Fic - It Always Rains - Chapter 1 (of ~25)
Title: It Always Rains
Author: winnett
Pairing/Characters: Harry/Draco, Remus/Sirius (eventual side pairing), Ron/Hermione (side pairing)
Rating: PG-R
Genre: Adventure/Romance
Summary: "I can't call out/Unless it's to cry your name out the open window/To a sky that looks right back/And says it's never seen rain." Dark conspiracies, unlikely friendships and the endless weeping of the sky. For Harry, it always rains.
Warnings: Male/male sexual situations.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based in the world created by J.K.Rowling. They aren't mine and I make no money from them. I just like to let them out to play.
Author's notes: I have been writing this story for so long I am very excited to begin posting chapters. Thanks so much to my betas fomp and serenitysmiles who have stood by me down this long path. All existing mistakes are my own because I probably didn't listen to their sage advice.
Word count: Approximately 4,100
***********************************************************************
Chapter 1
"Even Angels would be homesick in this forsaken town."
The Ataries - Unopened Letter to the World
It was casual the way he stood, leaning against the wrought iron railing that protected the dim-witted masses from tumbling in their inebriated state from the second floor to a most unwelcome stop below. He smoked a cigarette, holding a tumbler of scotch on the rocks in his other hand. His keen, piercing gaze surveyed the dancing crowd below him, thronging to the hypnotic beat, rubbing their bodies together like a distorted orgy where, in this case, everyone was clothed. He loved it. Watching these people thrash and flail in ecstasy on his dance floor, warmed by a bluish glow emanating from underneath.
Everything was tinged with that same faint blue glow; the lights in the corners offering pale illumination to those sitting close at private tables, the hovering strobes that painted the people dancing below. Thick glass walls filled with bubbles and distortion, and layered with privacy charms, partitioned the two-story wizarding club, offering some seclusion to the patrons while still allowing them to be a part of the constant party.
He took a sip of his amber drink, snuffed the cigarette out in an ashtray, and walked towards the open stairs heading down. He didn't walk as much as strut, swaying side to side like a gangster king patrolling his royal hood, chin high like a regal head of state, and to him the masses did bow.
Sycophants, all of them.
He expressed a typical disdainful look, suggesting he walked amongst dogs belly-crawling for favours and scraps from his table. He loved their adoration, but he despised their mindless fawning. Gliding up to the bar, backlit by a wall of blue falling rain, he leaned towards the young barmaid and whispered in her ear. She smiled and nodded at him, simultaneously mixing a fizzing drink while spelling a rag to wipe down the counter. He turned away and walked towards a back door, nodding to people as he passed them, their eyes aglow with adulation.
This was Rain. This was Draco's club. He designed it. He ran it. He owned it.
It was his magnum opus.
Passing through a thick door leading into the back halls, the music completely cut off by well placed silencing charms, Draco was approached by Tyrone Bledsoe, the club's head bouncer and his own personal bodyguard. At six foot five, 18 stone, Draco’s sergeant in arms embodied intimidation and strength, but more importantly, he knew how to handle most situations without question and understood the meaning of discretion, so unlike Crabbe and Goyle.
Draco liked him just fine, even if he was a Muggle-born.
"Mr. Malfoy."
Draco may have looked up at his bouncer, but it was Tyrone who was showing the respect. "Yes Mr. Bledsoe, what can I do for you?"
"There is a situation, sir."
"Something you can't handle?" Draco asked, apparently unconcerned.
"Correct," Tyrone replied in his reverberating, deep voice. Simple, straightforward.
One eyebrow shot up. Draco crossed his arms and adopted a look that showed just how unimpressed he was.
"Well?"
"Michael found a body in the back alley. A woman. I think you should come and check it out. She appears to be a witch."
This startled Draco, though a casual observer would never have noticed any difference in the aristocratic man's relaxed stance. The last thing he needed was to draw any unwanted attention from the Ministry; he was already scrutinized enough since his return to England.
"Show me."
He followed the tall, black man through the halls, past the kitchens to the receiving dock in the alley. It was dark back here and generally filthy; Draco didn't like it, not like the pristine front of his club full of everything beautiful. He felt it needed a good scouring charm. The huge bay doors stood open to the chilly winter evening. A light rain pattered on the concrete, filling puddles in each depression. They walked across the landing and saw the janitor, Michael, standing next to the body. It lay next to the blue dumpster under an awning, sprawled with no form or grace, just a limp body, heaped in a gauche moment of death.
With swift, concise steps Draco descended the short set of stairs from the landing to the alley and walked up to the prone form, releasing a frustrated sigh and a soft curse. He knew this woman.
