The story so far . . .
After the climactic battle with the evil lord Voldemort, the wizarding world recovered and settled into a peaceful utopian state. Harry married Ginny, Ron married Hermione, and everyone lived happily ever after at least until the nineteen year epilogue-mark, then J. K. Rowling regretted not pairing Harry with Hermione and because it's magic n' shit, the wizarding world adjusted accordingly.
So one day after Ron was getting back from whatever-the-fuck he was doing after the series ended, he stumbles home to find Harry - magical cock in hand - in bed with his wife. Ron tries to give Hermione the business, but because Hermione is an absolutely boss, she tells Ron she's tired of all his drinking and watching magical football (or magical quidditch, which is just regular quidditch I guess). And yeah, he'd tried to clean himself up recently, but it's Harry-fucking-Potter and his magical-fucking-cock vs Ron-ain't-nothin'-but-a-thang-Weasley. Easy choice.
It's all dramatic n' shit, and Harry takes off. After a few days Ron tries to be the bigger man and tracks Harry down to talk . . . and then stuff happens. You know, STUFF stuff. The conversation was something like:
RON: "I don't know about this Harry."
HARRY: "Ron, you're my best friend and I just wanna be close to you."
RON: "Harry! Don't go pullin' your magic bean sprout out of your trousers!"
HARRY: "Oh for fuck's sake, it ain't like you haven't seen it a million times at Hogwarts."
RON: "That was different! We was kids, and . . ."
HARRY: "And?"
RON: ". . ."
HARRY: ". . ."
RON: ". . . can I touch it? I mean . . . just the tip?"
HARRY: "Yeah Ron . . . just the tip."
Were you reading it in your head with an English-accent? Remember, this is all happening in Britain. I'm trying to be authentic here.
And then they had sex. And they continued to have sex for many years. Everyone got divorced and Harry had to have the I'm-sorry-I-had-sex-with-your-brother-and-also-his-wife talk with Ginny, which didn't go over well. Hermione almost killed Ron until he pointed out she had sex with Harry first, and Harry and Ron finally ran off into the sunset together.
Anyway, that was many years ago. Everyone's well into their forties now, embittered with age. Peace allowed everyone to get lazy, and to stave off boredom Harry and Ron started their own detective agency.
This is their story . . .
The grey clouds had polluted the otherwise quaint little town for nigh-on two weeks. It was another utterly unpleasant day, and the threat of rain that just wouldn't come hung heavy on everyone's demeanour. The magic police-tape that sectioned off the small shoe-shop in Diagon Alley was an ill-omen. A considerable crowd had gathered by the time the blue flying car swooped down in front of the store, narrowly missing a reporter snapping magic-photos of the scene.
"Hey! Just 'ho the 'ell do you think you are?!" yelled the reporter in a thick accent.
The door swung open and a grizzled man with a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead stepped out. His trench coat bellowed out of the car after him, along with the heavy smell of Irish bourbon. His heavy stubble and the cigarette dangling from his mouth painted a different picture of 'the boy who lived' then the spectators were used to.
"It's Harry Potter!" whispered the crowd.
The passenger door swung open and Ron Weasley, looking more ginger than ever, followed.
"And the fat one!" yelled someone else.
Ron threw a disgusted look at the crowd as his lover walked to his side, gesturing him to the shop entrance.
"Don't pay any attention to them," said Harry. "You've still got a quidditch player's hot body."
"I 'aven't played quidditch in ages," replied Ron, slapping the beer gut that had grown with his bitter resentment after his twenty-fifth birthday. "It wasn't even an injury which did me in."
"I know," replied Harry, putting his hand on Ron's shoulder. "You got old, but . . . come on, I still love ya."
"Don't patronize me!" yelled Ron, hitting Harry's hand away. "You don't have to lie to me anymore."
Ron barged into the shop. Harry glanced back at the mesmerized crowd. He could hear the whispers and rumours that would grow from this single incident, rumours that his new relationship was failing like his first marriage, that 'the boy who lived' was having trouble in paradise.
"I save them all and this is what I get," he muttered to himself. "Come on, Mr. Quackers."
The back door of the car sprang open and a duck dressed in a miniature Sherlock Holmes ensemble waddled out of the backseat. Losing Hedwig had been tough, but Harry had found solace in another winged friend. And the little detective outfit? Well, that just made sense.
