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Chapter Text

It had been exactly one hundred and twenty six days since Harry Potter had faced down the dark lord Voldemort. It had been one hundred and twenty six days of celebration, mourning, and rebuilding. Gryffindor tower, one of the few dormitories to remain intact after the battle, had been home to the Order of the Phoenix and the DA over the past four months as most volunteered to stay on and clean up the rubble. There were bridges to repair, walls to reconstruct, and bodies still to be found amidst the wreckage. For one hundred and twenty six days after that long and final battle of the second war, the heroes who had defeated Voldemort had stayed behind to pick up the pieces.

That was the part of war the history books never talked much about. How did people rebuild after their world was destroyed? How did witches and wizards across Europe return to a sense of normalcy when their homes had been taken, their friends had been murdered, and many of their loved ones could never return? It wasn’t flash, crack, and like a bolt of lightning the war was over and everyone lived happily ever after. Voldemort was not a serpent who had crept into a kingdom of paradise and merely hypnotized his followers into doing his will overnight. The war was over, but it would take time to heal.

The volunteers who stayed at Hogwarts day and night and worked tirelessly to rebuild it knew that the first step to returning to normal would be to have their school back. It would bring hope for the future to continue training the children to be good witches and wizards. It was an investment in the next generation so that, even if this one could not heal, someone could do more than simply carry on. And so they worked for one hundred and twenty six days until the building was safe and the classrooms were repaired enough to let students in. The school would start its semester a few days late and with ongoing projects throughout the year, but Hogwarts would open. On Monday morning, the halls would be filled once more with the chatter of hopeful children. It would be a smaller returning class, but they would return nonetheless.

The Order of the Phoenix had been packing to move out of the dorms all day. The house elves, now paid staff, would need Sunday to clean the space and remake the beds for the returning Gryffindors’ arrival. Harry Potter, who had gotten quite used to living out of Hermione Granger’s purse, sat in a booth at The Hog’s Head staring down at a plate of cottage pie (on the house). He was dressed in an old pair of scuffed-up jeans and hand-me-down Chudley Cannons t-shirt that had gone through several Weasley brothers and probably had last fit Ron during fifth year. He hadn’t shaved in months, and he had grown a thick, dark beard that stopped too many people from recognizing him in the streets.

Ron had already gone back to help his family rebuild The Burrow and Hermione was off tracking down her confunded parents. The Hog’s Head was dirty and dark, but Harry had grown fond of Aberforth Dumbledore since his efforts during the war. Besides, the place was much less crowded than The Three Broomsticks, and everyone minded their own business here. Harry was alone and quite frankly enjoying the solitude. He was tired of recounting his miraculous resurrection and defeat of Voldemort as if it were a tale of joy when so many people he loved would not be coming back: Tonks, Lupin, and Fred. They were gone. There was no resurrection stone or fragment of horcrux that would bring them back. Harry had been given a choice when standing on the platform. He briefly wondered if anyone else had gotten the same choice, but he knew that Tonks and Lupin would never choose to leave their child behind. Harry knew he was unique.

Just as Harry had resolved himself to shove a few bites of food in his mouth and head upstairs to the inn to write a letter to Andromeda Tonks, the door to the Hog’s Head opened. A large, imposing figure stood silhouetted in the late summer sunset beyond. Harry gripped his wand, his heart racing as he remembered the fight with the snatchers, the one where Hermione had cursed his face to render him unrecognizable. But when the door closed, Harry recognized a friendly face and slid his wand calmly back into his pocket.

“Minister Shacklebolt,” Harry said as the bald, black wizard approached his table. “Shouldn’t you be in London cleaning up the Ministry?”

Kingsley Shacklebolt, impeccably dressed in pinstriped indigo robes, sat down in the booth across from Harry. Many of their comrades had sustained serious injuries during The Battle of Hogwarts, but Kingsley had come away unscathed. Still, the effects of the war showed on him now in the slope of his shoulders. He was tired. Harry could sympathize.

“Harry,” Kingsley said with a smile. “I hardly recognized you. I thought Aberforth was feeding goats at the tables again.”

Harry scratched his beard and chuckled. Maybe it could use a trim.

“Molly Weasley said I’d find you here,” he said, folding his hands on the table in front of him. A large gold ring on his finger bore the Ministry of Magic seal. “They’ve booted you from the castle?”

“School starts Monday,” Harry said, placing his fork down next to his plate. “So it’s only temporary.”

“You’re going back?” Kingsley asked, clearly surprised.

“Well, thing is, I didn’t do my seventh year. I was a bit busy.” Harry smirked. “Being Undesirable Number One.”

Kingsley nodded. “Right, yes, but still… Minerva told me years ago that you wanted to be an Auror. Is that not your plan?”

“That is my plan. That’s why I’m getting my N.E.W.T.s taken care of. I could sit for them in a makeup exam, but I’m kind of missing a year of Potions, Transfiguration, Charms—”

“Don’t be silly,” Kingsley said. “The job is yours. N.E.W.T.s be damned, you’re Harry Potter. You defeated Voldemort. Nobody is going to make you sit for exams. Consider it a requirement waiver from the Minister of Magic himself. The Ministry needs you, Harry.”

Harry hesitated. When he opened his mouth to speak, all that came out was a cracked whimper. Of course, it made sense, but Harry had never expected to be given his dream job without so much as a single A or E, and wasn’t he supposed to need Os in a few subjects?

“You and Weasley,” Kingsley said. “And Granger if she wants it, though she was babbling on a few weeks ago about elfish welfare. We need you. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is looking a little thin, and I’ve got work for you to do. Someone needs to track down the rest of the Death Eaters, and I’m too busy putting a government back together to do it personally.”

“Are you sure, sir?” Harry asked. “You want a Hogwarts drop-out in the Ministry?”

“Don’t consider yourself a drop-out,” Kingsley said. The corner of his lip twitched upward. “Think of it as an independent study program. You defended us against the dark arts, brewed advanced potions to break into Gringotts, and I’m sure you charmed and transfigured plenty on the run. If you’d like, I can get Minerva to write you a certificate saying you achieve Os in everything. Come work for me, Harry.”

Harry stammered for a minute before managing to blurt out, “Thank you.”

“Thank you, Harry.”

Kingsley stood up and smoothed down his dress robes. He turned and nodded to Aberforth, who stood behind the bar. “Be in London Monday morning. Check in with Gawain Robards and then come upstairs to my office for lunch. I’m buying.” Kingsley Shacklebolt reached out and shook Harry’s hand. Then he crossed to the fireplace, took a pinch of floo powder from the mantle, tossed it on the crackling fire, and stepped into the sudden rush of green flames. He shouted, “Ministry of Magic,” and with a woosh and a roar of surging flames, he was gone.

Chapter Text

Ron Weasley was very disheartened by the lack of snogging in his life at the moment. The night after the Battle of Hogwarts, Ron and Hermione had climbed the spiral staircase in the Gryffindor dormitories, up higher than the seventh year dorms at the top of the tower, and sat in a little window seat that looked over the cliff and the lake below. They had talked for hours about everything from Ron’s time on the run without Harry and Hermione to their plans now that the war was over. And they had kissed. They had kissed quite a lot. And though it was sweet and innocent, and though he had gotten to put his hands in a few more places during his previous relationship with Lavender Brown, Ron had decided it was better. It was definitely better. Because he loved Hermione Granger, and that feeling that had squirmed inside of him whenever they argued was finally able to be taken out and looked at in the light of day. He loved her, and it was obvious in retrospect that he had loved her for quite some time.

But now Hermione was on the opposite side of the world. In the months that followed, they had found it harder and harder to be alone. Wizards from all around Europe were showing up for weeks at a time to volunteer their services. There was the architect who must have been a hundred and a thirty years old who bragged about restoring the greatest pureblooded manors in the country. There was the family of wizards from Salem who had traveled across the Atlantic to help out because they were so grateful that the war had stop before spreading to the Americas. At one point the entire surviving team and staff of the Holyhead Harpies had turned up to volunteer, and then the Tornadoes and the Bats and pretty much every team in the league had come in turns. There were impromptu Quidditch matches and feasts and lectures on advancements in magical research. Between the hard work and the parties, Ron and Hermione hardly had any time to themselves. And then she left to go find her parents, and Ron was alone.

He sat outside The Burrow now in a wizard’s tent. They had torn down the burnt-out shell of the house in Ottery St. Catchpole and framed the new house last week. It had taken the whole family to erect the structure. Harry had donated money for supplies. He’d called it a loan, but Ron knew his parents would never be able to pay him back, and Harry would never bring it up. The past few days had been spent floating large stones across the garden to rebuild the wall and directing a dozen hammers to tap the nails in the floorboards into place. The original house had been build in two nights by Arthur Weasley’s family the week before his wedding. As their family grew, the house grew up and a little to the left until it became the lop-sided structure that Ron had always known. The final room had been built when Ron was still a baby and Molly was pregnant with Ginny. Ron didn’t like how neat the new house looked. Planned and built as a single structure, it stood too straight. They would paint the walls tomorrow, and move furniture in the next day.

As Ron lay back on his cot inside the crowded tent—the same one Hermione had taken on the run with them— he watched his mother carry dishes out to the yard. Arthur Weasley was in a corner tinkering with a muggle radio. Percy, Charlie, and Bill had gone back to their homes to pick up the pieces. George lay on a cot reading a book about business and keeping to himself as he had done a lot this summer. Ginny, who was cooking dinner outside on a camp fire, had come in to search through the crates of food supplies for some herbs. Her bright red hair hung down around her face as she craned over the boxes, and he wondered when in the last year she had grown up so much.

When Molly called them to supper, Ron climbed off of the cot and trudged outside. George was the last one out, and Ron held the tent flap for him. “I was thinking,” Ron said, “that next week when this is all set and Mum and Dad don’t need us here, I could go with you into London and help clean up the shop. I reckon people will be wanting it open soon. We already missed the back-to-school rush.”

“Hmmm,” George said, and he forced a smile. “Yes, perhaps we need to print a catalog to send to every kid at Hogwarts.”

“It’ll be anarchy,” Ron said with a smile. “Complete and utter chaos if you do that. Extendable ears around every corner. Instant darkness during every exam.”

George chuckled.

Ron hesitated. “Fred would have liked that, I think.”

George nodded. “Yeah, he would have.”

The brothers sat down together while Arthur ladled stew into bowls and passed them around the table. Molly had hung fairy lights in the garden, and they began to twinkle as the sun set behind the trees. Dinner was quieter than before without the witty exchange of banter between Fred and George. They had always played off each other so well, like a comedy duo with one mind. Now George didn’t feel like telling jokes very often.

A shadow moved across the dinner table. An owl swooped overhead and dropped a letter over Ginny. She caught it before it landed in her stew and tore open the thick envelope addressed in green.

“Ginevra Weasley,” she read aloud. “We are pleased to announce that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will open on Monday for classes. We apologize for the late notice. We hope to see you at platform nine and three quarters bright and early on Monday morning. Enclosed is your train ticket and list of school supplies. We will work to accommodate students as they wait for supplies to arrive by mail—considering the extraordinary circumstances. Sincerely yours, Professor Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

Ron, chewing a heel of bread, froze as she read the letter. When it was done, he swallowed and looked up at the sky. “Where’s mine?” he asked. “I know I’m supposed to be done, but I didn’t exactly go last year.”

Molly reached across the table and patted his hand, “Ronald dear, I’m sure there’s just been a mix up. We’ll write to Minerva as soon as supper is over.”

They didn’t have to wait for supper to end to get their answers. There was a loud crack as someone apparated into the garden. A moment later their guest stumbled and fell over. Vines crunched and someone shouted.

“Harry?” Ginny asked, sitting up straight in her chair.

“You moved the garden!” Harry Potter shouted. The whole Weasley family craned their next to look across the yard as Harry Potter, bearded and cover in pumpkin guts, climbed to his feet.

Ginny knocked her chair over, leaving the table, and ran across the lawn to embrace Harry. She kissed him in a way that made Ron turn his head to give them privacy. His face turned red as he waited for a sign that it was safe to look again.

“Did you get a Hogwarts letter?” Ron heard Ginny ask. Ron finally set his eyes back on his best friend. “Ron didn’t get one,” she said.

“Ron doesn’t need one,” Harry replied, taking her hand and walking with her to the Weasley’s impromptu dining area.

“Harry dear,” Molly said, enveloping Harry in a hug. “You need to shave. You look like one of Hagrid’s beasts.”

“Now, Molly dear, he’s not one of your sons,” Arthur said. “You don’t get to groom him.”

“Oh tush, he might as well be. Sit down Harry, eat.”

“I just finished a plate of cottage pie,” he protested, but Molly had already drawn up a chair and was pushing him down into it. She filled a bowl for him and placed a spoon in his hand.

“What do you mean I don’t need a letter?” Ron asked, finding his seat again.

“I’ve just been speaking with Minister Shacklebolt,” Harry said.

“Don’t be so stuffy, Harry. Minister Shacklebolt, honestly,” George quipped. “You’re The Boy Who Lived, twice! You can just make up names for people and they can’t say a thing. I think you should call Ron—”

Ron cut him off before George could give him yet another humiliating nickname he would never live down. “What did Shacklebolt say?” Ron asked. “Did he say we’re back in? Are we going to Hogwarts Monday?”

“No,” Harry said. “You and I are going to London. We’ve got job offers at the Ministry as aurors. But I’m only accepting it if you come with me.”

“Blimey!” Ron exclaimed. “Aurors. But we don’t even have our N.E.W.T.s.”

“It’d be pretty stupid to make Harry sit for exams now that he’s saved the world,” Ginny said.

“The world? That’s a bit dramatic,” Harry said.

“The world. That witch we met from America this summer, she said they were on high alert over there preparing for the war to spread. You-Know… sorry, Voldemort was already thoroughly entrenched in Eastern Europe and North Africa. He had Egypt all but tied-up. And you know—after the Brockdale Bridge—the muggles wouldn’t be safe either. The world.”

“London,” Ron said. “When do we start?”

“Monday,” Harry said, scooping up some stew. He had hardly touched his other dinner, and he always had room for more of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking. “You can stay with me at Grimmauld place. And when Hermione gets back from wherever she is, we’ll track her down and ask her to come, too. Shacklebolt wants all three of us.”

“You can save up for a couple months and then have your own flat,” Ginny suggested

“My own flat? Harry’s my best mate, why would I want to move out?” Ron asked.

Ginny cocked an eyebrow at him, as if asking Do you really need me to answer that, Ron?

Molly Weasley jumped up from the table and disappeared through the flaps of the tent. She came back a minute later with a bottle of champagne. “Arthur and I were saving this for when the house is finished, but I think this is a much more important celebration,” she said. “I’m so proud of you boys. Aurors!”

“I thought she couldn’t be any prouder of you after you saved the world, Harry,” George said. “But clearly my mother’s love for you knows no bounds.”

They ate and drank champagne, and George even got into a joking spirit while Harry was there. Harry volunteered to stay and help paint the house in the morning, but Molly told him he’d have to be off bright and early so that he and Ron could buy new robes in London for work.

Arthur set up an extra cot in the tent for Harry after dinner. They sat around the camp fire for a while listening to the news on the Wizarding Wireless Network. After Molly and Arthur had gone to bed and George had gone off to be with his book, Ginny asked Harry to take her for a walk around the garden. Ron watched them disappear into the shadows together, and then he thought of Hermione. Hermione. He loved her. Ron got up, went into the tent to grab a piece of parchment and a self-inking quill, and then sat down at the table outside to write her a letter letting her know how much he missed her.

Chapter Text

Brynja Dunstan had been working for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement since graduating from Hogwarts four years previously. She had started as a clerk for the Hit Wizard Squad and worked there for two years. The paper test for the Auror entrance examination had never been the problem. It wasn't even jinxes and counter curses that had tripped her up, as she had been a Ravenclaw at the top of her class (second only to her good friend Penelope Clearwater.) It was the physical part of the exam that she failed three times before finally passing it. She had taken up jogging and worked to build up her stamina. Spells were fine and dandy, but sometimes the job required a good-old-mundane foot chase. 

She had just passed the Auror exam in June before the war (the results came in July), but her results were never made public. Rufus Scrimgeour was murdered, and the ministry fell. Brynja's job from then on was strictly off-the-books. She was still not used to the view from her little desk at the Auror office, so it wasn't that startling when—on Monday morning—that view suddenly included Harry Potter.

"Er—excuse me," he said. Harry Potter was dressed in a pair of new dress robes with creases still in them, and despite being clean-shaved and well-dressed, his hair stuck up in the back. He was a lot taller than Brynja remembered him. She had last seen him during his third year at Hogwarts, and most of her memories of the famous Harry Potter involved him being followed around by Oliver Wood as he talked about aerial maneuvers and attack formations for chasers. Brynja had to admit that she had been paying more attention to Oliver in those sightings than the gangly thirteen-year-old he was badgering.

"Oh," Brynja said, only mildly surprised to see the hero of the wizarding world standing in the Auror office. It made sense, didn't it? They had plenty of open positions and Harry Potter was more than qualified. "Hello. You're Harry Potter." Another man had walked in behind him. He was very tall, obviously a Weasley, and his shirt collar stuck out of the top of his equally new dress robes.

Brynja Dunstan was a tall, fit woman with dark brown hair and caramel colored skin. She had large almond-shaped eyes and a heart-shaped face. She wore plain black work robes over a fitted white blouse, gray trousers, and high-heeled boots. Harry knew he had seen her somewhere before, but he couldn't quite place her face. "And you're Weasley?"

"R-Ron," Ron sputtered.

"I'm Brynja Dunstan, Auror."

Harry rushed to shake her hand. Ron just wiped his sweaty hands on his robes. "I thought—you're new?" Harry asked.

"Very. You're looking for Mr. Robards, yes?"

Brynja lead Harry and Ron back to the office of Gawain Robards. It was very early, and with the exception of the head of the department and Brynja (who was a bit of a workaholic) nobody else had come in yet. She smiled reassuringly at them because the boys—the young men—looked very nervous. Then she returned to her desk where she had been looking at a list of missing wizards. It was her job to track down who had been taken or killed by Snatcher squads and who might still be hiding out in the countryside, unaware that the war was over.

Some time passed as she compared an appallingly fastidious list of executions overseen by the Death Eater Ministry with the list of missing persons. Here and there she was able to cross off names, but it still left a few dozen witches and wizards unaccounted for. These were the people whose families still had hope. 

While she worked, Williamson and Dawlish came in. A few minutes later, Alauna Savage staggered through the door nursing a thermos of extra-strong tea. After half an hour, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley came out of Mr. Robards's office clutching a mountain of paperwork each and purple employee handbooks for the Ministry of Magic. Harry dumped his stack on the empty desk adjacent to Brynja, and Ron dumped his on the desk opposite Harry's.

"Harry Potter!" Williamson called from his desk. Dimitri Williamson was a pale wizard with a long brown ponytail. He wore a leather cape over his robes. He hopped out of his chair and crossed to shake Harry's hand. "Williamson," he said. "I was stationed—"

"You were at Hogwarts the night Dumbledore…"

"Yes," Williamson said, his tone sobering. "It was a very difficult night for all of us."

"Dawlish, right?" Harry asked, pointing to John Dawlish, a sandy-haired wizard with a chevron mustache and silver spectacles.

"Glad Kingsley got to you before the Quidditch league did."

"Excuse me?" Harry asked.

Williamson laughed. "People have been talking about your professional Quidditch prospects since you became the youngest house seeker in centuries. It's not an easy thing to buckle-down and do all that Auror studying when you have a natural gift for a job like that. You could have all the gold and women you want playing Seeker."

Harry was blinking and sputtering a lot now. "Yes, well, I have enough gold, and women. Woman. I mean—"

"He's always wanted to be an auror. Harry wouldn't say yes to any team," Ron said. "Except maybe Chudley, right Harry?"

Brynja quietly observed as Williamson and Dawlish welcomed Harry and Ron. Soon after Ashton Gray and Jason Proudfoot came in and met their new coworkers. It was hard to get any work done with all the noise in the office, and the socialization was only broken up when two members of the Hitwizard squad showed up with two grubby wizards frozen and floating behind them.

"Hey, Dunstan. How's it going?" one asked. Brynja remembered that his name was Paul. "Moving on up, eh?"

"What have we got here, boys?" Gray asked, walking around the paralyzed captives. "Hey, I know that face."

"Picked 'em up trying to break into Ollivanders's shop this morning. Young Gary placed the floo call. Got him all bound up before we even arrived. But Alfie here recognized them from your list.

"Snatchers," Harry Potter said suddenly. He was staring at the man floating closest to the door and his lip was curled up in an almost snarl. "I know this one. He worked with Malfoy."

A wave of murmurs moved through the office.

"Oh yeah," Ron said. "With Greyback."

They didn't have time to hear Harry's story. Another visitor was pushing through the door,  and it was the Minister of Magic himself.

"We're getting all kinds of guests today," Williamson said, helping to move the frozen prisoner out of Kingsley Shacklebolt's way. 

"Harry," Kingsley said, flashing a charming smile. "Ron Weasley. Glad you could be convinced to leave your studies."

Ron snorted. "Not a hard choice…sir."

"I thought we'd head out for lunch a little early," he said, taking a gold pocket-watch out of his waistcoat and checking it. "Beat the crowd. Oh, and Ms. Dunstan, I wanted to have a word with you quickly about that execution list."

Brynja, Harry, and Ron squeezed past the crowd in the doorway and followed Kingsley Shacklebolt down the hall. At the far end of the row of ministry elevators, each emblazoned with the ministry seal and receiving a constant onslaught of folded flying memos, was a smaller elevator. There was an indentation next to the door, and Kingsley's ring, which Harry had seen before, fit nicely into the impression. The door opened, and Kingsley gestured for them all to step inside.

"You get your own lift?" Ron asked. "Excellent."

Kingsley smiled up at Ron. As tall and imposing as Minister Shacklebolt was, Ron was still taller.

"Miss Granger couldn't be convinced to join you?" he asked.

Ron shook his head. "It's mental. She's determined to finish Hogwarts. She says you can't be on the school board of governors if you don't finish Hogwarts."

"A lofty goal," Kingsley said.

"It doesn't stop there," Harry added.

There was silence in the elevator. After a cheerful chime, the doors opened. They were in a hallway that lead to a single door with the ministry seal emblazoned on it in purple. A desk in the hallway was manned by a frazzled looking receptionist who swatted at half a dozen memos as they rammed repeatedly into her temple, demanding to be read. Kingsley gestured for Harry, Ron, and Brynja to exit the lift first. "Ms. Dunstan, you've met Harry?"

"Briefly this morning," Harry said as he stepped out of the elevator.

"Good, you're going to have to get to know her pretty well. She's your primary witness for your first assignment."

Harry looked between Brynja and Kingsley, an eyebrow raised. Brynja knew exactly what this was about now, and she knew she wasn't actually going to need the file she was clutching in her hands.

Kingsley opened his office door with his ring and gestured to a row of chairs in front of his desk. It was a large room with purple and green drapes and an old walnut desk. As soon as the Aurors sat down, the receptionist, who was very near-sighted and wore coke-bottle glasses, pushed a cart of food into the room. It was piled high with sandwiches, biscuits, fruit, and a pitcher of ice water with lemons floating in it. Brynja's stomach grumbled at the sight of it because she hadn't eaten anything except an avocado after her morning run.

"Mr. Shacklebolt," the receptionist said. "We have memos from—"

"Is anything on fire, Ariel?"

"No sir."

"Then I'll take them after lunch. Thank you."

Ariel left and the door clicked shut behind her. Kingsley gestured to the cart, and everyone took turns filling a plate with food. Brynja took half an egg salad sandwich, half of a roast beef, and a tiny citrus fruit that she thought must be a clementine. Kingsley served himself last, but he didn't so much as nibble on his food as he watched them eat. Ron Weasley was another story; he shoveled in two roast beef, two egg salad, and three turkey and cranberry halves before Brynja had even eaten one whole sandwich. When Kingsley got down to the point of this meeting, Ron was devouring a banana with less than three bites.

"You boys know that I was head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement after Scrimgeour left to be minister. Robards was my second, which is why he has the job now."

"They sure like to pick Aurors for your job, eh?" Ron asked before washing down his last bite with a gulp of water.

"People like to feel protected," Kingsley said with a wry smile. "And just because Voldemort is finally dead, doesn't mean that job is over."

"You said he got the job because he was second," Ron said. "You mean he wasn't really qualified?"

Shacklebolt shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Don't get me wrong, Gawain is a fantastic wizard and investigator, it's just…"

"You don't trust him," Harry said.

Brynja and Kingsley both nodded. "There was a Death Eater in our ranks last summer when the Ministry fell. Sam Capper. He was a Hufflepuff, ironically. A young guy whose loyalties weren't to us."

"They were to his pureblooded family," Brynja supplied. "And his Slytherin father was very loyal to You-Know-You."

"But you think he wasn't the only one," Harry said. "Right?"

"Capper didn't have the clearance to know some of the things that got out," Kingsley explained. "In fact, only myself, Ms. Dunstan, and Gawain knew about one very important mission. I hope, Harry, that you trust me after all we've been through. Ms. Dunstan was the one who almost died as the result of the leak. That leaves Robards. I have to know he didn't leak before I can trust him to run the department. I know you and Ronald have plenty of experience looking into things you're supposed to be keeping your nose out of."

Ron blushed from neck to forehead. Harry chuckled. "You could say that."

"And you're sure nobody else knew?" Ron asked.

"Positive," Brynja said, breaking the silence she had kept since entering the room. "You see, I passed the Auror test right before the ministry fell. Minister Shacklebolt asked me to go under cover because he suspected Sa—Capper. My test scores were sealed and nobody even knew I had passed the exam."

"So you were asked to get in with Capper and find out who else was with him?" Harry asked.

Brynja didn't answered. She was sitting upright in her chair, her hands gripping the armrests, her jaw clenched.

Kingsley cut in. "Ms. Dunstan spent six months under cover in Voldemort's Ministry before Capper found out she was working for me. About a week before her cover was blown, I met with Robards to talk about smuggling some muggleborns to Australia. During that meeting, worried that Brynja might be wrongly convicted as a Death Eater if I died before the Ministry was reclaimed, I revealed her as one of my sources. I thought someone else should know. And I did trust him."

"So it's our job to confirm your suspicions," Harry said.

"Or clear his name, if that's the truth. But I need evidence before I do anything. I need you, Harry. And you, Ron. And I need to know if Robards and Capper are it or if my whole department is infected. I never was this suspicious before the war but—well, isn't it odd that so many Aurors survived the year?"

Harry frowned.

"I just figured you all were badasses," Ron said.

Brynja tried not to laugh.

"What about Veritaserum?" Ron asked. "Couldn't you just dose all of the aurors?"

Kingsley winced. He shook his head slowly. "I don't like the stuff, to be honest. Have you ever been controlled by the Imperius Curse?"

"I have," Harry said. "A few times. I've gotten real good at fighting it."

"Well, that's certainly a resume item for an auror," Shacklebolt said. "Then you know how to feels, to have someone in your head compelling you to act. Imagine a compulsion ten times stronger, only they can't make you do anything, just talk. You have no secrets. Your insides are out. You're exposed. It's still mind control. They're still taking away your choice."

Harry glanced at Ron, but it was clear neither of them knew what to say.

"They did it to Scrimgeour before they killed him. And maybe they did it to Robards and he was just ashamed. But I won't do it, not even to convicted death eaters. Fudge was a big fan, but it's a moral issue for me, Weasley. Veritas makes it sound noble and pure, but it's a violation."

Kingsley took a long sip of water and eyed his plate of food. He turned away from it, though, and spoke directly to Harry. "I chose you because I figure you're pretty much incorruptible. You're in charge of the task force. Officially Robards is going to give you whatever assignment he pleases, but you need to work outside of the office on this project. Brynja knows how to set up further meetings off Ministry grounds. Robards can't know we suspect him. If he did betray us, I want him brought to justice. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir," Harry said.

"Yes sir," Ron followed.

Kingsley Shacklebolt picked up a ham salad sandwich and examined it for an angle of attack. "Good then," he said. "I'm going to have lunch. Feel free to take as many sandwiches as you'd like back to your desk."

Brynja, Harry, and Ron slipped out the door, Ron carrying half a sandwich in each hand. Ariel let them into the minister's elevator and sent them back down to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. In the elevator, the silence was tense.

"So," Brynja said. "We need to set up a first meeting. Where are you two living?"

"Oh," Ron said. "It's very well hidden. You can't find it without a note from Albus Dumbledore."

"No," Harry said. "We're all the secret-keepers now, remember? We can tell anyone we want. It's just hidden from strangers. And Rita Skeeter."

"Skeeter? Brilliant!" Ron laughed. "A permanent refuge from that bat."

Brynja was more than a bit confused by all this. "Oh. Okay," she cut in. "Well, I have a better idea."

"Yeah?" Harry asked. "On how to meet in secret?"

"It'll be less suspicious if we're socializing outside of work if we go through a mutual friend, correct?"

Harry nodded.

"Good then," Brynja said as she stepped out of the elevator and into the hall before the Department of Magic Law Enforcement. "Then expect an owl from Oliver Wood."

Chapter Text

Oliver Wood stood in the office of Philbert Deverill, the manager of Puddlemere United. Philbert was a middle-aged wizard with dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and a nose that looked like it had been broken by a bludger at least seven times. He was a retired beater, a broad-shouldered man that now wore a little extra weight around the middle, though his tailored dress-robes hung in just the right way to minimize his spare tire. The entire office was done in dark stained woods, including wood-paneled walls. A blue shield with twenty four karat gold bullrushes hung centered over the desk, and pendants from various seasons (some so old that Oliver wondered how they hadn't rotted away) decked the walls. The wood floor was mostly covered by a lush royal blue carpet.

"Oli," Deverill said, pouring himself a glass of Odgen's Old Firewhiskey. He held up an empty tumbler and Oliver nodded, accepting the offered drink. "I looked into your little idea."

"Yeah?" Oliver said, lowering himself into a chair. He had gotten out of practice a few minutes ago and been called out of the shower by his coach. He hadn't even had time to perform a drying charm on his short brown hair.

"It's a no-go, I'm afraid," Deverill said. "Minister of Magic himself has been going around asking managers not to try it. The world needs Harry Potter right now. He's too valuable even for my wallet."

Oliver scowled. "Rubbish! Quidditch is important. We need hope right now, right? Sport brings people together."

Deverill chuckled. "Maybe, but the people also need to feel safe, and you've got to admit, having Harry Potter, The Chosen One, personally seeing to the clean-up is very comforting."

Oliver took a big swig of his drink and then coughed a few times. "So who are we gonna get to fill those slots?" Oliver had only been on the team for a few years, but he was a senior member now that four of his teammates had been killed or captured by snatchers and executed by the ministry, and Benjy Williams had recently been arrested as a Death Eater. That left just Oliver and Wilda Griffiths. They had taken the most hits to their roster of any team in the league. They were down two chasers, two beaters, and a seeker. Things weren't looking good.

"There's always hope someone miraculous will show up to open tryouts," Deverill said. "The Malfoy boy hasn't been arrested and he—"

"Absolutely not!" Oliver shouted. "I will not play with that weasel. He plays dirty and everyone knows he's only walking free because dear mummy grew a conscience at the last possible moment. He fought for You-Know-Who in the Battle of Hogwarts!"

Deverill sat back in his chair and bridged his hands. He let Oliver get away with a lot as he only had two players left, and he knew that if he lost Wood, he would likely hear it from Griffiths. Still, he didn't like his employees giving him ultimatums.

"I suppose he would be toxic to our fanbase, too," Deverill said, trying to make it sound like the decision not to court Malfoy was his decision and not due-in-part to Oliver's objections. "If we're going to have a rebuilding year, we need only positive PR. Who else do you know from Hogwarts?"

"Johnson and Spinnett are all off reserves and on starting teams, so they won't budge. Katie… well her life has been a bit of a mess since the war. Her father's a muggle and her mother was a McKinnon. Last I knew she was working on Celestina Warbeck's touring crew, but I'm not sure how much work they're getting right now."

"Shoot her an owl," Deverill said. "If you think she's good…"

"I know a few other people from other house teams. And maybe Charlie Weasley is ready to quit playing with dragons and come be with his family since…" there was a hitch in Oliver's voice and he blinked a few times to clear the stinging from his eyes. ".…since Fred Weasley passed. He's out of practice, but he was quite something in his day." Oliver drained the last of his whiskey and set the glass on his boss's desk. "I'll owl whom I can and see if they'll come to tryouts next week."

"Good," Deverill said, standing up and buttoning the lapels on his dress robes. "We only have a few weeks to train, and then we start. Even with the delay in the season, we don't have much time."

Oliver stood up and started towards the office door.

"Oh, Wood," Deverill said, just thinking of something. "After you left, who played?"

"Ron Weasley took my slot, but he's probably on Shacklebolt's no-list. Kirke and Sloper were mediocre—useless by professional standards. Peakes and Coote are barely sixteen. And then Ginny Weasley." Oliver had kept up well with the Gryffindor team. He always looked at the little spot in the Daily Prophet that covered the House Cup league.

"Ginny Weasley. Potter's girlfriend?"

"She's a seventh year," Oliver said. "She needs to finish school."

Deverill grinned. "Does she?"

"I'm sorry?" Oliver frowned.

"Does she need to finish school?"

Oliver laughed. "Yes. Yes she does. Trust me, sir. If someone had come to me while I was still at Hogwarts and asked me to play, I would have dropped-out in a flash. But trust me when I say, you do not want to make an enemy of Molly Weasley. Let the girl finish Hogwarts and maybe we can court her next year."

"She's good?" Deverill asked. "Ginny Weasley is good, right?"

Oliver nodded. "Very good. She's captain right now."

"If we wait until next year, she might not be available to court."

Oliver thought about that for a moment. "Well, if you decide to ask, just don't drag my name into it, yeah? I mean, I know we're desperate, but we can't be that desperate."

*     *     *

Wednesday morning, Oliver dressed in his trainers and shorts. He wore a faded, threadbare shirt with a Gryffindor logo stitched onto the chest. His mother had made it for him during the summer before his seventh year when he had taken to going to a muggle gym to work out.

The knock at his flat door came exactly at six in the morning. Brynja was incredibly punctual. She was his running partner. She had been since before the war when he had talked her into taking up running to pass the physical test for the Auror program, though Brynja's apparent affiliations during the war had put a one-year break in that routine. Oliver and Brynja had dated briefly at Hogwarts, but his obsession with Quidditch had lead to missed homework dates and one-sided conversations, and now they were simply friends.

Simply friends who had been through hell together.

Brynja was only a few inches shorter than Oliver. The few times he ran into her after work, when she was wearing heels and pressed professional robes, they were exactly eye-to-eye. Today she wore shorts and trainers and a brand new Puddlemere United shirt (Deverill was trying to appeal to a young audience with more modern, muggleborn friendly merchandise) that Oliver had given her. It wasn't even on shelves yet at Quality Quidditch Supplies.

"Ready?" she asked. She wore a brace around her wrist that was an easy-access holster for her wand. The wand was long, twelve inches and made of black walnut and dragon heart string. A tiny water bottle dangled from a strap at her hip, but Oliver knew that it held far more water than it appeared to.

"Ready," he said. Oliver locked his door, tucked his wand into his gym sock, and gestured for Brynja to lead the way down the wrought-iron steps into the village street. Puddlemere was one of the few secluded wizarding villages left in England. It was located in Puddletown Forest south-east of the muggle settlement of Puddletown. Complex charms kept muggles from ever stumbling upon it, and wizards had to either take a portkey, catch a floo fire, apparate directly in, or arrive by broom. There were no roads into Puddlemere.

Occasionally he met her in London (when Quidditch was out of season and she was busy at work). Oliver preferred to run here, however, because the air wasn't clouded by smog from those horrible muggle automobiles. Brynja seemed to prefer it, too. She was less jumpy in Puddlemere, away from the sudden sounds of ringing shop bells and bellowing street vendors. Long ago Puddlemere had been a safe-haven for witches and wizards who had been driven out of muggle society. Now its economy centered mostly around the Quidditch team. A lot of families relied on a strong season for their income.

They started jogging down the dirt road. A few passersby waved and called out to Oliver. A few years ago he had been a nobody, just a reserve. Now he was one of the few somebodies left in Puddlemere. He had always dreamed of being a world famous Quidditch player. He didn't like coming into the position by default.

