Chapter Text
There were only four items left on Charlie Weasley's desk in the corner of his cabin, and he hated them all. He hated the candle for burning so damn bright, he hated the bottle of vodka for being too damn empty, and most of all, he hated the two wrinkled letters for being too smudged with, well, not tears. But something like tears. Something that might leak from a man's face after his last bottle of vodka was too damn empty.
Charlie rubbed his eyes, bleary with fatigue and the fading stupor of drink. His bags were packed. All his things had fit in four measly bags. Everything that is, minus the candle, the empty vodka bottle, and the two letters. Those had been too important to pack. Those he needed left out.
The vodka couldn't be packed, obviously, because a man shouldn't be reduced to rummaging every time he needed a drink. The candle he needed, because Hagrid had warned him not to cross booze with even a simple lumos spell. But the letters? He hadn't decided whether he should bring them or burn them.
He hated the letters. Truly. It was remarkable how two pieces of parchment with some ink could tear a man's life apart like fiendfyre, only faster and with less fanfare.
The first letter had been delivered by Theo's dignified barred owl two months prior, on a crisp September morning. Charlie had been smearing some salve on a fresh burn on his shoulder when the owl had swooped in the open window and dropped the letter, then flown back out without waiting to see if Charlie would write a response. Not that there was anything unusual about that. No owls lingered in dragon country.
Dearest Charlie , it began, with that strange slant of someone who wrote left handed.
I am writing to share the news of my upcoming nuptials to Ms. Daphne Greengrass, in hopes that owls travel faster than rumors. In the wake of the publication of the Sacred Nineteen and my father's rapidly declining health, the time for me to honor my family's name and duties has come sooner for me, rather than later, as I had hoped. I must now marry. I ask that you understand not as a dear friend, but as a pureblood son.
By no means do I wish for our affair to come to an end, only that it must grow into something new, as all things inevitably must. While my new filial responsibilities will make it impossible for us to visit with the regularity that has become our habit, there is no reason why "business" may not occasionally whisk me away to Romania and into your arms. I expect with decreased frequency our passion will grow even greater.
I understand, and expect, that you may be angry with me for some time, and wish that you take as much time as you require to write your answer. Again, I offer my sincerest apologies for this turn of events, and ask that you think of the tremendous pressure placed on the sole heir of a dying father.
Forever yours,
Theo
Charlie felt his ears turn red and his hands shake as he turned the letter over and placed it face down. He desperately wanted to be angrier with Theo, but Theo was so damned nice and so damned understanding that he didn't know how.
The problem wasn't Theo, Charlie knew. He was the problem. His pride, more specifically. If he could just swallow his pride he might be able to accept Theo's offer that they only see each other occasionally. But Charlie was greedy, like dragons in the old stories. He didn't want to share. He had five brothers. He had shared enough, had enough of being one of many. He had thought, foolishly, it seemed, that once he was grown and away from Hogwarts he wouldn't have to share anymore. Yet here he was, being offered someone else's leavings, someone else's scraps. Daphne Greengrass' scraps.
Daphne Greengrass. The thought of her filled him with rage at his empty Vodka bottle. On impulse he grabbed the bottle and flung it against the wall, finding some satisfaction in the sound of its shattering and the tinkling of shards on the wood floor. He had never known who she was, never cared who she was. There was nothing sillier than a grown man feeling jealous of an adolescent girl. Yet he was jealous, and ashamed to boot. He knew it was a cycle, but he also knew there wasn't a damn thing he could do to break it.
Then there was the other letter. It was only a few days old. This one had been hand delivered by the grounds courier, who must have sneaked a look as she always did, and knew what the letter said. She'd refused to look Charlie in the eye when she handed it to him.
C. Weasley.
Upon completion of the investigation of the events of September 13th involving the improper harnessing of a Welsh Green leading to the injury of three hands, the committee has sufficient reason to believe that Handler Weasley's abilities had been impaired by the use of alcohol or some other prohibited substance. In light of your overall record, the committee is only asking that you take an extended leave of absence of. If at the end of leave you feel prepared to return to work you may plead your case on February the 24th, pending approval of the committee.
Sincerely,
Rolf Evanovitch
Chief Handler
Six months without pay. Six months without dragons. Charlie didn’t know who he was without dragons. Even during Voldemort’s return he’d continued his life mostly uninterrupted, unchanged. A demotion he could have handled, but a mandatory leave of absence? What if at the end of his leave the committee denied his plea, and has career was over? What then?
He shook his head, banishing that train of thought back to its dark place. There was no point worrying about that now. Now he had to decide whether to bring the letters with him or leave them somewhere to rot. Not that it mattered. They were already burned into his brain, and all the vodka in the world wouldn’t fix that.
Charlie picked them up, one in each hand, looking back and forth between them. He held Theo’s letter out, tipping the corner into the candle. The parchment crackled and sputtered as it caught fire. The flame spread across the letter, slowly swallowing Theo’s handwriting.
