Ron had the first Malfoy file open on his lap, a half eaten sandwich on the table next to him, and his younger sister arguing with his mother for background noise. This had become somewhat common place for him in the last few months, which was not to say that he enjoyed it, but simply to say that he was accustomed to it. There was a time when he was living with Hermione, when he could do his work at home in relative peace. Depending on how one were to define the word peace at any rate. There was always the constant arguments then too, though the contenders had been himself and his girlfriend.
When Hermione had asked him to move out one night it had not come as a great surprise, nor had it been earth shattering at the time. It had become both in the intervening weeks since. Though they had kept it a pretty big secret throughout their relationship, Ron had spent many nights sleeping on the couch, or at some cheap muggle hotel. Fighting had been all but the staple that had kept them a couple for so many years. Ron had been fairly convinced most of the time that they only stayed together as a method of keeping score of the victor for their many repeated arguments.
Which is not to say that they were unhappy. At the heart of it, their relationship was built on mutual attraction and love. They were best friends after all. The one portion of their coupling which was, is and always, as far as he could tell, been lacking was trust. For whatever reason they never seemed to trust the other, in both big and small ways. Ron felt he could at this point write the worlds most informative dissertation on the destructive tendencies of couples the world over.
He sighed and got to his feet. He put his work into his bag and made for the front door, passing what had the makings of an all night row between Ginny and his mom about whether or not her "friend" could spend the night. He disapparated in the garden and reappeared in London. He walked through Diagon Alley, looking for a nice quiet place to read the now ancient, by law enforcement standards, reports on the mysterious disappearance of Draco Malfoy. When he finally did, he found a bench roughly adjacent to Harry's now deserted flat. He pulled the paper work from his bag and began, in earnest, to pour himself into it.
According to the paper work Draco had undergone, a sudden and immense change. He had always been a huge pure blood supported, but any kind of violence was a stretch for him. The case was at the time being handled by Harry. The notes included by Harry seemed to indicate that he felt Draco was possibly under some kind of outside influence, though the exact kind was unknown. Draco had disappeared from his bedroom, with no sign of damage. He was not reported missing until four days after he had vanished. He was presumed gone without a trace, however Harry had made some very hastily written remarks that this was not an accurate description considering the testimony of Anthony Ridgemond, the janitor for a small wizard book shop in central London.
Ron pulled another file out, in order to look deeper into the mention testimonial. According to the reports taken Anthony claims to have seen Draco attempting to enter the shop after closing hours, only to give up and run off in another direction. The shop is located hundreds of miles from the place that Draco had been staying at the time, and occurred at eighteen past ten at night, when the testimony of one of Draco's former peers puts him still in the company of a girlfriend he had been seeing at the time. The conclusion as written by Mabel says that the story is unlikely to have actually occurred and was likely an attempt by Ridgemond to make the newspapers. In Harry's cramped handwriting at the bottom of the report Ron read the words, "Alohomora" and "Speak with Agnes Agnew."
Ron knew that Agnes was the girlfriend Draco was known to have had before his vanishing act. Ron closed the files, stuffed them back into his bag and let out a tremendous sigh. This thing seemed to be nothing more than a wild goose chase, the Malfoy case had been closed for a reason. It was presumed that Draco was likely murdered by one of his followers and this fact concealed exceptionally well. However, this wasn't the first time Harry had dragged this case out of the cold files. Ron had looked into it. The Malfoy case one on of Harry's pet projects, he had tried to connect it to a dozen other cases in the past all so that he could take another legitimate stab at solving it once and for all. This newest attempt, which is how Ron was beginning to see it, was the thinest attempt yet.
Ron got up and walked to the post. He rented an owl and sent his nightly letter to Hermione. He then went home and slept through the row in the downstairs room.
* * *
Hermione,
This is stupid. You are being stupid. We aren't working as a couple, I get that, but really if you're going to end it, end it. If not; let me move back in. Living with my parents is the worst kind of punishment. As always, not that you ever respond, let me know.
