Getting Closer to Fine

Four

Rest assured this will not last, take a turn for the worst. --R.E.M.

*

The day passed very slowly. Moody questioned Avery on and off for hours, with Harry and Dean sitting in, but the suspect refused to speak. Didn't answer any questions, didn't ask for legal counsel, didn't even ask to go to the loo. Harry had rather hoped Avery would fall all over himself in a hurry to confess - he remembered the man throwing himself on Voldemort's mercy, years and years before - but had ended up sorely disappointed.

The only progress they'd made had been in identification. Tests proved Avery wasn't under any concealment or disguise spell, and there'd been more than enough time for any Polyjuice to wear off. Progress, yes; exciting, no.

On his way out, Harry dropped off a request for Veritaserum with the Potions specialist. He'd spent nearly an hour filling out the parchment, feet and feet of it, and triple-checked for mistakes. Because of the cost, it was tough to get Veritaserum, but that was only one reason the Aurors didn't like to use it. While suspects on the drug spoke the truth, it was a truth only as complete as the interrogator's questions. A desperate confession was much more useful, not to mention more satisfying.

Well, Harry thought optimistically as he Disapparated, maybe they'd get one of those tomorrow.

Harry was trained to notice things, and the very first thing he noticed in the dark flat was that it wasn't dark, not entirely. Something was glowing on the dining table where glowing things did not belong. He tiptoed forward, wand at the ready, focusing on a shadowy form behind the mystery light -

Is that. . . Harry pushed his glasses up on his nose. Oh sweet Merlin it is. . . .

"Ron! You're using a computer!"

Ron lurched in his chair like one of Fred and George's Extra-High Jumping Beans. "Bloody hell, could you make noise when you come in, like a normal person? Or at least say 'I'm home' or something?"

"You're lucky I didn't keel over from shock," Harry said. "Where'd that come from?"

"It's Hermione's. She called it a loptop, or something. She did things," Ron waved his hand vaguely at the computer, "and told me to use it, that it would help me understand what Sarah does at university."

Moving behind Ron, Harry gained his first clear view of the screen - and exactly what was happening on it. "Somehow, I don't think this is what Sarah does at university."

It was amazing how many shades of red Ron could turn, and how visible they were even in a dark room. "Well. I wondered. Not that I would - well."

"Okay," Harry said, holding up a hand, "no details, please. But you'd better clean that up before you give it back to Hermione. You know it keeps a list of everything you look at on the Internet, right?"

Ron gaped, and began scrambling for his wand. "What do you reckon? Vanishing spell?"

"Nah," Harry said. "I'll fix it." He took the mouse and began clicking, Ron looking on anxiously. "There. All done."

"Thanks, mate," Ron said fervently. "I'm glad you - oi! How'd you know what to do, anyway?" Ron's narrowed eyes seemed to be accusing Harry of all manner of unspeakable evils, like having one of these porn machines and keeping it all to himself.

"Let's just say - Dudley enjoyed technology. And I preferred cleaning up after him to getting blamed when Aunt Petunia found something she didn't like."

"Well," Ron said, still looking a tad suspicious, "all right, then." Then, more gently, "Are you going to Surrey tonight?"

"No, tomorrow." Harry frowned. He needed to ring Hermione, he had promised her dinner; but Ron would probably want to come along, and Harry didn't know how to stop him without making it into a big deal. . . .

"Good. I told Hermione that I wanted to take you two out to eat tonight, you know, to thank you for helping with Sarah and everything."

Harry was still a moment. "What, er, what did she say?"

"Yes, of course, although I sort of had to talk her into it. Probably planning to study all night, you know how she is."

"Yeah." Harry couldn't decide how he felt. Relieved? Disappointed? Content, he decided. Because really, when spending time with friends, the more the merrier. "Ready in a minute," he added, and headed down the corridor towards his room.

*

Harry picked olives off his pizza and tried to ignore the bickering. He would've thought it impossible to have an impassioned debate about Malaclaws, for God's sake, but apparently he had underestimated Ron and Hermione.

"Honestly, Ron! First of all, there is no such thing as bad luck; secondly, even if there was, it would be medically impossible to get it from being bitten by a crustacean!"

"It doesn't have to be medically possible! It's a magical fact, and that's what bloody well counts!"

Harry sighed and returned to his picking. The problem wasn't so much tuning Ron and Hermione out - he'd had half a lifetime's worth of practice at doing that - but that left to its own devices, his mind only seemed to want to wander to uncomfortable places.

