#also pretend dream and ink are friends with no conflict and no issues EVER for just a second

[toffeesbabbles]

star sanses au where everything is the same but ink randomly sprouts wings and a skeletail oneday (oh and dream has wings too, hes had his since his conception 👍)

I'm sorry for the blurriness at the edges! My sketchbook is too large for my scanner, so it struggles to capture it all clearly.

I tried to do a separate scan so you can see a bit more clearly

[xxtha-blog]

Dream and a Life of Loneliness

A rarely, if ever talked about internal struggle of canon Dream is his undeniable battle against loneliness. Dream's canon shows strong evidence of an ongoing, and near impossible to escape battle with isolation and loneliness, that Dream struggles against throughout the timeline of his character.

Some may wonder how it's possible for Dream to be lonely. He's shown to have almost everyone like him, he travels around from universe to universe, meeting new people and making friends, while also constantly helping people. Surely, Dream is anything but lonely. But loneliness is not defined by the number of people one meets or the number of people that adore oneself, it has rather been shown that loneliness is most commonly attributed to a person's ability to have meaningful and strong connections to people. People they can trust with their deepest secrets or emotions. People who have a few very strong and trustworthy friends are less lonely than those who have many friends, but none they share strong emotional bonds with. This is the key to understanding Dream's never ending struggle with loneliness, as his inability to form complete trustworthy bonds with people is tied intrinsically to the role he was assigned to be: the protector of positivity. In this essay, I’ll explain every aspect of his canon that contributes to his extreme loneliness.

First, we must go back before the apple incident, to when Dream was a child. There, it is a canon fact that during this time, Dream only had two trustworthy people in his life: his brother, and a cat name Neil. Neil lived as an outcast to the village, and was very cold to Dream at first, but they became very good friends, actual friends. The first true friends either of them had ever had. It was stated Neil was the only person Dream could actually talk to, as the villagers treated him like nothing more than a vessel of positivity meant to help them with whatever they wanted, and Dream did not want to upset or worry Nightmare. Before Dream had met Neil, he had been alone in his struggles. The villagers overwhelmed him and treated him like a machine, there to do their bidding, and his altruistic nature and belief he was meant to make people happy, made him continue to help them. Even so, he would run away from the village to cry away his feelings without anyone noticing he was upset, and without anyone noticing he was struggling. He had to, after all keep on a happy smile for everyone else. These early behaviours are important to understanding how Dream handles his powers and emotion later in life, as his powers and trauma exasperate these issues to an extreme degree. 

Trauma

The inciting incident of the true depths of Dream's loneliness is unsurprisingly the day Nightmare corrupts. It is on that day Dream loses his brother, his mother, his home, his chance at seeing his best friend ever again, and gains powers that will cause him never-ending struggles for the rest of his life. He is trapped in stone, unable to move, barely conscious, but not entirely unaware. He is trapped in a prison of fear and hatred, completely isolated from the world, while only still connected to it by the haunting feelings of emotions all around him, emotions he can now feel radiating off of every being nearby. He's unable to help them, and no one's successfully able to help him. He is truly, and utterly, alone. 

When he finally breaks free, Dream is at first very overwhelmed by the prospects of what his life has become. He's finally able to fully face the fact that everything and everyone he has ever known is gone, his brother is out to kill him, and he is now carrying the responsibility of keeping emotions in balance for the multiverse. He's uncertain of how to handle the intense negativity overwhelming him, wondering if he is incapable of accomplishing what he's supposed to, wondering if he's inadequate. However, Dream has also spent hundreds of years completely unable to help those around him, while feeling  them suffer horribly, and he blames himself for what happened despite never doing anything wrong. Dream is trained by Lanny (the protector of the tree of magic), before heading into the multiverse, but never develops a strong friendship with her, as she resents him for the fate of his mother. Thus, Dream is left with a horrible amount of conflicting emotions and thoughts inside him, with no one to tell them to, so he puts on a smile, like he always has, in the hopes it might make someone, anyone a little happier. This is a situation that only worsens as he heads into the multiverse. 

Dream's Powers

The two powers that play heavily into Dream's continued loneliness are his empathy and his positive aura. Dream is already someone who puts the desires and worries of others well before himself, but Dream's empathy gives him the ability to feel other people's emotions, allowing him to feel almost every hint of negativity or positivity they do. While this is an added weight to his existing emotions, it also means that if Dream vents his struggles to someone, or breaks down in front of people, he runs the risk of making someone severely upset or hopeless. Imagine, the embodiment of positivity, breaking down into tears and confessing he feels empty and lonely and scared. That he doesn't believe he can do this. While a few people would support him and try to help him, I believe a vast majority, even those genuinely wishing to help, would feel a sense of: 'if the embodiment of positivity can't be happy, then how can I?' or may simply feel negative by seeing Dream so upset. Because of Dream's empathy, this means, should he do such a thing, not only is he making someone upset, which is something he never wants to do, but he's also able to feel that negativity reflected straight back at him, and will only end up feeling worse. It's a direct feedback loop of: 'if I express my true feelings, I not only feel worse from making someone else feel negative, but am a bad person for doing so, as my only purpose in life is to help others and make them happy. I am selfish for putting my own emotions ahead of that purpose'. Instead of trying to find people he can share his feelings with, Dream actively tries to downplay any negative emotions he has, putting on a smile, and claiming it's nothing. 

His second power, his positive aura, arguably does something even worse, as the empathy is something that can be worked past, but his positive aura is a constant creator of paranoia for Dream and his ability to make new friends. Dream's positive aura is simple enough. People close to Dream feel positive emotions due to the energy he radiates. This, while looking harmless enough on the surface, creates many problems for Dream that are completely out of his control. The first is people's tendency to mistake his aura for feelings of love. If you stood by someone and suddenly felt positive, it's not hard to understand why some people may mistake that for love, despite not genuinely being in it. For very negative or possessive people, they could become overly attached to that feeling, or even addicted, and when Dream has to leave, become negative and potentially violent. Dream's aura creates a barrier between Dream's ability to form genuine connections with people, as he's always worried people he befriends will become too attached to that feeling, or mistake it for falling in love with him, when in reality, they've only fallen dependent on his power. Dream is consciously aware this problem exists, and actively distances himself from people because of it. The second problem created by Dream's aura is its reaffirmation that Dream is only a being of positivity, meant to make people positive. He fooled half the fandom into thinking it simply by keeping on a smile, imagine the subconscious assumptions people would make when met with an aura of positivity, radiating off a visibly happy person, who is said to be the embodiment of such. They would likely assume he cannot feel negativity, he cannot understand their problems, and/or that he is there as a tool to make people positive, all of which, reaffirms to Dream and others, that he is only meant to help people, and his problems are not important. While he has the ability to tell them, 'yes I do feel negativity', or ' I'm an empath and can feel everyone's negativity', etc, doing so has the risk of making people upset, concerned, or overall negative, giving him a strong reason not to. All of this, with the addition of his complete loss of all support, and his trauma connected to the inability to properly help people, Dream is in a place of complete isolation and grief, with new powers that severely inhibit him from forming new genuine connections with people, and trauma that makes him suppress everything he feels down so he can continue to help people lest something like the apple incident ever occur again.

Outside of his AU, Dream does not meet many true friends, or anyone he can truly trust. It's canon that he and Ink experience a falling out due to Dream's desire to help AUs, and Ink's insistence allowing timelines to play out so stories can happen without interference. The people he does meet, and does help within the AUs, even those who treat him kindly, are quickly left behind as he goes to the next one. Nightmare is out to hurt him in any way he can, and any person Dream began to visit frequently could be at risk of being attacked, or tortured by Nightmare. Friends could also be used as leverage against Dream to try and gain the apple, making Dream extremely hesitant to connect fully with anyone.

Truly, Dream is stuck in a deep place of pure and utter isolation and loneliness, with his trauma, powers, and experiences constantly keeping him from connecting with people on a genuine level, or ever being able to truly express the true depths of his negativity. Nevertheless, Dream continues to put on a smile, and continues forward, pretending he was never lonely in the first place, and so, he continues to be completely alone, against the world and his own struggles, until he can find a way to open up and trust again.

[phoenixtakaramono]

G&G ch15 (Sneak Peek)

Here’s an exclusive sneak peek, courtesy of @suis0u! You may thank her for this occasion. :) See you all again on AO3/ fanfiction(dot)net when the whole chapter is ready to be posted!

