All for you
July 31st, 2001
"One more before you head off?"
Harry nodded as he handed his empty glass to the barman, who poured him another whiskey and placed it back in front of him.
"This one's on the house, lad. Happy Birthday."
"How did you know it was my birthday?" Harry asked suspiciously, instinctively reaching for his wand.
"I checked your ID when you first came in," Bert reminded him with a chuckle. "It's been, what, six months? I remember these things. Us barmen remember the oddest of things."
Harry liked the older muggle.
Bert's father had brought the pub upon returning from the war back in the forties, and it had been passed on after his parents decided to retire on the continent.
They'd both been dead for some years now, but Bert was still here with his wife, Elizabeth, who occasionally made an appearance to serve drinks when her health would allow her.
The King's Arms.
Harry liked this pub.
Since the war had ended a little more than a few years prior, the muggle world had become his escape from day-to-day life among his own kind. Even now, he could scarcely walk through Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade without being inundated with well-wishers, people wanting to thank him, or someone wanting an autograph.
At first, he'd handled it with as much grace as he could muster, but it had quickly begun to irk him.
It wasn't that he hadn't been grateful for the kind words and the praise bestowed upon him, he just found it truly meant nothing.
Yes, he'd killed Voldemort, but he couldn't profess to have done it for anyone else other than himself. Perhaps he was selfish for thinking such. Nonetheless, it was the truth.
He'd wanted to live more than Tom had wanted to avoid death, and Harry's will had won out in the end.
Still, that didn't stop his life from falling apart since.
He'd hoped that with the war over, wizarding Britain could rebuild itself, that those who'd survived the darkest of days would move on and allow him to do the same.
Those hopes had been dashed when it came to his desire for privacy, for some time to breathe freely without the burden of the Dark Lord hanging over him.
The things that did seem to move on only made Harry feel even more disjointed, even more alone in the world than he'd ever felt.
Ron and Hermione had gotten married shortly after the war, with the former signing up to be an Auror. Hermione had decided she wished to pursue a career in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, which was temporarily on hold whilst she was in the later stages of her first pregnancy.
How she'd ever gotten pregnant with the amount of arguments she and Ron found themselves in, Harry didn't know.
As happy as he was for them, however, they were no longer children, even if they did act like it, and so much had changed between them.
Ron had been bitter that Harry had decided not to follow him in becoming an Auror, and Hermione seemed to spend their moments together trying to convince Harry to take up his seat on the Wizengamot.
It simply wasn't what he wanted.
He'd seen what had become of Dumbledore, and Harry could not envision such a life for himself.
He had no desire to serve the people when it suited them and be vilified when things didn't go as they wished.
No, he'd avoided the political sphere as though it was infected with a nasty case of Dragon Pox, and he had no intention of changing that.
Maybe he'd become apathetic with much of the wizarding world. He certainly found it bittersweet being there now, even if it was the first place he'd felt he'd belonged.
"What?" Harry questioned as he caught Bert staring at him curiously.
"I'm just wondering what you're doing in here on a Thursday evening and on your birthday," the man replied. "For six months now, you've been in at eight pm on the dot every Tuesday and Saturday."
"Are you saying I'm predictable?"
Bert nodded.
"Ex-Military?"
Harry chuckled as he took a sip of his drink.
"Something like that."
"I thought as much," Bert murmured, offering him an understanding smile. "My father had the same look in his eyes as you, that edge that only witnessing death can bring. War is a terrible thing, Harry. It's a shame the world seemed to have learned nothing from the forties."
"Wars come and go, and the soldiers who fight them, whether they die in battle or alone and forgotten after."
Bert shook his head.
"You're too young to be talking like that," he sighed. "You've got your whole life ahead of you, lad."
"I feel like I've already lived more than one lifetime," Harry snorted.
"Come of it," Bert said dismissively. "There's a lot for you to look forward to yet: marriage, children, the list goes on. I don't see a ring. Is there a special lady in your life?"
"Do you think I'd be spending my birthday in your company if there was?"
"I know I'm not as handsome as I once was, but I'm not bad for a bloke my age," Bert returned.
"You're not so bad, Bert," Harry agreed, "but no, there's no special lady in my life, as you put it."
There wasn't.
Ginny had wanted to rush him into marriage, and whatever they'd once had fell apart, much like everything else in Harry's life.
For a while, he'd almost been destitute when the goblins had seized almost all of the gold in his vault as reparations for what had happened during the retrieval of Hufflepuff's Cup.
Fortunately, Kingsley, having been named the new Minister of Magic, had intervened on his behalf and ensured they couldn't touch the gold Sirius had left him.
