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Not for the first time, Harry considered the merits of lodging a formal complaint about The Hogwarts Career Counseling Session.
The first point of which would be that they only mandated one (1) meeting about a student’s future career over the course of seven (7) years.
Even accounting for students who sought out additional meetings on their own, a single session discussing career intentions was not even close to enough for the majority of students who aren’t attending weekly office hours ( cough Hermione cough ) to have a genuine understanding of their options. Especially not for the muggleborn or muggle-raised ones.
The second point would be sure to mention the poorly-thought-out system of having a career consultation meeting two years after making students pick elective classes that would affect their future career options. That was such wizard logic it made Harry want to pull his hair out even more than he does after convincing himself a wide tooth comb would survive an attempt at detangling his locks. Spoiler alert: it never does and he always momentarily considers shaving his head. Or pulling out his hair by the handful. Yes, it’s very similar to how he feels about the career meeting timing.
There are many more points to his purely-theoretical formal complaint, but, as always, Harry doesn’t have time to list them out on parchment. Nope, he’s too busy questioning pretty much all of his academic choices and trying to figure out what the fuck he’s actually going to do with his life now that it’s his to live instead of just his to sacrifice.
Harry slumped forward over the Burrow’s kitchen table, putting his head in his hands and groaning. Mrs. Weasley tutted from where she was working over the counter near the stove and had a fresh cuppa floating his way not even two minutes later. The warm mug fought for a spot to settle amidst the books and loose sheets of parchment strewn across the table’s surface, and Harry thanked her and then sighed heavily as he helped shift things around to make space.
Ron, lounging across the sofa while filling out October’s budget reports for WWW, reminded him, “You could’ve just joined the aurors and left it at that, mate.”
Prat , Harry thought fondly, as Ron double checked the figures he’d just filled in, already tuning Harry’s melodrama out to focus on helping George.
Harry did not dignify his best friend’s comment with a response. He’d already had that conversation too many times to count. Well, at least it had been only once with Ron and Hermione and the rest of Ron’s family. If any group of people understood how utterly tired Harry was of fighting, it would be them. But he’d gone on to try and explain the reasons for his about-face in terms of careers to pretty much everyone else and their house elves.
I don’t want to spend the rest of my life using my magic to detain, to subdue. I want to feel about magic the way I did during my first trip to Diagon, when possibilities felt endless and I imagined all this power inside of me to be meant to create and improve.
They’d argue back, politely, but insistently, as if they knew better about what it is that he should do with his life.
Sure, you could call working for the DMLE a career in the magic of protection, but if I’m going to use my magic to protect, I want it to be proactive rather than reactive this time around. I’m not interested in facing live combat anymore. I never was. I just did what I had to do in order to survive.
They’d say that he did survive though, and that he’s adjusted so well (he hasn’t). And then they’d play on his sense of guilt (they’re all so used to doing it that they don’t even consciously realize what they’re asking. Harry’s finished unconsciously forgiving them for it though), telling him the public could use the reassurance of having him in the aurors’ offices, being the example for returning to normal.
He doesn’t hold the scoff in when they say these things. He never did before either, really. But his voice has a weight to it now. They can’t dictate his home or his path or his anything anymore. It’s one of the only things that consistently has felt good during this post-war malaise that practically all of wizarding Britain has been working through. But still, he is honest with them, because he won’t be an auror. On this, he will not budge.
There are days, most of them really, that I just want to curl into the corner of the couch and let myself drown in my thoughts. The sorrow, the guilt. It’s so heavy. I feel, most days, as if I’ve been made to sink into the cushions and never come up. All I can do to stave it off is chase the kinds of moments, the kind of life, that everyone I loved who’s gone would have wanted, for me or for themselves. I think it’s about time I tried for joy, if you’d all be so kind as to let me.
They usually stopped trying to dissuade him once he’d gotten to that point in the conversation.
But Harry loved Ron and Hermione and the Weasleys the most, because all it had taken for any of them was him saying, “I don’t want to be an auror anymore. I’m not sure if I ever really did,” for them to agree and wish him luck in figuring out what it was that he did want to do.