-Ron.
* * *
Ron's letter was laying on the kitchen table, with the rest of his letters. Hermione had read them all, watched as they began apologetic for the fight, turned into begging to come home, became from there anger at how childish she was being. Now, with this latest letter she was watching the burgeoning of a new prevailing attitude, indifference. He was no longer fighting for their relationship, he seemed to just want to know if he should put a down payment on a new flat or not.
She wished she could be upset about it, but she wasn't. She just felt numb most days. To a point she was waiting for her excuse to move on with her life, and wrestling with her guilt for feeling that way. She loved Ron, she always would. He was one of her best friends, he was one of the main reasons she got through the war to begin with. But what ever it was that had been there was gone now. She had been attracted to his loyalty, to his bravery, but mostly, even she knew, she had been attracted mostly to the fact that he was attracted to her. In recent years that was no longer a justifiable reason to stay together, but in spite of the years they had been together, she couldn't view the lack of that feeling as a justifiable reason to throw away everything.
She wished she could talk to Harry about it, but he had been avoiding her for so long now that she was beginning to think that he had grown out of their friendship. It would make sense. Harry had reinvented himself after the war. Never wanting to be the person the world saw him as he had become something else. He dated, but never seriously, he hardly ever went out to have fun, he had become an Auror, through and through. If he wasn't on a case for work, he could be found looking through the unsolved case files. He only ever showed up at parties for holidays, and birthdays. His yearly birthday party being the only event he ever actually threw, and even during that rare occasion he seemed disconnected.
Hermione removed a piece of parchment and a quill from her desk. On it she wrote the following;
Harry,
It's been a long time since we actually talked. I could really use a friend right now, with everything that's been going on. I don't know if you even can, but if it wouldn't be a problem for you, I would like to get together. Just to talk. I just need to talk. Please respond.
-Love, Hermione.
* * *
Harry was just about to start banging his head on the wall. He was having trouble digging up the current location of Agnes Agnew, even with exhausting work on it. He had finally given up trying to find her and in desperation he had turned to the owl system's ability to get mail to anyone anywhere. He had sent her a short letter, asking only to talk about the Malfoy case. Now it was the waiting that was driving him insane. He knew it was silly to expect an immediate response, but he did anyway. He had taken to pacing the rundown one room safe house he was staying in. When pacing stopped making the time pass quickly enough he stared at his hands. When that did nothing he went back to pacing. Then he danced, alone and by himself to no music. Then he started to draw, a talent he did not possess. When everything else failed he decided to crack up for an hour or so.
He had given insanity a fair shot, he really had, but after and hour of attempting to be crazy he was still finding himself having rational thoughts. He had to abandon insanity, finding it both hard to pull off and incredibly tiring. He then tried for a nap, but couldn't seem to get comfortable, so he was going back over his copy of the Malfoy case work when the owl with Hermione's letter arrived. He gave the owl a head pat while he read the missive. Truth told he was at first disappointed that it was not from Agnes. That was soon replaced with other, more complex emotions.
There was, with the desperation in her words, the state he imagined her in, the state of undress he often imagined her in as well, and the sound of water dripping somewhere in his shitty living space, a rising feeling of dread as he finally put the letter down. He found himself wishing that the letter had arrived earlier, when he was trying to force himself into insanity, as he felt that the letter would have tipped the scales nicely. He stood up and looked at the owl. It was waiting expectantly for a response to be tied to his leg. Harry went to the mini fridge in the safe house and took out some raw ground beef. He tore a little of it off and feed it to the owl.
"There you go." He said. The owl hooted appreciatively, "You wouldn't happen to know what I'm meant to do right now would you?"
The owl cocked it's head to the side. It knew that Harry was talking to it, but being an owl had no real notion what about or what for. Harry smiled.
"At least you tried." He patted the owl's stomach, which the owl did understand, and enjoyed. The owl made a mental note to always cock it's head to the side when spoken to.
