CHAPTER 3

One Hell of a Gardener

Ron glanced between the outstretched palm and its owner's expectant expression and frowned, baffled. He'd never heard of a horizontal high five, and nothing about the man's frumpy suit or dour expression suggested he was the celebratory type, but it was the only conclusion he could draw as the seconds ticked by. He reached out and gave the hand a tentative slap. The man returned Ron's smile with an irritated twitch of his bushy moustache.

"Have a good day," he grumbled, rather disingenuously. Then, as an afterthought, "sir." He slammed the driver side door of the glossy black town car before speeding away in a spray of rocks, leaving Ron coughing in the dust cloud and wondering what he'd done to deserve the man's ire. Was it his fault the Ministry had arranged for a driver obsessed with uninteresting trivia? Or that between the time difference and endless stream of American and British cultural differences he'd been lulled to sleep? Was he to blame for his snoring, which apparently resulted in a 'three-hour test of patience'? Ron certainly didn't think so.

"Prat," he grumbled, digging in his pocket for the itinerary Dhalia had prepared while making a mental note to follow up on said prat's quality of service. He compared the numbers on the wrought iron gate to the address listed on his itinerary; they matched, he suddenly found the self-assuredness that'd driven him to this point had faltered. He stared at his suitcase where it lay in the dirt, but it offered no assurances.

The mountains didn't inspire confidence either, though they were majestic, stretching as far as he could see in either direction. The road he hemmed and hawed on was carved into the side of them, and they ran right into the seemingly endless ocean which glimmered a good fifty meters below, reflecting the clear skies above. The sun was warm, the breeze gentle, and he could smell eucalyptus and pine and salt. The whole place radiated happiness, and Ron could easily imagine Harry and George making a life there.

He took a deep breath, and with a few flicks of his wand, his suitcase hopped up to float beside him while the gate creaked and swung open. The paved driveway was surprisingly steep, zigzagging down the cliffside towards a house unlike any Ron had ever seen. Arched windows were punched out of terra cotta walls adorned with wrought iron sconces, a sprinkling of patterned white and azure tiles, and a roof made of nested, rust-colored tiles. With the ocean stretching behind it towards the horizon, it seemed to Ron a house at the end of the world.

Flowers bloomed from rectangular wooden boxes beneath the windows; had Harry planted them? An expensive-looking silver sedan was parked at the far end of the circular roundabout; had George learned to drive? A wooden bench sat in the shade of a large oak tree with a view of the sea; did they sit there together and watch the sunset? Someone called out to him, shattering the images Ron had conjured of their imagined life and dispelling the curious swell of conflicting emotions they inspired.

"Yoo-hoo!" Ron turned and saw a woman atop a bench matching the one he'd just been staring at, her arm raised and waving for his attention. He walked cautiously towards where she sat amidst a copse of trees, the grass between their trunks littered with fallen apples and citrus fruits. A strange odor – neither pleasant nor offensive – became stronger as he drew nearer, and when he was just a few feet away, he realized it was coming from the cigarette she held between her lips.

"Er, hello." Ron sounded as unsure as he felt. He shifted awkwardly as she eyed him up and down, offering a weak little wave as she took the measure of him. She looked to be in her late fifties, possibly older, with long gray hair that fell in waves over her sloping shoulders and large bosom. Her skin was tanned and freckled bespeaking years spent in the sun, the tone making light hazel eyes she regarded him with even more striking. The fringes of a patterned cerulean and lilac caftan she wore swayed in the light wind.

After what seemed an eternity, but was likely only a few seconds, she spoke. "You must be related. Unless he's changed his type." She let out a raspy cackle, took a long drag, and exhaled a large plume of the peculiar smelling smoke.

"Sorry, er…who are you?"

"Honey, you're standing on my driveway, just who the hell are you?" This time her cackle turned into a wheezing cough, and Ron waited while she fanned her reddening face and steadied her breathing before continuing.

"My name's Ron, I'm here looking for George." She didn't respond, and he began to ponder the highly unlikely possibility that Dhalia had printed the wrong address on his itinerary. He'd never known her to make mistakes, but there was a first time for everything, he supposed. "Er, George Weasley."

"You're his brother?"

"Yeah," Ron said, relieved. "How'd you know? Does he talk about me?"

"No." It surprised Ron how much that one word gutted him. "You're just about the right age, though, and just about the right number of freckles."

"Er, right," he mumbled awkwardly. She seemed nice enough, funny in her own way, and Ron suspected under different circumstances they might have gotten on. As it was, he was feeling very off step between her unexpected presence, the unusual conversation, and his general nervousness hanging over the whole situation.

