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Harry strode into the Ministry Atrium, Greyback's lifeless bulk thudding onto the polished floor, and watched the chaos unfold. The cavernous hall—usually a hum of parchment rustling and heels clicking—froze. A clerk's quill clattered to the desk, ink splattering her robes; an Auror mid-stride stumbled, his jaw dropping. Harry shifted the weight off his shoulder, letting the corpse—bloodied, scarred, bound in conjured ropes—slump at the Law Enforcement desk. Greyback's head lolled, one yellowed fang glinting under the chandeliers, his chest a mess of gashes and unnatural stillness. Harry's arm ached from the haul, but he stood tall, voice cutting through the silence: "Fenrir Greyback. Done."
The room erupted. Gasps ricocheted off the golden walls, whispers buzzing like startled bees. A witch in lime-green robes clutched her chest, muttering, "Merlin's beard," while a grizzled wizard near the fountain let out a sharp, approving whistle. Aurors swarmed from their posts, boots pounding the marble, circling the body like vultures. One—a wiry bloke with a scarred cheek—crouched, peering at the torn flesh and burst lungs, his face paling. "Bloody hell, that's... savage," he said, voice low. Another, older, with a thick beard, clapped a hand on his shoulder, grinning. "Savage? It's brilliant. Bastard's been dodging us for years."
Harry kept his expression steady, a modest grin tugging at his lips, but his green eyes flickered with something sharper. They've been after him for years, he thought, and I did it in a day. The weight of that sank in—Greyback, the nightmare who'd haunted Lupin's life, reduced to a corpse at his feet. He flexed his fingers, still tingling from the fight, blood crusting under his nails.
A portly wizard in pinstriped robes pushed through, gold badge glinting—some senior official, probably. His mustache quivered as he barked, "Stand back, let me see!" He knelt, muttering a charm over Greyback's face, then straightened, red-faced. "It's him. Greyback, no question. Who're you, lad?"
"Name's Harry," he said, keeping it simple. No Potter—not yet. "Heard there was a bounty. Figured I'd collect."
The official blinked, then fumbled in his robes, thrusting a heavy pouch at him. "Two hundred Galleons, as promised. Been a terror, that one—Ministry's been tearing its hair out. How'd you manage it?"
Harry caught the pouch, the coins clinking like a promise, and shrugged. "Tracked him to the Highlands. Used a mix of charms and curses—got lucky, I suppose." His tone was light, almost lazy, but he let his gaze drift over the crowd, catching their hunger for more. Lupus Venator, Ventus Exhalare—none of your business, he thought, suppressing a smirk. He'd spun worse lies as an Auror; this lot didn't need the truth—not when it'd raise more questions than he wanted to answer.
"Lucky?" The scarred Auror snorted, straightening up. "That's no luck. Look at him—cut to ribbons. What kinda charms do that?"
"Maybe he annoyed the wrong bloke," Harry quipped, earning a few chuckles. The bearded Auror laughed louder, slapping his knee.
"Aye, I like this one! Greyback's had it coming—should've seen the villages he left in tatters."
A younger Auror—lanky, with nervous hands—stepped forward, frowning. "Still, it's... brutal. You didn't even try to bring him in alive?"
Harry tilted his head, grin fading just enough to sharpen the edge in his voice. "He didn't give me the option. Claws out, teeth snapping—you'd have done the same." It wasn't a question, and the kid flinched, looking away. Brutal's what works, Harry thought, flexing his torn arm under his cloak. You don't coddle monsters.
The pinstriped official cleared his throat, waving off the tension. "Right, well—job's done. What's your full name, Harry? For the records."
"Just Harry's fine," he said, smooth as butterbeer. "Not big on paperwork." The crowd murmured—some amused, some suspicious—but he flashed that disarming grin, the one that'd talked him out of tighter spots than this. A witch in the back giggled, whispering to her friend, and Harry caught it—handsome stranger, huh?—letting it work for him.
"Tracked him how?" the scarred Auror pressed, crossing his arms. "Highlands are a bloody maze—wolves don't leave calling cards."
