So Many Lemons

{So Many Lemons}
01: Once a Lemon, Always Sour.

~!@!~

“You said I must eat so many lemons,
‘Cause I am so bitter
I said I’d rather be with your friends, mate
Cause they’re much fitter
Yes it was childish
And you got aggressive,
And I must admit that I was a bit scared
But it gives me trills to wind you up”
My fingertips are holding onto
The cracks in our foundation
And I know that I should let go
But I can’t
And every time we fight
I know it’s not right
Every time that your upset and I smile
I know I should forget
But I can’t”

“Foundation”-Kate Nash

~!@!~

{Ron}

At first, I tried watching the telly all day to distract me or going out to see more of Harry’s games but nothing quite prepared me for the media buzz that would surround Malfoy. Almost against my will, I was as well informed about Malfoy’s goings-on as anyone else. Not like anyone seemed to have any other topic of conversation, mind.

Apparently, Malfoy had gone off to Belgium for a bit. As he’d somehow been pardoned (Harry knew the details of this personally and I’d never asked), his previously withheld inheritance and properties had finally made it through the Ministry Judicial system and were being awarded back.

That said there were a varied number of opinions on the subject and tons of superfluous rumors to top it off. But I, the generally unconcerned bloke that I was, hardly had much to say to any of it. Except maybe that I wasn’t overjoyed to see him back. Much.

Can’t really hate someone who managed to survive the war.

~!@!~

Harry knows how to deal with me when I’m angry, he always has, so he takes it very well when I show up in the middle of the night after breaking up with Collin.

I’ll describe the abridged version here as I’m not keen on fully re-living that experience:

Collin’s family had found him a nice witch to shack up with, which is all good and fine except for me. The thing was that he hadn’t told them about me. He’d decided that he’d like to settle down and start a family, which is codswallop if you ask me, as I intended to start a family anyway. There are plenty of orphans from the war who could use a home.

Anyway, so that spectacular breakup was the straw that broke the bloke’s back. I tossed aside my personal life and dived full-time into work.

~!@!~

Near the end of the week, Rhys goes off and leaves Seamus in charge.

Embry accosts me the second I enter the office, “Is your weekend free?”

I look suspiciously about but all seems in order, “Yea, I suppose”

Seamus seems to show up from nowhere, “I don’t suppose you’d take charge of the Netherlands trip?”

I look from one to the other and back, “The what trip, sorry?”

~!@!~

“Bugger, s’cold out”

Brighton, I’d reckon, is a master at stating the obvious. And while I’d agree, I’ve got to act like the adult here.

I change my mind and curse under my breath when a stiff wind buffets my back end.

“If we dally out here much longer we’ll be ice lollies”, Derringer informs me.

‘Too right’, I think. Out loud I say instead, “Back to the inn then”

Derringer and Brighton gallop down the snowy hill like the teenagers they are and I follow at a slower pace, thinking.

So, here I am on assignment with two trainees on what seems to be a wild goose chase. Seamus had explained that we were to apprehend some vandal setting fire to the local’s homes. Far as I’d seen, from charred remains, mind, the fire probably was summat enchanted, as I’m told it happened to go right on burning ignorantly despite the villagers previous efforts at putting them out, hence leaving not much to look into at the end of the day. Aside from actually catching this troublemaker, there was nothing else for it.

Problem was, no one had actually seen the bloke causing the mischief. Eyewitnesses were zero and a previous scan of the area was pretty useless aside from giving us an idea of the terrain, and light flurries of snow in the evening probably erased any fresh tracks, if any.

Derringer was rather sharper then I’d hoped for, starting the evening off by questioning the other blokes about his age, as young people like to gossip to other young people far more than answer to a Ministry affiliated wizard. I realized that I quite resented being seen that way. After all, it wasn’t all that long ago that Harry and Hermione and I were brats their age with little regard, care or appreciation for the great responsibilities of life. Insert famous Weasley sarcasm.

Well, cocking this up wasn’t what I’d had in mind; never mind what anyone might think. I wasn’t Harry, who would definitely have made a better Auror or guardian in any capacity, but I was capable. I knew that much.

Recent faffing about hadn’t gotten me anywhere if Collin was anything to go by and getting worked up unnecessarily over the press’ rediscovery of gossip in the form of Malfoy wasn’t anything to dwell on either.

So this is how I went about it:

Brighton I assigned the task of keeping watch skyward. I suspected that the snowy flurries would provide obvious cover if the culprit had any aerial capability as tracks had never been seen and snow itself can be a proper cover to any wizard with a bit of weather working ability.

I don’t fancy heights much anymore, either. An awkward leg injury made flying a broom more adventurous then I’d have liked anyway.

Derringer I left to infiltrating the gossip circuit as he’d already started. In a small town like this, there was bound to be someone who knew more then they were letting on and in the absence of hard evidence of late, following shallow leads might improve the scope and depth of the situation.

I decided that a little leg work wouldn’t go amiss either, so I set up to set out that first evening with the goal of mapping out the inner village terrain and placements. That and the fact that my leg was as stiff as buggery motivated me out under the early sundown despite some not so light snowfall.

The town was small enough to trek through end to end in under two hours. What made it dodgy was the unusual layout. Houses out these parts were designed with the heavy snowfall in mind. Despite magic’s basic ability to make life easier, elements are their own type of magic and forcing wards or other structural altercations can be disastrous at best in parts were the local element is at it’s strongest.

Right. So low level housing mostly made of brick, but with the common weakness of wooden cellar doors. The cellars themselves are not considered a complete weakness in that they are usually located under stone overhangs to keep the snow at bay. The problem is that most cellars contain flammable odds and ends since proper heating is a necessity round here.

That, combined with the spacing between buildings, piled high with snow on nastier days, made navigating precarious. Picture how each house looks no different from the next and that the even spacing made for an unintentional maze-like navigation; you forget what direction you came from and your bollocks have time to freeze while you stand ‘round trying to figure out which way you ought to go. Doubling back is out of the question, s’far as I can see.

It occurs to me that even if we did catch our vandal red handed, we’d be hard pressed to catch him outright if he tried to give us the slip, which he likely would and we’d have an inter city hunt on our hands. Wards against Apparating and Disapparating would be useless in weather like this.

In conclusion, that first night proved fairly useless as far as I was concerned; Brighton did as he was told but Derringer disappeared off to a newfound mate’s house. Instead of loosing my famous temper, I slammed back an unhealthy amount of vodka and settled in to sleep, headless of the fact that I was supposed to have all my pre-Aurors accounted for.