Eyes still shut, Harry brought his forehead down to his hands. His fingers were clasped, and his thumbs were hard-pressed against the bridge of his nose. He took a long intake of breath—holding it in his lungs—and then he exhaled through his mouth. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm.

For the next few minutes, he repeated the cathartic exercise, collecting his thoughts. His mouth still tasted of bitter herbs, from his morning ritual. Trying to mask the taste with toothpaste and food hadn’t any effect.

Aside from bits and pieces, while Harry couldn’t exactly recall all the specifics from his reoccurring dream, he supposed that his Animagus transformation was progressing as intended. It seemed to follow what Hermione had informed him about what Headmistress Minerva McGonagall had given a lecture about—regarding the symbolisms behind significant dreams and nightmares.

It was what McGonagall herself had gone through, as well as Harry’s mum, his dad and his dad’s friends—including Harry’s godfather and Remus.

Harry would not know his animal form prior to the transformation—and it was a tedious process of necessitating the leaf of a mandrake in his mouth for an entire month for the purposes of a required potion recipe, with him reciting an incantation over it regularly—but the answer was supposed to be hinted at in a dream state while one underwent the process. Harry had the expectation that he was a stag—maybe a buck—following in the footsteps of his parents.

He worried his lower lip.

Currently Harry was seated inside his office—silent, save for the own noises he emitted. The tip of his foot was tapping restlessly against the laminated floorboards.

The weight in his pocket rested heavy against his thigh. The temptation was there to check his pocket watch again for the hundredth time.

His eyes opened to tall stacks—a rainbow spectrum—laid out on his desk. The folders and parchments been organized according to a color-coded system. Manila files concerned cases belonging to the Law Enforcement department, green were psychological assessments, blue always contained reports from Forensics, so on and so forth.

There was one exception to the organization. Placed atop a folder was a golden snitch, serving as paperweight. Disguised as another case file, the contents of a manila folder underneath contained updates from the Department of Mysteries and any information pertaining to the time traveler. Copies of specific passages from historic works were also included. To anyone else not privy to the secret, the majority of the content appeared redacted—ink concealing classified and confidential information.

Adjacent to his view was a green file notably thicker than the rest. Scrawled on its tab was a personnel’s name. In it contained the newest documents from their recent evaluation. Staring at the name, Harry’s foot tapping becoming louder. Finally, he averted his gaze sideways.

His sight skittered past the toxicology and autopsy reports, a rotary dial telephone that gleamed bronze, today’s Daily Prophet tabloid, an ink pot and quill, opened letters from Kohaku Takeda-Mushin and from the President of the Magical Congress of the United States of America, and down the length of his arm. Official-looking documents passed his vision, spilling over his desk and down out of sight. Instead of parchment for stationery and bills, upholding tradition the Wizengamot used sheets from a roll of handcrafted cotton fibers. Embossed into the laid pattern was the enormous Ministry of Magic seal. And all the way down the lengthy text were the angular strokes and slashes that made up Harry’s handwriting.

Silver candy wrappers were by an elbow he’d propped on his desk. By his other elbow was red cup on a red saucer, filled halfway with milk tea. Preserved by a heating charm, tendrils of steam could still be seen wafting from the cup. Across the table was a silver serving tray. Balanced on it were a tea pot, napkins, a cup of sugar cubes, a small milk saucer, extra cups, saucers, and tea bags.

Framed on the alcove behind him hung ornamental framed portraits—the subjects depicting men and one woman wearing uniforms which reflected the time period of their tenure. All of the Head Aurors from English history were either sleeping or, having grown bored of watching Harry do nothing but peruse the paperwork, their painting was left vacant while the subject traveled across enchanted paintings in the Ministry to socialize.

In the center of the framed artworks was a large black-and-white map of the United Kingdom—including England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland. White dots pulsated on the map wherever illegal magical activities were detected. The map spanned the length of the rosewood desk that Harry had inherited from the Head Auror who’d preceded him.

The activity had long since calmed down when it notified the proper divisions—reaching the Auror Office in extreme cases or alerting the Ministry of Magic Witch Watchers division to send out their Witch Watcher Special Forces—while the Ministry representatives stationed in the Improper Use of Magic Office conducted further investigations. It fell on Harry to disperse the proper assignments whenever Hermione was overwhelmed with responsibilities.  

Or whenever she was suffering from her pregnancy symptoms.

Harry exhaled through his mouth, his brows furrowing. Reaching for an unwrapped treat, he broke the foil apart.

The sound of chattering and tinny squeaks broke the silence. Immediately he pinched the wiggling, enchanted mouse firmly by the body, popping it into his mouth. His teeth sliced the sweet into pieces, breaking the enchantment.

The intense medicinal taste of mint coated his tongue, instantly waking his brain up and clearing his sinuses. All he could smell now was the peppermint oil, purifying the memory of the odor which’d emerged from his recollection.

Both he and Hermione had been in the forensics science laboratory of their chief medical examiner in the morning, listening to the summarization of the coroner’s report of the post-mortem examinations that had been ordered by the Committee. The corpses brought out onto the wooden tables for autopsy had appeared in the same condition that they’d been magically preserved at the site of the investigation.

Although the interior was a controlled environment, the odor had stung the nose. Like being in a meat locker, the stench of death had hung in the mortuary. It had intermingled with the scent of beeswax.

Floating above the bleached skin of each cadaver had been lit candlesticks. Several candles had already melted down into pale stumps. Clean sheets had been placed over the trolls to respectfully concealing them below the clavicle. Their appearance was arguably as repulsive as when they’d been alive, although it was easier to imagine gargoyle in their place now with the muscles having fallen lax in their gigantic faces.  

Both he and Hermione had similar miserable expressions. His was having had little to no sleep, whereas Hermione had been acting off ever since Ron had been stationed overseas. (Harry had assumed Ron would’ve taken the opportunity to return occasionally, having been given one of the International Portkeys that the rest of the Aurors had been assigned. Yet with the way she’d been acting, Harry couldn’t help but worry.)

It’d only been a few weeks; by the end of the month, they were expected to give the Head Auror a report.

He remembered observing the features of his deputy’s face beside him, reevaluating this dependency that existed between him and Hermione. Rather predictably, when Harry had recounted the events of that night to quite possibly one of the only two confidantes he had for this sensitive issue, he’d received a lecture. He remembered Hermione’s palms had been pressed together, fingertips tapping together erratically.

Throughout his debriefing, it was in her body language that he could read that the witch was, many times, on the verge of blurting whatever was on her mind. In moments like these, he could still see the same eleven year old schoolgirl interspersed over the adult she’d grown into.

He’d always relied on her researching skills; out of habit, he came to her this time for counsel on the nenja and wakashū matter. It’d made him feel conflicted—and no small amounts of guilt—when Hermione gave him a look of concern. After hearing him out, she’d declared, “I don’t suppose you’ll like hearing this, but he is a demon. Eastern origins or not. I’ll see what I can gather but…,” here she hesitated, before finishing, “…isn’t he taking advantage of your kindness?”

That hadn’t made him feel any better.

Harry exhaled once more. It wasn’t as easy to pretend optimism for the tension that bled into his workplace and into his excursions with the time traveler. With each day that passed, he could feel the inevitability that he’d soon be dragged into the marital conflict between Ron and Hermione. The memory was still fresh in his mind, the night Hermione confessed to him her doubts.  

It also made Harry realize, that just like her, what he’d been seeking was reassurance—to hear from another human being that he was overanalyzing and worrying over nothing.

He’d found his thoughts orbiting around Sesshomaru these days. Try as he might otherwise, there was always a gravitational pull bringing him back. The time traveler was all Harry could think of. After all, in his effort to be as broadminded as possible, Harry had misjudged.

These days he looked forward to the scheduled arrangements with Sesshomaru, with each trip traveling further and further into the Forbidden Forest. In a way, he couldn’t help but feel optimistic that they were making some progress toward pinpointing the location of the Resurrection Stone.

As long as they covered ground with each excursion, Harry counted it as a success.

Harry had underestimated the nature of the person he was minding. Because of that emerged a complication; Sesshomaru’s attraction to him was an anomaly. And Harry was in a moral situation where he couldn’t reciprocate, interested or not. It was not a situation where they could have a one-night stand to get it out of their system. Harry didn’t have to be a magizoologist or a practitioner of demonology to understand that this development between him and Sesshomaru didn’t bode well.

Although Harry liked to think he was above bigotry, demons had been a topic covered in his Defense against the Dark Arts curriculum. Even Gilderoy Lockhart, the con-artist that taught in Harry’s second year at Hogwarts, had been aware of their infamy, fabricating a demonic encounter in his books. Much as Harry lobbied to push the betterment of magical creature rights agenda in the ICW, even he couldn’t turn a blind eye to the reality that demons carried a fearsome reputation for a reason.

