Quiz: Which Wizarding World Career is Right for You?
“Well, Potter, this meeting is to talk over any career ideas you might have, and to help you decide which subjects you should continue into the sixth and seventh years. Have you had any thoughts about what you would like to do after you leave Hogwarts?” (OotP 662)
In their fifth year, Hogwarts students meet with their Heads of House to discuss potential career paths and what classes students will need to take to achieve them. Our favorite Boy-Who-Lived himself met with Professor McGonagall, and it was this meeting that set him on the path to the Ministry of Magic’s Department of Law Enforcement, where he works today as an Auror. Now, dear reader, you will step into young Mr. Potter’s shoes for your virtual meeting with your Head of House to discuss your academic interests and what wizarding career they might lead you to.
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As a thank you for how kind everyone has been in the comments & my ask box, despite my constant ghosting, here’s a word search I made last night!
I haven’t provided an answer key (to make it a lil more challenging), but I *do* have an grayscale PDF version in case you’d like to print it out, etc. ♥️
Happy Saturday! I’m back with another Ron/Harry brotp moment that is full of angst. I just love writing these two and their friendship. I hope you all enjoy ❤
TW: Strong depiction of illness and discussion of death throughout the story.
Hold On
Your death is an event that happens to everyone else.
Ron once spoke those words to Harry in the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, but Harry never fully realized the meaning until last night.
The small and cluttered room reeks of sterilized magical equipment. A sharp, overpowering odor somewhat akin to Muggle antiseptics wafts through Harry’s nose. It’s an all-too-familiar smell, one that disguises the presence of sickness and death, but only highlights that something is not right. An occupant lies in the single bed, which is designed to be restful but doesn’t look much more comfortable than the camp beds Harry slept on for months in the tent.
He holds Ron’s hand, squeezing it in time with the steady beating of the monitor in the background. The hand that was once sturdy, albeit a bit clumsy, is now as cold as ice and disguised by fragility.
One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.
Crackles of thunder rumble outside, matching the rain droplets pattering against the nearest window. A white flash of light illuminates the room as another jarring blast thumps its way to the base of Harry’s skull. The scar on his forehead burns with an intensity that may force him to lie down. No such agony has been present over his scar since—well, it’s been a long time.
He rips the round specs from his face and rubs the lenses between his tattered scarlet robes to get rid of the dirt smudges. Even with these ruddy glasses, he has horrendous eyesight. He should have foreseen the danger. All had been too quiet for many months. When Harry closes his eyes, a stark vision of a body colliding with magic flashes through his mind.
Happy Saturday! I’m back with another Ron/Harry brotp moment that is full of angst. I just love writing these two and their friendship. I hope you all enjoy ❤
TW: Strong depiction of illness and discussion of death throughout the story.
Hold On
Your death is an event that happens to everyone else.
Ron once spoke those words to Harry in the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, but Harry never fully realized the meaning until last night.
The small and cluttered room reeks of sterilized magical equipment. A sharp, overpowering odor somewhat akin to Muggle antiseptics wafts through Harry’s nose. It’s an all-too-familiar smell, one that disguises the presence of sickness and death, but only highlights that something is not right. An occupant lies in the single bed, which is designed to be restful but doesn’t look much more comfortable than the camp beds Harry slept on for months in the tent.
He holds Ron’s hand, squeezing it in time with the steady beating of the monitor in the background. The hand that was once sturdy, albeit a bit clumsy, is now as cold as ice and disguised by fragility.
One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.
Crackles of thunder rumble outside, matching the rain droplets pattering against the nearest window. A white flash of light illuminates the room as another jarring blast thumps its way to the base of Harry’s skull. The scar on his forehead burns with an intensity that may force him to lie down. No such agony has been present over his scar since—well, it’s been a long time.
He rips the round specs from his face and rubs the lenses between his tattered scarlet robes to get rid of the dirt smudges. Even with these ruddy glasses, he has horrendous eyesight. He should have foreseen the danger. All had been too quiet for many months. When Harry closes his eyes, a stark vision of a body colliding with magic flashes through his mind.
