Safe Harbour

A/N: This story is set in Scotland. I did a fair amount of research, but I’m sure I’ve gotten more than a few details wrong. Inverness, Aviemore, Tain, Torridon, and the villages of Gairloch are very real places in the Scottish Highlands. Also, the brief history of the fort of An Dun is completely factual and quoted from the Gairloch website. Torridon and Gairloch are absolutely beautiful, and I highly recommend visiting the appropriate websites:

http://www.torridon.org http://www.gairloch.co.uk

For Koshie.

Written October, 2006.


~~~~~~ SAFE HARBOUR, Part One ~~~~~

Friday, 7 April, 2000


Ron Weasley shifted about on his bedroll, casting yet another warming charm on his damp and holey socks. He’d thought that his years at Hogwarts had prepared him for the harshness of the changeable Scottish weather. It was one thing to be snug and cozy next to their woodstove in Gryffindor Tower; quite another to be out in the middle of nowhere without so much as a campfire. But they couldn’t chance a fire, not now. Not only was it against Order regulations, it was an open invitation for any Death Eaters to creep out of the trees and annihilate them in their sleep. That still happened, though, with alarming regularity.

He sipped at his canteen, the cheap whiskey burning his throat but nicely warming his chest.

“What I wouldn’t give for a bottle of Oban about now,” Jon MacLeod said as he pushed through the flaps and into the tent. He hastily dried his cloak and sat down next to Ron, reaching for the flask. “But this’ll do the trick, I expect.”

Ron nodded as Jon took a deep swallow of alcohol. “Works for me, mate.” He’d been paired with the Scot for nearly five months now, quite a long time, considering. Jon was instantly likeable, open, warm, always quick with a witty remark or insightful comment. He was also a bloody good tracker, and his knowledge of the surrounding terrain was invaluable. Ron knew his partner had grown up somewhere near Aviemore, his mother had been a Muggle, and that he hadn’t any siblings. Other than that, Jon rarely spoke about himself, preferring to focus on whatever their mission was at the moment.

Jon took another swallow of whiskey and scooted closer to Ron. “Colder than a banshee’s teat out there,” he rumbled, handing the flask back over. “Looks to be clearing up, though. And we’ve got the whole hollow to ourselves, too. No Death Eaters to be found.”

“That‘s good,” Ron replied, unconsciously pressing his shoulder to Jon’s. “Might actually get some sleep tonight, then.”

Jon pressed closer, lifting the threadbare blanket. “Let me in there, Ronnie, that’s a good lad.” He smiled crookedly, throwing it over his legs and taking the flask once more. “And I was hoping you’d be up for a bit longer, truth be told.” He drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His pale, grey-blue eyes shone in the meager light of their shielded lantern. He pressed closer, one hand gently caressing Ron’s inner thigh.

Ron took a deep breath and leaned his head against Jon’s. He’d always known deep down that he fancied blokes, and while he’d had a few nervous, furtive encounters in the showers or darkened corridors at school, nothing much had ever come of them. He’d just become comfortable with the idea of being a shirt lifter when the War broke out, casting everything into disarray. He’d discovered that Jon was of a similar bent rather early on, and although they’d only snogged and shared the same bedroll so far, Ron could easily see their relationship becoming far more intimate. It wasn’t love as much as it was a deep reliance and need for another person. The Order’s decision to use small two and three person splinter cells had been designed to cultivate just such camaraderie amongst operatives, although Ron was certain that they hadn’t envisioned his and Jon’s particular take on the policy.