"We need to talk," Brynja said, turning off towards a narrow trail into the woods. "I need your help."

"Anything," Oliver said, keeping his words brief because he wanted to focus on his breathing.

The list of people who knew about Brynja's past year was very short. Oliver was on that short list along with Kingsley Shacklebolt, Gawain Robards, and Samuel Capper. The night that Capper turned on her, the night her cover was blown, she had turned to Oliver. Penny and Percy were in hiding, and Brynja had never been a very popular or extroverted person. Bleeding and on the edge of death, she had used her last bit of strength to apparate here, to Puddlemere.    Oliver had healed her wounds to the best of his ability, nursed her back to health, and hidden her from the snatchers and the Death Eaters. They had shown up on his doorstep more than once, and he had put his life on the line to protect her.

"We're looking in to some people in the department," she explained, spacing her words between breaths as they ran. "The Minister has Potter and Weasley on the job with me, strictly confidential. Robards doesn't even know."

Oliver stopped running and looked around. He drew his wand from his sock and cast a spell to enclose them in a bubble that no sound could escape from. The sounds of the forest—creaking branches, scurrying squirrels, chirping birds—went silent. "Robards… so Shacklebolt thinks he was the leak?"

Brynja nodded, her hand unconsciously going to rub her stomach. "Which means nobody can know that we're investigating him."

"Should you be telling me this?" Oliver asked, his eyebrows knitting together.

"I'm telling you because I need you," she said. "It will look very suspicious if Harry Potter and Ron Weasley start coming by to visit. I live in a small flat with a lot of nosy neighbors. More than a handful are witches."

Oliver snorted. "Hmm, yes, and I'm sure Weasley and Potter don't need the rumors Witch Weekly will start if they spend a lot of time with you."

Brynja pushed Oliver's shoulder. "I wasn't thinking that," she said.

"But you know they will. Famous Harry Potter cozying up to his fit Auror coworkers while his girlfriend is away at Hogwarts. You know Skeeter is looking for a comeback after the backlash from that smear-job on Dumbledore last year."

"Which is why I need you," Brynja said. "A mutual friend. There's already a photo of us jogging in London from that Quidditch Quarterly spotlight the year you made first-string. It's an established fact that we're social, and it's an established fact that you and Harry are old school mates."

"So you need me to be the meeting place?" Oliver asked. He only took a moment to think it over. Sure, it would be dangerous to be their cover if Robards really was crooked, but it wasn't any more dangerous than lying bold-faced to Fenrir Greyback. "Maybe Potter can give me some ideas for who else in his year might want to play Quidditch."

Brynja rolled her eyes. "One-track mind," she said. And with that she turned and continued jogging up the path.

Chapter Text

The house at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was busy on Thursday morning. Hermione had arrived the night before, finally back from tracking down her parents and recovering their memories. There were a lot of permits involved to be able to confund enough muggles to get their old dental practice back, but of all witches, Hermione Granger was up to the task. Today she was apparating back to Hogsmeade and returning to Hogwarts. She would only be a few days late starting the semester, but she had spent half of the evening the previous night, between games of Exploding Snap and chess, complaining that she was already so behind.

Harry and Ron had spent the last few days doing wand drills and studying protocol for the department. Ron was having a hard time remembering if an attack on muggles was a Code Kneazle or Code Krup.

“Kneazle is impersonation,” Hermione explained as she served a plate of sausages for Harry and Ron. “Kneazles can sense deception, like someone using polyjuice to pretend to be another wizard. Krups attack muggles, so that’s an attack on muggles.”

Harry looked to the corner of the room where Crookshanks, Hermione’s cat, was cleaning his paws. Hermione had left him with her parents while the trio had hunted horcruxes, and the mistrusting creature seemed pleased to have his owner back. Harry was pretty sure that Hermione was the only human being Crookshanks actually liked.

A bell chimed, and Hermione hurried back into the kitchen. Harry flipped through the Daily Prophet. The cover story was about high starting salaries in the Quidditch League as managers competed to fill their rosters in time for the season. Only a few teams had played at all under Voldemort’s ministry, and most of those players were now in custody as conspirators.

“She’s been back twelve hours and she’s already better at my job than I am,” Ron groaned, piling meat onto his plate.

“She’s always been better than us at everything,” Harry said. “Don’t let it get to you. At least she’s here now. I bet you missed her.”

Ron nodded. “Yeah, but I think I’ll have to marry her before she lets me—”

Hermione came back through the dining room door with a plate of pancakes covered in powdered sugar and slices of lemon. “I’ll need to charm the sugar off my robes before I go,” she said. “Don’t let me forget and walk into Hogwarts on the first day looking like I’ve been in a blizzard.”

“These look great, Hermione,” Harry said, setting the paper aside and tucking his chair in. “We’ve just been eating toast and take-out since Monday.”

“And that box of biscuits mum sent us with. But those were gone by Tuesday,” Ron added.

They were silent for a while as they ate, the famous Hogwarts trio finally back together. It was surreal, sitting in the dark, gray dining room of Grimmauld Place. The black and silver brocade wallpaper was peeling and scorched in odd places. Kreacher, who was much more tolerable these days, did his best to keep it clean, but removing dust didn’t stop things from looking worn-out and shabby. At least Hermione had found a charm to finally remove Mrs. Black during all of that free reading time in a tent on the run last year. Her portrait was rolled-up and buried under boxes in the basement. She could scream all she wanted without being heard. Harry wondered if wizards had any museums that would take the painting.

“We need to remodel,” Harry said after he had polished off four pancakes and six sausages. “New wallpaper, new carpets, new finishings. This place is depressing, and it looks too—”

“Dreary?” Hermione asked. “Pureblooded? Evil?”

“All of those things,” Ron agreed through a mouth full of food.

The three of them nodded and continued eating. When they were done, Hermione waved her wand and sent the dishes off to take a bath in the sink.

“How do wizards hire interior decorators?” Harry asked.

Ron shrugged. “We could never afford one. Maybe Fleur knows someone?”

Harry gestured to Hermione’s sugar-frosted robes. “Don’t forget that,” he said. He picked his wand up off the table and put it in the leather holster at his hip. He and Ron had been issued them at work. They were standard since Moody wrote to Rufus Scrimgeour three years ago to complain that Aurors who should know better (Tonks) were going to blast off a buttock.

“We’ve got to go,” Ron said. “Have a good first day, yeah?”

Hermione moved around the table and kissed him on the lips. “I’m not going to see you until Christmas,” she reminded him.

“Maybe we can pop over to Hogsmead on the next weekend you get to go, yeah?” Harry thought that surely Hermione, who was eighteen now, could leave the castle when she pleased. After all, she was there voluntarily.

“I love you,” she said to Ron, straightening his collar.

Ron’s ears turned red and he mumbled, “Love you too.”

*     *     *

Training for Aurors usually lasted months. Harry and Ron were done in just a few days. On Friday morning they arrived to find a memo flitting around Harry’s desk. “Please see me. Tell Weasley to be ready. Signed GR,” Harry read.

“Gawain Robards,” Ron said eagerly.

Harry shot Ron a look that said he didn’t need help to figure out who GR was.

Gawain Robards was an older wizard with shock white hair and a neat mustache and goatee. He was very neat and conservatively dressed, and he reminded Harry a bit of Uncle Vernon. Compared to Rufus Scrimgeour (a rough and tumble kind of man who had resembled a lion) and Kingsley Shacklebolt (a put-together but also very cool wizard), Robards looked almost like a muggle. He spoke in a direct, articulate manner and he never wasted time. He was a stickler for rules and regulation. Harry had a hard time imagining that this man had leaked to the Death Eaters because he looked absolutely air-tight in all manners.

“Sir,” Harry said, coming in and sitting down immediately. The other chair was occupied by Alauna Savage, a dark-skinned woman in her thirties with multiple piercings in each ear and a braided mohawk. “You summoned me?”

“Yes, Potter,” Robards said. He passed a pair of scrolls across the desk. Each was sealed with a red wax stamp. Harry tried to open his, but the seal wouldn’t budge.

“Top secret, voice recognition. Say your name.”

“Harry Potter,” Harry said. Nothing happened.

“Your full name.”

Savage chuckled.

“Harry James Potter.” The seal popped loose and the scroll unfurled just a little.

Savage held her scroll up and spoke clearly. “Alauna Raven Savage.” Her scroll popped open too.

“Be sure to seal it when you’re done,” Robards said. “This is sensitive information.”

It was a list of names, and Savage said as much.

“Yes, these names come from a variety of sources, most of them from the Snatcher we brought in Monday. He was an associate of Greyback and he’s been very forthcoming with information.”

“He’s getting some kind of deal?” Harry asked.

Robards didn’t answer. “Every name on this list is someone who was reportedly bitten by a werewolf. Greyback, mostly. I want you and Potter to investigate this list. Make sure anyone making the change is under ministry regulation. Normally Magical Creatures would handle this, but there’s been a lot of foul play here, and we can’t risk that someone might be hiding it. Those folks are used to dealing with animals, which don’t lie like people do.”

“Is that all, sir?” Savage asked.

“Greyback ran with a few circles. He took big leaves of absence from his team, not just during the full moon. Find out who else was in league with him. If anyone else was his ally, they need to be held responsible.”

Harry stared down at the list. He recognized a few of the names from Hogwarts, including Lavender Brown. She had nearly died from the bites and the fall during the Battle of Hogwarts. The last Harry knew, she had been bed-ridden at St. Mungo’s. There was another important name on the list.

Ashford, Ansley- half?
Bishop, Hope- half
Brown, Lavender- half
Brune, Reilly- full
Duncan, Carlisle- half
Entwhistle, Kevin- half
Grunnion, Ptolemy- half
Ingles, Scott- full
Ingles, Steven- full
Justice, Juniper- half
Lawrence, Forrest- half
Nixon, Robert- half
Ponder, Laina- half
Turpin, Lisa- full
Vattoth, Abdullah- half
Weasley, William- half
Winchester, Stanley- full

“Bill Weasley was bitten before the Death Eaters took the ministry,” Harry said. “And he’s not dangerous. He has a heightened sense of smell and he craves meat during the full moon, but I’m pretty sure that’s it.”

“Confirm it,” Robards said. “We don’t really know what happens to people bitten by a human-form werewolf. It hasn’t happened much before Fenrir—they usually don’t enjoy the change. Make sure he’s not dangerous. Don’t let your loyalty for the Weasleys cloud your judgement, Potter.”

Harry stammered, “Of course.”

Robards looked down at his desk and picked up his quill. Harry assumed they were dismissed, but he waited for Savage to stand before he got out of his chair.

“Send in Williamson and Weasley,” Robards said.

“We can’t just knock on doors and say, ‘Hullo sir, I think your neighbor is a werewolf,” Alauna Savage said as she and Harry walked to the lobby of the ministry. A number of food carts were lined up for the lunch rush, and they stood in line at a cart that sold roast duck and oranges. “Those people need to be registered, but they have a right to privacy.”

“Believe me,” Harry said. “I know. Remus Lupin was my friend. I’m his son’s godfather. I respect werewolves. He really loved teaching, but he couldn’t do that once the parents found out. I know how hard they have it.”

She nodded, but Harry could tell that there was still tension in her shoulders. “Good. I mean, I’m glad he put someone with half a head on this job. Too many people have a bias and…” she hesitated and glanced at the elderly wizard behind her. “We need to track these people down, but we should be careful not to track mud all over their personal lives. These people have jobs and families.”

“I guess we start alphabetically?” Harry suggested. He was hoping it would be a while before he had to have any uncomfortable conversations with Bill Weasley. It felt like a betrayal, poking into any of the Weasleys like they had something to hide. They were all heroes, every one of them.

“Maybe by the time we get to your family we’ll know exactly what to expect,” Savage said.

Harry was about to correct her and explain that the Weasleys weren’t technically family, but he stopped. They were the closest thing to family he’d ever had. Mrs. Weasley considered him one of her boys. They were his family, weren’t they?

Harry nodded. They stepped up to the cart and paid for their meals in piles of tiny bronze Knuts before heading back to the elevators.

“Potter,” Savage said as a witch in hot pink robes got off the lift, leaving them alone together. “It’s an honor working with you.”

Harry felt his cheeks grow hot. “We’ll see if you still think that after a week,” he said.

Savage laughed.

Chapter Text

Savage arrived after nine on Monday morning with a paper bag full of breakfast sandwiches. She dropped two on Harry’s desk and sat down on the edge of her own messy desk to consume three herself. It wasn’t that her desk was really sloppy—she didn’t leave food containers laying around. It was just cluttered.

“So,” she said after swallowing a large bite of egg and sausage. “That list. What do you say we visit the first name on it. What was it?”

“Ansley Ashford,” Harry said. He had clearly looked at the list quite a few times since Friday as he was very familiar with it.

“Hmm, wonder if she’s related to that Ballycastle bloke.”

Harry admitted that he didn’t know the names of very many professional Quidditch players.

“Oh he was way back when I was a little girl,” Savage said. She remembered rooting for him mostly because she liked their black and red uniforms with the bats. “Warbeck’s second husband. Nice hair.”

“How exactly do we go about tracking someone down?” Harry asked.

It was easy to forget with all the glorious tales of heroism that Harry Potter was a rookie and an eighteen-year-old kid. “Ministry makes all wizards register their locations with the proper authorities. You know… in case muggles report hearing loud bangs or seeing fireworks in October. We can hop down, grab some files for the first few people on our list, and then go pay Miss Ashford a visit.“

Harry and Savage did just that. They headed out into the lobby and took one of the crowded elevators to the ground floor. The first floor of the Ministry of Magic was often crowded with visitors there on various business. Some were paying fines, others were registering magical pets, and a few were there to face the Wizengamot, the judicial branch of the wizarding justice system. Savage was used to testifying in court often. She imagined that once the trials for all of the death eaters got started, she’d never get a moment to actually do some investigative work. She was just glad that Dolores Umbridge, one of the least pleasant fixtures of that system (even by Death Eater standards), was behind bars in Azkaban. The woman had never aproned of Alauna Savage’s braided mohawk nor her perpetual tardiness.

The records office was a large room filled with rows upon rows of wooden filing cabinets. Savage showed her ministry identification badge and signed a book to access the room. "Only certain people are allowed in here. Privacy, you know,” she said. “And we have to sign a log, so you know, in case someone tries to use it for personal reasons…”

“Personal reasons?” Harry asked.

“Stalking an ex. Vigilante justice. People will find all sorts of ways to abuse their privileges.”

“I wish I’d had this room back when I was at Hogwarts. It would have made things much easier on countless occasions.”

Savage laughed. She had been a fresh face in the office when Harry Potter had found the Chamber of Secrets and stopped the basilisk. Dawlish had grumbled a lot about their whole department getting showed up by a kid because Fudge was more worried about covering the problem (once he’d stopped dismissing it) than solving it. She supposed Harry wouldn’t be who he was today (and they’d all be in a much darker place) without that rebel attitude. She respected that.

“Records are all buggered, though, since the Death Eaters ran things. The ministry kept family records, sure, but Voldemort’s followers actually went through files and stamped them with blood purity ratings. And clerks had to refile the muggleborns because they put those in a separate place. And the little ones? Well… a whole generation of muggleborns won’t see their Hogwarts letter. Every one identified that wasn’t already part of our society had their file burned.”

The first few rows of cabinets had gold plaques with alphabetical ranges on them (AA-AM and AN-AZ) while the cabinets further back had plaques in silver. “Why do these change?” Harry asked, looking at the first silver plaque.

“Silver are dead wizards. And let me tell you, we still haven’t moved everyone over from the war. Dunstan’s on that job, confirming deaths and sending those names on to the clerks.”

Harry followed Savage to row AN-AZ. She tapped on the front of a drawer with her finger. “Aha! Ashford through Ashton.” She drew her wand and tapped the lock. The drawer opened, extending out further than the total depth of the cabinet. Savage pulled the file for Ansley Ashford. It was about half an inch thick and bound in a khaki green folder with a piece of twine around it to hold it all together. “Alright,” she said. “Let’s get a few more.”

“Hope Bishop, Lavender Brown, Reilly Brune,” Harry said, rattling off the next three names on the list.

Savage raised an eyebrow. “Greyback sure bit a lot of women.” She shuddered. It was some kind of perverse power thing: changing people’s lives like that. In interrogations he always said he did it to spread a new race, but Savage knew he just wanted to see the fear in someone’s eyes as he rolled the dice; would they die or would they spend the rest of their lives as anathema? She could see his smile now.

They quietly pulled the files and carried them back up to the office. Savage locked the three extras in her desk and then laid Ansley Ashford’s file out on the surface. "Thought so!” she exclaimed. There was a big red “Undesirable” stamp on the front page. Next to a photo of a woman with blonde hair was a bold green number, 87%. “She’s his niece.”

“Eighty-seven percent,” Harry said.

“Blood purity. It’s rubbish. An absolutely pure wizard was worth a hundred percent. A muggle is zero. They average them together down the line.”

“My mother was muggleborn,” Harry said. “So I guess that makes me fifty.”

“Which is rubbish, seeing how your parents were a witch and a wizard. Anyway, the stamps are charmed and the ink won’t just be erased, and it’s too much work to replace all the files.” Savage knew hers said much worse. She was a good number of things Voldemort didn’t like: an auror, a half-blood, an upstart…

"We start here,” Harry said, pushing his glasses up his nose as he looked back down at the file. The first page contained a photograph, some basic biographical educational date (she had been a Hufflepuff), and a list of known residences. “Cornwall.”

“And we hope this is current.” Savage bundled up the file in twine and slipped it into a leather messenger bag. She threw the strap over her shoulder. “Got your wand, Harry?”

“Always,” Harry said, patting the wand at his hip.

Savage headed for the door with a little spring in her step. She felt like a kid at Christmas. She was getting to train the famous Harry Potter!

*     *     *

They apparated to Cornwall. Harry found himself standing on a boardwalk looking out over the sea. They were in the southern-most part of England. For a moment, looking out over the dunes at the seagrass, Savage remembered the little seaside cottage where they had hidden out during the first weeks after Scrimgeour’s murder. She had spent evenings with the heavy drapes pulled, drinking wine and talking in front of the fire with Alcibie.

There was a startling crack that snapped her from her fantasy. Harry was sure a loud apparator. So much for stealth. “There you are!” Savage shouted from over the hill. “Come on, this way. Now’s not the time for skiving from work.”

Harry and Savage walked a street by the sea. There were shops here, and the flats above them came at high prices. They walked up a set of weather-worn wooden stairs over a restaurant that sold seafood to a sea-foam green apartment door. Savage knocked.

They waited, but nobody answered. She knocked again. Harry shoved his hands into the pockets of his robes and looked around. “We really should wear muggle clothing to—”

“Shh!” Savage cut him off. She leaned her ear close to the door and listened. Harry leaned in too. He heard it, a frantic screeching and a flapping, as if an bird were trying to get out.

“Screech owl,” Harry said.

“Miss Ashford!” Savage called. She knocked once more.

Harry walked to the window and cupped his hands around his face to see through the glass and into the darkened flat. “A body!” Harry shouted. “She’s unconscious in there.”

Savage drew her wand and charmed the lock open. Harry raised his own wand and followed her through the door. The flat was dark except for the sunlight that poured in through the windows. In the living room, an owl locked in its cage flapped and screeched. To the right of the front door, inside the kitchen, was Ansley Ashford. She was slumped against the icebox, her head down, her hair covering her face.

Harry crouched down and touched her hand.

“She’s dead,” he said. “At least a few hours. Probably longer.”

Savage swore. She walked around the room, taking in the scene. From the image, she pieced together what Ashford had been doing before her death. “Table set, wine poured, a pot of cold water on the stove. She was probably killed just before dinner last night.”

“Killed?” Harry asked. “We haven’t even figured out how she died.”

“Thirty-year-old witches don’t just drop dead on their own,” Savage said. She crossed to Harry and crouched down next to him. She used her wand to push Ashford’s curtain of blonde hair aside. The image frozen on her dead face, her last expression, was one of fear.

Harry scrambled on his hands and knees to pick up a wand that had rolled under the front edge of the counter. “Priori incantatum,” he said. An echo of a spell flashed from the end of the wand, a ghostly bubble that looked to Savage to be some kind of shield charm.

“Signs of struggle,” she said, despite the fact that all of the chairs were pushed in and nothing else seemed out of place. “She was defending herself against something.”

Harry and Savage spent a few more minutes looking around the flat for clues. In the end, Harry took the owl cage (he wanted to give it food and water, but Savage insisted he couldn’t let it out in case it took off) and they apparated back to the ministry.

Harry followed her into Robards’s office, where he set the clunky owl cage on the floor.

“Harry. Savage,” Robards said, surprised to see them toting an animal. “What is this?”

“We went to speak with the first name on that list, and we stumbled upon a murder scene,” Savage explained.

"Murder?” he asked, perking up in his seat. “Magical or mundane?”

“No blood, no bruising on her neck. Probably magical,” Savage said. “We need to send a team to collect the body and examine it.”

“Yes, yes indeed,” Robards said, grabbing a quill and hastily dipping it in ink. He scribbled a note, sprinkled it with powder to dry the ink, and tapped it with his wand. It folded itself into an airplane and zoomed off out of the office.

“And the owl?” he asked.

“Her pet,” Harry said. “I didn’t want to leave it.”

Robards and Savage both smirked. Savage was an animal-lover, but if she took home every orphaned pet she found, she’d have a house full of angry little Krups. At least this owl could deliver the mail. “Alright Potter,” she said. “You’re on owl duty now.”

Ha"Take a lunch and get back on that list,“ Robards said. "I’ll let you know when we have a cause of death.”

“Yes sir.” Harry turned to the door.

“Oh, and Potter. Send in Weasley and Williamson.”

*     *     *

After lunch, Harry and Savage went to visit Hope Bishop, a middle-aged witch who had been imprisoned for aiding muggleborns during the war. During her capture, Greyback had gotten a little feisty and bitten her shoulder in a struggle.

She opened the door with a wand in hand. Savage immediately was stricken with how pale and frail she looked. Her face was sheet white with dark circles under her eyes. She was thin, and her body trembled with every move. This was the face of someone who had spent too much time with dementors. Savage had seen it on many a face, and she felt a bit of it herself on her handful of run-ins with the old Azkaban guards when she’d brought prisoners to the facility.

Savage and Harry stepped inside. The little house in Puddlemere was filled with cats. Savage counted at least twelve in the living room alone. The cats immediately started rubbing themselves on Harry, depositing long hairs of every color on his robes. They stayed away from Savage, however. One even hissed at her and ran away when she sat next to it on the sofa. She scowled. She used to love cats.

“My babies haven’t been quite so friendly to me since I got back. It took weeks before Moonbeam would even let me pet her. And Binx, or he’s still rather snotty towards me. I think they feel the wolf.”

"That’s what we’re here about,” Harry said, unconsciously scratching the ears of a fat tabby cat who had slipped up under his hand. “The bite. Now, I have a few friends who have been bitten like you have, by Greyback in his normal human form. And Remus Lupin, well he was a friend too. But our boss wants to make sure everyone is managing well. You know, for the safety of others.”

She reported the same kind of symptoms Savage expected to hear—an affinity for red meat and heightened hearing and smell. During the full moon, she explained, sometimes the odors made her nauseous.

But soon the discussion shifted from the effects of the bite to symptoms that Savage knew were caused by something else—prolonged exposure to dementors. She felt weak and ill. She was often overcome with a sensation like she was empty. She couldn’t get warm at night. Her affections being spurned by her cats (nineteen cats, she told them) didn’t help.

When they left, Harry dug down into his cloak pockets. He found the last chunk of a Honeydukes chocolate bar. It was still good, broken off from the rest of the bar and wrapped in gold foil.

“Here, Ms. Bishop,” Harry said, handing it to her. “It’s an old trick I learned from a good friend. It might help, a little.” When Harry handed her the chocolate, she looked surprised. “I’m sorry it’s not a whole bar,” he said.

But Hope Bishop didn’t care. Her cheeks were filling with color and, for the first time since their arrival over an hour ago, she was smiling.  She tried to hand it back. “That’s fine, dear. Really. You didn’t have to. You’ve already done so much, just stopping them so I could be out here,” she said.

“Go ahead, take it,” Harry said. “I’ll get more.”

When Harry and Savage left, she turned and whispered. “Is that for the wolfiness or the dementors?” she asked.

“Dementors,” Harry said. “But I learned it from a werewolf.”

Savage grinned. She was really beginning to like this kid.

Chapter Text

On Tuesday morning, Harry and Ron ate breakfast together before heading to work. As Ron followed Harry into the office, feeling invisible as the other aurors clapped Harry on the shoulder and asked how he was doing, he glanced at his copy of The Daily Prophet. Ron had subscribed to the paper for Martin Miggs strips and sports news, but he found it also served as a social sheild: a way to pretend he was just busy reading and not being ignored. When he unfolded it at his desk, he saw a smiling picture of his fellow Gryffindor, Oliver Wood, just below the fold on the front page. Oliver had his arms around a nervous-looking wizard holding a Puddlemere United uniform. Oliver was waving. The wizard, a new recruit, looked like he might be sick. “League Welcomes New Players.”

Ron got up with the paper and walked—his eyes skimming the article for familiar names—to the tea kettle at the back of the office. He was dragging today, and he thought a nice hot cup of tea would be just what he needed to perk him up.

Brynja Dunstan left her desk and crossed to the kettle. She leaned over and looked at the paper. “That’s a good picture of Oliver,” she said. Indeed, it was a great shot. Oliver, who had only become broader since leaving Hogwarts, looked like a model in it, the kind pretending to play Rugby in their underwear in muggle cologne ads. It was not, however, a good photo of the other wizard—the new seeker—who was now sinking out of the bottom of the frame.

“Do you know him?” Ron asked, pretending that they had not already discussed using Oliver for secret meetings with Harry in the elevator the other day. He glanced over at Brynja and felt his face go hot before he was even aware of his thoughts. Sweet Merlin, she was pretty.

“We’re friends,” she said. “He’s talked about you quite a bit.”

Ron was wondering when they would have their first meeting of secret team anti-corruption (alright, they needed a better task force name), when Williamson shouted.

“Oh blimey!” Williamson called, pointing across the room at the paper. “Weasley, have you seen the paper?”

The top half of the front page had been folded back, pointed towards Williamson’s desk. Ron looked at it now. There was a stationary drawing of a man, an uncharacteristically boring shot by wizard standards, and a headline. “Protego! Wizards Report Vigilante Hero.”

“That’s our case,” Ron explained to Harry, who was coming to join Ron and Brynja at the kettle. “Top secret. Well, it was.”

Ron abandoned the article about Quidditch and read the top story aloud.

London- Witches and wizards all across the country are reporting rescues by a masked wizard. The wizard, believed to be male, has been spotted in London, Devonshire, Puddlemere, and Cork. He fights back criminals, both muggle and wizard, with dual wands mounted to straps on his wrists.

Agnes Havenfield, a witch of a hundred and three years old, was saved by this masked hero back in August. “A muggle tried to take my purse, and he pulled out of those metal wands on me. Well it was between me life and the statute of secrecy.” Mrs. Havenfield reported to the ministry that the vigilante jumped down into the street and cast a common shield charm, its incantation Protego to stop the bullet—a fast-propelled piece of metal that muggles use to murder each other.

The muggle police have also taken reports of this masked savior. Muggle witnesses appear to be under the impression that magic spells are shooting out of the vigilante’s hands. Obliviators have been working overtime to wipe away memories of these events. The ministry of magic refused to officially comment on this hero. A source close to Minister Shacklebolt says that a team of aurors is already on the job. “Well you can’t have wizards running around doing magic in front of muggles, right? Even if they are criminals and murderous scumbag, right?” our source said. The ministry might not be a fan, but Mrs. Havenfield and the witches and muggles like her will be eternally grateful.

Ron took a good look at the drawing now. It was of a wizard with average build. He wore a hooded cape, tall boots, gloves, and a mask. The drawing showed leather straps on each of his wrists that held two wands. The man looked more like the superheroes in muggle comics than a wizard.Ron had seen the sketch before. A copy of it was currently locked in a file in his desk drawer.

“Can you cast spells with wands like that?” Harry asked.

Williamson had come over and held out his hand. Ron gave him the paper. “You can,” the older auror said. “If you’re good enough. A few wizards can consistently produce wandless magic, or magic in close proximity to their wand. Kingsley Shacklebolt can do it.”

“I’ve cast Lumos near my dropped wand once or twice,” Harry admitted, “but I wouldn’t rely on it.”

“Robards was hoping this wouldn’t get out,” Ron said. “Which is why I haven’t said anything. That, and, well, I’m too bloody tired after work to talk about it.”

“He’s worried it’ll give other wizards ideas,” Williamson said. “And now the prophet has given him a clever name.”

Williamson read the story in silence. Harry and Brynja slipped back to their desks while Ron waited for his partner to comment. A few minutes later, Robards poked his head out of his office and barked to see him and Ron.

“You see this?” Robards asked as Ron entered the office. Robard was holding up a copy of the Prophet. Ron nodded.

“We have, sir,” Williamson said. “And we’ll be visiting the journalist today to see if we can’t figure out her sources.”

“Maybe she knows something we don’t,” Ron said. Ron wasn’t looking forward to meeting a reporter. He was semi-famous, and most of his experiences with the profession were with Rita Skeeter.

Robards dismissed them. Williamson stepped in line with Ron as they exited the office and leaned over to grumble, “Seems like a bit much, putting aurors on it. It’s a bit below our pay-grade, isn’t it?”

Ron nodded. “Sure,” he said, wanting Williamson to like him; he didn’t really know what exactly his pay-grade was.

Savage had arrived while Ron and Williamson met with Robards, and late as she was, she had brought breakfast again. Ron nipped over to her desk to sneak an egg sandwhich. Even though Ron had eaten toast and jam at home, he was not in a position to say no to some real food. Harry and Savage were eating and looking at a file. Ron caught a glimpse of a moving photograph of Lavender Brown. Something in him recoiled in fear, as if she had just run into the room in real life screaming his name in that baby voice she had used when they were dating.

Savage looked up from the file and smirked at Ron. “Nice, Weasley.”

“You told her?” Ron blurted.

Savage laughed, unclipping the photograph from the file and holding it up. “She’s cute. Weasley’s done alright for himself, goofy as he is, huh?”

Harry laughed.  Ron felt his face grow hot again. “Yeah. Well, she can be as cute as she wants. She drove me mental.”

Chapter Text

The visit to Lavender Brown was awkward and uneventful. She was living at home with her parents, recovering from the events of The Battle of Hogwarts. Lavender had fallen off a balcony—a series of resulting injuries that were easily mended with a wand—but she had also been chewed on by a crazed werewolf. Werewolf bites, like the cursed dagger that had given Hermione the scar on her throat, could only heal by natural means. During their meeting, Lavender wore a scarf to cover the scars on her neck. She also had a small cut left side of her chin that formed a dimple when she smiled.

She reported the same symptoms that Mrs. Bishop did, though Harry got the feeling that she was hiding something else by the way she averted her eyes and the way her cheeks tinged pink when he asked if there were any changes at the full moon.

“Whatever she’s hiding,” Harry said to Savage as they returned to the office. “I don’t think it’s bad. Maybe just embarrassing?”

“Like what? Back hair? Dog breath?”

Harry nodded. “Something like that.”

* * *

On Wednesday morning when Harry got to work, Savage was sitting on his desk wearing combat boots and a leather cloak, holding a bag of muffins. “You’re early,” he said, glancing back at Ron to make sure he was seeing this. “That’s a first.”

“Hmm, I hear enough of it from Robards,” she said, rolling her eyes and kicking her legs forward to hop off his desk. She handed Harry a folded-up letter.

“This came for you,” she said. “Must have made it to London while you were in commute. Came like, a minute before you walked in.”

Harry broke the wax seal on the letter, a blue stamp of wax with bulrushes on it. Harry recognized the rushed and untidy handwriting from countless diagrams of Quidditch pitches.

“It’s from Oliver Wood,” he told Ron.

Dear Harry,

How are you doing, mate? I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you. I really liked spending time with you and the Weasleys at Gryffindor Tower this summer. It felt like old times. You and Weasley should come over for a drink some time. We can catch up and I can shower you with free Puddlemere tickets. Really, Harry, it would help the team so much if you showed your face.

Let me know when you’re available.

Oliver

Harry read the note aloud to Ron. He figured it was good cover for the rest of the office to hear it. Harry scribbled a note back, letting Oliver know they were free on Thursday night, and then sent it off with one of the department owls that was always hanging around the file room.

When he came back into the main office, Ron was off talking with Williamson and Savage was waiting impatiently at his desk, tapping her foot.

“I had a thought last night. We’ve gotta check in with people on this list, yeah? But we’re also supposed to be findin’ out who’s not here. And how do you find werewolves?”

Harry shrugged. “Look for strange police reports?”

Savage nodded. “Sure, and we can fish through all that boring paperwork when we get stuck. But how else?”

Harry thought for a minute, but nothing came to him.

“What do werewolves need?” she asked, clearly attempting to make this some kind of socratic teaching method. Harry was momentarily reminded of Hermione. She wasn’t going to just give him the answer. Harry could think of a lot of things werewolves needed to avoid: silver, being caught in a room full of children during the moon’s change, cats—

“Wolfsbane,” he said. “Snape used to brew Wolfsbane for Lupin. I don’t know how he got it before.”

“And who would be the best possible person to buy Wolfsbane from?” she asked.

“Er…”

“Damocles Belby, the man who invented it.”

“Oh, him,” Harry said, certain that he had at least heard the name once in a potions lesson or something.

* * *

Harry and Savage left immediately to go visit Damocles Belby. He had a small shop in a corner of Diagon Alley. Harry was sure it hadn’t been there during his third year when he had spent an entire week roaming the streets of the wizarding shopping centre. “This used to be a haberdashery,” Harry said.

“Yes, well, Belby has only recently moved him commercial enterprise out of his home dungeon. But he’s quite famous.”

The Apothecary in Diagon Alley sold cauldrons, ingredients, books, and common potions. Damocles Belby’s shop, a storefront with no sign and a simple silver cauldron hanging over the door, was a specialty store. The front of the shop was a small room, no bigger than Harry’s old bedroom at Privet Drive. The walls were lined with shallow shelves only one or two bottles deep. All-in-all, Harry estimated that there were less than a hundred products on the shelves, which was a sparse stock by wizarding standards. He had grown quite used to shops that stacked merchandise from floor-to-ceiling—shops where you had to be careful not to bump into a pile or you might up-end the whole thing.

A man came out of the back. He was only a little older than Harry, a pale man with brown eyes, jet black hair, and shoulders as broad as Oliver Wood’s. Harry recognized his face, though the last time he had seen it, the body that came with it had been much, much skinnier. He was very tall and had a pointed nose and chin. Unlike the last time Harry had seen him, he had dark circles under his eyes. “Marcus, right?” Harry asked, remembering the name from the Slug Club dinner. Now Harry knew where he’d heard the name. Marcus Belby was the nephew of Damocles Belby, a famous potion-maker.

“Harry,” Marcus said. “Good to see you.” He spoke softly, like a man who was afraid to hear his own voice get too loud. He chewed on his lower lip.

“Are you a potion-maker?” Harry asked.

“Apprentice.”

“Marcus was in Ravenclaw, year ahead of me,” Harry explained to Savage. “We ended up roped into this nepotism club when Slughorn was teaching Potions my sixth year.”

“Is there anything I can help you with today?” Marcus asked.

Savage was looking at him through a narrowed gaze, as if examining him carefully.

“Well, we actually need to talk to your uncle. Ministry business.” Harry shifted his weight uncomfortably between his feet. Marcus was clearly nervous and Savage wasn’t helping by contributing anything to the conversation.

Marcus murmured, “Right,” and went to the back. A few minutes later, Damocles Belby came to the front. He was a middle-aged man with glasses and neatly-parted black hair that came down in a little curl against his forehead. He was wearing an apron over his black work robes, and as he came to the front of the shop, he removed a pair of thick dragon-skin gloves. Harry noticed that his right ear was mangled and marked with burn scars. He wondered what the potion master must have burned it with that a healer couldn’t fix it.

“Damocles Belby?” Savage asked, finally finding her voice.

“That’s me. What can I help you two with?”

Savage offered her hand to shake. “Alauna Savage, auror department.”