Bugger it.

It’s bloody cold out here and I’m not going to piss icicles tomorrow morning from staying out late looking for some perfectly adult character; he knows he should be about too, so I’m not entirely at fault.

Good night.

~!@!~

The next two days are much like the first: Derringer has moved on from the blokes to introducing himself to all the young ladies in the area, and Brighton has told me his arse is frozen flat from sitting every time he comes in from lookout. As for me, my leg still aches like buggery.

Thing is, I feel like we’ve made progress in there somewhere. My achy leg is proof.

Since more seems required from me as ‘Team Bigwig’, insofar as Seamus expected a more exciting report than a two liner saying we haven’t discovered bugger all ‘cept that he’s a right bastard for coercing me and the lads into this madness to begin with as any single, able bodied Auror would’ve done the trick (which I realize later wouldn’t exclude me, being the single and daft enough character in the department to have fit the mission requirements and would accepted in the first place).

On the morning of the fourth day, Derringer is finally done swilling inappropriate amounts of alcohol and charming his way into more then one pair of knickers, and returns to poor Brighton and I a bit discouraged.

I let Brighton tell me the usual tripe about how the sky has absolutely nothing suspicious about it except the constant snowfall and how his arse and bollocks will never be quite the same ever again and we settle down to breakfast for Derringer to mention a few things that are actually quite interesting, incidentally.

I make a mental tally as he goes: for starters, that constant snowfall we’ve been experiencing usually occurs later in the year and is not normal, as we’d first thought, though that doesn’t entirely count as weather does what it blooming well likes year round anyway. Upsetting the locals is all in a days work for nature, cheeky thing.

Secondly, the local chemist seemed a little distraught of late; the older lady insisted that some basic, everyday ingredients were being stolen from her shop, but I’d had at that first thing when I got here and it hadn’t been anything more than her newly acquired habit of taking jars of Piccadilly root and worms wart and misplacing them in her privy and behind the sofa in her living room and in the cupboard under the stairs. (Problem solved with the acquisition of a house elf).

Third point of interest was some vague sightings of young people going out after dark to hang about the rocky shoreline which Derringer had on good (personal) authority was true but just a small percentage of randy young people bent on freezing off their delicates for a bit of privacy with their respective chum or lady-friend.

As it was, I was inordinately pleased simply by the fact that Derringer wasn’t completely set on breaking every single ground rule in investigative procedure; he just happened to go about it the way the textbook asked us precisely not to. No great help that textbook is, by the way.

Brighton sips his tea thoughtfully, and a little resignedly, “We’re going to royally cock this up, aren’t we?”

I glance up from my pensive thoughts and grin, “Technically, this was a rubbish assignment to start with. I’ve been doing my legwork and I can tell you that those burnt buildings seem to have petrol residue all about. People around here only use petrol in case of emergency and think it barbaric in any other occasion. We’ve got some young rabble-rouser set on bothering himself by burning buildings the old fashioned way. As soon as he sees fit to set another fire, at his earliest convenience, we’ll catch the smarmy bastard and be off. Eat your biscuits and stop fussing”

Derringer, the lout, laughs and Brighton scoffs but takes to eating all the crisps instead. Quite all right with me, as I’ll never stop being a fan of biscuits, never mind the hour of the day.

~!@!~

A week has gone by and my leg is finally accustomed to the constant chill but my bits still protest as yet every morning in the loo.

Something is going to happen soon. I feel it.

I give Derringer and Brighton a heads up on my hunch and they seem to feel much the same way. Can’t have spent an entire week languishing out here for no reason; whomever is up to no good has to have the proper sense to stir us up before we grow any older and possibly more uninterested.

The day does not disappoint.

Incidentally, I’m out stretching my limbs after supper and leave Derringer on lookout and Brighton to sleep in. No sense hassling them both, but I’m leaving myself clearly on my lonesome for the benefit of anyone keeping tabs.

So I set off on my walk, hands in the depth of my wooly pockets and thanking God for my mother’s thick jumpers when I round a corner and suddenly become aware of some wild shouting nearby. Quickly determining the direction of the noise as the wind does muddle and play with it a bit, I set off at a run, adrenaline taking me there far faster then I might’ve consciously bothered. A week of inactivity would do it to anyone.

As I get close, a low rumble ripples through the spaces between the buildings, a magic ripple I note clinically, and a blast like an explosive going off greets my ruddy ears. A moment later, my destination becomes doubly more apparent when a column of billowing black smoke slices up into the sky.

People are running opposite from my oncoming advance and I note the grown witches and wizards among them. I realize suddenly that this is no vandal; it’s got adults running from it.

The shouting dims down when I get close enough, as it is all behind me at this point, and I round another corner, stepping over charred debris to get my first real look at what we’ve been looking for.

I come face to face with scaly brownish red hide. Drawing my wand, ice in my veins, I cast a hasty Lumos under my breath to see through the low dust cloud in the area and the thing turns its head in my direction, lightening fast.

Dragon, I think dimly, aware that since the war, control over my bowels is iron-strong but not infallible. I swallow once, sharply and turn and run back the way I came. Unfortunately, ‘Scaly’ has taken an unhealthy interest in my person and has decided to give chase, lumbering vigorously after me, the snow dulling its massive movements.

In the eerie silence that follows, as every sane person is hiding indoors at this point, I stop to consider what Harry would do in such a situation, since he’s the only one I’ve ever seen deal with a dragon and decide that I need Derringer and Brighton with me to first lead the thing out of the immediate area.

Right.

I use my none-to-happily acquired knowledge of the area to weave my way towards the inn, pacing through as many narrow passages as I can manage on the way, and emerge with a possible three minutes to spare.

On the roof, Derringer and Brighton are already scanning the area. Not slowing my sprint, I point my wand upwards and fire off two warning sparks and watch them scramble back inside to meet me halfway up the stairs, our brooms in had.

I hesitate a fraction before grabbing my broom and leading them back upstairs to the terrace.

We emerge at the same instant as the dragon. From this vantage point, I can see it clearly and catalogue it quickly, even as I motion the other two to kick off as silently as possible.

