Anomie

Anomie

Chapter One: Routine

The Second Monday in August, 2007:

Beep beep beep beep ...

Harry cracked one eyelid open, then the other. The room was so dark that it hardly mattered if his eyes were open or not. His hand brushed against Ginny's back as it moved upward to rub the sleep out of his eyes, and he yawned softly. Ginny mumbled something and shifted, clutching the sheet closer.

... beep beep ...

Pushing himself up on one elbow, Harry reached out his other hand to flick the switch on the alarm clock. He sat on the side of the bed, stretching his arms and his back in his usual way, and then stood. With bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor, Harry made his way to the adjoining bathroom by memory, turned on the light, and shut the door quickly so as not to disturb his wife.

His morning rituals went as usual, except that Harry cut himself while shaving, which tended to happen at least once every few days, during those times when his mind blanked as he stared into his own eyes in the mirror. Normally Harry tried to avoid looking anywhere else in the mirror but exactly the spot where he was shaving or exactly the part of his hair he was combing because he knew what he would - or wouldn't - see if he looked at himself. But sometimes he would wake up too groggy to remember to avoid his own image, and then he would remember again only when he got cut along his cheek by the razor.

When he left the bathroom, Ginny entered it. Then Harry ate the breakfast Ginny had prepared while he was in the bathroom. It was Monday, so this consisted of sausages and fried eggs. He ate exactly two-thirds of what Ginny had placed on his plate, as usual; he wondered why Ginny always put the extra third on the plate even though he never ate it, but, as usual, when she entered the kitchen again, he forgot to ask.

'I'll be home by seven,' said Ginny as she went to sit down. While she picked up her fork, she asked, 'When will you be in?'

'Late,' Harry replied reflexively. He was always in late.

Ginny hummed in acknowledgement, and then the only sound between them was that of their cutlery against their plates. Ginny had turned the television on; it wasn't plugged in to an electrical outlet, of course, but it still displayed one of several channels from the WBN - the Wizarding Broadcast Network, which had branched out from wireless service to television some eight years earlier. Harry listened disinterestedly without looking up from his plate as the news played at low-volume; it usually had to do with the Minister making a lengthy speech that said nothing at all, or some demented old witch with twenty Crups in her house. It was no different that day; something about a drunken wizard doing things drunken wizards do that get them noticed by Muggles, Obliviators cleaning up the scene, etcetera.

Ginny finished first, as always, because she rarely ate much at breakfast and Harry ate slowly these days, and she left her dishes in the sink for Harry to clean. Then she went back into the bathroom to apply her makeup.

Dim light was finally filtering through the blinds on tall windows of their apartment. Ginny had shoes on now; her heels clicked against the floor as she walked over to Harry. He swallowed the last of the eggs he was planning to eat; she kissed him quickly on the cheek, and then walked back the way she had come, toward the door. 'See you this evening,' she called as she opened the door, looking back at him.

By the time Harry looked up, she was already facing out into the hallway. 'Have a nice day,' he replied mechanically as the door shut.

Every day, right after the door to the apartment closed, Harry would sit very still until either a few minutes had passed or the chirping of birds broke the silence. It was late summer, so the latter occurred within moments. Harry picked up his own dishes and cleaned up with a few quick spells, then went to the door to get his shoes on.

As he slipped his right foot into his right shoe - he put his shoes on right foot first, always - he dimly heard a familiar voice booming from the fireplace. Most apartments didn't have fireplaces, of course, but Harry's apartment wasn't like most others, as the fireplace was magical. He took off his shoe and walked into the living room; once there, he was unsurprised to see the wide, square-jawed face of his team's Quidditch coach, his small eyes following Harry as he moved across the room.

'Potter!' Coach Quigley said curtly. 'Practice today is cancelled. Wife's popping out another kid. I've gotta be there this time, she says. Bloody Lamaze.'

Aside from a brief twitch of his eyebrows, Harry's expression remained unchanged. 'Congratulations, sir,' he said tonelessly.

Coach Quigley grunted in reply. 'I'll see you bright and early tomorrow.'

'Yes, sir.'

The coach departed. Harry stood stationary by the fire for a few minutes, his hands in his pockets, wondering what to do. The bars weren't open this early. Ron was at work. Hermione was at work. His teammates wouldn't have anything to do, but the bars weren't open this early.

'What a lousy day,' muttered Harry.

***

'Hmm hmm hmmhmmhmm hmmhmm hmm hmmhmm hmm ...'

Rue brushed her hair from roots to tips, over and over, head to shoulder, humming a tune that had come thoughtlessly to mind. Then she pointed her wand at her hair and stopped humming briefly as she cast a clever little spell to make her red hair curve around her face just right.

'Honey, you're going to be late!'

'I'll be fine, Mum!' she called in reply, setting down the brush. 'Hmm hmm hmm -'

'Honey, he's here!'

'Coming, Mum!'

Rue set down the brush. It was late. She was never on time, though. But it's my first day on this job, she reminded herself forcefully. She pointed her wand at her face. A quick makeup application should do. Within an instant she was presentable, though not more than that, in her opinion. The good makeup spells took at least ten minutes of chanting and concentration. How on earth does Mum manage without magic? wondered Rue. I'd be a wreck!

