Dark Gods in the Blood

Chapter Thirteen

No fear can stand up to hunger, no patience can wear it out,

disgust simply does not exist where hunger is; and as to

superstition, beliefs, and what you may call principles, they

are less than chaff in a breeze.

-- Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

The office was rather quieter than usual today. It always was, after a funeral.

Summerford had been young. Hadn't even had his bootlaces for a year. Ron smiled down at the file he'd been absently perusing. Bit silly that, really.

The final examination for admission to the Aurory was an obstacle course of sorts. A couple of senior Aurors would be 'Dark wizards,' rampaging through some Muggle town (mid-sized, usually, although Ron knew that Kingsley's final had been administered in Islington), and the hapless trainee would have to bring them in. They were not permitted the standard Auror kit -- this was a test, after all -- and had to rely on their wands and their wits.

According to the story, one poor Auror (nameless, as legends tend to be, although Ron had heard mutterings around office water coolers offering names anywhere from the ruthless old seventeenth century 'witch-hunter' Matthew Hopkins**, notorious for his brutal pursuit of Dark wizards, to the slightly more modern -- though no less infamous -- Alastor Moody) managed to break his wand in the duel with his instructors. But the fellow, whoever he really was, recovered nicely and wound up dragging his instructors back to the Aurory, bloodied and their hands neatly bound with his bootlaces.

Thus, every Auror, upon his graduation, was awarded a pair of bootlaces, charmed to be Unbreakable. Use every possible resource at hand, was the lesson to be taken from this slightly ridiculous ritual.

Ron let his eyes flicker down to his own laces, whimsically spelled to a bright red instead of the standard-issue black. "Red hair and red shoes," one of his mates had grumbled. "Could you make yourself any more obvious a target, Weasley?"

Kingsley had given Summerford's bootlaces to his wife, enormously pregnant with their first child, as she stood graveside. A single tear had fallen down her cheek, he remembered, as she cradled the small box in her hand. Ron hoped fervently that she didn't put them in some silly box somewhere, that Summerford's child would wear those laces as he or she fell out of trees and ran down to the lake at Hogwarts. Good laces for a kid, really. Completely indestructible -- not a flame or a blade in the world could make so much as a dent in them.

Blinking as his eyes began suspiciously stinging, Ron jerked his mind away from the image of that tear on William Summerford's wife's face and tried to focus on the file under his nose. An untamed werewolf in Albania.

Only one team needed to take care of it -- he wrote the number 'thirty-eight' on the cover of the folder and tapped it once with his wand. Immediately, the file disappeared, ostensibly sent to Higgins and Lee, team number thirty-eight. Byungki had been anxious for an opportunity to take a case out of the country, Ron remembered distantly. Well, now he had his chance. And Hera Higgins could probably keep him from too much trouble.

Byungki Lee was one of the more impetuous Aurors in the Ministry. At twenty-five, he'd already been brought before the Wizengamot four times for inappropriate conduct and threat of Muggle exposure. That was actually why he'd been paired with Hera lately -- an older, stern woman, Hera kept Byungki on a fairly tight leash. She was able to use his intensity and creative approach to situations to its maximum effect, efficiently checking his tendency toward leaping without first looking. The number of Oblivate teams sent in after Byungki's missions now was actually less than half of what it used to be, thanks to Hera.

Another file, another assignment. A Muggle in Cheshire, watching a local wizarding family far too closely. This was actually rather misallocated -- there was an entire department for Muggle relations that had nothing to do with the Aurory -- but the family in question belonged to one Robert Wheeler, whose mother happened to be Cornelius Fudge's sister.

Ah ... politics.

With a wry grin, Ron sent the file to team number forty-two. Tonks would probably get a kick out of this one. Not to mention accidentally set the Wheeler home on fire. When no one was there, of course. But all the same ...

His mind now more or less focused on his work, he let time slip away, head bent over his desk, scratching notes on parchment and tapping files with his wand.

As it was, then, whoever was standing beside his desk had to clear their throat several times before Ron even knew they were there.

Startled, his head jerked up and he regarded his guest with surprise. "Françoise?" he asked, floored. "What are you doing here?"

Françoise smiled at his obvious confusion. "I couldn't stand to stay in that house for another second," she said breezily. "So I'm here to take you out for lunch. My treat. Grab your cloak and we'll go."

"Lunch?" he asked, bewilderment deepening significantly. "What time is it?"

Laughing, she gave his shoulder a little pat. "It's past noon, Ron. Nearly one, actually. Is work that interesting?"

"Not as such," he said, stretching in his chair. &dquo;But time-consuming, it seems. So ... lunch, you say. And your treat?"

"No lobster, mind," she replied with another laugh. "Now come on -- I'm starving!" As if to punctuate her point, Françoise tugged at his arm.