There was Voldemort. Bloody Voldemort. No, fucking Voldemort.

Harry wasn't much for betting, but he would have put money - lots of it - and yes, even his Firebolt on the fact that Voldemort was dead. Completely, totally, not coming back as a ghost or a snake or an anything dead. He'd been there, after all, and it had looked pretty bloody final from where he'd been standing.

But yesterday his confidence had been shaken, and last night he'd dreamed, and while it was all probably nothing, his imagination was running away with the idea that it meant something.

But then - Harry sighed again - at least he knew how he felt about Voldemort.

Harry turned back to his plate, and his little olive mountain. He'd thought for some time that Hermione and Ron must really like their disputes; otherwise, the two would have declared a truce or stopped associating with each other altogether. He didn't understand it himself, but had come to the conclusion it was just their way.

Not that he cared if Hermione had more fun with Ron. Not at all.

Harry heaved a final sigh, took a bite of his rather mangled pizza slice, and turned his attention back to the Malaclaw debate.

*

Since leaving home, Sarah had found that keeping touch with relatives was best done on a regular schedule.

Holidays. Birthdays. When she wanted something.

Leaning back in her chair, she contemplated an email she'd just typed:

Hi Piers,

Did a boy called Harry go to secondary school with you? Black hair, glasses, kind of on the short side? There's this bloke I know and when I saw him with a bloody nose for some reason it reminded me of you. . . .

It fell a little too obviously into the third category - she should work on that - but if she made it too long, Sarah knew Piers wouldn't be arsed to read it. It was probably a wasted effort anyway, but curiosity was getting the better of her. Sarah found it very odd that she had met so many of Ron's school friends but learned next to nothing about their school days.

*

It appeared that nothing - not Moody's questions, not the whirring of his magical eye, not the power of Harry's positive thinking - was going to induce Avery to talk on Monday. Moody led the examination, always pacing, the thump of his wooden leg blending seamlessly with his voice as the hours crept by. By the end of the day, Dean was muttering about thumbscrews, Harry was going quietly insane, and Moody was making arrangements for days of solitary confinement for their prisoner.

Solitary was a common procedure in this sort of situation: leave a suspect alone for days, out of the loop, wondering what had been found out or whether he'd been forgotten entirely. It was proven to be good at loosening lips; plus, it allowed the Aurors to get on with other cases needed their attention.

This time around, it also turned out to be quite good at making Harry broody, testy, and an all-around pain in the arse to live with.

Those were Ron's exact words at dinner Wednesday night. They took Harry completely by surprise, busy as he was with moving food around his plate and saying 'hm' or 'you don't say?' whenever it seemed appropriate.

Swallowing his immediate, less-than-polite response at being told off, Harry stared at his friend. Ron's eyes were all glittery, and he was holding his fork like not stabbing Harry with it was taking every bit of effort he could muster.

Harry suspected he had just seriously misjudged 'appropriate.'

"Well. . . you might be right."

"Might?" Ron asked.

"It's a possibility, yeah." Harry grinned and, to his relief, Ron did as well. Now that he was tuned in to the world around him, Harry noticed that Ron's plate too was largely untouched. He doubted his own bad attitude was enough to put Ron off his food - if so, it was surely a first. "Er. . . everything else all right?"

"Could be better." Ron shifted in his chair, obviously debating whether to say more. "Can I ask you something? About Muggles?"

"Oh?" Harry couldn't help teasing a little. "Any Muggle in particular?"

"Yeah, you, you prat," Ron said. "What did you think when Hagrid told you about. . . everything? Did you believe him at once, or did you think he was mental?"

"Fair enough." Ron paused. "But if you weren't you, and someone told you about wizards. . .?"

"Look, Ron, if you like Sarah, just tell her. You can prove it pretty easily - do enough spells and she'll have to believe you. And if she's open-minded," and nothing like her brother, "it'll be no problem."

Ron sighed and poked at his food. "Easy for you to say. But she's worth it, I reckon. Smart and pretty and funny and. . . ."

"No flaws, then? You have got it bad."

He earned a glare for that one. "Well," Ron said, "if I ever knew what she was thinking, that'd be nice."

"I think that's a girl thing," Harry muttered.

"And I swear, Harry, I think she notices everything. I bet she's got a little list running with every odd thing I've done, and one of these days she's going to ambush me with it."

