Serendipity: All Needs Met. All Desires Fulfilled.
Summary: Four people damaged by war and circumstance find solace in the unlikeliest of places.
Chapter 4 of the anti MLC fic wherein we catch up with Ron.
NC-17 Rating is for later chapters.
Chapter 4: Ron Resigned
See, the problem is that God gave men a brain and a penis, and only enough blood to run one at a time ~ Robin Williams.
The only sounds disturbing the otherwise monastic silence in Ron Weasley’s office were the scritch-scratch of quill on parchment, the intermittent glugging of the coffee pot as its warming charm kicked in and the restless fluttering of Petroc, Ron’s official Ministry owl, flexing its wings. His desk, with the exception of the two photographs in their silver frames and the Remembrall Ginny had given him for his seventeenth birthday, was devoid of all unnecessary clutter and ornament. This haven of neatness, it had to be said, was not a state of Ron’s making.
‘Here, Petroc,’ said Ron, rolling up his letter into a scroll. ‘Take this to Shell Cottage, please. Quick as you can.’
Apart from his name and rank (Division Head: Family Liaison Branch) on the door, having his own owl was about the only indication of Ron’s senior status in the Aurory. Ron did not consider it a position to boast about, Noser-in-chief-into-other-people’s-private-lives, the most depressing job in the universe, and had only agreed to take it on under duress:
‘Best man for the job,’ Kingsley had boomed, when he’d tried to protest. ‘We need someone like you. Someone with a big family who… er, well, someone who can be… diplomatic. Besides, it’s a good career move.’
‘Take it.’ His dad had seconded with a conspiratorial wink and a tap to the side of his nose. ‘You can make a difference.’
A quick management training course, a new office, a team of three (plus a secretary), and an owl later, Ron had found himself being thrown in at the deep end without a life-belt. Seeing the seedier side of life up close and personal from the outset, Ron had been an uncomfortable witness to the effectiveness, or lack thereof, of the Ministry’s Selective breeding programme. The Daily Prophet may have seen fit to churn out regular gushing reports on happy unions and photographs of beaming, rosy-cheeked babies in support, but Ron knew that the official story was just that. A work of fiction. Propaganda. And it fell on his department to bear the brunt of the reality of the situation: ill-matched couples, entrenched blood-prejudice and sex that in any civilised society would be classed as rape. This downside was never alluded to in the papers, of course—indeed, other than the occasional discrete line or two in the Obituary columns, any visitor to wizarding Britain might have thought they’d landed in some sort of magical Utopia. Fortunately, however, Ron’s job had recently developed a more… personally satisfying side. One not officially sanctioned, a secret side that made the daily slog worthwhile and kept his sense of helplessness at bay. A side, as his father had intimated, that could mean the difference between life and death for some poor, abused spouse.
But he’d been too late to save this one.
Ron shook his head in dismay as he scanned the contents of the open folder, sighing at the mess that greeted him.
‘Keen to get down the pub again, Davies, were you?’ He’d have to have words with Davies about his slap-dash, it’s-not-my-problem, presentation. Again.
He hated casework. The only thing Ron hated more than writing up a case was checking over someone else’s, and Davies was a sloppy bastard who was guaranteed to cut corners if he thought he could get away with it.
With an exasperated, ‘Just wait until your appraisal, mate,’ Ron shuffled the jumbled notes into some semblance of order, extracted the witness statements and placed the St Mungo’s pathology report on top. The summary caught his attention:
Cause of death: Severe internal haemorrhaging due to ingestion of caustic substance…
He set it aside for the moment. The medical stuff could wait; Ron’s immediate concern was to establish that the correct procedures had been followed, but it was still hard to ignore the photographs. He prodded one with his quill and frowned. The Muggle-born witch seemed vaguely familiar—a Hufflepuff in Ginny’s year, perhaps?
Suicide, he scribbled on his own notepad, the familiar feeling of anger rising. Pretty girl—or had been. Could they have got to her sooner? Hadn’t a neighbour, friend—anyone—suspected something?
‘When questioned, Mr Rawlings, husband of the deceased, stated that he’d had his suspicions regarding his wife’s state of mind…’
‘I bet he did,’ Ron scoffed, adding, Suspected Death Eater sympathiser to his notes.
And so it went on, Ron scouring through the case looking for inconsistencies, tutting occasionally while meticulously initialling each page. Rawlings, it transpired, had discovered some aconite amongst his wife’s possessions and removed it, fearing she might be planning to take her own life. It seemed he’d been correct in his assumption, though it hadn’t deterred her: Mrs Scower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover had done the job just as well.