A young female by the looks of it and heavily wounded already: I count three separate lacerations on the left wing and note the mild mutilation of the right wind tip and the fact that it shortens the wing span by a human arm-length. Her entire body is in fairly good condition if you set aside the ungainly spectrum of motion she is capable of which immediately indicates to me the use of stimulants, likely magical and not herbal as dragons quite literally have fire in the belly and are not easily poisoned. She’s also unnaturally silent and dragons quite like to bellow loudly and frighteningly after prey in all occasions that I’ve seen.

Imperius possibly, I decide grimly, or one of the nastier hexes, I amend hopefully in my head.

I’m proud to note that I’ve noticed all this within a few moments, and then I’m in the air and have to remind myself that my focus has to split between flying and dealing with the situation.

I motion Brighton eastward and Derringer westward to form a proper tripod and steel my resolve, “Oi!”

My shout echoes in the small clearing and the dragon is instantly preparing to take the air, wings beating furiously to take off straight up in a tight space. At first, I figure we’ll have another minute or so and I turn my back, motioning Brighton to follow me towards the water and for Derringer to bring up the rear, but all that is shot to hell when the dragon dives upwards suddenly, the powerful gusts from her wings sending us all scattering like leaves in a stiff fall wind.

Shite.

I recover slowly, Derringer now to my right and Brighton starring that incensed dragon in the face, a deer in headlights.

Double Shite.

Taking advantage of the backside she’s showing us, I cast a sharp ‘Duro’ and am gratified that at least the tip of the tail in question turns vaguely to stone.

Derringer feints to the right and I to the left as she swings her weight around and blows searing fire in the area we were just hovering in.

I glance around wildly and spot Brighton taking off towards the water and I take off like a shot after him, Derringer close behind me.

The dragon gives us a head start before roaring after us.

I need a plan, I think frantically, stingingly cold wind blowing around me, but I don’t perform well under stress and I’m not a tactician like Hermione. Honestly, being Harry Potter’s best mate did not make me Auror material to start with and having survived a war only made me a survivor in the vague way that a good deal of other people had also survived. I’m not any different from when I was in school: I’m a solid part of any plan but I’m not the most important.

Heavy fireballs blowing wickedly close by jolts me back to reality.

Both Derringer and Brighton have veered off the dragon’s warpath and I’m the only git still in the way.

Blimey, I think sedately, I could die if I keep this up.

No brilliant plan comes to me and I’m fast approaching the ocean’s edge. I don’t dare look over my shoulder least I fall off my broom and charge ahead instead, skimming lower and lower until water is kicking up from where the tips of my boots are touching the water’s surface.

The she-dragon is still determinedly dogging me and something finally occurs to me, but it’s stupid and it’s dangerous and I blooming well may die, but at this point, I’m already dragon-Take-away.

I veer sharply to the left just as another fireball tried to knock off my momentum and I’m aware that it has passed close enough to char flesh, but I’m focused, for once, and determined.

I grip my broom tightly and hang on for dear life, my leg aching like buggery at the most inopportune moment, but I ignore that too, and veer smoothly right around, heading back towards the oncoming dragon.

What I miscalculated, by not looking back when I should’ve, was the distance between her and I, which was to say the least, not adequate for what I wanted to do, so the plan fell apart and changed all by itself.

In the following minute, I watched her open her maw and send another, bone incinerating ball of flame my way. To dodge at this speed would be suicide much the same way not dodging would but there was a fractionally better chance of my survival if I did bother dodging.

Just as I’d predicted, dodging was brutal. With seconds to spare, I dipped right and my entire right side seemed to catch on the water’s surface for a moment before my entire world goes cock up and I spin out of control, crashing into the water with such force that I feel and hear my broom snap in two right before my spine attempts to do the same thing.

Luckily, in the most ironic way, the she-dragon attempted to follow after me, as she’d been only seconds after her own fireball and her left wing tip caught on the water and sent her crashing after me. A wave hit me in the exact moment my spine strained the wrong way and sent me sprawling right side up again, but the force sent me skipping over the water’s surface like a well-tossed stone.

I pass out cold in the next instant.

~!@!~
I wake to Harry’s harassed expression and Hermione’s tight-lipped worry.

My head is a block of granite and I muster enough thoughtfulness to speak to them, “Cheers”

Only it sounds broken and wrong and I suddenly become aware that my arse is on fire and that neither of my legs will move.

Harry’s head whips in my direction and he visibly relaxes, “Oh thanks Merlin”

Hermione gives me a stern look, “You are not going back to work ever”

I grin through the haze of painkillers, “Leave all the heroics to Harry then?”

Harry looks embarrassed but nods nonetheless, “I’ve got a knack for them, mate”

Hermione glares sharply at him, “I don’t care what either of you think you’ve got a knack for but neither of you will be going into work anytime in the near future”

“Agreed”, Derringer says blearily from where he was asleep on a chair in the corner.

I strain to look over at him and he obliges me by coming into the edge of my vision, “Hullo”

He gives me a lopsided grin, “I have never seen anything so stupid in my entire life; Brighton fainted dead away when we hauled you out of the water”

I grin, pleased despite everything, simply to be alive.

Then I try to shift into a more comfortable position and pain lances up my spine. I regret the worry on everyone’s faces as I pass out, but there is really, truly, nothing for it.

~!@!~
Next time I wake, Brighton is at my bedside, paper in hand but fast asleep.

I am propped up against a mountain of pillows and get my first real look at the rest of myself. My bum is sitting snuggly in a swath of bandages and both my legs are encased in individual leather holders. I try to move a toe experimentally and feel nothing.

Blimey, I’m paralyzed.

Magically, I amend when I feel myself straining against the mini-wards encasing my legs. Might be a bit of skele-grow at work if the way my lower half is tingling gives me any clues.

How long have I been in here and what the blooming hell happened to the she-dragon? I’d ask Brighton but I’m a reasonable bloke and simply ‘Acio’ myself his newspaper.

Instead of any thing productive, I’m immediately assaulted with Draco Malfoy’s latest scandal: apparently, he’s already a father at this tender age, which is no more interesting to me then the fact that Harry’s got kids himself. The media is having a field day looking into, or trying to look into, his personal affairs concerning primarily his son and the lack of spouse to complete the picture of a stern looking Draco Malfoy leaving Gringotts Bank with a young boy in tow.

‘Where is Mrs. Malfoy?’ the paper asks me in kitschy, bolded writing.

I shrug at it and examine the picture of Malfoy more closely instead, quite pleased in that instant with wizarding photography, as it moves and captures a good sense of what’s about.