"Okay. Okay." Harry spoke to himself, completely missing the fact that the owl had cocked it's head once more, "Okay. I'm a world famous champion and Auror. I can totally do this. Okay."
Harry patted the owl's stomach again, he had after all always liked owls quite a bit. The owl closed it's eyes and was thankful that once more the head cocking maneuver had payed off. The owl had been, for a few seconds, afraid, or as afraid as owls are likely to get, that the head cocking thing was a one off treat he would not be getting again. Harry dismissed the owl and it flew off into the night, content with it's new knowledge on how to have it's belly rubbed.
Harry went to the sticky mirror above the bed and, using the dim light present, straightened his hair, as well as he could, which is to say not very well at all. He breathed into his cupped hand to check his breath, then he shook his head to suggest to himself that he was being stupid. He then disappeared and reappeared on the street outside the flat that, until only a few months ago, was shared by Ron and Hermione. He took the stairs two at a time, and while he didn't notice it, he was all the while humming sappy love songs to himself. The dread in his stomach was gone, replaced by the feeling of eager anticipation one associates with theme park rides and knocking on a pretty girl's door, which is what he was doing.
When the door opened his theme park, door knocking eagerness was once more replaced, with the old pit of his stomach dread he'd picked up reading the letter that had brought him here. He didn't know it, but the sappy love songs he had been humming were now just awkward silence, though he knew about the awkward silence part. Hermione looked like Hermione had always looked in recent months, only more so. The evident guilt was there, but more guiltily, the eyes tired from crying were also still there, only now more tired. She looked like an artists interpretation of herself.
"Hello." He said lamely.
"Harry!" Harry had never seen some actually light up until that moment. The artist rendering was gone, replaced with the old vision of beauty he had always known her as.
"The very same."
"Come in."
She moved aside to let him by, which he did with great care, not wanting to brush any part of herself with himself. When he was inside she brought him over to the couch in the living room and sat with him. She took his hands in her own and smiled the kind of smile that would make a man crush a mountain to gravel then eat the gravel before asking if there were any other odd jobs about she would like him to take a stab at.
"It's been absolutely ages." She gushed, "How have you been?"
"Uhm..." He shook his many and varied thoughts until they blended into a coherent line of thought, "You saw me the other day... at the party. You know, before all the screaming and running about and such."
"I didn't really see you, though. We never talk anymore."
"Right. Sorry."
"So, really, how have you been?"
"Oh, you know. Well, super bust mostly."
"Any interesting cases?"
"Just the party attack, and the Malfoy case."
"You've opened that again have you?"
"I have. Oh!" He grabbed for his pant pocket only to have it turn up empty, "I, uhm.. I borrowed a pen, from you desk. At work, not here. I don't have it with me, but yeah... I burrowed it."
"Are you feeling alright?"
"No. Absolutely not, not even the slightest way. Nope." He smiled.
"What's wrong?"
"You, me. All of this."
"Are you... do you still feel..."
"Yeeeeaah."
"I didn't know."
"It doesn't go away, nothing like that."
"Well, this is comfortable." She dead panned.
"Okay. Sorry, you need a friend. That's me; Harry Potter. Friend."
"Harry, if I had known that you still felt that way about us I would never have-"
"Yeah, you would. It's no big deal."
"It is a big deal, that you think I would put you through something like this on purpose."
"I'm your friend. It happens."
"Harry. I'm sorry. It's just, well, you've been dating again and everything..."
"Have I? I suppose I have."
He swayed forward and looked intently at his hands, wrapped up in her hands. She let go, blushing. The two sat there. In silence, waiting for either the other to say something or the world to implode, whichever would have been more convenient. Hermione played with her hair, as she always did when she was embarrassed.
"It's not that I don't think about you like that now and again. I do."
"If we could maybe avoid having this conversation."
"Avoid for how long, Harry?"
"My funeral. That would be a great time to discuss this, and you are welcome to."
"We're going to have to talk about it some time!" She insisted.