"Got a nose for trouble," Harry said, tapping his temple with a wink. "Picked up his trail, followed it to a shack. He wasn't keen on visitors." Half-truths rolled off his tongue, easy as breathing—he'd learned that from dodging Ministry red tape post-war. The Auror squinted, unconvinced, but the bearded one cut in.
"Shack, eh? Must've been a hell of a scrap. Four of 'em, papers said—whole pack's gone?"
"Yep," Harry replied, popping the 'p' like it was nothing. "Didn't fancy my chances with odds, so I evened 'em out." Another ripple of laughter, but the lanky kid's frown deepened, and Harry clocked it—some'll hate me for this, some'll love it. Good. A split reputation kept people guessing, and he needed that edge.
The official adjusted his badge, puffing up. "Well, Ministry's grateful—been a thorn in our side too long. You're a right hero, Harry-whoever-you-are. Where you from, anyhow?"
"Been around," Harry said, vague as mist. "Just passing through, saw a problem, fixed it." His eyes flicked to the crowd—wizards craning necks, a reporter scribbling furiously by the fountain. Word'll spread fast, he thought, satisfaction curling in his gut. Let 'em talk. He'd dropped Greyback like a stone in a pond; the ripples would hit Dumbledore, the Order, maybe even Voldemort's lot.
"Fixed it?" The scarred Auror grinned, shaking his head. "Mate, you've got stones—I'll drink to that. What's next, hunting dragons?"
Harry chuckled, pocketing the Galleons. "Maybe. Depends who's paying." The crowd laughed again, warming to him, and he let it linger, that hint of mystery in his stare. They're eating it up, he thought, but they don't need the whole story. Greyback's death was a start—a loud one—and he'd play it careful from here.
"Got places to be," Harry said, stepping back. "You've got your wolf—reckon that's enough for now." He tipped his head, grin flashing, and turned to go. A wiry clerk behind the desk piped up, voice high and quick. "Wait—Mr. Crouch wants you in his office! Bartemius Crouch Sr, head of Law Enforcement—he said now!"
Harry paused, glancing back with a raised brow. "Crouch, huh? Alright, point me the way." The clerk jabbed a finger toward a corridor—no Floo, then, Harry thought, shrugging. He'd walk it; it gave him time to think. Whispers chased him—"Who is he?" "Highlands, alone?"—and he let them echo as he strode off, boots clicking on marble. One day down, a war to go, he mused, the Atrium's din fading behind him. Crouch'd want answers, and Harry'd give just enough to keep the game rolling.
Harry walked into the office. Two Aurors flanked him, their wands loose but pointed, escorting him past a battered desk to where Bartemius Crouch Sr. waited. The man was all angles—greying hair slicked back, mustache trimmed to a razor line, his dark robes screaming authority. Beside him stood Amelia Bones, younger than she had been when he first saw her, her auburn hair pulled into a tight bun, eyes like steel cutting through the dim light. Crouch runs the show, but she's the one to watch, Harry thought, sizing them up as he slid into a hard wooden chair.
Crouch didn't waste time, leaning forward, hands clasped. "Right, then. Fenrir Greyback—dead at your hands. Explain yourself, boy. How'd you find him?" His voice was clipped, like he was ticking off a list.
Harry leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. "Tracked him with some old tricks I picked up. Highlands aren't as empty as they look—caught his trail, followed it to a shack." He kept it breezy, letting the words roll out like it was nothing. No chance I'm spilling Lupus Venator, he thought, fingers tapping the armrest.
"Old tricks?" Crouch's brow arched, skeptical. "Greyback's dodged our best for years—shacks don't come with signposts. What spells did you use?"
"Strong hex here, charm there," Harry said, shrugging. "Hit him hard when he came at me—didn't give him much choice." He flashed a disarming smile, the kind that'd talked Ron out of a sulk a hundred times. Crouch's stern face twitched, almost softening, but Amelia's gaze didn't budge—sharp, unblinking.
"Hard's an understatement," she said, voice cool and low, breaking her silence. "I heard his chest was shredded. That's no standard hex."
Harry met her eyes, unflinching. "He was a big bloke—took a bit of effort. You've seen what he does to people; I wasn't taking chances." His tone stayed light, but he let a flicker of steel slip through—judge me if you want, but he's dead.