An Englishman with his education, Harry was more familiar with mythos on the Western hemisphere than on the Eastern front. The suffering that ensued after falling under dark influence or demonic possession were cautionary tales. Although different mythologies existed, and however overtly exaggerated eyewitness accounts may scatter around the globe, they all generally pointed to demons as malevolent entities that tempted and corrupted all those that made a deal with them.

Harry had simply never thought that he’d himself land in this predicament.

Gloved hands slamming down against the armrests, Harry shoved himself from his seat. The wheels of the chair skittered behind him as he went to pace his office. The carpet muffled his footsteps as his hands went to rake through his hair. His fingertips were digging against the scalp.

Sesshomaru did not belong in their twenty-first century.

Sesshomaru was from ancient Japan—from a brutal war period.

Sesshomaru was an archaic, historical figure of some sort of high upbringing.

Sesshomaru was a Dark magical creature—a demon, no less.

Sesshomaru was a warlord, with not only culturally different but outdated values and traditions.

Sesshomaru, by demon society’s standards, could be considered younger than Harry.

Sesshomaru wanted Harry to pledge vassalage to him.

Sesshomaru liked Harry—all the signs were there, strange was some of them were.

Sesshomaru only had Harry to rely on; he had been purposely isolated to depend on Harry.

While Harry would like to think it was because Sesshomaru grew to be attached to him naturally, it would be naïve to think that it was because they were both nobility—presumably; Harry still wasn’t certain about the demon’s confusing titles—or that he was charmed by him. Sesshomaru was somehow attracted to him.

He was attracted to a contemporary warlock that could stand to lose everything should Harry reciprocate that bit of attraction.

On one hand, Harry could be being played. Sesshomaru had over five hundred years of wisdom; there is little that he wouldn’t have seen by now.

On the other hand, a five-hundred year old demon might authentically be intrigued by Harry—apparently the first overseas wizard he’d met. If it were the latter, Harry could see how Sesshomaru had determined Harry to have value. There were many wild theories he could think of regarding how he’d captured the demon’s attention in the first place.

Japan did have a period of isolation. If Sesshomaru was a clever opportunist, then he was sowing the seeds for a secure future, whether if it was for himself or for his country’s subjects. Were Harry to think of Sesshomaru as a Slytherin, the demon most likely discerned the benefits of allying with a foreign bureaucrat who so happened to not only command the entirety of a country’s law enforcement force but also have certain diplomatic influence overseas. Although Sesshomaru’s method was unorthodox—wanting to establish himself as Harry’s mentor—that excuse could serve a dual purpose of deepening their camaraderie. If Harry thought well of him, then he would be more willing to accommodate him. In a way, Harry could understand how, in the feudal warlord’s eyes, it was parsed that the wizard minding him held significant influence that could be exploitable.

Sesshomaru could have ascertained that it could only be an advantageous asset to him.

Harry’s hands lowered, until one was rubbing the back of his neck while the other hand braced his forearm. He could feel the solid length of his wand holster as his imagination ran rampant.

Harry was only grateful that he seemed to be the target of Sesshomaru’s focus, and not his deputy or—worse—the Acting Minister. While Harry did not think a sole magical creature could bring instability to Shacklebolt’s tenure, at the same time, Harry didn’t ask to be in this dilemma.

Approaching the coffee desk, Harry whirled around in another circle.

But what’s done is done. Running away from reality would change nothing. He had to minimize the damage. He had to confront the issue. The quickest solution would be rejecting Sesshomaru directly.

Yet there were somethings particular about Sesshomaru that made Harry hesitate.

Harry was actually fond of the dog demon, quirks and all. Sesshomaru did not seem like a duplicitous individual, demonic nature or no demonic nature. It did not seem like he was acting. If anything, Sesshomaru was not hiding his condescending attitude or downplaying the cruelty of his past exploits when those deeds came to be questioned. If the five-hundred year old magical creature did not like someone, the difference in regard was palpable.

Sesshomaru certainly did not act like his Japanese contemporaries who hid their disagreements behind smiles and a seemingly agreeable nature. He was astonishingly genuine. Sometimes instances of forward behavior broke through aloof formalities.

Sesshomaru reminded Harry of Severus Snape and—to an extent—Lucius Malfoy, if they were Gryffindorish and attractive. That behavior of Sesshomaru’s did not fit the objective of someone covering their tracks in order to make a good impression. And Harry did not think someone of that peculiar military background was that careless of an individual—nobility or royalty or not. Sesshomaru even had his thoughtful moments—being kind to Teddy and Astoria, and having the mercy to give Harry space to consider his offer of mentorship.

Besides, if it were an act, then Sesshomaru would make for a frighteningly convincing liar. At that thought, Harry’s mouth moved into a self-deprecating smirk. However, as cautious as Harry wanted to be, there was little evidence to suggest he was being played as a fool.

Speculation was all Harry had.

The only noteworthy amendment to Harry’s initial profiling, besides the development of a romantic and possibly sexual attraction, was that Lord Sesshomaru was a remarkably impulsive man.

Should Sesshomaru prove to be too reckless, Harry might one day find himself in the position being forced to choose. The wizarding world was as unkind as the nonmagical one. If this was a ruse, not only would Harry have to follow up with countermeasures, but it could potentially complicate things. He would have to decide between pardoning those infractions with the highest authority and taking responsibility as the Head Auror.

Harry released a sigh so loud that he felt it down to his toes. If this was as simple as a ploy to get on Harry’s good side, Harry could only hope he had the mental fortitude to see through any ulterior motives. If it was as simple as a crush, he could ignore it or gently let the other party down. Those alone were manageable.

At the level their flirting was, it was chaste.

Harmless.

Tolerable.

Within acceptable parameters.

If this operation had a short duration, Harry could imagine distancing himself, emphasizing on a platonic relationship—a friendship or alliance, ideally—hinting that he was not seeking a relationship. The other party had to have common sense and be emotionally sensitive enough to sense a lost cause.

He was not as confident if the time traveler’s fancy surged into intense feeling for him. The development of feelings was often irrational and uncontrollable. A flickering ember could turn into a blazing fire. If it came down to that….

Harry faltered, frowning at the surrealism of such a scenario.

Regardless, a Dark magical creature that this Japanese figurehead may be, a person was not defined by their race. Sesshomaru will get the benefit of the doubt. The hand that supported his elbow in a thinking position squeezed.

No matter which suspicions cycled through his head, Harry would not be bigoted. Unless proven otherwise, Sesshomaru was deserving of the same measure of courtesy and kindness. Harry was not going to repeat the close-minded or disgraceful behavior that’d personally made Harry suffer, and others he’d cared about, from their ignorance.

At this point, Sesshomaru was docile and would continue to make life easier for Harry in order to impress him. It was better than were Harry to reject him, thereby facing the consequences of an unpredictable, spurned demon.

It was not so much denial as it was an accepting tolerance for his situation. Or a stroke of insanity.

He groaned to himself, “This is getting yourself nowhere, Chosen One. Why does this have to be so complicated?” He flung his arms up. “Just tell him. Save yourself the hassle.”

It was easier said than done. Despite saying it aloud, common sense wasn’t enough to spur him into action.

It only made the incentive to stay quiet—stronger.

An expletive rushed out of his mouth. Scowling, Harry marched back to his desk. Angling a hip over his desk, he hoisted himself up until he was sitting on a corner of his desk. He stared once more at the green folder, before he picked up the rolled newsprint.

Two letters fell out when he unraveled the twine. Dread pooled in his gut when he saw Doge’s letterhead to him.

Harry knew this was all in his mind, but he could swear, upon seeing Umbridge’s name, that the back of his hand burned. Involuntarily, his fingers curled. Already opened, it was an official claim form to a court hearing, with the trial date declared to be soon. The subpoena attached behind the first document specified the exact location, scheduled date and time of Harry’s appearance for his testimony.

Hermione’s words were clanging in his head like a bell the longer he stared at Doge’s letter.

The remaining letter was unopened. His mood instantly lightened upon reading the immaculate cursive. The letter had been dropped off at the Ministry earlier this morning by owl. Written by a female hand, it was addressed to him from Andromeda and Teddy.

He could feel his fist unclenching. Under the gentlest of smiles, he folded that letter into his trouser pocket—to be read later. The claim form was deposited uncaringly into his pocket. To set his mind on other subjects, he unrolled the newspaper. Scanning the adverts and columns on the front page, the main article caught his eye.