An open and shut case, Ron had to surmise since, in spite of his best efforts, he couldn’t find fault with Davies’ investigation, and the pathology report was conclusive. Foul play was not suspected. There was nothing to do but sign it off.
Ron’s eyes lingered on the footnote to the Postmortem examination as he slowly closed the folder: Mrs Rawlings had been around three months pregnant at the time of death.
‘Two lives wasted.’ Ron sighed, inking up his official stamp. He brought it down on the front cover with a decisive thump.
~ CASE CLOSED ~
The folder joined the growing pile in the out tray. One more suicide was added to Ron’s personal tally, though why he was keeping score was a mystery even to him. No one was taking the slightest scrap of notice of the statistics. No one seemed to give a toss. How many more were there going to be before someone brought an end to this insanity? How many, like Martha Bulstrode, who’d chosen death rather than be forced against her nature to have sex with a man—any man?
Ron gave a loud yawn and rocked back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head and trying to think of something more pleasant. The coffee pot let off a puff of steam while he stared at the door, the aroma tickling his nostrils. He glanced at the clock, whose hand was hovering around ~Time For A Break~, and smiled, ears straining for the tell-tale squeaky wheel of the filing trolley doing the rounds. Another five minutes at the most… Yes, he could hold out that long for a cuppa. Just five more minutes before the only ray of sunshine in his working day would be knocking on that very door…
Best not go there. Ron let the front legs of the chair hit the floor with a clatter and reached for the next case on the pile.
::MISSING: Purkiss, Lavinia. (Muggle-born)::
‘Best news I’ve had all day,’ Ron murmured, opening the folder. But had anyone noticed anything fishy? He needed to double-check that the trail was dead…
No suicide note or other correspondence pertaining to the missing person’s whereabouts was discovered at the informant’s home… ‘Good.’
No personal belongings reported as missing… ‘Brilliant.’ Looked like it had gone without a hitch.
This had been one of Ron’s ‘personal’ cases since the shout to the disturbance three weeks prior at the Purkiss household had happened by chance on his watch. A smiley-faced, grey-haired wizard had opened the door to the Aurors, but his air of geniality hadn’t fooled Ron for a minute:
‘Where’s your wife, Purkiss?’
‘Lavinia? In the kitchen, I expect.’
‘I’d like to see her. Now.’
‘Nasty piece of work, that Purkiss.’ Ron huffed, remembering how the smile had rapidly vanished. ‘Not fit to keep a Crup.’
There were no photos amongst the paperwork, but none were needed. Ron didn’t think he’d ever forget the waif-like creature that had emerged from the kitchen at her husband’s call. Barely a legal adult, Lavinia Purkiss looked all of twelve, but her eyes: oh, Merlin, those eyes would haunt him for a long time to come. They were more like those of an old crone who’d seen more of life than she could bear and was completely disinterested if it continued or not than those of a young girl just out of school. He could also vividly recall the bruise marks on her wrists and the red welt around her throat. It hadn’t taken Ron long to come to the conclusion that someone was quite likely to die in that house if he didn’t do something to intervene. Fast…
’May I see your wand Mrs Purkiss?
Lavinia glanced sideways at her husband: ‘Mas—Decimus?’
Scowling, Purkiss summoned the wand from a warded drawer. ‘She has no real need of it, you know. I take care of all my wife’s… needs.’
‘Really?’ Ron noted the look of longing that passed over the witch’s face as he examined the wand, but she made no effort to touch it. ’That’s… odd. A word in private, Mrs Purkiss.’ He gestured towards the door from which she had emerged earlier. ‘Dawkings, take Mr Purkiss’ statement while I have a word with his wife.’
‘Now see here.’
Turning his back on a now openly seething wizard, Ron ushered Lavinia into the kitchen.
‘You do have rights, you know.’ It was perhaps not the most tactful thing he could have said, and Ron knew he deserved the withering look the girl gave him. ‘I suppose I asked for that.’
‘He’s made it quite clear he’ll harm my family if I report him.’ Lavinia rubbed the mark on her neck, glancing between the door and the wand that was still in Ron’s hand before adding in an almost whisper, ‘Besides, he chains me up when he goes out. There’s nothing you can do.’
Ron sighed. ‘Suppose I could… guarantee your family’s safety. Would you get out of here then?’…
Lavinia hadn’t taken much persuading once Ron had outlined his plan, and had done exactly as he’d instructed, by the looks of it: the investigation into her disappearance having drawn a blank.
‘Well done, Lavinia. Well done.’
