Chapter Thirteen.

In which Weasley is completely irrational about numerous things.

Weasley walked off his mood, though I nearly lost track of him in the process (bloody long-legged nuisance that he is). We needed only to travel a few blocks, practically a Sunday stroll after Alabama, before we came to the saddest, ugliest old excuse for a domicile I have ever seen. Well, that's not precisely true, because I've seen pictures of Weasley's parents' house; there was something especially depressing about this one, though. Perhaps it was the decayed remnants of what had clearly been an elegant façade, or maybe the sense that it might have been inhabitable with a new coat of paint and a kind word or two. I hated it on sight.

We ducked into an alley to adjust our clothes before approaching the door. "What the hell is this place?" I asked as I shed my basket.

"Grimmauld Place."

"Well, I gathered that..."

"It used to belong to Sirius Black." Weasley tapped his jaw with his chin, and his beard fell down in heaps onto the pavement. "He left it to Harry, and Harry's all but left it to Remus."

I supposed that explained the sense of neglect. "Can this Remus character be trusted?"

Weasley's smile quirked. "Well, I'd trust him with my life..."

"That's not an answer," I muttered darkly. "Dammit, what did you do to my trousers?"

Weasley untransfigured my trousers and knocked on the door of Number Twelve. No one answered. Weasley knocked again, while I glanced around nervously, but the only sign of life in the whole area was the gray tabby cat stalking between the rubbish bins. "Weasley," I mumbled, "where is he?"

"He should be here," he muttered, nearly ripping the knocker off the door, "he hardly ever leaves—and the full moon was Tuesday."

"Might he...wait, what do you mean, full moon?"

But then the door finally swung open and I got my answer: the bloody werewolf was standing on the other side of the door, smiling benignly. "Ron," he said warmly, "good to see you—I was in the kitchen, I wasn't sure I head you knocking—"

"That's all right," Weasley said hastily. "Did Harry—"

"I got his owl. Come inside." He looked me in the eye and nodded. "Mr. Malfoy."

"Lupin," I said stiffly, and folded my arms across my chest. I had an adolescent urge to stamp my feet and say rude things, but he was beckoning me in and Weasley had already shouldered past him—with one last glance at the street and the cat, I slipped inside, cursing Potter and Weasley and all the forces of fate.

The house looked even worse from the interior; someone, it seemed, had started to remodel it and lost heart about halfway through. The carpet and wallpaper had been torn away, but not replaced, and a large hole had been knocked in one wall and left to sit with sprays of splinters sticking out every which way. "I've put together a late tea," the werewolf said. "Mind your step on the stairs, though, the carpet's just been laid."

"The place looks...er...good," Weasley said.

Lupin laughed. "The renovations proceed according to Harry's attention span. What we've accomplished lately should keep him happy...oh, through Christmas, I'd say."

"You don't mind?"

"I've all the space I need..."

The kitchen was a dark and vaulty affair, but it at least seemed inhabited: the ceiling was hung with golden chandeliers, a sturdy pine table ran the length of the room, and the floor was cushioned by patterned carpets. A large platter of sandwiches and a tea service already sat at one end of the table, and after we sat down Lupin summoned a small cauldron of soup from the cooker to a cast-iron trivet. "How much did Harry say in his letter?" Weasley asked while the werewolf served.

"Just that you were back in England and needed help, and that Mr. Malfoy was an unfortunate addition." He smiled paternally at me, and I wanted to hex him. "Not in so many words, of course, but I read between the lines."

"I'm sure you do," I said stiffly. Weasley gave me an irritated look, which I ignored; I wanted to ignore the food, too, but it had been a rather long time since Millicent's sandwiches had run out. I didn't enjoy it, though.

Weasley explained our predicament over again to the werewolf, and when that topic ran out, Lupin tried to make small talk. I ignored him as best I could while Weasley's glare became steadily more pronounced. Lupin, unfortunately, didn't seem bothered; in fact, he actually had the nerve to look amused by me. This lead to another first (and last) occasion for this fiasco: I was actually glad when Potter and Granger finally arrived, at nearly eight o'clock at night.

They flopped down at the table, and Potter yanked his tie out of its loop. "It seems like you two escaped cleanly," he said. "Officially there are still no leads."

"We've seen O'Guin skulking around, though," Granger added. "It sounds like he's trying to convince the Ministry to send you two straight to the Dementors when you're caught. Bones insists he has to produce evidence of a conviction first."

"Which he won't do, because if he admits who we are, he's got an international incident on his hands faster than you can say 'Quidditch'." Weasley said, poking at a pile of crusts with a soup spoon.

"So what do we do?" I asked. "Cower here until it all blows over?"

Weasley was silent for a few moments, then said, "I actually thought I might turn myself in."

Three people shouted at the same time, "What?"

"The S.J.F. has ways of making people tell the truth," he said with infuriating calm. "I can go in volunteering to be tested, and it becomes my word against O'Guin's."

