Of Flats and Darklings

Very Quick Author’s Note:

I am English, like the majority of the characters in the HP universe, and therefore when I write I use English slang, phrases, etc. This means that in this chapter, Ron and Hermione hunt for a ‘flat’ not an ‘apartment’ and they use an ‘estate agent’ rather than a ‘realtor.’ I apologise if me saying this seems patronising but I’ve had readers be confused about words I’ve used before and I just want to clarify before I confuse more people!! Anyway, enjoy!

11th November 2000

“Ron. It’s a flat. What does it matter what shape the bathroom is as long as it has one?”

“Of course it matters!”

“How?! It’s. A. Flat. I couldn’t care less that the kitchen faces north, or that the living room is painted bright orange, or that the hall smells a little bit like peaches.”

“Well, I can’t help it if I want our first home to be perfect, can I, Hermione?”

The grin Ron fixes Hermione with now is so wide and so inane that Harry bites his lip to quell the laughter bubbling through him at the sight of her expression, and instead contents himself with squeezing Ginny’s hand conspiratorially. They have agreed to help Ron and Hermione search for a flat – Ron so that he can have a second and a third opinion, and Hermione so that she doesn’t end up killing Ron for being too picky – and although Ginny was initially reluctant, pleading to Harry that the day would be far better spent in bed (sleeping, of course, though she doubts Harry believes her), she has to admit now that it is actually rather fun.

This, so far, is the seventh flat they have seen today, and it’s still only four-thirty. This isn’t including the countless other properties now united under the heading Not What We’re Looking For, Thank You. Uncharacteristically, Ron has become a sudden perfectionist, meticulously scanning each property they are shown in search of flaws and absolutely obsessed with his vision of The Perfect Flat, and already it has become clear that this simply does not exist, mostly because he has already rejected the first six.

Flat Number One, though large and well-decorated, was, apparently, in ‘a dodgy area’. Privately, Harry thinks that if a children’s play park and a large supermarket constitutes ‘dodgy’ then he would love to know what Ron would think of truly bad places.

Flat Number Two was rejected soon after Ron bemoaned the paper-thin walls, claiming that he doesn’t want to live in a place where he has to remember to breathe quietly. Hermione began to counter this claim, citing the beautiful ensuite bathroom and relatively spacious living room as benefits that outweighed this, when, unfortunately for her argument, there was a groan of pleasure which was punctuated by a loud flushing noise and which could only have been coming from the next room. Which happened, more unfortunately still, to be in the next flat. The memory of this incident now makes it even harder for Harry to prevent himself from smiling.

Flat Number Three Ron refused to enter, having spied several large and slightly menacing-looking pigeons ruffling their feathers aggressively above the kitchen window, pointing out the rather unattractive swirl of green-white droppings that adorn the outer walls of the building. Ginny has tried to point out that this is in fact Art, but Ron insists that she just wants him to have to pay to live in a giant pigeon toilet.

Flat Number Four was looking extremely promising. There were several large rooms, all beautifully decorated, and even the direction of the bathroom was deemed by Ron to be acceptable. Harry had even begun congratulating Ron on managing to find his dream home at last, when Ginny happened to curiously poke a small hole in the wall, at which point the plaster crumbled beneath her prodding digit and covered the floor with a thick blanket of grey dust, exposing a rather large hole in the wall. But, as Hermione cheerfully pointed out, at least they know now that next-door have a bright fuchsia kitchen, which shows that there is hope; there are worse-decorated flats than the ones they have been shown so far.

By Flat Number Five, Harry was beginning to lose interest somewhat. He knew even before they entered that Ron would dislike it, and not because of the smell on the landing. It wasn’t because of the seemingly endless series of doors they were forced to pass through before they even got close to the front door. No – although Ron still is adamant that the ‘vibe wasn’t right there’, Harry has a sneaking suspicion that the reason Ron rejected Flat Number Five has rather more to do with the fact that an absolutely enormous leather-clad biker had emerged from next door in a cloud of smoke and muttered a gruff greeting to the little group, causing the blood to drain from Ron’s face and pool in his ears, and stealing his grasp of the English language to such an extent that he was only able to say one word through the entirety of their exchange, which was “Mmpfnfgf”.