ORGAN-GRO – THE FUTURE OF RUBENS WINIKUS AND COMPANY INC?

Grinning up at Harry was a wizard around his age, but with impressive facial hair. He was waving about his tobacco pipe as he was being photographed by the small crowd gathered in his potions lab. Arranged on the table were Petri dishes, containing what appeared, to Harry, to be tissue samples.

Son of the exclusive manufacturer and developer of the Skele-Gro potion, young Potions prodigy Rubens Winikus III unveils the progress of the miraculous Organ-Gro healing potion in a special public appearance, wrote A. Fenetre, Special Correspondent. Having graduated Hogwarts of Witchcraft and Wizardry with high marks in N.E.W.T level subjects, Winikus III had the brilliant idea of combining the Oculus potion and Skele-Gro one day when his girlfriend punctured her eyes after an unfortunate fall on her knitting needles.

The article detailed the son’s education and accomplishments, before generously divulging a portion of the ingredients needed for Organ-Gro: a Chinese chomping cabbage, three puffer fish, a small sprinkling of chopped Dittany, and stewed Mandrake—

Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Scchk.

Harry stopped reading when he heard the harsh, telltale sound of the cherrywood wall panels and wainscots collapsing in on itself like origami. Someone had to be approaching his office. The walls folding into nonexistence, light flooded past the tall two-way mirrors.

Harry winced.

Once the rattling faded, human and mechanical clamoring immediately followed. Through the ten walls he could hear the risings and fallings of discussions, heated exchanges, the ding of the lift doors, and braying laughter. (He didn’t have to look to know the adjoined office outside was empty; his deputy had been sent to the Department of Mysteries earlier to check in on Sesshomaru.)

Bringing a hand over his eyes, Harry squinted against the sudden brightness.

With each side of the decagon, Harry had a line of sight to all the different divisions that made up his department. This transparency was a privilege afforded to every Head Auror. With this, Harry could monitor everyone, but no one could see into his office. Doors lined each side, granting him passage to whichever sector he pleased.

Being the largest department in the Ministry of Magic, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were fragmented into the main branch—where he, as Head Auror, held the largest sway—and the administrative branch.

It could be said that every division had its unique interior.

The Auror Office had their iconic cubicles that Aurors were passing in and out of. The division of Hit Wizards from the Magical Law Enforcement Squad nearby had various wizards studying the Wanted posters lining the walls and bulletins. Next to that, the Department of Intoxicating Substances, the Investigation Department, and the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol division were similar only in their vaulted barrel ceilings—arched trusses made of bricks.

The Wizengamot and Wizengamot Administration Services division had a corridor that led to a circular chamber within, with fifty individuals gathered around a bench seemingly in danger of collapsing under the weight of the piles of parchments. Large tomes submerged the desks and shelves of the Administrative Registration Department. The Improper Use of Magic Office—a room with a pair of file cabinets flanking the massive desk in the center—and the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office—another cramped room filled to the brink with knickknacks and curiosities—were situated nearby. The Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects had a tiny but drab office space filled with files and charmed Muggle objects.

It was from this last division that Harry saw a gangly wizard marching toward him, fists clenched and with a determined look. His face was red, his freckles were invisible. He was wearing a trench coat, as if he’d recently returned from his trip overseas.

A stream of profanities flew from Harry’s mouth. He sprinted back around his desk. He’d thrown himself into his chair when Ron pounded on the door, rattling the glass.

“Harry!” Ron barked, his breath fogging up the mirror’s surface briefly. He hammered the surface twice more. “I know you’re in there! We need to talk!”

“Sod this,” Harry growled. He could already see various wizards and witches poking their heads out, curious about the commotion. Flicking his gaze over his desk, he shoved all opened wrappers into the waste bin under his desk.  Opening his drawer, he threw Sesshomaru’s file into it, too preoccupied to notice the tiny metal ball that’d careened off. He slammed the drawer closed.

Harry scanned the perimeter of his office once more. Nothing would seem unusual to the untrained eye. He squared his shoulders.

Past his racing heart, Harry finally bade, “You—” He cleared his throat. “You can come in, Ron.”

The door opened with a click, and the glass shuddered when it was closed again. Harry had risen to his feet when Ron maneuvered around the furniture. His footsteps thundered as he charted his way to Harry’s desk.

Harry took a deep breath. “Isn’t it a bit early to see me—?”

A fist collided against Harry’s cheek.

Harry had to throw an arm out to catch himself. Clinging to the edge of the desk, he dragged himself back onto his feet. His wand was already in his hand. Cupping the side of his face, he demanded, “What the hell, Ron?”

“You’re a complete wanker, Harry!”

“It doesn’t mean you can assault me!”

A tense silence enveloped them. Both men were glaring at each other. Tension was palpable in the air. Yet, Ron was still unarmed; only Harry had drawn his wand.

After a while, Ron drew back. He’d crossed his arms around his chest. He grunted. “Did it hurt?”

Harry said, “Shite, Ron.” He gingerly prodded his cheek, and then his jaw. The entire left side of his face was burning. Past the blood rushing in his ears, he heard himself growling, “What do you think?”

“You deserve it, you plonker.” Ron inhaled deeply, his voice growing softer as if he had been satisfied with Harry’s answer. He seemed to sag into himself now. “You okay?”

“No, I’m not okay. I’m pissed off, that’s what I am.”

“Good.”

To Harry’s surprise, Ron collapsed into one of the two armchairs across Harry’s desk.

Ron was sprawled in an undignified slouch. Limbs spread like a ragdoll, he was glowering at the engraved nameplate on Harry’s desk. Under Harry’s watchful gaze, in the most unapologetic tone Ron muttered, “Sorry.”

Harry was about to unleash more obscenities, with the freeness that their American counterparts utilized, when he realized the racket they must have made.

His eyes lurched to the windows.

The tension in his shoulders dissipated as relief engulfed him. No one seemed to have noticed. The visual reminder, that no one could see or hear them outside of the office’s enchantment, was reassuring. He glanced again in Ron’s direction.

The tip of his wand lowered.

In the moment it took Harry to scan his surroundings, Ron had begun helping himself to the tea set on the tray. All of his movements—pouring tea, scooping sugar cubes with a spoon, and so forth—no matter how small, were abrupt and jittery. His gaze had remained trained on Harry’s title and name etched a shiny gold in the black brass.

“You don’t have anything to report?”

“No. I’m not here for that.”

Pointing the Holly wand at his own unfinished cup, Harry watched as a jet of blue wisps formed at the end. Condensation soon formed on the ceramic surface, its liquid contents now having frozen over. His eyes pinned to Ron’s form, Harry slowly sank back down. He’d brought the chilled cup to his cheek, dulling the ache as he waited for Ron to explain himself.

Harry already had an idea of what this could be.

“Hermione…,” he heard Ron begin. Ron had brought his cup to his mouth. He mumbled to the rim, “My wife listens to my best mate. And my best mate listens to her, instead of me. I don’t even feel like her husband. Isn’t this just brilliant?”

So you have gone back to see her, Harry wanted to say aloud. Instead he stayed silent, frowning pensively.

Harry had conversed with enough people to gather that social convention dictated marital problems were generally settled privately between a husband and wife. Harry had wanted the pair to work things out themselves. But as much as he wished to respect their privacy, he found himself slowly losing patience with how juvenile his friends were behaving, avoiding each other and not communicating with each other.

If their job performance was affected by personal issues, Harry had no choice. If they had to rely on a neutral third party, then Harry was willing to offer his opinion to his best mates.

He did, however, realize he’d lent his ear to Hermione more often than Ron. He wasn’t certain whether it was the result of a bias. There would be numerous factors that could contribute to his partiality. Hermione was, after all, one of his closest friends. Unlike Ron, there hadn’t been any moments that Harry could remember in their childhood where Hermione had thrown a jealous fit.

Nonetheless, because of that meeting, Harry realized he’d erred his other best mate in some way. It also didn’t help that Counselor Thicknesse was keeping a close eye on the Head Auror, ready to chastise Harry for showing obvious favoritism again. The friendship between Harry and Ron reminded Harry of how it’d been during the Triwizard Tournament.

Knowing both their personalities, it had only been a matter of time before they had their confrontation.

There was also a part of Harry, the lonely little man who craved companionship that wanted to repair the friendship and make things to how it was before. Harry grimaced, shifting his attention back from his thoughts.