Ron jumped. Harry ducked.
One more glance at Ron’s lifeless form forces a chill to roll down Harry’s spine. A thin white sheet has been draped over Ron’s stomach, held in place by his arms in a rigid and unnatural position at his sides. His skin is much paler than usual, if that’s even possible.
They were supposed to be investigating a crime that didn’t pose a significant threat. There wasn’t supposed to be any flamboyant magic involved. It was a standard mission, one that shouldn’t have forced them to flip out their wands and engage in battle. But their training wasn’t enough to deflect the curses spiraling towards them, and Ron spotted a danger that Harry, unfortunately, did not.
Ron jumped. Harry ducked.
His stomach churns with guilt, tempting him to flip over every contraption in this sterile room in a grief-stricken rage. Bitterness mixes in with the saliva pooling in his mouth, and Harry leans over to spit into the nearest rubbish bin.
“You look ridiculous.”
His head snaps up, and he watches Ron’s eyelids open little by little. Although he tries to lift the corner of his mouth, Ron resolves to squinting and moaning as he adjusts to the bright light in the room.
“Are you mental?” Harry jumps from his seat, pounding his hands into the cushioned surface of Ron’s bed as he snarls. “I mean, truly, have you lost your mind? What possessed you to jump in front of a blast meant for me?”
He continues to throw question after question at Ron, growling when his words are met with no response. Tension clouds the room before dissipating like the fog at the Black Lake. After several moments pass in agonizing silence, Harry’s voice rises another octave. "You had no right!”
“Well, you lost the ability to say so as soon as you allowed me into your train compartment on the day we met,” Ron croaks out, struggling and failing to sit up in his bed. He gives up and throws his head back onto his pillow. “How can you believe that I wouldn’t?”
Harry flinches and grunts as he bends over to find his chair again. A tender knot in his lower back screams at him for getting up so fast, disturbing the persistent dull ache so much that it spreads like Fiendfyre through his whole body.
“You okay?” Ron asks, his brows furrowing.
Harry balls his fists together before squeezing his hands between his thighs. His knees bounce up and down in rapid motion as he avoids Ron’s piercing gaze. He knows he should apologize for being so callous, but he can’t quell the tension welling up in his chest. Nor can he forget the events of last night.
Ron jumped. Harry ducked.
“Well, I do splinch myself on occasion.” Ron’s voice breaks the silence as he turns his cheek towards Harry and attempts a lopsided grin. “It was only a matter of time—”
“Don’t do that.”
Ron’s red-rimmed eyes darken, wiping away his humor-filled gaze. “That’s the job, isn’t it? Protect and defend?”
“Your job is to stay alive.”
Their eyes meet in an intense standoff. Ron draws his lips into a thin line for a brief moment before rasping, “We’ve been training for these missions since first year, mate.”
He’s right. Of course, Ron’s right. They’ve gone through rigorous training to avoid high-risk situations like these, haven’t they? Yet they both know that mentality is a double-edged sword, with no discernible way to foresee the unthinkable. The proof is as clear as a hippogriff in hiding. They’ve risked life and limb on countless occasions, and yesterday evening wasn’t the exception.
"You know I trust you with my life,” Harry says in earnest, leaning forward.
A rumble of laughter leaves Ron’s lips before wincing and coughing. “You better, you git.” He pauses then adds, “You have a rare gift, Potter.“
"What, Parseltongue?”
“No. Being oblivious as to what’s right in front of you.”
Harry resists the urge to manifest a massive eye roll. Now is not the time for Ron’s quips. Why isn’t he taking this matter seriously? Flailing his hand around in a dramatic fashion, Harry states, “You performed wandlessmagic.”
An image of Ron shouting Arresto Momentum as an unknown object hurls in their direction streaks through Harry’s memory. In the midst of a dark alley, he didn’t have time to react before Ron took the brunt of the blow and another bolt of red light struck him square in the chest.