He’s slim as ever but seems very tall compared to the young boy holding his hand for dear life. His obnoxious hair has been trimmed into a rather interesting and chic looking crew cut with bangs and his clothing is far more subtle then I recall: a deeply dark green robe over soft gray trousers and expensive looking shoes. He looks almost innocuous except that in his case, his reputation precedes him jovially. That scowl is fit to kill and that down turned mouth looks ready to spit venom. I was somehow expecting him to be more, dunno exactly, but possibly showy? He always did gloat quite a lot about his family’s fortune and I know from Rhys that his previously frozen assets were released back into his accounts. Never mind, though.

Overall, it is well and truly Draco ruddy Malfoy. Heaven forbid.

I switch my attention then to his supposed son and take a slightly closer look and decide that they are very obviously related. The boy has the same pale hair and stormy gray eyes but has a softer countenance and expression. Malfoy Senior is very sharp lines and Malfoy Junior is all the same lines but softer. He certainly had his mother to thank for small mercies, whomever she was.

It occurred to me then, that I might need to reconsider this line of not-exactly work. I wasn’t actually an Auror. I haven’t passed the testing yet and Hermione thinks the third time will do the trick but I’m beginning to see something a little more clearly than I’d previously thought I had: I wasn’t the one for heroics; that was Harry. I wasn’t the one for brains; that was Hermione, and I certainly wasn’t the one for theatrics involving disappearing acts and media scandals; that was Malfoy.

I was, however, the one for something. All I needed to do was figure out what.

~!@!~

A day inside St. Mungo’s dragged on like no ones business. It was bearable because Harry visited often, Apparating from as far as the U.S Americas on Tuesday to see me and Mum came about with dad to play chess and generally be bothersome in that loving way parental units are.

Hermione found time to bring the twins to see me and Rhys brought his big arse in as soon as he’d been back from Glasgow. Collin found the nerve to send me flowers, which I still somehow appreciated even when I discovered that his soon to be wife had also signed the greeting card.

I made a bother of myself with the nurses and set about exploring the interior of my floor as soon as I was fit to dally about in an upright position. I was gratified to see that I was mostly intact when the leg braces came off. The-leg-that-aches-like-buggery didn’t bother living up to its title and I was all right with that development too.
The thing that had me inordinately bothered was my first look at my arse since the Netherlands trip; it’d gone as red as the hair on my head and looked rather much like a wilted tomato. 3rd degree burns also sting bloody badly.

I didn’t bother not reading about Malfoy every chance I got, as I grew to appreciate his penchant for public adventure the longer I was stuck here.

Thursday of that week came slowly and I was praying for it to go by in a blur so that I might speed my way to Friday, which meant freedom for everyone in no uncertain terms and discharge for me.

S’why I wasn’t expecting anything interesting to go off in my general vicinity and was astounded to bump into Malfoy on the one excursion I’d dared to take off my floor.

It wasn’t a shocking meeting insofar as he knew me and I knew him and everyone’d been made quite clear on who had and who hadn’t survived the war, so the question became whether or not he launch the first clever remark or leave the honor to me.

We were boldly interrupted however, by the young Malfoy peeking around his dad’s robes in an interested fashion. Cheers.

I love children, which is to say that I quite like them possibly because I’ve never had to care for one for longer than a day at a stretch and could not resist crouching down and offering the little gentleman my hand, “Hullo, I’m Ron”

The young Malfoy seemed about to tentatively step around his dad, but said dad opened his mouth and killed the cautious approach, “Your general manor is still appalling, isn’t it?”

My eyebrows climbed up to my hairline in mock surprise, still addressing the boy, “I expect so”

Malfoy made an exasperated noise, “I meant, Weasley, that only you would crouch down in a hospital corridor wearing an indoor gown that showcases your bollocks”

I made a show of pretending that I hadn’t know that and made a face at Malfoy Junior, “In that case then, I better not go about introducing myself when I haven’t got any trousers on”

This made the boy smile though I was sure now, having had ample time to look, drafty corridor or no, that he was possibly no more than two years old.

I straightened and resolved not to curse around his dad for his sake, “What on earth is Malfoy, debonair millionaire and crowned king of debauchery doing in St. Mungo’s on a Thursday morning when he should be off charming yet another lady-friend?”

Some people find homosexual jokes amusing the way I found heterosexual quips equally satisfying.

Malfoy raises what must be a manicured eyebrow and answers me civilly enough, aware now that his son is watching our exchange, “You are appallingly common and have no intention of changing I gather, but I happen to be here for Scorpius’ benefit. I’ve been told that check ups are necessary in a child’s early stages of development. And hospitals”, Malfoy adds, speaking down to his son in a fond manner, “also house all manor of plebian characters that I hadn’t warned you about”

His son clearly loves him, if the way those big, gray eyes look up at Malfoy as though he was the one who saved the wizarding world from You-Know-Who instead of Harry is any indication.

I grin though. Children are so naïve; it’s very much one of the most endearing things about them.

I cocked my head pensively, “Still looking down on the masses, I expect?”

Malfoy sniffed delicately, “You happen to be a Pureblood but it hardly makes you different from any of those other black sheep now does it? You are embarrassingly ordinary for no apparent reason other than that you were raised that way”

I shrugged, pleased enough to be having a conversation that has, as yet, to include any overly rude commentary, “When’s this check-up, by the way? I’m dallying in the corridor with my bollocks merrily displayed because I’ve nowhere to be”

Malfoy makes an awkward expression I don’t recognize immediately because I’ve never seen him make it: vaguely embarrassed, seems like. He then turns his nose up at me and declares, “I got lost”

I pause, on the verge of perversely cheery laughter and notice that he is a good head shorter than I am. He’s had to turn that noise up at me at quite a strained angle.

“Cheers, then”, I say, squashing back the laughter burbling in my stomach, glancing about myself, “Since we can be lost together”

Malfoy unconsciously scoops up Scorpius when the child tugs at his robes and stares at me in the height of incredulity, “You haven’t changed one whit. There’s clearly no re-educating you”

I am distracted by the charming way Scorpius lays his head on his dad’s shoulder and promptly gets to napping, “S’pect that how I am”

Malfoy sighs; sounding put upon, and shifts Scorpius gently.

It occurs to me then to ask something I later realize was not my bloody business, “Where is his mother, Malfoy?”

