Something to Do

He was late. Again. Yet again. He didn't have to look at his watch to know that. In fact, he had been late to work every day for weeks now. He couldn't remember when he'd last been on time.

He swung his legs out of bed, grunting with the effort needed, and sat on the edge, his head in his hands. His head was thick and muzzy, his mouth dry and sticky. With an effort, he stood up and made his way unsteadily to the bathroom. Even his legs seemed reluctant to support him these days. Still, given the amount of exercise he had been taking recently, that wasn't entirely surprising. He looked in the mirror, and wished he hadn't. He thought he'd have got used to the red and bleary eyes that greeted him each morning, but somehow they still came as a surprise.

It was past ten o'clock when he finally made it to his office. Well, it was called an office. It was a room in which he spent as little time as possible. There was the usual clutter of paper on his desk. He shuffled through it half heartedly. He frowned at one note, placed on top of all the other papers. A summons from his boss. 'Dear Mr Weasley.' Well, that was an ominous start. None of the bonhomie of 'Ron' that he'd had when he'd first started working at Nimbus. 'I'd be grateful if you could call in to see me when you arrive in your office today.' That was it, apart from the signature. He frowned. His stomach, already queasy, gave a little lurch. Was this it? Was this going to be the push? Well, if it was, he might as well get it over and done with.

He frowned at the note, reading it again, then put back down on the desk. He pulled vaguely at his clothes – although it would take more than a casual tug to make them look anything like respectable. Right then – time to go. He made his way out of his office and walked over to the stairs. His boss was on the floor above. Each rung of the staircase seemed to be an effort. Finally, he reached the top of the stairs, and walked down the corridor to Wood's office. Ron stopped to gather his breath and his nerve, then tapped on the door.

One look at Wood's face was enough. Wood wasn't angry, or upset – he was just ... embarrassed. Ron could see that Wood wanted this over as quickly as possible. Well, that was true for him, too.

'Ah, Ron, good to see you,' Wood began, insincerely. Ron said nothing. He could be wrong. Maybe Wood was embarrassed about something else. But the other man cleared his throat, and went on: 'The thing is – look, I don't think this is working out.'

Now there was an understatement. Ron remembered his last visit to a Quidditch team, with his sales pitch prepared, ready to try to persuade them to swop their Cleansweeps for new Nimbus brooms. He remembered the eager expressions on the teams' faces, the anticipation of meeting one of 'The Trio', as they had become known, and the disillusionment as they smelled his whiskey laden breath. He had tried to give them a demonstration of the broom's superior flying qualities, but had only ended up making a fool of himself.

Oliver was as kind to him as he could be. Ron remembered Wood as the godlike figure who'd been Gryffindor Quidditch captain when Ron had been a young, innocent First Year at Hogwarts. He remembered how, only a few months ago, Wood had greeted him as a conquering hero, pleased beyond measure that Ron had taken up the job offer to work for Nimbus. And now Ron knew that he had become a liability to the firm – not even worth keeping as a figurehead. A month's salary to sweeten the departure. He saw Oliver's hesitation when Ron mentioned whether he might possibly provide a reference. He knew Oliver might write something as kind and honest as he could, but with references, it was often as much about what was not said as to what was actually said.

It wasn't worth going back to his office to clear his desk. There was nothing of importance there. It had been a long time since he'd be entrusted with anything important. Instead, he went back home – or to the set of rooms where he now lived. There he poured out the first drink of the day, sat down, sipped it, and tried to think what to do next. A month's salary. Well, that would pay the rent for a week or two. There was precious little in his vault at Gringotts now. The rooms were in a choice position in the heart of Diagon Alley, and he'd been pleased to get them at the time. They were expensive, but Nimbus had been paying him well. But the cost of the whiskey had cut into his budget. He'd switched to cheaper brands, but as he drank more and more, the cost mounted up.

Where to go when he was thrown out of here? He could go back to the Burrow, but that would be far too humiliating. He knew his mother would still take him in, despite their rows. But no. The thought of it was too much. He'd think of something. There were another three weeks to go until the end of the month. He'd find somewhere – he hoped. He sat and stared into his glass, trying not to think about it.

