When Ron Weasley had woken up and stared blearily at the empty space next to him, he hadn’t envisaged that lunch would change his life. For all he knew, his plans for that grey morning in February was to go to the Ministry, finish some paperwork, doodle on his blotter and try not to wonder at what Hermione was doing.

It was hard not to wonder. She’d been abroad for over a fortnight now on an in-depth mission to investigate the working practises of other enslaved magical creatures. So far, her missives, although loving, had been few and far between. She wasn’t due back for another fortnight.

He hadn’t realised quite how much he would miss her.

Yes, lunch really was the furthest thing from his mind that day.

He dressed carelessly. His robes weren’t spotlessly clean, but he was satisfied no one would mix him up with Mundungus Fletcher. Besides, he was an Auror and didn’t have to dress to impress. Not like a poncey Curse-Breaker. Staring into the mirror, he ran his hand through his hair and smiled wryly at its length. His mum would be after him soon with her scissors. Apparently having his own flat and a good job did not make him immune from a shearing.

Then he sighed as a grey gloom seemed to hover like a cloud in front of his eyes. It had been growing for a while now. This feeling of doom had started as just a vague dissatisfaction with life. At first, he’d been unable to put his finger on the problem. He had a good job, money and a girlfriend he loved. Yet ... at the age of twenty, Ron Weasley knew he wasn’t entirely happy.

He sat at his desk, a quill in his hand, staring at the completed report in front of him. He read it through again. It was finished; there was nothing more he could add. Dipping his quill into the inkwell in front of him, Ron signed his name, rolled up the parchment into a scroll, and levitated it to Harry’s in-tray.

Harry looked up, mouthed his thanks, and then returned to his own report. It used to make a change for Ron to have finished his paperwork before Harry, but these days Ron didn’t have much to distract him from work, whereas Harry always seemed to be busy with something.

“Fancy lunch?” he called.

“Bit busy,” Harry replied. “I need to get out of here on time for once, or your sister will hex me.”

“Date?”

“Harpies function. Since Ginny broke into the first team, she’s expected to attend everything.”

“Ahh...” Ron said nothing more, but rose from his seat and trudged down to the canteen.

He wasn’t jealous of Harry; those days had long since passed. But he did wonder at how Harry seemed so happy and settled, whereas...

He hesitated at the entrance to the canteen. It was quite late, so there were plenty of free tables, but on seeing Percy and his dad engrossed in a conversation, Ron groaned. He didn’t want to get embroiled in whatever item his dad was enthusing about, or whichever nit-picky law Percy was debating. He turned around, preparing to leave.

“Ron, come and join us?” His dad’s voice reeked of a quiet desperation. For as much as Arthur loved his third son, there was only so much time he could spend listening to him pontificate. With a sigh, Ron turned back and walked across to their table.

“I was going to go to the Leaky,” he muttered. “Getting a bit sick of the grub in here.” He wasn’t lying; he was sick of everything these days.

“Oh, well, don’t let us stop you,” his dad said, sounding plaintive. He patted Ron on the arm. “Good result the other day, son. Finally sending Lestrange to Azkaban. He’s been a slippery one.”

“Mmm,” Ron agreed. Rabastan Lestrange �“ the last of the Death Eaters �“ had proved extremely hard to catch and convict. No one had believed it of the man, but his Transfiguration skills had merited him at least three years’ freedom after he’d fled the Battle.

The last Death Eater.

Or at least the last one they had a hope of convicting.

“Thanks,” he muttered, and cleared his throat. “Right ... well ... I think I’ll go.”

“Why don’t you come over tonight for your supper? Can’t be much fun in that flat alone,” his dad said, “and your mother was only saying this morning how she hasn’t seen much of you recently.”

“Uh-” Caught like a Kneazle in the headlights of the Knight Bus, Ron blinked as he searched for a reason to refuse. He did not want to see his mum. She would know immediately that something was wrong and would not let him leave until he’d talked.

“George!” he blurted out, nearly gulping with relief. “I’m seeing him tonight. Sorry, Dad, tell Mum another time.”

Arthur sighed. “But we will see you next weekend, won’t we? For your birthday party?” Although this was a question, the note of eagerness in his dad’s voice made it sound like a demand.

