Chapter Text
A storm was coming.
Nature always had a way to warn of impending disasters. The wind and sky would tell you.The first sign was always the heat. It all began on a warm spring day- far warmer than any spring day in London had any right to be. A wet heat that permeated the streets and threatened to drop anyone with its unrelenting fury. Then, there were the dark clouds gathering in the skies, gray clouds that blotted out the sun, leaving London with the kind of ugly, muggy humidity that sank into the muscles and boiled the blood.
Harry could smell moisture in the air. A wetness that prophesized what was to come. The darkening clouds gathered overhead, black and heavy with rain. The wind blew in warm and damp, choking people with each breath.
Three days later the storm hit.
Harry woke to the sounds of rain battering against his townhouse walls, a violent rain that drenched the London streets and forced everyone to take shelter inside. Icy winds buffeted the old buildings, clattering windows and shaking foundations. Thunderheads blackened the lower skies as the clouds above continuously churned in and out of themselves.
The rain fell nonstop for three days. Streets flooded, pubs closed, and roofs leaked as the deluge continued. It was the kind of rain that flooded basements and drowned the rats living there. Undoubtedly, the worst storm England had seen in over a decade.
And it was in the midst of this storm that Harry came upon the murdered body of Neville Longbottom on his front step.
He had found the Boy Who Lived sprawled out on the front steps of his London property, Grimmauld Place, along with the rest of his family. His soaking wet body was twisted in odd, unnatural angles. His lifeless eyes looked upwards, empty and void of any emotion. Lying beside Neville was his wife, Ginny Weasley Longbottom, former Captain of the Holyhead Harpies. She too lay lifelessly still, rain soaked into her flaming red hair, causing it to fan out into rolling waves of crimson. Raindrops dripped down her face, giving the impression of tears flowing from her glazed-over, vacant green eyes..
Even more horrifying than seeing his friends’ dead bodies was what lay between them.
Alice Minerva Longbottom was situated between her parents, cold, unmoving and lifeless.
She had her mother’s hair, only a shade darker than the bright crimson that Ginny Weasley was known for. It was more of a dark auburn, the hue of autumn leaves and redwood trees. She had the same round face and large teeth that her father had in his youth, decorated with a splattering of brown freckles. Harry couldn’t help but notice the resemblance. But, at the same time, she possessed her mother’s gorgeous nose and beautiful chin.
All three were dead and Harry had no idea why or how they had come to be at his front door.
“Damn it all, Neville. What did you do?” Harry said. He hadn’t talked to Neville properly since their graduation day. Even then, they hadn’t said much to each other- there had been too much hurt and anger. Still, Harry had gone these past ten years hoping to make right with Neville, to patch things up and fix their damaged friendship.
Now it would never happen.
Harry watched them lay there and felt his tears mix with the rain. The cold pierced through his skin and sank into his bones. A heating charm would keep the cold at bay, not that it mattered. He didn’t feel much like being warm right now. He wanted the cold to penetrate his body and numb everything that he was feeling, to take away every last bit of shock, anger and sadness.
But he knew that there wasn’t time to mourn or feel sad.
They were coming.
He could feel the ripples of magic tear holes through the fabric of reality as the Aurors apparated around him, four hard and distinct puncturing sounds.
Four.
It was to be expected. Aurors normally worked in teams of two or more. You watched your partner’s back and they watched yours- standard procedure.
“Hands up!” someone called from the left of him. The voice was gruff, with just the slightest hint of Irish. Purcell? Or was it Campbell?
It didn’t matter. They had flanked him. Two on one side, one opposite and one in the middle facing him.
Smart. Spread yourselves wide to avoid any wide reaching curses. Again, standard procedure.
Harry raised his hands without protest.
Another ripple of magic and he suddenly felt cold iron manacles binding his hands together.
“Harry James Potter-Black, you’re under arrest for the murders of Neville Augustus Longbottom, Ginerva Weasley-Longbottom and Alice Minerva Longbottom.”
