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SIYE Time:15:38 on 29th March 2024
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Midseason Murders: Down The Pub
By sapphire200182

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Category: Post-DH/AB
Characters:Harry/Ginny
Genres: Action/Adventure, Drama, General
Warnings: Death, Mild Language
Story is Complete
Rating: PG-13
Reviews: 20
Summary: Auror Harry Potter and his girlfriend, professional Quidditch player Ginny Weasley have been invited to a charity dinner by the Holyhead Harpies Fan Club held at an old Welsh pub. However, the event is interrupted when a body is discovered, and it seems the murderer is still on the premises. To solve the mystery, Harry must unravel the web of lies and secrets linking the owners of the pub... before the killer’s work is complete.



Based on the award-winning TV series Midsomer Murders, and certain tropes associated with British TV police procedural dramas. Canon-compliant. Written for the Harry and Ginny Discord 2021 Birthday Challenge. Complete, updates twice weekly.
Hitcount: Story Total: 4247; Chapter Total: 814







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Chapter Four



PW Wainwright nodded to Harry as he entered the office. “We’re done here,” she said, rolling up the scroll and stowing the Dictoquill. Owen Griffiths smoked moodily, not looking up at them.

“Okay, Owen, you can go home,” said Harry; “Just stay contactable. We might want to call you in again for further interviews.” He peered closer at Owen; the man looked tired, even a little ill. Well, fair enough, they had all been up all night.

Owen looked surprised as being allowed to go, but said nothing. He got up, and stumbled a little over his own feet. “S’alright,” he mumbled. “What’s going to happen to the Daffy? Can we open for business tomorrow?”

Harry shook his head. “No. We’ll tell you when we’re done with our investigations, then you can reopen.” To his surprise, he saw tears spring to Owen’s eyes.

“What’ll Dad say?” Owen Griffiths managed. Then he vomited, and with an expression of shock, tottered and fell back into his chair.

At first Harry was merely concerned and disgusted, the natural reaction of anyone to someone blowing chunks in front of them. Then he registered that there was blood in the puddle of sick... far too much blood. He stepped quickly around it, slammed open the office door and roared, “BACKUP IN HERE, NOW! LIZZIE! GORDON!”

Every Auror was trained in emergency Healing, and with practice and experience, the charms came to Harry almost automatically; he cleared Owen’s airway of vomit and blood, tried to slow down the bleeding, cast a diagnostic spell, and paled a little at the response it gave him: poison. He didn’t have his Auror kit on him. He shouted over his shoulder: “GET ME A BEZOAR, FAST!”

Harry knew he had to work quickly; magical poisons tended to be fast-acting. A bezoar was his best bet. Wainwright beside him, the hairy mass in her hand. Carefully open the mouth, puke and blood still dribbling out. Bezoar in. Her slim fingers forcing it down. Swallow, damn it! Owen’s eyes rolling up into his head; Revival Spell, deep shaky choking gasp. Anapneo, airways cleared again. Lizzie Peasegood beside him now. Where’s the Blood Replenishment Potion?

“Got it here, skipper.” Lizzie uncorking the glass vial, forcing it in. Too much potion spilling out. Still coughing up fresh blood, pieces of flesh. The bezoar wasn’t working like it should. It could only cure most poisons, and perhaps slow the deadly action of some others.

“He needs to go to St Mungo’s, use the Floo,” Harry ordered. “Petrificus Convalescum - Mobilicorpus “ one of you stay with him and keep me updated. Liz, you take the head. Gordon, feet. Go!”

They left, moving as quickly as possible while manoeuvreing Owen’s floating, recumbent body through the office.

Harry sat on the desk and stared at the Patrolwitch. Wainwright was slumped on the floor, leaning against the wall, her eyes wide and staring back at him, panting slightly.

“All right there?” she asked.

Harry nodded. “What’s your name?”

“Wainwr“ it’s Margaret.” They were both dappled in vomit and blood; there were patches all down the front of Harry’s shirt and trousers, but Margaret Wainwright had gotten the worst of it, soaked from fingers to elbow. She gazed at her fingers; they were covered with blood, and she’d barked a couple of them on Owen’s teeth, jamming in the bezoar. “Well... I’d never done that before.” She attempted a grin, and failed.