Flat Number Six required them to climb a never-ending staircase, so that the four of them were gasping by the time they reached the front door, practically ready to collapse in a heap. Even the estate agent who is showing them around, a spry young woman of around thirty and with impossibly bouncy blonde hair, flushed pink and was breathing slightly more heavily, and she didn’t bat an eyelid when Ron politely informed her that he didn’t quite fancy the idea of climbing Mount Staircase after a refreshing day relaxing in the sun, let alone after a long day at work.

Now, by Flat Number Seven, Harry and Ginny can see the estate agent’s uniform grin is starting to slip slightly. She remains relentlessly chirpy, which while irritating is nevertheless worth watching Hermione’s reaction to – Ginny has already whispered in Harry’s ear that if Hermione’s lips go so thin from frustration that they disappear then he owes her ten Galleons. Harry knows without asking her that she is tired, because she keeps unconsciously pulling on her left earlobe, a trait left over from her early adolescence, and he knows that she would happily settle for any of the properties they have seen so far, simply so that the Never Ending Search will finally be over.

Ron, however, appears to be entirely oblivious to how much aggravation he is causing, and is happily inspecting the flat for any imperfections. Privately, Harry doubts that he will find any. From what he can see, this one looks perfect. It isn’t too far from The Burrow, meaning that Hermione won’t have to learn to cook roast dinners exactly the way Mrs Weasley does; each room is spacious and airy, filled with natural light that floods in easily from large windows, and all the walls are painted white, so that there are no awful colour schemes to put Ron off. Even the rent is not as steep as the Pigeon Place, meaning that they won’t have to live off pasta and soup and knit their own clothes for the rest of their lives if they pick this flat.

Not that this is persuading Ron particularly. He isn’t bothered that the hall smells faintly of peaches (he swears he saw Ginny inhale as they walked in, though she vehemently denies this) – at least, not as bothered as he is pretending to be - and if he is honest he is only complaining about the direction the kitchen faces to irritate Hermione; he might love her now but it is still too much fun to wind her up not to do it, so he ensures he does this at least once a day. However, he can see the slim fingers of her right hand twitching oddly as if she is restraining them from getting out her wand, which would, at best, be an awful idea, since they have decided to search for their new home using a Muggle estate agent, and it will ruin the day slightly if she witnesses the happy couple curse each other into oblivion.

“This property is in a lovely location…” Ron can hear the estate agent speaking but he tuned her out a long time ago; she has a brittle, nasal quality to her voice which he thinks privately is rather unfortunate, because her face is quite pretty. He wanders around the flat as she speaks, trying to picture it filled with furniture, trying to imagine himself living here. Not, of course, that they actually have any furniture just yet. But how expensive can that be? Ron has already vowed to himself that from the moment he and Hermione have picked a place he will buy nothing but the best. He hasn’t told her, but he loves having his own income, his own money. After years of scraping by, it feels nice to be able to walk into a shop and buy something he needs or wants without fretting over how the cost will be met. He hasn’t told her any of this and he doubts he ever will; it’s hard to understand how good sudden fortune feels when you’ve never had to grow accustomed to struggling, even with the best intentions in the world.

“If we picked this place, how long will it be before we can move in?” Hermione asks out of nowhere, taking Ron by surprise, and he suddenly feels guilty. He has been automatically rejecting flats at the slightest hiccough; he has not even considered if Hermione might have liked the places they have been shown, and he has not particularly discussed any of them.

“Oh, it’s ready to go right now,” says the estate agent chirpily, her mega-watt smile impossibly bright, so that Ron watches the corner of Hermione’s mouth twitch a little in irritation despite her friendliness to the woman. “I’d say around a fortnight from now, once everything’s sorted out properly. I’ll leave you for a moment to discuss it.” She walks from the living room, her impossibly high heels clacking on the wood floor, her hair swinging from side to side, and Hermione swears she sees Harry’s eyes dart to her bottom, bouncy in a little skirt, as she sashays out. Then again, she can also see Ginny looking too.