It was what he loved about Ginny too, that he could tell her, “I don’t think this love between us is romantic, at least not anymore, and I care about you too much to try and make my feelings into something they aren’t,” and have her accept it with a sad smile and a nod. “I’ve been worried about telling you the same thing. It hurts like endings usually do, but it’s such a relief to have it out there.”
And now, three months later and mental health much improved, Harry was wading knee-deep through the various pamphlets and guides and packets that he and Hermione had gathered and put together after talking through some career options.
Potions was out. Obviously. Harry could brew if he had to and if he had good instructions, but he didn’t find enjoyment in it.
Anything history or divination related was also out, since his foundations in both subjects were poor and he wasn’t interested enough in either to want to improve his knowledge.
He loved flying, but quidditch was a pastime, not an activity he wanted to commit his livelihood to. Keep your passions personal and all that. Also, the idea of press conferences and publicity shoots had him ready to just give it all up and declare himself a recluse.
Harry had thought about the rest of his classes, and the main takeaway from his introspection was that he wanted to work in something almost purely magical. He’d enjoyed COMC, and he could see himself finding a job in a creature-related field, but there was a bit more active danger in that line of work than he was interested in right now. Herbology was a fascinating subject, but gardening didn’t bring up the best memories for him, so he’d also put that into the ‘not right now’ category.
Harry had liked transfiguration and charms and defense (when they’d had a good teacher). He’d be interested in working with those branches of magic as long as it was mostly practical. Academia and research were definitely not calling his name.
Harry had talked briefly with George about magical inventing and innovation, but the both of them could only bear so much of that conversation without their grief overwhelming them. There should have been a third voice contributing to that discussion.
He had spoken with Charlie about less-perilous creature-interactive positions than that of a dragontamer, but nothing Charlie had suggested had really piqued his interest.
The ministry was straight out. Harry didn’t want to be an auror, but he also had absolutely no interest in working for the government after everything that had happened since he’d joined the magical world. Additionally, it just sounded boring.
He’d spoken with Bill in the past about cursebreaking, and that was the most intriguing of the many options he’d looked at, but Harry hadn’t taken ancient runes nor had he picked up enough about healing or warding, which were also the prerequisites that most private cursebreaking companies posted in regards to their apprenticeships. Gringotts was straight out as a potential avenue to break into the field considering they had very clearly not forgiven him for the whole bank-robbing thing.
Harry looked through all his notes, scrawled messily in the margins of the classifieds and the open apprenticeship lists, and let his quill roll out of his fingers and leave small splatter of ink across the top of the So You Think You’ve Been Charmed by Charms, Have You? article he’d been reading for the past fifteen minutes.
“Merlin, what a fucking mess. Why even go to Hogwarts for six years, honestly,” he said, just as the small whoosh in the magical currents and the taste of chile pepper at the back of his throat gave Harry a moment of advance warning that the Burrow was about to gain some more company.
A low, smooth chuckle sounded out in the receiving area, and Harry tried to force down his grin as he recognized Ron’s eldest brother’s laugh.
“Sounds like the job search is going great.”
Harry narrowed his eyes as he looked up, faux-glaring at Bill as the older man rid himself of ash from the floo with a quick flick of his wand. “Oh yeah, just peachy.”
Bill snorted at Harry’s dry tone before actually focusing his attention on the wild-haired man sitting at his mother’s kitchen table. Bill’s blue eyes widened at the sight of the mess of material spread across the surface, and Harry tensed, his magic contracting beneath his skin in excitement as Bill turned his gaze on Harry himself. Something about Bill looking at him, focusing on him always jolted his magic, as if Harry’s core believed the redheaded wizard was about to challenge him.
—-- —-- —--
Bill took in the way the man’s riotous curls were making an escape attempt from the knot Harry had thrown them into to keep them out of his face.. His hair, usually thick and shiny, was unwashed and frizzy. It curled around his forehead in wispy strands, either from the unseasonal heat or Harry’s overactive magic.
