Chapter Text
No more than a handful of years ago, if someone would have so much as suggested to Harry Potter that he would end up loathing his work as an Auror - he might have laughed.
When Hermione had tentatively mentioned to him that he should consider returning to Hogwarts to complete their examinations, to perhaps rethink his career choice, to at the very least figure out what the rest of his options might be - he’d responded, rather shortly, that he had been completely sure that becoming an Auror was exactly what he had wanted to do.
At the time, perhaps that was true.
It had always been clear to Harry, far before Voldemort's final downfall, that the war would not completely end then and there. There were countless witches and wizards to apprehend, justice to be carried out, lives to be honoured - and he had let himself be swept away in that adrenaline rush just as many others had. The dust had barely settled before a handful of them had been offered training to become an Auror, to try and finish what had been started, and to finally find some closure in their lives.
But now? A handful of years down the line?
Harry felt that he had been terribly wrong to follow the path he had.
He woke that brisk Autumn morning like he did many others - hours before he really needed to be awake, the sun barely cracking through a darkened sky. The room was cold regardless of the weather being mild that year, and despite the homely furnishings of his small flat, something felt incredibly empty about the place.
His exhaustion ran through him in nauseating waves, but he knew no more sleep would come. The minute his eyes opened his head began to run through a thousand scenarios of how the coming week might come to pass...who he might meet, what tasks would end up piled sky-high on his desk, what questions would he have to answer to - questions he so naively thought would cease after the war's conclusion.
It felt like nothing had really changed, not even after a handful of years.
The peace he had craved more than anything had never come around. The grief of those lost still felt like an open wound because it was something that would never really end. He’d chosen, willingly or not, to become stagnant, to revert back to his old ways like one puts on a comfortable, if tatty, pair of shoes.
Work was spent being constantly reminded of how politics within the Ministry would never change in his lifetime, how much cruelty still lay beneath an already secretive, hidden world. It was no surprise to many who knew him that he’d gradually, corrosively, lost the energy trying to fix it all. It no longer felt productive or worthwhile. He’d lost the will to fight, running through the motions but never really feeling the heart behind it anymore.
Very often, after one too many drinks or late nights spent in the quiet company of Ron and Hermione, he’d reluctantly admit that perhaps Hermione had been right all along. No real surprise, but it still stung knowing that someone else had realised the trouble becoming an Auror might cause Harry down the line, something he’d been completely oblivious to at first.
She would smile, sadly, I told you so flickering across her mind but never passing her lips, and she would remind him that he wasn’t forced to stay in that position, he could very easily up and leave and find something else. Perhaps something that made him want to wake up on a morning rather than hide beneath the covers and pretend he didn’t exist.
Harry never really had the guts to explain why he felt he had to stay because it felt like the choice had been made for him - that it was expected of him. Hadn’t it always seemed so natural that he’d continue to do as he’d always done, fighting for what was right, protecting those around him, wanting to make sure no one had to suffer like he and his friends had done in what should have been the best years of their lives? Never mind the fact that his triumph had been nothing more or less than stumbling in the dark, phantom hands pushing him this way and that, his friends succeeding where he had failed.
The sad fact was, even if Harry had been given a choice back then, he probably wouldn’t have changed a thing he’d done. And he just could not admit it to anyone - not completely.
It had never really been a choice.
It was natural - even if it had begun to feel like the worst decision he’d made to date. That was as close as he could ever explain it to Hermione when she questioned time and time again about his choice to stay. He’d joked many a time, trying to discourage the awkward conversation, that maybe Malfoy had been right with all those years of taunting, maybe he did have a little bit of a saviour complex that he couldn’t shake off.
He could almost imagine that taunting voice, of course perfect Potter would become an Auror. That was all he could whittle it down to. Harry was cursed to care too much about others whether it was damaging him or not, and until the time came where he was content with the choice he'd made, he would wave the questioning away and mutter that he was stressed - just stressed - and it would pass.
After a painful hour spent lying awake that Monday morning, Harry managed to drag himself out of his flat quick enough to not be late for the first time in a fortnight. He’d gotten ready haphazardly, skipping breakfast, not taking so much as a quick glance at his reflection before heading out. The sight was beginning to worry him these days...he was only just hitting his mid-twenties, but something about him looked aged and worn.
Although he’d filled out a substantial amount during his training towards becoming an Auror, no longer quite so skinny and sickly, his face was beginning to betray him. Dark circles cradled each eye, the colour in them no longer striking but tired and dull. His hair was as wild as it had ever been, grown out just enough so that long dark tufts could strategically hide that mark - something that even now seemed to get him into more bother than it was worth.
The Autumn air was both soothing and refreshing across his features, and Harry found himself pulling his black coat a little tighter while he chose to walk most of the way to the Ministry, eager to evade to his desk before he became trapped within the chaos of the place.