~~~
"I'm sorry Kingsley, but I can't do it anymore." Harry slammed his gloves down on his desk, bright red like his uniform robes.
Kingsley Shacklebolt stoically stood by, letting the young Auror vent some steam. Harry was one of the best, even if he overreacted at times.
"Are you even going to say anything?" Harry yelled. He was tired of people placidly standing by when he was yelling. He wanted someone to yell at-or perhaps with, and Ron was out on assignment and his boss just stood there with that infuriating, understanding look on his face.
Kingsley received Harry’s angry words, one set in a litany of frustration that Harry delivered with utter abandon. Harry knew that yelling at Kingsley wasn’t going to solve anything; he knew that his boss had no new advice to offer. Things didn't quite work the same as they did when they were at war, quick and dirty. Now there were policies and regulations and proper ways to arrest known Death Eaters and other dark wizards.
Now there was red tape.
But for the first time Kingsley looked worried, and this surprised Harry. They had been dancing this tango of complaints and appeasement for over six months and this was the first time Harry admitted he couldn’t keep up with the blind idealism of the Ministry.
"I've had it. You will have my resignation papers on your desk in-oh, about fifteen minutes." He sat down hard on his uncomfortable, regulation chair and pulled out a worn quill.
"Now, Harry. Don't you think you are taking things a bit too personally?"
"Personally! We almost had him! Technicality my ass-corruption is more like it. I am sick of the red tape and the stupidity of the Ministry. Sure, Voldemort may be gone, but the Death Eaters are not. Scrimgeour is acting as blind as Fudge used to. Someone else has got to be organizing them; these are not random strikes. Why don't they acknowledge that?"
"Harry, you already took out one Dark Lord, why are you searching so hard for another?" The moment those words left Kingsley’s lips, Harry saw red, ignoring the suddenly apprehensive look on his friend's face.
"What? Buying into that Prophet dribble? Merlin, what is it with you people?" Harry started angrily scrawling over the parchment. "These attacks are too organized. They are planned assaults on Order members. They are planned assaults on Muggle-borns and their families. I cannot see why you don't recognize the problem."
"We're not saying there isn't a problem. You know very well we're working on it. But you have done enough, Harry. The weight of the world isn't on your shoulders anymore. There is no more prophecy for you to fulfil. Let the team work on it, under the proper authority."
Harry looked at him like he'd just confessed he wanted to dye his eyebrows pink, wear a tutu and join the circus.
"Proper authority? Kingsley, you are an Order member-don't you even care?"
Fire flashed in Kingsley's eyes. "Harry, of course I care! But we are not at war anymore! Don't you see the difference? You cannot take down every Death Eater single handedly. You have to work with other people and within the bounds of the law. These people deserve trials!"
Slightly admonished, Harry 'harrumphed,' but continued to scribble away on his resignation.
"I just don't think this is the right place for me anymore, Kingsley."
"Well, what will you do?"
The quill stopped scratching. Harry glanced at his friend and boss, green eyes clearer than they had been in a long time. "I have no idea." Then he returned to writing out the end of his Auror career.
~~~
Harry Apparated to his London flat as a free man. Or he tried to convince himself that. He had resigned in a pique of disgruntled anger and now he was questioning his decision, but there was no way he was going to go crawling back to Kingsley or anyone else in the Auror Program.
He threw his red robes onto the back of his overstuffed chair and flopped down on the nearby couch. Absentmindedly, he wordlessly started the fire and summoned a Witch's Brew stout from the kitchen. Sipping the cold beer, he lay back on the couch wondering exactly what he should do now. He knew that something was going on; someone was organizing the remaining Death Eaters that survived the final assault. All the offenders they'd captured so far were the usual suspects, the old guard from Voldemort's day. Mainly toadies, individuals acquitted during their trials for lack of substantial evidence or those who had eluded the Aurors thus far.
And perhaps this new leader was even recruiting more.
Harry laughed bitterly at himself, unconsciously rubbing the twin scars on his forehead. After the fall of Voldemort he'd developed rose-tinted expectations for a quiet life of stopping less maniacal bad guys and maybe finding a little peace. Everything would be normal after Voldemort was gone. But nothing could ever really be normal for the Boy Who Lived, even if his nemesis was no longer in the picture. Everybody expected perfection, a winning smile, and bright optimism. They wanted him to solve their problems. Well everybody but the Ministry, who wanted to keep him on a short leash and on the roster for good publicity.
Harry hated being used.
Now drinking and relaxing he could do nothing but run through all of the events he had been uncovering. There was a pattern there, he was certain of it. It was more firmly rooted in his gut than anything he'd thought out consciously; that was Hermione's forte, not his own. He gulped down the last of the stout and went to his dining table covered in papers. He praised his foresight to copy everything on the case and keep a set at home.