By six o'clock, he had reached the stage of pleasant numbness. That was the point of the whiskey – not to get drunk, but to act as an anaesthetic. After sufficient whiskey, none of it mattered any more – Hermione, Nimbus, any of it. The trick was to reach that stage and then holding it, not going so far as to lapse into incoherence, or into self pity – although the latter was becoming more and more difficult to escape. His mind had drifted off into some incoherent fantasy, as it did so often these days, when he heard a sudden noise. He frowned. He heard the noise again, then realised someone was knocking at the door.

He never got visitors these days. Perhaps it was some salesman, or someone who'd got the wrong address. That was probably it. He heaved himself to his feet and stumbled over to the door, opening it carefully. Standing on the other side was Harry.

Neither of them said a word – they were both too surprised. Then Ron saw the surprise on Harry's face change to shock, before it smoothed out to a blank neutrality. Still neither of them spoke, until Ron said thickly, and with too much bonhomie, 'Harry! Come on in.'

A moment later, he regretted this. He suddenly became aware of the squalor of his rooms: the glass and bottle on the side table, the dust and the dirt. He knew the sink in the kitchen was piled high with plates. Whenever he needed to eat, Ron would take a clean plate from the cupboard, and put it in the sink when he'd finished. When the clean plates ran out, then it was time to wash up, and begin the cycle again. He knew that the work surfaces would be stained with age old food. Not that he ate much these days. He knew the bath and sink had not been cleaned for months. He was uncomfortably aware that his own personal hygiene left something to be desired. And as for the state of his bedroom – well, at least that would be one place Harry wouldn't be going.

Ron could see the expression of reluctance as Harry came in and looked round. 'Take a seat,' he said, pushing a pile of old Quidditch magazines clumsily to the floor. Harry settled himself gingerly in the proffered chair. 'So, how are you these days? You're back!'

Harry gave him a quick smile. 'Yes, I'm back.'

'From your mysterious travels to the depths of Europe.'

Another quick smile. 'Not quite. But yes, to some of the depths of Europe. Some fantastic places. And some of it very useful.'

'So what brings you back here?'

Harry's smile became a little more cautious. 'An owl.'

'Oh?'

'From Minerva.'

it took Ron a moment or two to work out who Harry was talking about – well, in his present state, a little longer – then he twigged. Somehow he couldn't imagine ever calling his former head of house 'Minerva', but Harry was different. Always had been.

'Right.' Ron nodded once too often. 'What about?'

'Hogwarts. Well, frankly, she's struggling. She's as sharp as ever, but physically ...' Harry shrugged. 'And there's still an awful lot to be done.'

'How are the repairs going?'

'Pretty good, considering. But it's not just that. People have been more and more reluctant to send their children there. Schools depend on their reputation, and Hogwarts isn't what it was.'

'Not surprising.' Ron frowned, then he saw the bottle on the table. He hadn't offered Harry anything. He leaned forward and picked it up. 'Drink?'

'Not for me, thanks.'

Ron automatically refilled his own glass. 'So what else did she say in her letter?'

Harry hesitated fractionally. 'She offered me a job.'

'Oh?'

'Teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts.' More reluctantly, 'and Deputy Headmaster.'

It took Ron a little while to work out the implications of this. 'But that means – in a year or two – when McGonagall retires ...'

Harry nodded. 'As I said, there's a lot to be done.' He was silent again.

'Many of the old folks left?' Ron asked.

Harry shook his head. 'Not really. And they'll be going soon. That's one of the problems – to raise the reputation of the place, we've got to get hold of some good teachers and make sure we keep them.'

'I lost my job this morning,' Ron blurted out unthinkingly.

'Really?'

Even Ron in his present state could sense Harry's embarrassment. They had once been friends. Still were. But they had been friends as children, and Ron suddenly realised that adult friendship depended on something different. Ron knew that Harry would always be there for him, but nowadays out of obligation rather than friendship. Friendship amongst adults required a degree of equality and mutual respect. The old Ron would have never said something like that – at least, not so directly. There was a long pause.

Even in his befuddlement, Ron could sense Harry's unease, and knew that given a moment or two more, Harry would be making his excuses and leaving.

'There aren't any jobs going at Hogwarts, are there?' he asked casually, too casually.

Harry stirred in his seat. 'Well, yes, there are. That's one of the reasons I dropped in.'

'And now you've changed your mind.'

'Well, I wouldn't offer you a job in your present state.'