“Whatever that woman’s on,” says Ginny now, confirming Hermione’s suspicions. “I want some of it. I want to be that bouncy when I walk too.”

“Well, I know what to get you for Christmas now, then,” smiles Harry. “A pogo stick. And some Prozac so you can be relentlessly happy too.”

“You’re the one who’ll have to put up with me,” replies Ginny innocently. “Go for it.”

“What d’you think, then, Hermione?” Ron asks, looking at her now. She is looking carefully out of the window, a slight frown on her face, and she turns to him, still frowning.

“I think there are better views to have than lots of other buildings, but other than that, I like it,” she says. “It’s got a nice atmosphere here, don’t you think? And there’s that spare room too – that means I’ll be able to have a study. What about you?”

Ron smiles. “I think we’ve found our flat.”

OoOoOoOoOoO

“Molly…” Arthur’s voice holds a faint note of warning not usual contained there as he watches her feverishly scrubbing pots and pans by hand rather than by magic; a sure sign that she is agitated. “Molly, they’re both adults now…”

“That’s not what I’m objecting to, Arthur!” snaps Molly, and she doesn’t pause in her activities even as she fixes her husband with steely eyes. He pushed his glasses up his nose with his index finger and blinks at her. “I just don’t see why they’re rushing things.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” says Arthur pleasantly. “They’ve been going out for over two years now; we were married by that point in our relationship.”

“Well, that’s just it,” sniffs Molly. “Why don’t they get married first, before moving in together? We did.”

“Yes, but that was all so quickly, Molly. We didn’t wait for anything.”

“I can’t see why they don’t wait. When you and I got married there was a war coming, it was what everyone was doing. And there isn’t a war on anymore! They of all people know that!”

Arthur doesn’t say anything for long moments, but simply sits and watches his wife scrubbing away. He doesn’t understand how they can have been married for the best part of three decades (and he is absolutely sure it is the ‘best’ part) and yet she still has not noticed the way he likes to sit and watch her sometimes. She is constantly moving, his Molly, so that the air around her seems to fizz and crackle with each ebb of her mood; she doesn’t know it, but he loves it best when she is sleeping and he can simply see what she looks like in repose, when the lines of worry are smoothed clear by an invisible hand; when she stops forcing the smile to her face and it becomes real as she dreams; when she stops rushing around for once and he can remember what it is that made him fall for her in the first place. He likes it best because he fell in love with Molly the first time he saw her relaxing, stretched out in the sun with her eyes lightly closed, the serenity that surrounded her almost tangible, a sight so rare he hardly dares take the memory out lest it be snatched away; he likes it best because when he sees her like this it reminds him of the good times, before he was forced to watch as age and stress marred her face, before ‘age and stress’ were words that even existed in their vocabularies.

“Look, Molly,” he says now, coming to stand by his wife and resting a hand gently on her arm. “You are never going to like the idea that your children have grown up. You were exactly like this when Bill announced he was marrying Fleur, and now look – you’re constantly at Shell Cottage. I dread to think what Ginny’s going to have to fight through to get your approval. And this isn’t some silly little relationship that won’t last. This is Hermione, Molly.”

Molly doesn’t say anything but she has stopped scrubbing at the pans, and Arthur takes this as a sign that she is at least listening to him, even if she isn’t agreeing with anything he is saying. He takes her hands, now broiled pink from the steaming water, and looks softly into her eyes, feeling the familiar pull of her once more.

“They’re not married,” says Arthur. “But don’t you think that’s exactly where they’re heading, anyway?”

Molly can’t argue with the logic of this. “I know that,” she says. “And I hope we’re both right. But I don’t have to like the fact that most of my children have moved away. There’s only George and Ginny left here now, and even they won’t be around for much longer, will they? They’ve got the shop, and Ginny’s got Harry and eventually George will find someone too.” She sniffs. “I always used to complain that the house was too noisy; I never got a moment’s peace. I used to wish everyone away sometimes. And now they’ve all gone.”