Something in Charlie panicked as the letter burned, and he snatched the letter away from the candle and smothered the flame. He tucked Theo’s letter into deep in a concealed coat pocket, and crammed Rolf’s letter in one of his bags. He desperately wished he could have just burned the damn things. It would be cleaner that way. But what if Theo changed his mind, and Charlie had burned his letter? Or what if he forgot the date of his appeal?
Charlie blew out the candle, then grabbed his bags and disapparated.
Like many wizards, Charlie didn’t much care for apparating. He had long since grown accustomed to the vertigo, but what he could never get used to was how it denied him any time to mentally prepare for where he was going. No time to rehearse pleasantries, speeches, and lies. But flying from Romania to Britain by broom just wasn’t practical.
He arrived in the Burrow and was promptly wrapped in a bone crushing hug.
“Hey mum,” he managed with what little air was left in his lungs.
“Charlie! Let me look at you,” she said, pushing him out to arm’s length and studying him carefully.
“What time is it here?” he asked, squinting in the bright light and prying himself out of his mother’s arms.
“Six. Quarter after, really. Hungry?”
Charlie had never resented the Burrow’s many west facing windows before, but there were flooding the living room with a hellish yellow glare that seemed intent on burning the traces of vodka from his blood.
“Mum, you’re staring.”
She sniffed indignantly. “It’s just been so long! To think I only got your owl yesterday and here you are today. I can’t believe Rolf would agree to let you leave for so long!”
Charlie smiled. “I couldn’t believe it either. But I’ve worked for him for how many years now? And the only time away I’ve had were for weddings. Hardly vacations. Can I put my bags in my old room, or is that storage or something now?”
“Oh stop. You know your room is just as you left it.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” he muttered, glancing at the stairs behind her. “Thanks.”
He hoisted his bags under his arm and avoided her gaze as he maneuvered sideways out of the kitchen. He was halfway through negotiating the odd angled turn at the first landing when he saw something horrifying, something which shook him to the the core.
“Mum? What is this… thing?”
“Yes dear?” she called as her head appeared at the base of the stairs. “Oh, that. Do you like it? The painters finished it Tuesday, just in time for you to see it!”
“It looks like a family tree.”
“Well that’s because it is a family tree. Bill and Fleur simply could not stop talking about it so I had one commissioned for them too.”
Charlie ran a finger under the crude portrait of his face, or rather, a portrait of a teenage version of him. Beside it was a painted frame, empty but waiting for whomever he paired off with. He had a feeling it would remain empty for a long time.
“I bet they adore it,” he said.
He hauled his bags up the next flight and took a left at the end of the hall, into his old room.
It hadn’t always been his room. He’d had a room all to himself, until Ginny was born, then he moved into Bill’s room. They figured that since Bill and Charlie would be off to Hogwarts only a few years later, it made sense that they share for a while.
Both he and Bill had been furious at first. Well, they at least made a show of being angry. But bunking with Bill had been fun, and he imagined infinitely preferable to rooming with Percy or Ron. Bill and Charlie’s room was about the only bedroom in the Burrow with two windows, so they split the room down the middle, Charlie on the left, Bill on the right. He tossed his bags on Bill’s bed and collapsed onto his own.
His mother was right. Their room was just as he and Bill had left it all those years ago, only tidier. Charlie suspected she secretly entertained the notion that the Weasley diaspora would someday return and take up residence at the Burrow, and she remained constantly prepared for that day.
Molly peered around the doorframe.
“Are you hungry? I have stew going,” she offered.
“Thanks, Mum, but no. Not in the mood for food. Think I might go to sleep, actually.”
Her face fell. “Oh. Okay. Well, help yourself to some stew, whenever you want.”
“Thanks mum,” Charlie said. She pulled the door closed and Charlie buried his face in a quilted pillow. He thought wistfully about his empty vodka bottle as his head began to throb.
Charlie awoke just in time to throw up an arm to bat aside a quaffle before it smashed his face.
“Oh good. You’re up.”
Charlie growled and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. His eyeballs felt too big for his skull, and it hurt to open them too far. When he saw who threw the quaffle, he grabbed a pillow and covered his face again.
“Go away.”
“Glad to see you’ve made yourself at home.”
“Fine. Go away and go fuck yourself.”
Charlie had indeed made himself at home, and he didn’t care what Bill had to say about it. When the average Weasley grew taller and thinner, Charlie had grown shorter and stockier. The average Weasley bed was less than optimal for someone with his build. After sleeping the first night in his old bed with two limbs hanging over the edge at any given time, Charlie came up with the brilliant plan to push both beds together. There was a bump in the middle, but at least he felt like he had an adult sized bed.
“Don’t see why I shouldn’t,” he added.
Bill picked up the quaffle and lobbed it at Charlie’s head again.
“I would say you throw like my little sister,” he said, deflecting it again, “but that would be a compliment. You throw like Ron.”
Bill feigned an injured look. “I don’t want you to pull a muscle this early in the morning. Mum says you’ve been sleeping a lot.”
“So? I am on vacation, you know.”
“Uh huh. Vacation.”