That stung. Coming from anyone else ... but from Harry ... was he such a mess? Ron looked round, and did his best to see the place through Harry's eyes, and realised his friend was probably right.

'Yeah, I can see your point,' he said wearily. A job at Hogwarts ... suddenly he wanted that more than anything else in the world. But he knew he had no hope of it. Not in his present state. He knew that this might well be his last chance of pulling out of his spiral of decline – but first, he had to show Harry that although he might be a mess now, he could still straighten himself out. But how could he convince him of that, sitting here as he was, drunk, unemployed?

He stopped for another moment to think through what he would say next, something that might convince Harry that he could still turn things round. He knew too that it was going to be actions that counted here, not words. He had to show he was capable of change, of better things.

'Look – okay, I'm a mess. I'm drunk, and unemployable.' Harry sat and said nothing. 'But give me one chance. Come back in a week, and things will be different, I promise. Can you do that?'

Harry looked at him, his face unreadable. 'Will a week make any difference?'

That stung too. 'Give me a chance to make the effort.'

'Okay then.' Harry suddenly stood up. 'This time next week?'

'Yeah.'

They looked at each other for a moment. They were still old friends. But Ron knew he had a long way to go to regain Harry's respect. Harry stood for a moment, silent, then turned to leave. With the slightly over controlled movements of the habitual drunk, Ron followed.

When he closed the door behind his visitor, Ron turned and looked at his apartment. It was, frankly, a mess. It was filthy. He went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Even he wasn't expecting what he saw. Would you offer this man a job, he asked himself? And he had to admit that he wouldn't offer a job even to his best friend if he looked like this. Not that he had any friends these days. He hadn't seen Hermione for months now. Their final break up had been very bitter. He hadn't any friends from work. Well, he hadn't even any work now. There were those who would talk to Ron, offer him a drink, on account of his fame, but even Ron came to realise that those who might have been worthwhile friends were put off by his drinking, whilst those who hung on were as sad as he had become.

He splashed cold water over his face. He looked at the bath, and grimaced. He could do with a bath. He could do with clean clothes. He could do with being sober.

He gave the bath a wipe over, removing some of the more obvious grime, filled it with water, and lowered himself in. He soaped himself and reached for the least dirty towel. He picked his clothes up and took them to the overflowing laundry bin. Well, at least he felt fresher. Back in the sitting room, he saw the bottle of whiskey, and put the cap on. The glass still had an inch of amber fluid in the bottom. He hesitated, then drained it in a swift gulp. He shuddered as the cheap fluid hit the back of his throat. Bed, he thought. Tomorrow would be another day.

Unusually, he woke early the next morning. Perhaps this was because he hadn't sat up to the late hours, slowly marinading himself in alcohol. He remembered his visitor of the night before. And Hogwarts. To his surprise and embarrassment, tears sprang suddenly to his eyes. He'd been happy at Hogwarts. It had probably been the happiest time of his life so far. Being made a prefect. Winning the Quidditch matches. He thought of teaching there, of the companionship of the High Table, of having food prepared for him, rooms to go to. And he knew what he had to do to get that.

The problem was, he thought, as he stood in the kitchen sipping coffee and looking round him, was to know where to begin. Some fresh air. He threw open all the windows, to let in a breeze from outside. Clean clothes might be a good idea, as well. Perhaps he had some jeans and a tee-shirt somewhere. No chance of clean socks. He went back into his bedroom and began rummaging. In the bottom drawer of a wardrobe, he found a cache of clothes, including clean sheets. Clean sheets! His bed hadn't seen clean sheets for months. He looked at the ironed sheets and caught a whiff of the smell of laundry, and knew, with a guilty heart, that these had been clothes and sheets his mother had washed and ironed months ago at the Burrow, before giving them back to him. How long had it been since he'd seen his mother? He knew how long it had been since he'd seen his father, because it would have been difficult to forget the humiliation of stumbling and almost falling in front of him, then seeing the expression of sadness on his father's face.

Dressed in clean clothes for the first time in a long time, he began in the kitchen. This was the easiest. First the plates and cups, knives and forks, pots and pans. Another cup of coffee. Then the work surfaces. Some of the stains were stubborn, and he had to work hard at them. Magic took you only so far. He knew his mother would have made light work of it, moving round with swishes of her wand, but he'd never bothered learning those sorts of domestic charms. After all, with a mother that did those sorts of things for you – why bother?

