Author: Thalia Kendall
Category: Drama, Romance
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property of J.K. Rowling. Characters and situations are used without permission, no infringement is intended.
Summary: The war is over, technically. Harry defeated Voldemort, but then disappeared to whereabouts unknown, leaving behind a wizarding Britain that still needs to recover from the war and deal with the fallout. Amidst this all, a young Auror by the name of Roger Davies was hexed at close range during a raid and because of subsequent injuries, released from the Auror's Guild. Fate has it that he runs into the father of an old housemate, who offers him a new job managing an apartment complex in Hogsmeade-- an old building called Euterpe's Corner.
Author's Notes:This was somewhat inspired by an rpg that I follow, or
at least, Roger's backstory and the premise of the post-war wizarding
world. As very typical for me, this fic will likely feature any number
of obscure canon characters and ships, though it is somewhat
Ravenclaw-centric. However, this fic isn't going to be completely linear-- it is
almost a collection of stories about the residents of Euterpe's Corner
rather than a sequence of events. This chapter is dedicated to Lyta
Padfoot, who continues to run the coolest Ravenclaw site on the web. Many
thanks to Kaerra for her beta job!
Disclaimer: Insert witty disclaimer here. I WISH I owned Roger Davies.
* * *
The building known as Euterpe's Corner had been in existence in the village of Hogsmeade for the past two hundred and fifty-three years. Originally, it was said to be an inn, though as far as any of the current inhabitants of Hogsmeade could remember, it had been an apartment complex, conveniently close to most of the shops, but far enough from the commercial district that it was quiet and peaceful. The building was tall for Hogsmeade, built simply but sturdily of gray stone, and with each successive change of management, the exterior grounds and gardens were kept with slightly different flora, in varying states of care.
The latest manager was an elderly witch by the name of Roberta Eliot, and she had managed the place for the last seventy years. She was one hundred if she was a day.
A lovely, maternal woman, she'd been conscientious and diligent in her duties until about three years ago. Perhaps it had been her age, or perhaps it had been the shock of learning of Death Eaters in Hogwarts. In either case, her performance and enjoyment of her job had deteriorated, and when the constantly frazzled owner of the property had suggested that she retire, she took no offence and left at once, presumably to live the remainder of her days in idyllic relaxation in Wakefield with some of her relatives.
But Josiah Carmichael then found himself with quite a sizable problem. He'd inherited the building from his now-deceased father at the age of twenty-five, and in the thirty or so odd years that it had been in his possession, he'd never had to bother with replacing any personnel. Josiah, a high-powered executive of research and development at Iterati, an Arithmancy Service firm, was far more interested in the potential uses of Calcular Integralic Forms than the upkeep and management of a building.
He'd faithfully kept at it, occasionally bullying his son Eddie to do some of the grunt work. When Eddie returned home one day pale and grim, after an apparently terrifying encounter with Su Li, one of the newest tenants, Josiah had despaired and seriously considered selling the place.
But kismet worked in strange ways at times. And one day, as Josiah had been visiting the Ministry to submit a proposal to the Department of Experimental Charms, he just so happened to run into a young, solemn-eyed man in Auror robes who was levitating a stack of cardboard boxes, about to exit the building. It was obvious that the bloke was leaving the Magical Law Enforcement Squad for the last time.
Four hours later, Josiah was gleefully dancing a jig in the office of Euterpe's Corner, blithely waving his wand at the record books. The pages fluttered, and the inky letters changed and shifted, rearranging a name.
Roberta Eliot's name was gone, and in her place was the name of the new manager: Roger Davies.
* * *
The burly blond man lounging carelessly in the velvet chair had freckles and a wide grin on his face as he surveyed his former Quidditch captain. "It's been a while, hasn't it, boy-o?"
"Indeed it has, Ackerley," Roger replied quietly, slowly and carefully picking up the glass of red wine with fingers that weren't quite steady. Thankfully, the wine-glass had only been filled up about halfway, and he managed to lift it to his lips without any mishap. "And how's the glory life of playing for the Arrows treating you?"
"Quite well, all in all," the former Ravenclaw Beater grinned. "I can't say that I enjoy the press conferences over-much, but it's not bad. Making loads of money and dating Playwizard models... I'm sure it'll get monotonous after a while, but for the time being..."