She looked about Tonks’ age and sounded Muggleborn or at least half-blood; Harry wondered what she had done during the war. Had she gone on the run, had she fooled the Snatchers with a forged identity, had she been captured, had she lost anyone...? These were questions he still asked, even after all this time… He shook his head to clear it, like a dog shaking off water from its ears. “Come on, Margaret, let’s clear up this stuff.”

“Right, I’m fine, it’s just the shock, the job isn’t always this bloody messy, and I...” PW Margaret Wainwright realised she was babbling, took a deep breath, and they began casting.

It took several Cleaning Spells to do it, but after five minutes of intense spellwork their clothes were clean enough, if not exactly freshly-laundered. Some magic spells just didn’t do a perfect job. Harry looked over at Margaret Wainwright, and said kindly, “Would you like a moment? You can go get a cuppa and have a sit-down, if you like.”

PW Wainwright raised her chin almost defiantly. “I’m alright now,” she said. “There’ll be time for all that later.”

Harry grinned. “You’re absolutely right. Now, let’s look for that poison.”

* * *


They found it easily enough. Another Patrolwizard called Harry into the kitchen; he had his wand stuck into the remnants of the cawl soup. Harry frowned. Surely many other patrons had drank the... “Here,” called another PW, her wand jabbed into the cut-up cake. “Here too,” said another PW, pointing at a serving tray of sliced roast lamb, and then Harry’s stomach did flip over; he’d had the roast lamb, and so had Ginny...!

It was all poisoned.

“Well, that doesn’t make any bloody sense, no one else has dropped dead,” said Gordon, clearly hiding his disquiet behind flippancy. “You had dinner here too, didn’t you? You feeling alright, Harry?”

A lot of the greatest wizards haven’t an ounce of logic, remembered Harry. Think like Hermione... “Byrne,” he said to one of the PWs, “go check Owen Griffiths’ witness statement and see if he mentions what he ate. If he doesn’t, go to St Mungo’s and see if the Healers can tell, or if he’s in a fit state to talk. Give me an update on his condition, and tell the Healers what we’ve found, and that we urgently need to know what poison has been used.”

Harry thought carefully before he spoke next. Then he said to Gordon Cresswell, “If all the food is poisoned, but only Griffiths is affected, then either he alone was exposed to some kind of catalyst that activated the poison, or we all were poisoned, and also given the antidote, which was withheld from him.”

Gordon blinked. “That makes a lot of sense.”

“First Gerald Yaxley, then Carrie Wilson, and now Owen Griffiths,” said Harry. “The pattern is obvious, isn’t it? I need to talk to Daphne again.”

“No,” said a voice behind him.

Harry turned around. Hugh Wilson, Carrie’s husband, stood there, smiling sadly at him. “The person you need to talk to is me.”

* * *


Since Owen Griffiths’ office was now a crime scene, Harry had to conduct the interview in a guest room. It was furnished as drably as the rest of the pub, with an old-fashioned four-poster, an even more ancient-looking sofa and a couple of armchairs, and walls painted what had once been cheery yellow but now reminded Harry uncomfortably of vomit.

Hugh Wilson sat at one end of the sofa, nursing a cup of coffee (checked for poison). Harry had a good look at him for the first time that evening; he looked like a cross between unscarred Bill and Percy, tall, broad-shouldered, with a boyishly good-looking clean-shaven face but the thick limbs of an active handyman worker. He seemed eager to tell his story now that he had taken the plunge. Almost before Harry sat down in the armchair opposite, Hugh blurted out, “The fact of the matter is that Daphne Greengrass and I were having an affair.”

Harry’s first reaction was to think, Daphne had been in his year. Twenty-three was far too young to be ‘having affairs’. But all he said was: “You said ‘were’.”

“This afternoon, at four o’ clock, I met Daphne at Malfoy Manor. Mr Malfoy and Daphne’s sister, Astoria, arranged the meeting to convince us to stop seeing each other. We spoke for an hour, and finally decided to call it quits. I went back home at about a quarter past five, and...” Hugh shrugged. “You know the rest.”

