Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Orla was running out of time, the movers from the British Heart Foundation would be arriving within a half an hour for collection and all of her brother's magical bits and bobs needed to be boxed away and out of sight before then. With a huff, Orla shoves the last of the multiple copies of his books into a box, his twenty six year old face winking up at her as she tapes the flaps closed.
How much simpler this would all be if I could just wave a magic wand, she mumbles bitterly not for the first time.
Her mother should have emptied this shrine to her son sooner, but instead had continued making the rental payments until her dying day, never giving up hope of some miraculous recovery. Orla had no such delusions, twelve years and there had been absolutely no change in his condition. After visiting her brother to inform him of their mothers passing, and receiving an uncomprehending smile in return, she had come to sort his things out. Perhaps she should have taken that nurse's mailing address, she was the only one who knew the man her brother was now that his brain had been irreparably damaged by magic.
Uncapping the chisel tipped sharpie that had been tucked behind her ear, Orla marks the box with a large M, neatly adding the word books beneath; inconspicuous. Sliding the box along the floor to sit with the others, she’d figure out how she was supposed to discard this sort of stuff later. At least the furniture was normal.
Most of the furniture was already arranged by the door for easy pickup, now she just had to figure out how she was going to get the bed into the entryway. Standing in the bedroom doorway arms crossed, Orla figures that it should fit if she can get it onto its side. It's worth a try at least before she goes to the trouble of taking it apart.
Gripping the side of the bed, knees bent, Orla takes a deep breath before standing upright, underneath the bed is a small box. She isn’t sure how she missed it when cleaning out the room - it ought to have been visible from the sides of the bed. Bending down to retrieve it, the box disappears from her view. Some sort of magic spell then. Returning to a standing position, Orla picks it up from above. It is a silver snuff box, while it is in good need of a polish Orla is sure it is real, it is just the sort of overly ornate trinket her brother would have loved, and in his good health he had the money for it. Being metal it should be cold to the touch, but instead it is warm in her hands.
Lifting the latch, a tremor travels from her fingers down her arm. It is almost as if someone is trying to pull it shut from inside, but it gives easily enough.
“What day did we scout the shop?” Ron asked from his desk. His wooden chair creaks as he looks up from his messy desk across the shared office to his Auror partner.
The room is stiflingly hot, the fan sitting on Harry’s desk doing little to combat the mid July heat.
Rubbing his chin in thought, Harry smudges his face with ink, “Ummm, the 3rd, I think?”
While a fine office underneath, with dark wooden chairs, and desks to match, with a rather large magical window providing a view to an approximation of 5th story London (the real view of course being that of the underground), these finer trappings were hidden under the mess of manilla file folders, texts for research, and parchment.
Harry would like to pretend this was all the result of a rather complex case, and that now, having made the arrest this would all be set to rights once all of the half finished reports were completed. In reality their office always looked like this.
It had looked like this since the day he and Ron officially became Auror partners. After the Battle of Hogwarts, Kingsley implemented a months-long training program to quickly raise the Aurors' depleted numbers as a result of the war. Those early years, while Hermione was finishing her NEWTS and articling, Ron and Harry spent rounding up the last of the Death Eaters, first those that were continuing to spread Voldemort’s message, and then later tracking down those in hiding.
Those early days had been invigorating, setting to rights everything the war had wronged, looking towards building a future he hadn’t even hoped to imagine; writing Ginny letters to Hogwarts between filing evidence for post-war trials.
The only thing to show the passing years were the collection of photographs on either of their desks; Hermione holding a koala next to her mother, Harry holding Ginny as she shows off her engagement ring, Ron and Hermione dancing at their wedding, Ginny walking behind a newly running James. So much has happened since they acquired this office; so much time has passed.
“We really need to start filling these out as we go mate,” Ron groaned, scratching out the assumed date onto his share of the reports. If it was incorrect they would get a head shake from Kingsley but little else; being war heroes had its perks in the office.
Returning to his own paperwork Harry began to file in the finer details of an interview conducted with a former customer - turned witness on a plea bargain- of Alatar Dusan’s illegal potions ring.
But after the early years, when Hermione was defending her own cases and Ginny was trying out for the Harpies, once everything had been put back in order the cases kept coming. Illegal potions rings, the creation of deadly magical artifacts, the use of dark magic; there was no peace in peacetime.
Knock, knock.
