CHAPTER 2

Brash Bartholomew's Bum

Six months after Harry disappeared, Ron paid a visit to Grimmauld Place. Harry had avoided staying at the old manor, preferring instead to spend his days at the Burrow, so it seemed unlikely he would be holed up there. Still, there may have been clues pointing to where he'd gone, and Ron had chastised himself at the time for not thinking to check sooner. It hadn't mattered, however. Upon apparating to the cul-de-sac, Ron discovered the manor was gone; or, more accurately, hidden.

Everyone, Ron most of all, suspected that wherever Harry had gone, George was sure to be with him. When his mum tucked the clock away, no longer able to bear the sight of it, George's hand still pointed to Lost. Ron hoped they were lost together; visions of them laying nude and wrapped in each other still haunted him, but he preferred those to visions of them wandering separately and alone. He'd hoped they wereholed up in Grimmauld place, that they might show themselves eventually. He'd visited each day, undeterred when number eleven still abutted number thirteen, comforted as he was by the fantasy of their eventual emergence.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. When Hermione returned from Hogwarts, he'd tried dragging her into his obsession, picking her brilliant mind endlessly for answers she couldn't provide. She placated him in the beginning, but then her patience wore thin, and soon any mention of Harry or George was sure to result in an argument. Ron stopped asking, and his hope flagged. His ritual became an occasional one, typically performed on late nights when he stumbled out of a pub, too intoxicated to apparate or tolerate a nauseating ride on the Knight Bus.

To say Ron was shocked upon hearing the address spoken aloud would be woefully inadequate, like describing Cormack McLaggen as mildly disagreeable. He remained in the alley long after Malfoy and his shady business partner had gone, long after his disillusionment charm had faded, endless nights spent circling that damned cul-de-sac replaying in his mind. He understood the workings of Fidelius charms, yet he still doubted he would see the manor if tried finding it again; doing so felt safer than fanning a flicker of hope which had sparked miraculously back to life.

He spared one moment to gape at number twelve before he ran, leaping over rather than opening the rickety wrought iron gate, nearly slipping on the slick cement path before tearing up the front steps. Was Harry waiting inside? George? How was Malfoy involved? Should he, perhaps, have brought backup before storming up to a suspected criminal stronghold? Questions raced in his mind as he pounded on the door, each crash of his fist on wood a demand for answers.

The door swung open, and Ron's fist nearly collided with a plainly furious Draco Malfoy who ducked back at the last second before he erupted. "Weasley, what the bloody hell are you doing?! How did you even find this place?! What is the meaning of this?! Explain yourself!"

Ron stared, mouth agape, momentarily stunned by Malfoy's outburst. When the noise stopped, and his thoughts returned, indignation and outrage were first in line. "Explain myself? Explain yourself," he demanded. "What the hell are you doing in Harry's house?"

"It's not Harry's house, you hippogriff's arse. This is my property, my inheritance as the Black family heir."

"Sirius left it to Harry! It was headquarters for the Order of—"

"—Was headquarters, yes. Fascinating bit of history, that. Alas, no longer! Now if you'll excuse me, it's rather late for a history lesson, constable."

Ron stuck his foot out to stop Malfoy shutting the door in his face. "This house belonged to Harry. Either you're squatting, which is grounds for arrest, or—"

"—Check the property records, you pillock!" Malfoy snapped. "You showed up on my doorstep at late as fuck o'clock before even bothering with a cursory investigation?" He scoffed. "You are dangerously underqualified, constable."

"Or," Ron gritted, ignoring the slight, "you purchased the home from Harry, which means you know where he is."

Malfoy let out a long suffering sigh. "And?"

"And!" Ron repeated incredulously. "And I'd like to know where the bloody hell he is!"

"Why don't you ask your brother?" Malfoy sneered.

"Do you know where George is?" Ron asked, hating how hopeful he sounded.

"What I know is that a Ministry employee is on my property without cause, verbally assaulting me, engaging in an unsanctioned and unwarranted investigation." He slammed the door, and Ron winced and pulled his crushed foot back reflexively. "Show up here again and I'll sue you and your whole bloody department for all you're worth!" He slammed the door again, successfully that time.