Harry had gotten the last laugh in the matter.
Not wanting to leave his wealth in the hands of the creatures that despised him, Harry emptied the vault, leaving the goblins without their most prestigious client.
That had not been well-received by them, but Harry didn't care. He'd let the goblins and the Ministry argue over something neither could change.
Both had either tried to force or negotiate the return of the gold, but Harry had pointedly ignored them. He'd not set foot in Gringotts or the Ministry since and took no small amount of pleasure in annoying both entities.
He smirked to himself at the thought.
Still. Breaking up with Ginny had just happened, much like everything else around him.
Harry couldn't say he'd fought to make the relationship work.
Ginny had returned to Hogwarts for her final year of school, and Harry had opted to complete his NEWTs privately, much to her chagrin.
He'd not wanted to return to the castle so soon after all that had happened there, and Ginny couldn't understand that. To her, he was being selfish and not considering that she wanted him to be closer to her.
When she'd all but given him an ultimatum, Harry's choice had been surprisingly easy to make.
Mrs Weasley hadn't taken the news well, and Ron had given him a hard time for it, adding to his irritation that Harry had opted not to join the Aurors, it had strained their friendship.
Mr Weasley had been as cordial as ever, and Harry couldn't say he was ever close enough to Bill and Charlie to care what they thought.
The former was married to Fleur, and Harry hadn't seen the man since shortly after the war had concluded.
He still stayed in touch with George from time to time, but his relationship with Angelina, Fred's girlfriend up until he'd died, was an odd thing to come to terms with.
Whatever worked for them was fine with Harry, but he couldn't help but think they were only together for the sake of having a part of Fred still with them.
It was odd indeed, though everything in post-war magical Britain seemed to be.
No, Harry had chosen to distance himself from it all less than a year after he'd killed Voldemort, and he did not regret his decision.
"It does explain your line of work, Harry," Bert spoke once more, pulling him from his musings.
"My line of work?"
"Didn't you say you work in the security industry?"
"Something like that."
"Ah, I see," Bert said interestedly. "It's all a bit hush-hush. Say no more, lad. I wouldn't want you to get into trouble."
Harry frowned before shaking his head amusedly.
Of course, Bert didn't know he was a wizard.
The man probably assumed he worked for the government in some capacity, maybe as a sleuth of sorts.
"I'll have a Martini, Bert," he snorted. "Shaken, not stirred."
The man's eyes bulged comically.
"I was joking," Harry assured him, though the barman wasn't as far from the truth as one would assume.
In a way, Harry did work for the government, just not a branch of it that answered to the Queen, the Prime Minister, or even the Minister of Magic.
It wasn't until he'd finished his NEWTs that he'd been approached in another muggle bar, and Harry had thought that his past had caught up with him once more.
Flashback
Harry cursed under his breath.
He had sensed the man enter the pub, the same man that had been following him on and off for several weeks now. At first, he'd thought him to be another keen journalist, looking for the scoop of the day, but when his usual methods to avoid them didn't work, he knew he was dealing with something else entirely.
Perhaps it was an obsessed fan or an assassin sent to kill him.
It didn't matter which.
Harry had chosen to keep his distance, to allow the man to believe his efforts at following him were successful, but it seemed this one was indeed eager to collar him.
Not drawing attention to himself, Harry casually made his way into the bathroom.
He was tired of this game of cat and mouse.
This man was beginning to annoy him, and he simply wanted it to stop.
As expected, he was followed, and Harry waited behind the door, drawing his wand as the presence grew stronger. He didn't waste a moment, seizing the man by the throat as he entered and ramming his knee into his groin.
His pursuer doubled over, wheezing in pain as he held his hands up in a gesture of peace.
Harry did not relent, pressing his wand against the man's cheek as he dragged him into one of the cubicles, kicking his legs from beneath him so his head hovered in the toilet bowl.
"You've been following me for weeks," he whispered harshly. "You have ten seconds to explain yourself, or I'm going to drown you."
"You knew I was following you?" the man choked before he unleashed a bout of strained laughter. "I knew I wasn't making a mistake."
"It seems to me you have," Harry replied dryly. "You have five seconds."
"I've been trying to get you alone to speak with you," the man explained. "I want to offer you a job, Mr Potter. You're a hard man to find."
Harry frowned.
"You could have written me a letter."
"We did, but our owl couldn't find you."
"My house is well protected from anything arriving other than parchment. What was in the letter?"
"A portkey."
"Then it wouldn't have reached me."
"That is why I've been following you," the man huffed. "Are you going to kill me or give me a few minutes of your time? Either way, hurry up. It stinks in here."