"I'm Noelle." Ron took the hand she offered him; her grip was surprisingly firm. "I'm George's friend. His best friend," she amended. "Don't believe him if he says otherwise, he likes playing hard to get, your brother. I live here too."

"George and Harry's, you mean?" She cocked her head in question as she took another drag. "Er, you're George's and Harry's friend," he clarified. "He lives here too, doesn't he?"

"No." The gutting was less surprising on the second go. "We are friends, though. Just not best friends, that spot's been taken." Why, exactly, had Ron signed himself up for this torture? He was hard pressed to explain his reasoning as he stared at this woman who didn't know him, but apparently knew whichever best friend of Harry's had taken his place. She must have seen some of the struggle written on his face, because her smile faltered, and she held the cigarette out to him. "Want some?"

"No, I don't smoke cigarettes." Then, worried he was being rude, he added, "But thanks, Noelle."

She gave him a funny look. "It's pot."

"Sorry? I thought it was Noelle?"

Her smile returned as she howled with laughter. "Definitely related," she wheezed once she'd composed herself. "Come on, I'll take you to him."

As they walked, Ron's suitcase trailing and her caftan billowing in their wake, he turned to her. "You're just going to let me in? What if I'm not who I say?" He couldn't help but ask, the overcautious Auror in him struck by her casual trust.

"You are," she shrugged, pausing and flicking her cigarette to the ground. Ron had never had an eye for fashion, but even he could tell the plastic, hole filled shoe she revealed when stomping it out was hideous. "Even if you weren't, I know you're magic. You couldn't have gotten through the gate if you weren't, not to mention that bag of yours is a dead giveaway. Couldn't stop you if I tried, so I may as well be polite about it."

He blinked at her. "You're a muggle?"

"They call us no-maj in the states, but yeah, I can't do the hocus pocus."

"It's supposed to be a secret, though. Muggles, or whatever you said, aren't supposed to know about us."

They reached a pair of double oak doors bordered by stained glass transoms, and she snorted and rolled her eyes at him before swinging one open. "They're less strict about that over here. Most people don't know," she added, stepping into a wide, vaulted entryway, "it's not like magic folk go shouting about it, but the higher ups don't mind too much if people tell their friends."

Their footsteps clacked against large sandy brown tiles as they walked along a long hallway with a gothic rib vault ceiling, several knotted hickory doors lining either side, each with wrought iron hinges and handles. The room at the end spanned the width of the house, an open kitchen with grey stone counters and natural wood cabinets to the left, and an inviting sitting area with plush chairs and an angled sectional to the right. The floor to ceiling windows lining the back wall overlooked a wooden deck. Learning that Harry didn't inhabit these spaces didn't stop Ron from imagining how he might.

Double glass doors were thrown wide in the center of the back wall, and as Ron stared through them to George – his back turned, leaning on the ledge and looking out over the ocean – he failed to notice when Noelle stopped and turned, crashing right into her. "Don't be getting fresh now, you're not my type either." If Ron hadn't already gathered Noelle's cackling was a frequent occurrence, it was further evidenced by George not bothering to turn towards the sound.

"Sorry," he said hurriedly, embarrassed.

The smile she gave him was fond and full of understanding, and she waved away his apology with a casual hand. "Do you like mojitos?" Ron had never heard of a mojito, and he confessed as much. "Oh, you'll love them. I picked fresh mint and limes this morning. You go on," she jerked her head towards where George was waiting, "I'll handle this, then fix us some." She wrapped her arms around his bag and started wrestling it towards the hall.

"Oh, I can—"

"—Go," she insisted, struggling against his bag as it tried returning to him, "I've got it." His fingers were already brushing the wand in his pocket, ready to pull it out and dispel the charm, but he stopped when he caught the look on her face. She was enjoying the struggle, like it was some sort of game to her. He was beginning to understand why she and George got on, and he smiled at her retreating back before turning to face his brother.

George's red hair shone like fire under the bright California sun. Ron couldn't recall ever seeing him in either shorts or a tank top, but he was wearing both now. A light green top with thin straps and wide arm holes and beige shorts which ended well above the knees revealed large expanses of skin which – though still on the pale side – were tanner than he'd ever seen on his brother. He was a few paces away when Geroge spoke.

"What took you so long, Ronniekins?" he asked, his back still turned. "It's been over a week since I got your letter."

Ron's steps faltered. "My letter?"

"Well," George hedged, turning to face him, "not a letter so much as a confidential business document adulterated by your secret spy ink."