Ron hesitated. “Uh ... yeah sure,” he replied. He backed away raising his hand in salute.

Damn! he thought. I’m really not in the mood for another Weasley dinner.

***

Although he knew his dad wasn’t about to check up on him, Ron decided to drop in on George at the shop and ask him to corroborate his story, if his mum went on the warpath.

“Hey, Verity, is he in?” he asked as he entered the Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes.

Verity looked up from the small boy she was helping and flashed Ron a smile. “You’ve just missed him,” she replied. “He’s gone to see a supplier.”

Sighing, Ron debated whether to hang around and wait. But if George had only just left, then he could be there a while. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he really did need lunch, so bidding Verity goodbye, he turned on his heel and left the shop.

The Leaky Cauldron had reopened the week before after a period of refurbishment. Old Tom’s newly appointed manageress, Hannah Abbot, greeted Ron with a beaming smile as he walked in, and leant across the bar to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“How are things?” she asked. “And how is Hermione?”

He gave her a half smile in return. Hannah was such a warm person, her friendly blue eyes staring up at him through her shaggy blonde fringe, and for a moment, he felt this enormous urge to confide everything in her. But the bar was packed and she had customers to serve.

“She’s fine,” he replied. “Very busy, though. Can I have a pint, Hannah? And have one yourself?”

“I expect you miss her,” Hannah commented.

“Course,” he replied stoutly. “But she’ll be back soon.”

He didn’t add that her return could not be soon enough, but merely handed over the money and ordered some food. It was, of course, too much to hope that he could find a lone table and not have to share, but he gave a grin when he spotted someone he knew. The one person who wouldn’t start asking questions about Ron’s mood because, for Merlin’s sake, he was sick to the back teeth of talking.

“George! Mind if I join you?”

George pushed a chair towards him with his foot and grinned. “Escaped from the big bad world of the Aurors, then.”

“Yeah. Couldn’t face canteen food. Soggy lasagne and soggier chips.”

“I blame your girlfriend,” George said slyly. “Letting the Ministry house-elves choose clothes ...”

Ron snorted. “Not many of them did, but some buggered off to Hogwarts.” He grinned back at George. “Anyway, I am here to sample Hannah’s steak and kidney pie and ask you a favour.”

“Ask away,” George replied. “I am at your disposal, O’ brother of mine.”

“Okay, it’s like this. Dad was asking if I’d come over tonight. I couldn’t think of a reason to say no, so I said I was going out with you. Just ... uh ... cover for me if they ask, yeah?”

“Sure.” George shrugged, then tilted back in his chair as Hannah walked over with two plates of food. “Hannah, my love, is there any chance you’d marry me and cook this kind of food every day?”

She laughed, avoiding the arm he tried to put round her waist. “What, and lose my best customer?”

As she sashayed away, Ron gave George a curious look. “Is there something going on between you two?”

“Huh?” George did a double take. “What, me and Hannah? Merlin, no. It’s just a bit of flirtation. And I am her best customer after all.”

“Oh,” Ron gnawed at his lip, wondering whether to carry on.

“You sound �“ ” George paused, “- surprised ... or offended, even.”

“Not offended, but surprised maybe. It’s just that ... er ... you’re flirting, George, and I haven’t seen you do that or a long time. Not since ...” he trailed off, knowing he’d said too much and waited for the steel shutters to clang shut on George’s face.

But instead, George smiled ruefully. “Never thought I’d hear myself say this, but life really does go on.” He cut into his steak, chewed and then gulped at his pint. When he looked again at Ron, he was still smiling. “Things change, Ron, even when you have a good career and a wonderful witch in your life.”

“You have a witch in your life?” Ron put down his fork, bemused at George’s revelation.

But George shook his head. “I meant you. You’re not that happy at the moment, are you? But I don’t think it’s just to do with Hermione being away.”

Ron was not surprised. Even when Fred was alive and the pair of them had been bound together, George had always had a perception about others akin to their mother’s.

“It’ll pass,” he muttered, but before he returned to his food, he continued, “I wish I was like Dad ... or Percy, even.”

“You want to be like Perce?” George burst out laughing. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Ron floundered, “but don’t you think it would be great to be totally happy examining cauldron bottoms? Or to be like Dad getting enthusiastic about every stupid Muggle invention.”