Only dumping ice cold water over me could have prepared me for the way Draco Malfoy squared his shoulders and told me with as much poison as you please: “Get your head out of my arse, Weasel. It’s not where you live”

He turns on his heel and strides away, people leaping out of his way, thundercloud that he suddenly is.

Shite, I muse, I need to stop reading those papers.

~!@!~

I do not expect to see Malfoy again, which is why waking late Friday morning to find him sitting in a broad, leather, wingback affair by the window astounds me.

He hasn’t noticed me yet, so I studying him from close.

His photographs make him look tall, but he isn’t nearly more than 5’9 if I had to hazard a guess. The way he caries himself disguises this, I bet. His hair has gotten paler, from what I remember, a kind of blond-so-pale-it-is-white that muggles get from a bottle. The eyes are the same: gray and thunderous or mocking interchangeably. Again, the robes are subtle: a deep burgundy-almost-brown pant, black robe and a pair of polished black leather shoes.

He looks like a character out of muggle cinema; a mafia hit man, I remember Harry explaining to me.

I tense when he turns sharply and catches me starring.

For a moment, we are back at Hogwarts, glaring at each other across the Great Hall, and then I do the unthinkable and smile.

His glare doesn’t falter but he seems to have recognized and categorized our recent exchange as something we were quite wont to do on a regular basis back in school; s’why I smiled.

He takes the glare down a notch: “Don’t ask about Scorpius’ mother when he might hear you”

I frown, “But he has a mother, doesn’t he?”

Malfoy’s eyes grow thunderous though his expression seems fairly serene, “He had a mother, yes. But what I just told you wasn’t simply a request”

“Was it an order then?” I ask, amused by his audacity.

Malfoy very deliberately folds his hands in his lap where they clench violently and then he smoothes them over his thighs, fingers splayed as if seeking patience, “Weasley, you were a bother to me in school and you’re a bother to me barely five years later. I’m only asking”, he amends, not looking at me, “because I don’t need anymore people asking me questions I don’t want to answer around my son”

I scrub a hand through my hair and shrug, “Wasn’t my business either, I realize. But you’re in the bloody paper everyday and I think I’ve been brainwashing myself every time I pick one up”

It isn’t quite an apology, but Malfoy knows well enough to take it at face value.

Malfoy’s mouth quirks up enigmatically and he relaxes minutely, “You were the one calling me debonair yesterday”

I scowl and shrug, “Not the words I would’ve used normally, mind. They call you that in the papers”

Malfoy seems disinclined to comment further on anything concerning the paper and I elaborate in the awkward silence: “Women and their romantic ideas”

Malfoy’s eyes light up, “So I did hear correctly about your preferences, Mr. Weasley?”

I pause, unable to tell whether or not he is mocking me and answer in the most mater-of-fact tone I can, “I almost died in a war, mate. People wake up and change after near death experiences”

Malfoy nods vaguely and I’m not sure if he’s agreeing or simply acknowledging my reasoning.

A bout of silence follows and I start to fidget. What is Malfoy really doing here?

He tucks his chin into a hand and leans over the side of his transfigured chair, “What is so good about other blokes, Weasley? They did makes men and women compatible for a reason, you realize?”

I know he’s at least half-mocking me now, and it’s tinged with genuine curiosity, but I’m not moved enough to answer honestly.

“Blokes have better sex”, I say flippantly, “They don’t nag or cling like barnacles and go out to the pub with you instead of insisting you stay home and watch telly like an old married couple”

None of which is true since some blokes are just like women behavior-wise, but I’m digressing aren’t I?

Malfoy doesn’t appreciate my sarcasm, I can see, but I didn’t appreciate his either, so he can sod off.

In fact, I feel strongly enough about it to tell him just that: “Now if you’re satisfied, shove off”

Malfoy shrugs, “The urge to spout derogatory comments is overwhelming, but I will take my leave” He stands and makes his way to the door, waving his wand vaguely over his shoulder to return the chair to normal and pauses at the door, back to me, “I hope that you’ll refrain from asking other unnecessary questions if we meet again, Ronald. I don’t mind them but Scorpius is still too young”

With that, he strides out into the corridor and shuts the door softly behind himself.

I am flabbergasted; he called me ‘Ronald’.

~!@!~

Harry doesn’t believe it.

Not because he thinks I might be lying, mind, but because this is Malfoy we are talking about.

“He just doesn’t normally behave that way”, Harry sums up of our conversation, chewing thoughtfully on a biscuit.

“Hmm”, I mumble around my own biscuit, “Maybe the world is going to end yet again and you’ll be having to straighten it out for a second time?”

Harry laughs, eyes crinkled shut in an appealing way.

I bask in the joy of making him laugh and sip my tea thoughtfully, “He did fill out nicely though”

Harry’s laughter seems to cripple him to the point of tears.

Wheezing, he puts a hand on my arm, the other wiping tears from his cheeks, “I’m fragile, mate. Don’t talk about Malfoy like that around me. Please”

Looking from his hand on my arm to his face, I can recall there was a time when I had eyes only for this man. But then I realized that he was my best mate, and would only ever be just that, I settled for the reality that he is, at the very least, the very best mate a bloke could ask for.

Harry grins suddenly, “He’s got the manor of a poof but somehow isn’t one, seems like. I’ve officially lost the longest standing bet in history to Seamus”

I nod, “He isn’t even slightly bent. He was too keen on mocking me”

Harry’s eyes flash, defensive of me even though what’s said was already said, and shakes his head; “He’s an advocate for prejudice if I’ve ever known one”

I shrug, noncommittal, “This is Malfoy, remember? He used to call you Scar-head and me Weasel. He’s always been fond of labeling people as he sees fit; I don’t expect him to change now”

Harry scoffs and eats another biscuit.

I occurs to me to ask him something I’ve been wondering about, “Did you testify against him, in the Trials?”

Harry looks up, startled and pensive, “Well, not exactly against him. He was leaking information from the other side for a good third of the war. When the Order lost contact with him, there was still Snape to rely on, in part. No one could spare a minute to ask where he’d disappeared to”

I nod, “So how did he end up being tried?”

