I was sick over Thanksgiving holiday and asked sweetest Lise for ninjas to make me feel better; she met me half-way.

no means yes

They were in Japan, scoping out a possible lead on where Avery had stashed a pack of uncooperative werewolves, when Harry got the sword. "be careful now," the monk had said, "it will change your life."

Harry couldn't picture how a sword could make him any different than what he was, but then he realized that the hilt was part of a magic wand.

_


it was after Hermione left to go to Muggle university and before Arthur Weasley died, and Ron had had more than enough. he took the sword, and gripped it with both hands. It ended up stuck straight through the wall, slicing plaster and brick like butter, and harry gripped Ron's shoulder, other hand placed delicately on his stomach.

_


Ron squinted at the chopstick.

"It's not a wand," Harry reminded him. "You eat with it."

"No," said Ron slowly. "Sticks are wands, not forks; and this," he gestured, palm up, at the dish of sushi rolls on the low table, "is rubbish, not food."

Harry, who'd grown up eating soggy leftovers and sneaking the remnants of Dudley's snackfoods, shrugged. "It tastes allright." He brought a sliver of salmon up to his mouth with his hand.

"I want stew," sighed Ron. "And chips. And my mum." Ron propped his elbow on the table and dropped his chin into his palm. With his other hand, he pointed the chopstick at Harry's plate and muttered, "expelliarmus." A sushi roll exploded.

Harry paused with another bite of salmon at his mouth, eyes wide.

Ron dropped the chopstick.

He handed Harry a napkin and nodded instead of apologizing for blowing up Harry's dinner. They both knew that this would never have happened at home, before Ron had touched the sword; so despite the wet bits of rice on Harry's glasses, what was there to say?

_


"don't," and Ron shoved the tatami away. "don't, I'll sleep on the porch."

"Ron," Harry said. Ron got up, kept his shoes on and curled up in a ball on the porch. it was summer; there was a soft breeze. Harry sighed, and slipped his too-big sneakers off to lay flat on his back inside.

_


From the porch of the safehouse, Ron could clearly see the silhouettes of strangely-shaped trees against the streetlight, because there wasn't any fog. Ron didn't know if he would wake up in the morning soaked with condensation or not.

He knew there was a meeting in the morning with more monks, more planning, more strange tea, in just a few hours; but there was a conversation down on the street. Not shouting, just talking, but the syllables were gutteral and foreign and sounded like spells to Ron, so he couldn't sleep.