“The department of Aurordom not rocking your world, then,” George teased.

Ron shrugged and returned to his food. “Everyone has bad days.”

George didn’t say much more, but continued eating until at last his plate was clean. “Is this just a bad day, though? Or is it something else?”

“I dunno,” Ron muttered darkly. Then he sighed. “It’s not what I thought it would be, that’s all. Moody, Tonks, Kingsley, they made it seem so cool and exciting. And it was �“ at first.” He paused and pushed his plate to one side �“ the pie half eaten. “We caught the last of them. Did you know that?” George nodded. “Rabastan will die in Azkaban, and I’m proud of the fact that my work has helped put him there. But ...”

“But, what does an Auror do when there are no more baddies to round up?” George finished his sentence.

“There’s plenty to do. There are nutcases all over the world,” Ron replied. “But this sort of feels like the end of something. Like finishing a chapter of a book and not really wanting to carry on to the end.” He shook his head. “Sorry, I’m not making sense.”

“Yeah, you are,” George said, and grinned. “Have you got anything important to get back for?”

Ron considered. His in tray was half-full, but it was nothing pressing. He shook his head, then saw the look in George’s eye and grinned back. “What do you suggest?”

“Bunk off, Ron. Do something different, even if it’s just sitting in here getting wasted.”

About to reply, Ron was distracted by a noise from the bar. Someone was causing a scene, which Hannah was trying to sort out. He could hear her honeyed tones as she soothed the customer, and turned his head wondering if he could help. He stiffened. The customer at the bar was Draco Malfoy.

“Don’t react,” warned George. “Hannah won’t thank you for it, and she’s perfectly capable of dealing with that prick.”

Ron clenched his fists and sullenly resumed eating. But when he heard Draco complaining that there was no more steak and kidney pie left, he started to snort. “Merlin, I hope I had the last one.”

“He still gets to you, doesn’t he?”

Pulling a sour face, Ron drained his pint. “He got away with it, George. The whole bloody Malfoy family escaped Azkaban. And Harry ...”

“Had his reasons for testifying,” George interrupted. “He must have explained them to you.”

Sighing, Ron picked up his glass before remembering it was empty. “Yeah, he did, and I sort of agreed with him. It’s just ...” He shivered. “Merlin, George, I still hear Hermione’s screams at night. And I know it was Bellatrix torturing her, but ... He was there and did nothing.”

He could see George staring at him intently. “Could he have done anything? Not forgetting the fact that he hated all of you, why would he have risked Bellatrix turning on him? I mean, this is Malfoy we’re talking about.”

“I know all that. It just grates on me. And seeing the git in here moaning because he can’t get bloody steak and kidney pie when he’s lucky he’s not eating prison food �“”

“Why did you join the Auror department?” George asked suddenly.

Frowning Ron considered the question. “I told you. It sounded cool and ... well ... I think I’m quite good at it.”

“Yeah, you are,” George reassured him. “But why did you join straight after the Battle and not go back to Hogwarts?”

Ron shrugged. “Kingsley asked. Harry wasn’t going back to Hogwarts and it seemed the best idea at the time. I don’t think I could have gone back to school. Sitting in a classroom learning defensive spells to save my life, when I’d spent a year living it, really didn’t appeal.”

“You could have worked anywhere. Why did you accept Kingsley’s offer? You’d already done far more than anyone could have asked from you. No one would have blamed you for wanting time out.”

“They were still out there,” Ron muttered darkly.

“And now they’re not,” George replied. “And I think you know you’ll never get Malfoy.”

“What are you saying?”

“I think it’s time you closed that book and picked up a new one.”

“Just like that.”

George nodded and then helped himself to some of Ron’s chips. “You’re twenty-one next week, not fifty-one. That’s far too young to be stuck in a job you hate.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“Leave before you hate it,” George amended.

“And do what?” Ron protested. “I don’t have NEWTS and I’m not going back to get them now. I’d be the oldest bloody pupil there by miles.”

“I haven’t got NEWTS, neither has Hannah. We’re both doing all right. It’s just a question of finding something you want to do. Seriously, Ron, did you ever imagine shy little Hannah Abbot being able to run a pub?”