Ron should be here, he thought to himself, missing his friend. They attended Auror training together and were never closer. Hermione had opted for University, studying Arithmancy and spell development, inventing new defence and incarceration spells for Aurors everywhere. She was excellent at it, graduating top of her class with honours, and eventually worked for the Ministry's research department, though she didn't have to deal with the crap he had to. At least she didn't complain about it to him if she did.
Ron was off on the Yucatan Peninsula. The Ministry had sent him there to track down a Central American dark artefact peddler. It was a worthy assignment, but they had taken him off the Death Eater case with Harry, and Harry needed him here. Not to mention it put a rift in the renewed relationship between Ron and Hermione. They had put everything off while she attended University, though they were all still close, meeting regularly at The Lion's Mane in the wizarding section of Cambridge. But once she started working for the Ministry you couldn't keep those two apart, circling each other as if caught in a gravity well. Harry was glad for his friends; someone deserved happiness.
Well, if Ron couldn't help him, he knew Hermione could and he didn't want to wallow in misery alone anyway. His options were slim, but he didn't care. Quality over quantity, he reminded himself. He hadn't made any new friends out of school; everyone saw his fame instead of just him, wanting to be close to the Boy Hero.
He rose from the couch and moved to stand before the fireplace. Tossing in some Floo Powder the green flames flared.
"Hermione Granger, London."
He poked his head into the fire and called. "Hermione, are you there?" He waited for a few moments and upon hearing no reply he walked through.
"Hermione?"
He walked around the apartment, sticking his head into each room, not wanting to be too obtrusive without her permission. "You here?"
Nobody was there. Searching through the neat piles of papers on her desk full of diagrams and charts that made little sense to him, he found a blank sheet and scribbled a quick note to her and returned home.
Opening another beer he started flipping through his research again. Case files, photos of murder victims and crime scenes, dossiers on suspects. It was a gruesome testament to his life's work.
~~~
Tick Tock Tick Tock Tick Tock
In a way the sound had always been soothing, but tonight it was driving him insane: the constant ticking of the clock, announcing the passage of time, showing how everything was leaving him behind. Alone. To rot.
Remus Lupin had settled into one of the deepest depressions he had been in in a very long time.
Tomorrow would be the four-year anniversary of the second and final demise of Voldemort. Everyone in Diagon Alley and the British wizarding world would be celebrating this night. Everybody but Remus. It was also the anniversary of the death of Tonks.
As he pickled himself with cheap sherry and morose thoughts of lost love, he reviewed the sad state of his life. He worked at a second rate bookstore in Diagon Alley. It paid the bills but not much else. While he was one of the lauded Order members who had aided in the final destruction of Voldemort, he was still a registered werewolf and few people wanted to associate with such a wild card. He lived in a rat infested hovel in South London, it was all he could afford, and without Snape to make the Wolfsbane Potion, he went through terrible transformations alone every month in the dark dungeon of a deserted castle in northern Scotland.
He hated his life.
But the biggest thing he mourned, not his crappy job or the unsanitary state of his home, was the people he cared about. The first woman he ever loved had been killed in the final battle; she bled to death as he held her, wailing at the unfairness of the world as he tried desperately to staunch the blood flow with spell after spell. It hadn't been enough. He lost Sirius twice, Dumbledore was killed by Snape, James killed so long ago, and Peter, sweet Peter turned on them all. Now Nymphadora Tonks was gone. He only had Harry left, and Harry had grown distant in his constant struggle against the darkness. Remus worried about him, but Harry was so obsessed with his work that they didn't speak much lately.
Remus really hated his life.
He downed the glass and poured himself another. Technically he was on the clock, but nobody came into the shithole bookstore he worked at. He might as well close up the shop and go home, wallow some more about his sad state of affairs, but he didn't. He still had a twisted sense of honour and he wouldn't disappoint his employer. Well not totally, anyway.
So he continued to get totally sloshed and three hours later closed the store at the appointed time. He was in no shape to Apparate, so he decided to walk to The Leaky Cauldron to Floo home. With only a slight stumble to his steps, clutching his tattered cloak close to his gaunt frame, he walked through the soggy streets of the Alley. Most of the streets were overrun with revelers, celebrating freedom and the end of a time of terror, even in the inclement weather.
Remus scoffed at them. None of these people had paid as dearly as he. These were the people who sat by whinging at the world, begging for someone to end the war, defeat the Dark Lord, save them all. These people sacrificed nothing but still had everything.
He had gotten quite bitter in the passing years.