“Let me get this absolutely straight,” said Harry. “You’re telling me that you lied in your previous statement, in which you said you were at home all afternoon, and corroborated the alibi of your wife?”

“Yes.”

There was a clock on the wall, an ugly, baroque, leftover-ish kind of thing that seemed to embody to Harry the spirit of the entire damn pub. It reminded him that it was now nearly two in the morning. He let the pendulum go back and forth twenty times before speaking again.

“How long have you and Daphne been carrying on this affair?”

Hugh Wilson continued to smile, but the words came out in a resigned monotone. “I met Daphne at a Christmas party held by Preston Greengrass two years ago. We started talking, and... things just got out of control. I’m the main reason why Daphne asked Preston for permission to manage the business. Eighteen months, and at first it was excitingly dangerous... but the game is not worth the candle. We’re both sick and tired of the lies, the skulking. I knew Carrie suspected, and tonight was going to be the end. I was going to tell her, to make things right, but I never thought... I was too...” He trailed off and ran down to a stop.

“You do realise,” said Harry slowly, “just what you’re implying by making this statement.”

Hugh stared at his coffee, the smile gone now, and did not look at Harry. Harry gave it a minute, and then he reached for the Dictaquill, preparing to terminate the interview.

“I was in Cedric Diggory’s dorm,” Hugh said suddenly. “We weren’t close friends, but of course, when your name came out of the Goblet of Fire, we all had a good old slag-down. You’d stolen our thunder, you see. We called you a lot of choice names. But Cedric told us off and said you didn’t want to be there. You recall what Dumbledore said that year? ‘Remember Cedric Diggory’, and about making a choice between what is right and what is easy? I’m afraid I didn’t quite take his words to heart.” Wilson shrugged. “My whole family moved to Canada in 1996, and we didn’t come back until after the fight at Hogwarts.” He looked up at Harry. “After that, I said I wouldn’t make the same mistake.”

“And yet,” said Harry quietly, “you kept up the affair with Daphne all this while. Until today.”

That sad smile appeared again on Hugh Wilson’s face, along with a teardrop that slowly made its way down his cheek. “I’ve always found it hard to make the right choice,” he said simply.

* * *


Lizzie Peasegood was waiting for Harry in the executive office. “Owen Griffiths is missing a lot of blood and about a quarter of his stomach lining, but he’s not going to die,” she informed him. “The Healers have identified the poison and found a simple antidote, a potion mainly made up of marigold and river startip. They’re dosing him right now, and there’s extra in case anyone else needs it.”

Marigold. Herbs. Bad habits. Another piece fit into place in Harry’s head.

“Operations still has their hands full dealing with Dementors up near Edinburgh, so we’re not getting any Auror reinforcements. Your friend Weasley’s taken a team into the air to chase them down,” she said admiringly.

Harry chuckled. “Ron always did jump at any chance to fly on the job. Lizzie, is Owen conscious and able to answer questions?”

Lizzie shook her head. “They’ve had to put him into a Living Death coma, or he would be in a lot of pain. I left PW Byrne to liaise with the Healers. Figured you’d need more Aurors this side of things.”

“Much appreciated,” said Harry. This was one of the main reasons why he liked Lizzie; she had drive and wouldn’t ever be caught shirking the tough jobs. “Well, you’re in luck, because I think I know who our murderer is. I’m going to have a word with PW Wainwright, and then let’s go find Gordon.”

* * *


Lizzie Peasegood, Gordon Cresswell, and Harry settled down in the chairs on one side of the guest room-turned-interview room. The two Trainee Aurors fiddled with notebooks and glanced over at Harry, who was thinking hard with his eyes closed, but didn’t say a word.

PW Margaret Wainwright entered, along with Carrie Wilson, her injured arm in a sling. The barkeep and quarter-owner of the Druid And Daffodil sat down expressionlessly opposite the Aurors. PW Wainwright took up position by the door.