He took a break at midday, and realised with mild surprise that he was hungry. He slipped out into Diagon Alley and bought some food, and some more cleaning materials. He felt strangely anonymous in his jeans, and liked the feeling of that too.

The afternoon was taken up with cleaning the bathroom and doing some laundry. At least he had something clean to wear now, and looking at the fruits of his labours cheered him up. When he'd taken the rooms, he knew he'd been lucky to get them – perhaps, as elsewhere, he had traded on his fame ... but that was now a rapidly wasting asset.

At six o'clock, he stopped. Another moment of truth was coming up. He'd been busy enough so far not to want a drink, but he could now feel his body's yearning. He knew too that he wouldn't be able to go cold turkey – if he tried, and relapsed, he would relapse for good. Taper off then. Ration himself. One drink now, and perhaps another in an hour's time. He took a glass, and put a careful mark one inch up. There was a danger he'd just pour himself larger measures to compensate. Now he would have a fixed dose each time. He realised that he was treating the drink like medicine – and that he was perhaps becoming physically addicted to it, as well as psychologically.

One drink then. He poured it out, and put the bottle back in the kitchen. He didn't gulp it either. He sat down, and deliberately sipped the liquid. The fumes hit the back of his throat like an old friend.

He had a week to get this under control. In a way, the first few days would be easiest, since he would still be buoyed up by the incentive to reform. If he could get that job at Hogwarts – he hadn't even asked what sort of a job – and if he had something concrete, something useful to do, then he stood a chance. He should never have become a salesman. It wasn't a job that suited him. But it had been so easy, with offers flooding in from everyone, after that final time. It had seemed an ideal job, working for Nimbus. But he knew he'd rested on his laurels from the outset. Hermione had flung herself into her job at the Ministry, repelled by its atmosphere of cosiness and occasional corruption, vowing to sort it out. Now they were saying that if the next Minister of Magic wasn't Harry Potter, then it would be Hermione Granger. If she didn't make too many enemies on the way. But even her enemies recognised her drive, her talent, her abilities. His own complacency had been one of the causes of the bust up. But only one.

Well, if he was to have a job at Hogwarts, then he'd have to become a teacher. He gave a small smile to himself. If, ten years ago, he'd thought of what he might be doing now, becoming a schoolmaster would not have come high in the list. He looked across the room. High on a shelf was a small collection of books, his own school books, kept more for nostalgia than anything else. He hadn't opened one of them for years now.

He stood up and walked across the room, pulling them down from the shelf. He glanced at the spines. Well, he didn't think they had him in mind for teaching Potions or Herbology. Charms - yes, Defence Against the Dark Arts – yes, flying or Quidditch, yes. He could do all those.

He took down some Charms books, and glancing through them, smiled a little to himself. These wouldn't present much problem. But teaching them might. He had to think of a First Year class, perhaps containing children from Muggle families, who would have no clue as to how to begin. So how best to get the ideas over?

He became so engrossed in his books he realised he missed his own, self imposed deadline for his next drink. He would have liked to have skipped it, but knew the craving would become worse if he left it. He went into the kitchen to pour out his next dose of medicine, then returned to his reading.

Over the next few days, he restored the apartment to some semblance of its former pristine state. At least the landlord wouldn't have too much to quibble about now. There were some stains and marks on the walls that had proved too stubborn; he knew that restore things to their former glory would mean a complete redecoration, and he wasn't prepared to do that. Instead, he reached for quill and parchment, and began putting down some ideas about what he might teach, and how he might teach it. He also started to find that the drink interfered with his work: the fuzziness lingered long after the drink itself.

He thought he might save money by not spending it on drink, but found he was spending it on food instead. He also found his muscles protesting at some of the harder physical work cleaning his rooms, and knew he needed to exercise. Not that an evening jog around the empty streets helped much. He knew he had to work at it for weeks, not just a few days, but there was one bonus: the exercise also helped keep the cravings at bay.

He also became increasingly nervous as his deadline approached. What if Harry had gone to talk to Oliver Wood, or some of those clients he'd alienated over the past few months? What if he'd gone to Hermione, or to his parents? If he had talked to some of them, then there was no chance of a job offer. Well, whatever reputation he had now, he'd earned. The difficulty was earning a new one.