The building was still full of life and energy and chaos, never a quiet building to reside in - even after hours as of late. Memos fluttered by Harry’s head, his gaze never wavering but cast solely on the path in front of him, those emerald tiles shining back at him. Joyful greetings filled his ears and he forced a warm smile, mumbling pleasantries as he went because as sour as his mood was becoming, he could never quite let himself show it.
Soon enough, he rushed towards an open lift, cramped and warm, a bead of sweat beginning to form on his brow that he couldn’t reach. His arms were clamped by his sides, hemmed in by a circle of tightly knit bodies before he was all but spat out of the elevator and onto his floor. A soothing silence formed as the lift doors closed, the department only just waking up it seemed. Only when he rounded the corner towards his shared office and caught sight of Ron’s broad smile did his features break out into any semblance of a genuine grin. The unorganised, smothered state of his desk faded it quickly, however. It looked something close to an avalanche...though Harry could have sworn he'd cleared it down Friday night.
“Morning, mate. How was your weekend?” Ron asked, though his attention seemed more focused on the bacon sandwich in his hands.
“Same old, you?”
“Wasn’t too bad. Me and ‘mione spent the afternoon down at the Burrow. Mum’s been asking about you, by the way,” He took an impressive bite, voice pausing as he swallowed it down. “Well, everyone’s been asking about you really. Mum just tends to be the loudest...sounding like a broken record lately.”
Ron’s tone wasn’t even remotely geared towards pulling guilt from Harry, but he felt a lightning strike of it anyway. It had been weeks since he’d visited the Burrow, his moods so back and forth he didn’t quite dare risk seeing them in case he snapped unintentionally. The last thing he needed on top of the stress from work was to upset the closest thing he had to a family. Even his meetups with Hermione and Ron had suffered somewhat, no longer as often, Harry cancelling more and more as his ever-growing need for escape worsened. After some time, and admittedly from a lot of pressing from Hermione, Harry had admitted he just wasn’t in the best spirits because of work, half-heartedly explaining it away as a little too much on his plate.
So far, it had worked well at warding away a potential intervention from the pair. How long it would still last would depend on, most likely, how riled up Hermione let herself become in the coming weeks.
“Have they?” Harry mumbled. “Well...I hope they’re alright, anyway. I’ll tag along to see everyone the next time you visit if that’s alright?”
“Actually Harry, no, it’s not alright. I’d much rather you avoid seeing my family for the foreseeable future,” Ron drawled sarcastically, his grin robbing his words of any hostility that might have been there.
Harry couldn’t help but let out a short laugh, smacking Ron with the handful of papers he’d been busy rifling through, his desk near enough smothered in parchment. He shrugged his coat off and let it rest on the back of his chair, absently pushing the white sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. And then his smirk faded, features dropping into a concerned glare at one of the letters, more of a note really, folded neatly and marked in red ink: URGENT.
Ron noted the change in Harry’s expression, standing up to peek at the top of the papers in his hand, manners never really on his radar regardless of the company. He let out a short hiss that under other circumstances should have been amusing but did nothing but frustrate Harry.
“Yeah, forgot about that.”
“You’ve read it?”
“Might have.”
“It’s on my desk.”
“And it caught my eye. Can’t expect me not to have a nosey when I see a letter plastered with urgent on the top. Can’t be that much of a secret, anyway, not a charm or jinx in sight,” Ron replied, equal parts defensive and amused. Harry’s curiosity, as it stood, was the only thing stopping him from getting properly annoyed.
“Go on then, what have I done this time?” Harry sighed, slowly reading through the note himself. The realisation dropped and hit his stomach like a cold lump of ice before Ron could even get close to explaining.
“Nothing, really. Looks like our dear old friend Malfoy is in a spot of bother, though. Reckon Kingsley’s gunna try and poach you for the investigation to boot. Had to be pretty bad, though, hardly ever gets involved with the department directly these days, always too busy those higher-ups…”
Ron carried on muttering to himself about how people always got too high and mighty when they moved up in their careers, despite actually being quite fond of Kingsley. Had it been another time, Harry might have been quick to remind Ron just how high and mighty he’d gotten when they’d found themselves in training as young as they did, but the note had his full attention.
Harry,
I trust you’re quite busy, but could you visit me as soon as you’re physically able. I have a matter I could use your assistance with regarding a disturbance at Malfoy Manor. Robards has been made aware that I may need to borrow you, so long as you’re willing. I will explain the details to you as and when.
P.S., I’d appreciate your discretion as much as your present company would allow.
Kingsley.
Harry scoffed at the final line despite himself, though the noise was decidedly hollow. What a miracle that would be. He glanced over to Ron who was sat back in his chair, picking away idly at the paperwork scattered across the bomb site he called a desk. Harry noticed his smug look, something many might not ever notice but a look Harry found himself spotting in an instant. If there were ever an office gossip within the Ministry it would, surprisingly, be Ron. He knew more than he was letting on and judging by that look, he'd have no problem in divulging it to anyone that'd listen - within reason.