*****
They had brought him to Langtry Gate, Auror HQ, London. It was hidden underground, beneath an old bakery that sold fresh loaves of bread and smelled of warmth and kindness, a place Harry hadn’t been to in three years.
Not since he had resigned from the Corps.
They had brought him in through the back alley and tapped their badges against the old brick wall, causing it to rearrange itself into a staircase leading down. The descent was longer than Harry remembered. Perhaps it was because this time, he was doing the walk as a suspect rather than as an Auror.
The Auror team that had arrested him walked beside him, surrounding him on all sides. Apparently they thought he was dangerous. Harry Potter-Black, trained Auror and veteran of the Second Wizarding War.
Who would have thought.
The Aurors led him through the empty halls. Not much had changed since he had left. The same dirty brick lining the walls, the same desks crowding the front floor, the same massive holding cell housing drunks, shady looking criminals, and people vocally expressing their innocence.
They had handcuffed him with iron manacles carved with runes designed to suppress the flow of magic, manacles that she had designed. Three different Aurors, rookies judging by the fresh looks on their faces, relieved the team and led him onwards.
A few seasoned Aurors, Finnigan, Verus and Blackmoore, watched him walk by with narrowed eyes. Finnigan had aged since Harry had last seen him. Long strands of white could be seen mingling with his brown hair creating a salt and pepper color atop his head.
They locked him in a windowless cell, encircled by iron bars. Another anti-magic measure, the circle was meant to block the flow of Magic from the Source while the iron was designed to interfere with any spellcasting from the outside. It was one of her designs, brilliant and practical. Harry didn’t protest. It wouldn’t do him any good. He would have the chance to prove his innocence during interrogation. Nevertheless, he wondered who they would assign. It had to be one of the Senior Aurors: McBride, Tonks, Lupin?
It didn’t matter- he was innocent.
So, he sat there alone, amidst the cold and dirty bricks, leaning against the uncomfortable iron bars. There wasn’t any point in trying to reach for his magic or trying to escape. Any action he took, other than waiting, would be taken as an escape attempt and seen as an admission of guilt. He closed his eyes and wondered how he had gotten himself into this situation.
Like the rest of London, he had spent the past few days avoiding the rain. He had holed himself away in Grimmauld Place, seat of House Black. Sirius hadn’t been back in a while, but that was par for the course.
Sirius Black, Harry’s godfather and adoptive father, was head of House Black and a seated member of the Wizengamot. Therefore, it wasn’t surprising for him to spend weeks if not months away from home, writing legislation, forming alliances, and whatever else it was that politicians did.
To pass the time, Harry had read the Daily Prophet and listened to the radio. The major news that week was the impending election. Minister Scrimgeour had announced his retirement at the end of the year, and the election for next Minister of Magic was expected.
Lucius Malfoy, the former Death Eater turned innocent bystander turned scumbag politician, had announced his candidacy on behalf of the Magi Party. No opponent from the opposing Arcanum Party had been announced yet, though the Prophet expected them to make an announcement by the end of the week.
He hoped to everything sacred that Lucius Malfoy wouldn’t become Minister. Things were already bad enough as they were. But if the Magi Party couldn’t put forth a worthy contender, then England’s Wizarding World was in for a world of hurt.
All in all, it meant that major changes were on the horizon.
He closed his eyes and felt himself drift into a silent, thoughtless meditation.
She came to him in his thoughts. He thought of her curly brown hair and her disapproving eyes.
“Oh Harry, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” she would say.
He smirked at the thought. How long had it been since she had scolded him for his recklessness? Far too long- nearly a decade based on his own estimation. Hermione had been occupying his thoughts for the past few days now. The time spent indoors had given him plenty of opportunity to think and reflect. It was only natural that he thought of her, even if he hadn’t seen her for five years. The way things had ended between them and the mistakes that he had made, they often kept him up at night. “Potter, get up. It’s time to go.”