"Then, let me just sum it up for you then." Harry cleared his throat and began to speak in a high voice, "Harry, you're wonderful, I mean that because I'm Hermione and I never lie. But you're not my wonderful person. Me and Ron, we have so much history together. I'm sorry."
"I..." Hermione sat in silence.
"I know. I know." He waved his hand, "I'm rubbish at impressions. But I think that's the gist of it, no?"
Hermione didn't know what to say. She fought her brain for the correct jumble of information to express. She searched throughout her massive stores of intellect for the right combination of words to launch, like a counter spell, to destroy the argument Harry had made, in what had to be said was a less than flattering falsetto version of her voice. When nothing presented itself immediately she ended up blushing and looking for all the world like a lost child in a super market. Harry nodded his head conclusively and got to his feet.
"Well, I'll be seeing you around, Hermione." He had made it almost out of the living room when her voice peaked behind him, with a strength that surprised him.
"No."
"What?" He turned to face her.
"No, that isn't the gist of it."
Harry sighed, hung his head slightly before raising his hand and asking, very much like the Auror he is, "Then what is the gist of it, ma'am?"
"Don't you play copper with me, Harry Potter." She said gravely.
"Fine." He threw his arms in the air, "What, Hermione? What's the story?"
"You're impulsive, dangerous, some times cruel, and unable to control your anger when it counts."
"Those are my better points, yes. You have a point in all this critique?"
"A year ago, for no reason and out of the blue you tell me that you have feelings for me. That you have for years."
"Yeah."
"Where was that when we were in school, Harry? Where was that when we were in the war?"
"It was still developing!" He pointed to his chest, "This stuff doesn't come easy for me, I spent most of my life locked in a cupboard under the stairs at night. I can't turn on the translator in my head that helps me understand my own feelings."
"You only wanted me when you couldn't have me, that's how it looks from my side."
"Well, then your side is short sighted!"
"I loved you back then!"
"What?" Harry recoiled in shock.
"That kiss on the cheek, at the train station when we were kids. I loved you then."
"I didn't-"
"No you didn't. You didn't notice or care and eventually I got over my silly little crush and found someone who did care about me."
"That's-"
"That's how it is, Harry. Ron was there, emotionally, for me when you couldn't be or worse yet, wouldn't be. You don't have the right to dangle could've beens in my face all those years later. It isn't fair!"
"I'm sorry, I didn't know." He said softly.
"No offense, but of course you didn't. Unless someone tells you what's happening to them, you never pick up on it. Unless it's one of your stupid cases."
"I'm sorry."
"That's you all over, Harry." She pointed at him, "You abandon me for a troll in the bathroom and you've been abandoning me since. First for Cho, then for Ginny, then for a war, and lately for your stupid cases. You just can never be around when I need you, and when you are around you're only there to heroically save the day."
"How was I supposed to know you felt that way?"
"You could have asked."
"So, you what? You hate me now?"
Hermione crossed the room in four quick strides and put her hand to Harry's cheek before giving him a kiss on his forehead. Harry stood confused and feeling the warm tears from her face run down his.
"I could never hate you, Harry. Never ever."
"I deeply do not understand what is happening right now." He confessed.
"Me either." She smiled, "I just know that I needed to see you tonight."
"I'm sorry about, well everything essentially."
Hermione put her head on his chest and her arms around him, "But you came over, at least you came."
Harry wrapped his arms around her shoulders and gave her a hug while she rocked against him. He figured this was what she needed, someone to just let her be miserable about everything for a change. After a few minutes of hugging they found themselves once more on the couch. Harry patted her knee as she leaned into him.
"Is everything okay with you and Ron?" He asked, understanding now that she needed to talk about it.
"No, Harry. No it's not."
"What's going on?"
"In truth? We're probably going to break up."
"What happened?"
"It was never really just one thing. That's the way it is for long term relationships. It's a whole bunch of little idiosyncrasies and arguments, that over time all get jumbled together into one enormous problem."
"I wouldn't know."
"I suppose not." She sighed, "We fight all the time."
"You always did."