Ron turned to look at Hannah, who was clearing tables, still chatting away to the customers and flashing them all smiles �“ even Malfoy, who seemed mollified and relaxed now.

“She looks happy,” he murmured.

“Found something she loves doing and went for it,” George replied. “Just like Fred and I did when we invented Ton-Tongue Toffee.” He gulped at his beer. “That reminds me, I’m supposed to be visiting a supplier. I tested our last batch of Ton-Tongue and found a rather annoying side effect.”

Ron grinned. “Ten Ton-Tongue? Or half a Ton-Tongue.”

George rolled his eyes. “That would not be a problem. I found this new supplier, who delivers everything much quicker. Trouble is, he’s not that careful, and the flaxseed I’d ordered turned out to be dill weed.”

“And that’s bad ... how?” Ron was interested but totally bemused.

“Well for one thing, I can’t stand the taste of dill,” George muttered, “but also instead of my tongue becoming heavy, green hair grew out of my nose.” He paused and pulled out what looked like a small wrapped sweet.

“Waste of a batch, though,” Ron mused. “You should have tested the dill before you added it.”

“I did,” George replied, then added in a mysterious voice. “But I was curious to see what would happen, for that is the way of the Master Inventor, young Ronald. What you see here is a prototype for Nostril Noisette.”

Ron picked up the small sweet and gave it a squeeze. “It’s squidgy.”

“Mmm, and it dissolves in liquid,” George said. “Quite a fortuitous error.”

“So what are you planning on doing to the supplier?”

“Well, much as I’d love to force feed him this sweet, I think that’s illegal.” George said and sighed. “He’s young and only just started, so I’ll give him another chance.”

Raising his eyebrows, Ron picked up George’s empty glass as well as his own. “Is he worth a second chance?”

“It’s Dennis Creevey,” George replied. “Merlin knows he could do with one.”

“Ah.” Understanding perfectly, Ron stood up and sauntered across to the bar. It was less busy now; the lunchtime crowd was thinning as the customers returned to their place of work. Checking his pocket watch, he realised he should be thinking about making a move, as well, but the desire to stay here relaxing with George was strong.

“Another couple of pints please, Hannah.”

She nodded and took the glasses from him. “You look a bit cheerier now,” she said, handing back his glass now filled with foaming beer. “George making you laugh, is he?”

“Yeah, he is,” Ron started to say, but then stopped when in the bar mirror he saw someone else approaching the bar.

Hannah must have noticed him stiffening because she stopped pouring the pint, and placed her hand on his arm. “Don’t start anything, Ron. I know you don’t like him, but this is my place and I don’t want trouble.”

“More than your job’s worth to get into a duel with me, isn’t it, Weasley?” Draco remarked.

Ron half-turned his face towards him, then looked away. “How’s the Curse-Breaking department treating you, Malfoy? You still impressing them with your ability to ‘ferret’ things out?”

“Cheap jibe, Weasley. Not that I’d expect anything more.” He leant over the bar across Ron and spoke directly to Hannah. “I came here to get away from the Weasleys at the Ministry. I do wish you’d enforce some sort of standard now that you’ve tarted the place up, Hannah. Too many firecrotches cluttering the place up can’t be good for business.”

Ron clenched jaw. He didn’t want to lose his temper. Why give more reasons for Draco to gloat over his ‘fiery nature’? But Malfoy always knew which buttons to press. Staring moodily ahead, he caught sight of Malfoy’s smirking reflection, and began to form a fist.

He stopped. There was something in his hand. Something soft and squishy and very small. He smiled to himself and very slowly unfurled his fingers.

“Thanks, Hannah,” he murmured, when she placed the second pint in front of him. Making a show of picking them up, Ron deliberately slopped half of his pint on the bar and pulled a face.

“I’ll top it up,” Hannah sighed.

Next to him, Malfoy was looking exasperated. “I don’t have all day!”

“Serve Malfoy first,” Ron told her. “I can wait. It was my fault after all.”

He watched Malfoy push his glass across the bar, a look of surprise on his face that Ron was acting so reasonably. Then, when Draco looked across to his table, and while Hannah had turned away to put back the bottle of Firewhisky Draco liked (expensive and foreign), Ron dropped the Nostril Noisette in his glass and held his breath as he waited for it to dissolve. It fizzed and spluttered a little, but Malfoy didn’t notice. Without a word of thanks to Hannah, he handed her some coins and took a slug of his drink.