The words snapped him back to reality. He had no idea how long it had been since he had drifted off.
He got up and left his thoughts in the cell.
****
They didn’t bring him to any interrogation room. Instead, they took him directly to the Head Auror’s office. Kingsely Shacklebolt, war hero and Head Auror, gave Harry a tired and exasperated look as Harry sat down across from him. Shacklebolt looked every part the role of Head Auror. He was broad shouldered and hard faced, with serious eyes and wrinkles that marred his face. He wore a simple white collared shirt with his wand holstered at his ribs. His hard eyes stared down Harry as he sat down across from him. Harry had been on the receiving end of those eyes many times, but he had also seen the compassion beneath the stone exterior.
Shacklebolt was a man just as much as he was a symbol. Since Voldemort’s death at the Battle of Hogwarts and his subsequent appointment to the office of Head Auror, Shacklebolt had worked tirelessly to reform the Auror department. Under his administration, the Aurors had gone from a muggle-born and half-blood hunting office to keepers of the peace and upholders of justice. Dozens of Death Eaters and Dark Lord supporters had been arrested and charged for crimes against wizardkind, no matter how large or small.
As brutal and relentless as they may have seemed, Shacklebolt’s methods had brought lasting peace to England. Azkaban had been filled with wizards that had supported Voldemort while the worst of the worst had faced the gallows.
Kingsley Shacklebolt wasn’t a man to be trifled with.
“Undo his shackles,” Shacklebolt said to the two Aurors that had brought Harry in.
“Sir! I must protest,” said one of the Aurors, some young faced kid with hair that was way too nice.
“Are you questioning my authority?” Shacklebolt asked. There was a distinct rumble in his voice, a warning.
“No sir, it’s just tha-“
“Then undo his shackles and leave us.”
The two Aurors nodded and quickly banished the heavy manacles with a flourish of their wands. Wand magic, basic, but effective.
“Now leave us,” said the Head Auror.
“Sir…” began the other Auror.
“Leave. Us,” said Shacklebolt, his voice full of quiet authority, the echo of which caused the entire room to tremble.
The two foolish Aurors shook their heads and left in a hurry, allowing Shacklebolt to turn his attention back to Harry.
“I wish we could have reconnected under better circumstances, Harry,” said Kingsley Shacklebolt softly. There was a tired tone to his voice.
Harry nodded. “Sir, me too.” Shacklebolt had once been his commanding officer- old habits die hard.
He held up his unbound hands. “Are you sure you did the right thing?” Harry asked. “I am wanted for murder, you know.”
“Come now, Harry, I know you’re not responsible for that. Neville was your friend.”
Was his friend.
Harry wasn’t sure if he could consider Neville and himself friends after everything that had happened. Not after what he had done during the Battle of Hogwarts.
Shacklebolt’s expression softened and once again Harry saw the man beneath the office. The kind, fatherly man under the stone faced Head Auror who had to keep his officers in check while fending off the ambitions of politicians. “Harry, what happened during the war…the things you did and didn’t do…you have to forgive yourself. You are more than your mistakes.”
Harry smiled and nodded. “Neville…you said that I was innocent…how do you know that I didn’t kill him?”
It was more of a statement than a question.
“I have my methods. The coroner that we placed at the local police precinct sent us a preliminary report.” He pushed forward a manila folder. “Neville Longbottom, Ginerva Weasley-Longbottom and Alice Minerva Longbottom were killed by an unknown curse. No burns, no sign of any spell, no marks…except for one.”
Harry opened the folder, doing his best to keep his eyes as neutral as possible. The first page was a photo of Neville’s lifeless body. The coroner had removed his clothes in order to perform her medical examination. Family life had been good for Neville. He was fit, but bore the kind of chubbiness one expected to see from an active father. Harry assumed that Neville had At least the coroner had the sense and decency to shut Neville’s eyes. There weren’t any signs of bruising or cuts. No blood or ligature marks. Not even a mole or blemish. But there was a mark. A fresh wound located on Neville’s forearm, a small pence-sized hole, as if something had pierced his skin and flesh with something sharp, such as an ice pick or nail.
