Chapter Twelve.

In which I am the mother of Weasley's child.

"Ron? What the hell—?"

I craned my neck back, squinting against the sun on the air bane lot, and there they were: Potter and Granger, dressed in Muggle suits, training their wands on us in Ministry-approved Auror style. "Oh, fuck," I muttered.

Weasley pushed me aside and clambered to his feet, keeping his hands up and away from his body. "Listen," he said desperately, "I know this looks weird—well, it is weird—but I can explain—"

Granger held her wand higher and cut him off. "If you are Ronald Weasley, what's my Patronus look like?"

"Otter," Weasley sighed.

"What's your Patronus—"

"I've never cast a corporeal one."

"Who was the first person you kissed?"

"As far as you know? Susan Bones."

"Which of us knocked out Snape in the Shrieking Shack?"

"We all did, trying to disarm him, can we please get to the point?"

Weasley's friends kept their wands trained on him in what I found a distinctly bothersome manner, though they were beginning to look a bit more skeptical than outraged. "Ron," Potter said, "if you are Ron...when did you quit training?"

Weasley looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Harry—"

"Answer the question."

"After...afterthechickenincident," he blurted. "What the hell is wrong with you two?"

Potter and Granger looked at one another and lowered their wands. "What's wrong," Granger said slowly, "is that, according to your mum, you're missing and presumed dead somewhere in Borneo."

"WHAT?"

He stared at them; they stared at him; I sat down on the edge of the crate and laughed. "Looks like O'Guin was a step ahead of us—"

Potter and Granger suddenly noticed me; they blinked, then conjured so many ropes around my arms I felt like I was in a fucking cocoon. "You are under arrest," Potter said, apparently glad to have a clear-cut goal in the middle of all this confusion.

Weasley broke his trance long enough to fling an arm out in front of me. "You can't arrest him."

"Why the hell not?"

"'Cause I've already arrested him!"

"You have?" I asked.

They were staring at him like he'd lost his mind, which, under the circumstances, I can't really fault them for. "With what authority?" Potter asked.

Weasley shut his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, as though bracing himself for something really unpleasant. Then he fished that crystal charm out of his shirt collar and held it up to sparkle in the sunlight. "With the authority granted me by the International Confederation of Wizards."

Potter blinked; Granger's eyes seemed liable to fall out of her head any minute. "Sodalitas Johannum Factotorum," she whispered, reaching out to touch the pendent.

"Is that what that stands for?" I asked when I realized she wasn't casting a spell. "He wouldn't explain it to me."

"An elite secret society," Granger carried on in the same tone of voice, "whose members are ultimately answerable only to the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards..."

I leaned in towards Weasley. "Does she memorize these things?"

Potter's eyes were perfectly round behind his glasses, and he and Granger stared at Weasley incredulously. Then Granger suddenly thumped him rather hard in the chest. "You told us you were working for the newspaper!"

"Well, it is a secret society—"

"You could've told us," Potter said, almost petulantly.

"I wasn't allowed—"

I cleared my throat. "Can we take up this argument at a later date?" I asked. "And also possibly untie me?"

Potter and Granger gave me venomous looks, but Weasley nodded furiously. "Yeah," he said, "yeah, look, shout at me later, but right now we need your help, people are trying to kill us, that's why they're saying I'm dead."

Potter shook his head. "People are trying to kill you, so you hid in a packing crate?"

I wobbled to my feet and stepped in front of Weasley. "This is a very long story," I said, "and it involves gangsters, and bombs, and spice jars, and alligators. The short version is, Weasley's secret society thinks he is a traitor and two different people want to murder me, which puts us in an excessive amount of danger. Can you untie me now?"

Granger flicked her wand at me and the ropes fell loose, but she was staring at Weasley. "Is that true?"

"In the broad outlines, yes," he sighed.

"Alligators?" Potter asked.

"Like he said, it's a long story."

I dove back into the crate, found our wands, and gave Weasley his. "Out of curiosity," I asked, "why are Aurors searching the cargo of a Muggle air bane?"

"We're supposed to search anything coming into this country from North America," Potter said. "It's the biggest search operation since Sirius. A few days ago we got a warning from an agent in the US that a couple of Dark wizards might be trying to make their way here."

Weasley and I looked at each other. "Let me guess," I said, "the agent's name was O'Guin?"

"How'd you know that?"

Weasley snorted. " Hard to forget a bloke who leaves you for dead in a burning warehouse."

Potter and Granger stared at us.

"We've had a busy week," I explained.

Weasley looked from one to the other and settled on Potter. "Harry," he said, "I know what this looks like. I swear we are not playing you false. We need your help, because if O'Guin finds us, we will both very quickly be dead."

They stared into each other's eyes for so long I wondered if Granger and I should give them some privacy. Then Potter nodded and patted Weasley on the arm. "I believe you. We'll...we'll think of something, okay?"

"Harry, this place is swarming with Aurors and Enforcers," Granger said anxiously. "We might be able to slip Ron out, but Malfoy..."