"How—"

"—Did I know the ink had been tampered with? Detection charms, little brother."

"But how—"

"—Did I know you were the one responsible? Come off it," he scoffed. "Hermione's the only one clever enough to suggest it, and you're the only one rude enough to follow through with it."

Where did George get off acting like Ron was the one in the wrong for tracking him down after he'd been the one to disappear for five years? "Why are you talking like that?" Ron snapped, his face heating.

George's brows knitted together in confusion. "Like what?"

"You're talking like an American," he said flatly.

"Am I?" George looked pensive, then shrugged. "You know, I suppose if you immerse yourself in another culture long enough, it just rubs off on you. I hadn't even noticed."

Ron made a noise of disgust. "That's the sort of pretentious rubbish Percy would come up with."

"I've matured since you've last known me, Ronald," he said, emphasizing the T in 'matured'. "As a matter of fact, I've come to recognize that Percy was right about many things. The benefits of proper diction, for instance, and the pleasures of a finely tuned file management system." There wasn't a single T he didn't exaggerate; it irritated Ron more than it probably should have.

Ron squinted at him. He didn't think George was being genuine, but then, he hadn't thought he'd pick up and leave without telling anyone, so what did he know? "I can't…are you serious?"

George held his glare for a disconcerting amount of time before he burst into laughter. "No," he said, in his normal voice. "Gods, can you imagine? Just to see your face, Ron, just to see your face." He laughed some more at whatever he saw there.

"You're a prat," Ron grumbled, feeling foolish for believing him even for a second.

"It's been a while since I wound you up, I've got some catching up to do."

Just like that, all the irritation and embarrassment Ron felt evaporated; his love for his brother and his joy at seeing him again were far too large to leave room for anything else. He looked different, and he looked the same. His hair was shorter, there were a few more lines around his eyes, there was a tattoo Ron couldn't fully make out where his ear used to be, but he was still George. He let out an oomph as Ron crashed into him; his hugs felt the same, too.

George loosened his hold and started roughly patting Ron's back. "Pack it in," he complained, but there was a softness there which hinted at the same emotions swelling in Ron's chest. They stared at each other for another moment when Ron pulled away before George jerked his towards some deck chairs arranged around a table, a white canvas umbrella stuck through its center. "Well?" George asked after the several moments of conspicuous silence which ensued after they'd taken their seats.

"Well, what?"

"You came all this way. I assume it was for more than an opportunity to gape at me like a halfwit."

Ron wasn't sure where to begin, so he reached for the low hanging fruit. "What's your tattoo of?"

"That's your first question?" George mocked. Ron expected him to take the piss some more, but he turned his head instead, giving him a better look; maybe George needed time to ease into deeper waters too. The linework, clean and intricate, depicted a woman with voluminous curly hair and a scaled tail that stretched down the side of his neck. She was beautiful, but there was a subtle sinisterness in her parted lips and sharp eyes.

"A mermaid?"

"A siren," he explained. "It's a female mermaid who lures sailors to their deaths by sitting on rocks and singing. Sailor hears the pretty song, steers his ship into the rocks, death accomplished."

Ron balked. "That's an untrue and racist stereotype."

He shrugged, unphased. "If you're a wizard, yeah. In Greek muggle mythology, they're fictional, a fable meant to warn about the dangers of alluring sounds. I liked the idea of putting Aglaope – that's her name – where my ear used to be; seemed fitting. I got her while we were in Greece a few years back."

'We'. An inconsequential word in most instances, but in that moment a door nudged ajar, an invitation. Ron declined it. "I would have thought you'd go for something funny; make a joke of it."

"Not everything's a joke, Ron," he said crossly.

"Was that a joke?"

"It was, well spotted." Ron snorted. "Next question?" The look in his eyes told Ron that George was anticipating the very question he was avoiding. He did them both a favor and chose a different one.

"Who's the muggle?"

"Noelle. Did she not introduce herself? She's normally more hospitable."

"She did, but," Ron broke off and glanced over his shoulder before leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, "she's ancient. How'd you become friends?"

"I wouldn't say ancient," Noelle called, and when Ron whipped around, he saw her heading their way holding a tray of drinks. "Sure, my tits sag and I've got a few experience grooves on my face, but my hearing's pretty good." Ron flushed and pointedly avoided looking at her as she passed them glasses filled with a pale green concoction. She plopped into a seat, fished another cigarette from her cleavage, lit it, puffed it, and grunted questioningly as she held it out to a very unimpressed looking George.

"Really," he sighed.