Trying desperately hard not to stare, Ron waited for the nose hair to start growing, but nothing seemed to be happening. So, when Hannah finished topping up his drink, Ron picked up both glasses and stomped gloomily back to in his brother.

“You didn’t let Malfoy get to you, did you?” George asked, sighing.

“Nah, not really,” replied Ron. He took a sip of his drink and wiped the froth off his upper lip. “Your sweet doesn’t work, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“I dropped that sweet into Malfoy’s glass. Nothing’s happened.”

“In alcohol?” George looked up alarmed. “Please tell me he was on pumpkin juice?”

“Firewhisky. Why?”

“Oh, bollocks,” George muttered.

“It’s not working,” Ron said. “Why are you worried?”

“Uh ... it will...” Whatever information George had been about to impart, was lost when a loud bellow rang through the room. “Merlin, Ron, take a look at what you’ve done to Malfoy.”

Ron didn’t need to peer hard. Malfoy was standing in the middle of the bar, yelling his head off. At least, he assumed it was Malfoy. Out of his nose sprang a nest of green hair giving him the appearance of a small shrub. This was funny enough, but what set Ron and George off into paroxysms of mirth was the mass of lime green hair protruding through his robes, emanating from his groin area.

“What the hell have you done to me, Abbott?” Malfoy stormed, sounding muffled as the hair stuck to his lips. “Your Firewhisky’s done this. I’ll sue. You’ll never work in any bar again.”

Gulping down half his pint, Ron rose out of his seat, just as Hannah had hurried over to Malfoy and was trying to soothe him.

“Leave her alone,” Ron commanded. Malfoy looked across and Ron was hard pushed to stop laughing as the green nasal hair started to twirl around his ears. “It wasn’t the Firewhisky, you git. I spiked your drink.”

“YOU DID THIS!” Under the now green eyebrows, Draco’s eyes were flashing fury at him.

“Uh-huh.” Ron nodded.

“Stop it,” Hannah hissed in an aside. “Ron, you don’t have to take the blame for a faulty bottle. You’re an Auror for Merlin’s sake, and this could get you into a lot of trouble.”

Shrugging, Ron took a step closer. “I’m not lying, Hannah,” he said gently. “I spiked Malfoy’s drink. How do you feel, cabbage-crotch? Bit itchy.”

“YOU BLOODY BASTARD!” Malfoy leapt at him, his hands outstretched. Dodging to the right, Ron avoided him and then winced when Malfoy crashed into an empty table setting dirty plates flying.

“Time for us to leave,” George announced. “Malfoy, I don’t quite have the antidote yet, but the hair should drop out in about two hours.”

“You can’t leave me like this!” Malfoy protested. “I have to get back to the office.”

“Um, well, tell them you’re working undercover,” George suggested and tugged on Ron’s arm. “You’re following a particularly evil pack of Bowtruckles.”

“Yeah,” agreed Ron. “And just think, Malfoy, you could find out whether a bird in the hand really is worth more than two in the bush.”

“I’ll have you, Weasley.”

Ron laughed. “Bring it on, you green-tinted ferret.”

Outside, he collapsed against the wall with George, both of them clutching their sides. Every time he tried to stop laughing, Malfoy’s disfigurement loomed in front of him. Inside the bar, he could hear Draco raging at Hannah and knew he should return and take whatever Draco could throw at him, but he was too weak now to stand up.

“I should go back,” he gasped, “and apologise, or fix it, or something.”

George burst into more laughter. “Yeah, you should,” he said, barely able to speak as he wiped tears from his eyes, “but you’re not going to, are you?”

“Ha ha �“ No,” Ron agreed, “I’m bloody not.” He sat down on the ground and gazed at the grey sky. “That was the most fun I’ve had in ages. It was like being back at Hogwarts.”

“Will you get detention from Harry?” George asked, a wicked glint in his eye.

“No bloody idea,” Ron said and then sighed. “Malfoy’s bound to complain.”

“I could fix it,” George admitted. “I do have the antidote. And he might not report you.”