Studying Ron’s slouched form, Harry felt the guilt ebb as he took in the sight of his Auror in his office. This was his command center. This was Harry’s domain that Ron had forced his way into. Straightening his back, Harry asked coolly, “What do you want me to say?” He kept his tone inquisitive, but not intruding. Despite that, his knuckles were pale underneath his gloves.

“Don’t.” Ron grimaced. Scrutinizing his tea, he said, “Please don’t do that. I want my best mate; not my boss.”

The corners of Harry’s mouth tugged down further, but he didn’t say anything. Another silence descended upon them.

Sensing that this wasn’t going to be a quick conversation, Harry traced three sides of a rectangle in the air. Then, he slashed the wand down.

The door sealed itself with an audible click. With another wave of his wand, the wooden walls unfolded with sharp rattling noises until the office was once again submerged in the illusion of privacy. Ron might be able to relax now without the psychological pressure of feeling a hundred eyes on him.

Only the green banker’s lamp on his desk and the wall sconces provided the office a cozy glow.

“I am your boss,” Harry scolded. As emphasis, he gestured down at his nameplate.

Both Counselor Thicknesse and Acting Minister Shacklebolt had counseled Harry that he had to make the distinction between work and his personal life. While it frightened Harry sometimes when he reflected back on the degree of apathy affecting his judgement, it became a source of comfort to default to that. As a Head Auror, it made the decision-making less emotionally draining. He got outcomes based on productivity. He also appeared more qualified. Less people were willing to take advantage of him.

As Harry had learned, acting professionally was often a failsafe method, versatile for many situations.

Harry lowered his own cup, the side of his face feeling cold and numb to the air. He steeled himself. Echoing what he’d been told, he recited verbatim: “Policies and procedures exist so that complacency isn’t an issue.”

“I know.” Ron also set his teacup down, clinking on the saucer. “But I want Harry. Not Harry Potter.”

“…Alright, we’ll do it your way. You have my full attention.” Spreading his arms out wide invitingly, Harry declared, “Don’t hold back. Talk. No worries about hurting my feelings.”

Ron averted his gaze. His sight remained trained on the folders, a dark cloud brewing on his face. With the illumination of the table lamp, the shadows underneath Ron’s eyes became more pronounced. The scruff along his jaw was fuller than the grey five o’clock shadow along Harry’s, as if Ron hadn’t shaved for days. Harry also didn’t know if it was his imagination, but the infamous fiery red hair seemed to be thinning. And to Harry’s wonderment, while it had been subtle before, it was evident that Ron had gained a bit of weight.

Ron squirmed, feeling the weight of the gaze leveled on him. At last, he mumbled gruffly, “How do you do it?”

Despite himself, Harry’s heart sunk. He cleared his throat. “Elaborate. How do I do what?”

“Alright, full disclosure?” He breathed out. “Why does she trust you, and not me?” His head rose. His eyes were a piercing blue. In a louder volume, he demanded, “What am I doing wrong?”

Harry stifled a sigh. “I cannot imagine,” he replied dryly.

“And calling me out in front of everyone? Have I done something to you?” Ron’s volume climbed with every accusation. His fists clenched and unclenched down by his thighs. “Why are you always taking each other’s side? I thought I was your best mate!”

“The things you say.” This was not good. He had to diffuse the tension. “This is getting ridiculous. Ron, look at me.”

Harry waited for him to heed the command. When Ron’s eyes reluctantly beheld his, Harry tapped at his own cheekbone, ignoring the twinge of pain. He said, “Firstly, I won’t say I don’t deserve this, maybe. But I can’t have this becoming a regular occurrence. I’m going to do things you happen to disagree with.”

“You got what was coming.”

“Ron, people are already accusing me of showing you favoritism.” Seeing the defensive retort about to leap up, Harry gave him a stern look. “You’d just assaulted me in my office. You hit your superintendent in the face. It is well within my rights to have you written up. Fill in the blanks.”

Ron’s lips thinned into a long white line.

Channeling Dumbledore’s unnerving calmness from his memories, Harry said, “Any other Head Auror would’ve pressed charges. Or sacked you. Yet we’re still here. Why do you think that is?”

Ron’s mouth opened and closed, incapable of finding the words. Unable to revive his fighting spirit, his body sagged. His eyes had fallen again from Harry’s gaze. To keep himself busy, he fiddled with his thumbs, crossing and recrossing his legs.

His patience was diminishing. Under a placating tone, he coaxed, “Work with me here, Ron. I’m not the enemy.” As visual emphasis, Harry rested his wand down on the desk, making certain Ron heard the thunk. Clasping gloved fingers together tightly, Harry said, “What do you think’s happening between me and Hermione? If it’s what I reckon you’re going to say, I call bollocks. Hermione is my Deputy Head Auror. And she is your wife. That’s it.”

“Funny how you leapt to that conclusion, before I said anything—”

His palm slammed down on the desk. “Ron, shut up!” Harry snapped, hearing the inception of that surly pigheadedness in Ron’s petulant tone. He could recall the knife edge of Ron’s jealous accusations from their school years. Incensed, he shouted, “We all know what you’re thinking. I promise you. Nothing’s happened! Nothing has been crossed! I swear on my parents’ graves….”

The defiance on Ron’s face dimmed exponentially. He reared back, looking uncomfortable.  

“…there is no affair! Hermione has been a faithful wife. I did not die for you to accuse me of—!”

“—Harry, I didn’t mean it,” Ron interrupted.

It was like a splash of cold water. Harry’s rant died on his lips as he stared at his mate’s bowed head, befuddled, doubting what he’d just heard. It couldn’t be this easy, was the thought running through his mind. He’d been expecting a fight. He’d been expecting for it to come to blows and explosions.

Although Ron’s head was downcast, he could see blue butcher eyes—partially hidden behind that fringe—zipping to the wand on the desk, as if its presence could console his apprehension.

“I…fuck, I’m—” Ron exhaled. “I’m sorry. I’m just paranoid, alright?”

The room wasn’t shaking. Nothing had fallen. Only the sounds of their breathing rushed to fill in the silence.

The tension in Ron’s shoulder seemed to have ebbed a bit, once he realized he hadn’t landed himself at the end of Harry’s infamous temper.

Ron shifted in his seat. The hush seemed to be getting to him. He was collecting his thoughts, his leg jittery, bouncing on his other knee to the speed his mind ran. “I didn’t imagine you’d be this—” He couldn’t finish the sentence, not upon spotting the sharp twist of Harry’s mouth. Hoarsely, he asked, “Nothing’s going on really?”

“Sorry to burst your bubble,” Harry retorted crossly. He folded his arms, his fists digging into the crook of his elbows. “If I were a lesser man, I’d be offended. Walk a bit in my shoes. Do I look like the homewrecking sort?”

“You don’t…you’re not a homewrecker,” Ron admitted. He worried his lower lip, darting his tongue over chapped lips. “Has she said anything to you? I don’t want to be a jealous prat but sometimes a man…wonders, y’know? You’re her superintendent. She’s not been…making eyes at anyone else, has she? Or have you seen any bloke showing inappropriate interest in my wife?”

A throbbing sensation made itself known between Harry’s eyebrows. Pinching the patch of skin, he asked, “Sorry, have you talked with Hermione?” His hand shot up, halting whatever Ron had been about to say. His tone was grim. “No, have you two actually talked to each other like a civil couple?”

“I’m not certain what you—”

“For example,” Harry interjected, “did you know she started crying? In front of me? Guess the subject. It involves you.”

It was as physical of a blow as getting punched in the gut.

“…No. I can’t believe—really, Hermione was upset?” Ron’s voice was brittle, barely above a rasp.

“She certainly wasn’t happy.”

Ron’s expression was heartrending. “Mate… for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. She never said anything about…why do you…why did she come to you? Blimey, when was this? She never told me.”

“She was helping me with the ambassador’s situation. It was the same day Dumbledore’s Tomb was ransacked.” Exhaling a gust of breath, Harry leaned back in his seat. He explained, “She was distraught you would accuse her of cheating. She’s pregnant with your child, you wanker.”

“Blimey.”

Harry inclined his head, not agreeing vocally. The implication was nonetheless in his silence.

“And you’re telling me this? Now?” Ron’s tone was incredulous. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Would you have listened to me?” he asked. Then his expression became inscrutable. “Never mind that. It’s only…I didn’t want to meddle, y’know? This is your marriage. But this…marital spat of yours, it’s been going on for far too long. Even Goldstein’s picked up on it.”

Hearing their shrink’s name, Ron flinched.