Harry let Gordon handle the preliminaries of activating the Dictaquill and identifying the people present. Then he said, “Carrie, please tell me where you were from four to five o’ clock on Saturday afternoon?”

“I told you, I was at home with my husband Hugh.”

“That is what you told us, but Hugh tells us otherwise.”

Spots of colour appeared on Carrie’s cheeks. She shrugged. “I don’t know where my husband was either. Why don’t you suspect him of the murder?”

Harry didn’t intend to answer that question; instead he said, “It’s a stroke of misfortune for you, because you relied on him to cover for you. You came here in the afternoon and killed Gerald Yaxley. You tried to kill Owen Griffiths by poisoning the food served tonight, and you tried to frame Daphne Greengrass by putting out the lights and stabbing yourself.”

“A fanciful story,” said Carrie scornfully, “but can you prove it?”

“We’ve identified the poison you used and right now a team of Patrolwizards are searching your home brewery, where no doubt they’ll find traces of the poison. Besides, what was the last spell you performed, before you damaged your own arm? Lizzie, take her wand,” ordered Harry, who had been watching Carrie’s eyes and saw the startled flick downwards to her pocket.

There was a brief struggle, but Carrie had the disadvantage of her wand-arm being in a sling and not being quite as fast as a talented Trainee Auror. Lizzie performed the Prior Incantato without needing to be instructed; several smoky lightbulbs emerged, then disappeared all at once.

Carrie gave a short, high-pitched laugh. “I forgot,” she said simply.

“There’s no reason for you to hide any further now,” said Harry. “Why don’t you come clean? The Wizengamot will take that into consideration.”

“What else is there to say?” she shot back. “You seem to have it all sewn up. How did you guess?”

“Your husband came clean at last,” said Harry. “But we would have got there in the end. It was the antidote that confirmed my suspicions. You knew Owen Griffiths was trying to kick drinking, didn’t you? I saw him stick to pumpkin fizz all night. You, on the other hand, drank when you weren’t supposed to, and you made sure all the rest of us drank too “ drank your ale, the Druid’s Gold. You knew your secret blend of herbs and flowers in it contained the antidote. Marigold and river startip. Why did you poison yourself and all of us? Why not just Owen?”

“I couldn’t guess what he would eat and it would have been too easy to pinpoint anything I passed him,” said Carrie. “I thought you might also suspect it was Death Eaters if I made it look like an attempted mass poisoning that had been luckily averted.”

“That was clumsy,” said Harry. “And so was stabbing yourself. You were trying to remove yourself from the list of suspects, I take it?”

“Yes. It wasn’t elegant, but I was out of ideas. You were supposed to zero in on Daphne as the only real suspect left. I didn’t think Hugh would provide an alibi for her.” Carrie laughed shortly. “I guess he chose her over me, in the end. Well, fair play to him, I chose myself over him. I had already met with a buyer for the pub. With Gerald and Owen dead, and Daphne either convicted or at least under suspicion, I would have had full control of the business. I could deal easily with whoever their inheritors were. I was going to sell out, leave Hugh, and move somewhere far away and start afresh.”

“And that was worth killing Gerald Yaxley and Owen Griffiths?”

“Why should I have let that stop me?” Carrie shrugged. “I felt nothing for them, alive or dead. They were not really my friends. I saw them as obstacles.” The casual way she spoke chilled Harry to the bone. “I see the judgement in your eyes. You don’t know what it’s like, being trapped like I was. Hating my work, hating my husband, hating this stupid pub, hating my life, and with no way out. What was I going to do, grow old tending bar forever? Or worse, chucked out when the Daffy finally goes under, and scrape for a living doing whatever job I could find? Maybe I could be a barmaid somewhere else, eh?” Carrie laughed shortly. “Can you imagine living through another sixty years of such a pointless hell?”

Harry couldn’t help himself. “For God’s sake, Carrie, where were you in the war that just ended?!” he snapped. “I fought, people suffered and died, just so you can live and breathe and be free from the whims of some stupid madman! You could have done anything, could have divorced Hugh and gone on your way!”