The tiny bell over the shop door echoed perilously as Harry and Mr. Quackers entered the store. There were shoes . . . magic shoes all over the place. Like a Payless but with wizards n' shit. Ron was already talking to the store owner, another friend from school - Mrs. Lovegood. Her eccentricities had followed her into middle-age. Harry couldn't remember who she had hooked up with after the final battle with Voldemort; the movies and the books were different, and he couldn't decide which continuity he lived in. He smiled at the wedding-ring on her finger though - at least one of them seemed to be making it work. He glanced down at the empty space on his own finger. Together for years, and yet Ron was still reluctant to make it official.
"Harry!" said Luna as she saw him, rushing over to give him a hug.
"Hi Luna," he replied. "It's good to see you, although not under these circumstances."
"It's unfortunate, yes," she replied, her eyes waving back and forth while staring at the floor, "but perhaps nothing is truly unfortunate that reunites old friends."
"I don't know about that," replied Ron, holding a magical evidence bag with a shoe in it. Harry approached it slowly, unzipped the bag, and removed the shoe.
"It was a strange man who came in here," explained Luna. "Very quiet. He took that shoe into the back of the store, and . . . well . . ."
Harry saw an odd substance caked to the bottom of the shoe. He dabbed it with his finger and touched it to his tongue, tasting it. His eyes went large as he glanced at Ron.
"That's wank!"
"Of course it's fuckin' wank," replied Ron. "Christ, what else was it gonna be?"
(Author's Note: "wank" = British sperm)
"Luna, do you mind if we have a minute to look over the store?" asked Ron. "We'll need some time to use our magic detective skills."
"Of course," she replied, heading for the exit before pausing. "Oh, I should tell you both that I saw Ginny this morning."
Harry and Ron's attention was immediately fixed on their quirky old classmate.
"How was she?" asked Harry.
"It's . . . been a long time since either of us have spoken to her," added Ron.
"She's good," replied Luna, "but . . . she's still mad."
The little bell over the store entrance broke the sad silence as Luna exited the shop, leaving the two embittered lovers to their solitude. They glanced at each other, looking for the love that had been lost between them.
Mr. Quackers let out an awkward duck call before shitting on the floor.
* * *
The apartment was dark except for the faint flicker of light from the television. Ron had taken to his old ways, drinking magic beer while watching old quidditch matches in the dark in his underwear. He sank back into the couch, his gut covered in crumbs and supporting his sixth beer of the evening. The announcer commended another save his younger-self had made as his current-self took a reluctant swig.
"I used to be amazing," he muttered,
"You still are."
Ron quickly turned, the crumbs on his stomach an avalanche falling on the floor. In the doorway to the living room stood Harry in nothing but his magic underwear, his rippling six-pack of abs a constant reminder to the glory which Ron had lost.
"Go away, Harry," said Ron. "I ain't in no mood for snoggin' or buggery tonight."
"Come on," said Harry. "It's been a long day, and that case of the shoe wanker is going to take up our time for the rest of the week. Let's take a night to ourselves before we get deep into the magic detective shit or whatever."
"Not tonight," muttered Ron.
Harry approached the couch slowly, kissing the back of Ron's neck.
"Just the tip?" he whispered.
"NOT TONIGHT!!!" screamed Ron.
Harry stepped back, dejected. There was a passionate fire in his lover's eyes, but it wasn't one that he wanted to see. It was a rage that Harry knew wasn't directed toward him. No, Ron was angry with himself, and all Harry could do was die a little inside as the man who had stuck by him through so many trials sank deeper into self-loathing and a sea of cheap beer and potato chips.
Harry retreated to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, startling Mr. Quackers who ruffled his wings before settling down again. Harry's mind flashed between his current failing relationship and the case today. What kind of man jerks off into a shoe in public? What kind of man sleeps with his best friend's wife, and then his best friend?
"Am I a monster?" he asked Mr. Quackers.
The duck stared at him with as much sympathy as a duck is capable before taking another shit on the floor.
It was going to be a very long week, and Harry just hoped his relationship could survive the casework that accompanied someone masturbating into a shoe. He sighed and pulled himself to the bedside table, grabbing a cellphone that totally would have been fucking helpful when he had been battling Voldemort instead of relying on fucking owls for all communication.
He slid through his contacts until he settled on one name: Hermione.
He pressed 'dial' and held the phone to his ear.
To be continued . . .
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