He leaned back against his rucksack, one arm behind his head. “C’mon, then,” he murmured, patting the bedroll. “We’ve got to make the outskirts of Tain by dawn, so best we get some sleep, yeah?”

Jon nodded as he shrugged out of his hoodie, leaning back and on his side, throwing an arm across Ron’s chest. “Too right, that.” He murmured a warming charm and pulled the blanket up to their chests, nuzzling Ron’s neck. “Merlin, you’re always so warm,” he sighed, slowly moving one leg on top of Ron’s thigh and interlacing the fingers of one hand with Ron’s.

“You too, mate,” Ron replied as he set an alarm ward and charmed down the lantern. “Dawn comes too bloody quickly.” He hugged Jon tighter, feeling far more comfortable and content than he had any rights to. Jon’s sandy brown hair smelled of damp and musk and loam and everything earthy; the light breeze stirred the bare branches of the encroaching trees and gently rippled the canvas of their tent. He drifted off quickly, as was his fashion, at once dreaming of Quidditch, The Burrow, and his mum’s blackberry muffins…

Ron felt cold, the chill air instantly penetrating his sweatshirt. He blinked his eyes open, just able to make out Jon’s silhouette in the gloom. His partner was sitting up, his arm outstretched, wand aimed at the tent flaps. “Jon,” Ron whispered.

Jon merely put out his other hand out, touching Ron’s face. “Hush,” he hissed softly.

Ron sat up and fumbled for his wand as the telltale sounds of footfalls on wet grass finally reached his ears. By the time he found it, Jon was standing and ready to cast. Ron joined him, eyes fully adjusted to the dark and wand at the ready.

“The usual?” he asked, whispering into Jon’s ear.

Jon nodded. “Bang on.”

The footsteps grew louder, and it quickly became apparent that whomever was approaching was clearly unconcerned with stealth.

“Sounds like a bloody drunken hippogriff out there,” Jon whispered.

Before Ron could reply, the interloper’s voice wafted in to them.

“The weather in Surrey can be rather dodgy.”

“Shite,” Ron breathed, nodding at Jon. “It’s one of us.”

“Mayhap, Ronnie, mayhap. Only one way to find out.” Jon moved to the entrance of the tent. “But the skies in Plymouth are bright and clear.”

There was a pause and then the response: “And they stay that way all through the year.”

“That’s it, right?” Ron said, his free hand squeezing Jon’s shoulder.

“Close enough,” Jon replied as he dropped the wards. “Whomever makes up those bloody codes should be strung up by their bollocks, though.” The pair cautiously emerged from the tent and into the small clearing.

A cloaked figure stood a few yards from them, hood up and arms outstretched. “I’d appreciate it if you’d lower your wands. I’ve given the proper signs.”

Jon spared Ron a quick glance before advancing on the stranger. “Let’s see the arm, then.”

The new arrival sighed loudly, pulling up a sleeve and holding out his left forearm.

Jon waved his wand just above the skin. “Ingenium Aperio,” he incanted. A moment later, an intricate, hidden tattoo glowed orange for a few seconds and then faded. Jon nodded as Ron moved beside him. “Can’t be too careful,” he offered.

“I agree,” the shadow replied. “This is for you, MacLeod. Straight from The Order.”

Ron watched as Jon took the proffered roll of parchment and eyed it with trepidation. “Fine. Well then, seems as you’ve the advantage.”

The cloaked figure snorted and dropped his hood. “Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” He smirked at Ron. “Long time, Weasley.”