Shaking his head at her antics, Ron allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. "All right, all right," he grumbled playfully. "So, where to?"

"It's a surprise," she said, holding out a rather dulled Sickle that Ron knew she used for a makeshift Portkey when the occasion called for it.

He took his cloak in one hand and laid a pointer finger on the Sickle with the other. Françoise spoke a single word and Ron felt his stomach flip inside out as the Portkey pulled them forward.

-- -- -- -- --

"This was your surprise?" Ron cried, laughter evident in his tone. "Fortescue's?"

"I thought it would be a surprise," Françoise repld demurely, voice quavering with suppressed mirth. "I can see by your reaction that I was correct."

He placed his hands on his hips and cocked his head at her. "Merlin's ass, Françoise," he exclaimed unthinkingly. "Are you suggesting that we have ice cream for luncheon? I thought you were a responsible parent or some such thing."

Her nose turned upward and her reply was decidedly snobbish. "If you had ever bothered to notice, Mister Weasley, you would see that right beside the huge ice cream parlor is a restaurant. Fionn Fortescue went into business next door to his brother many years before either of us had been born."

"Okay, Miss I-Knw-More-Than-You," he said sarcastically. Indeed, now that he came to look more closely, there was a sign clearly advertising, Fortescue's Sandwiches and Soups -- Homemade. "If you're done with your lecture ..."

"Should we eat inside our outside?" she asked, not bothering to respond to his derision.

Ron perked up. "We can eat outside?"

"I thought you'd like that," she said with a disdainful sniff. "It puts me in mind of those dreadful Muggle cafés you like to patronize. The difference, of course, being that Fionn's sandwiches are absolutely wonderful."

Wrinkling his nose at her, he pulled out a chair at a nearby table. "Boy, one measly little case of food poisoning and it puts you off an entire genre of cuisine. Don't you have any sense of adventure, Françoise?"

"I am the mother of two rather rambunctious children," she replied primly, handing him a menu out of what seemed to be nowhere. "They've sapped it out of me."

With a start, he laid the menu on the table. "Erm ... Françoise?"

She hummed, not looking up.

"Where are the kids today, then?" he asked carefully, panic beginning to dawn in his mind. "Shouldn't you --?"

Finally catching a glimpse of his expression, she began to giggle. "Oh, Ron," she sighed, oddly reminiscent of Hermione as an exasperated child. Oh, Ron, she used to groan on their adolescent escapades, hands on her hips and hair flying every possible direction.

The panic was now nearly in full blossom. "Françoise?"

"What?" she managed between chuckles. "What sort of mother do you think I am, Ronald Weasley?"

He did have the sense to blush at that. "I --"

"Don't you remember?" she asked. "Nicholas started back at school today. We talked about it last night, as well as at breakfast. It's only three weeks into the semester, so he should be fine. And I went in to speak with his teacher this morning when I dropped him off -- she's aware of the situation. And as for Alice, I left her with Petunia before I came to your office -- I thought it would be nice to have a meal with some conversation with polysyllable words."

Blowing out a breath, Ron's expression was growing more chagrined by the second. "I'm sorry, Françoise. I did forget about Nicholas. It's just ..." He floundered, unable to articulate his thought.

"I know," she said kindly. "It's been ... difficult." After a pause, she shook her head, smiling ruefully. "Consider, Ron, that it took you the better part of a half-hour to notice that the children weren't here."

He couldn't think of anything to say to that.

-- -- -- -- --

Their orders were brought to their table by a round little man, red-cheeked and beaming. "Françoise, my dear girl," he said, sitting a plate in front of her nose. "I knew I recognized that order from a mile away -- I just had to bring it out myself."

Smiling, she stood, wrapping her arms around the fellow, who was barely at her eyelevel. "Fionn!" she cried. "How are you?"

Ron was dumbfounded. "Fionn?" he echoed "Françoise, is that --?"

"Fionn Fortescue, at your service, my lad," the man -- Fionn -- said brightly. "And unless I miss my guess, you must be Ronald Weasley." He placed Ron's plate on the table.

Still rather taken aback, Ron's only response was a tentative nod.

"I've heard a lot about you, young man," Fionn continued, pulling up a chair of his own. "You come highly recommended, according to Albus and wee Françoise here. I hope you two don't mind if an old man joins you for a bit. I've been meaning to owl you, Françoise. How are you holding up, child? I saw the article in the Daily Prophet. One of many, it seems."

She shrugged and picked up a chip, chewing on it pensively. "One day at a time, Fionn. That's all I can ask."

Fionn's words finally managed to penetrate the baffled fog that was currently Ron's brain. "Hang on," he began slowly. "You know Albus Dumbledore as well? Who are you?" He left his real question -- how do I not know you? -- unspoken.