Ron had half a mind to resume pounding, and he raised his fist to do just that before stopping himself. Malfoy, it pained him to admit, was right. He was well within his rights to report Ron for harassment if he was feeling spiteful, which Ron knew he nearly always was. Shoulders slumping in defeat, Ron turned and stalked away. He caught a brief glimpse of Malfoy looking down on him from a second story window before he yanked the curtains closed.

««««»»»»

Weasleys Wizard Wheezes closed its doors the same day Ron started his Auror training. There was no formal announcement, only a sign hanging on the door which read 'Closed for a while'. A while, in this instance, meant four years. At the Burrow last Christmas Ron and his family had been sipping eggnog in newly knitted sweaters, littering the floor with decorative paper and cracker detritus, when a parade of owls came tapping at the living room window.

The Weasley clan made for quite the sight standing in the middle of Diagon Ally sporting tousled red hair, pajamas, and open-mouthed expressions. They'd apparated without a second thought, hardly daring to hope that letters inviting them to spend holiday galleons at a 'Grand Rejokening' weren't a hoax. They stood frozen in their disbelief, staring at a storefront packed with giddy children and beleaguered parents carrying heavily laden bags while passersby gawked at the disheveled nutters blocking their path.

Mrs. Weasley – still in her robe, the sash loosening precariously with each excited step – was the first to enter the shop. They fanned out, dodging flying objects and offended shoppers as they searched between packed shelves and garish displays, but George was nowhere to be found. The workers insisted they knew nothing of his whereabouts, and when mum and Ginny's combined berating reduced a poor clerk to tears, they were asked to leave.

When Hermione returned from her trip to Majorca a few days later, she agreed to join Ron for a second, more tactful attempt at finding some answers. They learned the staff had all been hired through an employment agency, that they all reported to a single manager, and that the manager reported to an owner whose name she didn't know. When new merchandise arrived, it was accompanied by care instructions, presentation notes, pricing specifications, and no return address.

The products had George written all over them. Balloons that let out an eardrum busting foghorn when popped. Caramel chews that caused teeth to melt down to the gums and, the box assured, regrow overnight. A brush which caused any hair it touched to rise in thick cords, hissing and lashing at the user's head like snakes. George, George, George. No matter how many times he asked, Ron couldn't wrest any further information from the shop staff. The night following his run in with Malfoy at Harry's manor – he refused to think of it any other way – Ron decided that would change.

A small pub across the way from Weasleys Wizard Wheezes had a convenient bar which stretched the length of its front window. Ron perched on a stool and hunched over it, drinking a stout less for the taste than an excuse to wait and watch the shop patrons thin out. The customers dwindled, and the employees left one by one until only the manager remained. Ron saw her bid farewell to the last employee, lock herself inside, and dim the lights and signs with a flick of her wand. He waited until she began climbing the stairs leading to the office before tossing a few galleons down and making his move.

Ron suspected that when he'd been trained to enter buildings undetected, the expectation was he'd apply that knowledge to drug busts and gang raids, but the skills were transferable. He made quick work of slipping through the door, charming the front windows to show an empty shop to any passersby, muffling the stairs, and concealing himself with a disillusionment charm. As he crept up the stairs with his wand aimed forward, he had the ridiculous thought that perhaps he wasn't breaking the law in spite of the risk to his career, but because of it.

He hadn't expected the office to be rigged with a caterwauling charm. It blared the moment he crossed the threshold, and the manager was on her feet a second later with her wand raised, wide eyes searching frantically for an intruder she could not see. In for a knut, in for a galleon, Ron supposed. "Imperio!" All at once, his own mind was flooded with the fear pouring through his connection to hers. Guilt and pity gnawed at him as he took in the kind faced, pretty if a bit homely, squat young woman before him.

Aurors in the Special Taskforces Division were trained to use unforgivable curses in extreme circumstances, and only as a last resort. Ron hadn't intended on using it, but these sorts of missteps were what could be expected from entering a situation without a solid plan in place. As Ron castigated himself for his foolishness, he heard a voice which sounded a lot like Hermione's advising him to remember his training. He focused on his connection to the witch and urged calm, and by the time she was seated, she was far more at ease than he was.

