearly blew up rather than your superior officer."

"I have not been promoted, sir, and I—"

"—No," Ron cut in sharply. "You haven't, because an Auror who thinks childish pranks are a suitable consequence for professional misconduct wouldn't be worthy of promotion, would they?"

"No, sir."

"What would an Auror who is worthy of promotion have done instead?"

"They would have reported the misconduct to their superior officer to be delt with." The faint color in her normally porcelain cheeks was the only indication he was getting under her skin. Ron didn't take pleasure in dressing her down in front of the squad, but it was necessary; she was the most suited to take his post, and this was exactly the sort of nonsense that would hold her back. "As I shall do, should this occur again, sir."

"Too right." He gave her a quick nod before turning to face the room at large. "That goes for all of you! You are not children; this is not Hogwarts; pranks and schoolyard behavior will not be tolerated on my squad. If I see anything like this again, it won't be house points on the line, it'll be your damned careers. Do I make myself clear?" He hadn't realized he'd grown louder to the point of nearly shouting until he stopped, and the silence rang in his ears and the ears of two dozen stock still Ministry employees.

When they pulled themselves together for a collective 'Yes, sir', he stormed to his office without further comment, slamming the door for good measure. He held his breath, waiting for the soft chime announcing an automatic silencing charm before bursting into laughter. The only thing he was truly upset about was not having gotten back a little later to see the results of their mischief. Dorrington deserved it, the prat, and seeing him suffering the effects of whichever hexes they'd queued up would have been the cherry on top of his impending write up. Some days, Ron thought the worst part of being Deputy Head Auror was having to pretend he was above the fray. Those were the good days.

In the beginning, Ron loved being an Auror. He'd excelled in training, aided by natural athleticism and a knack for strategic planning. A bit of talent, some lucky timing, and a few high-profile takedowns had propelled his early career. Being a famous war hero certainly hadn't hurt either; all these years later, and he was still riding those coattails. He'd been promoted quicker than anyone in DMLE history and for years he'd enjoyed the glory of fawning press, the excitement of the chase, and the respect of those above and below him as they took down one straggling Death Eater after another.

All of it had changed. The cases crossing his desk were less and less engaging, and while the Minister and public were thrilled by the low crime rate, Ron privately missed the thrill of his earlier cases. The press was only interested in him if he stumbled; he'd never admit how badly critical Prophet op-eds stung, whether they were factual or not, just as he'd never fess to the absence of glowing profiles stinging even more. But the actual worst part of his post was the charade playing out day after day, the reason for it a constant presence, a secret suspended overhead like a guillotine blade ready to drop the moment it was revealed. Sometimes he feared it, but more and more, he'd begun wishing the damn thing would just fall.

People still tripped all over themselves in his presence and while he'd once lived for the attention, reveled in a light unhampered by long shadows cast by others, somewhere along the way Ron realized he'd been standing in darkness all along. His marks in training were padded by the admiration of starstruck instructors. The glowing press coverage was orchestrated by a Ministry desperate to rehabilitate its tarnished public image. The cases that other Aurors used to justify their esteem for him were cherry picked, neatly wrapped props he was only assigned to in the final hours. His rapid promotion was largely explained by the fame of being a friend and occasional supporting act for a true war hero.

Ron wished he could return to that blissful ignorance, to undo whatever had pulled back the curtain to reveal the charlatan hiding behind it. The real rub was that he seemed to be the only one in on the joke, but was too much of a coward to share the punchline. As he leaned back in his leather chair, polished leather boots scuffing the top of his imposing oak desk, he wondered once again why he'd ever become an Auror in the first place. When his secretary's voice blared from the speaker atop his desk to announce he'd received a high priority file, Ron crashed to the floor for the second time that morning.

"Send it through please, Dahlia," he said once he'd righted himself, hoping he hadn't waited too long to respond. Dahlia Mason was a fearful, no-nonsense woman who'd held her post long before – and no doubt still would long after – Ron held his. There was no denying she made him nervous, and he avoided crossing her at all costs.

A sealed envelope appeared unceremoniously in his inbox, and Ron hurriedly snagged it. High priority files were few and far between, and nearly always they contained details of a worthwhile case, not the like the 'suspected Death Eater activity' he'd investigated that morning which wound up being nothing more than a precocious child and an errant quaffle. He tore open the seal, reinvigorated by the promise of a suitable distraction from his melancholy, but it wasn't a case he found; it was something better.