Harry dragged the man to his feet.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"Let me buy you a drink, and I will explain," the man offered. "We can talk more freely in the bar."
"Wand," Harry demanded, holding out his hand.
With a sigh, it was given to him, and he gestured for the stranger to lead the way.
"I'll have a whiskey, neat," Harry requested, returning to his table.
The man arrived only a few moments later and placed the drink in front of him. Taking a seat, he winced, and Harry grinned into his glass.
"Well, talk," he urged.
The man took a sip of his stout.
"I represent a group of people who are interested in you, Mr Potter, and from what I have seen, with good reason. For now, you may call me, Croaker. You may not have met us, but you have come across our work back towards the end of your fifth year at Hogwarts."
So much had happened between then and now, but Harry would never forget what had happened. It had been the year of Dolores Umbridge, the year he'd found out about the prophecy that hung dangerously over him.
It took little for him to realise just where this man had come from.
"Listen, if it's gold you're after for what happened that night…"
"it is not gold, Mr Potter," Croaker assured him. "No real damage was done that we could not fix, only to the time room, which unfortunately remains unusable, and will remain so for the foreseeable future. No, it is you we are interested in. Your ability alone to detect me following you speaks of an excellent awareness of magic. Has it always been this way?"
Harry frowned at the man.
"Is this an interview?"
Croaker chuckled as he shook his head.
"We do not interview, Mr Potter, we observe. This is purely for my own curiosity."
"No, it wasn't always like this. It started after he was killed. Things changed for me, some I can't explain, and others I have found answers to."
Croaker nodded interestedly.
"Well, I must say, we have had considerable difficulty in deciding where we would wish to employ you," he revealed. "Your experience in combat is not negligible, and your other qualities cannot be denied. From what I have observed of you, it would be foolish not to induct you as a field operative if, of course, you are amenable to such employment."
"I won't work for the Ministry," Harry denied. "I just want to be left alone."
"Then I expect this would be an opportunity not to be ignored," Croaker returned. "With this job, you will truly be able to make a difference, to be at the very forefront of keeping Britain safe with so few even knowing about it. Since the death of Lord Voldemort, it has become something of a priority to ensure such a thing does not happen again; thus, we have been entrusted to oversee that. I would like you to consider joining us truly, Mr Potter. I believe you can make a difference in this world and would be an invaluable addition to our efforts. Think about it. I will return to this very pub exactly one week from now."
With that, Croaker left, not having touched his own drink.
Harry drained his own glass and left shortly after, unable to think of anything but the odd conversation he'd shared and the offer he'd received.
End Flashback
He'd pondered it for the next week, and when Croaker had returned, Harry's reservations had been put to rest when the man immediately agreed to his terms.
As such, his employment had begun, though the first year consisted of little field work and spending much of his time in a training room.
More than once, he'd cursed his decision to accept the offer, but by the time his training was complete, he was glad for it. He realised that there was much more to magic than different branches and even spells.
Much of his training had been spent getting to know his own magic, identifying, exploring, and developing his own skill set.
When he was done, he learned that the training, though difficult, was little more than his first steps into a journey that would last a lifetime. Even now, though what many would consider to be a competent wizard, Harry knew he was still learning.
He made mistakes along the way, but he was a damned sight better than he'd ever been whilst ambling his way down the path to defeating Voldemort.
How he'd survived, he didn't know.
It should have been Voldemort who emerged victorious from their final encounter, and yet, the Dark Lord was dead whilst Harry still breathed.
"They'll be trouble again," Bert sighed, pulling Harry from his thoughts.
He looked towards where the barman had nodded. Four muggle men had entered, a small group, but raucous, nonetheless.
They approached the bar and ordered their drinks before heading towards a table in the corner.
"Again?"
Bert nodded.
"They came in a few weeks back after the footy. They gave an opposing supporter a hiding outside. Poor bloke got carted off in the ambulance, and this lot scarpered before the coppers arrived."
"Why did you serve them?" Harry asked.
"I can't afford to turn away custom, Harry. The economy's in the toilet, and I still have bills to pay."
Harry nodded his understanding.
"I'll have another," he decided.
Coming here was about as much social interaction as Harry got outside of work. When he wasn't in The King's Arms, he would be at home where he wasn't bothered by anyone.
Hermione would occasionally write or visit, but he saw little of Ron or any other he'd been to school with.
Things had changed indeed, some for the better, and others he wished hadn't, but that, Harry learned, was the way of life.
"Here you go, son," Bert said with a smile as he placed a generous measure of whiskey in front of Harry, who in turn handed him a ten-pound note.