"I said we'll think of something," Potter repeated.

I caught Weasley looking at me oddly, and had a sinking feeling in my stomach. "Hermione," he asked, "what sort of description did O'Guin provide of these Dark wizards?"

"He just said they were good at disguises, and not to take appearances for granted."

Weasley snatched the picnic basked out of the crate, turned it over a few times, then held it up next to me. "Why," I asked, "do I not like whatever it is you're thinking?"

"Where's the best place to hide, Malfoy?" he asked.

I sighed. "Just get it over with..."

Someone shouted across the lot; Potter looked up and swore. "That's Kingsley, we haven't got time to explain—"

"Come on." Weasley dragged me behind a large stack of suitcases and cargo that screened us from view. "Take off your trousers."

"Weasley, this is hardly the time—" He gave me a caustic glare; I gave him my trousers. Weasley prodded them with his wand and transfigured them into a long skirt. "I knew I wouldn't like this."

"They're looking for wizards," he said, and ripped the handle off the basket. "Now put the skirt on and stuff this underneath."

"What?"

He smirked. "Congratulations, Malfoy, you're pregnant."

I sighed. "I hate you and wish you dead, Weasley."

"That's no way to speak to the father of your child, is it?" He transfigured my shirt into a blouse, then took off his own socks and handed them to me. "Here, have some breasts."

"This is ludicrous."

"It will work if Harry and Hermione do their bit."

I stuffed the socks into my blouse, then used an Engorgement charm until they seemed an appropriate size. "I hope you realize," I said, "that all Aurors are not complete idiots?"

"No, at the moment they're probably bored and tired and sick of frisking Muggles. Hold still."

My hair exploded; that is the only way I can describe it. It burst from my scalp in great sheets that fell down to my knees. "Weasley!"

"Sorry, sorry..." He sheered it off just below my shoulders. "You're hair's thinner than mine...don't suppose you have a comb?"

I snorted as he tried to style my hair with his fingers. "If I didn't already know you were a pouf, Weasley, I'd—holy shit!"

He'd gone the Hagrid route again, and he laughed at my reaction. "What were you saying about poufs?"

"Never mind." I shoved the broken basket under my skirt. "This isn't going to stay..."

"Let me have a look—"

"No thanks—!"

Weasley knelt down and stuck his head under my skirt, while I prayed for death. To complete the picture, Potter stuck his head around the side of a stack of boxes and said "Ron, we put him off, I don't think oh my GOD."

"Be just a minute, Harry," Weasley said.

I forced myself to smile. "He's adjusting my basket."

Potter blinked. "Right. I'll just...right."

Potter and Granger both did double takes when we emerged from our hiding place in full disguise. "Well?" Weasley asked. "How do we look?"

Granger frowned. "Well, Malfoy could use more make-up, but since I don't have any on me...what exactly do we do now?"

"Now," Weasley said, "you take us in and search us."

"How will that—"

"Once we're searched and cleared, no one will look at us twice," Weasley said. "Come on, before someone else finds us."

Weasley took my arm, which I grudgingly permitted, and Potter and Granger led us into the air port. It was quite busy, and we nearly lost track of our "escort" several times. We departed from the main concourses, passed small guarded rooms labeled "Security" and "Customs," and eventually came to a plain white door with no knob at the end of a hallway. A man in a suit like Potter's with wiry gray hair looked up from his magazine—a poorly disguised copy of the Quibbler. He looked at me, and then at Weasley, and then he snorted loudly. "You're searching these two?"

"Orders are orders, Dawlish," Potter said stiffly.

Dawlish snorted. "What, you think she's hiding Dark wizards under her skirt?"

"Dawlish, just open the door," Hermione said testily. "And put that away, we're supposed to be in deep cover."

"Eh, fine, keep your hair on." He discretely tapped the white door, which popped open, and rolled up the magazine into his jacket pocket.

The white door lead into a white corridor lined with similar doors, except these had small windows set in them. Thought the windows I could see witches and wizards in Muggle clothes carefully searching and questioning people in various state of undress. Potter and Granger stopped at the very last white door in the corridor and charmed it open just as one of the doors we'd already passed opened up, and a horrifyingly familiar voice filled the hall.

"—doubt they made it among the passengers, they wouldn't have had the Muggle documents required to get tickets, and Gringotts has put holds on both their accounts—"

O'Guin, I mouthed to Weasley, who nodded stiffly

"Who are these guys, anyway?" someone else asked.

"That's classified information."

"Well, how the hell are we supposed to catch them if we don't know who they are?"

"I don't think it will be too difficult..."

Potter dragged us into the interrogation room and shut the door firmly behind him. "Was that—"

"Yeah," Weasley said. "Fuck, that was close."

"Millicent must've let them find all those notes you took," I said. "Either that, or Crabbe and Goyle got caught leaving Mobile."

"Crabbe and Goyle?" Harry asked skeptically.