Ron jumped. Harry ducked.
Visible beads of sweat drip down Ron’s forehead as strands of his ginger hair stick up from every which end, apart from the fringe plastered to the skin just above his brows. He lifts a shaky hand to swipe a single hair out of his eye. “Yeah, I suppose I did. Where would you rate it? Reckon a bit better than yours, yeah?”
He thinks he’s so clever, with his egotistical remarks and tactical mindset. Harry is seething inside. “You have a stark view on life. It’s not that simple.”
“Yet you’ve made the same choice to safeguard the magical world as I have, and you always act as if it’s the easiest decision you’ve ever made,” Ron counters, his hoarse and scratchy voice booming as loud as it can.
“Because I’ve had time to come to terms with my purpose.”
“Your purpose? What kind of bollocks is that?”
Harry tastes the copper on his tongue as he bites down hard on the flesh, fighting back his desire to be argumentative. He can’t ignore Ron’s altruistic actions in the field, and the decisions he made at his own expense. Bowing his head, Harry mumbles, “It’s supposed to be me.”
“We’ve been training for these missions since first year, mate,” Ron repeats as if he believes his words didn’t stick the first go around. “It’s supposed to be both of us. Don’t you get that?”
Harry scratches away a patch of dried blood on his forearm. Bile rises to his throat as he realizes it wasn’t his own. “Your death is an event that happens to everyone else. Your words.”
Recognition dawns in Ron’s eyes as he tilts his face up to the ceiling. “Hm. Now you see it my way. I put up a valiant fight at least?”
His chuckling bursts through Harry’s defensive walls. He always knew Ron was brave. But he’s ashamed he didn’t realize sooner how utterly fearless his best friend is in the face of danger.
“You’ll have to maintain the peace,” Ron adds, his eyelids fluttering between open and closed. “You did too much work to muck it up now, right?”
Harry drags a rough hand through his thin, jet-black hair. His heart accelerates as he processes the intent behind Ron’s words. “Why are you saying that like it’ll be just me? It’s we. We will maintain the peace together.”
“I can’t make you any promises, Potter.”
“Too bad. You must, Weasley.”
Nothing but the persistent beeping of the monitor fills the void following their declarations. Harry relishes the quiet and the space in which words aren’t needed. What more can he say? They both made different choices last night with varying consequences. It’s done, and an intense row won’t change the outcome.
“Fight back.”
Harry blinks, veering away from his thoughts. “What?”
Without lifting his arm, Ron points a single finger at him. “You taught me that.”
Harry swallows down a lump blocking his throat. “I never expected you to—it would have been okay if you didn’t.”
"How many times…do I have to tell you,” Ron counters through jagged breaths. “You do not always have to go it alone.”
His words strike Harry like a bludger to the gut. The weight on his heart could bring him to his knees. “I won’t forgive you for this.” He wipes away the tears flooding his eyes with the back of his hands. “I won’t.”
“Good.” Ron pauses, his breathing much more shallow now. “I’ll never ask for your forgiveness.”
His chest fails to rise and fall as his head lolls to one side like he’s slipping away into an endless sleep. The steady, intermittent beeping extends into an unceasing, piercing ring. A blast of icy air shudders over Harry like a dark, suffocating wave as his heart lurches in his chest. No. No.
“Come on, Ron.” He shakes Ron’s shoulders with excessive force. “Wake up. Wake up!” Harry lets go and wraps a hand around the curve of his own neck, struggling to find his breath. “If you die, I will have failed to protect you as a friend and—and as a brother.”
There is no magical elixir that can end Ron’s pain or Harry’s suffering, but they can damn well try. If all of these years together served as any proof, it’s that they have what it takes to survive.
“Hold on,” Harry urges. “Just a little bit longer.”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Ron’s eyes open just a fraction as a single whispered word leaves his mouth. “Okay.”