Harry shrugs, “You know as well as I do that the end was messy. People came from all over the place when they had nowhere to go. You remember what wizarding London was like while the Ministry had to set up shop all over again. Malfoy had to make a choice: he either turn himself in for sentencing or become a rogue to be added to the list of people to be apprehended by the Auror Corps once it was re-established enough” Harry pauses and sips his cuppa, “And they were under orders to kill on sight, s’far as I was aware”

I swallow thickly, “Blimey”

Harry nods, agreeing, “Anyway, his assets had been frozen since the beginning of the war. Whatever he made off with was his, but all that in Gringotts and the Manor was under Ministry custody. When he was tried, it was decided that he’d helped enough to earn at least a partial pardon, but he had to immediately choose between exile to a known location or temporary stripping of citizen status, so he chose exile obviously, and bought a place out in Belgium with a portion of his funds allocated to him. He’s been there ever since”

I’m baffled, “You knew this whole time? Even during that first year when the papers went mad making up theories?”

Harry nods, “I’m under Oath, technically. I shouldn’t even have told you” He gives me an officious look ruined by the laughter in his eyes.

We mock-glare at each other a moment and collapse into howling laughter.

Great to have a best mate; I recommend it.

~!@!~

Next time I meet Malfoy, it’s severely unintentional: I’m back for a check-in on Rhys’ insistence and end up in the same sitting room as his highness.

Scorpius is nowhere to be seen.

As there is no one else in the waiting room that I know, I plop down next to him; amused by the way he simultaneously crosses his legs and buries his face deeper into the book he’s reading.

“Hullo”

Malfoy sighs, deeply, and tucks the book away, eyeing me disapprovingly, “I knew you wouldn’t leave me alone. What is it now?”

I affect an innocent expression, “How’s Scorpius?”

Malfoy sniffs, “In for his check-up and perfectly fine”

I do not know why bothering with Malfoy is becoming a thing of interest to me but I can’t be bothered to worry about it, “Me too. I’m sure I’m fine, though”

Malfoy gives me a sidelong glance that indicates to me that he does not care and it makes me laugh.

He looks appalled at the level of noise I’m capable of and turns to me fully, whispering sharply under his breath, “DO pipe down”

I gesture vaguely, as I am still laughing and slowly subside, “I can’t remember why I thought you were so bad in school; you seem charming enough”

Malfoy’s face hardens and I am aware that he’s going to attempt to shoot my theory to pieces in the following moments if time permits, “I am not one of your poncey friends, Weasel, do try to recall, nor am I even remotely interested in your misguided attempts at becoming friends or flirting or whatever it is you think you are doing”

It is a metaphorical slap and it stings, but I’m none the worse for wear, “Hum, no more complementing you, then”

I am however, not inclined to continue speaking to him and take up a Quidditch magazine from the nearby coffee table.

Satisfied with his handy work, Malfoy returns to his book.

Scorpius returns shortly afterwards, eyeing me shyly, and Malfoy scoops him up and departs without a backward glance.

As I am called to go in, my hand lands on Malfoy’s book, which he apparently forgot and I pick it up. It’s a soft leather-bound hardcover and there is no indication of the content. I flip absently to the first page and scrawled in hasty yet impeccably neat writing is:

‘Each and every one of those jumpers you insist on wearing has offended all of my senses on at least several occasions, so I deem us to be on par with the level of irritation we inspire in each other. That washed out burgundy monstrosity you are currently sporting did quite enough damage for today so I leave you with this actuality: I will be civil, but I will never be nice’

I scoff and finish reading: ‘Read the book if you are so inclined and please return it soon. Place it in an envelope and post it. It will find it’s way back’

There is no closing signature but for an ostentatious looking M.

I walk in and walk out of my check-up lightly bemused.

~!@!~

Back at the bureau, after nearly a solid week of doing sod-all and perfecting the art of faffing about, Rhys calls me to his office first thing.

He regards me from across his desk, over steeped fingers, “Hermione has owled me several Howlers indicating that you and Harry will be leaving our part-time services. Any really grit to these letters?”

I scowl first at Hermione’s audacity and then wave it off, “I’ve decided to stay on but you’ll have to without Harry for a bit. He’s married to her, you know”

Rhys smiles, fully amused, “Do you know what you’d like to do if you stay on?”

I stare at him, blank.

Rhys gets that twinkle in his eye before elaborating, “Mad-Eye owled me a proposition from Headquarters, if you’re open to suggestions”

Mad-Eye Moody owled Rhys on my behalf? The world is ending.

I nod, nevertheless and Rhys, seeming pleased, hands over a thick folder with a letter attached to the cover.

He sits back in his seat and looks me square in the eye, “We’ve discussed your abilities as an Auror, a title awarded you though you haven’t yet passed the practical exam, and we can tell you nothing you aren’t aware of already. Your strong point is not raw power, like Harry or tactical sense as affiliated with Mrs. Potter, but you are a solid judge of character and intent and as such, have a skill not found in many”

I disagree, “It isn’t that hard to tell if someone’s a tosser, sir. You’re exaggerating”

Rhys laughs, “We’ll just get you to work then. You’ll see for yourself”

~!@!~

Seamus and Neville assault me in the corridor and Seamus opens his big mouth to ask me, jokingly, if I’ve been sacked.

I give him a bright look, “Are you mad? Who’s going to help you harass the new recruits or carry Neville’s rucksack of danger? Who would dream of sacking me”

Neville seems pleased and Seamus affects a mock-serious expression.

I bat off their questions in favor of my own, “How did the Netherlands trip close up?”

Seamus and Neville exchange a serious look and Seamus says to me, “You better come along to the lab with us, then”

We board an elevator with a swarm of memos dancing about our heads and head up one floor to the lab.

I haven’t been up here all that often. They’re always cutting something up or putting nasty bits in jars so I’m very disinclined to find myself here under most circumstances, but I am very curious about what the lab and the Netherlands trip have in common.

Once there, we navigate our way to Alex’s office. Alex is a wizard on loan to us from the Americas. He’s very sharp and polite, which does not help with the stereotype I’ve cultivated concerning Asians but he’s good at what he does and he’s a great bloke with a funny English accent. What is there not to love?

Alex is literally swimming in paperwork when we find him: folders and memos and entire books drifting about the room, silently and weightlessly. He once explained to me that it creates a Zen-ish feeling that he appreciates when he’s trying to concentrate. In the midst of the madness, Alex sits still, pen in mouth, scanning over a document.