Arthur smiles and kisses his wife gently. “The children are. But we’ve still got grandchildren, haven’t we? There’s Victoire, and Teddy, even. And that’s only from Bill. There’re five other children - just think of all the grandkids still to come. And stop getting so sad about it.” He pulls her into a tight hug as he speaks, so that she can inhale the scent of him, the pinewood and earthy smell that she first fell for three decades ago, when every crease of her face was a product of laughter rather than stress, when her hair was vibrant and red and fell in rippling waves to the small of her back, when her figure was still svelte and trim and she hadn’t given birth to seven of his children.

A loud slamming of what can only be the front door breaks the fragile moment, and Molly pulls away from her husband to see her two youngest children, Harry and Hermione walk into the kitchen. Ron is smiling, so that Molly can smell the poorly-disguised excitement that emanates from him in waves, and she forces her own smile to her face, so that he can’t see that she is upset.

“We’ve found somewhere, Mum,” he says, positively beaming. “We move in on the twenty-eighth of this month.”

“That’s great,” says Molly, after a moment’s pause and meaningful glance from Arthur. “That’s wonderful – did you look at many properties before you picked one?”

Both Harry and Ginny bite their lips as Hermione says dryly, “Oh, not that many, really.”

OoOoOoOoOoO

“You’re on top of things, I see,” says Harry, coming into Ron’s office and sitting casually on his desk. Ron looks up briefly from the paperwork that litters his desk and smiles.

“Yeah, can’t you tell? Tremayne gave me that report on Brady and Stevenson three hours ago and I’ve still not even had time to look at it. Where’s Hermione when you need her, eh?”

“Well, you could always go and find her,” says Harry, stretching slightly; he slept uncomfortably last night. For some reason a spring has come loose in his mattress, and no amount of pressing it, magic or rather loud swearing could coax it back into lying flat rather than jutting painfully into the flesh of his hip. “But I don’t think she’d appreciate you dumping a load of your work on her desk – we’re not at school anymore.”

“Yeah,” agrees Ron, laughing a little. “And don’t I know it!”

“You all ready to move in, then?”

“What do you think?” Ron replies coolly, and Harry laughs and shakes his head.

“Knowing you, I’d say you’ve not even packed yet.”

“Got it in one.”

“Hermione’s gonna kill you – you’re meant to be moving in tonight!”

Ron raises an eyebrow at his friend. “Believe it or not, mate, I actually had worked that one out myself. Oh well, it’ll be a fun argument.”

“I’m surprised, actually,” says Harry, and Ron frowns.

“Why’s that?”

“Two things really. One - that you didn’t pack the day you picked the flat out of sheer excitement. And two - that it took you this long to ask her to move in with you.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I was expecting you to do it within about six months.” This isn’t a lie. Ron doesn’t know it, but Harry and Ginny have been making bets with one another as to when it would happen, and currently Harry owes Ginny twenty-seven Galleons and six Sickles. Her knowledge of her brother’s emotional and social ineptitude look set to make her a rather well-off girl.

“Well,” says Ron. “I’ve done it now. Your turn next.”

“Not for a while yet,” says Harry pensively, and Ron looks confused. “I don’t think me and Gin are quite there yet,” he offers by way of explanation.

“Can’t believe I’m about to say this, but why not?” asks Ron. It’s not that he’s particularly desperate to marry off his little sister, but at the same time Harry is his best friend, and he wants him to be happy. And from what he has witnessed of the two of them (not that he wanted to; she is still his little sister, and he has no desire to see anything other than a chaste kiss on the cheek or the occasional hand-holding) they certainly appear to be strong and happy.

“I dunno,” shrugs Harry. “I don’t know if she’d want to, you know? I think she still wants to be young while she’s got the chance – I mean, she’s still at the joke shop with George, and she’s enjoying it. I don’t want to rush anything.”

Ron’s ears redden slightly as he focuses on the last part of Harry’s comment. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Rushing things?”

Harry doesn’t even blink as he answers his friend. “How could I think you’re rushing things when I’ve just said I was expecting you to do this eighteen months ago?”