Ron considered. The noise from the bar was receding now. Hannah’s particular brand of mollification seemed to be working on Malfoy, and peering through the window, Ron saw her leading him into the back room whilst he gripped a half bottle of Firewhisky. He made a mental vow to pay her back �“ double �“ then turned to his brother.

“Nah, don’t bother. I can handle it.” He smiled, but somewhere at the back of his mind, this feeling that he should care persistently drummed at him. Standing up, Ron brushed the dirt off his robes and took a breath. Perhaps he should go to the office. If he arrived back before Malfoy, he could defuse the situation by admitting everything and taking whatever reprimand they threw at him.

“You going back to the Ministry?” George asked, now leaning against the wall.

“Nope!” Ron replied decisively. “I’m bunking off.”

George beamed at him. “Fancy finding another pub?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be seeing Dennis?”

“That can wait. You told Dad you were meeting up with me, let’s just start early.”

“Where to?”

George grinned at him. “Hogsmeade, where else?”


***

“Were we ever that little?” Ron asked as he watched Hogwarts’ pupils scampering along the cobbled streets. “I mean look at them, they’re midgets.”

George didn’t answer. When Ron looked at him, he saw his brother was staring at a shop in front of him. The frontage had been boarded up a few years previously, the business unable to survive the Carrow regime.

“Zonko’s,” Ron murmured. “I used to like going in there.”

“Me too,” George said. “Shame he went under.”

“Not your fault,” Ron started to say and then stopped when he saw George smiling ruefully. “Well, yeah, I suppose technically it was your fault.”

“We offered to buy him out, you know,” George remarked, staring at the grubby boards. “But old Zonko didn’t want to listen. Then when our owl delivery service took off, and the Hogsmeade weekends stopped, he got himself deeper into debt.”

Then, stepping forwards, George dug deep into the pocket of his robes and pulled out a set of keys. “Fancy taking a look with me?”

“You’ve bought it?” Ron asked, amazed. He followed him into the shop, trying not to sigh at the dusty cobwebs draped over the shelves in place of the brightly coloured boxes of fireworks he remembered from past visits.

“Not yet,” replied George.

“Money problems?”

George shook his head. “Cash flow is not a problem, and in business terms this makes perfect sense. The biggest pranksters live at Hogwarts. The shop here can concentrate on the tricks side of the business, whereas the one in Diagon Alley can lean towards the more serious side. Shield hats, capes and all that malarkey.”

“Sounds as if you have it all worked out,” said Ron, and for a moment he envied George. His brother knew exactly what he was doing with his life. He sounded alive again, his opportunities spreading before him like a vast ocean.

“I thought I did,” George replied. “Then Verity set a Kneazle amongst the Fwoopers this morning, which was why I said I needed to see Dennis, but really I needed time to think.”

“What are you on about?” Ron said. “And what have Fwoopers got to do with anything?”

“Verity is pregnant,” George said heavily. “So my idea to buy this shop and set her up as the manager will have to be put on hold. That is if she wants to return.”

“She loves working for you, doesn’t she?”

George nodded but still looked morose. “Her husband is angling for a transfer abroad.”

“What about that other assistant of yours?”

“Who, Megan?”

“Uh, yeah, if you say so.” He smiled apologetically. He had met the other assistant, just not taken much notice of her.

“She’s willing enough, but...” George pulled a face. “I don’t really trust her. I don’t think she’s dishonest, but she’s not the sharpest knife in the box.” He sighed. “It was a good dream, but just not for now. Come on. Let’s go and get drunk.”

Ron saw the real regret in George’s face. He stared round the room, remembering the first time he’d been here in his third year with Hermione. Then the excitement when he’d walked into Fred and Georges’ own shop. The thrill had never quite left him.

“I’ll do it!” he blurted out, then stopped unable to believe what he’d just said.

“Do you mean that?” George didn’t turn around but stood stock still, waiting for Ron to reply.

“Uh ...” Ron swallowed, trying to steady his voice. “Yeah, I think so. But only if you think I could manage it.”

Slowly, George twisted towards him. He looked serious, but his eyes were sparkling. “I think you could,” he murmured.

Ron held his breath. “What if I cock it up?”

“You will cock it up, sometimes,” George said, then placed his hand on Ron’s shoulder. “Merlin, the amount of mistakes Fred and I made. But I’ll be around to help. It’s not like I’m sending you out to hunt for Horcruxes. It’s managing a joke shop, for Merlin’s sake.”