Ron stared at the manager's blank expression and fretted over how to proceed, but really, there was only one way forward. The curse was cast, he was in too deep to back out now, and he figured he may as well do what he'd come to; and then perhaps touch up his resume. "Who is your boss?"

"I don't know." Her voice had taken on a dreamy quality which reminded Ron of Luna Lovegood, and his gut twisted with another pang of guilt as he pictured her wide, innocent eyes.

"Does he give you orders?"

"Yes."

"Show me how you communicate with him."

The manager took the parchment she'd been writing on before he entered – a ledger, from the looks of it – and brought it to a wooden box in the corner of the room. He was surprised he hadn't noticed it before, given its size; it was more of a cabinet, really. She swung open the door on its front, placed the parchment inside, shut it again, then stared at him expectantly.

Ron tore it open. "Does he send you letters the same way?" he asked, staring at the empty interior.

"Yes."

He eyed the entirely ordinary wooden walls a moment longer before reaching a quick decision. "You will go about your business as normal, however, you must also make copies of all documents sent and received through this box. Understood?"

"Yes." Gods that flat monotone was spooky; Ron turned his shudder into a nod.

When he arrived home the porchlight was off, and it and it took quite a bit of fumbling before Ron found the right key; his trembling hands probably hadn't helped the situation, either. The full weight of what he'd done that evening was beginning to settle in. Regardless of how disillusioned he was with his job, Ron still took it seriously, for the public's sake if not his own. There were far too many opportunities for the crimes he'd committed to be uncovered were someone inclined to go looking. He told himself that his reputation would shield him from scrutiny, but his assurances – as was so often the case lately – did little to assuage his guilt.

"Tempus." Nearly eleven; Hermione wouldn't be home for another two hours, at least. For years now she'd been so consumed by her work that he hardly saw her. He used to dread coming home, dread the tired routine of fumbling in the dark, oppressive silence, and cold sheets. Somewhere along the way he'd grown accustomed to it. The fridge cast the kitchen in an eerie glow when it opened, and as he reached for a beer, he noticed his hand was still trembling. He left the beer where it was; shaking hands called for whiskey.

He should never have gone to the shop that evening, he decided, as he sipped amber liquid in the dimly lit, remarkably clean flat. When he and Hermione had first moved in together it quickly became clear that neither of them was naturally tidy. Ron had always thought of Hermione as being highly organized, downright fastidious about her belongings. He'd soon realized that he had only ever seen her in situations she'd prepared for, and that the appearance of organization was a product of that preparation. At home, in her element, there were papers and books strewn everywhere, weird artifacts left in odd places, half-empty cups of tea abandoned in all manner of unlikely spot whenever a new idea struck.

He'd been appalled, truly. Didn't people typically do better when they weren't living alone? He had at first, but if anything, living with her made him more inclined to leave things wherever he pleased, as he'd done right until they reached a breaking point. When it became clear something needed to be done, they'd gone to the unrivaled witch supreme of house spells, but try she might, mum's lessons never took. Ron chuckled to himself as he refilled his whiskey, remembering their many failed trainings.

To no one's surprise, Hermione had been the one to devise a solution. Ron leaned back and smiled fondly as he remembered the time she'd shown up to their fifth or sixth session armed with her latest invention. It was a small device designed to absorb household spells and, with the tap of a wand, recreate whichever were needed to clean the room it was in. His mum had been skeptical of the box, but more than that, she was tired of pretending their lessons were going anywhere. She had a box of her own now.

The empty flat no longer bothered him unless something called his attention to it; those days when he couldn't shake his melancholy, or when he recalled one of those moments which proved how brilliant he and Hermione could be together. Three whiskies had undoubtedly contributed to his current slump; his guilt, as well. Ron tossed back the dregs from his fourth glass and readied himself for the only solution he'd found for these situations. He tugged off his shirt and tossed it aside, shimmied ungracefully out of his pants, knocking the light of the end table in the process.