Funny how the simplest ideas were always the most effective. The old DA Galleon he’d left with her had done the job beautifully, first, by alerting Lavinia when her family had been safely moved out of harms way and second (via some nifty charm work, if he said so himself), by acting as a Portkey which would only activate when she uttered the word ‘Sanctuary’ three times. She would be in Shell Cottage by now, one in a chain of safe houses that would lead to an eventual reunion with her loved ones and a new life in Ireland. But Ron’s part in her disappearance was over—other than ensuring the file would gather a nice thick coating of dust somewhere in the bowels of the Ministry—though somehow, he doubted they’d seen the last of Decimus Purkiss.
Squeak-squeak. Squeak-squeak
Ron grabbed the next file, opened it quickly and pretended to read.
Knock-knock.
He kept his head down and grunted, ‘Enter!’
‘Anything for Archives, Mr Weasley?’
‘Hmm?’ Ron looked up and into the smiling face of his secretary, eternally thankful that he’d allowed his hair to grow past his ears since they were probably glowing like hot coals right now. ‘Oh, yes, Cherry. Thank you.’ He waved his hand in the general direction of the filing cabinet. ‘Usual place.’
He noticed Cherry’s appraising glance sweeping over his desk as she moved across the room, taking in the mounting pile of casework. ‘Would it disturb you if I filed those while I’m here?’ she asked.
‘Help yourself.’
‘Oh, and the Minister’s secretary sent a reminder about your two o’clock meeting.’
‘What? Oh, bu—bother.’ Ron grabbed the Remembrall and gave it a shake, the scarlet smoke confirming his forgetfulness. ‘What’s the point of these things, anyway, if they don’t actually remind you of what it is you’ve forgotten?’
‘Just as well I check your diary regularly, then, isn’t it.’ Cherry grinned cheekily over her shoulder as she bent to open the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet.
The material of her robe seemed to arrange itself in the most decorative manner possible around her behind, falling away in a fishtail and thus showing its perfect roundness off to full advantage. Ron tried not to stare and failed miserably. Wasn’t it just a wonderful stroke of fate that the only unattached witch in the section had been assigned to him? Wasn’t it just his luck she had the face of an angel and the arse of a goddess?
Gods, it was divine. If he’d had a Sickle for every time he’d dreamt about taking liberties with that magnificent backside, he’d be a very rich man. It had, in the few weeks since Cherry Plomley had breezed into his life and workspace, creating order where chaos once reigned, become the focus of just about every lurid wank fantasy his mind had cooked up when it hadn’t been occupied with anything else. That’s to say, ooh… every five seconds.
Or so.
A veritable catalogue had materialised for all manner of unlikely locations, though his favourite scenario happened right here, in his office, taking her from behind over the desk, hands full of those lovely mounds of flesh while he gave her a good hard fucking…
Cherry ferreted out a dead case from the back of the drawer, shifting her weight onto her other foot.
Her arse wobbled.
It wobbled.
Dear Merlin! It wasn’t natural. The thing had a life of its own. And he wasn’t the only bloke in the department to have noticed this phenomenon, either. When she walked, it seemed to move independently to the rest of her, wiggling around like two Jarveys fighting in a sack. It was bloody mesmerising, and just now, with it sticking up in the air like that, it was hard to fight the urge to want to wrestle it into submission.
Ron had to suppress a groan at the fantasy that evoked. Thinking about taking her both ways just where she stood was definitely not a good idea. The last time his imagination had wandered into the realms of buggery, an extremely undignified, not to mention uncomfortable, hobble to the staff toilets had ensued. He wasn’t about to make that mistake again—not in work, at any rate.
He tore his eyes away and rubbed them with the heels of his hands, wishing to all the gods for the umpteenth time that he wasn’t married, that he and Hermione could divorce without repercussions, that—
‘Would you like me to pour you a cup of coffee, Mr Weasley? You look a little… tired.’
‘What? I-uh…’ Ron turned to see a pair of deep blue eyes regarding him with concern, and something painful lurched within his chest. Pulling together some of his scattered wits, he found the power to answer. ‘Yes. Thank you—oh, and, please. Pour yourself one.’
‘Oh, thanks, but… I should be getting on.’
’Nonsense,’ replied Ron. ‘You can drink it while your filing those.’ He tapped his quill on the pile of folders. ‘Besides, you're my secretary, not the section’s. The others should be dealing with their own admin, not leaving it to you.’
“But I don’t mind,’ Cherry protested, putting the cup and saucer on his desk. ‘You don’t have enough work for me to fill the day, and I like to keep busy.’
‘That’s not the point.’ Ron picked up the teaspoon and stirred the coffee, marvelling that Cherry had already added two lumps of sugar without asking. ‘I was wondering… ‘ he paused. ‘You don’t think you have to prove yourself because of your predecessor’s—‘
‘Lorna?’