"Hey, watch it!" Someone yelled at him as he stepped on a foot. He just grumbled under his breath and kept walking, trying to avoid the masses of people, which was a hopeless goal. Eventually he opted for a less travelled smaller alley to escape the throng of celebrants. With his eyes kept down and his steps quick, he made his way to the bustling pub.
But as a snippet of conversation reached his ear, he quickly pulled himself to a stop. He swore he heard the name Potter. With the experience of a hardened soldier, he focused his will, pulling himself together. Slipping into a shop doorway, he tried to eavesdrop as best as he could.
"So, you're certain he quit?" The voice was highlighted with a French accent, nothing too thick. It spewed out, hurried and snivelling, the voice of a minion if Remus ever heard one.
"Quite." This younger voice was far cooler, collected.
"And that bitch?"
"Taken care of."
"He will be pleased. You have done well."
"Yes, I know, I don’t need to hear it from you." The voice dripped with disdain.
"Your next assignment."
The two men were quiet for a moment and the other finally said. "Consider it done." Eager anticipation tinted his words.
"Good. Until next time."
There was no reply for a long moment and finally Remus poked his head around the corner to look down the street, but nobody looked suspicious, there were no men huddled discussing dark plans, just people walking down the street, raising glasses or singing songs hopelessly off tune.
This couldn't be good.
~~~
Finally, he'd passed out on his couch, a few extra empty bottles sat together with that first he started hours ago. He never found answers in alcohol, but it always seemed to push away the need to decide for the time being.
He quit the Auror Program. He was ungainfully unemployed. He wasn't really worried about money; he had quite a pile of it from his parents and his godfather. Between the Potter and Black fortunes and his lack of a spending habit, he didn't really even need a job. But he did want to do something. He would still work for the Order and perhaps that would be enough for now. Maybe he would become a Hit Wizard. Maybe he would invest in a cauldron shop. Or maybe…
A loud, slightly slurred call woke him up from his unpleasant dreams.
"Harry, wake up!"
Even through his thick haze of alcohol and sleep, Harry recognized the rough voice of his old friend. "Remus? Come through… What's wrong?"
Remus practically fell through the fireplace and landed on the rug in an unhappy heap, wet robes dripping on the floor.
"You're drunk." Harry noted. He hadn't been spending much time with Remus, but he did worry about him. The man who used to be always in control drank too much and he seemed to be living a half life, walking through it like a zombie. Nothing like the mentor he was to him years ago.
Remus eyed the beer bottles littering the table. "I doubt I'm the only one."
Harry shrugged.
"How ya been Remus? I haven't seen you in a while."
"No, you haven't." It almost sounded like an accusation as the older man stood, brushing the soot off his worn, damp robes.
Harry looked at him, lassitude etched in every feature of his face. "Yeah, I know. Sorry. Been busy lately." He sighed the sigh of the weary.
"Anything new with you?" Remus hung his robe up by the door and sat down on the chair, deep eyes assessing Harry. He always was an observant one, even when three sheets to the wind. "Still with that Muggle, what was his name… Roger?"
"No… it wouldn't work out… I quit."
"Quit what? The dating scene?"
"Well, yeah, pretty much. But… I quit the Auror Program."
"Really?" Remus didn't seem surprised. "Why?"
"I couldn't get anything done and they won't acknowledge that the Death Eaters are rallying again. Scrimgeour seems to be taking a page from Fudge's 'How to Be a Useless Minister' handbook. It was pissing me off, so I told Kingsley off and quit." He leaned forward, running his hands through his messy hair. "I'm not sure it was the best idea."
"I'll make some coffee."
"Yeah, thanks."
Remus rose and entered the kitchen, moving plates and cups caked with who knew what to clear off some counter space. "Haven't been home much?" he asked his friend.
"Ah no, sorry for the state of my kitchen. Like I said, been busy." He reclined back in the couch as Remus busied himself with making coffee. Soon he returned with two steaming cups.
"Thanks," Harry said as he took a deep drink from the cup. "I needed that."
"So, what happened?"
Harry went into the events leading up to his resignation with quick, sure clarity. Remus learned about the Death Eater problem, though he already knew some of Harry's assumptions from previous conversations. Harry told him how he was being thwarted in what he considered the most effective way to hunt down and bring in the men behind the latest attacks and how, just like back in school, the Ministry was ignoring everything and even hiding from the public the fact that the attacks even happened. The cover up was all done in the name of keeping the people calm and giving them something to believe in, to hold on to.
"I think someone in the Ministry isn't on our side." He finally surmised. "I can't believe in such incompetence. Someone's pulling the strings and I've no idea who it is."
"Well, I have some information you might be interested in… it was actually the reason I stopped by tonight."
"What? Not for my gracious hospitality?" Harry smirked at the sorry state of his apartment.