"Have one for yourself."
Bert nodded appreciatively and poured himself a measure.
"To your health, Harry," he toasted, draining his glass with practised ease.
"Oi, we'll have another round," one of the men demanded, rapping his knuckles on the bar.
Bert set about the task quietly, pulling the four pints before handing them to the man.
"Put it on a tab, I'll pay at the end."
"Sorry, no tabs," Bert replied, "and the card machine is down."
"Well, I haven't got any cash," the man said with a shrug.
Harry took an immediate dislike to him.
He was not as big as his companions, and he stood with his chest puffed out, reminding Harry of many of the students he'd been to Hogwarts with.
"Perhaps you should ask one of your friends if they have cash," Bert suggested. "The fella there paid with cash earlier."
"That was all he had."
"Then maybe you should go to the cash machine on the next street over."
"Or, you could just stop being a prick and give me the drinks!"
Bert shook his head, and Harry placed his glass down on the bar.
"It's alright, Bert, I've got this round for them," he assured the man.
Bert smiled gratefully, and the man took the drinks without even looking towards Harry, let alone thanking him.
"Cheers, son," Bert sighed. "Jesus, I'm too old for this shit. Twenty years ago, I'd have thrown all four of them out without any bother."
"Why don't you hire someone?"
"I can't afford it. I make enough to keep me and the old lady going but not much more. I've thought about selling up a few times."
Harry felt for the man.
Bert really was a kind soul and far past the age of serving behind the bar of a London pub.
The clock chimed in the hour, and Bert rang the bell above the till.
"Last orders, ladies and gents," he announced.
"It's only ten," the smaller man protested from the table.
"We close at ten on a Thursday," Bert replied.
The other patrons finished their drinks and began leaving, but the group of men remained, passing comment on some of the women who were keen to leave the pub, uncomfortable by the lude remarks.
"Come on, gents, time to go home," Bert urged politely.
"We've not finished our drinks."
Bert shook his head.
"I'll wait until they've gone," Harry murmured. "I need to take a piss anyway."
He left the bar area for only a moment, and when he returned, the men were still at their table, their glasses now empty but making no effort to leave; well, three of them were, at least.
Harry liked to think that he'd become more patient over the years, that he was better able to rein his temper in, but as he watched the smaller man of the group attempting to cajole another drink from Bert, that patience was sorely being tested.
"I think it is best if you leave," he suggested as he approached.
"And you're going to make us, are you?" the man guffawed.
The others looked on in anticipation as their friend was spoiling for a fight Harry had attempted to avoid.
"I'll tell you what," he said with a smile as he reached into his pocket. "I'll give you this, and you and your friends will go elsewhere. What do you say?"
"What is it first?" the man asked with a frown, evidently hoping for a bribe.
Harry removed his closed fist before opening it to reveal his empty hand.
"There's fuck all there."
"Oh, well, maybe you need to take a closer look."
As the man continued to stare confusedly, Harry pretended to throw something into the air. As expected, the man's gaze followed, and whilst he was distracted, Harry drove his foot into his groin.
He crumbled to the floor, groaning, and seeing it would take him some time to recover, Harry turned towards his shocked friends.
"Now, before you attack me, I have a magic trick I'd like to show you."
They charged towards him, and with a subtle wave of his hand, he cried in surprise.
"Watch out, the floor is slippery!"
The three men fell into a heap, and Harry chuckled amusedly.
"See, it's a good trick, but I've got an even better one. You see, the drinks I bought for you contained a very strong laxative, and I expect each of you will be feeling the effects of that any second now."
"I'll wipe the fucking floor with you!" one of the men hissed as he managed to find his feet, only to pause and his eyes to widen as Harry waved his wand subtly.
"I think you should be more concerned about wiping your arse," Harry snorted, wrinkling his nose as an unpleasant aroma filled the air. "Probably best to leave before your luck really runs out. Get it, runs out," he added with a snicker.
The group gathered themselves quickly, pulling their downed friend along with them.
"I'll be back next Thursday," he called after the men as they fled the bar, frowning that they couldn't appreciate the humour. "Sirius would have loved that," he murmured to himself, turning towards the shocked Bert.
The man simply stared at him dumbly, and Harry released a deep sigh.
"Sorry, Bert," he offered with a smile. "If it's any consolation, this isn't the first time I've had to do this."
"Do what?"
"Obliviate!"
With the old man Harry had grown fond of in a daze, he set to work cleaning up the mess he'd made before putting some additional money in the till.
He really liked Bert and would probably have to find another bar to drink in if he had to wipe his memory of many more moments of his life.