~~~~~


Friday, 21 April, 2000


Ron downed his second bottle of Harp, sliding the empty bottle across the splintered table top. He glowered about the dingy little pub for what seemed like the hundredth time in an hour. He and Draco had been lurking about the outskirts of Tain for the last two weeks, tracking down a trio of Death Eaters. The trail had led them to this pub, the Lusty Lass, where a local squib had promised them vital information.

So here they were, with Draco off plying their contact while Ron was left to keep an eye on the pub. Most often these expeditions turned up little of use, but it was impossible, of course, to know the outcome beforehand. He wondered if Trelawney had been pressed into service; the image of his Divination professor wandering about the country side, glasses askew and muttering to herself brought a smile to his face.

“Never last half a day,” he said to himself bemusedly, swallowing more of his beer and scanning the pub once more. A handful of locals were scattered about the place, a fair crowd for a weekday. He’d studied every patron carefully, finally concluding that they all appeared to be relatively innocuous.

Just then, Draco emerged from the back room of the pub, his arm about the squib’s shoulders.

“Bloody show off,” Ron muttered as he signaled the barmaid for another beer.

The last two weeks had been nightmarish. Jon had been ordered to Glasgow for reassignment, leaving less than an hour after Draco had arrived. To make matters worse, the Slytherin was now officially his new partner, and permanently. Well, as permanent as such things were, which meant that he was stuck with Draco for the foreseeable future.

And Draco was a royal pain in the arse. He hadn’t changed one iota from what Ron remembered of him during their Hogwarts years. Condescending, hyper-critical and never at a loss for a sarcastic comment, he complained incessantly about Ron’s snoring and was never satisfied with anything. He was pompous, arrogant and just as self-involved as ever.

Aside from that, everything was grand.

Consequently, Ron found that he missed his former partner terribly. Their not entirely appropriate affections for each other notwithstanding, Jon was simply good company and a solid bloke. He’d had a way of making Ron forget that they were smack in the middle of a deadly conflict. While nearly all of his family and friends were also flung to the far corners of Britain due to the War, Jon’s absence affected Ron more keenly than he’d imagined.

News tended to trickle in sporadically from time to time, with fellow Order members relaying precious tidbits of information when their paths crossed. He’d heard that Harry and Snape were partners and doing well; Pansy Parkinson had delivered their latest orders a few days ago, and she’d heard from Terry Boot that George was healthy and now paired with Jon, of all people.

Draco laughed heartily from across the pub as Madam Aria plunked down Ron’s fresh beer. Ron flicked her his last two sickles and the buxom barmaid flashed him a half-friendly smile in response.

He glanced at Draco and the squib, who were now ensconced at the bar, foreheads nearly touching, lost in conversation. What in Hell’s Harpies could they possibly be talking about? He’d rarely seen such meetings take longer than a handful of minutes, but they’d been in The Lustful Lass for nearly two hours with no apparent end in sight. Not that Ron minded; it wasn’t often that they’d have an opportunity to venture into the nearest town or village.

He was downing his third beer and mulling over the possibility of slipping out to the inn across the street for a hot shower when the front door of the pub banged open. Three hooded figures slowly walked inside, fanning out until they stood shoulder to shoulder. Ron stood up, holding his beer in one hand while fingering his wand with the other. He walked toward Draco as casually as he could, his heart thudding in his chest.

They’d lingered far too long, and now they’d pay the price.

Ron noted that Draco hadn’t noticed the new arrivals. He guzzled the remainder of his Harp, slamming the empty bottle on the bar and squeezing Draco’s shoulder. Hard.

“Manners,” Draco muttered without looking at Ron. “I’m not finished.”

Ron leaned in, his lips grazing Draco’s earlobe. “Yes, you are. We’ve got company.”

Draco stiffened instantly.

The squib’s eyes widened.

“Don’t turn about,” Ron warned. “I think we should all head for the back room, nice and easy. Don’t want them throwing an anti-Apparation ward. Stay close together. Very close.”

The squib nodded; Draco laughed and stood up, squeezing Ron’s arse. Ron threw his arm about the squib’s shoulders and the trio headed across the floor.

“Don’t leave me here,” the squib whispered to Ron, his voice shaky. “You know what they’ll do to me.” He stared, his pale green eyes welling with tears.

“We can’t…” Draco began.

“Save it,” Ron hissed through clenched teeth. He sensed movement behind them, followed by heavy footfalls on the floorboards. They were now a foot from the door. “As soon as we’re in the back room, I’ll side-along us. Quintuple jump. We’ll figure what to do with…um…with…”

“Devon,” the squib said.