Remus laughed, "Um, no, but thanks again for the coffee."
Harry grinned and lifted his chin in acknowledgement. "So, what do you got?"
"I overheard some people talking about you in Diagon Alley, one of the side streets. The place was packed with people and I only overheard a part of the conversation, but it didn't sound good. They were aware you quit and they had dealt with some woman, didn't sound good for her. The one who was supplying the information was given a new assignment. When I tried to see who was talking, they were gone."
"They were interested that I quit, huh. Hmm..." He mulled over this new information and the bright green flames of his fireplace flared up again.
"Potter, you there?" It was Kingsley Shacklebolt.
Harry sighed, looking over at Remus as he went to the fireplace.
"Yeah, Kingsley. It's late."
"Yep, but I know you'll want to know this. Can you get to a club in London called Rain as soon as possible?"
"Sure. Ah Kingsley… I really did resign."
"I know, Potter. But this… you'll want to know this."
"Okay, I'll be right there."
The flames died and Harry went to put on his robes. He lifted the red Auror robes and stopped, realizing he gave that up, and returned to pull on his own darker set.
"Harry."
"What, Remus?"
"You might want to know something… Rain is Draco Malfoy's wizarding club."
"What? How do you know? I thought he ran away to France after the trials were over." Harry's words were edged with steel. He had little love for any Malfoys.
"Well, I still keep my ears to the ground and I still have a few contacts filtering me interesting pieces of information. Want me to come?"
"Sure. You good to Apparate?"
"Yeah," he said, taking one last swig of coffee.
The two men vanished.
~~~
A fine fog had settled over this part of London. The alley was spotted with a few people; those adorned with the red robes of the Auror, some onlookers, and finely dressed men in Muggle clothing. As Harry and Remus walked up the street, everything became clearer, the fog thinned. Malfoy stood off to the side with some henchman of his talking with Ted Riley, an Auror with a buzz cut that Harry didn't know that well. Kingsley and some other Aurors that Harry knew were surrounding a prone body.
"Hey, Potter," a few of the men and women called out to him as he walked up. They didn’t sound happy.
"What's up?" He asked as Kingsley strode towards him.
Kingsley sighed, "Harry, I just wanted you to be here, since she's your friend."
"What? What are you talking about?" He pushed his way over to the body and looked down. What he saw clutched at this heart, threatening to still it forever. The woman's chest still rose and fell, so she wasn't dead, but her eyes were glassy, empty.
The eyes of his best friend, Hermione Granger.
Chapter 2: She couldn't scream while I held her close.
Author: winnett
Pairing/Characters: Harry/Draco, Remus/Sirius (eventual side pairing), Ron/Hermione (side pairing)
Rating: PG-R
Genre: Adventure/Romance
Summary: "I can't call out/Unless it's to cry your name out the open window/To a sky that looks right back/And says it's never seen rain." Dark conspiracies, unlikely friendships and the endless weeping of the sky. For Harry, it always rains.
Warnings: Male/male sexual situations.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based in the world created by J.K.Rowling. They aren't mine and I make no money from them. I just like to let them out to play.
Author's notes: I have been writing this story for so long I am very excited to begin posting chapters. Thanks so much to my betas fomp and serenitysmiles who have stood by me down this long path. All existing mistakes are my own because I probably didn't listen to their sage advice.
Word count: Approximately 4,100
***********************************************************************
Chapter 1
"Even Angels would be homesick in this forsaken town."
The Ataries - Unopened Letter to the World
It was casual the way he stood, leaning against the wrought iron railing that protected the dim-witted masses from tumbling in their inebriated state from the second floor to a most unwelcome stop below. He smoked a cigarette, holding a tumbler of scotch on the rocks in his other hand. His keen, piercing gaze surveyed the dancing crowd below him, thronging to the hypnotic beat, rubbing their bodies together like a distorted orgy where, in this case, everyone was clothed. He loved it. Watching these people thrash and flail in ecstasy on his dance floor, warmed by a bluish glow emanating from underneath.
Everything was tinged with that same faint blue glow; the lights in the corners offering pale illumination to those sitting close at private tables, the hovering strobes that painted the people dancing below. Thick glass walls filled with bubbles and distortion, and layered with privacy charms, partitioned the two-story wizarding club, offering some seclusion to the patrons while still allowing them to be a part of the constant party.
He took a sip of his amber drink, snuffed the cigarette out in an ashtray, and walked towards the open stairs heading down. He didn't walk as much as strut, swaying side to side like a gangster king patrolling his royal hood, chin high like a regal head of state, and to him the masses did bow.
Sycophants, all of them.