Anthony Goldstein had been assigned to their department as the head psychiatrist, after having undergone intensive training at St Mungo’s. After the previous one retired, there had been an opening. Harry, Hermione, and Thicknesse had been impressed by the credentials the former Ravenclaw graduate presented them during their interview. Goldstein had been just as approachable as Harry remembered him in Dumbledore’s Army, his personality just as sunny as the color of his hair. He was still shorter than Harry—and he was still adamant in his resolve as a practicing Jew—but the boy Harry remembered him as was now a man applied to his duties.

Making up his mind, Harry tugged the green folder from underneath the papers. Then he asked, “Are you two getting a divorce?”

“What the—?” Ron’s eyes bulged. “No, I’m not getting a bloody divorce!”

Harry’s brows skyrocketed beneath his fringe. With much deliberateness, he slid the folder over so that the neat handwriting was illuminated by the table lamp. Ron’s eyes widened even further, spotting his name on the tab.

“I- I thought this was supposed to be confidential? Patient-therapist confidentiality?” Ron swallowed, his complexion paling. His freckles were brown constellations on his face. He reached for the file, demanding, “Why is it this big?”

“Goldstein’s notes are extraordinarily thorough,” Harry answered dryly, watching Ron flip through the documents at a feverish pace. “Which is why I’m inclined to ask what you’re doing to do about this. With what Goldstein wrote down, I’m worried for both of you. Especially you, Ron. You always look like you’ve slept over at George’s shop. For days.”

“Is that why you asked if we were getting divorced?” Ron demanded, his brows crumpling into a troubled frown as he skimmed Goldstein’s observations.

He read the scribbles—Disciplinary Charges. Problem-maker. Intelligent, aggressive, temperamental, and defensive. Loose cannon. PTSD symptoms: exhibits signs of paranoia and struggles reintegrating back into civilized society. Might need to arrange for reassignment from fieldwork to administrative duties.

Ron declared, “This is a load of hogwash.”

He didn’t look up even as Harry leaned across the desk, casting a long shadow over the wood.

“I’ll save you the legwork. You’re not even supposed to see this.” Covering the parchments with his palm, Harry leafed through the pages until he reached the more recent entries. As if by rote, Harry said, “You have been turning to food for comfort, overeating; he’s noted significant weight gain in an abnormal amount of time. There is an escalation of aggressive behavior in your remarks and actions on the field. He suggests PTSD—that’s post-traumatic stress disorder—and depression. You have repeatedly mentioned your dissatisfaction at work and at home. Tell me, what am I supposed to think when Goldstein reports to me about such? What’s going on, Ron?”

“You’ve read my file,” Ron retorted, his ears burning crimson. His knuckles were white against the green folder. “You already have your answer. So stop pretending that you care.”

Harry’s stare could bore holes. There was the small part of him that was rankled by the obstinacy. It was the same small beast that snarled and wanted to break free whenever others had spread falsehoods about him or pushed him beyond his capability for kindness. Miniscule as it was, it was an insidious monster with an explosive temper lying in wait. He took a deep, shaky breath.  

Hermione’s shiny, pink face, wet with tears when she confessed her mixed feelings. Teddy’s despairing face, when he nearly broke Harry’s pocket watch. Malfoy bleeding, limbs eagle-spread in the water. Sirius being blasted with the Killing Curse, falling through the Veil.

He exhaled slowly. In and out. Meditative. He had to rein it in. He reminded himself of what was necessary for Occlumency. He was a functioning adult. He was better than this. Only individuals like Voldemort and Vernon let their anger cloud their judgement. Dumbledore wouldn’t have allowed himself to be furious.

“Ron,” he said through gritted teeth. He was displeased by how tight his voice sounded. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Ron…you’re not wrong.”

Ron’s head snapped up.

“It’s difficult for me to care,” Harry confessed, “because this has been something I’ve known about for a while, and I haven’t had a proper upbringing. But you’re my best mate. And I’m selfish. I don’t want to let you go. Not without reason. So let me ask this: are you unsatisfied at work? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Mate….” Ron sat up. His expression was perturbed. “Are you—are you firing me?”

“No!” Harry blurted, nearly gawking at him. “Merlin, no. I was—I-I’m not great at comforting others.” His breath whooshed out. “I’m asking…do you and Hermione need time? I can pull you off assignment—”

“Harry—”

“—I want you with your wife and child, not out risking your life in the field. I can rescind my orders. Assign you a different case—”

“HARRY!” Ron shouted, snatching his attention and startling him into muteness. His eyes were a piercing blue as he stared him down. In a slow drawl, as if explaining to a child, he said gruffly, “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but you realize how that’ll look? To others? After you’d publically approved stationing me overseas? On a special assignment.”

Harry winced. His mind was whirling. He honestly hadn’t thought about that. He’d been more concerned about how to make this right again, to Ron. Once again, Ron was demonstrating social insight. Sometimes Harry forgot….

His gaze fell on the coroner’s reports on his desk. A frown tugged on Harry’s face. Written down was exactly the same toxicology details he’d shared with Harry and Hermione, after having demonstrated the entomology spell results detected no evidence of blowfly larvae anywhere on the bodies. However, unlike the medical examiner, Hermione held a perfumed handkerchief to her nose.

He remembered the resentment dying on his lips once he realized why she could be feeling inadequate. He could tell she was pushing herself for some invisible goal, like she had something to prove.

Many times Harry appreciated how his and Hermione’s work principles conveniently seemed to match. Young that they may be compared—to the workforce they oversaw—the pair presented a united front. Wherever the Head Auror went, his Deputy Head was sure to follow. She backed him up, so the favor had to be returned. But the side of him that was psychologically attuned now recognized it to be because of the emotional dependency after having permanently Obliviated all her parents’ memories of her existence herself.

Ron was in a different category since he was her husband. At least Ron had parents and siblings to turn to. Hermione only had Harry. So loathe as Harry was to concede to the psychoanalysis, Goldstein had been correct. Their Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder only worsened the reliance.

Yet, habit or not it was for them to turn to each other for advice, Harry should’ve known better than to consult with Hermione on matters outside of work. While she’d matured since their school days and have filled in remarkable gaps missing in her knowledge of the wizarding world customs, his Deputy Head was sometimes as socially awkward as Harry was. She could jump to conclusions as Ron could, in lieu of context and research material. Clever as she was, she was not infallible.

He relied on her superior intellect and intelligence-gathering skills. They were the witch’s strengths, just as tactical thinking and voice impersonations were Ron’s. However, out of the three of them, only Ron had the semblance of a normal childhood and therefore could make a more astute assessment of magical social conventions….

He peeked down at a certain drawer. There was an idea brewing in his head. He knew this was something Ron and Hermione would not do unless they had someone to push them.

Harry gnawed on his lower lip thoughtfully. He could change the subject to make Ron feel better, before Harry delivered his ultimatum. He had to establish solidarity. There was only one subject he could think of that’d distract him. He also knew the trigger words, framing the request like letting Ron in on a secret that Harry couldn’t even trust Hermione with. Even if it meant putting himself in a position of embarrassment….

“Ron,” Harry said, steel interlaced in his voice. He had to ask before his nerves got the better of him. He made himself lean several inches forward in his seat. “Before that, may I ask for advice? It’s for something unrelated. Hermione is useless on this.”

At that, Ron’s brows rose to his hairline.

He considered Harry for a bit.

When he found nothing suggesting a prank, then leaning in until his chest was pressed against the edge of the desk, Ron whispered, “What’s on your mind?”

He’d taken the bait.

Harry drew in a deep breath. He held it in his lungs. Then he exhaled. He began simply, “The ambassador. The Asian one.”

Ron blinked rapidly, his mind no doubt working to put a face to all the dignitaries he knew of. Finally he suggested, “That stuck-up—” he paused, then corrected, “that Lucius Malfoy lookalike of yours? The diplomat?”

He was awaiting Harry’s acknowledgement. When he saw Harry nod, he reclined back. His expression was thoughtful, like he was contemplating his next chess move.

Ron remarked, “What about him? Actually, you’ve never mentioned anything about volunteering your services to anyone in Witness Protection…before you left. He looks like he’s got magical creature blood in him. Where’d you meet him?”

Harry grimaced. “Japan.”

Ron’s brows furrowed. “But how did you—?” Breaking off, his mouth formed into a small ‘o.’ The shine of curiosity made his expression livelier. “Hermione’s keeping a tight lid on this too. I get you; you were given the assignment. But how is my wife involved? I mean, I understand she’s your deputy—”

“I reckon he fancies me!” Harry exclaimed hastily, his ears turning hot. Unable to meet Ron’s gaze, he explained, “I don’t believe I’m imagining it. I know the signs. He’s not exactly subtle.”