There was a hint of confusion that passed over his face before he nodded and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Savage.”

“And this is—”

“Harry Potter,” Belby said, looking at Harry and smiling with twinkling blue eyes. “It’s a real treat to meet you.” He was a very charming man, and he exuded enough confidence for both him and Marcus.

Harry explained that they were asked to track down all of the werewolves that had been created since the war. He explained that Greyback had been killed during The Battle of Hogwarts and therefore was not available for a full confession.

Belby breathed sharply between closed teeth and shook his head. “I’d really like to help you folks. I would. And I understand that it’s law that they have to register, but, well…I have a policy of the strictest confidentiality. People have very sensitive needs, and I have to keep my word.”

“We’re just trying to keep people safe,” Savage said.

“And so am I.” He turned and locked his eye contact on her, his smile fading and his expression growing very sober. “And my number one priority is getting Wolfsbane to wizards that need it. That’s how I keep people safe. If they don’t trust me, they won’t come to me. An improperly brewed potion—well, this is a potion that keeps the mind intact no matter what the physical transformation is. It’s a very complex potion to do a very complex job. Trust is my greatest asset in getting it to those that need it.”

Harry turned back to Savage, deferring to her. He was sure the ministry had ways of making people talk, but he didn’t think legally pressing Belby to give up his clients was a good idea. He was right. It was important that wizards continued to come to him.

“Can you at least be sure to inform your Wolfsbane clients of their legal responsibility?” Savage asked.

Damocles Belby nodded his head once and said, “Of course.”

Harry had a thought. “Have any half-bittens come to see you?” he asked.

“You mean people bitten by a werewolf in human form?”

Harry nodded.

“Not much I can do for them, I’m afraid. After all, they don’t lose their wits. They merely gain a few wolfish qualities in addition to their own.”

“Such as?” Savage asked.

“Well, there isn’t much documented on this, of course. Half-bitten is sort of a new thing. Contrary to popular belief, most werewolves do not enjoy the experience. Its physically taxing and most wizards don’t relish losing control of themselves. There was one wild werewolf back in the seventeenth century in America that decided to live the wolf life twenty-four seven, but Greyback is really an anomaly. We just haven’t had very many cases on record of bites by werewolves in human form. An accidental love bite in the eighties is the only one, I’m pretty sure. But they have a few characteristics that we know they take on—based on that one case that’s nearly twenty years old by this point and the others I have met since May. They find improved smell and hearing, especially on the full moon. A slight up-tick in aggression, but nothing alarming or uncontrollable. And then there’s the mating imperative.”

Harry coughed. “Excuse me. Mating imperative?”

“An increased, er…drive.”

Savage laughed out loud. “Seriously?”

Belby nodded, a little smirk forming on his lips despite his best effort to be respectful and serious about the subject. Harry wondered if Bill and Fleur had experienced the mating imperative, and then he blushed because that wasn’t the kind of thing he needed to be wondering about his girlfriend’s family.

“Anyway,” Belby said. “They aren’t in the least contagious, even if they bite. So there’s really no reason to worry.”

“Thank you,” Savage said. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

Damocles Belby smiled and saw them out of the shop. “If you need anything, please let me know,” he said.

* * *

When Harry and Savage got back to the office, Harry went down to the file room to pull the files for everyone left on the list of potential werewolves. He pulled one more, too: Damocles Belby.

He sat at his desk for the remainder of the day familiarizing himself with the files. Some of them came attached with special reports on their activities during the war. Others had a sheet that simply said “Activities unknown.” Damocles Belby was important enough to warrant a full investigation already, and Harry could tell from the penmanship that Gawain Robards had handled the investigation himself.

Subject Summary: During the war, Damocles Belby was arrested for aiding undesirables, despite his high blood purity rating. Belby was tried for associating with werewolves, giants, and muggleborns. Instead of executing him, the Death Eaters kept Belby in captivity, forcing him to brew complex potions as needed.

Belby’s nephews, Nero Belby and Domitian Belby, were seen fleeing The Battle of Hogwarts after fighting on the side of Voldemort. Domitian Belby has since been apprehended. Julian Belby, their brother, was killed by his ally, Fenrir Greyback in an incident where Greyback transformed while working with snatchers. His youngest nephew, Marcus, was captured by snatchers for refusing to cooperate with Death Eater authority and used as leverage to make his uncle work.

Damocles Belby was released from captivity in May of 1998 following six months of imprisonment. His nephew, Marcus, was released with him. He has been found clear of all guilt as his cooperation with Death Eaters was entirely under duress.

Harry leaned back in his chair and scratched the side of his face. So Damocles and Marcus were the two clean members of the Belby family. The half a year of imprisonment certainly explained Marcus’s anxiety, and it made Harry even more willing to trust the famed potion-maker, not that Damocles Belby needed to be cleared of suspicion; he was a strangely likable wizard.

Savage sat down on the edge of Harry’s desk, startling him with her sudden presence. He shot up in his chair. “Bloody—”

“Daydreaming, were we?”

Harry unconsciously smoothed his hair and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Just thinking about the case. You know, working.”

“And did you think of anything useful?” she asked. “Or is it back to knocking on doors?”

Harry scowled. He looked down at the file laid out before him and then back up at Savage. “Nothing.”

“Well I’ve got a thought for you: why was Greyback free?”

“Hmm?” Harry asked. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Belby was locked-up for helping werewolves because they’re undesirables. But Greyback was able to roam free and work for some of the higher-ups.”

“Well, he was a dog on a leash,” Harry said. He nodded, now more confident with his answer. “Voldemort himself was half-blood. Of course he claimed to be pureblooded, but his father was a muggle. A potion-drugged muggle on top of it. It was an ever-present fact that lingered over his life. He murdered his own family because of it, and he picked me for that whole silly Chosen One thing because my mother was a muggle.” Harry touched his fingertip to his scar.

“So he really didn’t care about purity?” Savage asked.

“Oh, no,” Harry said. “He cared. But he was also practical and ruthless enough to put that aside when someone undesirable could be useful. He was a Slytherin, after all. Ambition first. Principles after.”

Savage nodded along with Harry’s words, looking more and more certain with every word. She was getting the big picture now of the man behind the snake-faced sneer. “So Greyback was his attack dog. But like a dog, he wasn’t allowed at the dinner table. He was never inner circle.”

“He ran with snatchers. He was an errand boy.”

Savage got off Harry’s desk and leaned forward, palms down on the surface. “So,” she said, a fire in her eyes. “The reason we have so many names here is because of Greyback. What if, while we continue the door-to-door thing, we also make a map of where Greyback was every full moon of the year?”

“So we know who he could have bitten?”

“Right. You heard Belby. The half-bitten don’t matter. They’re not contagious. So we can keep checking in with people—make sure none of the full werewolves have any black-out nights on record—and in the mean time making sure that we have testimony to where he’s been every full moon since August of last year.”

Harry grinned. “Excellent.”

And with that, Savage went off to find a spare chalkboard.

Chapter Text

On Thursday night, Brynja apparated out to Puddlemere for drinks with Oliver Wood. Of course none of the parties involved really believed that this was the whole purpose of their visit, but when Brynja met with Harry and Ron in the street outside Oliver’s house, Ron was clutching a bottle of scotch. “For the cover story, of course,” Ron whispered.

They had arrived with an enormous crack. She spun around on the spot, her hand ready to draw her wand, at the sudden bang! of their arrival. “You apparate quite loudly,” Brynja said.

“That’s Harry,” Ron said. “Announces himself wherever he goes.”

Harry and Ron raced to catch up to Brynja on the stairs. She raised her hand to knock, and the knock was in a very distinctive pattern: three light raps, two heavier ones more spaced out, and two quick knocks again.

Followed by the two Gryffindors, Brynja couldn’t help but think about how much life had changed since Hogwarts. Oliver had always been a broad-shouldered boy (and quite tall, too), built like a wall and good for playing Keeper. He was in even better shape now, living the lifestyle of someone who got paid to be fit. His face was tanned, his brown hair highlighted by the sun, and he filled the doorway up when he answered it. His presence made Brynja feel safe.

“Harry Potter!” he shouted, raising his arms up into the air. Brynja stepped out of the way as he grabbed Harry by the back of the collar and pulled him into a big bear hug. “Look at you, too damned important to play Quidditch with me now.”

Harry blushed as Oliver mussed his hair and released him into the apartment. It was a fairly large flat with an open living room and kitchen and doors that lead off towards the back. The place was decorated in blue and gold with Puddlemere United posters in frames on the wall. Ron held up the bottle of scotch and got a big hug as a reward too, although it looked quite awkward because Ron was so tall.

“Oliver’s still a bit bitter that Shacklebolt wouldn’t let Puddlemere recruit you,” Brynja said as she stepped inside.

“He probably threatened a lot of teams,” Oliver said, closing the door and bolting it. Wizards were all a bit more careful about locking up tight these days. “Had to, otherwise someone would have offered you the whole team salary out of the gate.”

It was Brynja’s turn for a hug, though Oliver did not try to crush her like he did with Ron and Harry. Then he went to a large cabinet with glass doors and pulled down a few glass tumblers. “Yes, this. We are opening this now,” he said over his shoulder.

Harry and Brynja exchanged looks. Oliver was clearly very excited to see them, but they both knew that they had some very serious business to discuss. Ron asked Oliver how training was going, and after a long speech about having to train what they could get, all the drinks were poured and they were sitting around the coffee table in circles. Oliver sat in a big arm chair (blue with a gold brocade pattern) and Ron, Harry, and Brynja sat on an overstuffed couch. Ron crammed himself against the arm of the sofa to avoid sitting too close to Brynja, though he kept glancing down at her legs. She noticed.

“So…” Oliver finally said. “Why you’re really here. Do you need me to go?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Brynja said.

“I mean, it’s top secret, right?” Ron asked.

“I trust Oliver with my life,” Brynja said. If Oliver was already here facilitating their secret meeting, then surely he had the right to know what was being plotted in his home.

Harry nodded in agreement.

Brynja had brought a gray satchel made of wool with black leather straps and shining silver buckles. She opened it with a flick of her wand, and out floated a file. She set it on the coffee table. Ron quickly moved his empty tumbler out of the way. The file fell open to a photograph of a very handsome man. He was young with cat-like hazel eyes, a sharp cleft chin, and long brown hair that fell around his face.

“That’s Sam Capper,” Brynja said, an edge of disgust on her voice. Looking at his photo now made her insides go cold.

“Well he’s quite pretty,” Ron said. “I think I remember him from Hogwarts. Always lurking behind the crowd of girls who flocked to Cedric.”

Brynja nodded. “Hufflepuff. He didn’t quite ooze the same wholesome charisma as Cedric, but he was popular with the girls nonetheless.”

“Did you date him?”

“Not at Hogwarts,” Brynja said. “I only agreed to date him as part of my under cover mission. He was my in with the Death Eaters. He was a regular Romeo, and we played that as his weakness.”

“So you were undercover with the Death Eaters,” Ron said.

Oliver nodded. “I didn’t even know it was fake. We didn’t talk for months.”

Brynja swallowed. “Right. Basically it was my job to follow along, play the good pureblood and only report to Kingsley when we could save a lot of lives. There were a few raids on sanctuaries that we managed to evacuate first because of my warnings.”

“Did you have to kill anyone?”

Brynja took a deep breath. “Sam usually did that before I had to.”

They all knew what the Death Eaters did, executing hundreds of muggleborns, holding trials for blood purity, murdering “blood-traitors,” but having to stand by while it happened and pretend to enjoy it was another thing. “So what happened the night you were uncovered?” Harry asked.

“I was at our apartment,” Brynja said. “It was a nice place, a penthouse apartment that Sam got after the muggleborn that lived there was captured. He came home, but he had company. Bellatrix Lestrange was there. I don’t remember much of what they said, but she drew a knife and gave it to Sam. I kept telling him he was mistaken, that someone was lying to him, hoping he’d believe me long enough for me to get outside so I could apparate. I don’t know if he could have done it there in the kitchen—”

“Wait,” Ron said. “You lived with the guy?”

“That’s not the worst thing I had to do for my job,” she said.

“Let her finish,” Oliver said, reaching out and taking Brynja’s hand.

“Like I said, I don’t know if he could have done it there. He looked confused, like he wanted to believe me. But Lestrange kept shouting, and he was shaking, the knife in his hand. I panicked and I ran to the front. He chased me down and he stabbed me.” Her hand moved over her stomach, resting on the right side just above her hip. “While he was standing over me in the doorway—Lestrange was laughing—I crawled out into the hallway and apparated away.”

“Where?” Ron asked.

“Here,” Oliver said. He gestured to the doorway. “Penelope Clearwater might have been a better choice. They were friends in school—we met through Percy, but she was on that run at that point. It was lucky I was home. But you can’t magically heal a wound cut with a cursed dagger.”

Harry nodded. “Hermione was cut with that same knife,” Harry said. “It was the night they killed Dobby. The night Luna and Ollivander escaped. The night Pettigrew died. She still has the scar across her throat.”

“It was pretty touch-and-go for a long time,” Oliver said. “I couldn’t bring her to a healer. I actually—well, this doesn’t leave this room. I kidnapped a muggle healer outside the Royal London Hospital and had to keep modifying her memory so she thought Brynja was a foreign royal that had to be kept secret. I kept her for a week before I decided I had to let her go.”

“But you lived,” Harry said, trying to lighten the mood in the room. “You made it.”

“They assumed I was likely dead, but they kept looking. Death Eaters showed up here more than once while I hid in the loo.

“Blimey,” Ron said. “And I thought we had it bad.”

Brynja had shared her story for a reason, and she wanted to get them back to that point. Harry apparently had the same idea, because he asked, “So Capper and Lestrange learned you were a spy somehow. Is it possible they just deduced it from reason? You knew about those attacks, and when they showed up, nobody was there?”

Brynja shook her head. “It had been weeks since the last one. And lots of people knew. We weren’t that inner-circle.”

“Did Capper die in the war?”

Brynja shook her head. “He’s in Azkaban. He was captured three weeks ago.”

“We’ve been on high alert all summer since Brynja went back to work and it was made official that she isn’t dead,” Oliver said. “But he’s in jail now, and he was probably the only Death Eater who would be angry enough with her to risk his freedom to kill an Auror living in London.”

“We hope,” Brynja said.

Oliver nodded. “The first week she was back on her own, Penny and I took turns camping on her sofa.”

“So he’s alive,” Harry said. “He’s the best person to tell us how he found out about you, right?”

“Brynja could go,” Ron suggested. “You might rile him up and get him to spill something.”

Brynja’s back went rigid. She shook her head. “No.”

“I mean, he can’t hurt you there,” Ron went on. “And if he’s still hot for you, maybe he’ll be cooperative.”

Brynja just shook her head, her large brown eyes brimming with tears. Harry looked down at her hand. It was clutching Oliver’s fingers so hard that her knuckles were turning white.

“Ron,” Harry said. “Let it be.”

“But you’re right, Harry! Capper is our best lead.”

“Ron,” Harry said, a little more harshly. “If she doesn’t want to see him…” Harry trailed off. It was so obvious. Brynja was the best person to get information out of Capper, but she clearly couldn’t do it herself. “Polyjuice.”

“Excuse me?” Oliver asked.

“Polyjuice,” Ron said with a grin. “Harry, Hermione, and I have used it a bunch. Granted the first time Hermione was stuck as a half-cat for a few weeks. But that’s how we did the Gringotts break-in.”

“You three seriously did break-in to Gringotts? I thought that was just sensationalism.”

“Oh yeah,” Ron said, his chest puffing up with pride. “And we tamed a dragon down there and rode it out. It was wicked.”

Brynja laughed, the tension melting from her shoulders. “You three are mental, you know that?”

Harry waggled an eyebrow. “Mad or not, we did save the world.”

Oliver guffawed loudly.

After a good laugh and a full recounting of the bank break-in, Oliver poured another round of scotch and they fell to serious planning. Brynja agreed to coach Harry on walking and talking like her and to give Harry a strand of hair when the time was right to use the potion.

“So who is gonna brew the thing?” Oliver asked as they were packing up for the night. Harry’s head felt warm and his lips were tingly.

“We could pop over to Hogwarts and ask Hermione,” Ron suggested.

Harry shook his head. “It was hard enough brewing it in the toilet when Hermione wasn’t world-famous. We can’t have anyone know.” Harry held up a finger quite suddenly as an idea struck him. “Wait! Belby! Damocles Belby can keep a secret. He invented Wolfsbane and he said…”

Oliver put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Oliver and Ron seemed perfectly fine, but Harry knew he’d had a bit too much of Ron’s fine scotch. “Harry, you can’t apparate like this. You’ll splinch yourself, and then the Daily Prophet will run a headline tomorrow: Boy who lived twice can’t hold drink. Take the bus, yeah?”

Chapter Text

Harry and Ron trudged down the iron steps to the street. Brynja stayed behind to talk to Oliver some more.

“The bus,” Ron said. “Aren’t you supposed to—”

Harry stuck his wand out over the street. There was a loud bang and the Knight Bus, a big purple triple-decker bus, appeared at the curb. Ron hollered and fell backward, and Harry laughed.

“It’s not funny,” Ron said, rubbing his backside as he got up. “I could have broken my wand!”

Harry continued laughing, clutching a stitch in his side. “I did that—I did that—I did that when I was thirteen,” he gasped.

The bus door opened and Stan Shunpike, older, stubbly, and with dark-circles under his eyes, looked down at them. “Welcome to The Knight Bus, the preferred mode of transportation for the stranded witch or wizard. I’m Stan Shunpike, this here’s our new driver, Rawdy Ponder. Eleven sickles for a ride, thirteen gets you hot cho —Harry Potter!” Stan shouted, suddenly straightening up.

Harry turned and whispered to Ron. “Last time I told him I was Neville.”

“Yep,” Ron said, pushing past Harry and climbing on the bus. He dug his hands into his pockets and put a galleon in Stan’s palm. “That’s Harry Potter.”

“Hi, Stan,” Harry said, waving cheerfully and digging out another galleon. Ron was pretty sure he remembered that Stan had spent the last year under the imperius curse, though as far as Ron could see, he was alright now. “Keep the change,” Harry said, racing to catch up to Ron. “Oh, but we want hot chocolate!” he shouted back.

“Right then!” Stan waved.

Harry took the bed next to Ron’s. They were across from a fat old wizard whose ascot had fallen over his face and was fluttering as he snored. There was a loud bang. The bus jumped and resumed its journey down a London street. Ron groaned as the bed rolled and came to a sudden halt.

“This is awful,” he said. “Why are there even beds here.”

Harry pointed to the sleeping old wizard. “For people who have had more to drink than we have,” he said.

A few minutes later Stan came by with their hot chocolate. He stood about awkwardly, as if he wanted to say something. Finally he blurted, “Thank you” and headed to the front of the bus.

Harry and Ron drank their chocolate in silence until it was their turn to be brought home. Harry gave Stan the street because he didn’t think the bus could find their exact address with the fidelius charm placed on it.

As they stood at the front door, Ron, who had been quiet for half an hour now, spoke. “I miss Hermione,” he said.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, me too.”

Harry opened the door and they stepped into the dark and dismal entryway of Twelve Grimmauld Place. Harry raised his wand and lit the lamps in the hall. “Hey, you know, when we were camping I used to use the map to make sure Ginny was okay,” he said. “You could use it to check in on Hermione. I know it’s not the same, but I dunno. Seeing her dot moving around the castle is…it’s something.”

Ron shook his head. “Nah, that’s alright, mate. I wouldn’t want her to feel like I was spying on her.”

“I mean, you wouldn’t be using it to make sure she’s not hanging around with other guys. It’s just nice to see her dot moving, like…” he trailed off.

Ron nodded. He got what Harry meant, but he just wasn’t sure it would be as meaningful when they knew Hermione was safe where she was.

Ron went up to his room, and Harry retired to his own. He didn’t even change into pajamas; he just kicked off his shoes and robes and climbed into bed in his trousers and t-shirt. The tingly warm feeling was wearing off, and now Ron was just tired.

A knock came at the door. Harry was standing there, swaying in the door. Even his cheeks were red, though the bubbly energy that had filled him on the bus was fading. Harry held out the map. “Just give it back at breakfast, yeah?”

Ron mumbled his thanks. He closed the door and sat on his bed with the map. He tapped it with his wand. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” he said. The map came to life.

Ron followed the spiderweb of lines to Gryffindor tower. Hermione’s dot was there in the common room next to Ginny’s. As Ron watched, Hermione’s dot left the common room and ascended the staircase to the seventh year dorms. The dot, labeled Hermione Granger, stopped at what Ron assumed was her bed. It didn’t move for a long time, but Ron kept watching. He liked to think that, as he sat in bed thinking of Hermione, that she was thinking about him, too. And as the lantern next to his bed flickered, Ron’s eyelids drooped and his wand dropped to the floor. He fell asleep, the map open on his chest, and he dreamed of Hermione Granger.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven: Harry's Return to Hogwarts

Harry felt very sluggish at work the next day. He and Ron dragged themselves to work with slumped shoulders and dark circles under their eyes. Though Harry was not usually one to drink a strong cup of tea unless it was offered, he found himself at the kettle on Friday morning.
"Rough night?" Savage asked, appearing behind him with little noise and no announcement.Harry jumped and sloshed boiling water down the side of his teacup. When he recovered from the shock he shook his head. "No, just…"

"Fun night," she said and winked.
"Sort of." Harry wasn't sure that conspiring to implicate his boss in treason was exactly what someone would call fun. He supposed, by his usual life-or-death standard of activities, it was a regular cake walk.
"Listen," Savage went on, jumping right into business. "I had a look at the rest of those files we pulled. Reilly Brune, the next one on our alphabetical list, is eleven."
"Which means—"
"Hogwarts," she said, cutting him off. "She's at Hogwarts right now."
"Then I'd say that makes her a priority," Harry said. He thought back to his third year. Professor Lupin had been well-controlled, and with the exception of the night that Harry met Sirius Black, there had not been an incident. Surely McGonagall had everything under control. Still, it would be good to check.
"Have we had any full moons since school started?"
"None yet. But one is coming up."
"Then we'd better get going."
Harry took a few minutes at his desk to check over memos and drink his scalding hot cup of English breakfast tea. Ron, who was barely awake at his desk, was looking over a stack of newspaper clippings on his case.
"We're going to Hogwarts," Harry said, tapping his desk on the way out.
"You're going—what?" Ron stirred. "To Hogwarts?"
"Business. Anything I should say to Hermione for you?"
Ron's cheeks tinged pink. "Just…hug her for me, right?"
"Right."
Harry wasn't one to initiate hugs, but Hermione was, so he didn't think he'd have a problem completing Ron's request. "See you tonight then."
"Mmm," Ron hummed, looking down at the papers on his desk. "If I make it that long."

* * *

They apparated to Hogsmeade. Harry could count the number of times he'd walked the proper path from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts on his hands. He had done far more sneaking in and out of the castle between the tunnel to Honeydukes third year and the path into The Room of Requirement for The Battle of Hogwarts. It felt strange, walking up to the front gates, especially after he no longer belonged there. He hadn't taken a Hogwarts class for over a year, but here he was.
Savage sent her patronus ahead with a message, though Harry didn't see what form it took before streaking of towards the castle. A few minutes later the gates opened of their own accord. Minerva McGonagall met them at the doors to the entrance hall. She was a slender, severe witch with a tight bun that was far more gray that black. She looked a lot older than Harry remembered her from his first night at Hogwarts. He hadn't noticed until now how the war had aged her.
"Ms. Savage," McGonagall said, shaking her hand. "Good to see you. And Mr. Potter," a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "I was not surprised to hear you were passing-up the classroom for a position at the ministry."
"Yeah, well, you still have Hermione for a year," Harry said. He wondered if he should have her call him Harry now, as he was no longer her student. He bit his lip and pushed the thought aside, though. He figured it would be unbearably awkward to start calling her Minerva.
"Indeed. That young woman has an insatiable thirst for knowledge."
Minerva lead them through the entrance hall (Harry was glad to see from the enormous jewel-filled scales in the hall that Gryffindor was firmly in the lead). When they finally got to the statue that protected the headmaster's office, McGonagall opened the portal and gestured for Harry and Savage to lead the way.
"Your message suggested this was about Miss Brune," she said, sitting behind her desk. Harry looked around at the office, which was neater than it had been under Dumbledore. There were far less instruments and baubles scattered about, and instead of a perch for Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes, there was a brass cage that stood empty while her owl was away. Harry glanced back at Dumbledore's portrait. It winked at him.
"Is there—does Snape not have a portrait?"
"He was headmaster for a year and only because he was appointed by You-Know-Who," Minerva said with tight lips.
"But he was on our side," Harry said.
"Yes, well, portraits are generally created years in advance so that we can teach them and imbue them with our wisdom. He—"
"But he should have a portrait."
Minerva forced a smile. "Perhaps you can convince the school governors to commission one."
"I think that would be quite fitting," Dumbledore's portrait said.
"You're here about Miss Brune," McGonagall said. "And I know why."
"So her parents did disclose it at the beginning of the year?" Savage asked. "The lycanthropy."
"Oh yes, Oswald and Carlethia Brune were both my students some time ago. They trusted me to disclose her condition. We keep it a secret from her classmates for obvious reasons—hatred of muggleborns might be a taboo today in polite society, but fear of werewolves is still quite common."
"Who is brewing her potion?" Harry asked. In fact, he wondered, who was teaching the class?
"We order out from Damocles Belby. It'll be brought in from Hogsmeade on the eve of the full moon. Our current potions master is…" she hesitated. "Severus was one of the finest potion-makers ever employed by this school. It will take some time to find a suitable replacement. Miss Samford was not comfortable taking on the burden of such a complex formula."
"And where is she being brought?" Harry asked. "The Shrieking Shack, like Lupin?"
Minerva nodded. "Just to be safe. We've recently refurbished a few rooms in there so she won't be staying in a filthy hovel. Of course she could just curl up and sleep by the fireplace in the Hufflepuff common room and be perfectly safe, but we do err on the side of caution."
Savage nodded and then stepped back from the desk. "Well," she said. "I'm satisfied that the situation is well in hand. How about you, Potter?"
"I trust Professor McGonagall can take care of it."
"Then I trust you can find your way out of the school?" McGonagall asked, rising from her desk. "I'm afraid I have to visit Madam Pomfrey to help with a young girl who half-transfigured her boyfriend into a newt."

* * *

Harry and Savage made their way to the entrance hall before Harry caught a glimpse of fiery red hair. His heart did a double-step in his chest as Ginny Weasley came from the direction of the Gryffindor common room with a broom in her hand. Harry was stuck in a daydream, thinking of the floral scent of Ginny's hair, when another familiar face appeared. Hermione flew across the entrance hall, her hair fanning out behind her like a great, frizzy cape, and threw her arms around him. "Harry!"
Harry hugged Hermione, and his expression split into an enormous grin. "I just saw you last week," he said, laughing. "No need to bowl me over."
Harry pulled away from Hermione's hug and turned to Ginny. She was wearing a black tank top and a cut-up cannons t-shirt hanging off her shoulder. "Going for a fly?"
"Hermione's going to help me write the Gryffindor play book for the year."
"Who's your seeker?" Harry asked.
"We'll find out tomorrow. Whoever it is, they won't be half as good as you."
Harry wanted to kiss her, but he controlled the urge in front of Savage, his superior. Ginny reached out and took his hand and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek. "The first Hogsmeade weekend is around Halloween," she said.
"Ron and I should come stay in the village for the day."
Savage cleared her throat, which startled Harry.
"Oh, right." He stepped to the side to include her in the circle. "Alauna Savage is my partner," Harry said. "Uh, Savage, this is Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley."
Savage shook their hands. When she got to Hermione, she thanked her for "all you've done." The four of them stood about awkwardly for a few seconds before Savage pointed her thumb back to the door. "Listen, Potter. We'll need to talk to the parents, you know, to make sure they have holiday under control, but why don't we pick that up on Monday?"
"Yeah?" Harry asked, ruffling the back of his hair.
"Yeah. It's Friday. Let's call it a day so I can visit the pub in the village."
Harry nodded.
"You visit with your friends." She winked at Harry. "It was very nice to meet you two."
Harry went down to the Quidditch pitch with Ginny and Hermione. They collaborated on plays for a while. Harry borrowed a Cleansweep from the school broom shed to help Ginny work out ideas, and Hermione scribbled things down in a notebook with a bright blue quill. It was nice. It felt normal. After a few hours, Hermione announced that she was due at Arithmancy shortly. She hugged Harry, asked him to hug Ron for her, and headed up to the castle.
Harry and Ginny sat on the bleachers, looking down at the pitch.
"You look tired," she said.
"I was up a bit late last night drinking with Oliver Wood," Harry said, leaving out the work reason for the visit."
"Is it all you ever hoped it would be?" she asked.
"What, being an auror?"
"Chasing the bad guys with the blessing of the ministry instead of behind everyone's backs? You always seemed to fight the good fight in spite of authority, not as authority."
"It's a bit weird," Harry admitted, "to have resources."
"What case have they got you on?"
Harry hesitated. He knew he wasn't supposed to discuss cases with people outside the department, but Ginny wasn't people. She was Ginny. She was special. Harry reached for her hand, lacing her long, thin fingers with his own. Her nails were trimmed short, a practical style for a Quidditch player, but they were colored with chipped gold paint. "Werewolves. We have to make sure that everyone Fenrir bit is accounted for and handling it."
"Well it's good they put you on it. You'll show some compassion."
"We have this big list of people we have to talk to. Bill's on it."
Ginny nodded, her eyes darted about with thought. "Well," she said after a long pause. "That should be easy."
Harry nodded. "But strange. Hey, Bill, can you tell me what it's like to be some kind of strange werewolf-hybrid?"
"What about Teddy?"
What about Teddy? Harry hadn't even thought of that! Teddy Lupin was the child of a werewolf. Would he be like Remus? Would he be like Bill? Would he be normal? Harry scratched his head. "I suppose I can talk to Andromeda about it. I feel like she would have mentioned something in her letters—"
"Not if she was protecting him. People are horrible to werewolves. People still treat Bill like he's about to explode, and he can't even transform a wolf."
"Do they? Do they treat him differently since the bite?"
Ginny nodded. "He won't tell you, but Fleur had too much wine one night when we were all at Hogwarts and told Hermione and me all about it. You were playing chess with Ron."
"I guess I figured once Voldemort was gone—"
Ginny winced at the name.
"—that things would just be…nicer."
"People are still jerks," Ginny said.
Harry nodded. Plenty of horrible people had been arrested in the weeks following the war, but being unkind or judgmental wasn't a crime.
"You shaved," Ginny said, turning to touch his face.
"Yes, well, your mother didn't think it looked professional."
Ginny laughed. "My mother is on a constant crusade against hair. She never leaves Bill alone."
"Did you like it?" Harry asked, placing his hand on top of hers so that it would not leave his cheek. Her skin smelled lightly of floral lotion and the Spanish oak handle of her broom.
"Mmm, it looked nice, but it wasn't very practical for snogging."
Harry laughed. "No?"
Ginny smirked, her freckled cheeks turning pink. She slid into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I kept getting little black hairs in my mouth." She pressed her forehead against his. Their noses brushed. Harry closed his eyes and kissed her.
They kissed lazily for a while before Harry felt Ginny's fingers wrap around the buttons on his collar. He pulled back, his lips swollen and tacky with her lip gloss. "I should head back to London."
"Are you sure?"
"McGonagall thinks I left hours ago. I'm here on ministry business. I shouldn't be—" Harry's mind went to where it wanted to be, sneaking up to the girl's dormitory to hide behind the heavy red curtains on her four-poster bed. "I shouldn't be capping off work visits by snogging a seventh year, even if she is—" Harry was going to make some comment on how great Ginny looked with the Chudley Cannons shirt slouching off her shoulder, but Ginny supplied him with a new end to his sentence.
"Seventeen. Old enough to make her own decisions."
Harry nodded. "Wouldn't want to get written up at work for taking advantage of you," Harry said.
Ginny laughed and climbed off of his lap. "As if you're the instigator."
"Yes, well, I don't think it'll matter much to my boss. 'You see, Mr. Robards, my girlfriend's a redhead. There's not much I can do to stop her if she decides—'" Ginny cut him off with another kiss.
"This year is going to drag if all I get to see of you are these little teases," she said after she broke away.
"There's always Christmas."
Ginny let out a bark of laughter. "And six brothers to police you…"
Five. Harry and Ginny both adjusted that count in their heads, and the mood deflated. She had five brothers now. They shared a long, gloomy silence. Ginny took Harry's hand and quietly walked him out of the stadium and back to the front gates of the castle grounds.
"You and Ron are coming for Halloween?" she asked. "Hogsmeade?"
Harry took both of her hands and looked down at Ginny. "I wouldn't miss it."
Ginny stepped forward and rested her head against his chest. Harry buried his nose in her fragrant hair. "I love you," she mumbled into his robes.
"I love you too," Harry replied.
And after a long and drawn-out goodbye, Harry walked back to Hogsmeade and apparated home.

Chapter Text

Harry and Savage pulled three more files on Monday and spent the week making visits to the next three people on the list: Carlisle Duncan, a muggleborn wizard whose execution by Voldemort’s ministry had been scheduled for the day after The Battle of Hogwarts; Kevin Entwhistle, a Ravenclaw in Harry’s year who was very shy when they found him performing in a pub as the front man for a rock band; and Ptolemy Grunnion, a portly older wizard with a monocle who gave them far too many details on how being bitten by Greyback outside of a full moon had really livened things up with Mrs. Grunnion.

The following Monday, Harry made an excuse to step out of the office while Savage pulled files on Steven and Scott Ingles. He hadn’t had a chance to get down to see Damocles Belby while his shop was open, and he needed to commission a potion for his mission with Ron and Brynja.

Harry slipped into the small shop just before noon. A new art gallery that was opening across the alley was busy moving sculptures of magical creatures into the big window. “Beasts” read a sign hung overhead. “Opens September 30.”

Marcus Belby was tending the front of the shop. He sat at the counter with his nose buried in a copy of a book. He snapped to attention when Harry stepped in, setting the book on the counter. “Mr. Potter,” he said. “Back on Ministry business?”

Harry nodded. “Is your uncle in?” He glanced down at the book Belby had been reading.The Skeeter Deception: How One Reporter Made Millions on Lies and Deception. Harry smiled. “Is that any good?”

Marcus Belby looked down at the cover. “I’m about one-eighth in. It’s teased the bit about Dumbledore, but so far it’s mostly covering her early career. It’s just getting to her fixation with you, actually,” Belby said with a smirk. “I think it’s going to clear up some of the dirt she spread about, though.”

Harry made a mental note to actually read that book. Perhaps, if it told a sympathetic truth about Dumbledore, he could do his first intentional celebrity endorsement.

“Let me go get him,” Marcus said before popping into the back of the shop.

Damocles Belby came out a minute later. He was smiling his warm, inviting smile, but he was shaking his head. “Mr. Potter. If you’re hear about Wolfsbane, I can't—”

“That’s not it,” Harry said, cutting him off. “I agree, you can’t give out your client list. I just need a particular potion, and my regular expert is a bit…unavailable.”

“Oh,” he said. His smile warmed even more, if that were possible. Harry smiled, too.

“It’s, er—Polyjuice.”

“Ah, I see,” Belby said with a nod. “Not easy, nor is it easy to get the ingredients. Lacewing flies are easy enough, but—”

“Shredded boomslang skin and powdered horn of bicorn,” Harry finished. “Believe me, I know.” The ingredients were burned into his memory. “But you won’t be tracking them down while a fugitive from the law, so it shouldn’t be too hard, right?”

Belby laughed. “So it’s true? You managed the Gringott’s break-in with Polyjuice?”

Harry felt his cheeks heat up. “Well, Hermione brewed it, really.”

“As I thought. Of course, then you know that the ingredients have to stew for quite some time. I can’t have it until this time next month.”

“That will have to do,” Harry said. Perhaps in the meantime, Brynja, Ron, and Harry could come up with another track for their investigation of Robards.

“And I have to ask, do you have either a warrant from the ministry or the permission of the person you’ll be changing into?”

Harry hadn’t realized there were laws surrounding the use of Polyjuice. No wonder the book had been in the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. “Oh, yeah, I do,” he said.