Carrie Wilson laughed sardonically. “You found your happiness in Weasley. I could see that this evening, as clear as day. You have a bright future ahead of you. Hugh and I, we were a mistake, a fling that went on too long. I’m no longer as young as I was. When you’re my age, you might understand. I had to leave with something more tangible, something to show for all the shit I’ve endured. A few thousand Galleons doesn’t seem much to ask. And how fitting that the Greengrass girl would pay for what she had done to me.”

Harry couldn’t think of anything to say to that. He was about to end the interview when Carrie spoke again.

“Hugh found his escape in the Greengrass girl,” she said. “I deserved my escape too.”

There was a hint of a plea for understanding, under the defiant tone. Strange that she would want that now, thought Harry, after all she had said and done. “Did you know where Hugh went in the afternoon?” he asked. “He went to Malfoy Manor, to meet Daphne Greengrass and her sister. He told her he couldn’t cheat on you any more, that he was going to be faithful to you from now on. He was going to come back to you and start over.”

Carrie shook her head ruefully. “That’s Hugh to a tee,” she said, her eyes glossy now. “Always a day late, and a dollar short.”

* * *


Ginny sat at a table off to one side of the dining room, nursing a cup of tea. A couple of Patrolwizards occupied another table, going through piles of paperwork and talking animatedly. Another couple of Patrolwizards assembled small bags of evidence, mainly samples of poisoned food.

By some kind of strange group premonition, all talk stopped and all eyes in the dining room turned to the grim procession heading towards the Floo, though it was unannounced. First came Gordon Cresswell and PW Margaret Wainright, looking both physically and emotionally tired out. Carrie Wilson followed, her head held high; as her arm was in a sling, her hands were pinioned in front of her instead of behind. Lizzie Peasegood had placed one hand firmly on Carrie’s shoulder, the other resting on the hilt of her wand.

Harry brought up the rear.

He stood there watching as Lizzie led Carrie away to the Floo. Around the dining room a couple of the Patrolwizards were whispering and gazing at him with admiration, awe, maybe a little fear. To anyone else but Ginny, he looked exactly like the ‘wonder boy’ of the Auror Office they had finally seen in action tonight; stern, granite-faced, scarily-efficient, wrapping up a double murder in record time and striking another powerful blow for justice, despite his astonishingly young age. Perhaps only Ginny saw just how wounded he was.

She came up next to him and tucked her arm around his. Harry blinked, looked down, and smiled tiredly. “I’m sorry, Ginny. I’m afraid the night’s been rather spoiled.”

Ginny shook her head. “Only you would apologise for having to deal with a random murder out of nowhere. Well, it was interesting, in a way “ I don’t often get to see you in action.”

Harry grimaced. “I hate stuff like this. Dealing with Death Eaters was so much easier. At least they’re all nasty sorts. Why do perfectly ordinary people find the need to just be complete arseholes to their fellow beings, for a petty revenge, for a few thousand Galleons. There was so much else she could have lived for. What really was the damn point?”

This, thought Ginny, this was the Harry that Ginny was privileged to know. Everyone else saw only the hero, the Chosen One, the Auror. She saw the bewildered, scared and unsure little boy, thrust into a whole new world of magic, struggling with all its myriad seductions and dangers, with not even a parental hand to guide him, but who still descended into a hidden chamber to fight a basilisk and rescue a silly girl, simply because it was the right thing to do. And she loved him for that, even when it took him away from her, even when it terrified her that some day she might lose him forever, because they both wanted so fiercely to do the right thing.

What did that say about herself?

Ginny sometimes wondered who was the stupid noble one here.

But well... there were always the moments in between. They had that.

“People are just people,” she said. “Even Tom Riddle was just a power-hungry maniac afraid of death and willing to do anything, kill anyone, to avoid it. You’ve done your part here, Harry. The rest... is up to her.”

Harry didn’t quite smile, but Ginny felt some of the tension ease. He planted a kiss on the top of her head, and led them to a corner table, snagging a pot of tea and two cups along the way.