She left the bathroom and hurried down the stairs to the kitchen, where she knew he'd be waiting. It was quite a sight when she walked in: her father, her mother, and her boyfriend all in the same room. There's a first time for everything.

'Are you almost ready, Rue?' her boyfriend, Fairfax, asked. 'We've got a fair hike to get to work from here.'

Her father's bushy eyebrows raised. 'Do you, now? You're not Apparating?'

'No, Mr Moreland,' replied Fairfax politely. He took a sip of the coffee Rue's mother had poured for him. 'It's against procedure.'

'You're going there the Muggle way, Ramsden?' asked her father, clearly interested. He leaned closer with his elbows set on the table and his fingers steepled.

Fairfax Ramsden shook his head. 'I can't say any more, sir. I'm sure you, of all people, can understand.'

Muireadhach Moreland only grunted in reply, leaning back in his chair again. He looked at Rue, then barked, 'Good Merlin, girl! This is hardly an occasion to primp yourself!'

'Now Muireadhach,' Rue's mother said gently, not looking up from her task of wiping the counter where some coffee had spilled, 'I was the same way when we first started dating.'

'You weren't the same way eight months after we first started dating. It's been eight months, seventeen days, hasn't it, Ramsden?' An unpleasant smirk spread over Mr Moreland's face as he noticed Fairfax's look of surprise. 'I have a very good memory, boy. Don't think otherwise just because I'm retired.'

Fairfax forced a smile. 'You were a very good Auror in your day, sir. I would never underestimate you.'

Mr Moreland sneered. 'If you didn't underestimate me, you wouldn't be robbing my cradle.'

'Now boys,' Mrs Moreland said, wearing a fake smile of her own. 'Let's try to get along. Here's your coffee, Rue, and some toast.'

Only as her mother set her small breakfast down on the round glass kitchen table did Rue realise that she herself was still standing in the doorway, watching the exchange with wide-eyed dread. Things were never pleasant between her father and her boyfriends, but she had hoped her father would have gotten used to Fairfax after all this time. Rue knew he didn't appreciate the age difference between them - she was twenty-one and Fairfax was thirty-five - but that was hardly anything to wizarding life spans. Her father never saw it that way, though, despite being a wizard himself.

'You, err, do look a little ... err ... too nice for the occasion, Rue,' said Fairfax as Rue drank her coffee, diplomatically ignoring her father's rude remarks.

Rue smiled playfully. 'Am I not supposed to look attractive when I'm going to be spending the entire day with my boyfriend?'

Her father harrumphed, and Rue looked down at her toast, contrite.

Fairfax frowned. 'You won't be spending the entire time with me, you know. And this is work. Serious work, Rue.'

'That's what I keep trying to tell her!' her father said, slamming his fist down on the table. The other occupants of the room stiffened, except for Rue's mother, who continued puttering about the kitchen unaffected. 'She really isn't taking this seriously enough ... well, the younger generation, you know, they don't realize what it was like ...'

Rue took a bite of her toast, trying to ignore her father, and failing as always. Oh, what does he know? Well, he may have been a very good Auror, but it's not as though it's a dangerous mission. We're only guarding someone who's practically a Muggle, no matter what else he may have been before!

'I'll take good care of your daughter, sir, as always,' said Fairfax good-naturedly, trying to diffuse the situation.

But it seemed too late for that; her father clung to the idea like a bulldog clamped down on a raw, juicy steak. 'I don't want that thing seeing my daughter looking like that! It's disgusting!'

'I've only got some makeup on,' said Rue quietly. She put her half-eaten toast back on the plate, not feeling much like eating anymore. 'The robes are standard-issue.'

'He's older than you, sir!' Fairfax said, letting out a laugh. 'Really, I don't think -'

'No, you don't! None of you ever do! You're both too young! Go ahead, then! Nothing I say will stop you!'

Rue pushed her chair back and stood up. 'I'll go take the makeup off. Excuse me,' she said. Fairfax gave her a look: that look of his that said, What? He just said he'd let us go! You don't have to! But she looked away, left the kitchen, and walked lifelessly up the stairs leading back to her room. She wiped the makeup off with a single spell - she hadn't needed to return to the bathroom, really - and took a deep, steadying breath. She stared at herself in the mirror, wiped her eyes with a towel - just to make sure the mascara is gone, she told herself - and went back down. She bypassed the kitchen and headed straight for the landing, where Fairfax was waiting, looking unpleasant.

'Goodbye, Father,' she called. 'Bye, Mum!' Before either of her parents could reply, she and Fairfax were out the door.

As soon as he was a few feet from the house, Fairfax started in about her father. 'Lord, Rue, I don't know how you put up with the man! If my father treated me that way, I'd tell him to stick it where the sun doesn't shine!'

Rue smiled slightly despite herself. Playfully, for she was not built to be ill-humoured for long, she said, 'You would not and you know it. Your father would disinherit you if you said that to him, and then where would you get the money for all your expensive robes, hmm? Being an Auror doesn't pay that well!'