Chuckling, the man patted Ron's hand with something very like affection. "As I have said -- I'm Fionn Fortescue. Albus I know because we went to Hogwarts together, many years ago. He was a year ahead of me, you know, but he tutored me in Transfigurations and I showed him how to sneak into the kitchens."

Ron goggled, trying to picture an adolescent Albus Dumbledore standing in the Hogwarts kitchens, asking house elves for handouts, and utterly failing. "Really?" he managed, picking up a quarter of his sandwich.

"Really," Fionn said. "I suppose, though, that Albus would prefer I not share such things with his young protégés, as our old boyhood escapades go a long way toward dispelling the aura of greatness he seems to work so hard to cultivate."

Françoise snorted and took a sip of her water. "He does a good job of dispelling it himself. Lemon drops, indeed."

"I think you and I ought to have more chats, Mr. Fortescue," Ron said with a straight face, polishing off the bit of sandwich in his hand.

"Oh, call me Fionn, boy," he replied, waving a hand blithely through the air. "Neither my brother nor myself have ever stood on much ceremony. The only 'Mr. Fortescue' we ever knew about was our father. And he was a right stiff sort of fellow."

"So you are Florian Fortescue's brother," he said.

Françoise glowered at Ron. "I already told you that."

"Given that you never bothered to inform me that you have more than a passing acquaintance with him, I think I'm in my right to question everything you've said up to this point," he retorted.

Fionn chortled. "Oh, my goodness," he cried. "I miss having young people around. All the Hogwarts crowd tends to gravitate to my brother's little shop, you see. In fact," he said with a decidedly Dumbledorean twinkle in his eye, "many of them don't even know that I'm here."

Ron shot Françoise a victorious look as if to say, See? I'm not the only one. But he remained wisely silent on the matter, choosing instead to change the subject. "Given that, then," he said, "how is it that you two seem to know each other so well?"

Twinkling further, Fionn gave Françoise a fond look. "Through my brother and her father, actually," he admitted. "Florian was introduced to Christophe at some party or another not long after Christophe had come to England. Christophe happened to mention that his little girl was in need of an English tutor -- they spoke French at home, you see, but he was determined that his daughter was not going to be lacking in any quality. So Florian mentioned me. I'd been in Paris for a time back during the Twenties and even did a short stint at Beauxbatons in the Fifties -- Herbology for a couple semesters while the actual professor was on sabbatical."

Ron looked back and forth between the pair disbelievingly. "So ... you were her tutor?"

"For about three years," he replied. "Françoise has always been a quick study, but I suppose you already knew that. But she always came to see me during her summers and we've kept up through owls. I must admit, though, that while she brought her little boy by a few years back, she still has not given me the honor of meeting her daughter. Albus assures me that your girl is a right scamp, though, Françoise."

With a wry smile and a short nod, Françoise chuckled. "She is, I admit," she conceded with a faux sigh. "A regular little devil. But she's got all the men in her life effectively twisted 'round her little finger. Especially -- and make sure to share this with him -- her precious 'Bus.'" Her smile became more genuine as Fionn laughed heartily. "And Harry just dotes ..." Trailing off, Françoise's face became a mask of misery and she lowered her gaze to her plate.

Immediately concerned, Fionn put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I am sorry, child," he said quietly.

Uncomfortable, Ron began eating in earnest, filling his mouth with food in an effort to avoid the temptation to speak.

"So am I," she responded automatically. After a pause, her tone was more sincere. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "It's kind of automatic, you know? I know you mean it, Fionn."

His face was kind. "I know, my girl. And you should know that it takes much more to offend me."

"It's just ..." Her mouth twisted, the chip in her hand forgotten. "I'm usually fine. Every morning I wake up and I decide that I can do this. I can ... continue. But sometimes ... sometimes. It's like this wave. Everything comes crashing down and it's just ... it's too real. I don't know." She let the chip fall to her plate, untouched. "I have no more tears left, Fionn," she whispered, finally meeting his eyes. "What's wrong with me?"

It took him a few beats of silence to formulate a reply. Ron chewed mightily on the last few mouthfuls of his sandwich, not knowing what to say to such a question. Eventually, however, Fionn seemed to find a response. "Nothing's wrong with you, Françoise," he said thoughtfully. "You're grieving, my dear. And there's no right or wrong way to go about it. But take a tiny bit of wisdom from this old man -- while your pain may never pass entirely, it will be bearable. You will come through this tragedy and you will be stronger for it." One last comforting pat and Fionn sat back in his chair, relasing her from his touch.

The three of them sat there, in the bright sunshine, the warmth of the air a testament to the presence of summer and the chill in the breeze evidence of its passing. Ron finished his lunch silently, watching Françoise pick at her food and wondering what he could do for it.

