September, 2002 - Atlanta, Georgia
Just over four years later
A solitary man sat in one of the many cubicles in the large office room. He was a young man, no older than twenty-one or twenty-two years old, with untidy light brown hair and round wire-rimmed spectacles, which were currently sliding down his nose as he napped. His eyes were closed and he snored softly, his legs crossed together on his desk and his chair tipping back so far it looked as if one light touch would send the man tumbling to the floor.
Pasted like a collage across every single spare space of wall were dozens of newspaper clippings. The haggard men and women in the pictures snarled up at anyone who dared look at them too long and the headlines flashed with the names of these people and the atrocious crimes they had committed. A few of the faces were crossed off with bold red X’s, but the majority of them stayed untouched as these fugitives remained at large.
The sleeping man started abruptly as a loud, obnoxious voice boomed off of the joined walls, barely managing to keep his balance as the chair wobbled precariously.
“Fisher, what did I say ‘bout sleeping on the job! Only babies have nap time an’ I don’t pay babies to catch me the bad guys!”
The man named Fischer sat up at a surprisingly fast pace and starting pulling profiles and forms in front of himself. “Sorry, Boss! Was just resting my eyes is all. I was working on that report you wanted””
Fischer stopped his rambling as the person behind him started letting out great bellowing laughs, supporting himself against the wall with one hand as he clutched his side with the other. Fischer turned around, his blue eyes glaring daggers at the other man.
“I hope you enjoyed your little joke Bryant, because it is the last one you’ll play if you know what’s good for you.”
“Ah, come on John, it was funny! And you should’ve seen your face; it was priceless!” Bryant, the second man, said in between hysterical laughter.
“I’m sure it was highly amusing,” said John Fischer dryly.
Bryant sniggered before suddenly becoming serious. “Anyways, as much as I loved scaring you with my Director Morris impression, that’s not why I’m here, John.”
John’s angry retort got lost on the tip of tongue when he met his partner and friend’s solemn gaze. “What is it, Dave?”
“Two more Death Eater casualties; Muggles, this time in the Chicago area. I’m worried; they’re coming closer and closer every week. We can’t ignore them and hope they’ll go away much longer.”
John ran his hand through his hair distractedly, making it even more impossibly messy than it already was. “I know, I know.”
“I mean, it’s been four years,” David Bryant continued. “If we haven’t caught the bastards by now, how can we ever hope to?”
“They keep coming closer, mate. In no more than a week’s time they will make their way to Atlanta and we’ll be right here waiting for them.”
“But that’s just it!” he cried. “They’re coming towards us! Why would they do that? Surely we’re not that big of a threat to them that they have to come to us.”
“We’ll figure it out, David. I promise.”
David started to leave but stopped and turned back to John. He tossed a thick off-white envelope on to his friend’s desk. “Here, I picked up your mail earlier while I was getting my own.”
He turned on his heel and hurried out of the small square of walls toward his own cubicle. “Thanks,” said John, but he was already gone.
Turning back to his desk, John picked up the formal envelope, wondering who could have sent it. He was a private man and didn’t have many friends. He lived alone in a single bedroom apartment, ordered take-out dinner most nights, and didn’t leave the house except for work and groceries. Slitting it open, he unfolded a similarly fancy cream-coloured card and his eyes widened in delighted surprise at the elegantly scripted names on the front. A small smile graced his lips for a second but no sooner was it there and it was gone. He tucked the invitation safely in the top drawer of his desk, heaved a huge sigh and closed his eyes again, leaning his chair as far back as it would go and feigning sleep so he wouldn’t have to endure the snide looks of the fugitive Death Eaters taped on to his walls. When he pretended to be content like this he could almost forget his guilt, could almost make himself believe that he was really John Fischer, American Auror, and not the scared, cowardly kid he had tried to leave behind.
Ginny Weasley walked into the flat that she shared with her best friend, Hermione Granger, after possibly the most dull date in the history of dull dates, only to find said best friend hidden behind a mound of bridal books and magazines, party favours and table decorations, talking animatedly out loud to no one but herself.
“No, no … that pink is really too girly … maybe a nice salmon? Or maybe yellow …”
“Hermione?” Ginny called, peeping her head around the taller stack of magazines. The one on top had a picture of a happy bride and groom waving at the camera. The caption to the side of the bride was promoting a contest to win a dream honeymoon to Hawaii. “I’m home.”
“Oh! Hey, Ginny.” She held up a couple of colour pallets, both supporting what Ginny thought to be two of the most utterly hideous shades of pink she’d ever seen. “Pick one.”
“That one.” She pointed in the general direction of the first of the little cards of paper and placed her handbag on to the table.
“You didn’t even look,” Hermione complained.
“Forgive me for not showing the proper enthusiasm,” replied Ginny tartly. “You wouldn’t feel like it either if you’d just been on the date from Hell! I just spent two hours listening to why pewter cauldrons really are better than copper; if I didn’t know better, I’d think I’d just been on a date with Percy. Ugh! I’m going to go shower and get to bed.”
“Really, Ginny, I don’t know why you agreed to see Hunter at all. Even I could have told you that you wouldn’t like him. I mean, the way he struts about the office as if he owns the place …”
Ginny threw her sweater towards the laundry hamper, missing by inches, and headed to her bedroom to change out of her dress. “You did tell me. I just chose not to listen.”
“Do you think,” began Hermione tentatively, but she grew flustered and didn’t finish.
“Do I think what, Hermione?” Ginny halted mid stride, in the middle of removing her earrings.
“That, maybe, you’re trying to replace Harry with Hunter?” Hermione asked timidly. Ginny’s face went bright red and her eyes darkened dangerously; Hermione grew even more embarrassed and began fiddling distractedly with her fingers.
Ginny took a step in Hermione’s direction, her earring forgotten. “What makes you say that?”
“Look at the facts, Ginny! Did you never realize how similar the two are?” She seemed to gain courage by Ginny’s temporary silence. “For one, their names both start with H; two, they both have black hair and green eyes; and three, they both needed someone else to point out to them that they fancied you because they were too thick to see it themselves!”
“They’re a lot different too.” Ginny turned around again and started on her way, but Hermione’s small voice stopped her cold.
“You’re right by that,” Hermione agreed. She put down the colour pallets and now her full attention was on Ginny. She stood, wringing her hands. “Harry’s less self-assured; more easy going and yet, in some ways, too high strung. He’s always had too many responsibilities on him. But he was better for you than Hunter, or any of those other ‘respectable’ businessmen you constantly date; and no matter how much he hurt you and how angry you are with him, your heart has always, and will always belong to him.”
“Maybe that was so when I was a kid, Hermione, but not anymore.”
Hermione’s voice was sad when she spoke next. “He said no.”
“What?” asked Ginny, turning to face her.
“Ron and I sent him an invitation - it wouldn’t seem right if we didn’t - but his reply said he couldn’t come; couldn’t get away from work or something.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time that Harry put his friends off on the side for what he wanted.”
“Ginny …”
Ginny didn’t answer, just turned away from her friend, wanting to forget that the conversation had ever happened. But Ginny slipped into bed that night just as shaken as before, and her dreams were definitely not of the well-groomed, pompous Hunter Mackenzie, with his sleek black hair and dull, muddy-looking green eyes, that she had eaten dinner with that night, but of one with messy black locks and bright emerald eyes that pierced right through her soul and never failed to make her feel as if she’d just lost all of the bones in her body. A kind face and bright smile remembered from happier times looked down on her before the dream slowly faded into nothingness and she fell into a deep sleep.