"I'll be seeing you, Bert," he called, following the group of men onto the streets of London, chuckling to himself once more.
Strictly speaking, Harry knew he shouldn't have done what he did, but he'd never been particularly tolerant of bullies. Having been a victim of such himself throughout his childhood, it was something he couldn't sit idly by and watch.
He chuckled to himself once more, shaking his head as he made his way towards the alleyway.
With Sirius having crossed his mind, he opted to spend the night at Grimmauld Place. It was not often he did so, but when he felt the need to be closer to his godfather, he would.
Arriving in the dark kitchen, he lit the fire with a flick of his wand, only for Kreacher to appear.
"Master Potter, Sir," the elf greeted him in surprise. "Kreacher was not expecting you tonight."
"It's alright, Kreacher," Harry said comfortingly. "I wasn't planning on being here. Any visitors?"
"No, Sir, none."
Harry nodded as he poured himself a glass of Sirius's Firewhiskey and took a seat at the empty table.
It had been years since the members of the Order had last gathered here, most falling shortly after during the battle of Hogwarts.
It was strange to ponder those times now and how things had become so different.
Despite his wish to be left alone by those who only wanted to associate with him because of what he'd done, Harry couldn't deny that he'd become lonely.
Ron and Hermione were on the way to welcoming their first child, and although it pained him to admit it, he simply felt as though he had no one.
Sirius was gone, as was Dumbledore.
Both Hagrid and Minerva wrote regularly, and he joined the latter for tea often.
Still, although it was probably his fault, at least in part, he was very much alone.
Maybe that was why he frequented The King's Arms or found himself inexplicably here at Grimmauld Place when it got the better of him. For Harry, it was easy to pretend things were different whilst he was there, and even the many hours he spent at work.
Most days, he arrived early and would work a solid sixteen hours or so before returning home to sleep.
Perhaps he did so because there was nothing else for him.
With a shake of his head, he emptied the glass before refilling it, trying to shift his mind onto something less unpleasant, to no avail.
He was far from being a drunk, but he found he slept better after a few medicinal whiskeys, dreamlessly and without the traumatic memories to haunt him.
Harry hesitated as he grasped the bottle once more, ultimately deciding against another measure.
He'd sleep well enough without it now, still, tomorrow was another day of living such a life, no matter how much Harry wished it could be different.
"Oh, bloody hell, no!" he groaned as the fire flared into life and the one visitor who had become less welcome than the portrait of Walburga Black swooped into the room. "Fawkes, piss off!"
The phoenix trilled at him, and Harry braced himself for what was to come.
Over the past year, Fawkes had arrived from time to time, seemingly for no other reason than to make his life just that little less tolerable.
As the flames washed over him, Harry cursed, his head having cleared, leaving him as sober as the day he was born.
"Why did you do that?" he demanded, drawing his wand.
The phoenix squawked indignantly, flying towards Harry, and entering the tip of his wand, burning the man's hand.
"You little shit!" he cursed, dropping it to the ground. "Get out of there! Just because it's got your feather inside, it doesn't mean you have any right to…"
His eyes widened as his wand burst into flames, and Harry felt as though he'd lost a limb.
He'd been through so much with his wand; killing Voldemort, taking part in the Triwizard Tournament, and every other thing he'd had the misfortune of experiencing. It had even been shoved up a troll's nose, and now, it was burning in front of his eyes.
Fawkes emerged a moment later, trilling a mournful song, his feathers looking worn and much less vibrant.
"We've already been through this," Harry said gently. "I can't bring him back. He's dead, Fawkes."
The phoenix hung its head sorrowfully and Harry released a deep sigh, stroking the bird's plumage as he'd seen Dumbledore do countless times before.
"I wish I could help you. Believe it or not, I miss him too, even if he was an interfering old git. I miss the way things were, even if it meant Voldemort was back."
Fawkes nuzzled Harry's hand, continuing to sing his mournful song.
"I don't know what you want from me," Harry sighed.
Fawkes nodded towards the wand, which, much to Harry's surprise, remained intact.
With a shake of his head, he retrieved it. The wood was warm, not uncomfortably so, but he could sense Fawkes' magic more so now after he'd acted so petulantly with it.
"I bet Dumbledore would know what you want," Harry murmured. "Well, since I won't be sleeping tonight, thanks to you, how about giving me a lift to work?"
Fawkes nodded before taking to the air once more, grasping Harry by the shoulders and transporting them away from Grimmauld Place. They appeared in the Department of Mysteries only a moment later, in front of the veil that only served to remind Harry of what had happened to Sirius.