Crouch waved a hand, cutting her off. "Fair point—he's a monster off our books. But there's more to this. Four bodies, all torn up. You saying you took his whole pack alone?"
"Yes," Harry said. "They weren't keen on tea and biscuits. Had to even the odds."
Amelia didn't laugh. "Even the odds how?" she pressed, leaning forward, her quill hovering over parchment.
"Bit of quick thinking," Harry replied, vague as fog. Then he shifted gears, voice dropping conspiratorially. "Thing is, Greyback wasn't working alone. There's someone nastier out there pulling strings—someone who likes using beasts like him."
Crouch's eyes narrowed, mustache twitching. "Who? Name him."
Harry shrugged, easing back. "Still piecing it together—heard whispers, that's all. Give me time, I'll sort it." He let the bait dangle, knowing it'd stick in their heads. Let 'em chew on that—Dumbledore'll catch wind soon enough.
"Whispers?" Crouch huffed, but his tone softened, intrigued. "You've got a knack, I'll give you that. What's your plan now, lad? Wandering hero, or something more?"
Harry tilted his head, musing aloud. "Maybe teach the next lot how to handle dark creatures—or worse. Kids ought to know how to fight back, don't you reckon?" He kept it casual, but the words were a dart aimed straight at Hogwarts. Dumbledore'll hear that, he thought, picturing the old man's twinkling eyes narrowing over a report.
Crouch's stern face softened as Harry smiled, but Amelia's eyes narrowed—charm wouldn't fool her that easily. "Teach?" Crouch said, nodding. "Practical mind—I like it. Ever thought of joining up? Aurors could use a man like you."
Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "Not yet, sir—just finding my place. Been on the move too long to settle into a badge." His voice was warm, smooth as butterbeer, and Crouch leaned back, won over, a rare grin cracking his face.
"You're a slippery one," Crouch said, almost fond. "Two hundred Galleons says you're worth it, though. Keep us posted on those whispers—Ministry'll want a word if you sniff out more."
"Will do," Harry lied, standing as the Aurors stepped aside. Amelia's quill scratched once, then stilled—she hadn't written much, just watched, her lips a thin line. She's not buying it, he thought, catching the wariness in her stare. Good—he needed her that way. He tipped his head to Crouch, Galleons clinking in his pocket. "Cheers for the chat."
"Mind yourself, Harry," Crouch called as he turned for the door. "Talent like yours draws eyes."
Harry grinned over his shoulder. "Hope so." He stepped out, the heavy door thudding shut, feeling their gazes linger—Crouch's approval, Amelia's doubt. The hint about Voldemort would fester, the teaching bit would travel, and he'd stay a step ahead—exactly where he needed to be.
Tomorrow - Hogsmeade
Harry pushed open the door to the Three Broomsticks, and the hum of chatter snapped off like a snuffed candle. Eyes swiveled—Hogwarts students sprawled at a corner table, tankards paused mid-sip; grizzled locals hunched over their ales, heads turning; even a scruffy bloke by the fire stopped mid-story, jaw slack. Harry's cloak swished as he stepped in, and he caught the weight of every stare. Word travels fast, he thought, a grin tugging at his lips.
Rosmerta stood behind the bar, her blonde curls bouncing as she whipped around, clutching a rolled Daily Prophet like a wand. "You!" she exclaimed, voice crackling with excitement, thrusting the paper at him. The headline screamed in bold black: "New Defender: The Tyranny of Fenrir Greyback is Over." She leaned over the counter, blue eyes wide. "Tell me everything, you gorgeous madman—now!"
Harry slid onto a stool, flashing a grin like it was a gun. "Gorgeous, eh? Careful, Rosmerta, you'll make me blush." He plucked the Prophet from her hand, skimming the ink with a playful squint. "Says here I'm a hero. Reckon I should believe it?"
She laughed, a bright, infectious sound, and swatted his arm with a rag. "Don't play coy with me, Harry! Greyback's dead, his pack's gone—and you stroll in like it's nothing? Spill it, or I'll hex you 'til you do." Her tone was teasing, but her grin said she was hooked, leaning closer, her lavender scent cutting through the pub's yeasty air.