‘—Shortcomings. Yes, Lorna.’ Ron gulped his coffee and sighed. ‘Ahh, much better. Now, as I was about to say, a few weeks ago, this office was a complete shambles.: I couldn’t see my desk for paperwork. Cases were misfiled or missing completely, memos ended up in the wrong departments, and I hadn’t a clue where my field agents were half the time.’ He smiled approvingly as Cherry poured herself some coffee. ‘And, worst of all, the coffee machine had packed in. Thank you, by the way, for fixing it. Mending charms were never my thing.’
‘Oh, that was nothing,’ said Cherry, blushing. ‘I was always good at Charms.’
‘Yet, within a day of you taking over,’ Ron continued, holding up his hand to silence any further protest, ‘a miraculous transformation happened. Now, I’ve no idea what Lorna did all day, but I never saw her do anything more energetic than lift a nail file.’
Cherry half-smiled, neither agreeing or disagreeing with him. Ron liked that. Loyalty to a colleague he could understand. And he’d only himself to blame for the disaster that was Lorna—he’d been too busy ogling her impressive cleavage at the interview to bother checking her other credentials.
‘So, I’m just saying, there’s no need to work so hard. You’re entitled to a tea-break.’ Ron grinned. ’And as your boss, I’m telling you to take it.’
‘I consider myself told.’
Nonetheless, it didn’t slow her down for long. After a few hurried sips, Cherry was soon sorting through Ron’s out tray, separating ongoing cases from the newly closed ones. As she gathered up an armful, one slid from her grasp, scattering its contents over the desk and knocking one of the photo frames to the floor.
‘Sorry,’ said Cherry as she bent to retrieve it. ‘That was clumsy of me.’ She gave the glass a quick rub with her sleeve before handing it back to Ron.
A shiver went though him as their fingertips touched briefly.
‘It’s okay,’ said Ron, keeping his eyes on the picture. The three figures looked a bit dazed. Harry rubbed his head, Hermione glared at him accusingly, and his own image winked at him. ‘No harm done.’
‘She’s pretty.’
‘Hm..?’
‘You’re wife. She’s pretty.’
‘Yes, she is.’ Ron sighed, setting the photo back down in its usual place. ‘Though that was taken a while back. While we were still at school. Before the shit hit the fan, as it were. She’s changed a bit since then.’
‘You don’t have a more recent one?’ Cherry asked.
Ron shook his head. ‘No. I only keep this one because it reminds me we once had hopes for a brighter future. And this isn’t it.’
Wisely, Cherry said nothing and began opening drawers.
Lost in thought, Ron turned to the other photo on his desk. His mum waved at him, and he reached out to brush her face with his thumb. ‘And I keep this one,’ he said, though she hadn’t asked, ‘because it was the last weekend we were all together as a proper family. Just before my brother Charlie went off to work in the dragon sanctuary—before we all started going our separate ways…’ Before Mum and Fred died… ‘Which reminds me,’ he added briskly, ‘I must send a memo to my father.’
Ron pulled out a sheet of parchment from his stationary supply and grabbed a quill. While he pondered an excuse to call in the Burrow to check that Arthur was remembering to eat, he allowed his gaze to linger on Cherry once more. In profile now, as she worked, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it but… that frown of determination and bustling efficiency sort of reminded him of someone. He dipped his quill in the ink:
Dad, Need to come around later to look for something in the attic. Warn the ghoul. See you later, Ron.
‘I’ll be off, then. unless there’s anything else?’
A blow job would be nice. ‘I don’t think so, Cherry, thank you.’ Ron looked up, an idea forming. ‘But, um, I was wondering… As Friday’s payday, and we normally all go down the pub after work, would you join us and let me buy you a drink? Just by way of a thank you for all your hard work?’
‘I-um… All right.’ Cherry nodded. ‘That would be lovely, but I won’t be able to stay long.’
‘Great. Look forward to it,’ said Ron, trying for nonchalance. ‘Oh, and leave the door open, will you, so I can send this?’
‘Sure.’
Ron folded the paper dart as Cherry left with her trolley, launching it into the air while surreptitiously watching her progress down the corridor. Merlin only knew he’d have given up his season ticket to the Cannons to see her do that in the buff. Or maybe just in high heels.
You’ll be the death of me, Cherry Plomley, you really will. Friday couldn’t come quick enough.
Shaking his head, Ron closed the door with a flick of his wand and reached for his next case: ‘Cherry, Cherry, Cherry…’ He murmured her name, softly, like it was his very own secret, and smirked. ‘My Cherry Plum… Cherry Plum and her bouncing bum.’
His grin faded as, out of the blue, it came to him just who it was she reminded him of…
Merlin’s hairy bollocks! Mum?
Yes, he supposed, when he thought about it, there were certain similarities…