He expressed a typical disdainful look, suggesting he walked amongst dogs belly-crawling for favours and scraps from his table. He loved their adoration, but he despised their mindless fawning. Gliding up to the bar, backlit by a wall of blue falling rain, he leaned towards the young barmaid and whispered in her ear. She smiled and nodded at him, simultaneously mixing a fizzing drink while spelling a rag to wipe down the counter. He turned away and walked towards a back door, nodding to people as he passed them, their eyes aglow with adulation.
This was Rain. This was Draco's club. He designed it. He ran it. He owned it.
It was his magnum opus.
Passing through a thick door leading into the back halls, the music completely cut off by well placed silencing charms, Draco was approached by Tyrone Bledsoe, the club's head bouncer and his own personal bodyguard. At six foot five, 18 stone, Draco’s sergeant in arms embodied intimidation and strength, but more importantly, he knew how to handle most situations without question and understood the meaning of discretion, so unlike Crabbe and Goyle.
Draco liked him just fine, even if he was a Muggle-born.
"Mr. Malfoy."
Draco may have looked up at his bouncer, but it was Tyrone who was showing the respect. "Yes Mr. Bledsoe, what can I do for you?"
"There is a situation, sir."
"Something you can't handle?" Draco asked, apparently unconcerned.
"Correct," Tyrone replied in his reverberating, deep voice. Simple, straightforward.
One eyebrow shot up. Draco crossed his arms and adopted a look that showed just how unimpressed he was.
"Well?"
"Michael found a body in the back alley. A woman. I think you should come and check it out. She appears to be a witch."
This startled Draco, though a casual observer would never have noticed any difference in the aristocratic man's relaxed stance. The last thing he needed was to draw any unwanted attention from the Ministry; he was already scrutinized enough since his return to England.
"Show me."
He followed the tall, black man through the halls, past the kitchens to the receiving dock in the alley. It was dark back here and generally filthy; Draco didn't like it, not like the pristine front of his club full of everything beautiful. He felt it needed a good scouring charm. The huge bay doors stood open to the chilly winter evening. A light rain pattered on the concrete, filling puddles in each depression. They walked across the landing and saw the janitor, Michael, standing next to the body. It lay next to the blue dumpster under an awning, sprawled with no form or grace, just a limp body, heaped in a gauche moment of death.
With swift, concise steps Draco descended the short set of stairs from the landing to the alley and walked up to the prone form, releasing a frustrated sigh and a soft curse. He knew this woman.
~~~
"I'm sorry Kingsley, but I can't do it anymore." Harry slammed his gloves down on his desk, bright red like his uniform robes.
Kingsley Shacklebolt stoically stood by, letting the young Auror vent some steam. Harry was one of the best, even if he overreacted at times.
"Are you even going to say anything?" Harry yelled. He was tired of people placidly standing by when he was yelling. He wanted someone to yell at-or perhaps with, and Ron was out on assignment and his boss just stood there with that infuriating, understanding look on his face.
Kingsley received Harry’s angry words, one set in a litany of frustration that Harry delivered with utter abandon. Harry knew that yelling at Kingsley wasn’t going to solve anything; he knew that his boss had no new advice to offer. Things didn't quite work the same as they did when they were at war, quick and dirty. Now there were policies and regulations and proper ways to arrest known Death Eaters and other dark wizards.
Now there was red tape.
But for the first time Kingsley looked worried, and this surprised Harry. They had been dancing this tango of complaints and appeasement for over six months and this was the first time Harry admitted he couldn’t keep up with the blind idealism of the Ministry.
"I've had it. You will have my resignation papers on your desk in-oh, about fifteen minutes." He sat down hard on his uncomfortable, regulation chair and pulled out a worn quill.
"Now, Harry. Don't you think you are taking things a bit too personally?"
"Personally! We almost had him! Technicality my ass-corruption is more like it. I am sick of the red tape and the stupidity of the Ministry. Sure, Voldemort may be gone, but the Death Eaters are not. Scrimgeour is acting as blind as Fudge used to. Someone else has got to be organizing them; these are not random strikes. Why don't they acknowledge that?"
"Harry, you already took out one Dark Lord, why are you searching so hard for another?" The moment those words left Kingsley’s lips, Harry saw red, ignoring the suddenly apprehensive look on his friend's face.
"What? Buying into that Prophet dribble? Merlin, what is it with you people?" Harry started angrily scrawling over the parchment. "These attacks are too organized. They are planned assaults on Order members. They are planned assaults on Muggle-borns and their families. I cannot see why you don't recognize the problem."
"We're not saying there isn't a problem. You know very well we're working on it. But you have done enough, Harry. The weight of the world isn't on your shoulders anymore. There is no more prophecy for you to fulfil. Let the team work on it, under the proper authority."