There was a little time for one more stolen moment. Harry and Ginny spent it sitting quietly in the corner, sipping tea, his fingers intertwined around hers, watching as Gordon and the Patrolwizards went in and out of the pub sorting out the innumerable little tasks that remained, but mostly just enjoying the respite of being together. At another table, PW Margaret Wainwright was sitting down with her own cup of tea and another PW, clutching a hanky. Then Lizzie reappeared from the fireplace, looked around, saw them, and headed over with the unmistakable expression of someone who had finally found a superior to unload a problem on.

Harry sighed. “Back to work.”

“Go on, then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ginny kissed him goodbye, and took the Floo back to the Burrow.

* * *


The work of securing the crime scene; gathering and processing evidence, witnesses, victims and suspect; and tidying up administrative loose ends in a way the courts would find acceptable was not by any stretch complete by eleven o’ clock the next morning, but by that time Harry could hand over properly to Senior Auror Morgan the next day and make his report to Robards with the sense of a job well done. The Head of the Auror Office, of course, had a few choice remarks to make.

“Damn it, you weren’t supposed to solve the whole lot in one night,” grumped Robards. “Bloody typical. Can you not be an over-achieving twit for once, Potter? You’re making the rest of us mere mortals look bad.”

Harry tried not to smile at Robards’ back-handed praise, which was easy; he was completely exhausted. It was not that he was new to twenty-four-hour shifts; they were part and parcel of the Auror life, but the mental exertion of the last twelve hours was something else entirely. All he wanted to do was to crawl into bed... Too late he realised he had zoned out; Harry mentally pulled himself up and mumbled one of those catch-all boss replies: “I’ll try, sir.”

Robards grunted. “Go on, get out of here and get some sleep, you look like death warmed over, I’m not having one of my Aurors walk around the Department looking like you do right now. Lets the whole side down. Come in tomorrow and sort out the paperwork.”

Harry managed a real smile this time. “Thanks, boss.”

He barely remembered walking out of Robards’ office and Flooing back to Grimmauld Place. The last reserves of energy he could muster were running dry. But he woke up a little when he stumbled out of the fireplace and saw a familiar figure seated at her writing desk.

Ginny looked up as the Floo flared up and Harry emerged. She took in the bags under his half-lidded eyes, the fatigue-slumped shoulders, slack expression, yesterday’s shirt and trousers under the red Auror uniform cloak looking very much the worse for wear, and tsked under her breath.

“Why’re y’here?” slurred Harry, “s’posed t’be ‘n Burrow...”

“I wanted to see how long Robards was going to keep you. I thought I was going to have to come rescue you at lunch, but I see the rumours are true; Robards might just have half a heart after all,” said Ginny. She stood up. “C’mere, you.”

She grabbed his hand and towed him to the bedroom. Harry managed to dump the cloak over the back of a chair and doff his shoes and socks but then fell otherwise fully-clothed into bed. Ginny pulled on an old jumper and shorts, and climbed in with him, pulling the sheets up over them both. Tenderly, she took off Harry’s glasses and put them on the nightstand. Harry stirred, wrapped his arms around her and buried his head in her midriff.

“Thank ‘oo,” he mumbled into her sternum. “Dunno wha’d do ‘thout ‘oo...”

Ginny stroked his messy hair. “What you’re going to do is get some sleep,” she said, putting on her I-will-not-be-disobeyed voice, “then you’ll wake up in the afternoon, take a bath, and have a light lunch, maybe soup and rolls. You’re not to answer any Floos or owls at all today; we’ll roll around in bed doing God knows what, go out for dinner somewhere in Muggle London where absolutely nobody knows who we are or is hatching any plots for you to stumble on, then we’ll come back early and find something to do to while away the evening, I’m sure you can come up with ideas.”

“Sounds won’ful... love you...”

“I love you too, Harry. And I’m very proud of you.”

And then he was finally asleep.


* * *



Epilogue



Two weeks later.

“Percy, George, sort out the tables and chairs. Ginny, dishes and cutlery. Ron, I’ll need you to give me a hand with the food,” commanded Molly Weasley. “Harry, will you be a dear and get out the drinks?”