It was more likely to be the latter, considering he could see the electrum tendrils of magic spreading along Harry’s spine and down throughout the veins in his neck and arms. It was as arresting a sight as ever, and Bill swallowed, willing his own magic down so Harry wouldn’t be able to taste his wonder. Upon a closer look, Bill couldn’t help but notice the lines of frustration at the corner of Harry’s mouth and the way stress seemed to cling to the younger man’s frame.
No, we definitely can’t go without mentioning it anymore , even if we’re still waiting on the final signatures to go through. Harry needed to know that he had options, and he needed to know about the position Bill and Fleur wanted to offer him, the one they had spent weeks discussing as they finalized their plans to start their own business.
Bill motioned to Harry that he’d join him in a minute and then moved to the kitchen to greet his mother with a quick hello and kiss on the cheek. She didn’t let him get away without pulling him in for a hug, but Bill wasn’t going to complain. Especially since a quick wave of her wand had a handful of fresh-baked scones piled on a plate and in his hands for him to take and share with Harry only a moment after she let go of him.
Harry saw him coming with the plate and started gathering his miscellaneous parchments and stacking them off to the side in some sort of system that made no sense whatsoever to Bill when he tried to take a closer look. He just huffed in amusement when Harry shrugged and took a giant bite of ham and cheddar goodness.
“I’m not going to avoid the obvious and ask how you’re doing when it’s clear you’re having a rough go of it,” Bill said as Harry chewed. “I haven’t seen you this out of sorts since the summer before your fifth year.” Bill watched as Harry slumped a little and brought a palm up to rub against his eye, exhaustion–probably more mental than physical at this point–apparent in every movement.
“I hate to see you like this, and hell, it feels unfair to make you wait another few days just for things to be completely settled when it’s basically already a done deal.” Harry’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and Bill couldn’t help the fondness that spread through his chest at seeing Harry’s quizzical expression.
“Fleur and I have spent the past few months making plans to open our own warding and enchantment business,” he admitted. Harry’s green eyes widened in excitement for him, and the younger man swallowed quickly so he could offer his congratulations.
Bill smiled at Harry’s clearly genuine happiness for them. “Thanks, Harry. We’re pretty excited, as we’ve both been ready to break from Gringotts for a while now and would much prefer to curate our own clientele and have some more flexibility than that offered by the goblins.”
He heard hints of both bitterness and understanding in Harry’s laugh and his mumbled, “I bet.”
“We’re still waiting on the final agreements to go through, but we’ve got everything in place for the start of the business and are almost done securing office premises,” Bill shared. “Originally, we’d planned to wait until everything was official, but we’ve discussed it between us enough that I feel comfortable bringing this up now. And I know Fleur would agree if she saw what I’m seeing,” he said.
Harry flushed. He hoped he didn’t look as tired as he felt, but based on the slight worry he could see in Bill’s eyes, Harry was pretty sure he looked awful. Not for the first time in his short existence, Harry wished for a rock to hide under. Bill was so put together, so attractive and effortlessly cool, and Harry–Harry was a mess.
Too busy wallowing in his embarrassment to focus, it took Harry a moment to parse the rest of Bill’s statement. “Bringing up what? Agreeing on what?”
Bill gestured at the extensive notes in between them, and Harry started to realize where this was going. He tried to tamp down on the hope that began to well up in his chest, but Bill’s next words made that hope leap within him.
“We’d like to offer you a position as an apprentice with us once we officially open for business.”
Harry whispered, “Are you serious?”
Bill was a cursebreaker with an incredible amount of experience for someone so young, and Fleur had spent plenty of time this summer talking about her family’s legacy of enchantresses. The French witch had been producing high-quality products and crafting mastery-level enchantments since her final year at Beauxbatons and had secured her enchanter’s license within six months of graduation. It was practically unheard of. But, most importantly, Bill and Fleur each possessed sensory connections to magic, just as he did. Sirius had only briefly begun helping him adjust to being able to sense magic via taste before his death, and Harry hadn’t been able to find anyone else who experienced similar sensations. At least not until speaking with Bill and Fleur this summer.
