Chapter Text
“Don’t you think you’re being a little rash, Harry?” Hermione asked gently.
“There’s something new,” Ron said, settling three overflowing Butterbeers on the circular table. “Who would expect Harry of all people to do something rash?”
“I’m not being rash,” Harry said, a flare of irritation in his chest. He took a hearty swig of Butterbeer and sighed. “I’m being cautious.”
“Cautious?” Hermione repeated warily. “Harry, I’m worried that you’re being overly suspicious. It’s really not warranted in this case.”
Harry watched a sliver of moonlight seep through the gap in the curtains and catch the photographs along the mantelpiece: Ron and Hermione’s wedding day the previous June, both waving merrily; Ron holding his new-born niece, Victoire Weasley, in his freckled, lightly-scarred arms; Hermione and her parents upon the launch of their new dentistry clinic in Perth, Australia; Fred Weasley in the field outside the Burrow, his face lit up with excitement and Filibuster’s Fireworks in both hands.
Harry shook his head. “It is warranted,” he said fiercely. “I don’t trust anyone in the International Wizarding Confederation.”
Hermione tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, fixing Harry with a piercing stare. “Harry, you’re jumping to conclusions. There’s going to be serious, rational debate presented from top academics and politicians around the world at the IWC assembly. At the very least, it’s democratic.”
Harry shook his head. “But they’re all talk, Hermione,” he insisted. “They’ve made up their minds that they’re going to let this Act pass. No number of speeches and conferences is going to change that.”
Hermione pulled her wand swiftly out of her pocket and jabbed it sharply in the direction of the kitchen. Instantly, a toppling pile of papers, neat but precarious, zoomed into her outstretched palm. She began to read aloud, her tone slightly weary.
“The International Wizarding Confederation’s 2003 assembly will prioritise the consideration of the adoption of the Regulation of Auror Licences, Authorisation and Combat Powers Act. This act proposes to, inter alia , give the Auror forces in each member state vastly increased powers of surveillance, full and legal use of the Fatal, Mind-Altering and Related Curses, and diminished accountability to the Ministry of the member state. The aim of the act is to homogenise the standard of the Auror forces and powers of all member states, control the proliferation of the Dark Arts and its users, and protect the international wizarding community.
“It must be noted, however, that the passage of this act requires almost unanimous support. Seven eights of the IWC delegates —that is, 153 of the 175 delegates—and all twelve members of the International Wizengamot Court would need to vote in favour of this act for its successful implementation.” Hermione placed the sheet of parchment back on the stack and heaved it onto the floor with a rather satisfying thump .
“Mind translating all that for us, ‘Mione?” Ron said, wearing a bemused expression.
Hermione sighed. “Briefly, it means that despite how substantial these changes to the Auror services in every country with a wizarding government sound , they’re highly unlikely to be implemented. Which means,” she said, looking pointedly at Harry, “you’re being paranoid. Nothing of concern has happened yet. We don’t even know how the IWC assembly will proceed, let alone what the outcome might be.”
“Yes we do,” Harry said angrily, managing to slop Butterbeer down his jumper in his haste to slam the glass down. “Everyone at DMLE has already started getting ready for the changes. They’re disbanding the oversight committee, holding meetings with Unspeakables to get rid of records, setting up surveillance points all over Diagon Alley and in Hogsmeade. It’s already happening, Hermione!”
“Hang on,” Ron said, glancing at Harry and only looking mildly affected by his outburst. “This Act is supposed to give the Aurors more powers, mate. Surely that’s a good thing, right? Less oversight, less administration, less paperwork. Doesn’t sound half bad to me.”
Harry snatched the sheet of paper and pointed his wand at it furiously. “’Full and legal use of the Fatal, Mind-Altering and Related Curses’, Ron. It means we’ll be legally able to use any Unforgivable Curse, like a fucking licence to kill and we won’t even be held accountable for it. There’ll be Aurors tracking every person in the magical world, watching them and what they do and where they go. It’s the opposite of democracy, Hermione.”
She stood up sharply, glowering. “I never said that the proposed practices permitted by the act would be democratic, Harry. I said that the process of the IWC assembly to consider adopting it would be.”
Ron leaned over and rubbed the small of her back. She turned to glance at him and Harry caught a gentle, almost indulgent smile spread across her face. She fell back into her armchair with a sigh.
“And for the record,” she added earnestly, “I completely agree with you that such authorisation would be entirely authoritarian. I just don’t think that seven eights of delegates will disagree with me.”
“Not sure any of them would bother trying to,” Ron muttered. He suddenly looked up at Harry, however, a small frown on his face. “So do you know what countries have agreed to the act in advance? Don’t the other Aurors know about this kind of thing?”
“Yeah,” Harry said, scrubbing his chin and noting that he needed a shave. It had been an exhausting day and his appearance was the least of his concern. “So far, something like one hundred and ten have said they’re definitely going to agree. And every single other country had shown some kind of support for it.”
“But none of the members of the International Wizengamot Court have said anything,” Hermione said quickly. “None at all. They have to remain completely impartial until the official proposition of the act.”