“Good. I have to ask, as I’m the responsible brewer if—”

A loud crash cut their conversation off, followed by a strangled scream. Harry whipped around, his wand in his hand before he could consciously think to draw it. He bolted out the door and into the street of Diagon Alley. The window of the gallery across the way was smashed and people were fleeing through it, catching their robes on the broken glass still in the edge of the frame. Inside, Harry saw exactly what they were running from.

Breaking free from a shell of white plaster, the substance crumbling off its hairy legs as it stretched and thrashed, was an enormous quintaped. He recognized it from Care of Magical Creatures, though it was a creature so dangerous that even Hagrid had not been foolish enough to try and introduce them to a real one. It was about the size of a Volkswagon Beetle and had hands like an ape with claws like nails. The beast, hairy and muscular and balanced on five legs, shook off the last large chunk of plaster and leaped across the gallery in one impressive hop.

Harry hurled a stunning curse at the creature, but its thick skin and fur were enough armor for the spell to have no effect. “How’d it get in there?” someone asked from behind him, and Harry saw that Marcus Belby had followed him.

“Get back inside!” Harry shouted. “Summon the ministry!”

“My uncle has,” Marcus said. He had his wand raised.

The beast leaped again, crashing into the ceiling of the shop and sending bits of it to the floor. It whirled around to face the open window again and jumped out into the street. Marcus and Harry dove out of the way.

“We have to stop it!” Harry shouted, scrambling to his feet and chasing the beast down the alley. This was one of those level-five creatures they had talked about. This was on level with an acromantula, and Harry had barely survived his encounters with those.

He and Marcus tossed curse after curse at it, but nothing seemed to work. It smashed into the window of Quality Quidditch supplies. Harry climbed in after it, switching his tactic from harming the beast to protecting the shoppers inside. He cast shield charms to block falling shelves and knocked people out of the way of the creature. The beast, a star of five legs joined to a gnashing, razor-sharp mouth, stopped its springing, crashing rampage hanging from the rafter of the ceiling. It thumped down hard in front of a woman who had not escaped the store and snapped its teeth at her. It had an oddly human-looking face. Thinking fast, Harry picked up a Quaffle from a nearby display and hurled it at the quintaped. It spun around, abandoning the woman and coming for Harry.

Harry swore loudly and backed towards the window. He tripped over something and stumbled backwards, landing hard on his backside and twisting his wrist as he caught himself. It was a broom. He had tripped over a broom. His wand still clutched firmly in his right hand, Harry grabbed the broom and crawled backwards. The creature was crouching down, and Harry could tell that it was preparing to pouncing. He slowly rose to a crouch, moving at a snail’s pace so that the beast wouldn’t be spurred into quick action. He stepped over the broom handle and kicked off hard as the quintaped sprang towards him.

The broom, a Nimbus 2001, reacted quickly. He shot up, stopping just at the ceiling, and hovered overhead as the creature spun in circles, looking to see where its prey had gone. The thing finally looked up and saw him, and it only had to jump to reach him. Harry, feeling oddly comforted by his presence on a broom, dodged out of the way.

Maybe he could hold it off until the hit-squad arrived.

“Tarantallegra!” someone shouted. The quintaped stopped jumping and trying to catch Harry and started flailing erratically, almost as if it were dancing. Harry looked around and saw Marcus Belby with his wand aimed at the creature through the broken shop window.

“Brilliant!” Harry shouted. “Now get out of here.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Belby said. The creature, still unable to control its legs, tried to reach for him, but it just scrambled in one spot. It had too many legs to topple over completely, but remaining upright was a struggle.

“Curses won’t penetrate, but charms seem to work. Perhaps we transfigure it?” he suggested.

Harry, whose style of problem-solving was usually a little more luck and guess-work than deduction, nodded. “Sure.” Working with all of these Ravenclaw alumnus made him realize just how much he relied on Hermione.

The beast seemed to be figuring out how to work with its dancing legs. It still looked like it was twitching and flailing, but it was moving in the direction of Belby. Harry shouted, “Look out!” as the writhing beast spilled out into the street and caught Belby in the chest with its jiggling legs. He went flying backwards and slammed hard into the cobblestone street. Harry was sure Belby must have cracked his head on the paving stones. Harry leaned forward, urging the broom to dash after them. He raised his wand and shouted the first transfiguration spell he could think of.

The beast screamed with a high, sharp voice like the howl of a coyote. A small pair of white ears sprouted from the top of its head and whiskers grew around its biting mouth. The transformation stopped there. Harry had given it bunny ears and whiskers and nothing else.

Belby was moving. The quintaped had spun around and turned back to its pursuit of Harry. Marcus, unnoticed by the the beast, was rising to his feet.

“Over here you dumb lug!” Harry screamed, darting around low to the ground to draw the quintaped off of Marcus. “Come get me!” Harry kept his eyes on the quintaped, but he could see Marcus moving deliberately in his peripheral vision. He had picked something up, but Harry didn’t dare take his attention away from the creature long enough to find out what. Then Marcus started running. Harry shouted “No!” and tore his gaze away from the five-legged monster long enough for it to leap at him. It caught him in the air with its clawed hands. They bit into his arm, piercing him like a row of needles. Harry hit the ground with the full weight of the creature on top of him. The air was forced out of his lungs and the edges of his vision darkened.

And then it stopped moving. It screamed and tensed and started seizing. Harry, his body filled with adrenaline to keep him going, slipped out from under the rigid legs before the monster collapsed and died. A long, splintered piece of wood was sticking out of its head. Marcus Belby, panting, dirty, and bloody, was kneeling on top of it.

“It doesn’t have a skull,” he said with a smile, holding up his hand to show Harry a huge splinter that was sticking out of the heel of his hand and bleeding. “How are you with healing charms?”

There was a flurry of thunderous cracks around them as the hit squad appeared. Harry felt dizzy and weak, and he wondered how Belby was standing. The rest of the ministry quickly took over the scene, closing off the alley and delegating various parts of the cleanup and investigation to different departments: The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, The Magical Catastrophe Squad. Harry was asked a few questions before the heads of each department took over. “But what happened?” he remembered asking several times, but nobody would answer him. “What happened? How did that thing get here?”

And as the wounded were put on stretchers, Harry spotted Kingsley Shacklebolt. “Kingsley!” Harry shouted. “Minister Shacklebolt.”

“Thank god you were here, Harry,” Kingsley said. “You look terrible.”

“What happened? How did a quintaped get in there?”

Kingsley scowled. “Well, that’s what an investigation will determine.”

“Can I as—”

“Someone else will get this one, Harry. You have other work to do,” he said, and he made prolonged eye contact to let Harry know that this was not something to discuss here. “You look dreadful. We can’t have The Boy Who Lived collapsing on us in the street. Someone escort Harry to Mungo’s!”

Shacklebolt’s frizzy-haired aid grabbed a nearby healer and sent her over to Harry. The healer, a gray-haired woman with cat-eye glasses, grabbed Harry’s arm and tugged him towards The Leaky Cauldron. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you check over proper.”

Harry wanted to argue, but he felt weak and his head throbbed. He suspected a concussion, and he was sure he had sprained his wrist—to say nothing of the nasty scratches on his forearm. “Alright,” he said. He didn’t see Belby anywhere. Perhaps Marcus had already gone to the hospital.

Chapter Text

Harry spent Tuesday in bed by healer’s orders. Ron went off to work, and Harry couldn’t wait for him to get back with news of what the aurors had found. Even his new owl—the one he’d rescued from Ansley Ashford’s home—was out on a delivery.

The newspaper came while Harry was still laying in bed. He was told to rest and not strain himself, but it was impossible to sleep when he still didn’t know why he’d almost died the previous day. With the paper came a brief note by an unfamiliar owl, and Harry looked at that first.

I’ve begun the work. Thank you for taking care of my nephew yesterday.

-D.B.

Damocles Belby had begun the polyjuice potion. At least there was that.

Harry climbed out of bed and left his room. Kreacher was hovering outside the door, and he spun around when Harry stepped out into the hallway and waved his hands in the air. “Master Potter is supposed to be in bed!”

“It’s fine,” Harry said.

“No! No, no no! Master Potter gets to bed. Kreacher gets what Master Potter needs!”

The little old elf pushed on Harry’s knees. Harry, who paid Kreacher to clean and cook, had tried to instruct the elf not to call him “master,” but it hadn’t stuck. He nodded and turned back towards his bed. “Alright, then you’re going to be fetching things for me all day.

"That is what Master pays Kreacher for. Kreacher will get Master breakfast.”

Harry climbed back into bed and looked around the room. He had left parts of Sirius’ decor intact, but the room was also filled with the contents of Harry’s old school trunk: chocolate frog cards, a chess set, gob stones, World Cup pendants, and even a poster Dean Thomas had drawn for a Gryffindor quidditch match.

Harry decided to check the paper for any new information. The headline above the fold was as he suspected, a big teaser for the events of the day before. “POTTER STOPS MONSTER RAMPAGE IN DIAGON ALLEY.”

He scanned the article to see if there was any new information. Belby’s role in the event wasn’t even mentioned, and the reported had a lot of guesses, but didn’t seem to know how the beast had gotten there either. The life-sized sculptures in the gallery had been part of a collection by a world-renowned American witch, and none of the others had sprang to life. They were all just as they seemed—plaster.

Harry called for Kreacher to send Pigwigeon up. The little owl, Ron’s pet, flew upstairs and into the bedroom. Harry scribbled a quick note asking Ron to keep him updated throughout the day on anything he heard, and then he waited.

Half and hour later Kreacher came in levitating a big tray in front of him. The cooking wasn’t fantastic, but none of it was undercooked or burned. There were sausages and scrambled eggs and toast and a glass of orange juice. Kreacher kept offering Harry more food, but Harry could barely finish what was on his plate.

Around ten in the morning, stuffed and bored, Harry fell asleep.

He woke up at noon to a tapping on the window. One of the Hogwarts owls, a purple band on its ankle, was perched on the sill waiting for Harry to open it. Harry climbed out of bed and quietly crept across the room, not wanting to alert Kreacher that he was up and about.

He didn’t recognize the handwriting, but when he tore it open he quickly realized from context that the note was from Savage.

Potter,

I’m glad to hear from Weasley that you’re on the mend. I saw that thing you fought, and I’m frankly surprised nobody died, and I’m quite impressed that you did it all on your own. They gave the assignment to Proudfoot, so I really don’t know the particulars, but someone was arrested this morning from his hospital bed. I thought you’d be itching for info. I know I would be.

I’ll wait for you to get back to work before we go talk to Steven and Scott Ingles. Gray offered to come as my backup, but I figured we should stick together. Get well.

A.S.

All on his own? Harry’s brow furrowed with confusion. He hadn’t done it all on his own. What had given her the impression that he had? In fact, Harry was pretty sure he’d be dead without help from Belby.

Harry’s old schoolbooks were lined up on a shelf across the room. He pulled downFantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, but the entry there was short and non-specific. Quintapeds were only found on one island, and they resisted transfiguration. According to legend, they were the descendants of wizards who had been transfigured by their enemies. Not much else was said about them, except that they had reddish brown hair and were exceedingly dangerous.

“No kidding,” Harry mumbled as he shelved the book. He stopped and his eyes flicked to a furry, trembling book wedged between A Standard Book of Spells: Grade Six and One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. If Hagrid chose it, the information must have been good. Harry pulled down The Monster Book of Monsters and hesitated before removing the belt that fastened it shut.

The book began snapping and shaking. Harry stumbled backward, tripping over his discarded trainers on the floor, and landed hard on his bed.

“Is Master Potter out of bed?” Kreacher shouted.

“It’s fine!” Harry yelled, sitting on the book to stop it from moving. “Just grabbing a book!”

Harry let off the book and quickly reached down, stroking the spine. The book shuttered and fell open, revealing the exact page he was looking for: the section on quintapeds.

Though unconfirmed, it is believed that the quintaped descends from a line of transfigured wizards, the MacBoons, who were transformed by their enemies, the McCliverts. Indeed, those who have survived close encounters with these beasts agree that their eyes, mouths, and hands have an unsettlingly human-like quality. Legends will suggest that the Hairy MacBoons have retained their human intelligence, but this is doubtful. If the legend is true, then countless generations of quintapeds have come and gone on the Isle of Drear. While animaguses train for years to retain their mental faculties during the transformation, transfigured wizards have no such retention. Whether they are human in origin or not, the quintaped is a dangerous, feral creature.

There are many aspects of this creature that contribute to their level 5 danger classification (as ascribed in Newt Scamander’s commonly used system.) They are immensely strong and have sharp claws and teeth. They are capable of leaping twenty feet in the air from a standing position, and with five legs they are a challenge to unseat. In addition to their strength, estimated to be equal to the strength of two mundane gorillas (full-grown, male), their hands are dexterous and numerous, and their hide is difficult to pierce.

Unable or perhaps unwilling to deal with the quintaped problem, the Isle of Drear, a small island off the tip of Scotland, has been made unplottable by the ministry of magic. A review team was sent out before the decision was approved; four wizards went to investigate the creatures. Only one returned. The lone survivor, Sophia Hopwood, filed a report stating:

“The creatures could only be harmed by the most powerful curses. Blades, too, had little effect. I did find, however, that a harpoon gun (a muggle device that launches spears), had sufficient power to break the hide. This was discovered too late when I was being rescued by a group of muggles who had arrived on a fishing boat. In my opinion, it is beyond the power of most muggles to defend themselves from this creature, and so, even though there is nothing apparently magical about the quintaped’s appearance, we should bar muggles from visiting this island for their own safety.”

Experts suggest that if you ever find yourself on the Isle of Drear, the best defense against the quintaped is to run.

Harry closed the book and took a moment to fasten the belt around it. He turned over the information in his mind. A harpoon was the only blade powerful enough to pierce the skin of a quintaped. So how had Marcus Belby done it with just a splintered piece of wood? Harry thought that surely there must have been a reasonable explanation, and he resolved himself to go to Diagon Alley when he was off bed-rest and ask Marcus himself. He also wanted to make sure Marcus got the recognition he deserved.

Unable to do much else that day, Harry climbed back under the covers and summoned the radio from across the room. It was one of the many items leftover from when this room was occupied by Harry’s late godfather, Sirius Black. He turned the dial until he heard a live broadcast of a quidditch game (Harpies versus Bats) and settled back in bed to listen.

Chapter Text

Brynja Dunstan arrived at work at her normal early hour on Tuesday morning. Robards was already there. “Ah, good. I’ve owled Proudfoot to be in early. I’m putting you two on a case,” he said, waving for her to come immediately into his office. She draped her cloak over her chair, set her pastry down on the desk, and followed him in.

“Are we on the Diagon Alley incident?” she asked hopefully. Brynja hadn’t gotten very many exciting assignments since becoming a full-time and recognized auror. It furthered her suspicions about Robards; it would make sense for him to sideline her if he thought she might uncover something about him.

“Indeed. He asked for it last night, you see, and Gray is on other business.”

“Is he now?”

“Yes,” Robards replied, and it was clear from the full-stop tone that he had no intention of telling her what. Gawain Robards sat down behind his desk and passed a gray folder to her. It was filled with photographs from the scene. “Eighteen injured. Four still at Mungo’s. No deaths. Potter saw the whole thing—stopped it himself. Oh, and the hitwizards arrested a suspect. He’s in holding downstairs, but he’ll be moved to Azkaban any minute. Once it became clear this was intentional, Magical Catastrophes was yanked off the case and they insisted an auror take it.”

Brynja frowned. “So we have our man already?” she asked. She was hoping for more of a challenge. Getting a confession wasn’t really her area of expertise. It seemed Proudfoot, who was good with words, would take the lead on this one.

“Hmm, yes, well, perhaps. It could be anything right now. Psychopath. Lone Death Eater wanting one last hurrah. Who knows. But you see… something isn’t right.”

Brynja looked at a photograph in her folder. It showed the dead quintaped, a splintered beam driven into its back. The thing was massive, and she remembered a good deal about the species being resistant to curses. “How did he do it alone?”

“Precisely. They’re found on one island in all of the world. How did he get there, capture one without getting killed by the rest, stun it, encase it in plaster, ship it, and then revive it all on his own without assistance. I don’t even know of one curse or charm that could stun a creature like that for more than half a second.”

“Could be a potion.”

Robards’s eyes opened wider and his mustache twitched. He scratched his gray beard and nodded. “Yes. Yes, this is why we have you. It would have taken me days to think of that solution.”

Brynja couldn’t help but smile a little. Even if he were a traitorous scumbag, his compliment still was nice to hear. “Anything else I should know, or should I get right on the case?”

“Interrogate the guy when Proudfoot gets here. Silas West. Otherwise, take whatever direction you think appropriate. Just clear this up quick. The prophet is itching for a story, and some of those snakes will publish anything they can get, never mind the veracity of the damned thing.”

Brynja went back to her desk and flipped through the file. Silas West was a Ravenclaw alumnus who had graduated from Hogwarts over a decade ago. His whereabouts during the war were unknown, but there were no accusations of collusion with Voldemort from anyone, not even a jilted ex. He was a widower. His wife had been one of the few witches killed in the Brockdale Bridge incident in ‘96, and he had no children. West was a craftsman who had helped remodel the gallery from its original shop interior.

She read over the witness statements. One of the gallery attendants was overseeing the shipment of sculptures, a collection of life-sized figures from an American artist, when she noticed that the quintaped, encased in painted plaster, was not on the list from shipping manifest and did not match the style of the other figures. She saw West dash across the gallery and do something, though what she could not say, and then the figure sprang to life.

Other aurors started coming in to the office. Savage and Williamson and Weasley were in next, Weasley loudly re-telling the story of his housemate’s heroism with extra embellishments. Proudfoot, who had been summoned in early, was not with the waves of arriving investigators. After nine in the morning, Brynja decided to get started without him. She left the office and went down to Diagon Alley to have a look around the scene. She left a note on Proudfoot’s desk telling him to meet her there.

Brynja spent an hour in Diagon Alley. She followed the events from shop to shop. The corpse of the monster had been hauled away by now, but a glowing green line had been drawn around its final position with a wand. She looked over Quality Quidditch Supplies (the shop keeper was just hoping he could get the all-clear to clean up soon) and then headed to the gallery.

She found the crate that the quintaped had arrived in. It was not the biggest crate. A few of the other statues were already in position, and those that hadn’t been knocked down or broken were quite impressive. There was a large, hair-covered acromantula statue, two of its legs broken, and under it was a smaller, young acromantula figure. They were lifelike, almost as if they were taxidermy, but the plaque on the wall explained that they were all detailed models. She wasn’t sure she would consider it art, but it was very impressive.

The crate that the quintaped had arrived in was open, and the sides were splintered. Inside the box, there was plaster everywhere. Brynja picked up a piece and looked it over. The outside was painted with thick acrylic, but she could tell from the absence of fake fur, that it did not match the set.

She picked up a piece of broken wood and used it to stir around the chunks of plaster. She found exactly what she was looking for. Among the fragments of plaster were shards of blue glass, and the mouth of the small bottle was in one piece underneath some rubble. It was uncorked. Brynja levitated the glass with her wand and caught it with a handkerchief.

After another pass over the scene, she decided that there wasn’t much else to be found. The bottle was really her best lead. She cautiously raised it to her face and took a gentle sniff. It smelled oddly like licorice and wet dog.

With still no sign of Proudfoot, Brynja decided to keep working. Across the street was Damocles Belby’s new potion shop. Brynja knew, from Harry’s statement, that he had been in there when the incident had begun. If anyone in London could identify the potion residue left in the mouth of the bottle, it was him.

She entered the shop to find a tall, pale young man working at the counter. A bandage was wrapped around his hand and blood was seeping through. “Oh, I didn’t realize the alley was open,” he said. Brynja saw that he had been reading a book.

“It’s not. I’m with the ministry. We’ll probably let them clean up later today open tomorrow. But don’t quote me on that.”

The young man smiled. “Oh, okay. We get a lot of ministry business in here. What do you need?”

“An identification.” She put the handkerchief on the counter. “Don’t touch the bottle, just the cloth. You can still smell it.”

Marcus picked the fragment up by the cloth and raised it to his nose. “Oh, I know exactly what that is.” He coughed and shook his head. Brynja didn’t think the smell was that strong, but she was just happy he could help. “Yeah, that’s an antidote to a paralyzing potion.”

“Can it be applied topically?”

Marcus nodded. “Yeah. And good thing. It’s hard to make someone frozen swallow a drink like that, especially if their jaw is stuck shut.”

Brynja turned the scenario over in her mind. A paralyzed but living quintaped would still give off body heat. The plaster was to hide it. Clearly the person who captured and slipped the quintaped into the shipment had known about the exhibit and had access to the shipment. She would have to get information on how the crates were transported and who could get in there long enough to add another, large sculpture to the mix.

“Thank you… Marcus, right? You were in Ravenclaw?”

Marcus nodded. “Graduated the year Dumbledore died.”

“Ah, I graduated the year of Sirius Black,” Brynja said. She looked down at his hand. “Were you hurt in the incident yesterday?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, waving his hand.

“You should have gone to St. Mungo’s.”

“Oh, no. I don’t need any of that.”

Brynja held out her hand, and after a moment of hesitation, Marcus let her examine his wound. She unwrapped it and looked down at his palm. The cut was deep and rough and still oozing bloody fluids. “Youch,” she said. “Do you trust me to mend that?” Brynja was quite good at healing spells. She had briefly considered a career as a healer before the truth came out about her parents and she set her sights in criminal justice.

“You can’t make it much worse, right?”

Brynja snorted. “Don’t ever say that. Were you at Hogwarts for Lockhart?”

Marcus laughed. “Right. I forgot. Don’t blow me up or de-bone me.”

Brynja tapped her wand against his hand. He took in a sharp breath as a gentle scrubbing spell cleaned the wound. A second charm sent a glittering white mist out across the cut. It settled in the wound and dissolved. Slowly the cut shrank, and the skin on either side knit together.

Marcus flexed his hand. “Thanks. My uncle and I are great at potions, but we’re rubbish at charms.”

The bell on the door rang. Brynja turned around to see Jason Proudfoot walk through the door. He was a medium-skinned auror with brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a curved smile. “There you are.”

Brynja looked at her wristwatch. It was nearly eleven. Where had he been?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had–family business. Where’s the investigation?”

Brynja held up the handkerchief with the bottle fragment inside. “Our culprit somehow fed a quintaped a paralyzing potion, then splashed this antidote on it to wake it up. He probably had a panel of plaster he could pull away and then pour this on the actual creature.”

“So we’re not spending the week figuring out which spell can pierce the mighty quintaped?”

“Nope. Shall we go interrogate our suspect?” Brynja tucked the evidence away in her purse.

*     *     *

Azkaban prison stood on an outcropping of rock off the south-east shore of the mainland. It was an angular island, formed from sharp, black pieces of slate and onyx. A ministry official met them at the boat; he would be their guide as the prison was unplottable on maps to keep unsuspecting muggles from stumbling on the most depraved witches and wizards alive. Brynja had seen photographs of the prison in books, but its ominous presence could not be served justice, even in the best color image where black clouds rumbled and crackled overhead. The prison, an inky monolith of flat, windowless walls, cast a shadow across the turbulent sea. Proudfoot, Brynja, and the guide rowed up to it in a small boat, and a guard patted them down at the door, checking their wands behind a locked cage.

There were no dementors here anymore, but the halls were icy cold and Brynja wondered if their magic had been soaked into the walls like cigarette smoke sometimes penetrated a seedy flat or like the smell like cabbage permeated anything that spent too much time in the apothecary.

“This seems like a prime location to have a party. Something festive,” Proudfoot muttered. “Like a wedding or a quinciañera.”

Brynja let out a “hmm” that was supposed to be a chuckle. She could tell her partner was making jokes to try and lighten the mood, but something about anyone speaking too loudly in these halls made her uneasy, like it was forbidden.

She kept her eyes ahead of her as the guard, a bony-faced witch with a tight bun and razor sharp eyebrows, walked them down to the visiting room. As she walked, she touched walls—large slabs of matte black stone. Like the high security vaults at Gringotts, these walls melted away to allow her to observe the contents inside. Unlike the vaults, however, the cells were still sealed. She checked in on each prisoner briefly as she walked, laying eyes on them. They did not seem to notice her observation. Some of the more recent arrivals, people Brynja recognized well from newspapers and some from meeting in person, sat quietly reading books or crocheting with their fingers. Others, people who had been released by the death eaters only to be captured and put back in Azkaban, showed signs that reminded Brynja that this place had once been much worse. They huddled in corners or pressed their foreheads to the walls. Some just sat in their beds upright, staring into nothingness.

Brynja focused on the door ahead, trying not to look at the men and women imprisoned here. She had put many of them here, and she would likely spend the next two years of her life testifying at their appeals that yes, they were in league with Voldemort and yes, they did seem to enjoy their work.

As they reached the end of the hall, Brynja’s focus faltered. She felt the need to look to her left, though she could not say why. The guard reached out and stroked the wall and for a moment it dissolved into an invisible barrier. There he was: tall and handsome, though a bit shaggier than she remembered. His brown hair had grown down to his chin, but his cat-like eyes and pouty lips were still the same. Sam Capper sat on his bed, his legs folded beneath him, and though Brynja knew—intellectually—that he could not see her, it seemed that he stared right at her. She stopped walking for a moment. Her breath caught in her throat. He seemed to be staring right through her.

“You alright Dunstan?” Proudfoot asked, noticing that Brynja’s high heels had ceased to click down the cold, stone hallway.

Brynja shook her head and continued forward. Her heart pounded in her ears and she felt dizzy. There was no way she would be able to interview Capper. She had made the right decision to let Harry take that task.

Proudfoot grabbed her arm and stopped her. “Hey, look at me,” he said. “You need to step outside? You don’t look well.”

Brynja turned her eyes to Proudfoot and his warm, concerned eyes. She swallowed and nodded. “Just saw some familiar faces, that’s all,” she said. She really did not want to discuss it with him. Even now she felt an echo of pain in her gut and saw Capper’s wild eyes staring back at her, filled with rage and betrayal. She looked away from Proudfoot and pulled her arm from his grip. “We’re here to see Silas.”

“If you need—”

“I’m fine.”

The guard, her expression unchanged, opened the door to the visitation room. There was a table with two chairs on one side and a single chair on the other. She gestured for Brynja and Proudfoot to sit down, and they did.

The guard closed the door behind them and sealed it with her wand. She crossed the room and ran her hand along a black slab of wall. It melted away, and with another gesture—a symbol traced with her finger—the invisible barrier broke with a cheerful “pop.” Silas West was a few years older than Brynja. He was incredibly average with medium brown hair, medium brown eyes, and a medium build. He had a neat mustache that was styled with wax—something that hadn’t been popular with muggles since the late nineteenth century. He looked perfectly reasonable and not at all like someone insane enough to unleash one of the most dangerous magical creatures on a crowd of unsuspecting shoppers.

“I’ve been here half an hour and already I have visitors,” he said cheerfully as if this were a resort and not the most terrible prison in the world. “It makes a fellow feel welcome.”

“Mr. West,” Proudfoot said, immediately taking the lead. “Have a seat. We need to chat.”

West sat down, his hands bound together in silver chains. Brynja had a feeling they were enchanted to squeeze down if he struggled against them.

“You’re lucky nobody died yesterday,” Proudfoot said. “That little stunt you pulled scared a lot of people.”

“Lucky Harry Potter was there to save us,” West said. His candid nature was its own form of insanity.

“Indeed,” Proudfoot said. “Lucky that beast didn’t smush you.”

“Hmm,” he replied with a nod.

Brynja had an idea and scooted her chair closer to the table. She was finally shaking off her shock at seeing Capper. “Or perhaps,” she said, keeping her voice soft and sympathetic. “Perhaps that wasn’t lucky. I’m guessing you hoped you wouldn’t make it out alive.”

West turned his gaze on Brynja. His eyes were wider, but he didn’t speak.

“The Brockdale Bridge, when was that, '96? She was there and Voldemort’s men destroyed the bridge. Mostly they killed muggles, but she was there.”

West was once again silent.

“And you weren’t seen or heard from the entire war. Must be hard, to have them take someone you love like that and not be strong enough to fight back, to have to cower and hide while the men who killed your wife ran the show.”

His lip twitched. His nostrils flared. The cheery facade had dropped.

“And she was just an innocent bystander.”

“Ministry did nothing. They couldn’t,” Silas West said quietly. “Fudge, Scrimgeour, all impotent.”

Proudfoot just watched as Brynja continued. “Tell me about it. And if they had just listened to Harry Potter the year before and came down hard, they could have stopped his rise to power. The Brockdale Bridge never needed to happen.”

“He never needed to come back,” West said. “Barty Crouch, Bellatrix Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy—all of them should have gotten the kiss seventeen years ago. He would be gone if the Ministry had just done its job and finished them properly.”

“So how does killing a bunch of innocent people fix any of that?” Proudfoot asked. “You’re just as bad as they are.”

“But I didn’t kill anyone,” West said, that banal smile returning to his average face. “Harry Potter saved us all.”

“Don’t give me that bollocks,” Proudfoot said. “You knew people could die. You knew you could die. What’s your angle?”

“People will be reading now when we publish our manifesto.”

“Your—excuse me now?”

“It should be arriving at the Daily Prophet headquarters—well, likely half an hour ago.”

Proudfoot stood up fast, knocking over his chair. The guard in the room with them tensed. Brynja just stared at West, trying to figure out who he was now and what he wanted. He wanted a stronger Ministry, a merciless one that punished those who had killed his wife. He wanted right by might, a justice system that would make the wicked pay the ultimate price—something not even the muggles did any more (at least not the English muggles).

“He’s not a lone actor,” Brynja said. “This was to get attention for a political movement. Shacklebolt is too fair and just for them.”

“Just,” West snorted. “Hardly. Lucius Malfoy is out on bail. How just can you be?”

“So why didn’t you just murder Malfoy?” Brynja asked.

“Come on,” Proudfoot said. “We need to get to the prophet and see if we can intercept that letter.”

Brynja stood up. The guard grabbed West and yanked him to standing position. Only when Silas West was sealed away beyond the black slab did she let Brynja and Proudfoot out of the visitation room.

“That was some good thinking,” Proudfoot said as they climbed back into the boats. “I’m glad you read his file before we went.”

“Yeah, well, I had time. You were late.”

They had picked up their wands at the door, and Proudfoot tapped the oars on the boat with his wand to set them moving autonomously. Brynja wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders and stared at the distant shore.

“Who did you see in there?” Proudfoot asked. “Back, you know, before we went in the room. You went all gray and ashen. I thought you were going to throw up.”

“A death eater,” she said.

“Well that’s specific.”

“I spent a lot of time under cover,” Brynja said. “And a lot of people in there want to see me dead.” Brynja didn’t say any more about it. When they made it back to the shore and beyond the field where apparation wasn’t possible, they popped back to London. If they were lucky, they would make it in time to stop the Daily Prophet from printing Silas West’s manifesto.

Chapter Text

Harry awoke on Wednesday morning and headed downstairs early for breakfast. He was going to work, whether they wanted him back or not.

While Harry and Ron were finishing up their eggs, an owl flew in and dropped the paper on the table. Harry reached for it first, snatching it up from in front of Ron. “Blimey,” Ron said. “In a hurry?”

“Aren’t you in the least bit curious to learn more about Monday?”

Ron shrugged. “I figure it can wait until we get to work.”

Harry unfurled the paper.

FROM THE MOUTH OF THE ATTACKERS—A MANIFESTO

The following is a direct printing of a manifesto written by Silas West, the man who was arrested Monday for the quintaped attack on Diagon Alley that left Harry Potter injured and shop-goers terrified. It has not been edited and was received as a direct correspondence from Mr. West:

Seventeen years ago we saw You Know Who’s rise to power. With his defeat by Harry Potter, we were freed from fear and loss. But many wizards who sided with the wizard formerly known as Tom Riddle walked away without any justice. Men like Lucius Malfoy feigned ignorance and walked free. And the ministry, wary of conflict, let them.

And so he rose again. Had Barty Crouch Jr., Bellatrix Lestrange, and others like them been given the dementor’s kiss, his return to power and the murder of Cedric Diggory would not have happened. The countless murders and executions at the hands of this rebel government would not have occurred. And for a while we were hopeful that Kingsley Shacklebolt, an auror and not a beauracrat like the late Cornelius Fudge, would tighten the reins and ensure that no such evil could ever reign again.

However, the removal of the dementors from Azkaban have[sic] proved that Shacklebolt is not serious about enforcing law and order. The great hero, Harry Potter, is working as an entry-level auror. Myriad death eaters still are on the loose. If we do not secure the Ministry of Magic and secure the wizarding world in Engand, we will fall once more to such evil.

This attack was a wakeup call. It is too easy for a handful of wizards to cause chaos in the streets. The transgressors of the past still have not been brought to full justice, and a nice-guy ministry cannot keep our families safe.

I, Silas West, am calling for the resignation of Kingsley Shacklebolt and the appointment of a law-enforcing minister. We should come down on our enemies with speed and force to ensure a safe wizarding world and the safety of the muggles that share this land with us. We should strike down with the fist of Mars and anihilate all who would threaten the well-being of a peaceful and equal wizarding world.

Harry handed the paper to Ron. Ron read it, nodding more and more as he progressed through the manifesto. “Man has a point,” Ron said.

“He could have killed people!”

“Well, yeah,” Ron shrugged. “Can’t say his method was very bright, but he has a point about Malfoy anyway.”

Harry took the paper back and read through the article again. His eggs sat cold on the plate as he turned it over in his mind. Surely the ministry had let too many people walk the first time: people like Crabbe and Goyle Sr. and Lucius Malfoy and MacNair. But Bellatrix and her family had gone to prison, and Crouch had only escaped with inside help from a high-level ministry official—an identity exchange with his own mother. Harry wasn’t sure what had happened in the courts all those years ago, but he was sure he didn’t agree with keeping The Dementors.

“Bringing my name into it…” Harry mumbled.

“Reckon he didn’t expect you to be there and get hurt. It kind of ruins his message, right?”

“I should be starting level. I should be at Hogwarts! I’ve already been given a leg-up.”

“Which you deserve.”

“But I’m not ready to be someone’s boss!” Harry stood up from the table, knocking over his empty goblet. He grabbed his cloak and started towards the door. Charms made it impossible to apparate in and out of Grimmauld Place, so they tended to apparate to work from the alley.

“Slow down,” Ron said, pushing his food aside. “We have ten minutes!”

Harry wasn’t listening. He wanted to get to work and find out what Robards was doing about this.

*    *     *

Harry burst into Robards’ office when he got to work. Robards stayed eerily calm as Harry shouted about maniacs and quintapeds and asked what they were doing to catch West’s collaborators.

When Harry was done raving, Gawain Robards folded his hands above his desk planner and took a deep breath. “Dunstan and Proudfoot are on it. You’re too close to the case. Let them worry about it. They’ll come see you if they have questions.”

Harry was about to press on, but he realized that Robards was right. West was in custody. Dunstan was a good auror. Harry didn’t need to put all of the world’s problems on his shoulders like he had before. He had earned a break, hadn’t he?

Savage came in with breakfast and offered some to Harry. Harry, who had left his eggs half-finished, gladly took some food and offered a bit to Ron. “Sorry,” Harry said, realizing that Ron had been right in not blowing his top. “Sorry you didn’t get to finish breakfast.”

“S'alright,” Ron said, and then he smiled. “Just wish I had been mentioned in that manifesto too. I did destroy that locket, after all.”

Harry laughed. “You’re a hero, too.”

Savage whistled from the door. “Come on Potter!”

Harry waved to Ron and followed Savage out the door.

“Where were you Monday?” she asked as they walked towards the elevators. “Why were you in Diagon Alley?”

“Just needed to run an errand,” Harry said.

She raised an eyebrow. “Alright then.”

“Where are we going?” Harry asked, eager to change the subject.

“Steven and Scott Ingles.”

“Oh, yeah, that.”

Harry and Savage made it down to the lobby and left through the toilet portals. Savage showed Harry a map, and they apparated to a clearing in the woods in Scotland. Steven and Scott Ingles lived in an isolated cottage. Harry glanced over their files as Savage checked the map.

“Brothers?” he asked.

“Husbands,” she said. “Steven Diggle Ingles and Scott Ingles.”

Savage pointed to the tree line, and Harry followed her forward. They followed a tiny dirty path until the trees opened to another clearing. The cottage was quite large and looked like it had been added onto. A sleek orange cat lingered on the doorstep, and Harry could see another ginger pawing at the windows. “Kneazles,” Savage said. “They breed kneazles.”