“Oh.” When Harry snuck a peek, Ron didn’t appear stunned or sickened. Matching his tone, there was wonder in his face. Most of all, it was his ready acceptance of the revelation that made it surreal. Ron demanded, “And he fancies you? He’s been giving you the eyes?”

“Gee, Ron, way to make a bloke feel confident,” Harry said sarcastically, bristling automatically. “I’ll have you know I’m quite the catch.”

“But do you fancy him back?” he insisted. His face was fixed into a serious expression. “Do I need to hex the git for you? If he’s been bothering you, you should tell him—”

“Trust me. It’s all I’ve been thinking about for months,” Harry interjected, although hearing Ron offer such a thing made his heart swell. He forced himself to confess, “I’m not bothered by it. I—it’s actually…nice, for a change. Is that deplorable of me to think so?” His shirt collar was choking him. He’d never thought he’d be flattered to be on the receiving end. He’d thought it would impossible, but his ears burned hotter.

“No, no. It’s fine.” Ron had held his hands up in surrender. “But…I mean…no offense, mate, but I thought you were attracted to women.” He began ticking off his fingers. “There was Cho Chang, Parvati Patil…then there was my sister….”

He caught Harry’s instinctive cringe. He gave Harry an inscrutable look, before mercifully continuing, “And I’ve never seen you batting for the other team. You’d certainly never made googly eyes at Gilderoy Lockhart, Cedric Diggory, or Bulgarian heartthrob Viktor Krum —”

Now Ron’s complexion became ghastly. “Harry, in the Quidditch changing rooms, have you ever—?”

“No!” Harry answered, glowering, his tone curt. Clasping his hands tightly in his lap, Harry forced himself to say, “I never had inappropriate thoughts about you or any of the blokes on the team.”

“Oh, thank Merlin.” Ron’s shoulders sagged, his face upturned dramatically to the ceiling in relief. “That would’ve been—since when did you start fancying wizards? You’ve never been…,” here he paused, ashamed, before finishing, “particularly lacy.”

“There was no ‘starting,’” Harry retorted. “I considered it one day, and the thought of it didn’t turn me off. I’ve accepted both ladies and blokes. That’s it. My sexuality doesn’t have to be that complicated.”

“So…you bat for bot… teams. I can’t believe you’ve never told me—” Ron’s mouth moved into an upside-down ‘V.’

To his credit, Ron hadn’t stormed out of the room like Harry had imagined countless of times. It also wasn’t as natural as Harry had wished it was, but it was better than he’d been expecting. He should be thankful Ron was accepting of it as he was.

As if it physically pained him to admit it, Ron spoke slowly to the ceiling, “I suppose he is handsome…”

Harry’s mouth involuntarily moved into a frown.

“…I personally don’t see it, but if you think he’s attractive—”

“I know he’s attractive. But I cannot return his feelings.”

Ron’s head slammed back down to gawk at him.

“Hear me out first. I know it sounds awful—!” Mid-sentence, he watched as Ron brought a hand to his face.

“You’re throwing him a wand.”

“There’s no ‘wand’ being thrown,” Harry objected. He breathed in harshly, reminding himself to be patient. “I’m telling you this because I want your opinion. I mean, blast it, I don’t see why not. It’s only a crush. It’s…tolerable. I reckon you understand why I can’t return his feelings though.”

“Does Hermione know about this? You tell her everything. Since she’s your deputy and all.”

Harry hesitated. Then, dropping his gaze, he said, “In hindsight…I realize, it may’ve been a big oversight.”

Ron laughed hollowly, ringing in Harry’s ears like a demented chortle. It was gone as fast as it came. “Yeah, that’s an understatement.” He’d folded his arms across his chest. “She chewed you out, didn’t she? She’d be the sort to have a wobbly about this.”

“Hermione…didn’t give me the answer I wanted,” Harry forced himself to admit, although dragging the words out was difficult. The effort was akin to swallowing apple pips. Taking a deep breath, he said to his desk, “I should’ve went to you instead.”

Ron was mumbling a few choice words beneath his breath that Harry couldn’t catch. Then he said, “I honestly don’t know what you see in…oh, right. I forgot. Your first crush was Chang. Of course.” Rolling his eyes at Harry’s bowed head, he said, “Look, Harry, I hate to admit it but whatever Hermione’s said to you, she’s likely correct. Blokes don’t work that way. Women don’t work that way. It’s the same whatever gender it is. If you don’t refuse him upfront, he’s going to fall in love with you. You should tell him now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous….” Harry paused. Then his scowl turned severe. “I’m hoping it won’t happen. If it does, well….”

Ron groaned again. “Another understatement,” he mumbled. Louder, he asked, “He’s an ambassador, isn’t he? A top-secret confidential, high-risk magical creature from a secret society that neither you nor Hermione are authorized to reveal?”

“‘Secret society?’” Harry parroted blandly.

“Blimey, Harry. Have you not read the subscriptions? It’s been all the Daily Prophet’s been talking about since you’d brought him here. He looks and talks odd. And he’s always with you. Obviously people are going to speculate.”

“Remember, I told Kreacher to comb through my letters. I only read what he’s approved.” Dread pooled in his stomach like acid. There was one topic that the press loved to publish about him, and it all revolved around his bachelor status. Dismay melted into Harry’s expression. “No, you’re saying—?”

It was as if Ron read his mind. “No, no! Most of them’s all harmless speculation. The most Skeeter’s done is hint that you two have been attached to the hip a lot more than…actually, you might not want to look into it. I know how you get….” Ron trailed off, bringing his face away from his hand. Instead, he cradled his jaw, his eyes rooting Harry to his place. Then out of the blue, he declared, “You have gravitas.”

Harry’s head whirled. He spluttered, “I beg your pardon?”

“If what you’re saying is true, that’s why he’s attracted to you,” Ron declared, gesturing at Harry. “You’re both diplomats. He’s prim and grim. You’re rich, gloomy, and distinguished. If he fancies blokes, of course he’s going to want to shag the Chosen One. You are a walking success story. Death has lent you gravitas. I can’t say I envy you.”

“…Honestly, I’m astonished that you even know the word.”

“Hilarious, you are. But I heard Hermione say it once. I liked how it sounded. Gra-vi-tas.” Ron spoke carefully around the pronunciation of the syllables. “Makes you sound posh.”

“If you have the ability to joke, then you must be in an improved mood.”

“You’re also mul-ti-fa-ce-ted.”

“Incredible. Keep that up, Ron, and everyone will comment on how Hermione’s been a good influence on you.”

They shared a private smile. For a moment, it was as if they were two mates having a pint in a pub after work hours, back when they were both trainees bonding over who had the worst work anecdote of the day. It was only minutes later when the illusion shattered, once both wizards realized they’d gotten off-topic. Their demeanors immediately shifted back into that of sobriety.

“It’s up to you,” Ron begun, “what you want to do. You’re a functioning adult.”

“I know I’m an adult.”

“If you want to ignore it, fine. Y’know what my wife and I think about it. But I’ll support you every step of the way.”

Harry was silent for a moment. Then he whispered, “Even if it turns out to be a bad decision?”

The grin he received was bleak but lopsided.

“Well, maybe not always,” Ron conceded, making it a point to gaze directly into his eyes, “but unlike Hermione, I’ll back my best mate up—even when it’s stupid and mad. I’m familiar with that Potter stubbornness.”

“It’s tough changing my mind,” Harry joked, feeling the muscles in his face loosening. He must’ve been smiling back for Ron’s own to have grown looser. “In all seriousness, Ron, don’t tell Hermione this. She knows but….”

“Mum’s the word.” He mimed zipping his lips shut, twisting an invisible key and throwing it over his shoulder.

Time to take the plunge, Harry thought to himself, opening a drawer and seizing a stack of business cards tied together by a rubber band. Thumbing through them, he said, “I also don’t want to separate you from your wife.”

Ron blinked.

Finding the one he wanted, Harry leaned forward in his seat. “I’m doing this for your own good. Consider this an order.”

Harry slid a card over. Embossed on the black card was the name “IRENE TREMLETT,” with “Post-Marriage Counselling” printed underneath. Underneath, white ink bisected the center of the card like a jagged tear, fading in and out of existence. Harry had thought it to be clever symbolism.