“Mr. Po- Harry,” Anne catches herself, deferring to Harry’s given name upon his request. “There is an Orla Lockhart here saying she needs to file a report.”
In a set of mauve summer robes, Anne stands just outside of the door frame, standing so as to block the view from the foray into the office. Her wizarding wireless is still on, and with the door now open a rock tune drifts into the room - as well as the grumbling of presumably Orla.
“I told her that this isn’t how it's done, that she needs to go to the muggle liaison office, and they’ll file a report, but uh, well, she said your father,” here she shoots Ron an accusatory glance, “sent her over, and well, he can’t keep breaking protocol.”
“It's fine Anne, you can send her in,” Harry said, waving his wand to clear the chair in front of his desk of clutter. The books and papers stack themselves haphazardly onto the floor.
“But-” Anne insists, avoiding Harry’s gaze and instead looking at her feet. Even seven years later people were still intimidated by his fame. Nervous as the day she found out she would be The Chosen Ones secretary.
“Well, send her in, then,” Ron huffed, clearing his desk with a wave of his wand - his quill, ink pot, and parchments dropping themselves messily into one of his desk drawers.
“Yes, of course, right away,” with a curt nod, Anne ducks out of the doorway, allowing a middle aged woman to enter.
Her wavy, golden blonde hair is tied back into a ponytail, pulling her hair from her face allowing her bright blue eyes to pop; she clutches a small silver box to her chest as if it was going to jump out of her hand and run off.
Maybe it was.
“Ron Weasley,” Ron introduces, standing from behind his desk he offers his hand. “Uh, sorry I didn’t quite get your name before, you are-?”
“Oh,” carefully, so as not to drop the box, the woman shakes Ron’s hand. “Orla.”
Taking Rons lead, Harry offers his own hand, before gesturing to her to take the newly available seat.
“So, what brings you to us then?” Harry said politely.
While Harry wants to trust Arthur’s judgment he has been known to have a blind spot for anything muggle.
“Right well, I needed to go to the authorities, but uh I can’t go to the regular police because well, it’s about my brother, he’s one of you lot, a wizard.” Orla has the silver trinket box in a death grip as she speaks. “Gilderoy Lockhart.”
Ron meets Harry’s brief glance with wide eyes, the two haven’t spoken about him since running into him at St. Mungos in 5th year, and hadn't given him any real thought since he failed to wipe their memories in second year.
“I can assure you, your brother hasn’t gotten into any trouble recently,” said Ron, rubbing the back of his neck nervously, as if Orla would be able to spot just looking at him that it was his broken wand that had irreparably damaged her brother's mind.
“Oh no, this wouldn’t be recent,” Orla explains how it was she came upon this box of her brothers, stopping short of what it was that she found so disturbing inside.
“Well, I mean, look for yourself.” With shaky hands, Orla holds out the box for either of them to take.
Touching it Harry can tell that it is charmed. The defensive spells pulse lightly under his fingers, however if it gave for a muggle it cannot be very good. It opens easily.
Flipping back the lid it takes Harry a moment to perceive the contents. Once he does the box nearly drops.
“I just, I can’t believe he would have anything like this,” Orla bursts into tears upon seeing Harry’s reaction. “I'm just…. I’m glad my mother didn’t have to see this.”
When Harry looks up, Ron has left his chair, offering Orla a handkerchief that she accepts graciously to blow her nose into. Eyebrows furrowed, Ron’s expression asks the obvious- what is it?
The lid fits back into place with a click.
“Thank you for bringing this in.” Said Harry, resting the box onto his desk. “It couldn’t have been easy.”
It takes Ron another 10 minutes to calm her down, and then another 5 to assure her its good as handled, that she will be contacted with any pertinent updates and send her on her way.
Closing the door behind her, nearly hitting her on her way out Ron is finally able to voice the one question on his mind. “So….what’s in the box?”
Throat dry, Harry gulps, how were they to begin an investigation for a case Harry can’t even put into words.
“They’re, uh, pictures.”
Despite the quizzical eyebrow Ron has some guesses as to what the pictures may be of, given that they must be the illegal sort. His hand hesitates over the box, apprehensive to open it for himself, but it is his case too and it would only be prolonging the inevitable.
Throwing back the lid Ron peers down into a small collection of magical photographs, those that are not face up revealing the familiar loopy penmanship of Gilderoy Lockhart. The photographs themselves each contained only a single, young, subject.
“Blimey, Lockhart’s a nonce.”