“Gunshot wound,” Harry said quietly. His three years in MACUSA New York had given him enough exposure to guns to last a lifetime. “Hollow point.”
“Indeed. Our coroner found similar wounds on Ginny and Alice, one on the arm, the other on the leg.”
“None of those are fatal shots. Someone killed Neville and his family and used a gun to try to cover up their tracks,” Harry said as he looked through the file.
Shacklebolt smiled a knowing smile. “Anything else?”
“Killer is most likely a pureblood wizard,” Harry replied
“What makes you say that?”
“Most purebloods don’t bother with the muggle world, so they would have no idea how muggle technology works. Whoever killed the Longbottoms likely wants to frame a muggle for their murder. They assumed that guns work the same as killing curses. One hit and instant death. So, likely, their plan was something akin to killing the Longbottoms with a curse and then covering up their tracks with a gun. What they didn’t realize is that you can’t just shoot someone with a gun and expect it to be fatal. Skill and precision are required,” Harry said quietly. “You shoot someone in the arm, they have a decent chance of survival. Whatever it was that killed the Longbottoms…it wasn’t a gun.”
“Very good,” Kingsley said. “We swabbed your hands earlier and found no traces of gunshot residue. Besides, I know you well enough to know that you wouldn't execute such a messy plan.”
Harry closed the folder. “So why are you showing me this file?”
“He was your friend, Harry,” Shacklebolt said quietly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small disk.
It was a simple design, a five pointed star encircled by a thick band of silver. Ancient runes that Harry had never been able to decipher ran along the edges of the circle. At the bottom was a number: 62697. Harry recognized the number immediately- it was his old badge number.
His old badge.
“I want you to find Neville’s killer,” said Shacklebolt. “As an Auror.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” Shacklebolt replied, his voice deadly serious. “A member of Dumbledore’s army, a former member of the Order of the Phoenix, a trained Auror who has worked in both the Kingdom as well as on our behalf for the MACUSA New York division- you are the most qualified individual for this job.”
“This job. Sir, there are far reaching political ramifications here,” Harry said quietly. “People will use Neville’s death to further their careers. They’ll swear to take up his cause, further his work, but then they’ll use his life and legacy to further their own ambitions. The Auror who solves this case will undoubtedly leverage the feat into political capital.”
Harry took a breath. “Whoever solves this case will be the one who succeeds you.”
Shacklebolt smiled, wide and toothy. “All the more reason why you should be the one who takes on this case. You were one of Longbottom’s closest friends. You fought together in the war, went on the run to destroy Voldemort’s Horcruxes. No one would raise an eyebrow about you wanting to avenge his death. You’ve never cared about wizarding politics and I can trust that you would have no other reason to take on this case other than to do the right thing.”
“I’m not an Auror any more, sir. I quit a long time ago,” Harry protested.
Shacklebolt slid the badge across the table, his eyes hard, but understanding. “And I’m offering you a way back in,” he said softly. “I’m offering you redemption. For everything that you’ve done, all the mistakes you’ve made. A chance to finally put down the stone that you’ve been carrying around for the past decade. Take up the shield and stand once again as Auror Harry James Potter-Black.”
Harry stared at the badge. His warped face reflected on the shiny surface stared back at him. Its glimmering surface offered him something that he didn’t even know he desired: redemption. Redemption for everything that he had done, absolution for all of his past mistakes. And beyond that... Alice was just a child, Ginny was his friend, and Neville…
He picked up the badge. Its weight was heavier than any guilt or regret that he had carried since Hogwarts.
Kingsley Shacklebolt’s smile was broad and beaming.
****