Harry sighed and took a large swig of his Butterbeer, revelling in the comforting, warming sensation it left him with.
“But I doubt all of the IWC members actually agree,” Ron said, glancing at Hermione. “I mean, the vote’s anonymous, right? They might just say they agree now and vote the opposite way so that they won’t be, you know, targeted or manipulated before the vote.”
“An excellent point, Ron,” Hermione said fervently.
Ron grinned.
Harry scowled at him. “I know that, alright?” he said testily. “But that doesn’t guarantee anything.”
“And neither do the rumours circulating the DMLE, Harry,” Hermione said. “I’m not telling you how to do your job, Harry, but just don’t be rash.”
“Rash about what?” Ron said.
Hermione turned around, her tone disbelieving. “Have you been listening to a word we’ve been saying?”
“Yes!” Ron said, indignant. “But I was also being a very good host and getting the Butterbeers too.”
Hermione pressed her lips in a thin, inscrutable line.
“I’m proposing that we increase security at the IWC assembly,” Harry said blankly.
“Which is perfectly fine,” Hermione said. “But we know you, Harry.”
“Yeah, mate,” Ron said, smiling in an apologetic sort of way. “‘Increasing security’ in your vocabulary means ‘Harry Potter, Auror Extraordinaire to the rescue, preferably with a back-up team which includes more people he hopes to save in the process’.”
“We just don’t want you to assume the worst about a situation all the time,” Hermione added in response to his outraged expression.
“Hermione, that’s my job,” he muttered angrily, draining his glass. He ignored the comment about his fetish for saving people, jokes about which he had endured from his friends for the five years since the war had ended. “This assembly is going to be the target of every Dark witch and wizard if they want to stay out of Azkaban. It’s going to need the highest security team to make sure nothing goes wrong.”
Hermione watched him for a moment, her eyes narrowed very slightly. “Just don’t let your opposition to the Act blind you, Harry.”
*
Five years and five months had passed since the Second Wizarding War. The aftermath had been indescribably horrific —the grief, the sorrow, the loss of friends and family, the destruction of the first place Harry had called home and the utter aimlessness. It had left Harry with a deep, writhing sense of futility, of defeat; a lingering thought that nothing could ever be right or just or complete again.
It had taken Harry months to even begin to untangle his feelings and share his story with his loved ones. They had deserved closure and completeness and, though it had taken time and probing and gut-wrenching sobbing, Harry had provided it.
Then came the Death Eater Trials in the autumn, which had demanded Harry’s dedication and attentiveness and tested his patience. He had provided testimony for most of the Death Eaters put on trial, but the only cases in which he had defended the accused had been for Narcissa and Draco Malfoy. To national shock and dismay, he had insisted that both had been unwilling participants, that they had acted under coercion and threat of death and that their actions—Narcissa’s protection in the Forbidden Forest and Draco’s in Malfoy Manor—provided sufficient evidence to prove their remorse. The Wizengamot, surprisingly, agreed. Both were excused time in Azkaban and ordered to pay for repairs at Hogwarts, as well as making a sizeable contribution to various charities and organisations that promoted equality for wizarding folk of any and all blood status.
The verdict had been widely considered too lenient but, with time, the Malfoys were treated with less outright disdain and more wary distance. What had annoyed Harry most distinctly, however, was Malfoy’s complete lack of gratitude. Where Narcissa had written to him, thanking him and promising him an unpaid debt, Draco had sent him a curt note one week after the verdict, requesting his wand.
Harry had taken a few months to succumb to the grief, to let himself inhabit it rather than smother the feelings that inched their way up his throat, leaving his feeling drowned. But afterwards, and with weekly visits to Mind Healers at St Mungo’s, the constant grief had subsided. He could think of Fred and Remus and Tonks now without feeling like hurling the nearest object at a wall or drowning himself in Firewhiskey. He could think of them with fondness, with a smile; he could reminisce on them with a whimsical smile, with laughter, with a shared memory and a toast dedicated to them.
The guilt still welled deep inside him, but it was manageable now that he was able to follow his Mind Healers’ instructions to control his feelings; to acknowledge that he wasn’t to blame; that he was the most important piece in a game to which he had not been privy.
Ron had spent six months as an Auror before deciding that his brother’s shop would be a more worthwhile place to focus his efforts and he had thrown himself into work at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Hermione, too, had found great fulfilment in her work at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, which she had renamed the Department for Inter-Species Relations and the Promotion of Habitat and Employment Welfare, with two sub-divisions for Inter-Species Equality and Endangered Species Protection. Though the year there had been successful, Hermione had confessed that her interests were so diverse that she wouldn’t be able to commit to the Department for any longer. Afterwards, she chose to join The European Arithmancy Society, where she taught, researched and wrote for a venerable monthly publication.
It had not been perfect, but fractured and challenging, but Harry no longer felt like there was a constant burden on his shoulders. He dedicated huge amounts of time to his work, made sure to spend time with Teddy every weekend, and made sure that he, Ron and Hermione always allotted time for each other, despite their busy schedules. It was manageable, Harry felt, and he was beginning to truly understand the words his Mind Healer was fond of ‘unsteady but ever-forward progress’.