Out in the Burrow’s garden, Hermione was waving her wand in wide sweeping motions, covering the trees and bushes with conjured bunting, ribbons and bows, balloons of all shapes and sizes, and a giant banner with the words “HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY!” in big cheerful letters that glowed and flashed and changed colours in rhythmic patterns. In a corner, under a tree, Andromeda Tonks sat demurely on a picnic blanket, watching Teddy as he chased a dog-shaped balloon Hermione had enchanted to scamper along at child’s-head height.

As plates and bottles began levitating out of the house, the kitchen Floo flared up and Bill and Fleur came through; with a big grin, Bill slapped Harry hard on the back, causing him to stumble, and shoved a carelessly-wrapped package into his hands.

“Happy birthday, Potter, see if you’ll find that useful. Charlie clubbed in with us too,” said Bill, and wandered over to the stove to greet his mother and hopefully steal a bite of something.

Fleur swished over in a floral print summer wrap dress, managing to look glamorously chic even while balancing Victoire on one hip in a matching outfit. “Say ‘appy birthday!” she cooed; Victoire lisped “appy bufday”, flushed Weasley-red and then buried her face in her mother’s neck. Fleur laughed, gave Harry an enthusiastic “ ‘appy birthday, ‘arry!” and two Gallic kisses on the cheeks, then glided out to the garden.

Ginny passed by with a box of knives and forks; she grabbed a fistful of Harry’s shirt, dragged him down and smooched him soundly on the mouth. “Mine,” she growled, shooting a dark look at the departing Frenchwoman’s damnably perfect back.

Harry grinned, leaned in, and kissed her again softly. “All yours, Weasley.” He brushed his thumb over her cheek; Ginny was a huge mass of freckles all over from training in the July sun, and suddenly she couldn’t help it; a schoolgirlish giggle broke out of her, and she walked hand in hand with Harry out the kitchen door.

Soon the tables outside were creaking under the weight of giant platters of food; there was a massive joint of roast beef, stacks of Yorkshire puddings all puffy and crisp, steaming jacket potatoes, lettuce and carrots and peas fresh from the Burrow’s vegetable garden, bottles of Butterbeer and elderflower wine, jugs of pumpkin juice, and both treacle tart and a birthday cake for afters.

Ron rubbed his hands appreciatively. “I’ll say it’s handy having you around for one thing at least, Harry; Mum always pulls out all the stops for you.” Hermione elbowed him.

The air rapidly filled with the sound of spoons clattering on plates and talk and laughter, and as the twilight deepened, Hermione conjured up a constellation of hovering candles that lit up the whole garden with a cheerful flickering glow. But just as they were starting on the tart and the cake, the doorbell rang, its magically-enhanced chimes echoing out to the garden.

“I’ll see who it is,” said Percy, getting up. When he returned, it was with an odd expression on his face and two figures in summer cloaks following somewhat timidly behind. “Harry? Ginny?” he called.

It was Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy, the latter holding a large, elegantly-wrapped package, and with a carefully-neutral expression on his face.

“I’m sorry, I hope we’re not interrupting,” said Astoria. “We just came to pass over a package for Harry. Since we don’t know where he lives, we thought this was the next best place to look for him.”

This was the first time Harry had ever received a gift from Malfoy. He said eloquently, “Er.”

“It’s something of a thank-you from Daphne,” said Astoria. "She would have passed this over herself, but she's so very busy, now that she's doing the lion's share of the work for that pub, so she asked us to drop this off." Diplomatically, she took the package from Malfoy, and held it out to Harry with a charming smile.

Okay, now this was familiar ground. “I was just doing my job,” said Harry. “According to Ministry regulations, I’m not sure I can... ouch! I mean...”

“Well, maybe I can take that for you,” said Ginny, as she removed her foot from on top of Harry’s. “Thank you very much, Astoria.”

Mrs Weasley had come up behind them, and was hovering protectively behind Ginny. She shot a frown at Malfoy, which softened as Astoria said brightly, “Ah, you must be Mrs Weasley. Please excuse Draco and I for intruding on your party. You have a very lovely home,” she said sincerely, “and I’ve heard a lot about your garden from Draco’s aunt, Andromeda.”