Weasley sighed, and launched into an abbreviated explanation of the situation that nevertheless took up about twenty minutes. I discovered that it was impossible to sit down comfortably with the basket strapped to my stomach, but I didn't want to risk Weasley taking it upon himself to re-attach it for me, so I leaned against the wall and provided editorial commentary.

"—sealed us inside the crate and got us loaded onto the plane. And, well, twelve hours later..."

"And here I thought I had an interesting job," Potter muttered.

"'Interesting' puts it mildly," Weasley said. "And you said that I'm supposed to be dead?"

Granger nodded. "According to your mum, someone from the newspaper came around yesterday and told her you went missing in Borneo and were presumed dead."

"But the clock—"

"Has been stuck on 'Mortal Peril' for a couple of days," Potter said. "So nobody's known what to think. This bloke couldn't exactly explain what you'd been doing in Borneo, but then someone from the Ministry came around with a death certificate—Ginny hexed him, but Bill's been out shopping for grave markers."

Weasley groaned. "Brilliant. Just...brilliant."

Granger checked her watch. "We can't stay in here much longer or someone will come looking. What exactly was the next part of your plan?"

"We need a safe place to stay for a few days, first," Weasley said, and I swore his eyes flicked over towards me for a moment.

"Remus lives at Grimmauld Place," Potter said. "You can take the Knight Bus there—I'll owl ahead so he knows you're coming."

"We'll come by when we get off duty," Granger said as she checked the corridor. "We've, er, got a lot to talk about."

Weasley flinched a bit. "Yeah, I reckon we do."

Potter escorted us back into the air port proper and loaned us fare for the Knight Bus; let it be recorded as the one and only time I will ever accept a handout from him. We summoned the bus from the far side of a parking lot and Weasley maintained our privacy by wrapping an arm around my shoulders and looking surly. With hair like that, the other passengers gave us more than sufficient space to talk privately.

"A newspaper?"

"I had to tell them something," he said, sounding grumpy. "Unemployed people generally aren't up for much international travel."

"What, just saying you were doing classified work for the government wasn't enough?"

"Am I the only person in this country who understands the meaning of the word 'secret?'"

"Sorry." I stared at the window, watching space obligingly distort itself so that the bus could pass. "So what was the chicken incident?"

"What?"

I tried to discretely adjust my basket. "Potter asked you when you quit the Aurors and you said 'after the chicken incident.'"

Weasley folded his arms across his chest and glowered spectacularly. "I don't want to talk about it."

"We're going to be on this bus a while—" I said as it banged from London to Liverpool—"and I'm curious."

"It's none of your business."

"We could talk about sex instead—"

He huffed spectacularly and leaned close to me, practically whispering. "Look...look, you have to understand, just about everyone I know told me that I shouldn't even bother to apply for Auror training because I wasn't wizard enough for the job."

"Obviously the Ministry thought otherwise."

"Yeah..." He settled back into his seat and watched the shifting scenery. "Yeah, except Harry and Hermione came in to training at the same time. We were the first set of trainees they'd accepted in something like five years."

"And did ickle Weasley feel a certain sense of inadequacy?"

"No," he said, and didn't speak for another three stops. "But I knew...I knew everyone was going to compare us, at everything. And I knew I was going to come off badly."

I nodded. "So what's this all got to do with chickens?"

He folded his arms across his chest and slumped down in his seat. "I knew I couldn't be as clever as Hermione or as powerful as Harry, so I had to work harder than the two of them put together. I spent every waking moment studying or practicing or...something. And for a while, it worked—I got perfect scores on the first two evaluations."

"But then it all went catastrophically wrong?" I guessed.

"I...went a little bit overboard," he said slowly. "Started using Wakefulness Draughts and Alertness Brews so I could work all hours."

I rolled my eyes. "Half of Hogwarts uses those things to cram for exams, Weasley."

"I didn't sleep for a month."

"...oh."

He shut his eyes. "I ended up pulling a Hannah Abbott in the middle of a meeting with our supervisors. Cracked completely."

"How so?"

"I don't actually remember it," he sighed, "but according to Harry I barricaded myself under Kingsley Shacklebolt's desk and tried to transfigure anyone within reach into a large chicken."

You will congratulate me at this point for not actually laughing.

"They didn't kick me out, surprisingly enough," Weasley continued. "Said I could take some time off to catch up on my sleep and come back when I was ready. I told them no."

I shook my head. "So you wasted all the effort."

"It got me into the S.J.F., didn't it?" he said, looking genuinely surly now. "They recruited me just after I quit."

"If you say so..."

He glared at me, but then the bus banged again and we were suddenly back in London, in the shabbiest, dirtiest corner of the city I could possibly imagine. "This is our stop," he said, and manhandled me to my feet.

"This is no way to treat the mother of your child."

"Shut up."

The spotty little conductor didn't dare touch me, and after he opened the door he squeezed out of the way as if Weasley might bite if he got too close. The bus disappeared, leaving us on a grim-looking street corner in the late afternoon sun. "Where do we go now?" I asked.

Weasley looked around, and without a word took off walking down the grimy street. I sighed, hitched up my basket and followed.

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