For her.

He met Fionn's eyes suddenly and did not like the question he saw there. Mostly because it was one that he didn't know the answer to himself.

-- -- -- -- --

Ron could not help but feel relieved as he Apparated back to his office after lunch. What should have been a more or less pleasant interlude had turned abruptly sour and he was glad to be done with it. As it was, then, he did not quite meet Françoise's eyes as he bade her farewell and avoided Fionn's entirely as he shook his hand. "It was a pleasure meeting you, sir," he'd said nearly truthfully.

"As you say, my boy," Fionn had replied, pumping Ron's hand up and down enthusiastically. "Come back again some time. You can tell me all about your most interesting cases at the Aurory and, in return, I'll tell you about the time Albus and I set a boggart on our Divination professor in my fourth year."

The building was quiet as Ron walked through the front doors. Quite uncharacteristic for the Aurory, really -- there was usually some disaster in the making somewhere on the premises. But everyone he met on the way to his office seemed to be proceeding from their respective point A's to whatever point B's they were seeking without incident. Even his desk seemed undisturbed as he flung his cloak into a vacant chair and sat down. How unusual -- people generally thought nothing of ransacking someone's desktop to find whatever file they thought they were looking for.

But everything was here, and in the order he'd left it in, to boot. As if luncheon had never happened, Ron settled in, picked up his quill, and took up where he'd left off, once again immersing himself completely in his work.

An indeterminate amount of time later, he was startled as something bounced off the top of his head. Glancing down at the floor, he saw a balled-up wad of parchment that seemed to be the culprit.

"Can I trouble you for a moment?" someone asked from the doorway.

Ron looked up. Kingsley. "Come in, Kingsley," he said, waving an inviting hand at the chair holding his cloak.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Chief Auror at the unprecedented young age of fifty-one (the last chief was installed at a fairly spry ninety-seven and retired under duress at a hundred twenty), regarded Ron's cloak with barely-disguised disdain. "You really are a slob, Weasley," he said, hanging the cloak on a rack meant for just this sort of thing located right by the door. "You know that, right?"

"Of course," Ron agreed, making one last notation in a file before tossing it into a haphazard pile on the floor. "I've got at least three women telling me so nearly daily. No ... make that four. Alice Potter's just mastered the word 'messy.'"

Almost smiling, Kingsley crossed one leg neatly over the other as he lounged in Ron's chair. "Holding up, then, Weasley?"

With a shrug, he met his superior's eyes forthrightly. "As well as can be expected, Shacklebolt," he replied. "Given the circumstances. What are the circumstances, by the by?"

"Not much has changed," Kingsley said tightly. "We've got a few bites on some lower level Death Eaters that were never brought in for questioning. One in particular was sighted near Potter's residence not two weeks before the death."

Ron kept his expression blank. Death.

He realized suddenly that Kingsley was a coward if he couldn't name it for what it really was. Not death.

Murder.

"Any progress on motive?" he asked in a careful sort of voice.

Kingsley's reply held a warning. "Based on the information you've given us, Weasley, I'd say we're still at the same point." He did not actually say, I shouldn't be telling you this, but it was written all over his face.

But Ron still pushed, heedless of the older man's expression. "I still think I should --"

Leaning forward in his seat, Kingsley's sudden fury was nearly a tangible thing. "Damn it, Ron!" he shouted. "Don't you think I'd pull you in on this if I could?" More quietly now. "You're one of the best men I've got, in and out of the field."

Ron remained silent, waiting.

His posture was downcast and defeated. "I can't, Ron," he said. "And you know that. You're just too close. How do I know you're not going to go vigilante as soon as you've got enough facts to find a name? Besides, Ron, you're not in great shape."

Opening his mouth, he was ready to launch a volley of protests but stayed quiet as Kingsley raised a preemptive hand.

"I'm not talking about your eye, Weasley. Merlin knows if I could find a way to put you in the field even with your blind side, I would. No, Ron. I mean emotionally. You're walking a thin wire, boy."

He did not bother to deny it. Both he and Kingsley knew it was the truth.

"Until I think you can handle it, Weasley, you're to stay as far away from the Potter case as I can keep you," he said, a final note in his voice. "And even if I decide to let you in on some of the details, it won't be in any official capacity. I stand by what I've always said, Ron -- you're too close to this one. Don't bother arguing with me. My mind is made up."

Gritting his teeth, Ron bit back a dozen potential replies, none of them appropriate for his chief. "Is there anything else you wanted?" he finally settled on asking.

Kingsley's gaze was knowing as he regarded Ron. "You look like shit, Weasley. Go home early today."

-- -- -- -- --