When Ron Weasley was promoted to a rather high rank in the Auror business, his mother congratulated him by informing him that it was high time he found a place of his own.

“But Mum…” he protested.

“You’re twenty-one, Ron. You left Hogwarts four years ago,” his mother told him rationally.

“Yes, but…”

“Ginny moved out two years ago.”

“Yes, but…”

“And you’ve surely got enough money for your own flat on that Auror salary.”

“Yes, but…”

His mother cut him off again. “Ron, you have to learn how to take care of yourself.” And with that, she marched off into the kitchen with a decided finality.

“But I can’t cook…” Ron trailed off weakly.

His friends were very supportive of his plight. Harry offered to give him 12 Grimmauld Place, but Ron had no desire to live in a place that brought back so many bad memories. Hermione had sent him a listing of houses for sale, but he didn’t have time to read it what with his busy work schedule.

And his brothers Fred and George had sent him a lovely floral arrangement, consisting mainly of squirting daisies, roses that made unpleasant noises, and blue tulips that exploded in your face when you smelled them, to celebrate the fact that “Ickle Ronniekins is leaving Mummy and Daddy alone at last.”

Ron appreciated the present so much that he sent back a thank-you note-- one that buzzed incessantly until the recipient either went insane and burst their own eardrums with fish forks to make the madness stop or burned it at exactly midnight on a full moon.

But in the end, Ron found a flat that he thought would work just fine for him. It wasn’t very large, but it wasn’t too small either, and it was already furnished. (He didn’t like the colour scheme, but it was easy to charm everything neon Chudley Cannons orange and magically apply his posters to the walls.) It was pretty cool, he thought.

After a few days, though, the novelty was beginning to wear off. He woke up behind schedule again, having forgotten to pack his magical alarm clock when he moved from the Burror. (This particular clock screamed, “IF YOU DON’T GET OUT OF BED THIS INSTANT, RONALD, THE DARK WIZARDS WILL TAKE OVER!” in a voice suspiciously similar to his mother’s.) Since he had only half an hour to get ready for work, he shaved quickly, doing a rather bad job and creating a long cut down the side of his face. He rummaged around for some clean robes.

“Aargh, Mum, where are my Auror robes?” he called. He always wore billowing black robes and a black cloak with his Auror patch stamped on to work, but he couldn’t find any of them anywhere. It took him a minute to realize that his mother wasn’t there, and so couldn’t answer his question.

After a frantic search of his flat and robe inventory, he found the following: one set of robes wadded up at the bottom of his closet and looking as though it had been trampled by a herd of bison, one soaking wet set of robes growing slightly moldy in his bathtub, one set of robes used as a liner for Pigwidgeon’s cage (he must have been very tired when he came home the previous night, because he could have sworn he’d lined the cage with a rag), and two sets of smelly and stained robes strewn across his bedroom floor.

He snarled something exceedingly rude under his breath that nobody heard and put on the wadded-up robes at the bottom of his closet, as well as the dragon-skin boots that he always wore. He was a minute late already and hadn’t had time for breakfast, but he Apparated over to the Ministry anyway. Work came before everything else when you were an Auror.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” announced Ron loudly as he appeared in the large cubicle that he shared with Harry, his work partner.

“Attacked on your way here?” asked Harry sarcastically, tilting back his chair.

Ron snorted. “Oh, yeah, someone jumped me during my two-second journey to work,” he replied, and took a seat.

Harry looked his friend up and down and thought that he really did look as though he’d escaped a mugging. Ron looked tired and drawn, his robes were crumpled and untidy, he sported a cut down one side of his partly-shaven face, and his bright red ponytail (yes, he had a ponytail; the look didn’t really suit him and his mother and Hermione both hated it, but he thought it made him look older and more intimidating to dark wizards) was snarled and disheveled.

