Recollection

Sunlight's bright through the windows here. Dust on the wooden desks of the Aurors--unused, most of them, because no one here thinks the quill mightier than the wand. Stand. Walls cracked, Ministry walls yellowed with age--not the smooth cream white of the walls he'd known before. The carpets under his shoes now mangy and torn, not the velvet green that had crushed so deliciously beneath his knees. Kneel. The noisy flitting of letters overhead; the laughter of young Aurors-in-training, the terse commands of the senior ones. Suck. Of course, none of this bustle seems strange to Ron. Why should it? He'd worked here for three years, after all. As Auror-in-Command under Shacklebolt. Before... before...