Harry started up the step. The cat, ignoring Harry, turned and hissed at Savage.

“He doesn’t like you.”

Savage grunted. She pushed past the cat. It scratched at her boots and hissed, but she ignored it. She knocked. No answer. “Maybe they’re upstairs,” Harry said, checking his wristwatch. It was still quite early if you didn’t have an office to be at. Harry stepped off the front stoop and walked around the house. He glanced in through the windows. The ginger cat, another kneazle, continued to paw at the glass. Harry looked inside. There were cat-like creatures crawling all over the place. It was dark. A tall, slender man was face-down on the stairs.

“Savage!” Harry shouted. “Someone’s unconscious. Get that door open.”

Savage tried a basic unlocking charm, but the door still stuck. She stepped back from the door and fired a shot of red sparks at it. The door blasted in. Harry followed her through the door, his wand drawn. Scott Ingles was face-down, his face bloodied, his feet pointed up the stairs. Savage shined a light on his face and examined his features.

“His nose is smashed, but I don’t think that was cause of death.”

Harry stepped around the body and climbed the stairs. Steven Ingles was on the landing at the top. His body looked spotless. “Magic,” Harry said. “Like Ashford.”

Harry saw the bathroom at the end of the hall. Kneazles crossed his path as he walked there. He had heard stories about cats eating their dead owners, but it didn’t seem like these creatures had gotten that desperate yet. A litter box tucked behind the toilet was used, but not so much that it was repellant. “Can’t have been long,” Harry said. “A day maybe?”

Savage swore loudly. She stood up. “Let’s call it in. What do you think?”

Harry scratched his face and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “This looks bad.”

“Mmhmm,” Savage said, heading back towards the door. “It looks like we have a werewolf hunter on our hands.”

Chapter Text

Ron Weasley didn’t have plans on Friday night, so when an owl came from George asking for help at the shop, Ron put on his trainers and headed straight out the door at Grimmauld place. He turned down the alley nearest Harry’s house and apparated to Diagon Alley. George was in the front room of the shop, using his wand to direct a broom to sweep the floor.

“You’ve been busy,” he said as Ron came through the door. The last time Ron had laid eyes on the shop, it had been a disaster area. Product had been strewn all across the floor, and the barrels that held brightly-wrapped Puking Pastilles and Nosebleed Nougats had been smashed and splintered. Shelves were knocked down, leaving broken bottles on the wood floor. Death Eaters had come in and smashed up the place before boarding it up. The economy had never flourished enough under Voldemort’s rule for anyone to need the space. Today the barrels were new, the shelves were repaired, and all of the destroyed product was cleared away.

“What are we doing?” Ron asked.

George stopped gesturing with his wand and scratched behind his missing ear. He was wearing his hair a bit longer these days to cover the scar, and Molly Weasley (in spite of her war on hair) had not said a word about it. “Well, I’ve got buckets of paint in the back. I want to paint the displays and get a little more color back in here before I move product in this weekend.”

Ron began rolling up the sleeves on his blue plaid shirt. It was new, one of the first things he’d bought with his Ministry paycheck, and he regretted not wearing something old and dispensable. “Alright then,” he said. “So long as you’re feeding me.”

“I’ve already put in an order at The Leaky. We can take a break to pick it up at seven.”

Fred and Ron spent an hour placing paint buckets around the room and deciding what colors to make everything. Ron wanted to just dive right in, but George was insistent that there be a method. “I’m thinking of a color code,” he explained. “Magenta for fireworks. Yellow for get-out-of-class products. Maybe green for WonderWitch to contrast the signage and blue for muggle magic tricks.”

Ron was finishing painting a display case for one-of-a-kind prank items (and trying not to get paint on the glass) when an owl swooped in. One of its falling feathers stuck on a fresh coat of paint on the stairs and made George swear loudly.

"It’s for you,” he said, flinging the sealed letter across the room to Ron. The corner of the missive caught him square in the nose and left a red spot. Ron tore it open quickly. The correspondence was from Williamson. There had been a Protego sighting.

Ron apologized and put the lid back on his can of paint. “Sorry,” he repeated a few times. “Work. You know—”

“I get it. You’re a big important auror now. Go on. Catch the bad guys. But I expect you here tomorrow to shelve product.”

Ron apologized again and ran out the door.

Williamson met him outside the public ministry entrance. He was still dressed from work in muggle-appropriate trousers and a tan overcoat. Ron’s stomach grumbled, and he realized that he was missing the dinner George had ordered for them.

“Have you eaten?” Ron asked as he followed Williamson down the stairs into the London Underground.

“Ah, yes. My wife made a lovely roast beef tonight. It had little fingerling potatoes.”

Ron’s stomach gave another, louder, growl.

“This way,” Williamson said as he lead Ron to the platform. There was yellow muggle police tape across a parked train car. “We need to be quick. We’re holding up the whole line.”

A police officer was talking to a young, pretty muggle woman who was shaking and crying. She wore a floral blouse and a tight skirt. She was seated on a bench in the train car. The officer, dressed in a reflective yellow jacket, was scribbling down notes on a memo pad.

“We’ve got this,” Williamson said to him, holding up a wallet with a shiny badge in it. Ron wondered when he was going to get to impersonate muggle law enforcement. The officer grumbled to himself and left Ron and Williamson alone with the woman.

“Hello, mam,” Williamson said. “I’m detective Williamson. This is my trainee, detective Weasley.”

“How old is he?” she asked.

Ron looked down at his trainers and jeans. He only knew a bit about muggle clothing, but he was pretty sure he was quite underdressed to be an investigator.

“He’s a trainee,” Willaimson said with a smirk. “He was called in. Hence the paint. We’re with…National Crime.”

“Oh,” she said, wiping her nose with a crumpled-up handkerchief. “You think it was mob related?”

“We’re investigating a series of connected events,” Williamson said. “You said a man chased you down into the underground. Do you know what he wanted?”

“I work for a very important man. Personal assistant to a high-profile attorney. He’s defending Minister—”

“That’s great,” Williamson said. “So we know it might have been related to knowledge or access to corruption cases, but what I’m really interested in is the vigilante who came to your aid.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, and then she took a moment to wring her hands and think. “At first I thought they were together. I was walking alone, you see, and one of them tried to grab me. I screamed and ran. I came down here because, well I thought with all the people… but he followed me. When I got on the train car he was being followed by another man in a mask and…well…a cape.”

“A cape?” Ron asked. “Or a robe?”

“Excuse me?” the woman asked, squinting up at Ron through puffy eyes.

“Well a cape covers the shoulders and hangs down and the robe is like…well it covers your whole body.”

“Like a dress,” Williamson said.

“It was a cape. Like a comic book.”

Ron wasn’t sure what capes and comics had to do with each other, but he just nodded and decided to let Williamson handle the muggle lady.

“Well the man in the mask,” she went on after a moment of staring between Ron and Williamson. “He shouted something strange, like Latin, and he held his arm out and pointed. Then the man chasing me—the first one—just fell over stiff as a board. It was like magic!”

Ron smirked.

“And where did this man go? The masked one?” Williamson asked.

“He disappeared. Not into the crowd. He just… poof. He was gone.”

Williamson nodded. “Height? Race?”

“Fair skin. Dark stubble. About six feet? Tall, but not too tall.”

“Thank you, mam,” Williamson said, and he drew his wand and murmured, “Obliviate.” The witness stopped sniffling. Her face went blank and she relaxed for a moment. When she realized where she was, she looked up at Ron. “I’m sorry, was I saying something? Where is Officer Grady?”

“I’ll go get him,” Ron said.

Ron and Williamson turned to leave the train car.

“Apparating in front of muggles. The nerve,” Williamson grumbled.

Ron saw the officer in yellow talking into a black box in his hand. Muggles were weird. “So not much we didn’t know. Height, skin, all prior information.”

“Aye, but she said dark stubble,” Williamson said, scratching his chin. “So we know we’re not looking for a Weasley, right?” He grinned. Ron smiled back uncomfortably. Somehow he thought that dressing up like a comic book character to save muggles was something George just might do. Williamson clapped Ron on the shoulder. “Well, then, I’d say that’s it for tonight. I’ll file the report. Perhaps… say, you know what we learned from the previous witnesses?”

“He’s a wizard?”

“He has two wands.”

“Oh,” Ron said, feeling a bit useless.

“You know anyone with two wands?”

“Harry had two, but after he used the Elder wand to fix his, he broke it.”

“He—” Williamson sputtered. “Why?!”

Ron shrugged. “Too much death, I guess.”

“He had the Elder— nevermind. That’s not the point. Two wands. He has two wands. Someone had to have purchased a second wand.”

“We could visit Ollivander or…” Ron scowled. “I mean his son or grandson. He opened up shop, didn’t he?”

Williamson nodded. “Monday. You just take care of the copper before you go home, alright?”

Ron nodded and drew his wand as Williamson buttoned up his long overcoat and walked away. Ron did his best to recall everything they had done in Flitwick’s unit on memory charms. “What would Hermione do?” he murmured, and then he approached Officer Grady.

Chapter Text

Harry and Ron were late to the Saturday meeting at Oliver’s flat in Puddlemere. They came in grubby work clothes, carrying a paper sack filled with sandwiches from The Leaky Cauldron. Brynja had been there for half an hour already listening to Oliver talk about the strengths and weaknesses of various teams in the league.

“Sorry we’re late,” Harry said as they came through the door. He passed the bag of food off to Oliver. “We had to help George at the shop.”

“When do they open?” Oliver asked with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

“Next weekend. Grand opening. And he’s going to have a catalogue,” Ron said. “For Hogwarts.”

Oliver let out a bark of laughter. “Brilliant. I wish I could be there to see it.”

“You missed the best of it, back before they dropped out,” Harry said.

They moved in towards the sofa and set down for their meeting. Ron opened the bag of food and offered sandwiches around. Brynja had already eaten before coming over, so she didn’t take one. But Oliver accepted one. They were turkey with stuffing and cranberry sauce on sourdough bread.

“‘Arry was finking we fould map da aurors in da war,” Ron said through a mouthful of food.

Brynja grimaced. “What?”

“We should map the aurors,” Harry said. “Who was where, when. See if we can’t account for them.”

Oliver got up and left the coffee table. Brynja turned to watch him go. “What are you doing?”

“Fetching drinks. We have a long night ahead of us.”

They spent the evening charting out the whereabouts of all the aurors who had been living at the time of Brynja’s exposure. Oliver brought out a big board that was cork on one side and erasable white board on the other. Ron got a bit distracted by the mundane dry-erase markers for a bit, but eventually they got down to business and followed ministry records through every auror’s year. They only allowed events to be written on the board if they had witnesses—no personal testimony from aurors allowed. They worked from Death Eater sightings, arrests, and battles they were seen at.

“So,” Brynja said. “Robards was about, meeting up with Kingsley. But then, nobody is totally accounted for. I mean…everyone has afternoons, evenings, private time to sneak off and betray us.”

“Right, but we have absolutely nothing for these guys,” Oliver said, gesturing wildly at the board. He meant Proudfoot, Gray, and Dawlish.

“Proudfoot is my partner right now. He’s very charming, but he tends to disappear.”

“Charming?” Oliver asked.

“Seems okay to me,” Ron said.

“Like Lockhart seemed okay to Hermione?” Harry asked.

Brynja shrugged. She didn’t want to point fingers at her coworkers based on feelings. Maybe she was just bothered that he didn’t seem to respect her time. “It’s not enough to incarcerate a man, but it’s worth looking into.”

“How about Dawlish. Yancy Dawlish.” Ron held up a photo. Brynja had spoken very little with Dawlish. A wizard in his forties, Dawlish was sent away a lot to remote areas of the country and he was often on on under cover assignments. He didn’t socialize much around the office.

“He’s certainly aloof,” Brynja said.

“I think I’ve seen him at the office about twice.”

“Well, you have only been there for a few weeks.”

Oliver grabbed a bottle of butter beer and topped off their glasses. Harry put his hand on his glass to block another drink. “And Ashton Gray?”

“Dawlish’s partner,” Brynja offered. “Though he’s in the office more. He doesn’t do as much under cover. His face is too memorable.”

“He’s the pointy-faced one with the white hair, yeah?” Ron asked. “Really tall. Eyes so blue they’re almost white?”

“That’s him,” Harry said. “He’s very articulate and direct when he talks to you…like a television newscaster.”

They all stared at Harry.

“It's…well it’s like the fellows on the wireless, but they wear a suit and sit behind a desk. They’re very dispassionate and practical.”

Ron sat back on the sofa and brought his glass to his lips. He drank down a long sip of butterbeer. Brynja cleared away the empty bag of food and Oliver stood up to stretch. Harry stayed put, leaning forward with his hands bridged. “But what does this tell us? All of the aurors were hiding. If they were loyal to the old ministry, they were hunted. We lost Tonks and Moody and a couple others… Archer, Kane, Figgis.”

“Moody was retired,” Oliver said, walking up to the white board and staring at the names. “But you have a point. These guys were probably just really good at surviving. Not many of us could live openly.”

Brynja perched on the arm of the sofa. She looked between Harry and the board. “I know,” she said. “It doesn’t give us anything, really. These people we have accounted for, they could just as easily be dirty.”

“But it has to make them a higher priority, right?” Ron asked, “We can start with these three.”

Harry nodded. “I guess so. At least until we have that potion from Damocles Belby.”

Ron finished off his drink and stood up. “Then that’s where we are.” He set his glass down with a clink on the coffee table. “Suspicious of everyone, certain of no one, and still moving ahead.”

Brynja wasn’t sure she was certain of no one. She trusted Oliver—he had proven his integrity lying to death eaters and nursing her back to health. She trusted Harry and Ron. After all, they were the heroes of the second Great Wizarding War. The only other people she trusted outside of this room were Penny and Percy, and her trust of Percy only went so far: she wouldn’t run to him to help her hide a body. Brynja was a bit saddened to realize that the people she really trusted in this world could be counted on one hand. “So we’ll take turns tailing Gray, Proudfoot, and Dawlish. And when the potion is ready, Harry will interrogate Capper.”

Oliver went to a closet and got out a bed sheet. He draped it over the board to hide their work and pushed it into a back corner of the room.

“Is that going to be a problem?” Harry asked, standing to stretch and gather himself.

“I’ll keep the post-game parties from coming here,” Oliver said. “I figure we’re not ready to erase it yet.”

Harry and Ron moved to the door. It was well past midnight.

“It was good to see you, Harry, Weasley,” Oliver said, following them to the front of the flat. “Even if it is work and not play. You should come by some time so we can go for a fly,” Oliver said.

“I think I will,” Harry replied.

Oliver showed Harry and Ron out before coming back to help Brynja clean up the glasses. Oliver’s kitchen was very modern with smooth, dark wood cabinets and brushed nickel handles. He had a dark wood countertop and light, gray-blue walls. The double-sinks were deep, stainless steel, and the towels hung on the front of the oven were white with gold bulrushes. Brynja charmed the sponge to scrub the glasses in the sink and then opened Oliver’s icebox to look for a snack. She hadn’t indulged in the sandwhiches and now, five hours after they were gone, her stomach grumbled. She found an apple and took a big, loud, satisfying bite of it.

Oliver watched her for a moment before silently turning to charm a towel into drying the glasses. “Is it strange? Working with Harry Potter?”

Brynja laughed and swallowed a bite of apple. “A bit. You’re used to it, though.”

“I got over being star-struck by him when I was thirteen,” Oliver admitted. “He’s just a normal guy. A hot-tempered, driven guy.”

“A kindred spirit, huh?” Brynja teased.

“We are both Gryffindors.” Oliver flicked his wand and sent the glasses to his cabinet. They settled neatly in front of an assortment of Puddlemere Quidditch mugs—blue with gold bulrushes. Did he have any housewares that weren’t blue or Puddlemere branded?

Brynja spun her apple, working around the core clockwise. Oliver turned on the stove to heat the tea kettle. Brynja felt at home in this kitchen. She had lived here while hiding from the Death Eaters for months.

“How has work been?” Oliver asked. “Outside of these clandestine meetings with the famous Harry Potter?”

Brynja paused, chewing, before answering. “I’m on that quintaped attack. The one Harry stopped.”

“All by himself. The kid has guts.”

“Yeah, but, you see, nobody went and got Harry’s report. I don’t see how he could have.”

“Maybe you should talk to him. You know, you do work together.” Oliver pointed with his thumb back towards the living room. “He was kind of just here.”

Brynja nodded. “It’s on my list for Monday. But I have to keep Proudfoot in the loop, even if I have to wait around for him to grace me with his presence.”

“So you’ve got that Fist of Mars stuff, then?”

Brynja nodded. “We found out about the manifesto right after he sent it, but we couldn’t get it out of the hands of the Prophet.”

Oliver crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned back on the counter. He scowled. “Should you have? I mean, is that your job, to quiet the press?”

Brynja finished up her apple and tossed it in the garbage while she thought through her answer. “I have a responsibility to protect people.”

“But does that mean you stop them from hearing the truth?”

“It doesn’t mean the prophet has to give dark wizards a platform! He could have killed people.”

“It’s a primary document. Why I did it: straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“Just because he wrote it, doesn’t mean it’s the truth. He’s bent about his wife dying, and I get it. But he tried to kill people for attention.” Brynja’s voice was getting louder and sharper, and her Scottish brogue was getting thicker as she paced about the kitchen and ranted. “He doesn’t deserve and audience for that. They printed it because he tried to kill people, not in spite of the fact. It’s irresponsible.”

“Hey, hey,” Oliver said, placing his hands on either side of her shoulders to stop her from pacing. “I’m not saying the Prophet did the right thing. I’m just saying it’s not your failure. They made the choice.”

Brynja nodded. She took a deep breath.

“You went to see the guy? In Azkaban?” Oliver asked.

Brynja hesitated. “I did. I’d never been there before.”

“At least the dementors are gone.”

“But you can still feel them, like a stain in the atmosphere. It echoes, that feeling.” Brynja had experienced it during her seventh year, passing by the dementors on the way into Hogsmeade, watching them descend on the pitch during the Quidditch match. She was sure she would never forget that feeling.

“That must have been miserable,” Oliver said. “I can only imagine.” He pulled her into a hug, a strong, warm hug that smelled like grass and wood polish and shaving soap.

“I had dinner with Penny last night,” Brynja said.

Oliver hesitated. “Do you want to talk about Azkaban?”

Brynja pulled away from the hug.

“You just jumped subjects. Do you—did you see anyone you recognized?”

Brynja rubbed her arms. “Not really. No. I mean, only glimpses.”

“Brynja…I’m sorry. I just—” Oliver stopped abruptly and closed his mouth.

She knew he was only trying to help, but she resented him for pushing the subject. She had no desire to talk at length about that time in her life. Every day had been filled with constant terror. She’d had to wear a mask to save her life, and at the same time pretend to open herself up and give herself completely to someone. She didn’t want to be that person. She wanted to forget that Brynja, the one who had become so used to lying.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver said. “It’s not my business. How was dinner with Penny?”

Brynja tried to get out of that darker headspace. She scowled. “She broke up with Percy this week.”

“What?!” Oliver shouted, completely drawn away from the subject of Azkaban and who Brynja saw and the moment of weakness she did not want to discuss when she had laid eyes on Capper. “But they’ve been together since seventh year!”

“For five years, I know! But he’s been getting a little too close to his personal assistant. Some recent Beauxbatons graduate named Audrey.”

“Percy… Percy, Percy, Percy,” Oliver shook his head. “The man is my friend, but even my friends can be stupid.”

They stood in silence for a minute. Brynja sighed. “Well, then. I should get home to bed.”

Oliver nodded. “Yeah, okay.” The kettle started to jiggle on the burner behind him. He turned the stove off. “You don’t want to stay for tea?”

“And fall asleep on your couch?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Brynja moved into the living room. Oliver was close behind her and grabbed her cloak off the hook before she could. She allowed him to help her into it, her light summer cloak trimmed with Ravenclaw blue.

“Brynja,” he said as she opened the door. “Is there… the Ministry has to have someone you can talk to, right? A counselor?”

“I think so,” she said, not turning to look back at Oliver. She just stood in the doorway, letting the cool early autumn air into the apartment.

“Promise me you’ll talk to one. Okay? You don’t have to tell me everything, or anything, but promise me you’ll talk to someone.”

Brynja nodded. She turned over her shoulder to glance at him. “Okay,” she said in a voice that was barely audible.

“Okay,” Oliver replied. He braced his hand on the door frame. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you Monday for our jog, yeah?” Brynja said, hoping to make it clear that she didn’t want things to be uncomfortable between them.

“Monday,” he said. And then, to Brynja’s surprise, he bent down and placed a fleeting kiss on her cheek. “Goodnight.”

Brynja resisted the urge to touch her face. She nodded. “Goodnight.” And then she stepped outside, turned to face him, and apparated home.

Chapter Text

Life stayed busy over the next few days. Ron and Harry went to work where they both grinded away working on their respective cases. In the evenings, Harry and Ron went to help George at the shop (except for Tuesday, when Harry had dinner with Andromeda Tonks and baby Teddy). On lunch breaks and after work—before they were due at Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes—Harry and Ron would casually follow Dawlish, Proudfoot, and Gray.

On Monday after Proudfoot caught Ron following him to The Leaky Cauldron, Ron had to pretend he was going to eat there all along. Proudfoot invited Ron to sit with him, and Ron spent the next forty-five minutes trying to act casual while discussing Quidditch and family and the new band on the WWN, Purple Niffler.

After that, Ron wasn’t allowed to follow Proudfoot, lest it caused suspicion. He tailed Dawlish for the next two days. Dawlish was a very dull man. His routine involved going home to an empty two-bedroom outside of the city and staying in until it was time to head back to work. His file had said something about a grown child in America and a deceased Mrs. Dawlish (before the war). Watching him mostly made Ron sad but not very suspicious.

On Wednesday, when Ron came in from helping out at the shop (they were addressing hundreds of catalogs for shipment to past customers and Hogwarts students), he found a letter waiting from Hermione. It was just what he needed after two days of watching his lonely superior.

Dear Ron,

How are you doing? I know it’s been a week since my last letter, but I am just swamped with school work. We’re starting History of Magic in this century!!! Binns is requiring us to source our materials this year—which means outside research. So exciting!

Anyway, things are going well. I am sure that you heard about Gryffindor’s victory over Hufflepuff in the match on Saturday. Ginny has put together a quality team. It is quite bizarre to be taking so many courses with her (though she is not in Arithmancy with me).

Everything is a bit strange, actually. I am so well known since everything that happened this spring. A few members of our class came back, but mostly I’m with the year below, and people who never spoke to me even once at Hogwarts (even when I dated Krum) are suddenly acting like they know me. I sometimes get worried that I am supposed to know their names. What if I have met them before and I am just being daft? I think I understand how Harry felt for all those years.

How are you and Harry? How are your investigations going? To be honest, it is a bit strange to have so much peace at Hogwarts. For the first time in…ever…I do not have to worry about a murderous serpent or escaped convict. With no threat of Voldemort looming, life can be quite dull. I know, I know! I should count my blessings. I just wish I were out there with you and Harry tackling real problems, like house elf bondage or vigilante wizards. How is that going? What can you tell me?

Before I run out of parchment, I wanted to tell you that we have a Hogsmeade visit this Saturday. Please come and see me if you do not have to work. Tell Harry to come, too.

Love,

Hermione

Ron folded up the letter and tucked it in his night stand. He got out a piece of parchment and a quill, but he wasn’t sure what to write. He couldn’t tell her about the investigation of his boss, lest it be intercepted. He couldn’t give very many details about Protego, though he wasn’t sure what he knew that the press did not. The thought of Hermione at Hogwarts without him was sad, and Ron was sure that—alone in the castle with Ginny off at Quidditch practice all the time—Hermione didn’t need to hear that. She did not need another reminder that he and Harry were off in the world making change while she was separated from them.

Ron was saved from the agony of writer’s block by a patronus arriving. It was an elegant crane, and when it swooped into the room, Williamson’s voice rang out. “Weasley, come quickly. We have another sighting. Diagon Alley where Florean’s used to be.”

And then it was gone.

This was the second time in seven days that Williamson had called Ron in on an emergency. Ron wondered if a life as an auror was a commitment to interrupted dinners.

He arrived ten minutes later in the alley. This time he was still dressed in his nice robes, and he had grabbed a snack on the way out the door. When he found Williamson in the alley next to what had once been Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream parlor and was now a loud pub, he was finishing up the last bite of a stale cheese danish.

“At least the guy’s rescuing witches this time,” Williamson said when Ron approached. No hello, no how are you: it was right down to business.

Williamson pointed down the alley. A woman was sitting on a conjured chair with a blanket around her shoulders. Ron knew her right away.

“Bugger,” he grumbled.

“What?” Williamson asked.

Ron spoke out of the side of his mouth. “That’s my ex.”

It was Lavender Brown. Ron had dated her during his sixth year. He and Lavender had really never had much in common aside from their tempers and love of snogging. Their relationship was pretty much that: snogging. Whenever Lavender had tried to make it anything more, Ron realized just how much he could not stand her. He wasn’t sure why he found the affected baby talk attractive (or tolerable) at first, but now just the memory of it set his teeth on edge. And here she was with styled hair and makeup, dressed for an evening out, smeared in dirt and tears. And Ron felt bad for her. She was annoying, but she was one of the good guys.

“Hey,” Ron said, trying to sound like he wasn’t surprised to see her. “Lavender. It’s me, Ron.”

Lavender rolled her eyes. “I know who you are.”

Ron laughed nervously. “Right. Of course you do. I just—I’m an auror now.”

Williamson scowled and stepped forward. “Miss Brown, right?” He held out a hand to shake. “Dimitri Williamson. I’m Weasley’s partner.”

“Lavender Brown,” she said, shaking his hand. Ron did not offer his hand to shake.

“Miss Brown, can you tell us where you were coming from tonight?”

“Going to,” she said. “The concert, right in there downstairs. Purple Niffler is playing. I was invited to come.”

“By whom?” Ron asked. It seemed like a logical question, and he felt the need to ask something so he didn’t feel like a kid next to Williamson. Ron had no desire to ever date Lavender again, but he still wanted to impress her.

“Kevin…” she trailed off. “This guy Kevin. He was in our year. He’s in the band.”

“Tell us about the attack,” Williamson said as Ron scribbled down “Kevin” and “Ravenclaw?” He kept a notepad in his cloak with a self-inking quill.

“Well, I was on my way in and my heel just broke. Brand new, just snapped. So I stepped out of the way to repair it. When I looked up, this guy with a hood up and a shadow on his face was in front of me, and he grabbed me by the face,” she said, stopping to gesture, her hand like a claw over her mouth. “He covered my mouth and stuck a wand in my side and started to drag me into this alley. It was all really fast and slow at the same time. You know.” Lavender looked directly at Ron, “When you’re fighting for your life. Time slows down, but then it’s all over in a second.”

Ron nodded. He knew.

“And someone else was suddenly fighting him. This tall guy in a black mask and cape. He was shooting spells out of his hands. It was totally that Protego guy. And then the first guy apparated away and Protego asked, ‘Are you okay?’ and when I said I thought so, he apparated too.”

“And then the bouncer at the pub came down the alley?” Williamson asked. Lavender nodded. “I’ve already spoken with him. He didn’t see much. Just heard a lot of noise and saw a few spell flashes.

"Can you think of why anyone would attack you?” Ron asked. He was sure that stray death eaters or their sympathizers would be more worried about Ron or Harry or Neville than Lavender.

She hesitated. “I got a letter this afternoon. Well, it was really a note. A scrap. It said 'You should be put down.’ Nothing else.” Lavender dug into her enormous, dusty pink purse and pulled out a little purple journal. She opened it and drew from its pages a little scrap of parchment folded in half. Williamson read it and passed it to Ron, who held it in the light to look closer.

“Why would someone threaten you like that?” Williamson asked.

Ron thought he saw something and lit his wand. Lavendar winced at the bright light.

“Well, because I was bitten by Fenrir Greyback in The Battle of Hogwarts. I'm…we call it half-bitten or waxing moon. There’s a support group at Mungo’s once a month. That’s where I met—” she abruptly closed her mouth.

“You’re half-bitten?” Williamson asked. “And the attacker wanted you put down?” He swore loudly and flicked his wand. “Expecto Patronum!” he shouted, conjuring his patronus and sending it off to get Savage and Harry.

Ron was right. There was something there. He called Williamson over.

“Look,” he said, tilting the paper. There were marks from a heavy quill. A paper on top of this one had been inscribed with the same words. Ron could see “—ut down—” imprinted into the message Lavender had been sent. Someone had written multiple copies of this message.

“Do you think all of the known werewolves have gotten one of these? How many are public?” Williamson turned to Lavender. “Who goes to this support group?”

Lavender hugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “I really am not supposed to say.”

“Does Bill?” Ron asked as Savage appeared behind him.  "My brother, Bill Weasley. Does he go?“

Lavender nodded silently. A moment later, a deafening crack sounded in the street. Harry had arrived.

Chapter Text

Wednesday night Harry and Savage sent owls off to warn every single witch and wizard on the wolf list to be on the lookout. They spent Thursday and Friday meeting with those on the list to collect threats. Every single person on the list who was still alive had gotten one. The penmanship matched. The wording was identical. Fleur was beside herself with worry about Bill. Harry thought of the bodies they had already found, and he had nightmares about walking in on Mrs. Weasley’s boggart, seeing her paralyzed with fear as it cycled through the bodies of her dead children. She had already lost Fred.

Lavender’s account gave no details about her attacker except for a vague idea that it was probably a man. Harry wished that he could reach out to Protego and promise immunity if the vigilante could give them more information. He worried. He worried about Teddy Lupin. Would this wolf hunter go after the child of a werewolf too? As far as they knew, Teddy didn’t even have the symptoms of a half-bitten, but his parentage was known. Harry being his godfather exposed the baby boy with color-changing hair to gossip and media.

When Saturday came, Harry was exhausted. He and Ron arrived in Hogsmeade early and had a hearty breakfast cooked by Aberforth Dumbledore at the Hog’s Head. They ate mountains of eggs and sausages and muffins and fruit. By the time the girls made it into town, Harry was considering unbuttoning his jeans below his robes; he was stuffed.

They waited just within the gates to Hogsmeade. Harry spotted Ginny’s red hair first, but he heard Hermione directing the third-years before any other voices carried. She was Head Girl, after all. Harry wondered if someone in Ginny’s year felt like they’d unfairly lost that position to an interloper.

Ginny, wearing blue jeans a green and gold sweater that looked half knee-length robe and half hooded sweatshirt, broke from the crowd and ran to hug and kiss Harry. The other students whispered and pointed. He had gone to school with all of them, but they acted like they had never seen him before, standing on tip toe and craning their necks to get a look at him.

When Harry untangled himself from Ginny’s arms (though he was in no hurry), Hermione was standing next to them, holding Ron’s hand. “When Ron didn’t reply to my letter, I thought you might not come.”

Ron rubbed the back of his neck and blushed. “Sorry. I forgot after I got called away in the middle of writing it.”

“Hello, Harry,” a high, dreamy voice said. Harry looked behind Ginny and was surprised to see Luna standing there. He didn’t know why he wasn’t expecting her. She was in Ginny’s year.

“Luna,” Harry said with a grin. “How are you doing?”

“Good. Quite good. I’ve been busy writing a paper on the use of Thestrals as symbols of death in art.”

“Really?” Harry asked, pushing his glasses up his nose. “For Care of Magical Creatures or History of Magic?”

“Hmm?” Luna asked.

“What called you away from my letter?” Hermione asked.

Harry wasn’t sure how much he should say, so he tugged Ginny’s hand and lead the group down a less crowded street. They could hit up Honeydukes after the rush was over. “Uh, there was an attack in London. Actually, a crossover of both our cases. Someone is attacking werewolves and half-bittens, and Protego saved someone from him.”

Luna clapped and bounced on her feet. “Protego! He’s so dreamy.”

Ron crinkled his nose. “How can you tell. He wears a mask.”

“Luna’s smitten,” Ginny said with a teasing smile. “She has her schoolbooks covered in the Daily Prophet pages about him.”

“He’s a hero! And he doesn’t do it with the ministry watching him. He’s rogue. Like you, Harry,” Luna said, looking off at the clouds as if expecting Protego to appear there.

Ron snorted. “We work for the Ministry, Luna. We’re aurors.”

“Now you do.”

Harry opened the door to a shop. Most of the shops had survived the war or rebuilt. Zonko’s hadn’t come back, but Harry suspected that had as much to do with George’s competition as it did with the war. They found themselves in Gladrag’s Wizard Wear. There were students and locals shopping in the clothing store, but it was far less densely packed than the sporting goods shop or the candy store.

Ginny started flipping through the racks of men’s professional dress robes and holding items up to Harry. “So?” she asked. “Attacking half-bittens? Does Bill know?”

Harry nodded. “I met with him yesterday morning. Had breakfast with him and Fleur.”

“Are you dressing him now?” Ron asked.

“Just browsing,” Ginny said, flushing red and putting a green and gold robe back on the rack. Harry shot Ron a nasty glare and picked it up. It was a bit flashy, but he had nothing for formal events. The robes he’d worn for Bill’s wedding had been ruined on the run. “And Lavender,” Ginny said. “Have you warned her?”

“We have,” Harry said.

“Do you want to go to Tomes and Scrolls?” Ron asked, directing Hermione’s attention.

Hermione nodded. “I do need some leisure reading material. I finished that book I was telling you about, Deadly Potion Disasters of the Dark Ages. It was a great read. Did you know—”

“We’ll catch up with you guys later for Butterbeers, right?”

Hermione and Ron left, leaving Ginny and Harry with Luna. They shopped for nearly an hour. Luna sometimes made bizarre suggestions, but her presence was welcome. Ginny told Harry about gifts coming to her from professional Quidditch teams. The Holyhead Harpies were sending her weekly care packages of magazines, snacks, and games. She had a pendant and a shirt from eight different teams. Indeed, the sweatshirt she was wearing now had a little gold talon embroidered on the left side.

“Oliver said something about you being strongly recruited.”

“You’ve been spending time with Oliver? How is he?”

“Good,” Harry said, looking around. They were walking up to the front with a pile of purchases (mostly for Harry, but also a dress that Ginny promised to wear on their first date over winter break.) “He’s just as obsessed with Quidditch as ever, but now it pays. Ron and I have had drinks with him a few times.”

He wanted so badly to tell Ginny about what they were really up to, but he couldn’t risk putting it in a letter or telling her in a crowded shop. He set the pile of robes on the counter and drew his bag of gold to pay. He had never had so many clothes in his life. Until now, he had Dudley’s hand-me-downs and black school work robes. Aside from a few Weasley sweaters, none of his weekend wear had really fit.

They waited for Luna while she paid for a rather fluffy aqua scarf and matching set of mittens. They ducked into Honeydukes to restock (Harry needed a few bars of chocolate for his stockpile), but also left with Ice Mice and Fizzing Whizbees and a handful of other assorted sweets. They had a few hours before they needed to meet Hermione and Ron at The Three Broomsticks. Luna seemed to understand that Harry wanted to talk to Ginny alone, and so after loading up on candy she said she needed to get something repaired at Dervish and Banges and left them alone.

Harry and Ginny took a walk up to the Shrieking Shack and sat on a stone wall to eat Bertie Bott’s beans and talk. “I haven’t been seeing Oliver on social calls,” Harry admitted after spitting a black pepper bean into a shrubbery.

“Oh?”

Harry looked around furtively. Ginny drew her wand and quietly cast a charm to put them in a bubble of silence. “You should learn that one,” she said. “Seventh year charms class.”

“Hey now,” Harry said with a smirk. “I have my honorary O.W.L. in Charms. Outstanding marks.”

Ginny grabbed his collar and yanked him forward, planting a firm kiss on his lips. Harry was eager to talk to Ginny, but he figured it could wait for a few minutes in the name of some quality snogging.

When they finally came up for air, Ginny licked her lips. “You taste like black pepper.”

“Could be worse. Could be booger.” Harry’s expression fell. He looked down at his hands and took a slow, deep breath. “Ron and I are on a secret case. We’re investigating a leak. Shacklebolt thinks our boss was in with the death eaters.”

“What?!” Ginny said in a high, loud voice that made Harry glad they had a bubble of silence. “Robards, right?”

