Chapter Text
Harry Potter has gone four years, two months, and nine days without seeing Death.
That’s a personal record—If he didn't count the first ten years of his life (which he didn’t. Those years were their own particular brand of misery, and somehow still were worse than the decade and a half that followed them)
Harry had spent most of his adult life practicing the art of not thinking too deeply. About the war. The aftermath, Anything, really. It worked too— until he learned that Harry Potter had become a saying.
He learned this in the dairy aisle, of all places, when a witch pulled her child close and scolded, “Stop acting like Harry Potter!”
To Harry, this made one of the following phrases true and the other false.
Either “Harry Potter” and “Death” were antonyms.
Or “Harry Potter” and “Death” were synonyms.
He knew he was being a little dramatic. Probably—but hear him out,
“Stop acting like you’re invincible.” The witch could have meant. Making Harry the good side of the coin and Voldemort the bad.
The problem being that Harry was pretty sure Dumbledore was supposed to be the good side. Wasn’t he?
Did everyone else see this flaw? And if this were true, where did that leave Harry?
Because the very first thing you need to know about Harry Potter is that he hadn't the faintest idea which side of the coin the witch was comparing him to.
Before Hogwarts, he lost his parents; everyone knew that part of his story, of course. Harry would be surprised if they didn’t.
They didn’t know, however, how Harry melted a teacher's face with his hands, or stabbed Voldemort’s sixteen-year-old self with a basilisk fang. All before the age of thirteen. His famous scar a flash of green light compared to the vivid echoes of Hermione Granger’s tortured screams. </p
They didn’t know how, after Harry’s fourth year—at the very latest—he learned to run. He'd been fast before, sure, but he’d never had practice quite like that.
It was all he ever found himself doing was running. From nightmares, towards danger.
It was his only way to get away from it all. He never got used to a moment of peace, never got a full relaxing night of sleep, never considered taking a break, and most of all, he never questioned any of it. Because back then, Harry wasn’t supposed to ask questions. He no longer followed this rule, of course,
These days, he decided to question it.
But Harry thought that if they did know these things, it would be almost more likely for that witch in the grocery store to have meant, “Stop trying to kill yourself.”
Most people expected him to fall apart after the war. To collapse, to settle, to plant some roots. They told him he deserved that at least—some peace.
They definitely did not expect him back for an Eighth Year at Hogwarts.
They did not expect him to be the first name down for the Auror Academy.
And they definitely didn’t expect him to thrive under all the pressure.
But thriving meant movement, and Harry was good at that.
He graduated top of his class, a full-blown Auror at twenty.
Long story short, he was here four years later, surrounded by boring beige walls behind a cluttered desk. Closing yet another case (his third one this week), and finishing the last burnt drops of his coffee pot before opening his next.
Still running.
Maybe even fleeing.
“Harry!” Ron’s voice followed a swift invasion of his office. The door banged against the wall as three friendly faces made themselves at home.
“You coming round the pub tonight, mate?” Neville dropped into the chair across from him and kicked his feet up onto the desk.
“Do I ever?” Harry snapped, and “Do you mind?”
“One round!” Dean bargained, ignoring the second chair altogether and seating himself instead on top of Harry’s organized cases. Well, oh, all right, onto his cases. He hadn’t exactly gotten to the organized part yet.
“I’ve got work to do.”
“Oh, please, you closed the Nathanials' case in two hours! You can take the weekend off, I think.” Ron sat promptly on the floor against the wall and started unpacking the lunch that Hermione likely packed for him. He rarely remembered to do so for himself.
“I got lucky, the witch I was interrogating went all fan crazy and half turned her husband in!” (A thing that happened far too often for his liking)
He’d rather put in the grunt work like everyone else, but his name alone voided him of that. As did the list of titles he’d been given before and since the war. The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, The Savior, all made him thoroughly miss Undesirable Number One. At least then, people didn’t drool over him.
“You still made the connection, mate.” Ron mumbled through bits of his sandwich, but Harry wasn’t listening anymore. He was busy pulling out his next case from underneath Dean’s arse.