Harry and Ginny exchanged glances, and waited for Mrs Weasley’s reaction.

“You’re as thin as Harry was when he first came here,” observed Mrs Weasley. “Come along, why don’t you join us? There’s plenty of the roast left, and we’ve only just started on the pudding.”

“I really shouldn’t,” said Astoria, but her eyes were shining as she took in the dinner scene in the garden. “Oh, maybe I will have a glass of juice,” she said, and she let Mrs Weasley put an arm around her and pilot her to the dinner tables.

Malfoy looked like a guard dog whose ward had been stolen very willingly from under his nose. He hesitated, then squared his shoulders, tucked Astoria’s cloak under his arm, and followed, hovering protectively as Mrs Weasley conjured up a chair and poured her a glass of pumpkin juice. Andromeda Tonks said hello to her niece, her eyes darting between Malfoy and the Weasleys; Mr Weasley and Bill looked a little nonplussed at the new arrivals; and George and Ron stared at Malfoy for a long moment with open hostility. It was Percy who drew up another chair for him, and wordlessly passed him a glass of wine, before launching loudly into a discussion with George about Class XXX creature import regulations.

Astoria, Mrs Weasley and Mrs Tonks chattered away, and very shortly afterwards, all three were crouching near the flowerbeds while Astoria burbled about dappled gazanias and shy lantanas. Malfoy sat silent, nursing his wine and watching over her. The other Weasleys decided to ignore him and the volume of conversation rose again to something approaching normal. Victoire and Teddy helped by getting into a rough tussle in the grass.

Comfortably stuffed with Mrs Weasley’s cooking, Harry leaned back in his chair, Ginny nestled under his arm, and rested his cheek on the top of her head. He closed his eyes and breathed deep and just let the sounds of family wash over him. After a while, he said, “Ginny, d’you remember that week’s holiday I promised?”

“What about it?”

“Well, whenever you can get time away from Gwenog, I’ve got Robards to approve it in principle. It’s just a matter of confirming the dates.”

Ginny did a little wriggle of happiness against him that ticked Harry’s pulse up a few notches. “Brilliant! I’ll clear it with Gwenog right away. I can’t wait!” Craning her head up to reach his ear, she whispered, “I’ll be sure to pack the bikini.”

His pulse went up a little bit more. Suddenly Harry felt another celebratory glass of wine might be in order.

After a while, George and Ron announced they were going to see to the special fireworks, and sidled off in the direction of the broom shed. Ginny went to play with Teddy and Victoire. Astoria came back to the table clutching a couple of cuttings in brown paper, clearing her throat; Malfoy immediately leapt for the jug and poured her a glass of pumpkin juice. The first firework soared into the sky and burst into a giant flapping Golden Snitch as Malfoy poured more wine for himself. He hesitated, then leaned over and refilled Harry’s glass as well.

Harry looked up, watching the expression on Draco’s face. What was he thinking? Did he understand what was happening here? The Draco Malfoy he had known in his schooldays would have sneered at the Burrow, the simple home-grown and home-cooked food, the well-used and careworn air of everything here...

Malfoy held up his glass a fraction. After a moment, Harry picked up his own glass and tilted it slightly in his direction.

“This is what I call a real birthday party,” Harry said.

Malfoy nodded, and it seemed to Harry that he did understand. “Many happy returns,” said Malfoy.

Well, Harry could drink to that.

So they did.


END




* * *



Author’s note: The prompt/twist I received for this Challenge was “Someone throws Harry and/or Ginny a birthday party that misses the mark”. I like the idea that even after leaving Hogwarts, the Trio and Ginny are still not shot of Malfoy; he inadvertently shows up all over like a bad penny, and of course with his better half in tow. Unfortunately, I couldn’t work in a more active Ginny sub-plot I had in mind... perhaps the next time.

This is my first mystery fic, and I hope to write more, as I love Auror-Harry-Casefics. As always, do please drop a line telling me what you liked, disliked, what worked for you and what didn't; would very much appreciate it. Hope you all enjoyed reading!
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