“Tremlett?” Ron muttered, reading the card. His mouth was slashed downwards. “As in, the bass player from The Weird Sisters? The famous one?”

“She’s his wife,” Harry supplied helpfully. “Goldstein’s a fan of the band. You remember Donaghan Tremlett. From the band that was there for our Yule Ball?” Harry stole a glance at his pocket watch. He frowned.

“Why do you have—?”

His eyes shot back up. “Ron, your parents have noticed. Your brothers and sister have noticed. Everyone at work has. You don’t think I wouldn’t ask Goldstein one day if he had any professional referrals?” He tapped the card. “I know you and Hermione won’t do it. So I’m booking her for you two.”

Ron immediately launched into a string of protests.

“You don’t have a choice. If not me, then sooner or later, your mum and dad might.” Watching Ron wilt in his seat, Harry demanded, “Don’t you want to fix your marriage? Is this an issue of pride?”

“No! I mean, we’ve thought about it. But—”

“But nothing. There’s no shame in seeking professional help. No one is going to think any less of you.” Harry stood up. He took a deep breath. Then he rattled off: “Send me your timetable please, soon, so I know when the next available day is for you. I’ll take a look at Hermione’s too. I don’t want to get your knickers into a twist about it, so I’ll do you a favor and tell Hermione that you were the one to take initiative. It’s the effort that counts, alright? That you’re trying? She’ll like that.”

Scrambling to his feet, Ron mirrored his stance. He folded his arms. “Where are we going—?”

“I’m going to pick up Sesshomaru. I don’t mean to be rude, but I promised him. It’s our nightly thing. You…I don’t know what you want to do, but I assume you’d want to spend time with Hermione before you head back to the States again. You should.” His eyes rooted Ron to the spot. “How goes the investigation in America anyway?”

“It’s only been a few days, Harry,” Ron retorted, although his expression had become queer when Harry mentioned Sesshomaru’s name. He was looking at Harry strangely. “Do you two go on walks? Is that a thing?”

Harry ignored that. He insisted, “An update on its current status, Ron.”

“…We’re still settling in. Rubbing elbows. All that sod. It’s not that fast.”

“I said I wanted a report by the end of the month.”

“And you’ll get one.” Ron shifted on his feet. His shoulders were hunched, with one hand gripping his arm awkwardly. Although he towered over Harry, the way he now held himself made Harry feel like a giant in comparison. Ron added, “The Director still loathes you.”

Harry smirked. “Well, I can’t win them all.”

[quinnyandco]

(100 OC asks) All: 1. Berlin: 4, 14, 24. Kes: 5, 12, 33, 83. Lark: 60, 85, 93. Amber: 33, 41, 58, 65. Arthur: 5, 11, 63, 74, 81.

oh boy oh boy here we go (answers under the cut because they are rather extensive)

Send me an OC ask HERE! 

1. What do they smell like? 

Berlin - Old leather, steel, sweat

Kes - Water, plant matter, incense. 

Amber - Hospital soap, perfume she didn’t pick out

Arthur - He smells a little different every day. He has like ten different colognes and when he remembers to put it on it’s rarely the same one twice. 

Lark - Darkroom chemicals, typewriter ink, the very best scent she can get cheaply 

Berlin:

4. What is their most embarrassing memory?

Royally screwing up a really important skill assessment when he was about 14 because he lost focus. He went into a sort of “rebellious period” after that where he refused to fight any more, but came back to it after less than a week because…well, he didn’t really have a choice. 

14. How do they react to/deal with betrayal?

Not well at all. He was raised in an environment where such a thing would be less than unacceptable. Not to mention that he pours everything he has into a select few people, and if one of them was to just throw it all back in his face he probably would never speak to them again unless they offered him something he couldn’t refuse. 

24. Do they prefer either hot or cold weather more? 

He’s a summer child, born in August and eternally burning. He seems to be attracted to flame and whatever can warm him through. Whenever he’s cold he feels like his brain is cold, too, and he can’t do anything properly. Inevitably this need gets him into trouble because he may want heat but he needs cooling. 

Kes:

5. How do they deal with/react to pain?

Kes is very much like a dog when she’s wounded. She goes off into a private corner somewhere to lick her wounds and doesn’t let anyone see them. If asked, she’ll only tell you the truth if she really trusts you. 

12. How do they like to dress?

She’s never had all that much of a choice. When she was a child she had good clothes, but after her mother died it went downhill. She wore out her own things and then eventually started wearing her mother’s. Occasionally her father would get her something, but again, she didn’t have the choice over what it looked like. She doesn’t truly figure out what she likes until she’s living with Sitara, who helps her explore her options. Mostly she goes for something quite modest but with a luxurious touch–made of silk like her Clan’s holy order uniforms, or in a deep color like purple or blue. 

33.Do they own any objects of significant personal importance?

Her mother’s holy book. She left almost everything else behind. Not entirely by choice, but because she didn’t have much of value in the first place and what was left was tainted by bad memories. 

83. Are they comfortable with the way they look?

She is in general. She doesn’t put a great deal of stock in her looks--she knows that she’s a little “odd-looking” but it doesn’t depress her because she never wanted anything that would require great beauty. In fact, as her dream for years was becoming a scholar/nun, it really didn’t matter at all. This is also due in part to her personality, which puts intelligence and wisdom at the top. She can appreciate beauty--she’s absolutely entranced by attractive people like Sitara and Edward. But she wouldn’t find them as compelling if they didn’t exhibit other valuable characteristics. 

Lark:

60. What is something that they’re sure to laugh at?

She finds humor in most things, so it’s not hard to get her to laugh. But her best laughter comes from personal things like inside jokes with her best friends and almost any story that Arthur tells. 

85.What kind of personalities do they find attractive?

People who are kind and sweet, but also have some great weakness that requires her help. She likes turning people into projects and seeing them improve under her guidance. That being said, she tends to fall in love with the wrong people. Too broken for even her to fix, or too angry to let her try. The problem is that she puts her self-worth in what she can do for other people, so she ends up feeling depressed if they push her away. 

93.What kinds of things anger them?

Injustice, misunderstandings that can easily be solved by people just talking, unwarranted rudeness or coldness. She’s always trying, so she gets angry when other people don’t respect her enough to try just as hard.

Amber:

33.Do they own any objects of significant personal importance?

She has conflicting relationships with “things”. She knows what it’s like to live without and so she values the things she has now, but she also doesn’t form emotional attachments to them. So if she were to lose them, she would only mourn that they were wasted. However, the one item she truly values is a book her brother loved that he kept with him until he died. 

41. Do they struggle with any mental health issues?

Not any that she would admit to. But she is often depressed and anxious. She also shows signs of mild PTSD and has not dealt with the grief of losing her brother in a healthy way.

58. Do they ever have nightmares? If so, what about?

She doesn’t have nightmares so much as vivid dreams in which her subconscious tries to sort through all of the emotional issues that she won’t deal with when she’s awake. Occasionally these dreams can become nightmares about wondering the exact circumstances of her brother’s death, possible fates her mother could have come to, etc. She finds uncertainties much more frightening than realities (no matter how disturbing those realities may be to others).

65.If they knew they were going to die, what would they do/say?

She hates the generality of this question because her answer would change entirely depending on circumstances. Is it a slow death, like cancer? Is it a relatively quick death like a gunshot wound? What other people are with her in this situation and how have they been treating her recently? That being said, the most important person in her life is now Arthur, so she’d try to tell him how she felt about him (it’s only fair, since he’s given her so much) and trust him to take care of everything else like the funeral and getting rid of her belongings. He let her live the way she wanted to, so he deserves to do all that stuff the way he’d want to. 

Arthur: 

5. How do they deal with/react to pain?

Mostly through an elaborately impressive repertoire of both real and made-up swear words and a few stiff drinks. That’ll knock pretty much anything out.

11. What do they feel most insecure about?

Inability to focus on simple tasks and the lack of trust that others place in him because of that. 

63. Do they have an accent?

HA i know EXACTLY why you asked this and the answer is no. I just like to pretend he does.

74.Are they quick to anger? What are they like when they loose their temper?

He’s quick to anger at himself but not at others. He’s very calm most of the time so when he really does lose his temper at someone else, it’s pretty scary. There’s a lot of yelling and also he’s really good at the guilt trip, so when he’s done you WILL know that you’ve wronged him and he’s not going to put up with it anymore. 

81.Do they try to hide their emotions? Are they good at it?

Arthur is 25% bad decisions, 25% alcohol, and 50% emotional repression. So yeah, he’s pretty good at it. 

THANK YOU, this was so much fun!