In the dark with his trousers bunched round his ankles, he smoothed a hand over his chest and brought the other down to tug and cup his balls. He toyed with a nipple, squeezing and tweaking as he imagined Hermione spread out beneath him, her exposed milky skin and sinful expressions. It always began with her, but then the features would change, morphing into whatever caught his fancy in the moment. His cock felt warm and heavy in his hand as he fisted himself to images of New Hermione, her bronze olive skin and wide hips.

Turning his attention to the other nipple, Ron toyed with his head and imagined running his hands over that long, slender back. He took himself in long strokes while he imagined grabbing her black hair, tugging it, taking her harder. His pace quickened as he imagined finishing inside her, and soon after he tipped over the edge, gripping himself firmly at the base while hot ropes landed over his abdomen. As his heart slowed and his cock went limp in his grasp, feelings both familiar and foreign lurked on the edges of his mind.

Ron kicked his pants the rest of the way off before standing to retrieve his wand, vanishing his spend with a mostly adequate cleaning spell then tapping the box. He stumbled to the bedroom to the sounds of a single cup being washed and the lamp repairing itself, slipping between cold sheets where whiskey, exhaustion, and release tugged his unruly mind towards sleep.

««««»»»»

Over the next couple of weeks, Ron read every word of every letter forwarded by the shopkeeper. They were all communications one might expect to pass between owner and manager; ledgers, product notes, status reports. His frustration grew in the absence of any progress, and his anxiousness compounded each day the shop manager remained his thrall. He began visiting the shop each night to experiment with the box. He'd used all manner of spell and several tools the DMLE employed to investigate crime scenes, including a tracking galleon which remained stubbornly on his side of the strange portal.

When Ron returned home on one such fruitless evening, completely out of ideas, he was surprised to find Hermione there as well, nearly finished with her dinner at a perfectly reasonable hour. Reasonable for her, that was. She jumped up as he walked in, rushing over to give him a hug. "Come, sit," she encouraged. "I grabbed take out."

Ron gave the air an appreciative sniff. "Is that Thai?"

She nodded. "I planned on waiting for you, but I wasn't expecting you to be out this late, and I was a bit famished. Yours should be fine, I put a warming charm on it."

"Massaman curry," Ron observed, smiling broadly as he opened the aluminum container, "my favorite." He took a large bite and tried to speak around it, but it came out as nonsense; she raised an eyebrow, and he swallowed. "Sorry, bit famished myself I guess."

"You're always famished."

"Point. I asked why you're home so early. Can't remember the last time you were back before nine." He shoveled curry into his mouth while she considered her words, and though she didn't take long, he'd downed half his meal by the time she replied.

"I had a breakthrough on one project which saved me time on another, but some components of the former are outstanding pending the latter, and certain aspects of the latter can't be sped up, so I wound up with a bit of free time while I wait it out."

Ron just grunted, because really, what was he supposed to do with that? He understood her work was highly classified, but he didn't understand why – rather than bothering with nonsensical rambling which no one could interpret, Ron least of all – she didn't resort to the tried and true 'I can't discuss it'. He swallowed down a wad of rice and the rising irritation he always felt when she went on like that. Why did she always have to sound so damned proud of herself to be in the know?

"What about your evening?"

"Wha' a'out 'ih?" She narrowed her eyes, unimpressed, and tapped the corner of her mouth; he wiped a bit of orange sauce from his own. "What about it?"

"Anything worth mentioning? You couldn't have been working, no one in the DMLE is pulling late nights lately. Did you go visit Dean and Seamus?"

"Got some early Christmas shopping done." Ron immediately regretted fabricating his own excuse rather than accepting the far more believable one she'd just offered him.

"Christmas shopping?" He hummed in confirmation. "In August?" she persisted, clearly unconvinced, which wasn't surprising. Ron's version of early holiday shopping meant a couple weeks – as opposed to a couple days – before Christmas, which she pointed out with a bit more satisfaction than he felt was called for.

"Oi, people change Hermione," he argued defensively.