A few weeks prior, Ron had tasked an acquaintance over in the department's covert intelligence wing with checking into a person of interest. Ron quickly scanned the letter a second time, memorizing the details before glancing up at his wall clock. His quarry was a creature of habit, and if he moved fast, Ron might manage to 'bump into him' at his usual morning coffee spot. Ron hurriedly pulled on his traveling cloak, scrawling a quick note on a bit of scratch parchment which folded itself and flew past him on his way out of his office.

"Dorrington," Ron snapped when he'd nearly reached the door to their squad room.

The git was all coifed blond hair, statuesque features, and relaxed shoulders as he looked up at Ron; either uninformed or unconcerned that his antics had caught the attention of his captain. "Yes, sir?" he asked through what he must have believed to be a winning smile.

"I think two weeks helping Finley sort intake in the archive will help you understand the importance of caring for irreplaceable evidence, wouldn't you agree?"

Dorrington glowered at Ron, plainly furious. "Yes, sir," he said, quietly.

"I thought you might," Ron said cheerfully. "No need to pull double duty, either; I've reassigned your cases. Now off you get, he's expecting you." Laughter followed Ron out of the office as he made his way to the café feeling better than he had in quite some time.

Perhaps he was chasing after nothing, he knew that was entirely possible. Maybe he was so desperate for some meaningful work that he was creating it for himself; that's what Hermione had suggested, at any rate. His elation made it easy to push those thoughts aside as he entered the lift and pressed the button for the Atrium. Whatever the underlying motives, it felt exhilarating having purpose again; and it had always felt good, felt right, to be suspicious of Draco Malfoy.

««««»»»»

Malfoy had come into Ron's crosshairs just over a month prior on Friday pub night. Each Friday, a regular group of his former Hogwarts classmates got together at the Lion's Den, a pub in Diagon Alley which was owned and operated by Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan. Ron didn't always attend, so he could have easily missed out on overhearing Padma Patil talking loudly with Millicent Bulstrode – Ron was still mystified by that fact – about Draco and the 'good work he's been doing through his foundation'. Ron hadn't paid any mind at the time, it had been little more than a brief curiosity before several rounds of exploding snap with shots wagered.

The following morning while nursing a nasty hangover, the conversation ambled back to him through a dense mental fog, and he'd decided to do some digging. That's when he learned of the Pureblood Reparation Society, which Ron later discovered was a charitable organization currently pending Ministry approval. So far as he could tell, it was just a means for the greedy git to bilk people out of their hard-earned galleons. The society had amassed a massive fund, at least according to their filings, but had yet to do anything with it.

Ron could have apparated to the café, but it wasn't far from the phonebooth providing street access to the Ministry, and he wanted to spend the short walk thinking over the details he'd read in the letter. By tracking Malfoy's correspondence, his informant had learned of a project the society was currently working on. A 'home base' which would be completed soon; a museum, they'd called it. Ron wasn't sure what to make of the museum bit, but he felt sure in his assumption that it was code for something nefarious.

A burst of wind slammed into Ron face as he rounded a corner and he pressed his arms tighter against his sides, speeding up his pace along the damp London streets. Ron was certain the 'home base' mentioned in the letter couldn't be, as he'd first suspected, Malfoy Manor. He couldn't understand why the Manor was returned to Draco and Narcissa after their acquittal; that menagerie of horrors should have been burned to the ground years ago. Regardless, the 'base' was under a fidelius charm, and that ruled out the Manor seeing as the Ministry wards which remained in place would have made the charm impossible.

Ron spotted the pale-haired, pointy-faced prat immediately. It had surprised him to discover that Malfoy frequented a muggle café. The first time he'd bumped into him here, they'd just eyed each other warily for a long moment before Malfoy shrugged and said, 'they make good coffee', then left without another word. Ron wasn't sure which fact surprised him more; that Malfoy was at a muggle café, or that he wasn't drinking tea like a proper pureblood gentleman.

Malfoy was leaving just as Ron arrived, looking almost normal – suspiciously so – in expensive navy denims, a posh white cable knit sweater, and a loosely knotted blood red scarf. A stylishly weathered leather book bag was slug over one shoulder, and it swayed a bit as he held the door for an elderly muggle, making what appeared to be polite conversation with the woman. Ron wasn't buying it.

Malfoy's trademark sneer reappeared the moment he spotted Ron. "It's a bit late in the day for coffee, constable. Though I suppose the deputy head constable probably feels entitled to start his day a bit later than most."

"You're getting coffee," Ron said lamely, and immediately he felt stupid. Draco always had a way of putting him off his game.

"I'm leaving, if you haven't noticed, no coffee in hand. I finished mine hours ago, I only stayed a while longer to read the paper." He grabbed a copy of the Prophet which was sticking out of his bag to wave it obnoxiously in Ron's face. "You're not very observant, are you? Does that play well in your line of work?"

