Chapter Text
Ron slid into the booth across from Harry, fatigue dragging at the edges of his face. Between them sat the remnants of a lamb and rosemary pie—Harry had already carved through more than half—and two pints of stout, dark and creamy, their heads softening under the low pub light.
Harry nudged one of the pints toward him. “Go on, have a drink. You look wrecked. Want me to get you something to eat?”
Ron took a long pull, the cold cutting through the pressure curled behind his eyes. The headache didn’t lift, just shifted, lurking at the edge like it was waiting to catch him out. He set the glass down but didn’t let go, elbows braced on the table, fingers curled around the pint like he might wring some relief from it.
“Nah, I’m all right. Haven’t got time anyway.” He let out a breath, slow and tight. “But this—yeah, this helps. Cheers.”
“Case going well, then?”
Ron let out a dry laugh. “Robards wants answers yesterday and a name he can slap on a report. The Unspeakables’ve been dancing in circles—brilliant theories, loads of speculation, but not a scrap of magic that’ll hold up in court.”
“Robards still likes Mourning Star for it?”
Ron took another sip of his stout, slower this time, and watched the foam cling to the rim of the glass like it was trying not to let go. “They fit, on paper. Malfoy's past, his family’s clean getaway after the war… lot of resentment still floating around.”
“But you’re not sold.”
Ron shook his head. “Doesn’t match their usual.”
Harry looked up. “What doesn’t?”
“Message at the scene. Quote from Shakespeare—Muggle playwright. ‘Cowards die many times before their deaths.’”
“Bit highbrow for that crowd.”
“Exactly.” Ron leaned back, but the tension in his shoulders held. “Bold phrasing, Muggle quote… but it’s not about revenge. It’s about hesitation. Choking. Living with the weight of what you didn’t do.”
Harry sat back too, pint cupped loosely in his hands. “Someone’s calling Malfoy out.”
Ron nodded, thumb running along the side of his glass. “Feels personal. Like someone believes he could’ve changed things.”
“If he hadn’t frozen, Voldemort might’ve won.”
Ron’s jaw tightened. He glanced toward the pub window, where rain drifted against the glass in steady streaks. “Voldemort’s gone,” he said quietly. “But not everyone who served him vanished with him.”
“You think this is one of them?”
“Could be.” Ron paused. “Or more than one. Maybe they’ve rebuilt—same bones as Mourning Star. Different spin.”
“Have you told Malfoy?”
“He knows I’m investigating every possibility. Offered to send over memories—context from the break-in.”
Harry pushed his plate away. “That’s awfully charitable of him.”
Ron hesitated. “I don’t think it’s charity. I think he’s trying.”
“Trying to help, or trying not to get hexed?”
Ron’s smile barely registered. “Does it matter? He’s trying. That’s more than I ever expected.”
“Never thought I’d see you defending him. That diary must’ve been something else.”
Ron huffed. “Pretty boring, if you want the truth. Mostly him griping about supplier delays and Ministry forms. There’s a whole series of entries about a cauldron distributor who kept shorting his orders.”
“Sounds thrilling.”
Ron gave a slow shake of his head. “I filed anything relevant to the case.”
Harry watched him. “And the rest? That’s what convinced you?”
Ron shrugged, tracing a ring of condensation on the table with the edge of his finger. “There were a few personal entries. Didn’t read like he was performing for anyone. Just wrote like no one would ever see it. That kind of honesty… it’s hard to fake.”
“I don’t trust diaries,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair. “Lucius handed one to Ginny in second year, remember?”
Ron sat up a bit. “This one’s clean. No enchantments—aside from the substitution cipher.”
“Right. The de Firmian chess guide.” Harry’s voice was light, but it carried an edge. “Hermione gave you that for your birthday, didn’t she? Witch Weekly did a whole spread on it—in their ‘Golden Trio Moments’ segment.”
Ron grimaced. “‘Golden Trio Moments.’ Yeah. I tried to forget.”
Harry didn’t smile. “Look, I’m just saying—the diary that’s meant to prove Malfoy’s reformed just happens to be locked with a cipher keyed to you?”
He let the silence stretch.
“Convenient, isn’t it?”
Ron left the pub not long after, shoulders hunched against the light rain. It wasn’t enough to soak through, just enough to creep past the collar and cling, persistent as tension. The streets were thin with foot traffic, most everyone tucked inside by now, warm behind warded windows.
He’d planned to go back to the Ministry. Reread the witness statements. Re-run the magical trace logs that had, by now, stopped offering anything new. It was all busywork, the kind that passed for progress while waiting on Malfoy, his last real hope for a breakthrough.
He checked his watch. 10:37. Late enough Malfoy would be done with work. Not so late it’d be rude to show up.
He reached for his wand. He’d waited long enough. If Malfoy had a reason for withholding the memories, Ron intended to hear it face to face.
“Sorry,” Ron said, blinking as his eyes swept over Draco—silver-grey pyjamas, navy dressing gown cinched tight at the waist. “Didn’t expect you to be in bed yet.”
“I do sleep occasionally,” Draco said dryly, stepping aside.
Ron shrugged off his greatcoat, the collar damp and slightly misshapen. Draco forced himself to look away. The suit was tragic—cheap wool blend, bulging at the shoulders—but it failed to hide the brute appeal underneath.
“To what do I owe this unexpected delight?”