He watched as Fawkes flew a few laps around the room, even passing through the veil a few times, unaffected by the magic other than a slight shift in colouring.
The feathers of the phoenix would fade from the bright reds and oranges to an eerie white, and Fawkes' eyes would follow.
It was odd to say the least, but no stranger than the veil itself.
Harry had taken some time to study, but much like those who had done so before him, he was not able to explain what it was, what it did, or even where it originated from.
He still heard the whispers coming from within, though they were incoherent. Maybe they spoke in a language he didn't understand, or they simply were words not meant to be heard by anyone living.
Regardless, Harry had given up trying to ascertain what the veil was. It would forever remain a mystery to him.
With a shake of his head, he left Fawkes to fly around the chamber. He seemed to be enjoying himself, and here, it wasn't as though he could do any harm.
Doing so, he made his way towards his office, where he had his own work to keep him occupied until he inevitably fell into an uneasy sleep at his desk.
Only the previous week, they'd been sent to investigate some ruins that had appeared in the Southwest of the country, the protections keeping it hidden having worn off.
They'd been alerted to the site by the Magical Catastrophes Team when a muggle had stumbled upon them, creating quite a stir.
The Department of Mysteries had been sent for, and they'd unearthed a few interesting relics that Harry's superiors were investigating.
He'd been left with cataloguing the artefacts once he'd removed any of the curses placed upon them.
Entering his office, he groaned at the pile of paperwork on his desk. Still, it would keep him busy enough for a few hours.
He'd only been at it for around thirty minutes when he heard the disturbance, and he wondered if one of his colleagues had decided to stay late. Ignoring it, he went back to cataloguing an amulet carved from stone when he heard the same sound that pulled him from his thoughts.
It was coming from a little way down the corridor, and drawing his wand, Harry decided he should investigate. After all, he, along with his friends, had managed to access the department at only the age of fifteen.
Frowning as he quietly made his way down the corridor, he cursed under his breath when he noticed one of the doors was open, one that was never allowed to be under any circumstances.
Donning his cloak, he peered inside only to find it empty, though he could not ignore the familiarity of it. He'd passed through the room briefly whilst being pursued by Lucius Malfoy and the other Death Eaters.
Since that night, it had been locked to all but the most senior of Unspeakables, and with good reason.
How it had been opened, Harry didn't know, but waving his wand to ensure no one was hidden within, he frowned at the pulse of magic that was returned.
Nobody was here, but something had been.
Although Croaker would likely be displeased at being disturbed so late in the evening, Harry knew the man needed to be summoned.
He may well be in the Department of Mysteries, but such a presence could not be left unchecked.
Harry did not know if anything had been taken or what had even been in there, to begin with. Truthfully, it looked no different from so many years prior. Fragments of what appeared to be dirt were spread across the floor, along with shards of metal, which had once been one of the devices he'd used to save Sirius's life.
Maybe had he been thinking clearly enough, he could have implemented one the night Bellatrix had killed.
Not wanting to dwell on the 'what-ifs' of the past, he turned to leave so that he could send for Croaker, only for his eyes to widen as a white blur careened towards him.
For the briefest of seconds, he thought that it was a patronus, but as it trilled at him, he realised it was Fawkes.
Despite being beneath his cloak, the phoenix ploughed into his chest, plunging Harry into a coldness like nothing he'd experienced. Not even the chill of the Dementors could compare.
"What are you doing?" Harry wheezed as it spread throughout him.
He did his utmost to fight it off, but the more he resisted, the tighter it gripped him.
"Fawkes, you're going to kill me!" Harry protested, feeling his body and mind shutting down.
In a desperate bid to retain a semblance of control, he clenched his hands as tightly as he could in a final act of defiance, wondering why Fawkes would do this to him.
He could hear the phoenix trilling the same mournful song, though instead of the fiery heat, it was its cold equivalent.
Harry knew the situation was hopeless.
Gasping a final time and fighting to keep his eyes open, they were forced shut by a sudden, blinding glow, and whatever resistance remained abandoned him. Everything around him spun, and Harry knew no more, killed by the phoenix that had once saved his life when he'd needed it most.
(Break)
July 31st, 1962
"Come on, lass, you were supposed to leave hours ago."
She'd fallen asleep at her desk again, and for the second time this week, Moody had woken her.
"What time is it?
"Almost midnight."
Amelia nodded and began packing her files away, ensuring her desk was clear before making her way towards the atrium to floo home. She was too tired to apparate.
"See you in six hours," Alastor called after her amusedly.
She'd been on duty for eighteen hours, well twelve, but she had stayed behind to finish up her reports for the day and had gotten side-tracked by other things. Not that she would forget that shift in a hurry.