"What?" she exclaimed indignantly.

"Haven't seen my brother in years, we've been talking all of five minutes and you roll up, talking about your sagging tits and just…." Seemingly at a loss for words, George snatched the cigarette from her and inhaled while gesturing vaguely in her general direction.

"I came with drinks." She crossed her arms over her chest, pouting; Ron didn't know her well enough to tell if she was being serious, or if it was some sort of bit they were sharing. "What? Do you want me to leave?"

George cast a quick glance in Ron's direction, as if seeking his permission for her to stay, as if Ron would ever insist on banishing the woman he'd just been caught describing as ancient. Ron became very interested in his drink; it was good, a bit tart. "I suppose you did," George relented. "Ron here was just asking what your whole deal is, and why you're shacked up here."

"I didn't put it quite like that," Ron mumbled, still refusing to make eye contact.

"Don't worry boyo," Noelle said with a rough shake of his shoulder, "you'll have to try harder than that if you want to offend me. I met George and Harry not long after they moved here, we traded secrets – wizard magic for muggle magic – and we've been besties – that's 'the best of chums' in British, I think – ever since."

"Well put," George deadpanned.

"Muggle magic?" asked Ron.

"Drugs," George explained, his voice pinched tight as he held a lungful of smoke, "she means drugs," he added on the exhale.

Ron stared at the funny smelling stick they passed between them and his eyebrows rose. "Is that drugs? Are you doing drugs right now?"

"I already told you," Noelle said patiently, "it's pot."

"She means cannabis." George turned to Noelle. "Can you go back to performing your own British clarifications, this is exhausting."

"I'm still not fluent in hoity toity speak," she said, waving her hand dismissively.

"Wrong country," George quipped. "You mean 'pip pip speak'. Harry's the one who's been brushing up on his hoity toity."

Ron choked on his drink as Harry's name was mentioned but he played it off; not at all convincingly, if he was accurately interpreting the look they exchanged. "So, you moved in after meeting them?" he asked Noelle.

"Not right after. I was looking for a new spot to crash around the time Harry left, and George needed someone to keep up on the place, since he's always busy with work and picking up boys in questionable—"

"—Careful," George cut in, the warning in his tone clear despite the humor he wrapped it in. Noelle didn't heed it, and though Ron hardly knew her, he wasn't surprised.

"Questionable bars up and down the coast. So it just worked out. I make a mean mojito," she clinked her glass against George's, still sitting untouched on the table, "and I'm one hell of a gardener."

"That you are," George agreed, winking as he took a final puff of the cigarette, then vanished it.

The conversation kept returning to and veering away from Harry; Ron saw it, George saw it, and now Noelle saw it too. It was getting harder to think of diversions. The more he tried to think of unrelated questions, the more his brain supplied ones regarding his lost friend. Ron wasn't sure why he was even avoiding the topic, really. He'd already learned that Harry had moved and that he and George had broken up – unless George was cheating on him, which seemed unlikely – and he felt…fine. Just fine. Definitely just fine, and not any other emotions he didn't rightly recognize. He sighed. "When did Harry move out?"

George squinted, and Ron wondered whether he was intentionally trying to hide the sudden tightness around his eyes, or if it was a happy accident. "What's it been, Noelle? Ten months?"

"Around that," she agreed.

George stared at him like Ron was struggling to stay above water, and he was enjoying watching Ron's struggle from the safety of a boat, standing next to a life preserver he had no intention of reaching for. Ron felt a flash of irritation, but then he saw the scene from a different perspective; was George the one who was drowning? He must have sensed Ron's hesitancy. "Go ahead," he said, his face and tone softening.

"You and Harry, you er…," Ron coughed, "you broke up, then?"

"I don't like that phrase," Noelle observed.

"Me either," George agreed. "Harry and I were together for a while, traveled the world, bought this place; it was good, but then we decided we wanted different things." George hadn't gotten any better at hiding particularly potent emotions, it seemed, but he continued before Ron could offer any sympathy. "You aren't surprised to learn we were dating?"

Ron had indeed been surprised to find them starkers, freshly fucked, and giving each other googly eyes five years ago. "We all kind of figured."

"I told you," Noelle laughed, "you're easy to spot."

George didn't look offended, but Ron felt the need to defend him all the same. "No, I er…knew. About you, or I was pretty sure, anyway. I ran into Lee Jordan not long after you left. He's out now, and he told me about…stuff. That happened. Between you two." Was it just Ron, or was his rapidly dwindling drink the most fascinating object in the entire universe?