"Alright, alright," Harry said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Buy me a beer first, though—heroics are thirsty work." He winked, and she rolled her eyes, already pouring a pint, the foam spilling over the rim. He took it, sipping slow, letting the crowd lean in—students whispering, a grizzled wizard with a patchy beard muttering, "Bloody legend, that one."
"So," he started, voice low and easy, "tracked Greyback up north—Highlands, nasty spot. Him and his mates were holed up in a shack, looking for trouble." He paused, letting her hang on it, then leaned in, dropping his tone to a conspiratorial murmur. "Caught 'em off guard—fought like hell, took a few scratches, but I got the job done." He tapped his arm where the claw marks hid under his sleeve, flashing a crooked smile. "Worth it to see the look on his ugly mug when he went down."
Rosmerta's jaw dropped, then she laughed again, loud and delighted. "You're mad—beautifully mad! Scratches? You took on four werewolves and call it scratches?" She propped an elbow on the bar, chin in hand, staring like he was a puzzle she wanted to solve—or unwrap. "What'd you do, charm 'em to death with that face?"
"Thought about it," Harry quipped, leaning closer, green eyes glinting. "But I reckoned a hex or two'd work faster. Didn't want to waste this mug on wolves—they don't appreciate a good jawline." He ran a hand through his dark, messy hair, knowing damn well it only made him look better—rugged, a little reckless. She bit her lip, smirking.
"Hexes, my arse," she said, voice dropping flirty-low. "You're hiding something, aren't you? Come on, Harry—give me the real story. Did you wrestle 'em bare-handed? Dance 'em into a ditch?"
He chuckled, sipping his beer, letting the foam linger on his lip before wiping it with a slow thumb. "Tempting, but nah—just a wand and some quick moves. Tell you what, though," he added, voice dipping softer, "stick around after closing, and I might let a few secrets slip. Private audience, you know—special for a beauty like you." His grin turned wicked, and she flushed, swatting him again.
"Cheeky git," she said, but her eyes danced, clearly liking the game. "Might take you up on that—better be worth it, hero."
A lanky kid in a Hogwarts scarf piped up from the corner, voice cracking. "Did he really fight you? Greyback, I mean—was he huge?"
"Like a troll with worse breath," Harry shot back, earning snickers. "Charged me like I'd nicked his dinner—didn't give him the chance to regret it." The kid's eyes went wide, and Harry tipped his beer to him, playing the room like a fiddle. Word's spreading, he thought, satisfaction curling in his gut. Good.
Rosmerta slid him another pint, unasked. "You're trouble, Harry—handsome trouble. Next time you're off slaying monsters, bring me along—I'd hex a wolf just to see you strut back like this."
"Deal," he said, clinking his glass to hers where she'd grabbed a shot of something amber. "But only if you promise to wear that apron—distract 'em while I finish the job." She laughed, tossing her head back, and he grinned wider.
The crowd thinned as the hour ticked on—students herded out by a prefect, locals drifting home—and Harry stayed, nursing his drink 'til it was just him and the crackling fire. Rosmerta locked up, casting him a look that promised more talk—or more than talk—later. Alone, he pulled the Galleons from his pocket, counting them by the hearth's glow. Two hundred coins, heavy and real, clinking in his palm. Greyback's down, he thought, but Voldemort's out there.
He flipped the Prophet open again, the headline smudged under his thumb. New Defender. It fit—better than Chosen One ever had. This wasn't fate's game; it was his. The Ministry was buzzing, Crouch charmed, Amelia sniffing around—Dumbledore'd hear soon, and that was the point. Teach 'em to fight, he mused, or take the war to Tom myself. Either way, he was a name now, a shadow with teeth, and the board was shifting.
Rosmerta's voice called from the bar, teasing. "You brooding over there, hero? Come help me close—or are you too famous now?"
Harry pocketed the Galleons, the Prophet's ink smudged under his thumb, and let the fire's warmth sink in—he was a name now, and the game was just beginning. "Coming," he shot back, standing with a stretch, grin sliding back on. "Can't leave a beauty waiting, can I?"
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