“Straight to the next one, eh?” Dean remarked, shifting his weight to one side to make Harry’s attempt easier.
“If I don’t solve it, who will?” He shrugged.
“Your partner?” Neville offered, still refusing to move his dirty sneakers.
“Er—” Was all he managed.
The room groaned.
“Don’t tell me it happened again.” Ron moaned, dropping the crust of his sandwich. “What the bloody hell did you do this time?”
He brushed his hands together to dust off the crumbs.
“It wasn’t anything I did! It was the bloke's own fault. I told him to stay put while I whipped ‘round back—he didn’t. Perp got away, and he got sacked.” A lie. A good one.
Now wasn’t the time to get into the real reason Kelly was no longer Harry’s partner. His friends would have a fit.
“That’s what? Five? Six now?” Dean laughed.
Eight. It was eight, actually. He didn’t correct him.
It was rather embarrassing that the Savior himself couldn't manage to keep a partner alive, assigned, or willing. How, unlike Ron and Neville, who were partnered up day one at the Academy, or Dean and Theodore Nott (of all people), who have lasted almost four years, Harry hasn’t held a partner for longer than a year.
His first partner, Edwards, lasted the longest. They were an excellent team, he thought so anyway. They bounced ideas off each other effortlessly and arrested more people than the rest of the rookies put together. Of course, this could be credited to timing. Right after the war, there were plenty of Death Eaters and Dark wizards to round up. Harry still gives them some credit, though, since this was the first year Auror Academy Completion was not required for a Dark wizard Round-up. Many unprecedented events occurred during the Second Wizarding War. Harry couldn’t keep them straight anymore.
Harry was very surprised when their partnership came to an abrupt end. He still didn't know what prompted Edwards to put in the transfer request, but one morning at random, Harry came into work to an empty office across the hall. Clint filling it the following week. Everything just kept moving.
Clint, well, Harry didn’t have enough time to properly get into all this now, but quickly; he was very kind, and they definitely could have worked out if they had had more time. Unfortunately, ten months into their partnership, he took a rebounded curse to the chest. Harry was the caster. The witch was arrested. Thankfully, her Protego knocked both her and Harry out clean. Long enough for the others to throw her in cuffs. By the time Harry woke up, Tristan Clint was dead.
This was followed by eight months with Oakley. It was Harry, actually, who requested reassignment that time after one too many suggestive comments. Harry didn’t have time for anything like that. The paperwork alone would have buried him.
After his third partner, he lost track. None of them lasted longer than six months. “Harry doesn’t utilize me in the field.” “Harry doesn’t communicate!” “Harry’s too impulsive.” “Harry blah, blah, blah.”
Well, all except for Declan Kelly. He was scared off by the Daily Prophet and the mere thought of Harry Potter liking to kiss boys. For Merlin's Sake!
And really, all the failed partnerships were rather on trend for him, if he was willing to admit so. After all, his story started when his parents died for him, and ended along with the lives of over fifty soldiers, in the Battle of Hogwarts. Hell, even his bloody bird took a killing curse for him. He supposed that aside from Ron and Hermione, people only knew how to die for him. How to make swift exits from his life. Not how to live with him.
He counted his lucky stars every day that his two best friends were somehow unaffected.
“It’s alright, the next one’ll work out!” Ron’s optimism rung through the office. Harry wasn’t convinced.
It was about two hours later when the memo, folded into a paper airplane, zipped into his office. His friends had all run off to the pub by now, and he doubted there were many people left in the ministry. He assumed Cho was still hauled up in her office, but they were usually the last people out the floo.
He unfolded it carefully and read the blunt note from Robards, the current Head of the Aurors.
Detective Potter,
I am sure you are familiar with the issue at hand regarding your failed partnerships since starting here at the DMLE. I regret to inform you that this issue, as well as your most recent press scandal, has made it quite difficult for us to match you with a new detective. For this reason, we are forced to suspend you for the time being until we can find a proper fit.
We will be distributing your open cases and will have you relocated to another department, effective immediately.