"And your friend Linnet's," I reminded him. "O'Guin Confunded her, remember?"

Weasley scowled. "Still. O'Guin won't be able to contradict a truth test."

"Assuming he doesn't do something to prevent you from taking them at all!"

Granger cut in. "If you're just going to surrender, what was the point of all this running around and mailing yourself to Britain?"

He glanced at me again. "My assignment was to protect Malfoy and get him to safety. I've done that now."

I blinked. "You are fucking insane."

"I still have a duty, Malfoy."

"What about your duty to yourself not to die?" I demanded. "You can't go to the Confederation without more evidence against O'Guin, or they'll never take you seriously."

"And where am I going to get more?" Weasley asked. "I can't exactly go out and investigate, and anything you don't remember is probably lost forever now."

"I could try the counter-charm," Granger said. "Or see if Boot will do it, he's a regular Obliviator—"

Potter cleared his throat and looked at me as though it pained him. The feeling was quite mutual. "Hold on a moment," he said, "Malfoy, you said this Arnold Dies was smuggling magical creature parts, yes?"

"Right."

"And you were the one supplying all the information on his customers?"

"Yes, Potter, how thick are you—"

"So," he said over me, "we—the Aurors—were involved in some strings over the past few months on importers. They must've been Dies' buyers, because the circumstances fit. Except the last one wasn't animal parts, it was—er—what's that stuff, Hermione?"

"Draught of Heaven," she said. I swore; Weasley looked around blankly. "Oh, honestly, Ron, you got an E on your Potions NEWT—"

"We've already had this conversation, Granger, thanks," I said. "Weasley, the Draught of Heaven is one of the most illegal, addictive and expensive potions a wizard can brew. It fetches unbelievable prices on the street."

"It's also extremely dangerous to make," Granger added, "and the ingredients are very tightly regulated in most countries. The United States being one of the most notable exceptions."

Weasley's brows knit. "Dies sticks to poaching, though. He's never touched potions-making..."

"Which," I said quickly, "means the wizard behind the potions—"

"—is probably Basil—"

"—and I accidentally got hold of one of his invoices—"

"—which is why O'Guin wants to kill you!" Weasley pumped his fist in the air. "That's it! That explains everything!"

I glanced at Potter, Granger and Lupin; they were staring. "Er," Potter said, "who is Basil?"

"Long story," Weasley said. "Look, if I go to the S.J.F. and accuse O'Guin—"

"They'll never take you seriously!" Granger said. "All you have is circumstantial evidence and conjecture, and half of it comes from a suspected Death Eater!"

"Malfoy was never a Death Eater," Weasley snapped.

"How do you know?" Potter and I asked at the same time, and then glared at each other.

Weasley reached over calmly and tapped the inner part of my left forearm. "No scars. Ergo, no Dark Mark. Ever."

"I could've had it somewhere else," I said, pulling my arm back.

"Remember Cincinnati?"

Oh. Right.

"Well—even if he was never a Death Eater, he's still wanted in two countries, and he can't remember half of his own evidence," Granger said warily. "He's not exactly the best possible witness on your behalf."

Weasley leaned back and folded his arms. "So what am I supposed to do, then? Sit around here waiting for someone else to catch O'Guin in the act? Spend the rest of my life in hiding?"

"No one is suggesting that," Lupin said softly, finally speaking up. "There is no need to take more risks than absolutely necessary, though." I mentally cursed him for actually saying something I agreed with, but he at least seemed to get through Weasley's thick skull. Weasley bit his lip and looked around the table, but stopped arguing the point.

We all sat staring at one another for several minutes. Finally, Granger said, "Ron, is there anyone in Britain working for the Confederation or the—the S.J.F. whom you would trust enough to contact right now?"

"Aurelius Dawson," he said promptly. "Why do you ask?"

She summoned parchment, ink and a quill from some forgotten corner of the house. "Harry or I can pass a letter through the Department of International Magical Cooperation. We'll even attach a copy of the file on the Draught of Heaven shipment. That way you can have someone else on your side before you try to take on the entire Confederation single-handedly."

He opened his mouth to protest but ended up yawning instead. After a moment he muttered "Give it here," and began to write.

Potter, Granger, Lupin and I watched.

"Could you not stare at me?" Weasley said after a minute.

We stared at each other instead. I would've rather been staring at Weasley.

Lupin suddenly stood up and banished the dishes into the sink. "It sounds as if you've had a very tiring journey, Mr. Malfoy," he said. "Let me show you one of the bedrooms."

Translation: Let's get the hell out of here so the Wonder Twins can shout at Weasley in private—a suggestion I managed to appreciate even less than his oh-so-patronizing use of Mr. Malfoy. "Don't call me that," I said.

Lupin raised one gray eyebrow. "What would you like me to call you?"

"How about nothing at all?"

Three people said "Malfoy!" in the same vicious tone, and I got three nearly-identical icy glares. Pissing them all off at once was something I hadn't accomplished since school, and seeing the bedrooms suddenly seemed like a brilliant idea.