“You’ll really give me a shot at this.”

“I need someone I can trust,” George replied simply. “I know you’re not going to rob me, and you won’t get conned, either. You’re far too suspicious of people.”

“Comes of being an Auror.”

George smirked. “I think it comes of being a Weasley and living with two brothers who plagued the life out of you.”

Ron laughed and clapped George on the back. “You could be right. Shall we drink on this?”

“Yeah, sure. One thing though, Ron.”

“Mmm?”

“You should talk to Hermione before you chuck your job in.” He paused. “And Harry...”

The grey cloud that had mysteriously dispersed as soon as he’d entered the Leaky Cauldron and started talking to George materialised again. Harry, he thought, and tried not to groan as he imagined the ructions when Malfoy turned up. “I’ll talk to them,” he muttered. “But it’s not about Hermione and Harry, George. It’s about me.”

***

The owl fluttered down towards Ron as he finished his drink. George was stumbling towards the bar to get another round in, so Ron squinted at the message in front of him. When the owl didn’t immediately leave, Ron knew he was expected to reply.

‘Ron, where the bloody hell are you? Malfoy’s turned up saying something about you turning him green and hairy. Get back and help me sort this out.’

“You’ve got a message,” George said, stifling a belch as he sat down.

Ron nodded, and because it seemed like a good idea, kept on nodding. “From Harry. Mlaf... uh .. Flam ... uh ... thingy ... has complained.”

George picked up the note and read it for himself. “Harry doesn’t sound too sure. The hair must have dropped out.”

“I should go back,” Ron said. “’Splain that it was ...uhm ...” He trailed off, wondering in his befuddled state how he would explain the childish urge he’d had to disfigure Malfoy. “Sod it, I’ll send a letter. Just need to find a --” He looked at the quill in George’s hand. “Thanks.”

Turning over the note, he started to scrawl.

‘With George. Sorry won’t be back as am a bit pissed. Mlafoy Malfoy is a git .’

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It’s the truth, though.”

“Mmm,” George sat down next to him and with his wand Vanished the message. “Write this instead.” He paused and waited for Ron to pick the quill back up. “’Harry’,” he recited, “I can’t get back as am on important business connected to ... um ... the suspected infiltration of a flaxseed plant ... uh no, make that a flaxseed den.”

“Should I say something about Malfoy?” Ron asked, looking up from the parchment, and wondering if he’d spelt ‘infiltration’ right.

“You’re undercover,” whispered George grinning. “You don’t have time.”

“Good plan!” Ron agreed. He tied the note to the owl’s leg, fed it a couple of crisps, and watched as it flew out the window. Then he resumed his pint. “I should probably feel guilty.”

George started snorting. “You will tomorrow when the headache kicks in and Harry’s yelling.”

Ron sighed. “He doesn’t yell,” he said. “Harry’s far too grown up these days.”

***

Harry didn’t yell the next morning �“ or rather mid-morning - when Ron shuffled into the office wearing the same robes he’d worn the day before. But he looked incredibly boot-faced, irritably checking his watch when Ron sat down.

“You had a good night, then?” Harry asked sarcastically.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” Ron muttered. His head pounding, he set the coffee pot in the corner going, and then closed his eyes wishing the bloody thing wasn’t so loud. When he opened them, Harry had pulled up a chair on the other side of the desk.

“What’s going on? I get Malfoy charging in here wanting to make an official complaint about you. Then you send me some ridiculous message about being undercover. The parchment, incidentally, had several beer stains on it.”

“I took an afternoon off,” Ron said warily. “Come on, mate, I’d finished that report.”

“And Malfoy? Did you hex him?”

Ron snorted, remembering the green forest growing from Malfoy’s groin. “I spiked his drink with one of George’s products. He was being a git.”

“Yeah, he’s Malfoy, he’s always been a git. But �“” Harry paused, waiting for Ron to look at him. “Ron you’re an Auror. You can’t go round doing stuff like that. We’re not at Hogwarts now.”

“It was my lunch hour!” Ron protested. “I wasn’t at the Leaky as an Auror. I was having a drink and a chat with my brother.”