Learning from the pair of them would be . . . Merlin, it’d be better than anything Harry could find on his own with his current credentials. Plus, he knew he could trust them not to take advantage of him as an employee or let him coast on his name.
It was too good to be true, right?
But the other man’s usually teasing eyes were steady and sure, and as Harry searched for any hint of a joke within them or the rest of his features, he couldn’t find any indication that Bill was being anything other than honest.
“Bill, I don’t even know what to–that’s–” Harry cut himself off, shutting his eyes to try and calm himself. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until he sucked in a breath and felt intense relief rush through him at the feeling of air filling his lungs.
The past three months of trying to find his place in the wizarding world now that the fighting was over had been more stressful than Harry wanted to admit to anyone. Balancing his grief and his guilt and his responsibilities with how absolutely lost he felt in the wake of all this choice he now had has been a nigh-on impossible task. And here was Bill, and by extension Fleur, giving him the opportunity to pursue exactly what he had been too scared to admit he really wanted to learn under the direct supervision of people he trusted and respected.
“Yes,” Harry said, collecting himself. His shoulders relaxed for what felt like the first time in months. “If the offer is real, I’d love to apprentice with the both of you.”
Bill grinned and offered him a hand over the tabletop for Harry to shake.
“It’s very real, and we’re thrilled to have you,” he said, winking as Harry gripped his hand firmly.
“Harry.”
“Harry!”
He blinked and shook his head slightly once he finally heard Fleur’s attempts to get his attention. Rubbing the crustiness out of his eyes after staring too long at the pages of the syllabary, Harry turned to see what Fleur wanted.
“‘Lo Fleur, need something? I’m almost done drawing up the chains needed for the O’Conner house, but I can help with whatever you need after that.”
She huffed at him, not answering as she came close enough to brush the loose strands of hair back behind his ear after they escaped from where he had tied it all back.
“ Non , you’ve done enough for the day.” He tried to protest, but she shushed him and patted him on the cheek. “Go home. Bill left hours ago and just sent a patronus to remind us both to get some sleep.”
Harry raised his eyebrows and coughed, “hypocrite,” into his hand, looking innocently up at her as she pretended to scowl at him as she admitted, “I got too caught up in my research for the looking glass the Faraby’s commissioned, so I’m telling you that we are both going home.”
He protested, “I only have a few more links to connect–”
She sighed, sinking down to sit on the top of his desk. “Harry, it will keep. You know it will.”
He went to turn pleading eyes onto her that she could normally never resist, but Fleur’s fond smile as she watched him was so lovely that it stopped him in his tracks. Her hair was plaited back, but soft strands had escaped throughout the day and had curled around the sides of her face. Her ice blue eyes, so much lighter than Bill’s deep blue, were sharp and intelligent with a steady warmth that Harry had come to see within her after a little over a year of working alongside the French woman. The sight of her, tired and ruffled, made Harry’s chest ache and stole the pleading words from his lips.
This wasn’t the first time Fleur’s beauty had left him speechless.
He’d seen her fierce and ferocious when he was fourteen, and she’d been a wondrous thing to behold. But it had never struck him how otherworldly beautiful she was until the first time he’d seen her face alight with satisfaction after successfully completing the arithmetic equations she’d been slaving over for weeks for a particularly important commission. She’d looked almost feverish, eyes too wild with pleasure, grin so toothy it whispered predator , hands twitching in eagerness to start laying the enchantments, and magic–tasting to Harry like cranberries and whiskey–pooling beneath her fingertips.
That night, he’d attempted to keep his voice level and his magic contained as he congratulated her on her work, but it had been a close call for his control as he’d made excuses that he’d left necessary notes in his flat and needed sleep in order to think straight enough to finish his current project. Harry’s still not sure exactly what he told her as he basically sprinted towards the fireplace, but he’d barely made it through the floo and stumbled to his couch before the want in his magic surged up his spine. He’d arched under the sensation of it, desire making even the sensation of the fabric against his skin too much, and he could hear his hair crackle with static even as the electric and lemon taste of his magic sat heavy on his tongue.