“This auror, Brynja Dunstan, she was under cover. Robards and Shacklebolt and Dunstan were the only ones who knew, but her cover got blown and she was almost killed.”

“I remember her. A Ravenclaw. She was in a study group with Percy. She’s Penny’s friend.”

“And apparently Oliver’s friend. Oliver hid her after the death eaters found out what she was up to. So he’s our cover story for meeting. We’re investigating Robards, and making sure he wasn’t the only one.”

“So what are you doing?”

Harry closed the pouch of jelly beans and put it away in his bag. “I’ve got Damocles Belby making Polyjuice. I’m going in to interrogate one of the Death Eaters as Brynja.”

“Why isn’t she?”

“Long story,” Harry said. “Basically this guy stabbed her a few times with Bellatrix Lestrange’s cursed dagger…so…”

Ginny nodded. “Got it.”

Harry looked out at The Shrieking Shack. It still looked like a boarded-up old Haunted House, but the roof looked more solid than he remembered. He wondered if that was one of the renovations McGonagall was talking about.

“Anything else?”

Harry looked back at Ginny. The autumn sun filtered through the trees and dappled golden light on her hair. He smiled. “Huh?”

“What else are you doing to investigate?”

“That’s about it. Just tailing some other aurors, though I don’t know what we expect to find. I mean…it’s not like they’re going to report in to Voldemort.”

Ginny shook her head. “No, no that certainly won’t happen.”

“Capper is our only lead. That’s the death eater.”

“Are you going to make a deal with him?”

Harry hadn’t thought much about how he intended to get the information out of Capper. Had he expected the guy to just start monologuing if he came in looking like the right person? He shrugged. “Maybe. I guess I have to see what kind of deal I’m authorized to make.” Harry made a mental note to drop in on Kingsley before the potion was ready. He looked back out of the shack, and he thought of something.

“There’s a girl, Reilly Brune. First year, werewolf.”

“Why you were at Hogwarts a few weeks ago?”

Harry nodded.

“Well good thing Hogwarts has practice at working with werewolves.”

“I’m not worried about her hurting someone,” Harry said. “I’m worried about someone hurting her. Someone is determined to kill her, and we don’t know who we’re looking for. She’s a full werewolf, which probably puts her high on their priorities.”

“Hermione and I are here,” Ginny said. “And Luna. You want us to look after her?”

All three girls had survived The Battle of Hogwarts. Harry thought about how much they had been through. “Yeah,” he said. “But don’t let her know you know. It’s just, well, I’m sure her parents wouldn’t be too happy that the ministry told someone about her. Confidentiality and all that.”

“I won’t, but I’m betting they’d just be happy the famous Harry Potter has assigned his closest confidants to work as her security detail.”

Ginny looked at her watch, a delicate silver band with a mechanical timepiece on it (the only kind that worked at Hogwarts). “We have a little bit of time before we meet up with Hermione and Ron. What do you say we go find a more private corner to snog in?”

She wasn’t going to hear any arguments from Harry. “Yeah, I think I could squeeze it in to my busy schedule.”

“That’s plenty of work talk for today. Let’s just enjoy the rest of the day.” Ginny hopped off the wall and grabbed his hand. She dragged Harry to his feet, and he let her lead the way.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy sat in a green velvet wing-backed chair reading from a leather-bound book by the light of a flickering torch. He was in the Malfoy library, an enormous room with floor-to-ceiling shelves covered in books, busts, and magical instruments. Some of the shelves were looking sparse these days, as the Ministry of Magic had confiscated a good deal of his father’s books for containing material about dark magics. The ladder was parked at a shelf by the door, where Draco had moved it to browse for the book he was looking at now, Enchanting Espionage: Sorcerous Spycraft.

The library was upstairs. Adjacent to his chair was a big picture window that looked out over the laws behind the house. Draco finished the end of a chapter and rose to look out the window. He stretched, pushing his hands into his lower back. Draco was getting cabin fever, even in the drafty old manor. He didn’t dare go out except on essential errands: public opinion was against his family. Still, he dressed himself every morning and made a list of things to do. He had read quite a few books on his to-read list and written to the few classmates he had that weren’t in prison and didn’t detest him. His parents were not much for company: Draco blamed his father for steering their family to the losing side of of history, and Lucius blamed Narcissa for Harry’s survival and Voldemort’s defeat. He had quickly forgotten that he was already out of The Dark Lord’s favor long before The Battle of Hogwarts. But at least none of them were in Azkaban.

Draco ran a hand through his silvery blonde hair and began to turn from the window. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a black shape move across the perfectly manicured lawn. Draco turned back to the glass as the shadow slipped behind a hedge. He was certain he had seen it.

His heart raced. He bolted from the room and ran down the dark damask hallway to the walnut staircase that emptied out into the foyer. Perhaps it was an animal, but Draco wasn’t taking any chances. The Malfoys had all read that Fist of Mars manifesto, though they would never discuss it. They had all received nasty letters and threats.

Lucius Malfoy came into the foyer as Draco landed on the first floor. His wand was flashing. Something had triggered an alarm he had set. Lucius, his face gaunt, his eyes dark, was dressed for bed in a long night robe, his long white hair unbound. “I saw it,” Draco said. “Out back.”

Both men had their wands drawn. They stood back-to-back, father and son. They waited, listening. The wind howled outside, but there was no sign of an attacker. “Do you think it may have been an animal?” Draco asked, his voice cracking from the tension in his throat. He focused on the end of his wand and saw that it was shaking.

“You were the one who saw it,” Lucius said with an annoyed edge on his drawling voice. “Did it look like an animal?”

Draco lowered his wand and looked back at his shoulder. Was he going to be blamed for this? It wasn’t his alarm! If Draco had set the perimeter, he’d have used a more complex charm that read the intent of the intruder. “Out of the corner of my eye,” he snapped.

Their argument was interrupted by a shattering of glass. The stained glass window above the door—a colorful image of of a dragon—was smashed as a fist-size object hurtled inside. It landed on the flagstone floor and exploded into pieces. It was a potion, and from the splattering green fluid, fumes arose. They expanded quickly, filling the air. Draco realized what was happening and drew his sweater up over his face.

Draco and Lucius ran through the large double-doors that lead to the lower levels of the manor. Lucius went straight down the hall and out the back door onto the patio. Draco glanced back and saw the green haze filling the foyer and beginning to drift into the hall. He hurtled around the corner into the dining room and beyond to the family room. Narcissa was sitting on a sofa with silver upholstery. “Draco?” she asked, alarmed by Draco’s state of panic.

There was no time to explain. Draco grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet. He pulled her towards the door to the garden and threw his shoulder into it, splitting the wood around the latch and cracking the glass panes. There was no time to fiddle with doorknobs.

The Malfoy family ran out onto the grass and kept moving until they were far away from the house. Lucius, sweat on his brow and his hair tousled, spun around in furious circles, aiming his wand at the darkness.

“What was that?” Narcissa asked, watching the green gas seep out of the windows and doors and diffuse into the night air.

“Poison,” Draco said. He was sure of it.

Last year, playing host to death eaters at his home, Draco had been spared from death eater outings. Still, isolated at the Malfoy Manor, he had seen a few of his superiors cast The Dark Mark: a skull and serpent formed from pinpricks of green light. As Draco, Lucius, and Narcissa slowly crept around the side of the house to see if their attacker had left, Draco saw something that reminded him of this. Burned into the gravel of their front drive, a picture made of glowing, red-hot stones, was an image of a fist.

“We need to call the ministry,” Narcissa said, clinging to Draco.

Draco agreed. This was very bad. The Fist of Mars was either a real organization, or they had inspired followers. Draco was certain now that the gas was meant to murder them all. Whoever had done this saw their deaths as a necessary execution: justice. Narcissa was right. They needed the protection of the Ministry that had shown them mercy. He just hoped they wouldn’t send Harry Potter.

Chapter Text

Garrick Ollivander, the senior Mr. Ollivander, was in rough shape these days. He had never quite recovered from the extensive torture he was put through by Voldemort thanks to the eccentricities of wand ownership. He was weak and slept poorly, and he was already a very old man nearing a hundred years in age; he just wasn’t as spry as Dumbledore had been in his final years, and so Garrick Sr. had Garrick IV helping him out in the shop.

When Ron Weasley and Dimitri Williamson entered the shop on Wednesday, Ron quickly saw that it was not the same place he had visited third year after their family vacation to Egypt. The shelves, once densely packed with long, thin boxes, were nearly empty. Everything was neat. Ron hated it.

“Woah,” he said quietly to himself as he stepped through the door. He remembered going with all of his siblings to pick out their wands, but his first wand had been a hand-me-down. When the Weasleys had won that drawing and Ron had been allowed to buy a new wand, Mr. Ollivander had explained that “the wand chooses the wizard, you know.” For that process to work, there needed to be lots of wands and lots of wizards. Ron now wondered if there were even three dozen in stock.

“Welcome,” a voice said from the back. It wasn’t the raspy voice of old Mr. Ollivander. The voice was young and vigorous. Ron hated that, too. Mr. Ollivander’s young apprentice came out from the back room. He was neatly dressed in long open robes over a shirt and tie. Ron didn’t know very many wizards over the age of forty who dressed in such combinations of muggle and wizard fashion. The youngest Garrick was in his late twenties. He had the same pale silver eyes as his great grandfather, though he was much taller and had otherwise dark Mediterranean features.

Williamson offered a hand. “Dimitri Williamson, Ministry of Magic, Aurors.”

“Garry Ollivander,” the young man said. Ron examined his features for other signs of relation to the genius wand crafter. He supposed their long noses were kind of the same. “Wandmaker apprentice. What can I help you gentlemen with?”

“Is your grandfather around?” Williamson asked.

“My great grandfather. No, I’m afraid he’s in bed this morning. He should be in later to do some crafting if his health allows it. Is there something I can help you with?”

“We’re on a case,” Ron said. “And we need to know about a possible wand purchase. Who made it, when, that sort of thing.”

“Do you have the wand?”

“No,” Ron said. “We don’t.”

“Then how long is it? The core?”

Ron shrugged. “It’s probably shorter than a very tall person’s forearm,” he said, his statement coming out like more than a question.

“So less than thirteen inches?”

“Probably.” Ron rubbed the back of his neck.

“We’re looking for Protego,” Williamson explained. “As a witness to a crime,” he lied. Well, yes Protego would be a witness to Lavender Brown’s attack, but they also wanted to arrest him. “And we realize the bloke running around with wands strapped to his arm must have purchased a second wand at some point before he started running amuck.”

Ollivander frowned. He crossed his arms and rubbed his lower lip for a moment, then he nodded and held up a finger in a “one minute” gesture. He left the front room of the shop and vanished behind the curtain to the back. After a few minutes, he came out with a small ledger. “These are all the purchases since May. Most of them have been Hogwarts first years, but a few were replacements for lost or stolen wands in the war and one was broken—dog got a hold of it and turned all his insides including his tongue lime green. I wouldn’t recommend chewing on a phoenix feather wand.”

Williamson took the ledger and flipped through it. He got out a notepad and wrote a few names. “Most of these are kids or women,” Williamson said.

“We have sold few wands,” Ollivander explained. “The old wands were stolen or destroyed. A few were recovered, but some were clearly tampered with and we didn’t want to risk the faulty stock. Our records are gone from before the war, I’m afraid.”

“Well, it was probably a recent purchase anyway,” Williamson said.

“Have you—” Ollivander hesitated.

“What?” Ron asked.

“Have you considered that this Protego fellow might be using a relative’s wand? He wouldn’t need to buy two if someone died and passed a second on. And, well, there was a lot of that going on last year.”

Ron frowned. Williamson looked between Ollivander and his short list of names. “Well,” he said. “That may be, but we can at least look at these folks. What other leads do we have?”

“I guess if you’re grasping at straws, you could also try other wand makers. More competition is springing up now that my great grandfather isn’t in top shape.”

“Thanks,” Ron said. “We’ll try that.” He was a bit ruffled at the way Ollivander had said it: grasping at straws. It made them sound incompetent. It wasn’t their fault evidence was lacking.

Williamson and Ron turned to leave the shop. The sun shining through the windows into the small, dark shop was almost blinding. Ollivander called out. “Mr. Weasley.”

Ron looked back and saw Ollivander’s hand raised in a hesitant wave. “Thank you,” he said. “I know you helped rescue my great grandfather.”

Ron felt his face getting hot. “Yes, well, I was kind of there by accident, but I’m glad I could help.”

“You saved his life. You saved him from hell.”

He was certain that his face was scarlet now. “Well…you’re welcome.” You’re welcome?Ron kicked himself. Oh, sure Ron, next time everyone is being tortured by a psychopath blood-purist with a cult following running the government, he’ll be sure to owl you. Ron hurried out the door behind Williamson.

“You okay there Weasley?”

“I’m never going to get used to that.”

“Too bad.” Williamson chuckled. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

It had been almost a week since the full moon, and Marcus Belby had fully recovered from the toll that the physical transformation took on his body. He had spent a few days at home resting and reading up on the theory that werewolves could train to become animagi to thwart the involuntary transition (or at least make it voluntary and thus eliminate the phsyical strain.) He didn’t think the ministry would give him their blessing to try it, especially as he hadn’t obeyed the law to report his current infliction.

Marcus was working the counter when Brynja Dunstan entered the shop on Friday morning. “Oh,” Marcus said, instead of a proper greeting. He had taken his potion, and so he had a clear memory of Brynja’s horrified expression as she watched his transformation take place. An auror had seen it happen. This was the other shoe dropping; he was certain of it.

“Don't… don’t worry,” she said, closing the door behind her instead of letting it swing shut in its own time. “I haven’t told anyone. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Potter and some witch were in here a few weeks ago trying to account for all of the werewolves,” Marcus said, his hands pressed to the counter. He could feel fight or flight kicking in, though he knew any threat Brynja posed was existential.

“Not my case,” she said.

Marcus didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure he could trust her.

“You look good,” she said. “I mean, you look healthy.”

“Diet and exercise makes recovery easier,” Marcus said. He had been a very tall and gangly teenager. It had been a conscious effort to eat more protein and exercise so that his body would heal itself. Every transformation was a struggle. On a monthly basis his body fought as magical forces beyond his control shifted his bones and muscles. His entire physiology changed, and that took a lot of energy.

Marcus watched Brynja edge towards the counter. He frowned. “What do you need? Are you just here to assure me, or—”

“Ministry business. Nothing to do with werewolves. I need your uncle’s expertise.”

“My uncle has the day off,” Marcus said. “After he covered for me earlier this week. You’ll have to come back another time.”

Brynja drew the little leather pouch of broken glass out of her purse. There was a charm placed on the bag to stop the pieces from damaging each other or their container. “Maybe you can help. You’re good with potions?”

“I am excellent with potions,” he said. Marcus wasn’t the kind to brag about anything; he had spent most of his life being beaten down by his older brothers. He didn’t tend to inflate his own ego or embellish his achievements for others. It was just an irrefutable fact. He was one of the best in his class, and he was an apprentice to the greatest living potion maker in the United Kingdom (and possibly all of Western Europe.) He was no Damocles Belby, but maybe one day he could be close. “Let me try to answer your questions, and if I can’t, we can try getting hold of my uncle.”

Marcus opened the bag and looked at the shards of glass. He smelled them. “Is there anything on here?”

“Not a trace.” Brynja drew her wand and tapped the bottle. “Reparo,” she muttered. The glass formed an almost-new bottle, though it had a few chips and scratches from pieces she didn’t get off the Malfoys’ floor. “So this was thrown through a window. As soon as it hit the air, it started forming green clouds of poison. They filled the whole house and hung around for two days. I’ve seen lingering poisons in texts—traps for dungeons mostly. But I’ve never seen anything of this size that can expand to fill a house.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “How big?”

Brynja put the floor plans on the counter. Marcus’s eyes went wide. “This is a big house. Wait… is this the attack on Malfoy Manor?”

Brynja nodded. “But let’s keep that between me and you. It’s not well known the quintaped was stunned with a potion, and I want to keep all of these details on a need-to-know basis.”

“Right.” Marcus scowled. “So we’re protecting people who were death eaters.”

“I’m not a big fan either, but justice is justice, even if you are a scumbag.”

Marcus had managed to keep his head down throughout most of the year when the death eaters were in charge. His brothers had all joined-up, but Marcus had stayed out of it until they came around looking to coerce his uncle. Just like with everything else in his life, his brothers had tried to guide his decisions through force. As a kid he remembered Julian sitting on him until he promised to go in on asking their mother for a racing broom for Christmas. Marcus had no interest in flying, and he had never gotten to fly the thing once it arrived. Every toy Marcus enjoyed, every extra slice of cake he could have eaten, was taken from him by one of the older Belby boys. So it was not really a surprise when they showed up on behalf of The Dark Lord to use Marcus as leverage. He just hadn’t expected them to be with Fenrir Greenback when the moon was about to cross over into fullness any minute. They didn’t remember what time of the month it was, or perhaps they wouldn’t have been so stupid. Perhaps Julian would be alive.

“One of my brothers is in Azkaban, and the other is on the run,” Marcus says. “And the third is dead. Lucius Malfoy got a deal because he was willing to name names and because his wife got scared at the last minute. He should be rotting in Azkaban.”

“So your brothers should be out?” Brynja remembered the older Belbys. They ran around with snatchers as low-level thugs, but they sure thought they were important.

“Oh, no. Hell no. They’re the reason I was bitten. They turned on me and my uncle so that Lord Snake-Face would give them good-boy pats on the back. They deserve what they got.” Marcus had a hard time missing them. They had never been good to him, and their father had never intervened. Survival of the fittest, he’d called it when Domitian, the oldest brother, had beaten up Marcus, who was seven years younger. At least Nero and Julian were too busy with their social lives to bother Marcus at Hogwarts without their older brother there to egg them on.

Marcus focused back on the plans of the house, looking at the square footage. It was a very big house, and for a minute he was just as baffled as Brynja. Then he remembered something.

“Lurking Death,” he said. “Used to cover dungeon floors in the thirteenth century. A special kind of torture designed by sadists: if you fall asleep, if you sink too close to the floor, you breathe it in and die. It’s green, and you have to do the final heating of the potion in a sealed bottle because it vaporizes as soon as it touches the air.”

“I remembered that from Snape’s poisons unit,” Brynja said. “But that fills an area only six inches off the ground. This was the entire first floor. Probably eight feet.”

Marcus smiled. “Right, but—hang on.” He went into the back room and came out with a very dusty volume with a leather cover. An open-mouthed skull was tooled into the front, and it was stained black with acid green edges on the pages.

“It’s comforting to see how dusty that book is.”

Marcus chuckled. “Yes, well, we don’t use it to make poisons. It’s not our style. Only antidotes.” He flipped through the pages and found what he was looking for: the recipe. “Look at this. Bat spleen, sulphur vive, rotten egg, death cap, adder’s fork, and antimony. Add the antimony when the potion is cool, seal in glass bottle with cork. Heat for thirty seconds.”

“And?”

Marcus was feeling a mix of pride in himself and guilty admiration for the brewer of this poison. Sure, it was unethical to try and murder the Malfoy family, but what they had done was genius. “What else has bat spleen and has to cool completely before being heated for thirty seconds?”

Brynja frowned. “I don’t remember. I rely on recipes.”

“Swelling solution. It’s basic stuff. And the puffer fish eyes and the dried nettles wouldn’t interact with any of these ingredients. Except maybe the egg, and that would just make the smell worse. Whoever your culprit is, they know their potions, and they figured out how to splice Lurking Death with a potent Swelling Solution.”

Brynja smiled now, too. She nodded. “Yeah. You’re good.” She started waving her finger. “This is good. Good. You got a list of those ingredients?”

Marcus scribbled it down on a scrap of paper. “Now the sulphur vive they could have made themselves if they’re this good with potions. But the antimony has to be over six hundred and thirty degrees to be molten, so you’re not going to liquify that on your own. That is probably the easiest ingredient to track. It will come in a special charmed bottle that stays hot on the inside and cold on the outside, and there will be a liability waiver signed on record at most shops because it’s so easy to poison or burn yourself. The apothecary doesn’t even cary it because it’s so dangerous.”

“So Knockturn Alley?”

Marcus nodded. He occasionally went down there on errands for his uncle, but only for rare and dangerous ingredients that the Diagon Alley shops couldn’t be bothered to carry. He scrawled the names of the two potion shops at the bottom of the ingredients list. “Ten-to-one says they got it from one of those places.”

“Thanks,” Brynja said, snatching up the list. Her gestures became quicker. She seemed eager to go check it out.

“Any time,” Marcus said. That had been kind of fun, like a puzzle! “Any time.”

Brynja left the shop in a hurry. Marcus saw her briskly walking, almost running, towards Knockturn Alley. He went back to his daily chores of dusting shelves and writing to place ingredients orders. Maybe Brynja was okay. Maybe she wouldn’t divulge his secret. Hopefully no one would ask.

Chapter Text

Ron was already growing quite bored with tailing their suspects. It had only been a week, but he had decided days before that this was a fool’s errand. Why would a death eater who got away with their crimes start meeting with other death eaters after the war was over? There was nothing to be gained. Harry insisted they keep doing it, though, because they had nothing else.

On Friday night, Ron followed Ashton Gray from the office to the Apothecary to Gringott’s and then back to his flat in South London. Gray’s house was a three-story townhouse with camel-colored brick facing and an arched doorframe. As Gray approached it on foot, Ron lurked in the shadows at a distance. He was retreating into his thoughts as Gray unlocked the door. This was stupid. This was pointless. This was a waste of time. He didn’t even notice when Gray drew his wand and aimed a stunning spell into the dark.

It caught Ron completely unawares, and with his legs and arms frozen, he lost his balance and toppled over. “Who’s there?” Gray shouted, hearing the tumbling noise that indicated a successful hex.

“Rnnn Wsslluhhh,” Ron mumbled through a petrified jaw. Ron was a big guy, and he was used to the spells of his classmates wearing off pretty quickly (unless they were Hermione). This was a solid stunner.

“Weasley?” Gray asked, confused. “Ron Weasley?”

“Ysssh,” Ron said, struggling but finding himself completely unable to move.

Gray walked briskly up the sidewalk, stopping in front of Ron. He stood over him in the dark, his tall, lean figure silhouetted in the street lamp behind him, his silver hair golden in the warm light. He waved his wand and freed Ron. “Why are you stalking me, Weasley?”

Ron climbed to his feet, his face growing hot as he tried to think of a reason. He had already been busted once and had to eat dinner with Proudfoot. What could he do now? Maybe a partial truth would do.

“I needed to ask you some questions, but away from the office.”

“What kind of questions?” Gray asked, and Ron noticed he hadn’t put his wand away. Ron was acutely aware of his own wand strapped to his hip in its holster.

“Well,” Ron said. “Harry and I think someone in the department is up to something…”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because…” should he say what they knew? Because someone had squealed on Brynja? “Because when the Malfoys took us and Hermione, we heard Lestrange talking about an auror they had on their side,” he lied. “And, well, I wanted to ask you if you saw anything suspicious.”

Gray narrowed his gaze. “Or to ask me where I was?” He spun around and started to leave. “Go home, Weasley. If you’re so concerned, we can talk to Robards on Monday.”

Robards? That was the last person Ron wanted Gray talking to. “Wait!” Ron shouted, and he reached out to grab Gray’s arm. Gray spun around, wand aimed at Ron. Ron kept his grip on the fabric of Gray’s robe, and with the twisting, the loose sleeve scrunched up, revealing a coal black mark on Gray’s arm. Ron could only see a bit of the mark, but he knew it was no ordinary tattoo. He recognized the fragment as the tail of a serpent. “Dark Mark,” he blurted, and then he threw himself to the left just in time for a blast of red sparks to shoot past his ear.

Ron hit the ground, but he kept his head just enough to stick his enormous foot out and sweep Gray’s legs. Gray landed hard on his back, and his wand rolled inches away from his hand. Ron crawled towards it.

As his fingers were just about to grab the wand, he felt Gray’s hand grip the back of his collar. Ron was choking, and Gray used that moment of hesitation to reach into the younger man’s holster and take his wand. “Don’t you move, Weasley,” Gray said in a low, tense voice. Ron glanced at Gray’s wand on the sidewalk, but he knew that he couldn’t reach it and cast a spell before Gray could react. He wasn’t fast enough. He’d never been the most gifted when it came to spells.

“Nosy, nosy Weasley and Potter can’t mind their own business. You think it was an easy choice? Work for us or end up like the Longbottoms. I saw what happened to them. I was their colleague back before you were even born. The ministry was already lost. What would you do, given the choice to join the winning side or be tortured until you regressed into nothing but a toddler? Can you say you really would have made a different choice?”

“Are you asking for my pity?” Ron asked. Laying on the sidewalk, looking up at Gray, Ron’s thoughts went to the Great Hall at Hogwarts the morning after the battle. Fred’s corpse was laid out under a blanket, his eyes closed, his smile gone. Each and every Weasley had refused to cooperate with the Death Eater Ministry. Each and every Weasley had faced impossible odds. Even Percy, ambitious and self-interested as he was, had made the right choice. There was no excuse for Gray. “Because you’re not going to get it.” Ron spat at Ashton Gray’s feet. “Go ahead and kill me. Harry won’t stop until he finds out who did it, and then you’ll be spending the rest of your life in a cell next to someone else you put there. Go ahead.”

Gray’s hand was shaking. “Oh, there are plenty of known Death Eaters to blame for this.”

“Outside your house?”

“I can move a body.”

“Harry knows where I was going.”

“Doesn’t mean you made it there.”

Their conversation was cut short by a shot from the dark. A blast of blue sparks appeared behind Gray, colliding with the back of his head and sending him sprawling on top of Ron. Out of the shadows ran Neville Longbottom, wand out. Neville looked better than when Ron had last seen him. Neville had spent the last few months of the war in hiding at Hogwarts, training to fight with the DA. The pudgy, round-faced boy of their first year was gone, though his large brown eyes and apple cheekbones made him look more like his mother than father. He was dressed in a uniform that Ron recognized as belonging to the hit-wizard squad.

“Neville!” Ron said, pushing Gray off of him. He wasn’t stunned or frozen, just unconscious. Ron’s wand had gone flying out of Gray’s hand and rolled into the street. Neville summoned it and handed it to Ron as he helped him off the ground. “What are you doing here?”

“Gran lives in this neighborhood,” Neville said. He summoned ropes to wrap around Gray. “Who is this guy?”

Ron knelt down and pulled Gray’s sleeve back, confirming the full Dark Mark. “Auror,” Ron said. “Well, soon to be ex, I’m guessing.” Ron wondered if Neville had heard all of that stuff Gray had been saying about his parents being like toddlers. “Blimey! I could have just died right then.” Ron rubbed his forehead and looked around the darkened street. A bus passed by filled with muggles, and lights were on down the street, but nobody had come out to see what all the commotion was. Cities, Ron thought. At least he didn’t have to get the obliviators out when the muggles willfully ignored conflict.

“Should we call for Harry?” Neville asked.

Ron nodded. Harry first, then the rest of the Aurors. They boys needed some time to think of what they would tell their boss.

Chapter Text

Bracken Attaway. That was the name Brynja had gotten from the shop in Knockturn Alley—that was the purchaser of the liquid antimony as well as adder’s fork, deathcap, and sulphur vive. Perhaps he was a genius potion maker, but he was a stupid criminal.

Brynja and Proudfoot were now crouched outside the windows of Mr. Attaway’s home. The place was a little run-down two-story house just a few miles west of Diagon Alley. Mr. Attaway lived there with his two pet kneazles, according to his file. He had graduated from Hogwarts a few years ahead of Brynja as a Gryffindor and was never married. He was a muggleborn.

“Ready?” Proudfoot asked, a smile almost on his lips. He tended to smile, even in the bleakest of situations, if there was a chance there might be a fight.

Brynja nodded. “Sure we can’t knock?”

“Cowards kill with poison. You want to give him a chance to run?”

They had already cast a barrier around the house to prevent apparation, but Brynja knew there were mundane ways to escape capture. She nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Once more into the breech.”

Proudfoot stood up and aimed his wand at the door. In one motion the door unlocked and swung open. He ran inside, wand out, and Brynja covered him from the window. Bracken Attaway was standing in his kitchen, directing his pots and pans to cook dinner. He was frozen in shock at the sudden intrusion of the two aurors.

“Bracken Attaway, you’re under arrest by the authority of the Department of Magical Law enforcement under suspicion of crimes of dark magics. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you—”

Attaway found his composure and started to run for the stairs. Proudfoot was right behind him. Brynja entered the home and blocked the door as the two men circled around the kitchen counter and the sofa, Attaway keeping the furniture between himself and the auror.

Attaway stumbled into an end table with an oil lamp. The table wobbled but did not fall. The light of the lamp flickered, dancing off the kitchen knife clutched in his hand. Brynja forgot herself. She forgot where she was. Attaway was Sam Capper. The traditionally decorated house became the London loft where Brynja had lived. She could hear Bellatrix singing.

Brynja began to have trouble breathing. She sucked in air with sharp, short breaths, but it never felt like enough. It felt like her heart was leaping into her throat and interrupting each intake.

And then Attaway was on the ground, the knife stuck into the wall behind him, his hands tied behind his back. Proudfoot was standing in front of Brynja, his brow knit together with concern. “Dunstan,” he said, grabbing her shoulders as she tried to breathe. “Dunstan. Hallo. Come on there. Take it easy.”

He counted, guiding her as she slowed her breathing. She felt dizzy, and Proudfoot walked her over to the floral print sofa while their perpetrator thrashed around on the floor, fighting to be free of his bonds.

“Sorry,” Brynja said as the dizziness subsided. She stared down at her hands and her unmanicured nails. She had left her partner without backup. What if there had been multiple suspects here? What if Attaway had been ready with his wand?

“Come on,” Proudfoot said, flicking his wand in Attaway’s direction and levitating him towards the door. “Let’s get you to St. Mungo’s.”

“I’m fine,” she said, not wanting to be any more trouble. She knew they should search the house now, but she didn’t think she could stand to do it.

“Clearly,” Proudfoot said, sarcasm dripping. “But let’s get you looked at anyway.”

Proudfoot sent his Patronus to call for a hit squad to get the suspect before helping Brynja out the front door to fetch a cab to the hospital.

Chapter Text

Harry and Savage took a trip out to Azkaban to interview Scabior. He had been captured on the Harry’s first day of work. Harry remembered the snatcher from their encounter in the forest, the day Hermione had hexed Harry’s face with a stinging jinx to try and mask his identity from the bounty hunters. Scabior had recognized Harry’s scar and brought him to the Malfoys, an evening that had ended with the rescue of Luna and Mr. Olivander and the death of Dobby and Pettigrew and the acquisition of Draco’s wand—a seemingly minute detail that had saved Harry’s life in his show-down with Voldemort at the beginning of May.

Scabior was less cocky than Harry remembered him. His swagger was replaced by a kind of twitchiness that came with weeks of isolation. He hadn’t been a true believer, which is why he had never been marked and initiated into Voldemort’s inner circle. He was just a profiteer.

Savage and Harry returned with little information. Scabior seemed unwilling to talk as his trial was still upcoming. When they returned to the office, they found the mood somber. Word had gotten around about Gray’s betrayal (Harry had known all weekend since Ron called him). The former auror’s desk sat empty in the back corner, everyone seemed to be making wide arcs to avoid passing by it.

“So,” Savage said, sitting in her chair and putting her big combat boots up on the desk. “Square one. No new werewolves, no clue who the hunter is…”

Brynja Dunstan had been passing by and hesitated. Harry saw the hitch in her step and looked up. Was she wanting to say something about Gray and their investigation? “What is it?” he asked. Did they need an excuse to talk in private?

“Nothing,” she said. “Nevermind. Just thought I heard… it’s been a weird day. What with…” he eyes passed over Gray’s desk. Harry nodded in agreement.

“I hear you rounded up the Fist’s potion maker,” Savage said. “Proudfoot says you figured it out from the ingredients.”

Brynja nodded. “I had a consultant. It was easy to trace once we realized what rare ingredients he’d need. Proudfoot and I are going out to Azkaban to interview the suspect today.”

Harry crossed to the kettle and started to mix himself a cup of tea.

“Harry and I were just out there,” Savage said. “Interviewing Mr. Scabior. That was a bloody dead end.”

“He’s all clammed up,” Harry said. “Won’t say a word that might implicate him. Not that he has plausible deniability.”

Savage nodded. “Harry’s on the preliminary witness list. Going to be hard to claim innocence when The Chosen One points a finger at you.”

Harry grunted. He would prefer everyone got a fair trial, but he was pretty confident in the integrity of his own testimony.

“Did you check his evidence box?” Brynja asked. She had relaxed now, whatever tension she had been holding when she’d first overheard their conversation had assed. “Gray… well, he was saying a few weeks ago when he processed the man that he had found a very detailed log book. Bounties, dates, payments. He wanted to make sure the wealthy pureblood class didn’t stiff him one what he was due.”

Savage shot up in her chair. “Seriously?”

Brynja nodded. “Seriously.”

Savage was already at the door to the evidence closet. Brynja crossed to the kettle while Harry poured lemon and honey into his mug. She got her own ministry seal-stamped mug down and started to pour hot water. “Is Ron okay?”

Harry nodded. “He was very lucky.”

“I didn’t expect the tails to actually catch—”

“I know,” Harry said. It had been a move of desperation, stalking their suspects. The fact that it had paid off was making Harry consider other options. Maybe the way to go was to turn up the heat instead of hiding. Maybe the traitors among them would get sloppy if they thought they were under suspicion. After all, what reason did they have to act except to cover their trails? There was nothing to be gained from affiliating with death eaters these days, but there was plenty to be lost from being discovered.

“The wizard who saved him—”

“Our friend Neville.”

“He’s the one who—”

“Killed the last horcrux. Yeah. He’s a hitwizard now, apparently.”

Brynja filled a mesh ball with loose leaf tea and dropped it in her cup. “I did that for a while. High demand for dueling skill, but you leave all the investigative work to the aurors. There’s a little bit of crowd control and nicely asking crabby old warlocks to keep their krups away from muggles, but it’s kind of a meat-head job.”

“Are you saying—”

“If your friend has any sense,” she looked directly at the empty desk. “We have an opening.”

Savage came busting out of the evidence room at the back near Gray’s desk. She had a little leather book with a dark-green cover in her hands, and she was already reading it out loud. “Monday, August 18, 1997. Steven and Scott Ingles. Escaped. Both bitten by Greyback. Wednesday, August 20, 1997. Jessamine and Parker Woodbury. Jessamine captured alive and delivered to Bellatrix Lestranger. Parker killed in combat by Wilkins. Bounty fifty galleons alive, ten galleons dead. Marked paid. Merlin’s beard…”

Ten galleons for a human life. Dinner for two at decent restaurant. A new set of trainers. That was what a murder had been worth to these people. With mountains of gold in his vault from his parents and Sirius, it felt like such a trivial thing for a wizard to kill for.

“We should take whatever’s left in his vault and pay it to all the families,” Harry said. “Maybe it’ll buy some school books for their kids.”

Savage nodded. She set the book down on her desk and sat squarely behind it, flipping through the pages. “I guess we only need to skim this for mentions of Greyback. He seems to catalogue exactly who made the killings and any severe injuries they may have escaped with.”

Brynja quietly went back to her desk. Harry set his warm mug of tea down next to the book and sat to wait while Savage skimmed it. The journal was a small thing, about eight inches tall and four inches across. There was no point in them both trying to read it at once.

Harry glanced over at the page she was reading. A few names stuck out as classmates or people who had written him thank-you notes this summer. But one leaped off the page. Savage.

“Why are you in there?” Harry asked. The page her name appeared on was smudged by what looked like dried blood. He couldn’t read it.

“We were all on the run, Harry,” she said. Turning the page. “All except that coward, apparently.” Her eyes barely flicked to Gray’s empty desk. She pointed to text on a page and leaned towards Harry. “Look,” she said in an intense whisper. Harry glanced down at the page.

Sunday, December 14, 1997. Jason Proudfoot (Auror) and Medea Proudfoot (mother). Jason escaped with no injuries. Medea killed by Greyback. Old woman’s bounty five galleons. Corpse delivered to Mr. Green. PAID.

“Who is Mr. Green?”

“Not any death eater I know of. It’s odd, because all of the other bounties are paid to first name and last name. Bellatrix Lestrange. Lucius Malfoy. Dolores Umbridge.”