Harry looked at him like he'd just confessed he wanted to dye his eyebrows pink, wear a tutu and join the circus.
"Proper authority? Kingsley, you are an Order member-don't you even care?"
Fire flashed in Kingsley's eyes. "Harry, of course I care! But we are not at war anymore! Don't you see the difference? You cannot take down every Death Eater single handedly. You have to work with other people and within the bounds of the law. These people deserve trials!"
Slightly admonished, Harry 'harrumphed,' but continued to scribble away on his resignation.
"I just don't think this is the right place for me anymore, Kingsley."
"Well, what will you do?"
The quill stopped scratching. Harry glanced at his friend and boss, green eyes clearer than they had been in a long time. "I have no idea." Then he returned to writing out the end of his Auror career.
~~~
Harry Apparated to his London flat as a free man. Or he tried to convince himself that. He had resigned in a pique of disgruntled anger and now he was questioning his decision, but there was no way he was going to go crawling back to Kingsley or anyone else in the Auror Program.
He threw his red robes onto the back of his overstuffed chair and flopped down on the nearby couch. Absentmindedly, he wordlessly started the fire and summoned a Witch's Brew stout from the kitchen. Sipping the cold beer, he lay back on the couch wondering exactly what he should do now. He knew that something was going on; someone was organizing the remaining Death Eaters that survived the final assault. All the offenders they'd captured so far were the usual suspects, the old guard from Voldemort's day. Mainly toadies, individuals acquitted during their trials for lack of substantial evidence or those who had eluded the Aurors thus far.
And perhaps this new leader was even recruiting more.
Harry laughed bitterly at himself, unconsciously rubbing the twin scars on his forehead. After the fall of Voldemort he'd developed rose-tinted expectations for a quiet life of stopping less maniacal bad guys and maybe finding a little peace. Everything would be normal after Voldemort was gone. But nothing could ever really be normal for the Boy Who Lived, even if his nemesis was no longer in the picture. Everybody expected perfection, a winning smile, and bright optimism. They wanted him to solve their problems. Well everybody but the Ministry, who wanted to keep him on a short leash and on the roster for good publicity.
Harry hated being used.
Now drinking and relaxing he could do nothing but run through all of the events he had been uncovering. There was a pattern there, he was certain of it. It was more firmly rooted in his gut than anything he'd thought out consciously; that was Hermione's forte, not his own. He gulped down the last of the stout and went to his dining table covered in papers. He praised his foresight to copy everything on the case and keep a set at home.
Ron should be here, he thought to himself, missing his friend. They attended Auror training together and were never closer. Hermione had opted for University, studying Arithmancy and spell development, inventing new defence and incarceration spells for Aurors everywhere. She was excellent at it, graduating top of her class with honours, and eventually worked for the Ministry's research department, though she didn't have to deal with the crap he had to. At least she didn't complain about it to him if she did.
Ron was off on the Yucatan Peninsula. The Ministry had sent him there to track down a Central American dark artefact peddler. It was a worthy assignment, but they had taken him off the Death Eater case with Harry, and Harry needed him here. Not to mention it put a rift in the renewed relationship between Ron and Hermione. They had put everything off while she attended University, though they were all still close, meeting regularly at The Lion's Mane in the wizarding section of Cambridge. But once she started working for the Ministry you couldn't keep those two apart, circling each other as if caught in a gravity well. Harry was glad for his friends; someone deserved happiness.
Well, if Ron couldn't help him, he knew Hermione could and he didn't want to wallow in misery alone anyway. His options were slim, but he didn't care. Quality over quantity, he reminded himself. He hadn't made any new friends out of school; everyone saw his fame instead of just him, wanting to be close to the Boy Hero.
He rose from the couch and moved to stand before the fireplace. Tossing in some Floo Powder the green flames flared.
"Hermione Granger, London."
He poked his head into the fire and called. "Hermione, are you there?" He waited for a few moments and upon hearing no reply he walked through.
"Hermione?"
He walked around the apartment, sticking his head into each room, not wanting to be too obtrusive without her permission. "You here?"
Nobody was there. Searching through the neat piles of papers on her desk full of diagrams and charts that made little sense to him, he found a blank sheet and scribbled a quick note to her and returned home.
Opening another beer he started flipping through his research again. Case files, photos of murder victims and crime scenes, dossiers on suspects. It was a gruesome testament to his life's work.
~~~
Tick Tock Tick Tock Tick Tock
In a way the sound had always been soothing, but tonight it was driving him insane: the constant ticking of the clock, announcing the passage of time, showing how everything was leaving him behind. Alone. To rot.
Remus Lupin had settled into one of the deepest depressions he had been in in a very long time.