"Not that much," she countered, eyeing him skeptically.

She seemed prepared to press the subject, but she must have thought better of turning their first meal together in ages into an argument, because she asked after his parents instead. She poured some wine as he filled her in, and they breezed through a light chat about all manner of benign subjects. Perhaps Thai and her company had relaxed him, perhaps the wine was clouding his judgement; whatever the reason, when she asked how his cases were getting on, he saw an opportunity to seek her help with the box conundrum.

"You know, now that you mention it, there is one that's been a pain. Maybe you can help." His casual tone was utterly unconvincing, but the wine seemed to be working its magic on Hermione also, because she didn't question it. "We took down a group of Armenian blokes who were smuggling illegal creatures into the country, but we can't locate their supplier. We learned they communicate with this box…thing."

"Box thing?" she repeated, amused.

"We haven't figured out what it is, but when they put letters in, they disappear. Then different letters arrive a bit later. I tried a tracker, but no luck; whenever other objects go in, they just stay there. Any ideas on how we could track where the letters are going?"

Ron's heart pounded as he awaited Hermione's response, knowing that should she give any of the loose threads he's hastily woven together the faintest tug, the entire thing would unravel. He had to stop himself from sighing in relief when she asked, "Have you tried Visible Ink?"

Relief gave way to disappointment, and he frowned. "The ink on the letters is visible." Perhaps she was more drunk than he'd realized.

She shook her head. "Visible Ink is a potion that looks and behaves like normal ink, but anything it's written on can be traced using a unique passphrase that gets established during brewing."

"That's brilliant! Where can I get some?"

"The DMLE keeps stores of it," she cocked a brow, "I'm surprised you haven't heard of it, it's used on cases all the time."

"I've done just fine without it," he bit out, harsher than he intended. "'Mione," he added quickly, schooling his tone, "you are a genius." Her hardening expression softened into an appreciative smile, and he felt a pleasant, distantly familiar warmth unfurl in his chest.

The following day, Ron procured a bottle of Visible Ink from the DMLE potion master. With the vial tucked in his pocket, he headed to the shop the moment his shift ended. The enthralled manager didn't so much as glance up from her ledger when he arrived, and he had to instruct her to stop writing before he could vanish her ink and replace it with the potion. "As you were."

She continued writing as though nothing had happened as he inspected the side of the vial. He snorted, then pressed his wand to blank parchment and read the passphrase aloud. "Show me Brash Bartholomew's Bum." The effect was immediate, and he watched as an invisible hand scrawled location details at the top of the page.

August 14th, 2005, 10:12 PM local time
Diagon Alley, London, Great Britain, Europe
Upper floor offices of Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes
EU-32-592-3-59-003

Unable to contain his excitement, Ron snatched the unfinished ledger, threw open the door, and tossed it inside. The moment he closed the door it blew open again, smacking his hand and sending the rejected parchment flying into the air. He thrust his wand at the failed experiment and it burst into flames, little bits of ash raining down as he swore. He pointed his wand at the other parchment prepared to dole out the same punishment, to destroy the evidence and burn off a bit more frustration in the process, but he stopped himself.

Wedged between his own location at the top and bottom of the parchment was an address he did not recognize.

August 14th, 2005 at 2:29 PM local time
Big Sur State Park, California, United States, North America
Personal office of George Weasley.
US-101-23-798-67-092

CHAPTER NOTE:

Let's all give Ron a round of applause for the saddest jerk-off session ever, shall we? I debated taking this scene out several times, but I left it because I think it's helpful in underscoring the extent to which Ron is just going through the motions in his life. I think he feels trapped, but he's too lazy and too much a coward to do anything about it, so he just goes along with the flow. He hates his job, but he plays the part because he's afraid of being outed as the fraud he perceives himself as. He hates coming home to a dark flat, but he's gotten used to it because it's easier than confronting the issue and demanding change; also, I suspect, because without thinking about it he's arrived at the conclusion it's what he deserves. He jerks off not because he feels particularly horny, but because it's a part of a routine that helps him get up and do the whole thing all over again in the morning.