Harry glanced up at Brynja’s desk. She and Proudfoot were talking while she looked down at a file. His mother had been murdered by Fenrir Greyback. That wouldn’t turn you death eater, but Harry wondered if it wouldn’t make you want to hunt werewolves. Harry thought of all of those times they’d left the list Robard gave them in a file folder out on their desks. Had they given the hit list to the killer? Was anyone not on that list of registered bitten included in the hunter’s threats?

“This is bad,” Harry said. “If we left the list where—”

“My thoughts exactly,” Savage whispered. “We need to talk Robards.”

“After they leave for Azkaban,” Harry said, trying not to move his lips.

Savage nodded and pushed the book across the desk, giving it to Harry. “Until then, get to reading. See if we can’t figure out who Mr. Green is.”

Harry sat at Savage’s desk for an hour reading Scabior’s journal. He found three other mentions of Mr. Green, all connected to the captures and killings of aurors and their families. He even found one linked to an that mentioned Oliver Wood. There was no bounty or death, just a visit they were asked to make to take a look around. From the date, Harry was sure they were looking for Brynja. Mr. Green seemed to only want aurors dead, and Harry had a feeling that he was the one who had leaked the information about Brynja.

“I think Mr. Green has it out for aurors,” Harry said. “That seems to be all he does.”

“You think it was Gray?” she asked.

“That would be a pretty terrible code name, right? Gray to Green?” he shook his head. Gray hadn’t known about Brynja anyway, unless the original leak had told him. No. It wasn’t Gray. But Harry remembered something silly from one of the rare occasions that the Dursleys had left him home alone with the cable television to himself. He remembered watching a twenty-year-old movie about Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Gawain Robards surely knew the tale of his namesake. Could he be Mr. Green?

Savage tapped the back of Harry’s hand. Proudfoot was grabbing his cloak from off his desk, and Brynja was already at the door. Now was their chance to speak to their boss. Harry felt his stomach twist at the thought of walking into that office to accuse Proudfoot while pretending he wasn’t suspicious of the department head himself. He clutched the book tightly as he followed Savage into the office. Maybe this was the break they needed to solve two cases at once. A few minutes before he had been anxious for Brynja to leave; now he couldn’t wait for her to come back.

Chapter Text

Ron and Williamson started their morning by meeting at Ashton Gray’s house. They met Neville on the sidewalk. Williamson wanted to talk to Neville in person about what he saw on Friday night. Neville was dressed for work in his hitwizard uniform, a set of navy-blue dress robes with gold buttons and epaulettes. Neville, who Ron was used to seeing splattered in mud or with his tie crunched from getting caught in a door, looked rather put together. He had found his confidence, and much of his nervous, bumbling nature had faded away.

“You’re a regular hero,” Williamson said as I fought to pick the charm-proof lock on Gray’s front door.

Neville blushed. “I was just commuting. Not really much choice. Couldn’t let Ron die, could I?”

Ron laughed. Maybe Neville had grown, but Ron still didn’t like the idea of needing to be rescued by the boy who had spent most of his time at Hogwarts chasing a lost toad and fending off Peeves. “I was half a second from grabbing his wand and hexing him back to last Sunday.”

“Sure,” Williamson said. “You had it under control.”

“I did,” Ron said with a furious blush that out-shined Neville’s.

“He was an auror with twenty years experience on you,” Williamson said. “No shame in admitting he had you in a tight place.” The lock popped open, and Williamson slowly opened the door. He kept his wound out, ready to throw up a shield in case the place was trapped. It was dark and quiet, only lit by the sun filtering in through closed blinds, but otherwise there was nothing very ominous to be found. The place was safe and clean. No traps. No dirty dishes. No pets.

The men walked around the house, giving each room a cursory appraisal before beginning the tedious work of tapping on walls and checking drawers for false bottoms. Ron searched the desk, taking every paper and knick-knack out to check for compartments and then flipping through endless papers hoping to find something. Maybe a receipt for The Evil Emporium? He wasn’t really sure what he hoped to find.

“Hey guys,” Neville called from the kitchen. “You notice anything?”

“What is it, Longbottom?” Williamson called. He was poking every brick around the fireplace with his wand.

“Macarons, poulet, fruits and wine, Harry’s bread.”

“That’s a lot of french food,” Ron said. His stomach grumbled, despite the fact that he had eaten breakfast.

“Look,” Williamson said, picking up a newspaper on the table. “L'Oracle. That’s the Parisian wizard paper. He was in France for the war, you think?”

Ron went back to a stack of letters he had cast aside. They were wrapped in twine, but he hadn’t thumbed through them yet because the top of the bundle seemed to be musings about the weather in Paris. Ron unwrapped the twine and opened the letters. They were all written during the war, and though many of them seemed to be filled with gossip and weather updates (in English), they had familiar names in them. Avery. Mulciber. Knott. “This is it!” he shouted. “This is our evidence. Look, he rambles here about an auction of some paintings. Describes the pieces, the wizards in them, the artists, but then it says, ‘We are almost done finding homes for all the the paintings confiscated in London by your ministry.’ He was selling art taken from people Voldemort arrested and killed.”

Williamson joined Ron at the desk and started sorting through the letters. “This one is addressed to a Mr. Green. 'Thank you for giving your highest recommendation to our gracious lord. This position is quite comfortable, and it certainly beats the alternative position which many of our coworkers found themselves in.’ Our coworkers? He was writing to another ministry official?”

“Maybe another auror,” Ron said. He was certain it was. After all, Gray didn’t know about Brynja. Only Robards and Shacklebolt did.

Williamson started to bundle up the letters again. “Great. Perfect. Parfait.”

Neville laughed. Williamson winked. “You’re good, kid. You should apply for Gray’s job. Frank and Alice would be proud.”

Ron busied himself looking for any French-language papers that might be hiding in the desk. Neville would be well-liked in the department because the old-timers (those that were still alive) knew his parents. But would he be any good? Would old Neville arrive at work, clumsy and nervous, or would they get the version of Neville that had stood up to Voldemort when presented with Harry’s seemingly dead body and fought the serpent Naigini? Ron felt a pang of guilt as he realized that he was kind of hoping for the old Neville. Was he jealous of Neville?

Chapter Text

It was very uncomfortable for Brynja to go about her investigation alongside a man she suspected of murder, but not strange. Actually, there was a comforting familiarity about holding a secret, oddly mixed with the tinge of anxiety that at any moment that secret would be snatched from her and exposed.

Was Proudfoot the hunter? Did they have much proof? He had access to the list, if he went snooping on her desk. He had motive, but so did many others. Greyback had done a lot of damage across the United Kingdom. Surely her partner wasn’t the only one who could be driven to murder. Still, with Gray and Robards, she didn’t trust that an auror must be above that motive.

Proudfoot had brought a cup of tea for the watch wizard placed on the door to Bracken Attaway’s home. Attaway, the potion master, wasn’t speaking since his arrest on Friday night.

“Today is house-tossing day,” Proudfoot said, cheerfully. “Toss Gray’s house. Toss Attaway’s house. When at loss for where to look, turn up the drawers and cut open the mattress.”

“You enjoy this?” Brynja asked, picking up a stack of letters by the window. “Rummaging through suspects’ things?”

Proudfoot shrugged. “It’s like an Easter egg hunt. Find the clues!”

Brynja set the letters down and crossed to Attaway’s desk. It was piled with potion books and a quarterly journal featuring academic writings about new uses for ingredients. Brynja found a half-finished letter there, and she scanned the writing with a scowl.

“Why so down, Dunstan?” Proudfoot asked as he pulled up the sofa cushions.

“This man didn’t write the letter to the newspaper. He’s smart, but not a wordsmith. ‘I hope to see you Sunday. We must have breakfast. I do miss your scotch eggs. I have been dreaming about them.’ It’s so… stilted. All simple sentences. He didn’t write the manifesto.”

Proudfoot dropped the cushion and came to read the letter. “Yup,” he said with a nod. “Guy is certainly not a poet. Not that the manifesto was Shakespeare, but… this is rubbish.”

“Attaway couldn’t pull that off,” Brynja said, looking for any other samples of his writing. “To make that garbage about justice seem like reason.”

“You didn’t find any reason in it?” Proudfoot asked.

“Shacklebolt is cleaning things up. Calling in a… well a witch hunt…”

Proudfoot laughed at the phrasing. “How muggle of you, Dunstan.”

“What they propose won’t work. No mercy, no justice.”

“You’re okay with making deal with death eaters?”

Brynja thought about that for a moment while Proudfoot set to searching the desk for hidden caches. There were a few people she certainly wanted to stay behind bars, but… “If a fisherman catches a fingerling, it won’t make a very good meal. But if he uses it as bait, he might catch something bigger.”

“You think there are bigger fish to fry than Lucius Malfoy?”

“Perhaps not in the first war, but by the time Voldemort came to power this time,” she said, hesitating, having almost said 'The Dark Lord’ as a habit from her days under cover. “By the time he came to power, he already was very displeased with Lucius. The Malfoys were kept around like pets, constantly living in terror. He probably would have killed them as an example if it wouldn’t have been bad politics to kill the baby sister of his most devote follower.

"But Lucius would have been top brass if he could have,” Proudfoot said.

“Perhaps, but we can’t have a justice system built on intention, can we?” Brynja said. And with her final word, Proudfoot popped loose a panel on the back of a drawer.

“Boom! Pay day.”

Proudfoot pulled a little black book from the drawer and flipped it open to the middle. “It’s a day planner.”

“A hidden day planner? What’s upcoming?”

“Nothing this week—ah here. Halloween we have an engagement. Symbol for Mars. Eight o'clock. Puddlemere. And a street address. Why are criminals so stupid?”

“The nephew of Damocles Belby rather thought he was a genius.”

“Maybe at brewing, but not at crime.” He snapped the book shut. “Excellent. We have them! Granted they don’t change their meeting.”

Brynja looked at the address. “Either way, we’ve got their host. That address is residential.”

“You know it?”

Brynja nodded. “It’s two houses down from my friend, Oliver.”

“Hmm, then we have the homeowner.” Proudfoot scowled. “Let’s hope he sings.”

Chapter Text

Harry and Ron got takeout from a muggle Thai restaurant on Monday night and sat around the fireplace at Grimmauld Place eating and discussing their cases. Harry told Ron all about the ledger of Scabior’s bounties, the murder of Proudfoot’s mother, the appearance of Mr. Green.

“Green?” Ron said, springing up and dropping a bit of food into his lap. “You said Green?”

“He seemed to be looking for aurors.”

“Gray was writing with a Mr. Green from Paris.”

Harry set his food down and adjusted his glasses, as if ensuring clarity of vision would bring him clarity of thought. Harry tried to think of why any death eater would use an alias. It would only make sense if you still wanted the resistance to think you were one of them. So Kingsley had Brynja, and the Death Eaters had this Mr. Green. “Gawain and the Green Knight,” Harry said. “Knights of the round table. Arthurian legends. Do you think—”

“Robards would be dim enough to name himself something so easily connected?” Ron shrugged. He picked the bit of foot off his knee and put it on a paper napkin. “Maybe. Evil is so arrogant, isn’t it? I mean, Voldemort’s name was a bloody anagram.”

Harry went back to his meal, eating a jumbo shrimp drenched in curry coconut sauce.

“My case was completely sidelined by Gray trying to murder me. We spent all afternoon looking for proof about Gray. Didn’t talk about Protego all day.”

“Where are you with that?” Harry asked. He’d bitten into a spot where the spices hadn’t blended with the rest of the sauce, and his mouth was on fire. He took a big gulp from his glass of water, spilling some on his chin.

Ron shrugged. “Protego stopped your hunter.”

“Still there?” Harry wiped his mouth. “What about Ollivander?”

“Not much help. I mean, maybe he bought two wands, but a lot of wands were destroyed in the war, so who says someone wasn’t just replacing a confiscated or snapped wand? And then people have dead relatives they could inherit from.”

“But inheriting a wand doesn’t give you ownership,” Harry said. “You know that. Could you have performed spells without touching that hand-me-down you had first year?”

Ron shook his head. “Never thought of it like that.”

“But he could have won another wand,” Harry said. “Like I won Draco’s wand.”

Ron let out a short bark of laughter. “Yeah, the look on that git’s face.”

“So we got Fist of Mars, this hunter, and Protego.” Harry stirred his shrimp. “Sounds like we have an epidemic of vigilantism.”

“But you think it’s Proudfoot?”

Harry sighed. “Maybe.”

“Then test him.” Ron put his empty takeout carton on the coffee table and sat back in the sofa. “If you think he’s snooping in your desk, give him something to find.”

Harry grinned. Of course. It was so easy. He got up and went to fetch ink and a quill. He’d need Savage’s help. She was probably better at bluffing than he was anyway. If he could get her in on the plan tonight, they could have everything in place by morning.

“What are you using an owl for? Those can be intercepted,” Ron said.

Ron was right. Harry was sure he could find another task for his new owl—the one he’d rescued from the hunter’s first victim. He drew his wand and closed his eyes, calling up a happy memory: Ginny pulling him into the girl’s dorm while Hermione was away this summer. With a guilty smirk, he called, “Protego!” and a silvery stag burst from his wand.

*     *     *

On Tuesday morning, Harry sat behind his desk reading the newspaper and trying to act casual. Aurors filtered in and out of the office at their regular times. Everyone was still avoiding Gray’s desk as if it were infected with dark magic, but the chatter seemed less tense than it had been the previous morning.

“Potter!” Savage shouted, throwing a bag down at her desk and running to him with a file in one hand and a bag of pastries in another. Harry was glad she hadn’t skipped the food run or come in on time. That might be suspicious.

“Had a great little chat with an old friend at the Hog’s Head last night. They gave me a name?”

“A name?” Harry pretended to be caught off guard. “For…?”

She stole a chair from Ron’s desk and pulled it over in front of Harry, sitting backwards on it. Ron came back from the tea station to find his seat missing. “This guy, Beakman, was a healer. He kept his nose clean during Death Eater ministry, but he took a few trips out to safe houses to heal folks. He says he remembered a werewolf bite that wasn’t on our list.”

“Is that the file?” Harry pointed. Harry and Savage had sat up late forging a file for an imaginary witch. They had clipped a photo of a model from a German witch’s magazine that Savage’s roommate had on hand and put photo corners and glamor charms on it to disguise it as a professional portrait.

“She’s a cutie,” Savage said. “Here.” She handed the file to Harry. Harry pretended to look at it before scribbling nonsense down on a piece of paper.

“Want to pay her a visit?” he asked. “See why she hasn’t registered?”

Savage handed Harry a chocolate stuffed croissant. “Give me a moment to get a cup of coffee first.”

“Coffee?”

“I had to get quite a few drinks in the bloke to get him chatting,” Savage said. “I’m afraid I need something a bit stronger this morning than tea.”

*     *     *

They left the file on Harry’s desk. The address they’d given for Miss Andrea Bernstein was directly next to Harry’s house at Grimmauld Place. It was an abandoned apartment, and Harry’s house was the perfect place to watch from (as it was invisible to anyone who didn’t have direct knowledge of its address).

Savage set an alarm on the stairs that lead to the upstairs apartment, and then they waited in Harry’s house playing exploding snap and chess and reading the newspaper. The day passed. They didn’t expect him to come right away; that wouldn’t have made sense after all—to go attack someone while aurors were paying her a visit.

Ron had his own assignment. He was to tidy up Harry’s desk, clean out his mug, and take his lunch bag home while Proudfoot was out of the office so that if he came back in, it would look like Harry had come back to get his things. They hadn’t instructed Ron to do a thing to Savage’s desk except leave a food wrapper there. It was a mess, and tidying up would have been a red flag.

Ron came home around six with provisions: more Thai takeout. Around seven-thirty, Harry got a letter from Hermione (Ron got one too.) Harry’s was mostly chatter about school and the news. Ron’s made his ear turn red while he quietly read it.

Harry was considering getting out his quill to write back and perhaps to draft a letter to Ginny when he heard a faint chiming. Savage drew her wand. The end of it was blinking with white light, and it was making a sound like a medium handbell. “Gotcha,” she said.

They all drew their wands. Savage took the lead, followed by Harry and then Ron. Ron stayed to cover the front door while Harry and Savage went inside. The door was open at the top of the stairs. As the intruder realized the flat was empty, he swore loudly. Savage charged up the stairs. Harry followed close behind. Proudfoot stood in the middle of the room, his face scrunched like he was trying to apparate (or perhaps poop?)

“I warded the room to sudden appearances and disappearances,” Savage said. “Didn’t think I’d leave that escape route open, did you?”

Proudfoot shook his head. “Savage,” he said. “Whose side are you on?”

“We’re aurors, Jason.”

Harry pointed his wand squarely at Proudfoot’s chest. Perhaps he was an old colleague of Savage, but Harry wasn’t going to risk the niceties, not when the man standing before him was a dangerous killer. Not when his God son was the child of a werewolf. “How about you drop the wand,” Harry said. Proudfoot didn’t, so Harry flicked his wand and shouted, “Expelliarmus!” Harry never could understand why his disarming charms tended to knock people on their arses, but there he went. Savage slammed into the wall and landed hard on his backside.

He cursed and rubbed his back. Harry summoned his dropped wand so that Savage could not regain control of the situation. “That wolf got inside your head, Potter. It was a mistake of Dumbledore to let him have access to such an impressionable young boy.”

“That wolf was my father’s best friend. He was a hero.”

“He was a danger to every child in that school. Greyback was making an army. I’m just cleaning up his mess.”

“You’re not talking your way out of trouble, Jason,” Savage said. “You killed innocent people. Greyback was the exception, not the rule.”

“Belby has you all convinced, huh? Give them a little potion and they’re safe. Tell me, Harry. I’ve seen the reports, but remind me, what happened the night Sirius Black escaped Hogwarts? When Snape forgot to brew the potion. Why did Lupin resign?”

“Nobody got hurt,” Harry said, his hand shaking with anger as he kept his wand on the auror. “Remus never hurt anyone. No a soul. He died a hero, and the only lives he ever took were death eaters. Your death toll is much higher. You’re no better than them. They preached all about purity.”

“Idiot,” Proudfoot stood up slowly. “Blood purity has nothing to do with it. They have a disease.”

“Last I checked, we don’t kill the sick,” Savage said. She crossed to him and started to pull his hands behind his back to bind him.

“There’s no cure, no hope for them. They’re mindless killers.” Savage bound his hands and then turned him to face forward. Proudfoot, his pleasant smile hidden behind a piercing glare and scowl. “And you know what we do with a rabid dog?” he asked.

Savage punched him.

Proudfoot hit the floor. “Woah!” Ron shouted from the door. “I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to hit people once they’re already in custody.”

Savage pushed past Ron and started for the stairs, leaving Harry to float Proudfoot down to the front door. “I slipped,” she said in a monotone.

Harry smirked. “Yeah, I think that was against the rules, Savage.”

Proudfoot, his nose bloodied, struggled against his ropes on the ground. “My work will be continued!” he shouted after her. “Don’t think I don’t know, Alauna! There are others who see the truth—the need for swift justice.”

“Save it for your barrister,” Harry said. He aimed his wand down at the ground, and Proudfoot’s mouth snapped shut. At this rate, Harry wondered, would there be any aurors left by Christmas?

Chapter Text

The Polyjuice potion was nearly ready. Brynja had Oliver schedule a meeting with Harry for Saturday night. After a terrible week—one that began with a triggering event and clipped along with her partner being arrested as a serial killer—Brynja was ready to relax with a friend and do something productive. She was going to hand-off some hair to Harry for use on Monday.

She met Oliver for dinner at a local tavern. Penny met them. Brynja had invited her after Oliver had confirmed that Percy would not be coming. The three old classmates chatted over drinks and dinner, and then Brynja followed Oliver back to his flat where Harry would be waiting.

Harry was there right on time, and Oliver said something outside about some Puddlemere merchandise he had picked up for the hero wizard. When they had come inside and locked the door, Brynja opened her handbag and pulled out a little Puddlemere United makeup mirror. A few dark hairs were curled up inside.

“Here is is,” she said. She placed it on top of a pile of robes and shirts and kid-sized quaffles that Oliver was handing Harry. Harry tucked the compact into the breast pocket of his rugby shirt.

“And you’re a hundred percent sure it’s your hair?” Harry asked.

“I plucked it straight out of my head.”

“Good,” Harry said. “Wouldn’t want to become your roommate standing at the gates of Azkaban.”

Brynja thought back to her last conversation with Proudfoot. He had promoted some pretty Fist-of-Mars-like ideas: merciless justice with no deals. If she wanted to catch a big fish… “Harry,” she began, hesitating. “How are you going to get him to talk? I mean, what if he doesn’t brag just because he thinks I’m standing there? What then?”

Harry chewed on his lower lips. His brow furrowed. Brynja could tell he was a bit stumped.

“Has Kingsley authorized you to make a deal?” Brynja asked. “He’s a lifer. Maybe he’ll talk if he can get some time off. Or if you can get his mother some time off.” Brynja knew Sam Capper had been loyal to his family. That was why he had joined the death eaters to begin with. He trusted them when, as a child, they told him he was superior. He trusted them when they chose sides in the war. His father had died in the Battle of Hogwarts, but maybe he would talk if he thought he could help his mother, who was also in for life.

“His mother?” Harry nodded. “I’ll have to take a look at the charges against her. I don’t know if we should let someone who tried to kill you out. I mean… what if he came after you?”

Brynja would have liked to think she could take Sam in a fight. She could even finish him off if her life depended on it. He had tried to kill her, after all, and he had unknowingly killed their unborn child. But after Monday afternoon with what happened in Attaway’s apartment, she just didn’t trust herself to keep it together. She had spent the past few days wondering if she should be assigned a new partner or just stay on desk duty for a while. “I’m pretty sure his mother didn’t kill anyone,” Brynja said. “She was a property manager. She arranged housing—rewarding The Dark Lord’s followers with the plushest of seized accommodations. Their inhabitants were already dead, jailed, or fled when she got involved.”

“Then I’ll see if I need to,” Harry said. He hoped that he could just get Capper talking. If he thought he was raving at his ex, perhaps in his ramblings about betrayal and purity, he’d let it slip. “Thanks.” Harry patted his pocket. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

Oliver, who had been standing around quietly, showed Harry to the door. “Don’t give Capper a deal if you can help it, Harry. Or you might have to come arrest me.”

“I only arrest dangerous dark wizards, not regular murderers, Wood. That’s for the hitwizards.” Harry smirked. “But yeah, I don’t plan on letting him ever see the sky.”

Oliver clapped Harry on the back. “You’re coming to tomorrow’s game, yeah?”

Harry nodded. “Of course.”

Oliver locked the door behind Harry. He turned back to Brynja, tension in his shoulders.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “You heard him. Harry isn’t going to give a deal to S—Capper. He’ll stay locked away for the rest of his life.”

Oliver crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her. Brynja buried her face against his shoulder. She had needed that. A week of fear and anger and self-doubt melted away.

“So, your partner is a serial killer,” Oliver said when he pulled back. “That’s shit.”

“And we had a death eater, too,” she said. “All in one week. Ron Weasley could had diedtwice.”

Oliver laughed. “Ron Weasley has had plenty of opportunity to get himself killed these past few years. He’s a lucky git. Goofy as hell, but lucky.” Oliver sat down on the sofa and patted the seat next to him. “Is it strange? To be that close to someone hiding a secret like that?”

Brynja sat down next to Oliver. “I’m quite used to spending time with murderers. Only this time I didn’t know what he was. He was quite personable.”

“I suppose he thought he was doing the right thing.”

“I’ve met more good werewolves than bad,” Brynja said. She had been taught by Lupin seventh year. And there was Marcus (she hadn’t even told Oliver about his secret). Fenrir Greyback seemed to be an anomaly. He was the exception, not the rule. “You can’t do that as an auror. You can’t let your personal vendettas get in the way of the law. Kingsley Shacklebolt understands that. The Fist of Mars wants vengeance, not justice. Proudfoot wanted the same thing, but the person he wanted payback from wasn’t within his reach. He killed three people, and he made a lot more live in fear.”

They sat in silence for a while. Oliver finally got up and, using his wand, set a fire in the fireplace. Brynja wondered about Proudfoot. They had different areas of focus, but Proudfoot’s vengeance seemed a lot like the ideas of The Fist of Mars. Would he have warned them to move their Halloween meeting? Would they move it anyway, just to be safe, once their potion-maker was found?

Brynja felt the cushions of the sofa move as Oliver sat back down. She looked up at him. She supposed she should head home soon. Tomorrow she would be back here for Oliver’s game and the inevitable party that followed. Brynja didn’t much care for rowdy parties with lots of screaming sports fans, but she liked to make an appearance to show her support. She especially made a point to come when his team lost because Oliver tended to be in a bad way when that happened.

“What?” he asked, looking down at her. She realized she had maintained eye contact for half a minute without saying anything.

She shrugged.

Oliver smiled.

His smile faded.

Oliver cupped her chin with his hand and pressed his lips to her own. Brynja, caught off guard by his kiss, tensed for a moment before closing her eyes and wrapping her arms around his neck. It had been almost five years since their last kiss. They had been teenagers then, two people with vastly different interests who couldn’t seem to make their lives at Hogwarts fit together. Whatever hadn’t worked, it was gone now. Brynja kissed Oliver, and worries about death eaters, werewolves, and vigilantes went away. She wasn’t an auror. He wasn’t an athlete. They were just Brynja and Oliver.

And it was right.

Chapter Text

Neville Longbottom worked a Saturday shift in the morning. He and his partner, a grizzled older wizard with a missing eye, had been part of a raid on a brewery selling illegal potions. He wasn’t part of the investigation, just the arresting team. It felt weird to him, every morning when he stood in front of the mirror in his uniform, to think that he had become muscle and not brains. He tried to remind himself why he took this job: to help stop bad people.

Sometimes hitwizards had to fight with their hands. Neville had begun taking Martial Arts classes in June, and they had paid off last week when a suspect had disarmed him. Hitwizards had to be great with hexes and defensive spells, but there was a certain cleverness to using a fist. Pureblooded wizards just never quite expected to be punched in the nose.

How had Neville Longbottom, herbology genius, everything else failure come to be a hitwizard? There had been a job offer shortly after a witness account of Neville’s stand against The Dark Lord had run in The Daily Prophet. Also Gran used to babysit for the head of the squad. He had accepted the job to make her proud, but he just wasn’t sure he fit in with his thrill-seeking coworkers.

After work, Neville went home and changed into exercise clothes. He went through a regiment of exercises his partner and mentor had given him, and then he showered. While he was washing up, an owl came. Neville didn’t recognize the bird at first. The letter was from Harry. It was an invitation to have dinner with him and Ron at The Leaky Cauldron that evening. Ron was buying.

When Neville arrived, Ron and Harry were already at the table with drinks in front of them. Neville slid into the booth. “Hey,” he said. He hadn’t seen them since last week, and before that since a visit to the Hogwarts rebuilding in July. “How’s work?”

Ron snorted. “Bad week. You heard about Jason Proudfoot?”

Neville nodded. “I’d have never expected something like that for the aurors. I thought they were supposed to be kind of perfect.”

“Yeah, well, they let us in,” Harry said with a smirk. “So they can’t be that flawless.”

Neville laughed, but he sure hoped Harry was playing at such humility. He thought Ron and Harry were pretty amazing after everything they had done. Not to mention they were among the few people at Hogwarts who hadn’t treated Neville like rubbish.

The barmaid came over to take Neville’s drink order. He glanced up at first, and then did a double take. “Oh, hello.” Neville blushed. It was Hannah Abbott, a quite pretty girl from Hogwarts. She had blond curls and round cheeks, and Neville recalled a few awkward hand-bumping moments when they’d been partnered in Herbology class. She had a green thumb, like he did. A Hufflepuff. “Hannah.”

“Neville,” she said. “I hardly recognized you.”

Neville patted his stomach. “The Carrows siblings liked to find ways to make me skip dinner.” Until Neville had finally ditched school and gone into hiding in the Room of Requirement, he had been consistently hungry.

“Well, you don’t look worse for the wear,” she said with a smile. “What can I get you to drink?”

Neville placed his drink order and watched Hannah return to the bar. He finally looked back at the table when Ron kicked his foot. “Oy,” Ron said. “You still with us?”

Neville looked back at Harry and Ron. He felt light. He was with friends doing something normal. He felt free. “Have you guys heard from Ginny and Hermione?” he asked.

“We saw them a few weekends back,” Ron said. “At Hogsmeade. Luna, too. You should come with us next time they have a weekend.”

“I’m surprised Hermione went back.”

Ron made a face. “Are you really? This is Hermione we’re talking about.”

Hannah came back and set Neville’s drink down. She took their dinner orders and vanished back into the kitchen. Harry continued, “I’m almost surprised you didn’t go back.”

Neville sipped his glass of water and shrugged. “Only a few months left, not a whole year. And the hitwizards took me either way. I think a lot of concessions are going to be made for our year in the job market. I mean… a lot of unfinished terms.”

Harry nodded. “How do you like it?” he asked. “Being a hitwizard?”

Neville swirled his glass of water around so that the ice spun around the edges. He frowned. “It’s alright. A bit scary, but kind of fun. I don’t really have friends at work. Everyone there is kind of like… like they wanted to be professional beaters, but weren’t good enough on a broom.”

Ron and Harry both laughed. Fred and George had been unique beaters, but the position was commonly filled by meatheads who didn’t have much to lose by a bludger to the skull.

“Well, you know we’ve lost two aurors this week alone,” Harry said. “Dawlish and Dunstan are temporarily partnered, but they each have their own cases and Robards has had to put me and Savage—that’s my partner—on the Fist of Mars case since it’s a big case and Dunstan needs help.”

“Not to mention the morale problem,” Ron said, his mouth scrunching to the left.

“And since last week when you saved Ron’s life—”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Ron said. “I mean, yes, I almost died, but I had the situation under control.”

“Since you saved Ron’s life, our coworkers have been asking about you. Williamson and Savage actually suggested to Robards that we hire you.”

Neville was quite surprised to hear this. He had never held out any hope of being an auror. That required high marks in most subjects and competence, something Neville never really felt he had. He still had nightmares in which he fumbled some basic task and Snape appeared out of nowhere to ridicule him for it. “Me? Have they met me?”

“You met Williamson the other day,” Ron said, missing the real point of the question.

“I wouldn’t be any good as an auror.”

“Don’t be silly. They took me,” Ron said. “And I was not a model student.”

“Besides,” Harry said. “You never know what kind of knowledge will crack a case. Brynja Dunstan caught a member of The Fist of Mars by figuring out the recipe for a potion.”

“I nearly failed Potions every year except for sixth,” Neville said.

“Maybe, but you can name the uses for every kind of plant I can think of. You know the ingredients, even if Snape made you think you were rubbish at the technique,” Ron said.

Hannah returned with their meals balanced on her arms. Neville had ordered the catch of the day with string beans and  roasted potatoes, Ron had ordered fish and chips, and Harry was eating a big pink slice of roast beef with mashed potatoes and corn on the cob. As Neville watched Hannah leave, Ron knocked on the table.

“Neville,” he called in a cooing voice. “You still with us?” Neville turned back to see Harry grinning with a devilish glint in his eye. Harry didn’t say anything, but Ron wasn’t going to let it go. “You should ask her out,” Ron said. “You know, to visit and greenhouse or see your collection of potted plants or whatever.”

Neville shook his head. “No, I mean, I don’t think she'd…” he started aggressively jabbing potatoes onto the end of his fork. “I’m telling you, I’d be a rubbish auror. I’m not very clever and I’m not very brave and—”

“Bollocks,” Harry said. “You stood up to Voldemort when everyone thought I was dead. The rest of them would have laid down their wands right there and given up, but you pulled the bloody sword of Gryffindor out of the sorting hat and killed that snake. You are never going to be tested like that again, Neville. It doesn’t get braver than that.”

Neville wanted to shrink into himself like a turtle. He tried to remember what Aberforth told him one night at dinner with Gran: all that self doubt was like a shadow in his heart, and it fought so hard when people complimented him because just a little light could show him how great he truly was. It sounded corny and embarrassing and like he was talking about someone else who wasn’t Neville, but Neville knew he had to try and believe it. Seven years of Snape and Malfoy telling him he was worthless weren’t going to vanish in a few months.

“So,” Neville said, taking a deep breath so that maybe the words would come rushing out before he could stop himself. “Is there a job offer on the table?”

Harry reached into his pocket and set a shiny gold badge on the table. It was emblazoned with the Ministry of Magic seal. There was a smooth spot on the bottom, framed in ivy, where the names of aurors went. They had already put Neville’s name on it.

Chapter Text

If Gawain Robards was paying any attention to Sam Capper, he was going to know that someone came to visit him. Harry wanted as much time as possible for the interrogation, and so he signed in under his name and then asked to use the visitor bathroom. The guard who escorted him didn’t question it when The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, let him know that he’d be coming out of the lavatory looking like another auror. “I have her permission,” Harry said, but he was pretty sure the guard, a round-bellied middle-aged man with white hair, wouldn’t care if he was changing into Kingsley Shacklebolt himself. The man just kept staring at Harry with a kind of wonder that made Harry very relieved to change into someone else’s form, even for an hour.

Harry had spent Sunday evening practicing in heals (much to Ron’s amusement) and had a steady gait as he left the bathroom in Brynja’s form. Harry had never been a girl before, and it felt weird. Brynja had long legs and wore fitted clothing. She had loaned Harry a pair of slacks and a navy blue knee-length robe that was meant to be worn open over a blouse. Harry had requested flats, but Brynja vetoed the decision: it would be a red flag to capper if she wore comfortable shoes when she wasn’t planning to run or fight.

“Your coworker’s quite fit, eh?” the guard said, winking at Harry. It made him feel immensely uncomfortable to be flirted with in someone else’s body, even if that wasn’t the guard’s intent.

Harry grunted, but it came out in Brynja’s distinctly higher voice. “Let’s get moving,” he said, trying to affect Brynja’s slightly Scottish accent. “I’ve only got an hour.”

Harry was lead into the visitation room, a dark room made of black stone slabs with a solid stone table in the center. He sat in a heavy chair that was bolted to the floor and crossed his legs like he had seen Brynja do. The guard went off to fetch Capper. When he returned, he lead the death eater into the room and flicked his wand to attach Capper’s handcuffs to a metal hasp on the table. Capper was tall with chin-length brown hair and golden brown eyes. He had thin lips, a long nose that pointed slightly upward, and a deep depression on his upper lip that lent a rather cat-like structure to his mouth. He looked tired and poorly-shaven, but Harry could still recognize him from school. He had played Quidditch as a Chaser for some time. He probably had ranked right behind Cedric Diggory and Roger Davies for popularity with the girls.

“Brynja,” he said, making intense eye contact with Harry. “I never expected to see you in this life.”

Harry took a deep breath. He was pretty used to facing down psycho killers, and he wasn’t afraid of Capper in the least while the man was chained to a table, but Harry tried to remember how Brynja might feel seeing the man who had tried to kill her at such close distance. “Yeah, well…” a manufactured pause of hesitance, “You’re not as good as you think, Sam.”

Capper scowled. He looked down at his cuffed hands and then back up at the person he thought was his ex. “I should have just done the killing curse. A flash of green was what you deserved. But Bellatrix thought it was too quick for a traitor.”

“And here I am, alive. I guess you were right after all.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” Harry asked as Brynja.

“Don’t stroke my ego. You deserved what you got. You lied to me. I loved you. I lived for you. The whole time you were trying to destroy me. You’re a traitor, a coward, and awhore.”

Harry felt a hot flash of anger rush over him. He didn’t even know this guy, but he wanted to personally bust his nose. How dare a death eater act like he had the moral high ground. “Says the murderer,” Harry snapped.

Capper tried to stand, but he was kept back by his cuffs. The guard hesitated, unsure if Harry needed an intervention. Harry shook his head—or, well, Brynja’s head.

“How did you survive? You couldn’t be healed. How did you make it?”

Harry ran his hand over his stomach. He had noticed the gesture from Brynja on many occasions. He was sure it was a recent addition to her habits, something she had started doing after her attack. Still, it added depth to the impression. “The hard way. With time. An old friend helped me out.”

Capper smiled. Harry was once more reminded of a cat: the cheshire cat. “I read the papers. Your big bold Gryffindor, Oliver Wood. I knew he was the one hiding you. Tell him congratulations on beating Ballycastle last week.”