"That's not really healthy though. Sure, every couple fights, it's part of being a couple. An important part, no less. But we don't talk, we just fight. And the fight never ends. We've stared skipping greetings and just get down to fighting."
"Merlin."
"We don't kiss anymore, we don't make love anymore, we don't communicate at all. Everything is falling apart, we've tried to fix it. We did these arranged date nights, but we would always argue about what to eat or what to watch or where to go, and before we knew it we had to be in bed for work and we never had our date."
"So why'd you kick him out?"
"I came home and saw his socks stuffed into his shoes."
"What?"
"It's, I don't really know how to explain this."
"Try."
"When we gather our laundry together at the end of each week he always complains that he's short a few socks, so he goes out and buys more. Every week, without fail. I always tell him that it's because he stuffs them into his shoes and forgets about them. He says that I'm just being needlessly scrutinizing in order to start a fight. I came home and saw, for what must be the hundred millionth time his socks crammed into his fucking shoes and I just couldn't take it anymore."
"Did you fight?"
"No. I walked into the living room and told him to leave. He went to the closet where he keeps a bag packed and left. I've only seen him since at your party."
"Wow. Socks."
"I know it sounds stupid, I know that. But it's not about the socks, Harry. It really isn't. It was about everything. All the stupid little things. And maybe mostly, I'm just so tired of fighting with him. We were both supposed to grow, together, as a couple. But he doesn't change. He refuses to or doesn't know how."
"I see."
"You're sweet to say so." She kissed him on the cheek, "I'm surprised you showed up."
"Me too. I chalk it up to good timing. I was trying to go insane not two hours before your letter arrived."
"That sounds fun."
"It turns out that it isn't, in fact."
"Well, I'm surprised you came all the same. You've been avoiding me lately."
"Yeah."
"He admits it?" She gave him an amused look.
"I mean: I totally have not. You are imaging things, you imaginative slightly crazy sock hating person." He smiled.
"Thank you, Harry." She hugged him about the mid section, "I really needed a friend tonight."
"Well," Harry said, restraining the defeat from his voice, "Like I said, Harry Potter. Friend."
* * *
Draco woke up. He had woken as he often did, from the pressure of his restraints keeping his unconscious body from rolling onto it's side. He didn't know why he had ever thought he would get used to sleeping in restraints, he very clearly wasn't. He used to be taken outside, for a few hours every week, he missed that. He missed the fresh air in the garden, the warmth of the sun, the smell of cement after rain. He even missed the dim feeling of freedom. His life was now bondage, and the four filthy walls surround the table on which he spent fourteen hours a day strapped to.
Sometimes from above he could hear voices. His nameless and faceless captures. His prison guards. The hands that would shove meals under his door and push the button to release his restraints. Sometimes the voices above spoke of their plans. They didn't think he could understand them, but over his years there Draco had learned to translate muffled voices. He knew they were moving against Potter, he knew that the True Blood Brotherhood was growing restless, he knew that they were fighting within themselves. Sometimes he would laugh as loud as he could. Just to confuse them.
Now he simply stared at the wall. A few months back he had decided to try a new track. His escape attempts had failed him a hundred times before, always he ended up with his memory wiped of his escape attempt and back in his cage. They left the failed plan intact in his mind, as if to let him know that that plan wouldn't work again. When finally he had stopped trying to escape they thought he had finally given up. They couldn't have been more wrong. He merely started to think better.
He had learned, many years ago, and after several months of effort, to resist the Imperio curse. It had been an uphill battle, while he watched himself start a cult of Death Eaters not of his own free will. When finally he could resist, remembering that Potter had once done it, and knowing that it was only a matter of will power, he had made his first escape attempt. They caught him as he was trying to get into a book store, he was trying to find any information on the dark force they were, even now, trying to bring to life. From there he had ended up here. In a dark, cold room. The floor littered with his own excrement and all manner of other horrible things. He continued to stare at the wall, feeling the power welling up inside himself. Waiting. Always waiting.