That had been the first time Harry accepted how much he wanted Fleur, that it wasn’t just an aesthetic appreciation of a beautiful woman but a true desire for Fleur herself.
Harry had needed to meditate for an hour the next morning before he left for work. It had taken him that long to lock the memory of cumming to the thought of Fleur’s flushed skin and sharp teeth and cranberry kisses behind impenetrable walls in his mind. He needed to be able to look both Fleur and Bill in the face after all, and they’d be able to smell and see it on him respectively if he was embarrassed, ashamed, or, worst of all, aroused when he saw either of them.
He’d known he was distractingly attracted to Bill for years (thanks for the sexuality crisis, Weasley), but working with him everyday had proven to be too much for Harry’s heart, let alone his libido. The man was so competent at his craft and so patient a teacher that Harry had progressed to having a full-on crush on his married boss within seven weeks of signing on as his apprentice.
So the revelation about wanting Fleur was almost a relief. He wasn’t a homewrecker. He just had feelings for both partners of a married couple.
Oh, it still sucked, because Harry thought he’d learned not to want impossible things, but at least he didn’t feel quite so guilty for all the times he’d wanked to the thought of Bill pushing him down into the ground and rutting against him until Harry came, choking on the taste of balsamic vinegar. It made every trip to bury a wardstone at a new property a hazardous time.
There had been moments where he thought the tension might not be one-sided. A lingering touch on his upper arm as Fleur convinced him to have a night out for once. The way Bill crowded his space, almost molding himself to Harry’s back as he guided him through the motions for the ward-settling ritual the first time Harry took point on the principal casting. Too-long looks and the way the two of them curled into each other while keeping their eyes focused on him as they talked profit margins and upcoming projects. The sharp sweetness of balsamic and the tart burn of cranberries soaked in whiskey.
Harry had been holding it all in for so long now, and it was late. Midnight was long past at this point, and Fleur was right that he needed to go home. He’d been here for at least 18 hours, and now that he’d paused in his research, Harry could feel the exhaustion sinking in. He should go. But he was always more emotional, less careful when he was tired, and he’d been sleeping so poorly lately.
It was a combination of his lack of sleep and the light scratch of Fleur’s nails against his scalp that had Harry admitting at 2:21 am in the back study of their offices that, “I don’t want to go to my flat. The only magic there is mine, and all I taste are overripe lemons and my own loneliness.”
Harry could feel his magic welling up and dripping down his throat as Fleur’s fingers stilled and her magic tensed, bursting tartness coating his teeth.
“Grimmauld is worse,” Harry said, looking down to avoid Fleur’s gaze. “And I can’t keep going to Ron and Hermione’s, even if they say I’m always welcome.” He then tilted his head back to stare up at the ceiling, shaking Fleur’s hand off in the process. “I should be fine. I’ve always appreciated solitude, but there’s a difference between being alone and being… alone. The only place I feel like I can relax these days is here, in the workshop.”
Harry hesitated, then closed his eyes and forced out the last bit of truth, rushing through it before his common sense got the better of him. “Surrounded by all three of our magics, I finally feel like I can sleep. It’s–” Harry gestured lamely, letting the sentence trail off. Nice would be an understatement, but, it feels like home and I want to crawl between the two of you and stay forever, was maybe a bit much.
“I miss getting a full night’s rest,” he settled on at last.
Fleur moved down from her perch atop his desk to sit right next to him on the work bench and pull him into her arms. Harry could smell a faint trace of her citrusy perfume as she gently pressed his face into the crook of her neck. “Oh, mon étincelle , no this is not a thing you just suffer with alone,” she said, running her hand soothingly up and down his back. “Our gifts make us so sensitive to outside magic and even more so to the lack of it. When I was living alone while studying for my enchanter’s license, it physically hurt if I spent more than two weeks without flooing home to sleep at least one night. And Bill told me that if Hogwarts wasn’t so saturated with its students’ magic, his time as Head Boy would have been absolutely miserable.”