Harry had said a week, and knowing Harry, he knew that he'd keep the deadline to the minute. He prepared a light meal, something that he could keep warm in the oven. He got some wine. Drinking wine wasn't like drinking whiskey. Drinking wine was something you did to be companionable with friends. Drinking whiskey was something you did by yourself, for oblivion.

The sheets of parchment he'd prepared looked somehow pathetic now, sitting on the table. What did he know about teaching? And what if Harry didn't offer him the job? Or just simply didn't even bother to come back?

But at six o'clock there was that knock at the door, and Harry was standing in the corridor. He saw the flicker of a different surprise in his eyes. Harry came in and looked round, without saying anything. Ron waved him to a chair. This was a different Harry from the one he'd known at school. The year spent fighting Voldemort had taken a toll of each of them in different ways. And seeing Harry without that scar always gave him another slight jolt. He noticed too the touch of white in the formerly black hair. Harry, like him, might be only in his twenties, but he looked older. And more mature than he should for someone of his age. But that's what that year had done for them. Perhaps it had given Hermione the need to take on the wizarding establishment. And perhaps it had led Ron to his present state.

They sat down for the meal Ron had prepared, and Ron opened the bottle of wine, pouring some for each of them, sipping his own carefully. The wine seemed more vibrant than it had in the past; perhaps the whiskey had dulled his taste to all else. In some ways, they didn't have a lot to say to each other, in the way old friends don't have to talk. Ron asked about Harry's adventures in Europe, and listened to his friend's stories. Finally Harry pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair.

'I've been thinking about what you said,' Ron began. Harry said nothing. 'Teaching isn't something I had in mind when we had our careers talks back in fifth year.' There was the flicker of a smile from Harry. Encouraged, Ron went on. 'I jotted some ideas down.'

He passed over the sheets of parchments to Harry, who took them without comment. Halfway through the first page, there was that flicker of a smile again, then Harry laid the sheets down. Had he found them so useless? Ron felt his heart sink. He knew that if Harry dismissed them out of hand, then that last bottle of whiskey would be drained before the night was out.

'It isn't magic that is Dark, it is people who are Dark,' Harry said suddenly.

Ron gaped for a moment, then realised that Harry had quoted from his page on the teaching of Defence Against the Dark Arts.

'Well,' he began, a little defensively, but Harry cut him off.

'Best definition I've heard.' Ron waited, uncertain. Harry sighed. 'I'll be honest with you, Ron. After last week, I went round and spoke to a few people. They weren't very encouraging. And you were in a bit of a state that night.

'If we want to improve the reputation of Hogwarts, first and foremost we have to have good teachers. McGonagall wants me as Deputy, and it won't leave a lot of time for teaching. I was going to be teaching some part time Defence Against the Dark Arts, and we need someone else who can cover the rest of the time table. He or she would have to do something else – I had you in mind for flying lessons and Quidditch.

'You could do all of these, Ron. But will you last the course?'

Ron flushed, and looked down, then back at his friend. 'I can if I have something worthwhile to do. Selling brooms – that was the worst possible job I could have got.'

Harry nodded. 'It was a non job, wasn't it? But teaching – it would mean being on time, meeting deadlines properly, and so on. You can't expect the children to get it right unless we do.'

'Yeah, I know that. And I think it would be good for me – having to do things on time, and all the rest of it. And, well, you could take me on a term's trial, if you like. On probation, so to speak. If it doesn't work out ... I know that's not ideal from your point of view, but ...'

Harry looked around the room. He looked at the bottle of wine, still only half full. 'How's the drinking going?' he asked bluntly.

'I haven't stopped – like going teetotal or whatever. But I don't need it like I used to.'

'Fair enough. Well, it's not up to me, anyway, it's up to McGonagall. But she'll do what I recommend. And we'd need you straightaway. There's only two weeks to go until term starts again, and there's a hell of a lot to do before then.'

Ron smiled a slightly twisted smile. 'I haven't anything else to do.'

'Fair enough. Can you come up to Hogwarts tomorrow? McGonagall will want to talk to you, to see you for herself.'

'Sure,' said Ron, slightly taken aback.

'Right then. I think this job might suit you. What you need is something to do.'

And Ron realised Harry was right. He spent too long basking in his glory. He had to move on. He needed something to do with his life. And this might be it.