Please await my owl for further instructions.
And go home, Potter.
-Robards
Just as Harry read the last word, his case files vanished from his desk. Harry flailed his hands around uselessly. As if him slamming them on the desk would make his precious work return to him. He couldn't believe it! He’d just been sacked!
So much for the promotion he’d been working so hard for. His aspiration to head the Aurors before thirty-five! He could have done it too. Partner or no partner, he was the best damn Auror the place had to offer!
Harry read the letter several times over, and the same word jumped out at him: scandal. As if the article were Harry’s fault.
It was nothing more than Rita Skeeter’s usual garbage. A lucky guess based on almost zero evidence. Monologues about how long Harry had gone without dating. About how he ended things with Ginny on vague grounds. How this, obviously, meant he never loved her in the first place.
Unfortunately for Harry, the wild accusation wasn’t too far off. And if his workplace hadn’t reacted as poorly as it did to the mere rumor, he would have considered correcting them. Not that he’s ever even told anyone, sauf Ron and Hermione (and a few other friends who must have worked it out by now), but he identified as Bisexual, not as Gay.
And really, it didn’t affect him at all anyway, because he didn’t date. He learned after many, many failed attempts that if it wasn’t going to work with Ginny Weasley, it simply wasn't going to work for him at all.
Left with nothing else to do but throw on his robes and march for the floo, he decided that he deserved a drink after all. God, he hoped Hermione was at the pub; she’d know what to do, surely.
He wondered if she could pull some strings higher up and void Harry of the necessity of a partner at all. It would certainly make his life easier.
“Maybe this isn’t the worst thing, Harry.” Were the absolute last words he was expecting to escape Hermione Granger’s mouth.
“What?” Mione, I’ve lost my job!”
“Don’t be dramatic, it says right here, relocated.” She corrected, smacking the back of her hand on the letter.
“I don’t care what it says, it means I can’t be an Auror! Where they gonna put me? Magical Creatures?”
“They’ll find something good for you, I’m sure of it. You’re Harry Potter for crying out loud, like they’ll give you anything that lacks—“ She waved around her arms, her hair bouncing back and forth. “You know, all your—excitement.” She decided on, even though Harry was quite sure she wanted to say something else.
“Excitement?”
“I mean, they know better than to keep you in one place too long.”
“Lay off him.” Ron pitched, “He’s just lost his job, he’s allowed to be pissed.”
“Thank you!’ Harry threw up his arms. “At least one of you gets it! “
“I only mean that maybe something new will help you along. Help figure out whatever's stopping you from being partnered up with someone you can trust.”
“Ugh, you sound like Robards. Trust has nothing to do with it! I’m a very trusting person.” He finished his glass, and Ron took it as an excuse to skip off to the bar for both of them. Clearly trying not to get between whatever was going on between his best friend and his fiancée.
“Gimme a break. Last week, you pulled your wand on a Muggle!”
“I’m jumpy.” He shrugged (He does so often). “That much is to be expected. I did fight in a war if you’d care to remember.”
“As if you’d ever let me forget, you twat.” She too finished off her butterbeer and made eye contact with Ron across the room. She tipped her empty bottle at him and then pointed to Harry’s drink. Somehow, both he and Ron understood she was asking for something harder. “All I’m saying, love, is that you’ve decided how you feel about this whole ordeal before even letting it play out. Who knows what’ll happen.”
“I do—I’ll tell you right now, even. You write this down, Granger! Watch me predict the future right now.”
“Maybe another round isn’t necessary…”
“Nonono,” Harry slurred and put up on hand in defence, looking anything but sober. “Just listen—right. They’re gonna transfer me. Then I’ll be forced to work with a load of bastards who all can’t stand me. I’m gonna do something stupid, then I’m right sacked.”
“Quit feeling sorry for yourself. I’m not listening to another word of this.” She turned over to Ron, “Hurry up over there, Harry’s getting depressing!” She yelled, invoking a few giggles around the bar and a few cheers and whistles from Dean’s table.