He glances up at our entry, “Hey, guys”

I grin at him, “Yeah, long time no see, mate”

Alex motions us closer and Seamus swats paperwork of his face before saying, “Ron was the one working on the Netherlands trip, but he’s only just recovered. We though you could bring the git up to speed”

Alex gets that excited look on his face when he’s about to launch into full ‘scientist’ mode and snatches several folders out of the air and shoves us out of the office and back into the corridor, hurrying us along further in, “We’ve made progress since that last time you guys came around. Turns out Maevis was poisoned, but with Dark magic”

“Maevis?”

Neville answers me, “Your she-dragon”

I’m thrown, “Her name is Maevis?”

Alex blithely continues on as though it does not matter that a she-dragon has such a ridiculous name, “Originally, she was continuously in pain but after further diagnosis, we’ve realized that the extent of tampering with her physical form is beyond anything we’ve ever seen. You guys ever heard of Frankenstein?”

Seamus looks lost,”Franken-beg pardon?”

I nod, Harry’s told me some about muggle stories.

Alex seems to find this recognition on my behalf to be enough and waves
his wand to temporarily dispel the wards as we pass through into the Restricted section, “Frankenstein was a monster created by a muggle from putting together pieces from dead bodies and giving it life through electricity. As we all know, there is no such thing as giving life to an object solely composed of organic or inorganic pieces. Even the ‘bringing to life’ of inanimate objects in only assigning a ‘temperament’ to it, right? A bit of tampering magic-wise but we don’t literally bring anything to life, you understand”

Neville nods sharply as though he’s actually following the discussion.

Alex plunges on, “The report Ron wrote while he was in the hospital suggested that he though Maevis to be under Imperius or a weighty hex and he was right in a way but the reality is much, much worse than that”

I am startled into paying a bit more attention.

Alex smirks at my renewed interest, “When asked, she specified that the greatest pain she was experiencing was from her mind being broken into, making manipulation our number one reason for her behavior. However, the how was what we really needed to figure out since she was prone to episodes even while under our custody. Normally, you’ll note, under this many wards, her controller should have slim to none ability to control her. So, by placing her in an induced coma, we examined her wounds. On the wing missing a chunk, we found a pouch sewn under the healed skin containing a hallucinogen of unknown origin, making it a potion that we’ve never encountered before. The interesting thing is that the pouch itself isn’t simply a pouch, it’s a living parasite”

We pass through security during this part of Alex’s lecture and are ushered into an observation room. There isn’t much besides a long table and a wide window taking up the whole of the wall across from us.

Alex motions us closer and we stare into a darkened room. Someone flips the light switch and there is Maevis, curled in on herself, what looks like asleep. The room itself is made to look like the sky, all white and pale blue. It reminds me of the ceiling of the Great Hall back at school.

“To keep her at ease”, Alex informs me at my curious glance his way.

He conjures us some chairs and we sit before Alex sobers a bit to continue, “Essentially, that parasite is the cause of the problems. It has bonded to Maevis’ nervous system via the application of Dark Magic and there is currently no way to remove it without killing her”

“The best part” Alex continues lightly, “Is that among the scarring on her hide, we discovered a tattoo or a replica of something quite familiar etched into the soft hide over her heart under the scales of her breast bone: a variation of You-Know-Who’s Dark Mark”

I sit back and stare.

Blimey.

~!@!~

“Blimey” Harry echoes to me, about an hour later, sitting in his kitchen while Hermione paces restlessly.

“My sentiments exactly, mate”

Harry looks ready to jump up and set off, so I knock shins with him under the table trying to be distracting-like.

He gives me that harassed look he gets when he’s slightly worried, “What’s being done about it?”

I scrub a hand through my hair and try to re-call all the details, “Well, Maevis is being kept in a coma for the time being and Moody is putting together an Auror Corps to look into finding the missing Death Eaters still at large. I know he’s supposed to owl you sometime tomorrow. They’ll be owling Hermione too since they’d like her research help concerning the Dark magic used on Maevis. The Ministry has been notified and they’ve decided to put certain war-refugees under protective custody slash surveillance for the next little bit. Meanwhile, all this has got to stay out of the papers”

Hermione stops pacing, “If they ask Harry to head the Auror team, he’ll have to take a leave of absence from Quidditch. How many people won’t notice that”

There is bitterness in that voice and I can’t blame her.

Harry himself shrugs hopelessly, “Whatever happens, I am getting on that team, head of it or not”

Hermione and I exchange a look over his dark, messy hair.

Harry perks up suddenly, “Wait, you said war-refugees? We’ve got those?”

Hermione makes an exasperated face, “Harry, it’s the Ministry’s politically incorrect way of identifying Malfoy and Snape and God knows who else”

“Malfoy?”

I dunno what it was about the sound of my voice but both Harry and Hermione gives me a speculative once-over.

I shrug off their scrutiny, “What? A bloke can’t ask a question?”

They ignore me and give each other that patented Mr. and Mrs. Potter code for ‘We’ll chat later’.

I haven’t even done anything.

~!@!~

“Brilliant”, Harry declares in a determined voice, halfway through devouring his breakfast and having read the Ministry letter twice already the following morning.

Hermione hasn’t said a word yet, her own official letter tucked into her house apron as she duffs through the washing up.

What is bothering me is the third owl that flew in behind Harry and Hermione’s addressed to me. What on earth might Headquarters’, cap that, MAD-EYE, possibly want with me? What’s more, it’s note simply stating that I am to promptly use the included Portkey, a heavy, brass key of no apparent use, to be transported to an undisclosed location for a briefing.

Harry eyes the Portkey curiously, “Must be important if they want to transport you before briefing you”

There is no trace of jealousy in his voice and there never has been as far as I was ever concerned, but I am sensing that harassed expression is attempting a come back from the way Harry’s left eye squints slightly.

I play it off, “It can’t be all that bad. Mad-Eye isn’t daft enough to set me to anything very important”

Hermione makes a dismissive noise, “You are unbelievable, Ron”

I grin in what I hope is a reassuring manor, “I try”

Finishing breakfast and seeing Hermione off to Seamus’, Harry and I eyeball the Portkey for a good half-hour. Harry finally nudges me under the table with his foot, “I expect they’re waiting on you”

I grimace at him, “You think?”

Harry grins back, and pats my back, “You’ll do fine. Mad-Eye is scary but he isn’t a git”

With a long-suffering sigh, I reach out and touch the Portkey. Why has this past fortnight suddenly turned into such an adventure?