“Right, fine. Charmed,” Ron replied. “We’ll take care of you later.”

Draco reached out and flung open the door. The footfalls thudded louder and faster; someone screamed.

“Shite!” Devon wailed.

More yells and screams, chairs and tables overturning.

Curses.

Hexes.

“Inside!” Ron yelled, pulling Draco and Devon in close and pushing through the door. A ball of green light exploded over Draco’s shoulder as they ducked into the storage room.

Ron closed his eyes in concentration, his mind racing as he began the multiple Apparition. He’d never side-alonged with two other people, but he knew that theoretically, it was possible. He focused on their first destination just as a searing blossom of pain erupted from his right shoulder and consumed him…

~~~~~~

…Ron dared to crack open an eye. Wherever he was, it was blessedly dim. He tilted his head on the pillow only to groan loudly as bolts of pain shot down his shoulder, arm and back. His head felt fuzzy by contrast, and he couldn’t quite focus his eyes. He strained to take in the room: two heavily curtained windows, crude wooden door, low beamed ceiling. A dying fire smouldered away in a rough hearth.

His head throbbed anew, and he closed his eyes.

Birds. Lots of them nearby. A low, rhythmic roaring sound. Flow and ebb. Flow and ebb. Waves. He was very near the sea, obviously. His grip on consciousness slipped, and he fell thankfully into the incredibly soft mattress. Jon would be by to sort it all out…soon…

…Jon gently lifted his head and held the phial to his lips. Ron swallowed the foul smelling potion and gagged. Jon held a cloth to his mouth until the spasms subsided, carefully lowering his head back to the pillow.

“Thanks, mate, you’re the best,” he murmured, reaching out for Jon, who caught his hand and held it firmly. Ron sighed and slept some more…

…thunder rumbled again, and he tried to sit up, his muscles still stiff and unresponsive. He managed to get up on his elbows, blinking vigorously in an attempt to clear his vision. Lightning lit up the windows as the ragged curtains flapped in the stiff breeze. More thunder roiled angrily. He sat up and rolled his legs over the edge of the bed, his head throbbing. He rubbed his sore right shoulder and shivered slightly. The room was empty, the blazing fire his only companion.

Another flash of lightning blinded him, and his brain canted sideways. The room swam into darkness as the floor came up to meet him…

…Jon lifted him back into bed. He felt a warm cloth on his pebbled skin as Jon washed his bare torso and face. Some more potion, and then the covers were pulled up to his chin. He tried to open his eyes, but his lids felt as lead. “Jon! Jon!” he croaked out, seemingly hearing his own voice for the first time. “Please…Jon…cold…so cold.” He tried to sit up but a strong hand held him down. The covers were pulled back and he felt Jon slip into the bed and snuggle up next to him, a warm arm thrown over his chest. “Thas’ better,” he mumbled just before sleep claimed him…

…the birds were quite loud, their shrill cries slicing through his thin veil of sleep. Ron cracked open an eye, expecting the now familiar, sharp pain in his skull. He was surprised to find it strangely absent. He blinked a few times, relieved to find his vision clear. He took a few deep breaths and felt no pain in his back, neck or chest. He still felt stiff and a bit sore, but that was most likely because he’d been in bed for so long.

Jon stirred behind him, and Ron moaned, pressing against Jon, the sensation of his bare skin against Jon’s chest nearly too delicious to bear in his weakened state. Ron ran a hand across Jon’s hip, savoring the proximity.

He still had no idea where he was or how long he’d been ill. He thought a bit, recalling the last few moments in the Lusty Lass. Some sort of curse had hit him, obviously, a right nasty one too, just as he was about to Apparate them away…

Them. He and that squib, and…and…

Ron turned his head to see Draco smiling back at him.

“Ah, good to see the fever’s broken. Touch and go there for a bit.” He smirked, his grey eyes ablaze.

Ron closed his eyes. “Bloody hell.”

~~~~~~