“Oi, cheer up, mate! At least you don’t have to do all that paperwork.” He called.
“Look who you’re talking to, surprised Robards didn’t have to pry those files from his cold dead hands. Not a single paper cut even.” Neville dragged out his insult. Losing the bars attention as well as Harry’s.
He ignored them.
Ron returned, finally, and Harry decided to spend the rest of the night getting drunk enough to forget why he needed to get drunk in the first place.
He never quite got to that point.
As if he were insistent on pissing Harry off further, Robarbs di not get back to Harry over the weekend. Instead, Harry had to seek him out personally on Monday morning to learn where exactly he was supposed to be transferred to. He knocked on his office door quickly in hopes of getting it over with.
“Come in,” Robard’s commanding voice boomed from behind the door. “Ah, Detective, should’ve been expecting a visit from you this morning.”
“Must’ve missed your owl this weekend. I’m not sure where I’m expected.”
“Yes, of course, and my apologies, it was harder than I imagined to squeeze you into a proper place.”
“And that place is?”
“The International Magical Cooperation.” He said, no hint in his voice to indicate that he was joking.
“What on earth do I have to offer them?” Harry half laughed.
A lot, apparently.
Shacklebolt was forming a small covert team. At most ten Aurors, very elective, he was booked for the rest of the day with interviewees. Aurors, undercover in different countries as public ambassadors. Targeting dark wizards who remained in power.
“And he wants my face all over it.” He couldn't help but push back. “I don’t do publicity stunts.”
Harry was ready to march out of the office right there, but Robards' next words stopped him.
“We’ve only been able to reopen international magical transportation in four countries, Detective! It’s been six years! Twenty-six countries are confirmed to still be under siege by Voldemort’s supporters. And we’ve had absolute zero contact with France, Luxembourg, Kenya, South Africa, or either of the Americas.”
“And coincidentally, I get suspended right when this project is underway.” Harry crossed his arms, but something kept him rooted in place. A mild interest at least—or it could always be his hero obligation, acting up again.
“Relax. I assure you, there’s no greater scheme. If you really are uninterested, we can find someone else. Believe it or not, we have plenty of war heroes at our disposal, Many who are far less risky choices even.
“What do you mean by that?”
“You’re not exactly good with the press, Potter. But Shacklebolt sent this along with his owl, recommending you personally for the position.” He handed over a piece of paper. Harry read the first few lines and recognized it right away. It was a letter he had written to the minister roughly two years ago. Calling out the corruption in the ministry, demanding he do something about it.
“This is exactly what you’ll be doing,” Robards continued, gesturing to the letter. “The press stuff is only your cover. You’ll be sent to as many countries as possible to build cases against these criminals. No one will suspect you, a recently fired cop. It’s perfect.”
“I won’t have jurisdiction.”
“The Department of International Magical Law Cooperation will. And since you’re already a qualified Auror, you’ll be able to work under the Interpol subsection.”
“And how long will I be doing this for? How long will I be out of the country?”
“As long as necessary. And when you’re finished, you’ll have your job waiting for you.” He stood up after this to signal the end of his pitch. Ready to officially hire him.
“I’ve never even left the country, sir,” Harry said, feeling slightly more intimidated at eye level.
“As a European wizard, Potter? I find that hard to believe.”
“Never had the time."
“Well, here’s your chance then.”
“And if I refuse?”
“I’m sure there’s space for you somewhere,” Robards said. His arms crossed, he rustled a hand over his chin. “But with your history…where do you see yourself in five years?”
“Captain. At least.” Harry answered, no hesitation. “On my way to Chief.”
“This project could get you there—take the rest of the day off. Make your decision, we’ll hold a spot for you.” This was the right thing for him to say, because Harry was quick to reply,
“No, I’ll do it. “
He couldn’t resist. It was undercover work. High risk.
Movement.
“Wonderful. I’ll have the files sent to your office; you’ll be expected to leave in three days.” Harry didn’t flinch. He reached out his hand, offering it to Robards. But before he could take it,
“One more thing—I get to choose the team.”
They shook on it.