At that moment, Ceres Whilkerson, a young, attractive, and female Auror-in-training, breezed by. Neither Harry nor Ron really liked her, but such things didn’t matter to people like Ceres, and she flirted constantly with them anyway. “Hello there, Potter, Weasley,” she greeted them her low, silky voice, fiddling with a long, blonde strand of hair. She looked over at Ron and noticed his unusual appearance. “What happened?” she asked tenderly.

“Oh, well, I was attacked,” Ron told her importantly. “But I managed to get the bloke with a good Leg-Locker jinx.”

Harry turned his guffawing into a hacking cough.

After work, Ron collapsed into his favourite and very orange armchair. He was tired, he was annoyed, he was hungry, and he still didn’t know how to cook. However, one thing that he wasn’t was alone, because after about ten minutes, two people Apparated into the middle of his living room. One was Harry. The other was not. The one who was not (as opposed to Nott, who they had caught and captured for an attempt on Kingsley Shacklebolt’s life the previous week) wore Muggle clothing and a disgusted expression as she surveyed Ron’s flat.

“This place is squalid!” Hermione exclaimed.

“Thanks,” Ron told her, oblivious to the fact that this was not a compliment. “Er, not to be rude or anything, but what in the name of Merlin’s hairy old…” He realized that he hadn’t seen Hermione in a few weeks and that this was a very poor greeting, and continued in a much softer voice, “…er… pet rabbit…are you doing here?”

“Well, Harry told me you seemed to be having trouble managing on your own,” she explained matter-of-factly as Ron shot Harry a dirty look. “And so I decided I’d come and help you out with a few things. You could definitely use some pointers.”

“Very, erm, orange, this place,” Harry remarked. He appeared to be squinting, as though trying not to be blinded.

Ron folded his arms. “Look, this is very kind of you and all, but I don’t need help,” he said stubbornly.

Hermione blinked. “Um, is that owl cage over there lined with your robes?”

“Yes.”

“Then you need help.”

Ron sighed in submission and led her into his room, which was the worst area of the house and smelled of a combination of old underwear and something like moldy bologna. His strategy appeared to be attempting to frighten Harry and Hermione away.

But the two of them were not to be deterred. “It’s a good thing that I’ve watched Martha Stewart,” Hermione mentioned as she gathered plates of congealing food (including a sandwich so moldy that it greatly resembled a chia pet) from the floor.

“Who’s Martha Stewart?” asked Ron.

“Believe me, you don’t want to know!” Harry informed his friend, an expression of great terror crossing his face. “Aunt Petunia used to watch her show constantly… she tried making a matching dust ruffle around everything in the house. Everything was pink and flowery… I think I’m scarred for life.”

“Um, you already were,” Ron reminded him, indicating his forehead.

“Oh. Er, yeah.”

Meanwhile, Hermione had made a pile of dirty clothes and was making her way over to Ron’s dresser. “It might be useful to actually put your clothes in your drawers,” she said. “These are all empty… ooh, except for this one.” She extracted a thick stack of papers from the third drawer.

“NO!” exclaimed Ron, his face freezing in horror. “Don’t--”

“They appear to be poems,” said Harry, taking the stack of papers from Hermione. “Really, really bad poems.”

Ron had gotten to his feet. “Read that and I’ll--”

“This one talks about something with a ‘chestnut mane…’ why would Ron write about horses?” continued Harry, skimming over the poem. “Hang on, the second verse doesn’t make any sense. Horses can’t read books…”

Ron raced over, wrenched the stack of papers from Harry’s hands, and shoved them back in the drawer, his face murderous. If any dark wizards had been in the vicinity, they would have wet themselves in intimidation. “Get out of my house,” he roared. “Both of you! I don’t care if you want to help-- I don’t want anyone going through my things!”

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances and fled, Ron slamming the door behind them.

* * * * *

That night, Harry awoke with a start. “I get it!” he exclaimed aloud. “Ron wasn’t writing about a…” But before he could continue the thought process, he fell back asleep, his revelations totally forgotten by morning.