Roger smiled wryly at that. Perhaps he could have taken that path... and then, he wouldn't be struggling with something so simple as a wineglass at a restaurant. It was too late to have regrets, but strangely, he wasn't sorry. He carefully set the glass down again and thanked the waitress politely as she brought over their entrees. "I suppose... but it's not all that great when a girl is only interested because of your status and so on."
"So says he who snagged a date with a part-veela in 6th year," Ackerley crowed. "You do realize that we all hated you for weeks. Except possibly Cho."
"That's because Cho's a sweetheart and you lot are a bunch of prats," Roger said with a grin. "I'll never know how she put up with all of us for so many years."
"One of the great mysteries of life," Ackerley quipped. "Why don't you work on investigating it while you're relegated to your current life of leisure, ol' chap?"
"Because I'm not living quite as leisurely a life as you imagine, and I'd like to keep Cho's friendship," Roger said dryly. And he didn't have time for women these days... not that most of them had ever noticed him for things other than looks and athleticism. He didn't have either of those things left, and he thought that if he wasn't keeping himself busy with keeping his building in first-rate condition and hiding the family of so-called "blood traitors" in an empty flat, he might've felt regret, or envy of Ackerley's current situation. But as it was, he simply gave his friend a brief, faint smile. "Regardless... I'll be fine. And I'm very glad that you're enjoying yourself."
Anything Ackerley might have said in response was cut off by the arrival of their waitress with dessert. Roger awkwardly cut the tiramisu into bites with his dessert fork, once again taking care not to spill or drop anything. All right, so perhaps he did have a few regrets...
* * *
Roger Davies had been thought of as one who would do great things with his life, back in the day. Certainly, to end up in some position more prestigious than the landlord of some apartment complex. In Hogwarts he'd had it all, living a charmed life of Quidditch and smarts and charisma and pretty girls. His friendships had been cordial and mostly inconsequential, and his romantic relationships even more so.
He'd left school four years ago with the world on the brink of war, with his whole life ahead of him, and he'd decided, with typical youthful idealism and youthful confidence, to join the Magical Law Enforcement Squad.
It was a busier life than he'd been used to, training to be an Auror, but he didn't mind the decrease in his social activity. After all, he was doing something useful and really, not everyone could say that about themselves. Besides, women and men alike respected an Auror. Even if his mum fretted over it through the floo with him every day.
And then there was what would always been known as the battle of Diagon Alley. Voldemort had been killed by Harry Potter, who'd then disappeared to whereabouts unknown, but the trouble didn't end there. Renegade Death Eaters darted in and out of the shadows with isolated, vicious attacks, picking people off in ones and twos. But the battle that had erupted in Diagon Alley had not been an isolated attack at all. To this day, his ears echo with screams whenever he has to use that goopy concoction the mediwitch gave him for his ruined arm.
When he had arrived there, the place was already chaos, smoke and rubble and screams in sharp contrast to the usual hustle and bustle of neat, orderly Diagon Alley. And then it had been a blur of spells and countercurses and running his throat ragged as he and the others tried to stop the onslaught.
He'd been so busy disarming a Death Eater in front of him that he didn't see the other one approaching him from the side until it was almost too late. And then it was only quick reflexes that saved him. Quidditch-honed response times. He'd managed to throw himself onto the ground with his arm over his head just as the spell hit. And then there was a moment of incredible pain before it all went dark.
The mediwitch at St. Mungo's had said that his reflexive action had saved his life, but it was too late for anything else. He'd spent two months in St. Mungo's, waiting for ruined muscle and crushed bone and seared tendons to heal, and at the end of it, everyone had done the best they could, leaving unsteady fingers and a decrease in strength and a long, jagged scar that led from his elbow to his wrist.
His wand arm.
His superior had been very kind. Very regretful. Roger had even received a shiny golden plaque for his scant few years of service. But a man with limited use of his wand arm couldn't be kept on the Magical Law Enforcement Squad. He'd been given a generous amount of money as severance pay and wished well.
And the day that he left the Ministry, he ran into the father of one of his schoolmates and received a rather astonishing proposition. Roger had considered it briefly, weighed his options.
What did he have to lose?
He smiled faintly to himself now as he Apparated back into the complimentary two-bedroom flat that they'd given him. It wasn't perhaps the life that he would choose for himself, but... it grew on him. He was good at making things do.