"Good for him. For landing me, I mean. Anyone can come out, that's nothing to make a big fuss over," George said airily.

Ron was far too busy chugging the last of his mojito to respond immediately. "Right," he eventually choked.

"Ready for another?" Noelle didn't wait for Ron to respond before grabbing his drink and heading back towards the house. The corner of George's mouth quirked up in a sympathetic half-smile, and he pushed his condensation soaked glass Ron's way.

"Harry didn't seem all that into it with Cho," he continued after a beat. "Or Ginny, really. He didn't even try to win her back after the war. So…yeah. Sort of put the pieces together."

"Putting that Auror training to good use, I see. How is the Ministry life? Is it everything Perce made it out to be?"

Now that they'd broached the subject, Ron wasn't dropping it until they'd made it through; the mojito helped. "Why did Harry leave?"

"I told you, we—"

"—wanted different things, yeah," Ron finished for him. "I get that. But what did he want?"

"Not sure of all the details," George said with a casual shrug of his shoulders. "He'd been in contact with someone for a while before it happened. Letters came nearly every day before the end; whoever he was talking to has weird taste in owls."

"You said it!" Noelle agreed, returning with refills for the pair of them. "That bird gave the creeps. Enormous, black as the night, and those demonic white eyes."

George snorted. "She's being dramatic. It was a bit eccentric, though."

Black, white, eccentric, demonic; Ron didn't have to be a trained detective to fit those pieces together. Malfoy's face, smug and pointy and infuriating, flashed in his mind. "Do you think he left you for someone else?" He regretted the question immediately.

"Tactful," George said sarcastically, his eyes slits. "But yeah, maybe."

"No," Noelle said sternly. "You know that's not why he left."

"Can you fix me another? Ron drank mine."

"So you can get back to lying to your brother? Not on your life, gingersnap."

"I thought you said you didn't know why he left," Ron piped in.

George glared at Noelle a moment longer before turning back to Ron. "It's not my place to say."

Ron looked to Noelle for assistance, but she seemed satisfied with that answer. "Where did he go, then?"

"Not my place to say."

"I miss him, George." Did his voice sound as small to them as it did to Ron?

"I know." Ron wished he'd made a joke, or a snarky comment, or just ignored it altogether; he would have taken anything over sincere, heart wrenching empathy.

With his chest already flayed open, he picked at the wound. "Why did you want to leave us?"

"I didn't want to leave." Ron couldn't remember ever seeing his brother look as apologetic as he did in that moment. "I just couldn't stay."

"You seem better now, though."

"I am."

"Well then why not come back? Or," Ron huffed, blinked his eyes rapidly, and tried again. "Or if you weren't ready to come back still, why not reach out?"

"I didn't know how."

"Besides those stupid adverts, you mean," Ron said, trying for humor, his voice thick.

George winced. "That was an oversight."

"An oversight?" Ron repeated, affronted.

"Yeah, the thing is," George rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, "the shop uses a mailing list. I forgot to remove you lot from it before the mailers went out."

"It wasn't bad enough you ran out on us, you had to double down by withholding coupons?"

George let out a wet bark of laughter. "I'm a businessman before all else, little brother."

"We thought you were…we rushed right there. We were still in our pajamas! Mum's tit about fell out of her robe while she was yelling at the manager!"

George guffawed with laughter as Ron recounted their morning, carefully avoiding the bits sure to induce guilt or lead them back to the unbearably raw conversation they'd only narrowly made it out of. George reminded him of the time their mum nearly brought the hotel manager to tears when they'd stayed in Egypt, Noelle chimed in with a few jokes Ron understood and several he didn't, and they spent the rest of the evening on safer ground, sipping and enjoying each other's company until the sky glowed red.

"I'm surprised you haven't passed out yet, aren't you tired?" George asked when the sun was just a sliver on the horizon.

"I don't mix them that strong," Noelle protested.

"You do, actually, but I was referring to the time difference."

"Yeah, I am," Ron said, surprised, only just realizing it himself. "You're not kicking me out, then?"

"Oh, I am," George said cheerily. "That was a subtle way of telling you to hit the road, not an invitation." He swayed exaggeratedly in his seat when Noelle shoved him.

"You're staying," she insisted before giving him directions to the guest room. "Just be careful when you open the door, your suitcase is a stubborn thing." She demanded a goodnight hug, insisting it was a customary rite of passage for 'new besties'. He hugged George a bit longer than he normally would have, blamed it on the mojitos, then nearly got the wind knocked out of him the moment he opened the door to his room. Noelle, no-maj though she may be, had been right to warn him about the suitcase.