“Right then, what’s happened?” Harry sighed.
“Don’t know what you mean.”
“Ron,” Harry snapped, his voice coming out far too clipped even to his own ears. Ron’s amused look faltered, if only slightly.
“Bloody hell, what side of the bed did you wake up on? I might have heard a few things…but I swear to Merlin if you mention it to Kingsley-”
“-and I swear to Merlin if you mention this to anyone…” Harry waved the note in front of Ron’s face, who shrugged.
“Checkmate. Well, the word’s been going about the Manor got targeted recently, I guess. Weird thing is, not a lot happened, we just know the wards got tampered with.”
“Tampered with?”
“Yeah,” Ron said slowly, his eyebrows creasing as his thoughts began to churn away. “Kind of like they were testing the waters, I guess. Thought it was just a hoax or something at first but, well, with what’s been happening...doesn’t look too great, does it?
Harry let out a long, deep breath, the stress of the past few months peaking and rushing to catch up with him. It had been no real surprise to anyone that even after the war there’d been a decidedly consistent trickle of Death Eaters coming out of the woodwork. Between random attacks on civilians and weak attempts at revenge on those who had tried to incarcerate them, there had still been an unsettling degree of work to do in the Auror department regarding their appearance.
The latter, it seemed, was becoming a more solid mantra between those who had been left behind. Revenge. As though it wasn’t enough that several used-to-be Death Eaters were being ostracized and even attacked by the general public. People like the Malfoys, not that many would care about their welfare to begin with, or even get a chance to see much of them these days. They’d all but fallen off the face of the earth - something that had managed to surprise Harry.
It all started out as something of a nuisance, but the problem really hit home when the attacks in recent months started to get...well, bigger. Bigger groups, bigger targets, but more worryingly - better tactics. It was like they were a solid group again, not just cast-offs scattered across the country – some had even been overseas.
Those early days of impulsive attacks were becoming something like organised chaos. More challenging duels, more worrying victims. A couple of witches and wizards had been nearly fatally injured over the course of the past year. Frighteningly, word from the Muggle Prime Minister suggested that a handful of their kind may have even ‘passed’ under suspicious circumstances.
They were becoming far more cunning, but Harry felt the Ministry itself was doing its best to gloss over the entire thing. And in some ways, Harry did understand. They didn’t want a panic. And yet it brought a very bitter, very familiar taste to his mouth all the same...even if he felt a little hesitant to get involved.
As it stood, for all Harry's praise and recognition, he was beginning to work on a ‘bare minimum’ sort of policy.
But what seemed worse of all to Harry was that they were still pretty much clueless as to who exactly was behind it all, even more clueless as to where they could begin to trace them. Trails ran cold almost instantly, and yet they continued to grow bolder. No one had heard much from Narcissa or Draco after Lucius’ sentence, but that didn’t mean their name had completely lost its weight.
As much as it seemed like they were trying to disappear from the world entirely, that Manor still stood and their name was still whispered about between witches during their weekly trips to Diagon Alley, would still be shouted and raved about in the Leaky Cauldron over a few too many drinks. Would still cause an uproar if something was to happen or seem even remotely suspicious. Perhaps not entirely for the right reasons…and certainly not sympathetic in nature.
“Penny for your thoughts, or are you about to fall back to sleep?” Ron asked suddenly, making Harry jump.
“Both, I reckon, but I better go see Kingsley. I’m on thin ice as it is,” Harry muttered, smoothing his sleeves down again and straightening his tie.
“Don’t think it’s possible for the likes of you to be on thin ice, to be fair.”
“You’d be surprised,” Harry mumbled, remembering the warnings that were beginning to stack up behind his record, even after such a relatively short time working as an Auror. Small little complaints that Kingsley had, so far, kindly decided to gloss over, something Harry wasn’t sure whether he was grateful for or hated.
Harry let out a breath and gave his farewells to Ron, telling him he’d see him later on in the day if Kingsley decided to spare him. As it turned out, Harry barely saw him at all for the rest of their shift and would see him even less over the coming week. He trudged over to Kingsley’s office, so deep in his own thoughts that he didn’t hear many of the greetings coming his way, couldn’t concentrate enough to smile in response to some of the beaming faces passing him by. And really, he didn’t quite feel like returning to gesture, anyway.
Despite his own worries and despite fast falling into despondency over his own predicament, he felt something else was terribly amiss. Something about the knowledge he’d gathered regarding the residual nightmare of Voldemort’s followers was beginning to cry out at him - like a warning. If he thought hard enough, he could still feel that phantom prickling sensation across his forehead. Harry could shrug it off and ignore it, pretend that he didn't know what was coming.
But, really, his gut instinct had very rarely been wrong.
Something was coming.