“Bill, why are you pestering me like this so early in the morning? Is that any way to greet family?”
“Charlie. It’s eleven o’clock.”
Charlie snorted and rolled his eyes. He padded over to the dresser and rifled through the drawers for a shirt.
“Fine. I’m on vacation and I’m still adjusting to Britain time.”
“Romania’s only two hours ahead.”
“Just because you’re a banker now,” he continued, gesturing at Bill’s plain shirt and tie, “doesn’t mean everyone else in the world needs to keep to a nine to five.” He picked out a red sweater and pulled it over his head.
“And just because you spent some time around dragons doesn’t mean you have to act like one. You’re upsetting mum. Come downstairs. We need to get some breakfast in you.”
Charlie grumbled incoherently but followed Bill down the stairs, past that awful family tree, toward the smell of frying bacon.
“Oh, good, you’re up!” Molly said, and heaped some bacon onto a plate and handed it to Charlie. He grunted his thanks and fell into a chair at the table. “And Charlie? I know it’s not a concern right now, but when Harry and Ginny come on Saturday nights, that’s Harry’s chair, dear.”
Charlie shot an incredulous look at Bill, who was busy hiding behind a coffee mug.
“Don’t worry, mum, I’ll be sure to scrub out the smell.”
“Oh, that’s not what I meant, Charlie. I just don’t want you to be alarmed if you have to relocate.”
“Thanks for the warning.” He crunched a strip of bacon, wondering if the pounding in his head would ever go away. He really should have paid more attention in potions. His mother was perfectly capable of mixing up a headache tonic, but if he asked her to brew something for him she would just fret and hover, and that would be even more insufferable than the headache.
“So, Charlie, you got any plans for your vacation?” Bill asked, placing what Charlie felt was an inappropriate emphasis on the word “vacation.” Charlie wondered if he would look so smug if Charlie kicked the chair out from under him.
“Really hadn’t given it much thought. Thought it was time for a change in scenery, is all.”
“A man can get into a lot of trouble in six months,” Bill said, tapping his chin. Despite the shirt and tie, the scars, and the adult haircut, Charlie could only see the thirteen-year-old older brother who tripped compulsively. It made his unsolicited advice maddening.
“Can’t be much worse than what I do for a living,” Charlie said, waving his left arm, the one which had borne the brunt of his near misses over the years and had the burn scars to show it.
Bill pulled out a chair next to Charlie and leaned in.
“Listen close now,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, craning his head to verify their mother was preoccupied with a particularly stubborn stain on a pan. “Mum might stay off your case for a few more days, but pretty soon the novelty of you being home again will wear off and she’s going to start pushing her agenda.”
“What do you mean, her agenda?”
“Let’s just say she’s pretty eager to fill in the blanks on that family tree.”
Charlie froze, a strip of bacon inches from his mouth.
“You’re kidding.”
Bill shook his head, quickly donning a smile and waving as Molly looked up from her dishes.
“The magic of the painting will automatically draw someone you start dating, so she’ll know if you’re lying.”
“Any suggestions?” Charlie asked, biting the bacon and mustering a similar fake smile for his mother. Satisfied they weren’t whispering to each other anymore, she began humming and opened a spice cupboard, looking at the overstuffed shelves like a lord surveying her territory.
“You need a job. It’ll keep you out of the house.”
Charlie snorted. “I have a job. At the dragon sanctuary. Where I’ve worked for many years now, you may recall.”
“Sure. Whatever. But I doubt you’re getting a six month paid leave, and I’ve seen your Gringotts vault, and I’m telling you that you can’t afford six months without pay.”
“What the hell, Bill? Why were you looking at my vault?”
Bill shrugged and took another sip of coffee. “One, it’s not really a vault when it’s almost empty. Two, I consider it a perk of the job to be able to keep tabs on people. But seriously, have you given no mind to your future? What have you been spending your money on? The time to start saving for retirement is now.”
“Really, Bill?” Charlie shook his head. “The time to start saving for retirement is now? What is that shit? What happened to the cool brother?”
“Like it or not, that shit is true.”
“Well, like it or not, the dragon sanctuary pays me in a roof over my head and food in my belly. My actual salary is a pittance. So no, my vault isn’t in the best shape,” Charlie said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
“Well then, you definitely need to get a job unless you want to be living on handouts from Mum and Dad.”
“Clearly you have something in mind.”
“I do, as a matter of fact. Mum said you’ve been sleeping pretty much all day every day, so I did some asking around.”
“You did no such thing,”Charlie said with a glower, watching his mother rearrange the spice cupboard.
“No need to thank me.” Bill smiled and downed the dregs of his coffee with a wince. “Anyway, I did some asking around with my clients, and as it turns out, a bar I brokered a deal for is in need of a bouncer, and I think you’re surly enough for the job.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Don’t tell me you’re not surly. And why do you suddenly think I’m joking all the time? Seriously, I know you love caring for magical creatures. A drunk wizard is a very particularly dangerous breed of magical creature, and I think your background gives you the skill set you need to be successful in this line of work.”
“What else you got?”