I followed the werewolf up to the third floor and through an obstacle course of paint cans, dropcloths and rolls of self-adhesing wallpaper. He pointed me to a door, which opened into a sad little bedroom, half-papered and stuffy. The mirror over the fireplace was cracked and the mattress was dusty and naked. "Charming," I said.

Lupin came back in with an armful of sheets and dumped then on the bed. "It's a bit of a fixer-upper," he admitted without the slightest hint of remorse. "But I'm sure you can manage to make yourself comfortable."

I looked from the heap of linens to the werewolf and back. "You expect me to do...what, exactly, with those?"

"Oh, certainly a bright young man like you can figure it out," he said. "Consider it a learning experience."

I sputtered and swore as he retreated down the hall, but stopped short of actually shouting—the only thing worse than Lupin's cheerful calm would've been Potter, Granger and Weasley charging up the stairs with wands drawn. Instead, I fixed my best evil look on the sheets, which, predictably, ignored it entirely.

Ninety minutes later I had not succeeded in making the bed. What do you expect? It's what normal people have house-elves for. I was beginning to consider the merits of simply setting the room on fire and demanding to be relocated when Weasley walked in without knocking, looking as grumpy and exhausted as I felt. "That sheet's sideways," he said, shutting the door behind him.

I looked at the sheet I was trying to untangle and threw it down. "What do you want, Weasley? I would think that you would've already had your fill of arguments tonight from your so-called friends."

"What do you mean, 'so-called'?" he demanded.

"I mean," I said slowly, "that I was...let's say underwhelmed by their reactions today. One would expect the so-called smartest witch of our age to understand the 'secret' that is inherent in 'secret society.'"

"Look, I deserved that," Weasley said. "Harry and Hermione have always been honest with me, even when they weren't supposed to be. I owe them the same."

"You see what I mean about debts between friends?"

Weasley growled. "This isn't about Harry and Hermione, this is about you."

"Oh, I'm charmed."

I turned away to fight with the sheets again; Weasley grabbed me by the shoulders and spun me around. "Listen, Malfoy, because this is the only warning you're going to get. You will be on your best behavior around Remus or one of us going to hex you so badly you'll be talking out your arsehole and shitting through your mouth."

"I'll play nicely with the werewolf if the werewolf grows some manners," I snapped.

"Remus has manners, it's you that's been acting like the supreme git since we stepped in the door."

"Oh, yes, that condescending little smile of his is perfectly innocent."

"Condesc—Jesus, Malfoy, if that's not the pot calling the cauldron black!"

"I am not condescending," I said. I tried to wrestle away from him, and the ensuing little tussle resulted in my being pinned against the wardrobe. "Get your hands off me, you stupid son of a bitch."

"If you're not condescending, what d'you call how you've been acting around Harry and Hermione?" Weasley hissed.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've been acting like a complete lunatic since they found us," he snarled. "Like you know me better than my own fucking friends—"

"What about how they've been acting?" I snapped. "They tried to arrest me!"

"That's their job!"

"And you and Potter gazing into each other's eyes like a couple of...I don't know whats..."

"Harry is a Legilimens," Weasley snapped. "He was checking that I was telling the truth, it requires eye contact."

"It was disgusting."

"What the..." Weasley's eyes narrowed. "Are you jealous?"

"Don't be delusional!"

But Weasley was suddenly smiling, a bit grimly and altogether unpleasantly. "That's it, isn't it?" he said. "You're fucking jealous 'cause you don't have me all to yourself anymore—"

"Fuck off, Weasley—"

"—and you have to sit around and play nice because they're helping us—"

"I said get the fuck off me!"

"—you're not in control anymore and you can't fucking stand it—"

What I did then was more or less completely irrationally. Rather more than less, actually. But you must understand, Weasley had me pinned against the wardrobe and he was smirking as though he'd just done something clever or funny, as though he were right, and I—I simply could not allow that. Weasley wasn't supposed to win.

His body was braced against mine, and the tip of nose was millimeters from mine. There was only one way to regain the upper hand in this situation. I kissed him.

Weasley squealed and released his grip—perfect. I flung my arms around his neck and thrust my tongue into his mouth, determined not to let him get away, determined to embarrass him and upset him and punish him—he stumbled over a sheet on the floor and fell backward onto the mattress, and I landed on top of him. I quickly braced my hands on his biceps, pinning him down beneath me. Perfect.

"Who's in control now, Weasley?" I whispered.

His wide eyes suddenly narrowed—all the warning I got before he shoved me off. For a split second I expected him to go running out of the room in a tantrum or a panic; I certainly never expected him to roll on top of me, to plant a knee between my thighs and grab a fistful of my hair and...well.

As I said before, I don't suppose this any of your business, so I'll skip straight to the next morning, which actually has some interesting bits. However, I will allow that Weasley thoroughly answered my question—or, to get technical, he made sure I answered it myself.

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