“But you are an Auror,” Harry said firmly. “And you can’t just not be one when you feel like it. The job doesn’t work like that.”

Ron stood up and walked across to the coffee pot. Pouring himself a large mug of strong black coffee, he took a sip then turned to face Harry. “No, I don’t work like that. Sorry.”

There was a long silence. Harry stared across at him, trying to fathom out the meaning behind his words.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he muttered. “And whatever you did to Malfoy didn’t last. He turned up stinking of Firewhisky and shouting the odds. I got rid of him quick enough.”

“You’re right, though, Harry,” Ron said. He stepped back to his desk, placed his coffee in the centre of his blotter, and leant forwards on his elbows. “An Auror shouldn’t behave like that. I knew that, but yesterday I didn’t care.”

“It doesn’t matter. We can forget about it.” Harry sounded fearful as if he knew what Ron was about to do.

“I can’t,” Ron said simply. “I don’t want to forget about it.”

Harry closed his eyes and tipped his head back. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

There was no point in denying it. There was no point in Ron saying that he was merely thinking about it. Harry knew him inside out, almost as well as Hermione.

He nodded. “Don’t say anything until I’ve talked to her, will you?”

“’Course not,” Harry muttered, his voice catching slightly in his throat.

***

He woke very early on the morning of his birthday. This, in itself, was unusual because Ron usually slept like a log, but his sharp reflexes were alerting him to the fact that he wasn’t alone. It was still dark, but someone was in his flat, so very stealthily he reached for his wand on his bedside cabinet.

“Oh no you don’t,” whispered a voice in his ear. “I haven’t taken seven rotten Floo connections all the way home only for you to hex me, Ron Weasley.”

“Hermione.” He could feel himself smiling, especially when as she snuggled up next to him in the bed, he realised she wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. “What are you doing here?”

“Wishing you a happy birthday, of course,” she replied and wrapped her arms around him. “Now, how about a kiss?”

He lifted one hand to her face, sweeping the tresses of hair off her cheeks, and gently kissed her on the lips. “I have missed you so bloody much.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” she whispered, responding to his kiss with ardour.

But even though her fingertips were tracing patterns down his back, sending his senses wild, he pulled away. “I need to talk to you,” he muttered reluctantly.

“No,” she replied. “That can wait.”

And as she moulded herself to him, Ron pushed his news to the very back of his mind, and gave himself up wholly to pleasure.

“How long are you here for?” he asked afterwards. The early dawn light was filtering through the curtains, picking out the shadows and planes of her face and shoulders. He’d never felt closer to her, but inside he felt an ache because he was sure she wouldn’t understand his decision.

Hermione lifted her head from the pillow, and smiled at him. “Can’t wait to get rid of me, can you?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Get back to Italy, you scarlet woman.” Then his expression changed. “You are going back, aren’t you?”

Sighing, she snuggled up next to him. “Unfortunately, yes. I can stay for Molly’s special dinner, but I’ll need to go back on Monday.” Her hand strayed to his chest, laying flat. He could feel his heart beating faster against her touch. “You wanted to talk to me.”

“It can keep,” he murmured, not wanting to destroy this moment. Maybe it could wait a while.

Her fingers tightened slightly on his skin. “You pulled away earlier, Ron. It must be important.”

He laughed mirthlessly. What point was there trying to hide anything from her? She knew him far too well.

“I’m leaving the Auror department,” he said.

He waited for the shriek, the ‘What on earth are you thinking?’ The ‘Ron, that’s a good job. Don’t be so ridiculous!’

But instead, he felt her smile curve against his chest. “Good.”

“Good?” His hand, that had been stroking her waist, stopped as he wondered if he’d heard her right.

“You’ve been unhappy for a while,” she continued. “And I was worried you were only staying there for my sake.”

“Partly,” he admitted, because he had wanted to prove to her that he could see something through. “But I wanted to make sure we’d got them all.”

“Of course,” she replied softly. Then she sat up and he saw a gleam in her eyes. “Do you know what you’re going to do? I could help, you know. There are stacks of vacancies at the Ministry, so I’m sure we could find something to suit �“ ”

He stopped her mouth with his. “Listen, Hermione, while I tell you the story of an accidental sweet and a hairy green ferret ...”