~!@!~

I am sucked forward in that wholly unpleasant way that Portkeys transport people and an immediately assaulted with noise and brutality: shouting from both sides, one voice distinguishably Malfoy’s at his most venomous and there is pottery flying about in a lethal fashion. Ducking out of reflex, I am surprised to see the fighting come to a halt around me.

I glance up cautiously, taking in two Aurors to my right and Malfoy to my left, sharp, broken clay in abundance.

I take note of the sheer amount of killing intent pouring from Malfoy and the under duress state of the two Aurors. Neither has their wands drawn since they seem to have relieved Malfoy of his but that didn’t stop the use of wand less magic.

I look about and realize that I must be at the Manor if the expensive carcasses of leather armchairs and polished cherry wood bookcases could indicate it, and the place was once a library before whatever the Aurors did encouraged Malfoy into a rage so blinding that he was resorting to deadly force, wand or no.

“Blimey”, I say pensively to no one in particular.

“Weasley”, Malfoy says in a surprisingly calm voice, “Get those two off my property”

I look at him and his chest his heaving and he is angry beyond sense and I turn on the spot and head for the two Aurors who stare at me incredulously for a second before I push them into each other and tap one on the shoulder with the Portkey.

Unsurprisingly, they vanish.

That done, stepping back from the small vacuum of air caused by their departure, I round on Malfoy, “What the bloody hell is wrong with you? They were Aurors!”

Malfoy is still starring at the spot they were standing in not a minute ago. When his gaze finally reaches my face, he looks very much determined. To do what, I haven’t the foggiest.

Malfoy’s eyes are still flashing and he deliberately walks around me, much like a tiger circling prey. I immediately cast a quick charm to make a pile of the broken pottery, as Malfoy’s barefoot and return my attention to him.

His murderous expression has fled and left him looking bemused, “What on earth are you doing here? First those bloody Aurors and now you. What is going on, Weasley?”

When I don’t answer promptly enough, he scrubs a hand roughly through his hair and makes a very exasperated sound, “You don’t even know, do you?”

I shrug, “Got a Portkey from the office and here I am. Was supposed to get a briefing here”

Malfoy gives me an incredulous expression, “You do realize where you are, you batty weasel?”

Yes, I feel like saying, I do, you great bloody git. But I say nothing instead as there is a lovely gray owl at the bay window and my energy would be put to much better use letting it in.

Malfoy watches my every move, from untying the roll of parchment to the trek I make to the desk where I offer the owl a perch.

I settle down on the free edge of the desk and am about to read the thing when Malfoy snatches it out of my hands and retreats around several broken armchairs.

“Bastard”, I tell him half heartedly, as I am not really surprised he did that.

Of course, I’m ignored.

Malfoy’s eyes scan the page quickly, then more slowly a second time. He swears colorfully and walks back over, handing me the parchment disdainfully, “You can read this drivel and I’ll go collect Scorpius”

I watch him go out the partly smashed double doors and settle down to have a look:

‘Ronald:

Seamus and Neville tell me you are well informed regarding our current situation. Your task will be to supervise both Malfoy Senior and Junior over the course of an undetermined period as yet. You are to secure the area, assigned help will report promptly to you at half past noon, and remain on site. Further information will be owled to you as requested or updated.

Rhys.’

Cheers, I think glumly, no wonder Malfoy was overjoyed.

Presently, the tosser is back, Scorpius curled in his arms, “Well? What do you make of it?”

I eye the young boy, who is eyeing me back somewhat fearfully, and re-call that I’ve got to pretend I’m speaking to him as well as Malfoy and be civil, “Basically, I know what I’m doing here and how I’m meant to go about it. What I can’t tell you is why me”

Malfoy rolls his eyes, “Typical”, he sets himself down in the only un-mutilated armchair and settles a level gaze on me, “Are you going to tell me why I am at the Ministry’s tender mercies again?”

Just the way he puts emphasis on ‘again’ warns me to watch what I say, “We’ve got a bit of a sticky situation”, I begin slowly, formulating as I go, “So I’ll just be around in the meantime. They’ve got a team handling it as of tomorrow”

Malfoy glares at my wishy-washy explanation, “And what, pray tell, is this mystery team handling?”

The sarcasm is so thick I take a minute to compose myself. I am getting angry but I can’t; Scorpius seems shaken up enough, “That’s the confidential bit, mate”

Malfoy’s glare acquires a more menacing quality when his eyebrows dip down like that, “If you can’t tell me what the sodding hell is going on then I don’t want you or the Ministry or even Harry bloody Potter shaking up inside my home, protection or whatever the hells it is you all think you are doing be damned. I can fend for myself quite well”

Scorpius tugs fitfully at Malfoy’s robes in a bid for attention and he ignores it in favor of continuing to glare at me.

My tenuous control on my temper snaps, “Listen here you great pillock: I DON’T WANT TO SODDING BE HERE EITHER. I am under orders to handle you. I know what is going on and it is not the time to be driving me up the wall or ignoring your son when he needs comfort. If you want to be difficult then sodding be difficult, I’m not the pushover I used to be and I will not tolerate you treating me any which way you damn well please. I’ve had enough of your imperious attitude, thanks, and I’m not in the mood for a second helping”

Chest heaving, I turn to the room at large and set about casting some simple cleaning charms to distract myself.

Behind me, Malfoy is soothing a silently tearful Scorpius.

I’ve gone and done it. Cheers.

It occurs to me, standing there tidying the mess Malfoy made of his own study cum library, that I am not the best person to put in charge of someone like Malfoy. Who am I kidding? Malfoy couldn’t associate me with authority even if I hexed him six ways to Sunday.

The grandfather clock in the corner strikes 9 o’clock.

Bloody hell, I realize, I’ll be here for an undetermined period of time. Malfoy and I will have torn this whole place down by the time headquarters decides the scope of ‘undetermined’.

As I am not paying attention, it startles me badly when Malfoy nudges me behind my right shin with his bare foot, glare dimmed to something a trifle less accusing and addresses me over the top of Scorpius’ head buried in is shoulder, “Rule number one: never tell me what to do, rule number two: if you insist on ignoring rule number one, expect me to ignore you right back. Lastly, you will find out how long they expect to leave you here and you will figure out how to explain to me why your presence is necessary. As for right now, you can either join me for a late breakfast or continue practicing your house-elf tendencies”

With that, he walks out and leaves me there.

What have I let them get me into? And more importantly, why me?

~!@!~

TBC…