A man in Diagon Alley had spat on her robes, and a fight over Quidditch had broken out in The Leakey Cauldron. Both Amelia and Alastor had been covered in a cocktail of various kinds of alcohol.
Alastor had even had his nose broken by an errant fist.
Her partner had taken it in his stride and had even commented on how well the punch had been thrown.
Amelia was convinced Alastor thrived in such situations, though she could not deny she enjoyed the gritter parts of her role.
Being an Auror was not a glamorous job by any stretch, but it was all that she'd wanted to do for more than a decade now.
Justice.
Bringing justice to those who needed it in the way she and her family had never received theirs.
It was a year before she'd started Hogwarts that she'd lost her parents. Their trip to the continent was only to last a few days, but when a week had gone by without word from either, Edgar had gotten worried.
He'd sent messages to the Ministries in both France and Germany where they were scheduled to be, only to discover they'd never arrived.
It wasn't until Edgar went to the continent himself that he discovered they'd, in fact, arrived in Belgium, where, according to the man who was on duty in the arrivals room, they were greeted by someone he did not recognise.
From there, the trail went cold until the bodies of her parents were discovered some six months later in Warsaw in an abandoned warehouse.
Both had been tortured before being murdered only a matter of days after they'd arrived in Belgium.
Worse yet, neither the Polish nor Belgian Ministry of Magic wanted to take responsibility for investigating what had happened, and when Edgar had appealed to the ICW, they'd been equally unhelpful.
As such, what had happened to the former Lord Bones, Amelia's father, and mother, remained unsolved.
That had been her motivation to become an Auror, to ensure that none would suffer the way she had because justice simply did not prevail. Of course, being spit on, cussed out, and even attacked was never a pleasant experience, but when the job became just that little too much to cope with from time to time, Amelia reminded herself of why she was here.
For the most part, it was a thankless job, but she had brought justice to countless people in the five years she'd been an Auror.
Nothing meant more to her than that, except finally discovering what had become of her parents in their final days.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden screeching, and all the fires within the hearths in the atrium were snuffed.
Plunged in darkness, Amelia conjured several balls of light, wondering what had happened.
"Good, you're still here," Alastor called breathlessly from the other side of the room. "Come on, alarm in the Department of Mysteries."
Amelia frowned as she followed.
"The Department of Mysteries?" she questioned.
"Aye, have you never been curious to what goes on in there?" the man asked with a smirk, quickening his pace as she caught up.
"All I know is that I was told to stay away from there."
Alastor chuckled.
"Well, it seems as though we're going to get a look in there tonight, lass."
Amelia was immediately on edge, but she continued to follow Alastor. He was her senior, after all.
"How do we even get in?"
Moody shrugged.
"I expect with the alarms going off, some of the security would have come down to allow access."
"Or increased," Amelia pointed out.
"Or increased. Where's your sense of adventure?"
Amelia could only shake her head as they entered the golden-gated lift.
This could only end badly if it already hadn't.
'Level nine, The Department of Mysteries,' the voice announced.
Without hesitation, Alastor pressed on through the already open door, where they found themselves in a circular room with at least a dozen others to choose from.
The alarm had gotten quieter as they entered, but they could hear it still, emanating from somewhere within the department.
"Quiet," Moody commanded as he began pressing his ear to each of them, nodding to himself satisfactorily after a few moments of doing so. "The alarm is coming from inside this one."
"Are you sure?" Amelia asked.
The man grinned as he nodded.
"Come on."
He pushed the door open, and once more, Amelia followed, marvelling at the large chamber within. It was mostly bare, consisting of rows of ascending stone benches, though little else.
The centrepiece of the room, however, was a large archway in the middle, hewn also from rough stone and inscribed with runes she did not recognise.
"This way," Alastor called, pulling her from her thoughts.
He'd already crossed the room and was entering another, pausing as he barely crossed the threshold.
The sound of the alarm was deafening again, and Amelia grimaced as Moody's lit wand swept across the breadth of the space they found themselves in.
"There's nothing here except time-turners," he growled. "Well, that solves one of the mysteries of what this lot get up to down here."
Amelia nodded, breathing a sigh of relief as the alarm stopped.
"I would ask, what the hell do you think you're doing down here?"
The voice that interrupted them was gravelly, and the man standing before them was garbed in a grey robe with the hood pulled over his head, hiding his features.
"Auror Moody, we heard the alarm," Alastor answered irritably, not appreciating how he'd been addressed. "Where we come from, if you hear one, you investigate."