Fairfax's thin lips took a downturn and his chin moved upward in that disapproving, aristocratic way of his, and Rue laughed. 'See! Look at you! A typical aristo! No wonder Father hates you!'

'Humph,' Fairfax said. He tilted his head and ran one long-fingered hand through his short-cropped straw-coloured hair. There really wasn't enough of it for the move to look right, but he had only cut his hair recently and still had a tendency to move imaginary stray strands out of his eyes. Rue noticed things like that all the time about everyone; indeed, noticing things was her one real talent as an Auror.

He grabbed her shoulder, and they Apparated together. Where are we going? Rue wondered.

They appeared in a dank alley, greeted by the sound of honking horns from a nearby busy street and the persistent smell of urine. Rue wrinkled her nose. 'You sure know how to treat a girl.'

Fairfax blew air out his nose in a soft huff of laughter. 'We need to hurry. We'll be late for the train.'

***

Every morning when Ron Weasley first sat behind his desk, he felt as though he were being locked inside a cage to serve an eight-hour sentence ... an eight hour sentence that was not worth it for the Galleons he was paid. His chair squeaked as he leaned back slightly, looking up into the light above him. What was that you said about me going insane, Harry? Ron thought with more good humour than his opinion on his job would indicate.

The Head of the Auror Office wanted him to make a full report on the incident with that crazy drunken bastard, Mundungus Fletcher. He may have been in the Order, but Ron felt nothing but contempt for the man. He knew what true suffering was, and nothing Mundungus had gone through could possibly justify his recent behaviour. He's going senile, Ron thought, a sigh escaping his lips as he pulled open the desk drawer that contained the papers necessary for the filing. He's a drunk, senile bastard ... to think that I miss the days when he was hawking cauldrons ...

It seemed to Ron as though no one was the same as they were ... no one but him and Hermione. Sometimes it seemed as though they were the only sane people left in the world. He took out his quill and dipped it in ink. Ron remembered the days when an Auror would have laughed off a job like this. It was something any ordinary Magical Law Enforcement employee could look after, not something that required three years of extra training after Hogwarts to handle. Be glad life's so dull, Weasley, Ron told himself over and over as he filled out the report unthinkingly. Be glad.

He knew he was being maudlin - Hermione had taught him that word, maudlin - about his job lately. It wasn't as though he never got anything interesting to do. Someone had finally realized a few years back that if they didn't give the younger Aurors some decent cases once in a while that they'd be left with over a dozen desk-bound paper-pushers calling themselves elite law enforcement in a few decades' time. Thus, occasionally, it would be Kingsley or Proudfoot or Tonks who would get the dull jobs in favour of letting some younger blood have a shot at a real case. And Ron did get more real cases than most because of his reputation; he had, after all, helped take him down.

So it didn't do to be overly depressed about a few dull days, or weeks, or months at work. It wasn't as though he had anyone to be jealous of; there simply hadn't been any good - as in bad - incidents lately. He knew he should be glad.

But Merlin, it was boring.

'Ugh,' he heard Tonks say from a few cubicles down. Ron grinned, and he was about to call out to her to ask her what case she was working on when Kingsley beat him to it. 'Some old lady with biting teacups,' she replied. At this, Ron sniggered; it sounded exactly like a case his father would have worked on in the old days. If we're getting cases like this, what on earth is everyone else doing? he wondered.

'How's your girl?' Kingsley asked her.

'A handful. Rosie's at that age.'

How old was Tonks' girl now? Two? Well, she wasn't Tonks' girl, technically - she and Remus had adopted her recently thanks to Hermione's lobbying group. Ron remembered how his own children, Susan and Edward, had been at that age: no to this, no to that, no to everything.

Ron had lost track of the conversation. He picked up on it again when Tonks said, '... can't believe I'm actually looking forward to my Friday shift.'

Kingsley was silent after she said this; Tonks muttered something Ron couldn't make out, Kingsley muttered something back to her, and then all Ron heard was the scratching of quills on parchment. Her Friday shift ... what's she got on Friday? Ron frowned, trying to recall if he'd been told about anything happening on Fridays for Tonks. He wasn't surprised when he couldn't come up with anything; it wasn't the sort of detail Ron was likely to remember even if he'd been told. 'What've you got on Friday, Tonks?' he called out.

At least a few of the quills in the Auror office stopped moving. After a few moments in which Ron could feel tension building, Kingsley replied, 'Get back to work, Weasley.'

Ron didn't think it was really his fault that he hadn't made any friends at the office. They had all been so close-knit when he'd got there, and the only other two who had graduated from Auror training with him had been dating each other. Ron, for his part, had been busy with wedding plans for both himself and for those nearest and dearest to him. By the time he'd been ready to find friends that weren't ... well, Harry ... he'd been locked out. That wasn't to say they weren't decent to him, but he knew Tonks and Kingsley still saw him as they had when he was in his fifth year at Hogwarts, and he'd never managed to connect to the others. Ron had always considered himself a personable person before becoming an Auror, but now, by a combination of choice and lack of options, he was alone. And clueless, apparently.

And bored shirtless.

'What a lousy day,' Ron muttered.