Fleur pressed her face into Harry’s curls making him feel protected and enclosed in her embrace, and he shivered as he felt her lips brush his head as she added, “To need other people is not weakness, Harry. Not for anyone and most especially not for people who can sense magic as we do.”
Harry could taste her honestly, the purity of sweetened cranberry juice rolling over his tongue, and so he gave in and allowed himself to fully relax into her. She let him rest in her arms, and she hummed a slow languid melody as they sat there in the office’s dim lighting.
After a few more minutes, Harry sighed into her neck and pulled back, separating himself from her and pressing a light kiss to her cheek in thanks for the comfort before standing up. He stretched, lifting his arms overhead and hearing the pop of his shoulder as he pulled slightly side to side.
He huffed a laugh at Fleur’s protesting of the sound. She hated the sharp crack of a joint slipping back into place.
She stood herself and they silently began gathering Harry’s materials into stacks for when he returned in the morning. It was comfortable, finishing the mundane tasks of closing down the offices for the night together, and Harry once again craved something more as he basked in the quiet contentment.
His pointless yearning was interrupted as Bill’s silvery cane corso patronus leapt through the wall and then bounded between the two of them, circling Fleur first before running over to wheel around Harry as well before opening its mouth to deliver his second message of the night.
“It is 2:45 in the morning. You’re a lovely pair of workaholics, but if the both of you don’t pack it up and call it a night in the next ten minutes, I will operate under the assumption you’ve been kidnapped by dark wizards and raise absolute hell.”
Harry snickered at Bill’s peeved tone and the message’s remarkable resemblance to a Mrs. Weasley scolding, and he could see Fleur’s shoulders shaking from her own chuckles at her husband’s exasperation.
“At least send a patronus back so I know you’re alright, love,” the message continued, making Fleur smile at his protectiveness and Harry inwardly swoon even though he knew the endearment wasn’t directed at him. Bill being a good husband was just as sexy as him being an incredible warder. Too bad–
“I’ll forgive you for making me worry if you finally manage to convince Harry to come home with you. His curls would look so lovely spilled over our pillows.”
Harry’s mouth dropped open as Fleur whipped around and stared at him with wide eyes. Bill’s final words, said so suggestively that the both of them were blushing as they gaped at each other, echoed between them.
“If you hurry, I’ll still be awake and we can pretend you brought him to bed.”
And with that, the silvery light of his patronus winked out.
Bill sighed with relief as he heard the sound of his wife landing in the fireplace from the other room. He got up to welcome her home but stopped a step into the living room when he saw a very different figure brushing ash off their shoulder.
“Harry?!” Bill said, blinking and rubbing at his eyes as if to get rid of a blurry image.
Harry chuckled, the sound low and raspy after his overlong day. “In the flesh.”
He paused, giving Bill a chance to actually process that he was here as Fleur finally stepped through the floo behind him.
Harry grinned. It wasn’t often one saw Bill Weasley speechless. The moment only got better as Harry took in Bill’s definition of sleepwear. Green eyes raked over the older man’s form, blazing with approval at Bill’s low-slung sweats and total lack of a shirt.
“What’re you doing here?” Bill finally asked. “Not that you’re not always welcome,” he added quickly.
Harry shared a smirk with Fleur as she walked forward, squeezed his shoulder tightly as she passed him, and kissed her husband on the cheek before winking at Harry and walking toward the bedroom to change into her own sleepwear.
“Well,” Harry drawled, eyes trailing after Fleur’s backside before focusing back on Bill, “I wouldn’t want you to pretend when you could have the real thing.”
Fleur’s tinkling laugh down the hallways and Bill’s muttered “fuck yes,” and he stepped forward and grabbed a handful of Harry’s tshirt were easily the two best things Harry thought he’d ever heard.