"So - do what Gryffindors do."

"Ambush her first?"

"That's one way to put it, yeah."

Ron sighed, so loudly and so expressively that Harry couldn't help but wonder why his friend hadn't ended up on stage. "Maybe later." He leaned his head to the side. "Now your turn."

"What?"

"Your turn. What's got you all worked up?"

Harry looked away. He could just say work, and be done with it, but he felt like he owed Ron more than that for putting up with him the past several days. He supposed it was lucky he had something else he could say. "It's Aunt Petunia."

"She's worse, then?"

"They think she is. See, this ninety-year-old bloke tried to chat her up. She didn't like him, apparently, because she took off her shoe and hit him over the head with it. And yes, I'm aware that it's funny."

Swallowing his laughter, Ron asked, "Is he okay?"

"Yeah, but if she keeps this up, they'll want to move her to a wing where they can watch her all the time. They say it's a sign that she's no longer able to cognitively process social interactions."

Ron scratched his head. "Is there anything you can do to, you know, get her cogitatinating or whatever? I bet Hermione could find a charm. . . ."

"She's processing interactions just fine. In fact, she's probably doing a little better." Harry grimaced, remembering all the times he'd ducked something swung at him by his aunt. "This is classic Aunt Petunia behaviour, actually."

"So that's good, then."

Aunt Petunia deserved her mind back. Deserved her memories, all of them, even the ones that would leave her screaming, crying, and doing who knew what to Harry. He knew that.

"Yeah. It's great."

*

Ron looked out the window. Just over there - well, if there was five streets and a world away - was the pub where he and Sarah were having dinner directly after work.

The last time he'd been this nervous, he'd literally thought he was going to die.

"Weasley! File. Now."

Ron shook himself and hurried across the room to his boss, who was impatiently clicking long fingernails on the desk. He didn't make any excuses, didn't apologise - his goblin employers didn't care a whole lot for human chatter. Sometimes Ron felt like he would burst from keeping all his words in; Harry usually got his ears talked off, those evenings.

Not that there weren't plenty of opportunities for on-the-job conversation. That was why the goblins had hired Ron in the first place - when witches and wizards were considering investing hard-earned Galleons through Gringotts bank, they liked to talk to a friendly face, not one with rows and rows of scary teeth.

Ron waited helpfully nearby as Gulan skimmed the parchment, making a variety of goblin-noises. Suddenly, he found himself on the receiving end of a very beady, you're-invading-my-space glare.

He backed up a step.

The goblins usually gave the impression of barely tolerating his presence, which, according to Bill, meant they thought rather well of him. Ron hoped that was true. He loved his job, despite all the time he spent mentally cursing the goblins and their ways. He loved it and was still surprised sometimes to remember that he had it - he'd wake up in the morning, have a shower, pick up his good black robes and think, Bloody hell. Me. A banker.

It had been Bill's idea - his brother had seen the household budget Ron had drawn up for him and Harry, complete with savings plans - and Bill's connections that had carried Ron to the first interview. But no further, Ron knew; it would take more magic than Merlin himself possessed to get the goblins to hire someone they didn't want.

Gulan turned to face Ron again; this time, his expression plainly said, "Well? What did your feeble mind come up with?"

"I thought we should advise the client to place some capital into diamonds. Since that new area in South Africa was just made Unplottable."

Wrong answer. There was hissing and swearing and a tiny part of Ron's brain stored the words away for future use. These days, when Hermione said "Language, Ron!" he could switch into Gobbledegook and continue swearing. It was really quite fun, especially when he followed it up with, "But Hermione, I thought you wanted me to embrace other cultures!"

"Pyramids?"

Oh, hell. That was right, one had just been opened in Abusir, and Egyptian artifacts were looking very good these days. "That too," Ron added hastily.

The last client of the week arrived then, just in time, in Ron's view. But the older gentleman turned out to be quite talkative, and once he learned Ron had once been to Egypt, far too full of questions for Ron's taste. Minutes passed and Ron fidgeted in his chair and more minutes passed and then finally, finally, the client signed the papers and left.

Ron burst out of the front door of Gringott's five minutes later, patting his hair down and adjusting his completely ordinary shirt and tie. Things would be fine. He was late, but not too late, and if he moved a little bit faster, Sarah wouldn't think he'd stood her up. . .

Things would be fine.

*