"Not in my department, now, get out!" the Unspeakable hissed. "I will be speaking with your superiors about this."
"We're going," Moody snorted. "That's gratitude for you, Bones. Come on, lass. I suppose I'll be getting my arse chewed out tomorrow."
The grey-robed man watched until they were out of sight, and Amelia could not help but wonder just who it was hidden beneath the hood.
The Unspeakables, much like the namesake of the department they worked for, were shrouded in mystery.
Just as well, they'd discovered very little during their brief excursion down there.
"How often does an alarm like that go off?" she asked curiously.
"Never," Moody answered with a grin. "Which means whatever happened down there must be significant. You saw what I did, Bones. If they are playing around with time travel, and Merlin knows what else, whatever set the alarm off must be, mustn't it? You couldn't have missed how worried he was."
She hadn't.
Despite how calm and authoritative the Unspeakable had been, Amelia had noted the underlying concern in his tone.
"Best head home," Alastor urged when they'd arrived back in the atrium. "And not a word about this. Best not ruffle any more feathers."
Amelia nodded and made her way back towards the fireplaces, which were now lit again as though the entire incident had not taken place at all.
Expecting she had not heard the end of it, she stepped into the flames, appearing in her ancestral home.
"Another late one?" Edgar asked as she cleared the ashes from her robes.
"Aren't they always?" Amelia returned.
Her older brother shook her head.
"You should be out having fun," he chastised. "Let your hair down once in a while. You can't live in the office."
"I don't," Amelia said dismissively as she helped herself to one of the oranges on his desk. "I spend most of my time on the streets."
"You know what I mean," Edgar sighed. "You're young, Amelia. You should be enjoying that."
She offered her brother a smile before kissing him on the cheek.
"You should be more worried about yourself," she replied. "How long until you get married?"
"Two weeks."
"So, you worry about your wedding, and I will worry about my job, deal?"
He shook his head and waved her off.
They'd had the same argument dozens of times since she'd joined the Aurors, and the outcome had not changed.
Amelia wanted to make a difference in the world. She knew that Edgar understood that, but that didn't stop the man from lecturing her. She knew he worried about her, but he needn't.
In all, Amelia was happy with the way things were.
She just wished her brother could see it.
(Break)
It was the sound of the alarms that had woken him.
Fortunately, he'd remained hidden by the cloak as the two Aurors arrived, and Harry dared not move beyond the shudders and waves of nausea that wracked his body.
In his feverish state, he could have sworn he'd heard the familiar voice of Alastor Moody, only confirmed by the man as he identified himself.
No, that couldn't be right.
Nonetheless, Harry had a more pressing concern in the form of the trio of Unspeakables that were in the room with him. He'd managed to carefully manoeuvre himself into a corner, and scarcely dared to breathe, his mind awash with utter confusion.
"What caused it?"
"I cannot say, but all of the time-turners are malfunctioning."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know, this has never happened before."
"And no one was found here?"
"Only the two Aurors who responded to the alarm. They didn't touch anything."
The other grunted whilst the third man was busy scanning the room.
"Well, for now, we keep a lid on it. I will have words with the Minister and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Maybe the Aurors saw something. Did you get their names?"
"Moody," was one of them.
"Alastor Moody," the man who had been scanning the room declared. "The other one, was it a redheaded woman?"
"It was."
"Amelia Bones," the third man said with certainty. "Let me speak with Jones. I'll ensure nothing gets out."
"Very well, this room is off limits for the foreseeable future until it is established what happened here."
Two of the men left, leaving only the third, and Harry decided it was best if he followed suit before it was inevitably sealed. Skirting around one of the tables, he realised that the room he was in had changed from what little he remembered.
The floor was no longer gritty beneath his feet, and the shards of metal were noticeably absent.
Sitting atop the tables that were not smeared in the same dirt-like substance were the time-turners, all in one piece.
That had not been so only moments prior, but it was when he caught a glimpse of the discarded copy of The Daily Prophet that the gravity of the situation he found himself set it.
Friday 28th July, 1962
He mouthed the date and felt his head swimming once more.
Harry knew he needed to get out of there to corroborate what he feared had somehow happened.
Being familiar with the department, he managed it without being hindered and equally took his leave of the Ministry of Magic, dreading what had come to pass.
Apparating to Diagon Alley, the fear was truly realised as he took in the familiar street and the many unfamiliar shops.
"Bloody hell, Fawkes, what have you done?" he groaned.
A plethora of thoughts ran through his mind as he walked aimlessly in a bid to come to terms with his plight, but all, even the positive ones, led only to one thing.
War.
In wizarding Britain in 1962, war was very much on the horizon.