“It’s Friday,” Ron said, voice low, steady. “You’ve had nearly a week to send those memories we talked about. I wanted to know what the hold-up is.”
Draco stopped just inside the sitting room, spine drawn tight. “I don’t know why you won’t let it go,” he snapped. “I’m fine. I’ve got protective wards, round-the-clock security—”
His irritation didn’t fade so much as recalibrate, sharpening into scrutiny as he studied Ron’s face.
“What?”
“How long have you had that headache?”
Ron grimaced. “Potions just fog me up, and I need to stay sharp.”
Draco didn’t respond right away. He studied Ron for a beat, then gestured toward the sofa. “Sit.”
Ron hesitated, then dropped onto the edge.
“I’ve got something that won’t fog you,” Draco said, already moving toward the kitchen. “Brewed it myself.”
He returned with a slender vial of green-tinted potion, faintly luminous in the low light.
“Take this,” he said, holding it out.
Ron cracked one eye open. “Is it fishy?”
Draco gave the vial a sharp little shake. “Don’t be a baby. I was under the impression you’d survived worse than this.”
Ron muttered something about hating potions, then swallowed quickly.
Draco watched, just long enough to catch the shift—the slow unwinding of tension. First at the temples, then behind the eyes, until the pulse of discomfort softened into quiet relief.
“That’s the first thing that’s actually taken the edge off.”
Draco turned back toward the kitchen to hide his smile. “Water helps with the aftertaste.”
Ron followed, steadier now. “Didn’t realize a Potions Mastery made you halfway decent at healing.”
Draco shrugged. “Potions is a related discipline, but recognizing a stress headache doesn’t exactly require Healer credentials.”
He set a water glass in front of Ron. “I assume you’re hungry. Trilby brought venison earlier.”
Ron snorted. “Venison. Of course. Only someone with a family crest stitched into his dressing gown would offer venison when most people serve toast.”
Draco opened the fridge and pulled out a tray. Venison medallions rested at the center, seared to a glossy finish and decorated with sprigs of rosemary.
“There’s nowhere to sit.”
Draco slipped a hand into his dressing gown and drew his wand. “Are you a wizard or not?” A dining table appeared, sleek, modern, tailored precisely for two. Draco took his seat first, the folds of his dressing gown settling gracefully around him.
Ron conjured a fork and glanced across. “You’re not eating?”
“Not all of us need to graze hourly to maintain cognitive function.”
Ron didn’t rise to it. Just kept chewing, unfazed. “This is good.”
“It’s not like I made it myself.”
“Still appreciated. Not just the food. The medicine.” Ron swallowed, voice gentler now. “I meant what I said before. I’ve never taken anything that worked so well, or so fast.”
Draco gave a noncommittal shrug. “Headache draughts are hardly advanced work.”
Ron nudged the tray aside. “Look—I get you’re not thrilled about the investigation, but last week, you were cooperating. What changed?”
Draco’s mouth tightened. “Last time someone I knew ‘cooperated’ with the Ministry, he was sentenced to five years in Azkaban.”
Ron sat back a little, watching him. “That was Goyle, wasn’t it?”
Draco didn’t answer. His fingers curled beneath the table, pressing hard into his palm.
“Hermione’s looking into his case. Turns out those letters you thought he was ignoring? He never got them. Ministry’s been blocking his mail.”
He gave Draco a moment, then added, “She’s trying to get the restriction lifted. I figured you’d want to know.”
Draco didn’t look at Ron. Couldn’t. The name ‘Hermione’ sparked something sharp beneath his ribs, pulling tight.
“Malfoy?” Ron leaned slightly, trying to catch his gaze. “You haven’t said anything.”
“I suppose I’m still adjusting to the fact that you’ve read through my most personal thoughts,” he said, voice thin and sharp. “That’s why you asked about Goyle, isn’t it? Because of the diary?”
“If I hadn’t read it,” Ron said, quiet but firm, “I wouldn’t know someone threatened you before the break-in.”
Draco kept his eyes on the table.
Ron exhaled slowly. “I get it. It’s not exactly comfortable, me knowing any of that. Especially given… everything.”
Ron hesitated, then added, “I haven’t told anyone. And I won’t. Even if you choose not to help.”
Draco’s voice was low when it came. “The things you know about me…” His eyes stayed on the table, glad Ron couldn’t see how badly his hands were shaking beneath it. “If this were Hogwarts, and I had what you have—I think we both know what I’d’ve done with it.”
Ron was quiet for a moment. Then: “My brother’s gay.”
Draco looked up, startled. “What?”
“Charlie,” Ron said. “You probably never met him—he was a few years ahead of us. Works with dragons in Romania.”
He rubbed at his jaw. “Lives out there with his partner. Been together ages. Little place near the edge of the preserve. No neighbours. Just dragons. I think they like it that way.”
Draco blinked, silent.
“You’re not the only gay wizard in England,” Ron said gently. “You do know that, right?”
“I…” Draco swallowed, the sound far too loud in the quiet.
“You don’t have to answer.” Ron stood, straightening his jacket with a familiar pull at the sleeves. “Mind if I come by Sanus tomorrow? To pick up those memories.”
Draco rose as well, sliding his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown. “You can come. Miss King won’t be in, but Marcus will. Guarding me while I work.”
Ron nodded once. “Good.”
Their eyes met, just for a breath. Draco looked away first.
“Goodnight, Draco,” Ron said quietly.
Then he let himself out.