A silver head pokes around the corner of Ron’s office, interrupting their conversation. “I need you two to get down to Maidstone pronto and take Longbottom and Silvas with you for backup,” says Jeremy Filkins, their boss. We just got a tip-off that Burton and Finchley have been spotted there.”

Gerald Burton and Orion Finchley have been Ron and Harry’s main focus for several months now. Over the summer the two of them have helped to disband a small group of Dark wizards, fanatics really, who call themselves Darklings and who remain loyal to Voldemort, despite his death, and continue to attempt to carry out his plans. In the two and a half years since the Battle of Hogwarts the Auror team under Kingsley’s rule has been largely successful in tracking down and imprisoning rogue Death Eaters who had previously eluded the authorities, but shortly after this the Darklings appeared to form, though it isn’t clear precisely how. There have been several Muggle deaths over the last few months, which the government has attributed to gas leaks, and so far most of the Darklings have been caught and sent to Azkaban, now no longer under Dementor rule. Burton and Finchley, however, have proven to be the most difficult to catch; though by no means the ringleaders they are nevertheless extremely dangerous, and the Auror Department fears that they will reform the Darklings. There are always wizards and witches out to seek power and notoriety whatever the cost, although currently Burton and Finchley are the only two known ones. This, however, does not mean a thing; Burton and Finchley are known only because they elect to be, whereas the other, more dangerous, Darklings remain hidden, at least for the time being.

Twenty minutes later, Ron and Harry, accompanied by Neville and Tristan Silvas, are on the streets of Maidstone, heading towards the little house they have been informed contains the two Darklings, their earlier conversation forgotten. Reaching the house, Harry pulls his wand out and glances down at the Sneakoscope in his hand, fitted with a Silencing Charm so as not to give away their position, and studies it carefully, waiting for the lights to spin, a warning. Ron follows his lead, his own wand gripped tightly in his long fingers as they slip the Invisibility Cloak over their shoulders, trying to pull it down; they are far taller now that they are no longer thirteen, and every so often their feet slip out from beneath the silvery folds of the Cloak. Neville and Tristan simply press themselves against the frames of the door, out of direct sight. When the door proves to be locked, Ron points his wand at it and whispers “Alohomora” but nothing happens.

“Locking charm,” whispers Harry, and Ron nods, pulling out a Swiss-army knife from his pocket and flipping to the knife attachment that can open any lock. He presses himself carefully against the door, aware that they may have only minutes, and slides the knife down the crease between the door and the frame, waiting for the small click that means he is successful. The little group slip quietly inside, feeling the darkness settle over them uncomfortably, and edge towards the stairs, spreading out slightly.

A scuffling noise upstairs makes Harry freeze, every hair on his body on end, his nerves stretched taut as he strains to pinpoint the source. Tristan, a stocky blond wizard of twenty-three, moves beside him, pointing at the ceiling with his wand carefully and whispers, “Ostendo Presentia.” Nothing happens for long moments, and the four of them stare carefully at the ceiling, waiting. Slowly, patches of colour seem to seep through the ceiling, moving around, in the shapes of footprints, as though someone is walking on the ceiling wearing paint-spattered shoes.

“They’re upstairs,” breathes Tristan. “I’d say there’s about three of them but they’re all in the same room.”

“Right,” says Harry. “Me and Ron will head upstairs first – you two stay behind us a bit, just in case. They don’t know we’re here yet, so let’s try and take them by surprise.”

At collective nods from the assembled group, Harry grips his wand tighter, and carefully the four of them move towards the stairs.

“Hang on,” says Ron, and he points his wand at the stairs. “Silencio,” he mutters, and when he takes a tentative first step he is relieved that it does not groan beneath his weight.

“Right,” says Neville bracingly. “Let’s go.”

Author’s Note:

Muahaha – cliffhanger! But this will be resolved in the next chapter – I do have a plan!

Ostendo Presentia is the result of me typing Reveal Presence into an online Latin translator, therefore please do not flame me for you having a better grasp of Latin than me – I studied it for five years but I gave it up three years ago, meaning I remember very little of it. If anyone has any corrections then please let me know and I’ll fix this.

Once again, enormous thank you to the following people:

Ella Bridi,
IheartHP95,
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