Harry tried not to react. He was considering his next move. How did he lead Capper back to the death eaters? How would he get a loyal believer to rat on his boss?

“Did you warn him? Wood? Did you warn him that you’re a heartless hag who’s only good at pretending?”

“Oh, I’m real good at pretending,” Harry said. “I had to be to sleep next to you. You make my skin crawl.”

Capper clenched his fists.

“And you’re real gullible,” Harry went on. “All those months, you had no idea that I was using you to get inside information. When I think of all of those people who escaped the round-ups thanks to you, it sure makes me glad you were any easy mark.”

“Does loyalty mean nothing to you?!” he shouted, his face turning red. Harry flinched at the sudden outburst.

“Here’s the thing about loyalty. You have to be loyal to the right cause.”

Capper started thrashing in his chair. The guard moved with his wand out, but Harry held up a hand to stop him. He wanted Capper mid-tantrum.

“All your talk about loyalty,” Harry said. “But you had your own mole. It took a spy to catch a spy.”

Capper settled down. He took a few deep breaths and shook his head. “If you think I’m going to give up my source—”

So much for that. Capper wasn’t a raving baddie like some of the other folks Harry had dealt with. Harry nodded and folded his hands on the table. He had come prepared for Plan B.

“Have they let you see your mother?”

Capper stopped mid sentence. He closed his mouth and shook his head.

“Of course. They allow visitation, but not between inmates.”

Capper waited, his eyes examining Brynja.

“I’ve been talking to my boss, Shacklebolt. I told him that your mother was in real estate. Didn’t do any killing. He agreed that she didn’t seem so dangerous. Not exactly the kind to start killing muggleborns when the power has so obviously shifted.”

“Are you offering me a deal?”

Harry nodded. “I’m not going to let you out or even reduce your sentence. I hope you rot in here. But I am authorized to give you a deal on her behalf. Reduced sentence to one year, including time served.”

“And in exchange, you want the name of who sold you out?”

“Minister Shacklebolt would be very appreciative if you would testify in court. And I know you’d do anything for her. You’re a terrible person, but you’re a good son, Sam.”

Sam leaned forward. His body was relaxed. He seemed like a different person. He nodded. “You know I’d do anything for her.”

“I’m going to need dates, details. The word of a death eater isn’t worth much if I can’t corroborate your story.”

“Especially not against an auror,” Capper said.

Harry nodded. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if it was going to be someone else— someone they didn’t expect. What would he do if Capper said Shacklebolt? But that fear was quickly alleviated as Sam spoke.

“So it’s official then? Trade my mother for your rat?”

Harry nodded and took a risk. He placed the delicate brown hand of Brynja Dunstan over Capper’s. “For her.”

Capper nodded. “He went by Mr. Green, but I recognized him immediately in the papers when they promoted him to head of the Department. You’re a clever girl, Bryn. I assume you already suspected Gawain Robards.”

Chapter Text

Harry, Oliver, and Brynja had met with Minister Shacklebolt on Monday night. Shacklebolt had asked that they get a signed affidavit from Capper before moving forward, and so Harry went in late Monday with the paperwork and pretended to be meeting Capper for the first time. They planned to make the arrest Monday morning when Robards came into the office, but something robbed them of that opportunity.

Ron and Harry were up especially early on Tuesday. They stood around the kitchen, blinking the burning vestiges of sleep from their eyes, as they ate cold cereal for breakfast. They were nearly out the door when a Daily Prophet owl arrived with the news. The paper landed at Ron’s feet as was standing on the doorstep, and he swore loudly when he saw the front page. Splash across the front above the fold was a photo of their boss. “Robards Under Investigation in Death Eater Debacle,” it read.

“What?” Harry asked, barely glancing over his shoulder.

Ron picked up the paper and waved it at Harry. “This! Who?!” He couldn’t even think fast enough at this hour to form a proper sentence. Only four people knew, as far as Ron was aware, that they were investigating Robards. Four people and Capper, but mail in and out of Azkaban was delayed a few days for inspection. Surely he couldn’t have gotten a letter out to the Prophet so soon.

Harry snatched the paper and read the headline. He shouted and threw it at the closed front door in rage. “That guard!”

“Azkaban guard?”

“The one who sat in on the interview. He must have blabbed.”

Ron gripped his head with both hands as if that would focus his brain. “Maybe he hasn’t seen it. Maybe he’s already at the office.”

“And the paper’s dropped there,” Harry said. “Maybe Kingsley is…” he didn’t finish his thought. With a loud crack, Harry was gone. Ron apparated after him.

They appeared outside the ministry employee entrance. Ron followed Harry at a half-jog. Soon they were sprinting to the auror office. Kingsley was standing in the main office by Robards’ door. He shook his head. “Too late, boys.”

“We should have taken him last night at his house,” Ron said.

Harry shot him a glare. Ron supposed “should have” did them little good today.

*     *     *

They put out a notice with all of the hitwizards (after Harry sent a patronus to scream obscenities at the prophet reporter who had written the story and then again to the editor.) Ron assumed Kingsley had also had firm words. Brynja and Ron went to check Robards’s house before lunch, and Harry and Neville (who had just started that morning) went to check a few of his friends and family for information.

On Tuesday afternoon, Kingsley stopped into the office to make an announcement. “I’ve spoken with The Daily Prophet. After a few…choice words…I have them publishing another story about Robards’s suspected crimes. We need every witch and wizard keeping eyes out now. We suspect he’s responsible for a lot of auror and hitwizard deaths. Mr. Green, an alias our source claims he went by, actively sought former law enforcement that remained loyal to the real Ministry of Magic. All of you were on that list.”

There were murmurs around the office. Savage cracked her knuckles.

“Everyone is on this case. Everyone. I don’t care about werewolves or Protego until we catch him.” Ron noticed a crack in Kingsley’s voice. He wondered what it was like to have someone you personally trusted betray you like that. Ron wondered if he felt responsible. After all, he told Robards plenty of auror secrets thinking he was a good guy, including the truth about Brynja’s assignment.

“I know losing your boss suddenly like this is going to cause a lot of…chaos. That’s why I’ve asked Yancy Dawlish to be the next department head.”

Ron and Harry both craned their necks to look at the quiet auror at the back of the office. Harry had seen Dawlish a few times before the war, but he didn’t know much about the guy. He was middle-aged with thick glasses and a mustache like Uncle Vernon’s, though he wasn’t nearly as red-faced or fat. He looked friendly, but not necessarily fun. Like someone’s dad. Dawlish held up a hand and waved.

“Oh, yeah, and everyone welcome Longbottom,” Shacklebolt said. “Neville was instrumental in the victory at the Battle of Hogwarts. He organized the students in hiding at the school and killed the final horcrux when we all thought Harry was done for.”

Everyone around the office clapped. Neville, who was in the middle of setting up Gray’s old desk as his own when Shacklebolt had walked in, blushed and waved.

“So. Let’s find that son-of-a-hag.”

Dawlish stood up and adjusted his tie. He moved towards the front of the room. “Alright, so I know we’ve had a lot of shakeups this past week. I’m going to reassign teams. After we catch Robards, we’ll asses what cases still need to be worked. Weasley, I’m going to keep you with Williamson and Mckinnon with Oakley. Potter, you work with Dunstan. Longbottom, you’re with Savage.”

Ron nodded to Williamson, who smiled back. They weren’t exactly close, but they made a decent team (Ron thought). At least Williamson was patient with him. He guessed that Dawlish was trying to keep the newest aurors with experienced mentors, hence why Harry and Savage had been split. They made a great team, but Neville needed a strong mentor and Brynja was still so new compared to Savage.

Dawlish gestured to one of the empty desks in the office. “And we have two openings on payroll, so… Potter, got any more classmates?”

Everyone in the room laughed, and it seemed to lighten the mood.

“Hermione says no, but I tried,” Harry said.

More laughter.

The laughter faded and a somber mood settled over the room. Everyone slowly turned back to the coffee pot or the files on their desks. Oakley and Mckinnon got their cloaks and left. Harry and Brynja set off to pull Robards’s file. Neville helped Dawlish box up his desk and carry his things into the head office.

*     *     *

It happened on Thursday. A bright, glowing light interrupted Ron’s sleep at nearly midnight. He had been dreaming about Hermione. It was a rather saucy dream, and as they were standing in a dark broom closet at Hogwarts, she suddenly lifted her wand. “Lumos,” she said, and the glow grew brighter and brighter until it blinded Ron. He sat up in bed.

A patronus floated by the foot of the bed, a yellow labrador retriever. Ron didn’t recognize it until the warm voice of his new boss, Yancy Dawlish, filled the room. “Robards was at King’s Cross. Come right away.”

Ron stumbled out of his room to find Harry in the hall. “Did you just—?”

Harry nodded. “What do you want to bet he was trying to get a train out of England?” Ron asked.

“Why not apparate?” Harry asked.

“Because if they have a warrant, they can track that,” Ron explained. He stumbled back into his bedroom and grabbed a dirty pair of jeans from the laundry pile. He put them on over his boxer shorts and continued talking to Harry. “Just like they can track your magic use as a minor, right? It’s not allowed for everyday wizards because of privacy and all, but…”

Harry nodded. “I remember them saying something about that in class.”

Harry and Ron got reasonably dressed and apparated to the train station. Dawlish was there with Williamson and Dunstan. Brynja had a paper cup of coffee. “What took you so long?”

“Pants?” Ron said. He squinted with suspicion when he realized Brynja was wearing a rather large Puddlemere sweater. “It was midnight. Were you in bed already?”

Brynja didn’t respond. She pointed to the closed off platform. Muggle police were everywhere. Harry could see a body laid out on the concrete. “Robards did that?”

Dawlish nodded. “Gumboil over at the hitwizards squad has a guy listening to muggle police radios. They discuss all of this stuff on the air and anyone with the right box can listen. He picked up this one. Williamson, I believe you might recognize our victim. At least recognize who he’s supposed to be.”

They started walking over to the yellow police tape. The victim was dressed in black with a cape spread out behind him and a hook pulled up. He wore a black mask over half of his face, and wands were strapped to his arms in brown leather bracers. “Protego,” Ron said “He's—?”

“Dead,” Williamson finished. Dawlish and Williamson, who were the most dressed, approached the muggle detectives and flashed their fake badges. Williamson drew his wand surreptitiously and aimed it at the lead detective, who immediately started blinking and looking around as if he had suddenly become confunded. Brynja stepped over the police tape, her heels clicking on the concrete as she approached the body. She crouched down next to it. Harry and Ron followed.

“You think Protego knew who he was going after?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded. “Robards has been on posters all around Diagon Alley for days. He’s been on every paper’s front page. He knew.”

Ron felt sick. He had spent weeks chasing this guy and, though he knew that the way he was doing things was a threat to the justice system and a threat to muggle secrecy, he had to admire it. He wasn’t like The Fist of Mars, hunting down accused death eaters to enact justice. He was just a guy on the street intervening when nobody else would help.

Williamson came over while Dawlish continued to beguile the muggles. He had a pair of leather gloves on, and the younger aurors moved out of the way while he removed Protego’s mask. It took a minute for Ron to place his face, but the gut-churning sensation intensified when he realized who it was. Garrick Ollivander, the apprentice they had met at the wand shop.

“You recognize that face?” Williamson asked.

Ron nodded and stood up. “You say Robards killed him?”

“Muggles are telling quite a story. Obliviators are on their way. A man that exactly matches Robards’ description got into a ‘laser fight’ with Protego.” He made quotations with his fingers. “Lots of bright beams of light. The last one was a flash of green.”

“The killing curse,” Harry said.

“Most likely.”

Brynja walked away from the group. Ron wondered if he should follow, but decided against it. She was Harry’s partner now. It was up to him to decide if she needed to be checked on or left alone.

“Someone needs to inform his family,” Harry said.

“I’ll do it.” Ron looked at Williamson. They had been on the protego case, and besides, Ron knew old man Ollivander from their stay at Shell Cottage. It would be easier coming from someone who wasn’t a stranger, although Mr. Ollivander seemed to remember everyone he ever sold a wand to.

Ron and Williamson left the platform for a more secluded area of the station before apparating away, leaving Harry and Brynja to figure out where Robards had gone next.

Chapter Text

Robards was gone. A week passed with no sign of him.

On Friday the Daily Prophet ran a special edition with about the death and identity of Protego. The Sunday papers had more biographical details and interviews. He had seen his family torn apart, the eldest Mr. Ollivander tortured and broken. Family members described him as someone who needed action, not talk.

Some stories over the next few days condemned him as a vigilante and suggested a possible connection to the Fist of Mars. Others praised him as a hero wholly different from the violent group. A third set praised him while saying he was probably Fist of Mars; Harry made a note to put those authors on a watch list.

On Thursday morning, Dawlish called Harry and Brynja into his office. Nobody had seen Robards for days, and there were other cases that needed to be handled. Harry entered the office and looked around. It was a very different place than when Robards had occupied it. Dawlish had changed the big leather chair for a more rigid cloth-covered chair that spun around and moved on wheels. The desk was less cluttered with awards and metals. Papers were organized in hanging files with neon flags. In addition to the moving portraits of friends and family, there was a stationary framed Norman Rockwell painting on the wall. Harry thought it was odd, but he remembered Ron saying something about Dawlish’s mother being a muggle from Minnesota.

“I’m going to call the werewolf case wrapped, Harry,” Dawlish said. “Of course if something happens we’ll probably put Savage back on it, but we caught a killer and we’ve checked in. I believe you when you say there’s nothing to worry about with the half-bitten.” Dawlish sat in his wheely chair with his hands bridged in front of him. “I want you on Brynja’s old case. Fist of Mars.”

“We found information about a meeting Saturday,” Brynja said. “In Puddlemere. If Proudfoot didn’t warn them—and he might have with all his justice and safety ravings—then we have a chance of catching them.”

“And if not, you have the address of the host,” Dawlish said.

Harry, who had been busy looking around the room at all the changes, turned back to his boss. “Saturday? Brynja and I have been spending a lot of Saturday’s in Puddlemere anyway,” Harry said. “We could visit Oliver again.”

Brynja nodded. “He’s quite used to playing auror safehouse host,” she said with a smile.

Dawlish nodded. “I trust you to handle this. Bring whatever backup you need Saturday. You have my permission to call in anyone. Hitwizards, too, if you need. Don’t let Oliver Wood get involved in a fight. I want this as clean and by-the-book. If they’re going to be about vengeance, I want to make sure our alternative, justice, is above reproach.”

Someone knocked on the office door. Williamson opened the door. “An enormous box just arrived for you, sir. Someone charmed it featherlight, but it still took a few owls for the bulk.”

“For me?” Dawlish stood up. “How big are we talking?”

“And him,” Williamson said, nodding towards Harry.

Harry, Brynja, and Dawlish left the office. A ministry page was standing in the main office with an envelope. “The package is in the lobby, sir,” he said as he handed the note directly to Harry. Harry was pretty sure the page was a year above him at Hogwarts. A Ravenclaw?

Harry handed the note to Dawlish, not wanting to step on any toes. Dawlish tore it open. “Found something you were looking for,” he read. “Clean your house, or we will.”

He turned the paper to show Harry. A Fist of Mars emblem was stamped into a wax seal at the bottom of the page. Harry exited the office and ran to the lobby.

Dawlish got to the box moments after he did. For an older guy with a spare tire, he could run. The box was really a crate, a big wooden crate about five feet long and three feet wide and deep. Dawlish used his wand to break the nails holding the lit on. The sweet stench coming from the box made Harry’s heart race. He had a feeling he knew what he was going to find.

The lid came off, and Harry’s fears were confirmed. Crammed into the box, his legs bent, was Gawain Robards. His eyes and mouth were wide and his expression was frozen in terror. His face and hands had already started to bloat, making Harry think he had been dead for a few days. He covered his nose with the collar of his shirt and shook his head.

“Get this out of here!” Dawlish barked to a nearby watch wizard. Ministry visitors were starting to stare. Some of them were covering their noses too.

Brynja stood at a distance. “Is it—?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Found him.”

Brynja placed her hand over her stomach and watched as a pair of watch wizards levitated the crate and ordered people out of the way. Harry wondered what she was thinking. Clearly this was bad for the aurors and the ministry, but he had to wonder if the man who’d sold her out being dead wasn’t somewhat of a relief.

“We have to catch these guys,” Harry said. He thought about the way The Fist of Mars kept bringing him into their agenda. First the manifesto. Now this. He didn’t want anyone to make the mistake of thinking Harry approved of this: execution without a trial.

*     *     *

Oliver was throwing a party. Brynja, Harry, Ron, Neville, Williamson, and Savage were all invited. It was an after-party for his Quidditch match against Chudley (Puddlemere won, of course), but none of his teammates were invited.

“If we wrap up this truth and justice stuff early,” Oliver said after closing the door, “I can still make it to the pub before the team starts leaving.”

Brynja checked her watch. It was only five. “Surely the team will be at the pub until well after midnight, unless some of them head home for some alone time with their dates. You have…seven hours. The Fist meets at six. If they show.”

Harry was just behind Brynja wearing some of the Puddlemere gear that Oliver had given him. Ron had defiantly chosen to wear his Cannons shirt, which didn’t seem to bother Oliver because his team had won by five hundred points in a complete shut-out.

“Ron,” he said. “When are you going to stop being a martyr and root for me?”

“I’ll root for you any time you’re not playing the Cannons,” Ron said, handing Oliver a bottle of firewhiskey. Everyone had been ordered to dress for the cover occasion and bring snacks. Brynja took the bottle of whiskey and put it up somewhere in the kitchen. They wouldn’t be drinking that tonight.

Oliver put on the radio as they waited for the others to arrive. Savage was the last at right around quarter-till-six. She came with a stack of takeaway boxes from a pizza place in London. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “The line for this place is insane on a Saturday, even if you do confund a couple muggles and cut in.”

Brynja raised an eyebrow.

“Kidding. I don’t regularly hex muggles for pizza. Regularly.”

Brynja cocked her head.

“Kidding. I don’t ever.” Savage winked at Harry.

Harry had brought along his omnioculars, and he looked out Oliver’s front window. Someone in a cloak was knocking on the door across the street two houses down. That was their mark, a home belonging to a witch named Edina Mortenson. “It’s starting,” Harry said.

Savage came over and brought him a slice of pizza. She took the omnioculars. “How do you record on these things?” Harry showed her how to use them while he ate his pizza.

Brynja, Ron, Neville, and Williamson were divvying up supplies. They had their wands, but also Peruvian instant darkness powder, smoke pellets, and batons just in case they got disarmed during the raid.

“We could call for a whole hit squad,” Neville suggested.

“And spook our targets?” Williamson shrugged. “Nah. We’ve got this. There’s six of us.”

“We don’t even know how big this meeting will be,” Ron said.

“Judging by the size of that house,” Savage said. “Not very big. Not unless it’s bigger on the inside.”

Savage leaned over to Harry and whispered. “So what’s the deal with Brynja and Oliver? He looks very protective and…touchy.”

Harry looked back and noticed Oliver standing a lot closer to Brynja than usual.

“Are they a couple?”

“Why?” Harry teased. “Are you interested?”

“She’s not really my type,” Savage said. “Just curious. I’m nosy.”

“He hid her from death eaters after Robards blew her cover. And we trust him. So…” Harry shrugged. He took the omnioculars back from Savage and watched as a little old man with white hair knocked on the door.

Savage checked her watch. “Fashionably late. Five minutes. When should we jump, boss?”

Harry looked back at Brynja. “When do you want to spring the trap?”

“Williamson, Longbottom, and Weasley can head over and start covering the back exits,” she said. “You can take your position too, Savage.” She was going to be perched on the balcony, watching the exit from the front, prepared to apparate down onto the street if anyone made it out.

The plan involved covering all of the exits, but that meant preventing any apparation. Harry, Ron, and Neville had spent Friday training with Savage on how to cast a ward against it. The ward took a number of people, and the more who cast it, the more impenetrable it was. Someone who was more powerful (someone like Harry, whose apparation sounded like a canon) could probably break through a one-man ward just fine. If two or three wizards cast it, anyone who managed to escape would likely be splinched and end up at Mungo’s. With six casting, nobody would be getting out.

Harry and Brynja waited inside with Oliver for a few more minutes before quietly leaving the house and crossing the street. Harry cast a patronus, thinking of the moment when Ginny had first kissed him in the common room at the Gryffindor after party. All of the misery of Umbridge’s detention had lifted away, and with that memory Harry let the tension of their impending raid leave his body. The silver stag errupted from his wand and dash around the back of the house to let the others know that they were ready to cast. Harry and Brynja, standing yards apart in front of the home, began the spell, holding their wands out as they muttered the incantation, guiding a glowing golden net down over the property.

Someone inside had seen the light and came to the window. In was a young face with dark eyes and thick bangs. “Now!” Brynja shouted, and she ran to blast down the door. They were made. They had to act fast.

The raid was chaos. There were curses flying in all directions. Furniture exploded in fluff and splinters. People ran around the room. It was hard to tell who was an auror and who wasn’t. At least Harry didn’t hex Ron, catching himself at the last second when he recognized his bright orange robes.

When it was over, Neville had a bloody nose, Williamson was on the ground with his legs locked, and Ron had broken his wrist. Harry ran over to free Williamson’s legs while Brynja and Neville put all of the Fist members in ropes.

“I think Brynja got me.” Williamson laughed. “I was on the ground wrestling her,” he said while pointing to a middle-aged witch with a split lip and ropes around her wrists and ankles. “She had my wand for a minute.”

“We got the jump,” Brynja said. “I bet they were all quite surprised to find they couldn’t apparate.”

Ron was on the ground clutching his wrist, his face red as he fought back tears. Neville knelt before him, and after a moment of hesitation, Ron let him heal the wrist.

Harry started looking at the faces as Williamson sent his patronus off to call for a hit squad to do pickup. It was hard to tell what had been going on here with all of the broken furniture and bits of smashed dinnerware. Savage was entering the house now, stepping over a petrified terrorist and surveying the wreckage. “What a mess,” she said. She began to help Williamson sort out who the suspects were. She hesitated for a moment when she bent down to turn over the stunned old man. It was the white-haired man they had seen entering through the omnioculars.

“Do you know him?” Harry asked.

Savage cast ropes around him and performed a counter-curse to unfreeze him. The old man was shaking. “Mr. Doge,” she said with a smile. “I’m guessing you’re the leader of this rag-tag group.”

“Doge!?” Williamson shouted in alarm.

“Doge?” Harry looked down at the old man. He was sure he’d seen him somewhere. “How do I know this guy?”

“Mr. Elphias Doge,” Brynja said, “sits on the Wizengamot.”

*     *     *

It was late. The Hogwarts Halloween feast had ended hours ago. Harry had promised Ginny that he’d visit her in the village that day, but work had taken precedence. He was tired and disheartened. The Fist of Mars, at least its core membership, was locked away. There would be investigations into every member arrested and they would find out exactly why had done what. With the leadership taken down, Harry was sure the movement would die. But he wasn’t happy. These past few weeks just didn’t sit well with him.

And so he went to Hogwarts anyway. Tom didn’t ask questions at The Hog’s Head when Harry went to the Room of Requirement through the passage hidden there. He had sent his invisibility cloak wrapped in brown paper from an owl at the Hogsmeade post office and headed down the tunnel to Hogwarts.

The room that he found was not the barracks Neville had created to house Dumbledore’s Army. Harry had come seeking comfort, a familiar place that made him feel safe and at home, and what he found was Ginny’s old room at The Burrow. He remembered Ginny pulling him up there for a kiss on his birthday. Ron had burst in at the worst time possible, as if intentionally trying to interrupt something more.

Harry was just sitting down on a little wooden desk chair when the door opened. It was strange to be in what looked exactly like Ginny’s bedroom and then see the door open to what was obviously a corridor at Hogwarts. The door closed and the cloak fell off, leaving Ginny Weasley standing before him in her pajamas (new pajamas, courtesy of the Holyhead Harpies.)

“They really want you,” Harry said. Ginny crossed the room and threw her arms around Harry, planting a firm kiss on his lips. Harry forgot all about Quidditch recruiting and the Fist of Mars for a moment. His mind went wonderfully blank.

“My bedroom,” she said when she pulled away.

Harry shrugged.

“My bedroom,” she said again with an eyebrow raised.

“I wanted someplace comfortable,” he said. After weeks of suspicion and danger and doubt, this room—even if it wasn’t real—was safe.

Ginny took his hand and sat down on her bed. “The mattress is certainly nicer than mine was.”

Harry folded his legs under him, not worrying about his trainers tracking dirt on the comforter as it would just vanish when they left the room anyway. “I’m sorry I missed Hogsmeade,” he said. “You’ll read about it in the paper tomorrow. Ron and I, well— Ron, Neville, Williamson, Savage, Dunstan and I had to raid a meeting. Time sensitive and all.”

“A meeting? Did you catch—?”

“The Fist of Mars. At least their inner circle. Elphias Doge was one of them. He’s on—”

“The Wizengamot. Yeah, I’ve heard the full biographies of all of Percy’s superiors about a million times. What a— I can’t even think of what to call him. He’s supposed to be part of our justice system!”

“Yeah. It kind of makes you wonder, you know?” Harry held Ginny’s hand in his own. He turned it over and ran his fingertip across her palm, feeling the places where rough pads had formed from gripping a broomstick. “Sirius spent most of my life in prison because people were so caught up in vengeance that they forgot about justice. I don’t want a quick and easy cleanup. I’d rather Narcissa Malfoy get off easy than have someone innocent killed. His whole life was ruined because people jumped to conclusions. He could have gotten married, had kids, had a career. But instead he got dementors and isolation.”

“To be honest, and I’m a bit ashamed to say it, I’m relieved you didn’t tell me Percy was in the round up.”

Harry looked up at Ginny’s face. Her hair had fallen in front of her eyes. “Percy? But he’s so by-the-book.”

“I know,” she said, her cheeks turning pink. “But he can be a bit letter of the law and not the spirit, too. It’s easy to see how he might get swept up in something like that. But I know, he’s a good person, even if he was a total butt when Mom and Dad first joined the Order of the Phoenix. He wouldn’t get involved with a group that went around killing people.”

Harry pushed the hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “What worries me is that there will be others like them,” he said. “These were just the ones that were willing to kill for their beliefs. There were all of these editorials and letters from people who thought maybe they had the right idea. That’s not my job. Killing death eaters won’t bring back Remus and Tonks and Fred.”

Ginny nodded. Her lip trembled just barely. “Kingsley’s going to run a tight ship,” she said. “I trust him.”

There was a long silence. Harry didn’t mean to bring up Fred. He knew that the hole left in his heart could not compare to whatever Ginny was feeling. “They…” he looked back down at their hands. “They kept bringing my name into it. Like I was their hero. I did a lot of things outside the law, Ginny. Their manifesto, their letters, it's—it’s like they think they were continuing my work.”

Ginny unlinked their hands and held his face in her palms. She tipped his head up, making him look at her with those bring green eyes that reminded so many people of his mother. “Stop it,” she said firmly. “You are not to blame for what a bunch of broken people attached your name to.”

It was funny how emotions could be so inconsistent. At times in his life, Harry had felt as if his current state of being would never end. Those times were usually summers with the Dursleys. He also felt that way around dementors: like an impenetrable fog of despair had settled around him and rooted him to the spot. His emotional state tonight had been a constant ebb and flow of anger and guilt. But just then, as Ginny looked into his eyes and scolded his irrationality, something else trickled through. It was a little tickle of joy at first, and then it erupted like a volcano spilling over and erasing everything else. Harry laughed. It was a little snort at first as he tried to control it, but soon he was laughing so hard that his side hurt, and Ginny was laughing too.

Harry rolled onto his side, gasping to catch his breath. When he opened his eyes, Ginny was facing him, her cheek resting on the floral comforter, watching him wth a smile. “I have no idea what just happened there,” she said.

“I don’t either,” Harry admitted. Whatever it was, it was a memory for his reserve when he needed to cast a patronus. Harry brushed the hair away from Ginny’s face and leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers.

“Voldemort’s gone, but he’s left quite a bloody mess,” Ginny said.

Harry nodded ever so slightly. “And it’s going to take a while to clean up.”

Harry could understand the temptation to throw everything away and start over, but you couldn’t do that with people. The process was going to be slow, and some people who had done questionable things were going to get away with it, but it had to be that way. It was going to take time. Harry was just glad that he had family to get him through it. He didn’t need all of those knobbly-kneed, messy-haired people standing behind him in the Mirror of Erised. He had Ginny and Ron and Hermione and Neville and Luna and Oliver and George and Brynja and Savage. He had Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Kingsley and Hagrid. He’d made a family. Together, they would get through the darkness.

Chapter Text

Harry Potter sat on a bench at Platform 9 ¾ with a comic book in his hand. Protego was written by Jonas Munch and drawn by Dean Thomas. The cover was splashed with a frozen image of the superhero Protego, his masked face grimacing, his fist raised. The background moved in a continual loop of lines that gave the appearance that Protego was forever rushing the viewer, ready to strike. Energy crackled around the wands mounted at his wrists.

Harry had been sent a free advanced copy of the new comic by owl post that morning, and he read it as he waited for the train to arrive. Harry was a character in it, though not a major one. He stared at his image, a grinning, heroic figure that Harry thought was a romanticization of who he really was. He was pretty sure he had never stood that straight, and the comic version of Harry had a squarer chin, broader shoulders, and more conveniently messy hair.

Ron sat down on the bench with a dish of ice-cream. Harry glanced over and noticed that it was the super-chilled kind that came in little dots. “You didn’t bring me any?”

Ron snorted. “You can afford your own ice cream. I had to walk six platforms over to find this.”

“I would have paid you back,” Harry scoffed. He closed the comic and tucked it into his coat. It vanished in the expanded pocket. Harry was sweating in the early June air, and he took the light jacket off and draped it over his arm. “I’ve never been on this end of the Hogwarts express arriving,” Harry said.

“It’s dull, isn’t it?” Ron asked.

“There you are!” a voice called from behind them. Ron automatically blushed. Harry knew before he turned around that the Weasleys had just arrived through the magical barrier between platforms nine and ten. Harry turned around and stood up. Mrs. Weasley, short and plump, hurried to embrace him. “Harry!” she said as she pulled back. “I think you’re even handsomer than the last time I saw you.”

Ron stood up, melted ice-cream dripped on his chin.

“You and Ronald really must make a habit of coming around for dinner every week. I don’t care how busy you are,” Molly said.

Harry cast his eyes over the assembled Weasleys. In addition to Molly and Arthur, Percy was there with a girl Harry didn’t know. Her face looked vaguely familiar, like perhaps she was a year or two ahead of him in school. He held out his hand to shake.

“Harry, this is Audrey, my girlfriend,” Percy said, looking pleased with himself. She had fair skin and dark red hair. She was quite beautiful, but Harry couldn’t help but feel awkward about meeting Audrey, as he knew this was the girl Percy had cheated on Penelope Clearwater with. He had seen Penny quite a few times this year as she was close friends with his partner.

“How’s work, Percy?”

“Ah, yes,” he said, grinning. “That’s some good news. It will be official next week, but I have all of the votes. I’m going to appointed to the Wizengamot.”

“And so young, too!” Molly said, beaming with pride.

“Yeah, well, everyone above him is either dead or in jail,” Ron said. Molly scolded him.

A distant whistle called their attention to the tracks. Harry saw the cloud of steam before the actual train. Light flooded the tunnel and soon the shining red steam engine pulled up to the platform. The windows filled with smiling faces, eager to head out on summer break.

“Look at the firsties,” Audrey said. “They’re so tiny.”

Ron rolled his eyes.

Harry watched as waves of students left the train, each tugging trunks behind them. The platform was filled with the sounds of excited chatter and hooting owls. Harry thought about his first time on this platform. He and Ron had been first years. Fred and George had scared Molly with jokes about blowing up a toilet seat. The memory filled him with a kind of bittersweet joy that he had never really felt before. Nostalgia required happy memories and time.

Ginny and Hermione were among the last to disembark. Luna came out just ahead of them and waved before rushing to meet her father. Hermione got to Harry and Ron first, and she hugged each of them before Percy caught her ear to tell her about his promotion.

Ginny took her time crossing the platform, and Harry thought that each step was a tease. She hugged her parents first, and then turned to Harry. A quick glance at her mother told Harry that he was not going to get the kind of kiss he really wanted…yet.

“I see you shaved for me,” she said, touching his smooth chin.

“I have to be presentable to pick my girlfriend up at the station, don’t I?”

“Hmm, yes, otherwise what would the papers say?” she nodded towards a man with a giant flashbulb on his camera. Harry had hardly noticed the cameras going off around him. He was far too used to celebrity. It was easier to shut it out than try to avoid it.

Harry planted an innocent kiss on her cheek, but when he pulled away their fingers were linked. “Your mother has invited Ron and me and dinner.”

“Ginny’s going to have a busy week,” Hermione said, resting back against Ron. He was at least two heads taller than her, so that her head rested low on his chest. “Did you tell them the news?”

“Well, I’m sure they all got the invite to Oliver’s engagement party on Saturday,” she said with a smirk. Harry could see a familiar glint in her eye: the same kind of look Fred and George would get when playing innocent with their Hogwarts professors.

Hermione shook her head, “You know that’s not what I was talking about.”

“Oh yeah,” Ginny said. She squeezed Harry’s hand. “I got a letter this week formally inviting me to come sign with The Holyhead Harpies. They need a first string Chaser.”

“Oh Ginny!” Molly threw her arms around Ginny again, effectively breaking her away from Harry.

“That’s wonderful,” Arthur said. “Did the Cannons make an offer?”

“I guess the Harpies can be my third team, after Chudley and Puddlemere,” Ron said.

Percy scowled at Ron. Ron seemed rather pleased that he could ruffle Percy’s feathers.

“When would practice start?” Harry asked.

“Immediately. It’s not really that much of a surprise. I mean, they’ve been sending me presents all year.” Indeed, Ginny was wearing a Holyhead t-shirt right now.

“Right, but first string!” Percy said. “That’s prestigious, especially straight out of Hogwarts.”

Ron slung his arm around Ginny. “Seriously Gin, I couldn’t be prouder. At least someone in our family decided to take that God-given talent pro.” And there were no jokes this time about how many people had to die or wind up in jail to make this honor possible. Just genuine support.

The platform was emptying out. Harry took Ginny’s trunk and Ron took Hermione’s as they made their way back towards the barrier between the platforms. Percy grabbed the other end of Ginny’s trunk, and Arthur helped Ron. There would be no obvious magic to make the load lighter. Hermione found one of the last empty carts as they made their way out onto the main platform, and together they wheeled the trunks out to catch a taxi.

"We can all apparate,” Percy said. “Do we need a taxi? Why don’t we all just meet at The Burrow?”

They agreed. They found a secluded hallway on the way to a closed-down bathroom and began to apparate one by one. Percy and Audrey apparated, and then Ron and Hermione left. “Is George coming?” Harry asked Molly as Arthur vanished with Ginny’s trunk.

“He is, but he has to close down the shop and then come by. There will be a lot of families stopping in Diagon Alley for dinner and shopping before they go home. He’s bringing Angelina,” she said with a smile that told Harry that Molly was hoping for a match. Angelina had dated Fred right up until his death. Harry liked Angelina.

“She’s a Harpy!” Ginny said. “Good. I can get the inside scoop before I sign any papers.” With a sharp little crack, Ginny vanished.

Molly and Harry were left alone. She took his hand. “You alright dear?” Molly asked. “I know it’s been a hard year.”

Harry nodded. “I am,” he said. “It was bad back in the fall, but you know, things are starting to become kind of… normal.” He smiled nervously and shrugged. “How about you?”

A little shimmer came to Molly’s eyes. “I miss him, but it helps to see you kids doing so well.” Harry knew she meant Fred.

“I miss him, too,” Harry said. “He was a hero. And he made me laugh.”

Molly hugged Harry. When she pulled away, she was crying. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said, wiping her eyes.

“Don’t be.” Harry placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll see you back at the house?”

Molly nodded. She took a deep breath to settle herself and disappeared with a pop. Harry stood alone in the busy train station, standing in a darkened hall removed from the noise and chaos of the place. Life was clipping along at a hurried pace. They would have dinner tonight, a party tomorrow, and then everyone was working and growing and changing. Life went on.

Harry apparated away to The Burrow to be with his family.