"You know that needs to be transfigured on the front if you're going to read it in a muggle café," said Ron, straightening his back and trying his best to sound intimidating; or simply unphased, he wasn't choosey.

"Are you going to report me, constable?" he sneered.

"Undecided, let's ask him." Ron looked over Malfoy's shoulder and called, "Head Auror Robards! Good morning!"

Malfoy went even paler – Ron was surprised it was even possible – and quickly whipped around. Without missing a beat, Ron took a galleon from his pocket and tossed it in Malfoy's shoulder bag. Realizing he'd been deceived, Malfoy rounded on Ron. "You could be cited for shouting 'Auror' in muggle London, constable," he spat.

"Guess we're even then," Ron said brightly, winking as he brushed past Malfoy to enter the café. Shielded from the frigid gale with an admittedly good cup of coffee in hand, Ron sat at one of the tables near the back while periodically checking a charmed bit of parchment wedged inside his notebook.

The coin he'd planted was designed to track a suspect, relaying its location to the parchment via a continuously redrawn map, and noting location details whenever the coin stopped for a prolonged period. It was brilliant, which was unsurprising, given it was one of Hermione's designs. Ron knew virtually nothing about her work; everything the Unspeakables touched was highly classified, and their departments rarely interacted. Occasionally, however, he would get glimpses of her genius whenever an invention had law enforcement applications.

After an hour of watching Malfoy's dot move about London with no apparent criminal intent, Ron heaved a heavy sigh and packed it in. He spent his day at the office distracted – not that there was much to be distracted from – checking his notebook whenever he could do so without arousing suspicion. It wasn't until much later that evening, while he stooped over a pint at a muggle pub, that he perked up as something caught his eye.

The dot had stopped at another pub just up the street. Below a long list of confoundingly noncriminal destinations Malfoy had visited earlier in the day, he saw the name of the establishment, and an arrival time which indicated he'd been there for well over an hour. He watched as the dot lingered near the bar, then moved to the far corner of the building. Curious, Ron activated the coin's built-in eavesdropping charm.

There was heavy background noise on his end as well as Malfoy's, but when he held the coin to his ear and cupped his hand over it, he made out the tail end of a hissed sentence. "—discuss this here, follow me."

Ron tossed a few muggle pounds on the bar beside his half-full ale before hurrying off for the other bar. He watched the notebook as he went, dodging drunk pedestrians left and right, and saw Malfoy's dot moving toward the back exit. He apparated to the alley behind the bar and had just cast a disillusionment charm when Malfoy emerged, followed by a man Ron didn't recognize.

"I don't understand the need for all this secrecy, Draco," the man said, sounding bored.

"Keep your voice down!" Malfoy whispered urgently, casting quick glances around to be sure they were alone. "The Ministry and the Prophet have eyes everywhere. If we're going to do this right, it needs to be on our terms."

"You're being paranoid."

"You're not paranoid enough. I don't pay you to dissect my motives, I pay you to follow my orders."

Ron's heart was racing. He'd known museum was just a code word, he'd been sure of it, and here was the proof. It was probably an underground snuff ring, or an evil brainwashing center for muggles, or—Ron shook his racing thoughts away, forcing himself to refocus on the scene still playing out in front of him.

"It's concealed by a fidelius charm. You will be one of only four people who know of its location before the time comes, do not take this privilege lightly," Draco huffed like the melodramatic drama queen he was and always would be. Ron rolled his eyes. "The location of our headquarters is Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London."

CHAPTER NOTE

At least amongst the people I know, opinions of Ron fall into two camps: you love him, or you despise him. For a long time, I was in the latter group, but I came around to the former. Sure, it's easy and sort of fun to write him off as an occasional comedic relief and frequent buffoonish foil to Hermione's genius, but I think he's gotten a bad rap.

I imagine Ron as a neurodivergent character living in a world where concepts like neurodivergence don't exist. I think his perceived air-headedness can be better explained by a bit of ADHD than a low IQ. I think the same spectrum provides possible clues as to why he struggles with sensing, processing, and understanding emotions. And I think because the tool he most frequently turns to in situations is anger – paired with jealousy, self-consciousness, or other more unwieldy implements he's less adept with – it's easy to dismiss him. When people are angry they invite our anger, thereby inviting us to ignore the valid roots of their feelings while we shout back, or else to dismiss their feelings as those of a hot-head or a brute or some other equally reductive identifier.

Don't get me wrong, dude's got a ton of baggage and some serious work ahead of him to sort it, but who doesn't?