Tomorrow would be the four-year anniversary of the second and final demise of Voldemort. Everyone in Diagon Alley and the British wizarding world would be celebrating this night. Everybody but Remus. It was also the anniversary of the death of Tonks.
As he pickled himself with cheap sherry and morose thoughts of lost love, he reviewed the sad state of his life. He worked at a second rate bookstore in Diagon Alley. It paid the bills but not much else. While he was one of the lauded Order members who had aided in the final destruction of Voldemort, he was still a registered werewolf and few people wanted to associate with such a wild card. He lived in a rat infested hovel in South London, it was all he could afford, and without Snape to make the Wolfsbane Potion, he went through terrible transformations alone every month in the dark dungeon of a deserted castle in northern Scotland.
He hated his life.
But the biggest thing he mourned, not his crappy job or the unsanitary state of his home, was the people he cared about. The first woman he ever loved had been killed in the final battle; she bled to death as he held her, wailing at the unfairness of the world as he tried desperately to staunch the blood flow with spell after spell. It hadn't been enough. He lost Sirius twice, Dumbledore was killed by Snape, James killed so long ago, and Peter, sweet Peter turned on them all. Now Nymphadora Tonks was gone. He only had Harry left, and Harry had grown distant in his constant struggle against the darkness. Remus worried about him, but Harry was so obsessed with his work that they didn't speak much lately.
Remus really hated his life.
He downed the glass and poured himself another. Technically he was on the clock, but nobody came into the shithole bookstore he worked at. He might as well close up the shop and go home, wallow some more about his sad state of affairs, but he didn't. He still had a twisted sense of honour and he wouldn't disappoint his employer. Well not totally, anyway.
So he continued to get totally sloshed and three hours later closed the store at the appointed time. He was in no shape to Apparate, so he decided to walk to The Leaky Cauldron to Floo home. With only a slight stumble to his steps, clutching his tattered cloak close to his gaunt frame, he walked through the soggy streets of the Alley. Most of the streets were overrun with revelers, celebrating freedom and the end of a time of terror, even in the inclement weather.
Remus scoffed at them. None of these people had paid as dearly as he. These were the people who sat by whinging at the world, begging for someone to end the war, defeat the Dark Lord, save them all. These people sacrificed nothing but still had everything.
He had gotten quite bitter in the passing years.
"Hey, watch it!" Someone yelled at him as he stepped on a foot. He just grumbled under his breath and kept walking, trying to avoid the masses of people, which was a hopeless goal. Eventually he opted for a less travelled smaller alley to escape the throng of celebrants. With his eyes kept down and his steps quick, he made his way to the bustling pub.
But as a snippet of conversation reached his ear, he quickly pulled himself to a stop. He swore he heard the name Potter. With the experience of a hardened soldier, he focused his will, pulling himself together. Slipping into a shop doorway, he tried to eavesdrop as best as he could.
"So, you're certain he quit?" The voice was highlighted with a French accent, nothing too thick. It spewed out, hurried and snivelling, the voice of a minion if Remus ever heard one.
"Quite." This younger voice was far cooler, collected.
"And that bitch?"
"Taken care of."
"He will be pleased. You have done well."
"Yes, I know, I don’t need to hear it from you." The voice dripped with disdain.
"Your next assignment."
The two men were quiet for a moment and the other finally said. "Consider it done." Eager anticipation tinted his words.
"Good. Until next time."
There was no reply for a long moment and finally Remus poked his head around the corner to look down the street, but nobody looked suspicious, there were no men huddled discussing dark plans, just people walking down the street, raising glasses or singing songs hopelessly off tune.
This couldn't be good.
~~~
Finally, he'd passed out on his couch, a few extra empty bottles sat together with that first he started hours ago. He never found answers in alcohol, but it always seemed to push away the need to decide for the time being.
He quit the Auror Program. He was ungainfully unemployed. He wasn't really worried about money; he had quite a pile of it from his parents and his godfather. Between the Potter and Black fortunes and his lack of a spending habit, he didn't really even need a job. But he did want to do something. He would still work for the Order and perhaps that would be enough for now. Maybe he would become a Hit Wizard. Maybe he would invest in a cauldron shop. Or maybe…
A loud, slightly slurred call woke him up from his unpleasant dreams.
"Harry, wake up!"
Even through his thick haze of alcohol and sleep, Harry recognized the rough voice of his old friend. "Remus? Come through… What's wrong?"
Remus practically fell through the fireplace and landed on the rug in an unhappy heap, wet robes dripping on the floor.
"You're drunk." Harry noted. He hadn't been spending much time with Remus, but he did worry about him. The man who used to be always in control drank too much and he seemed to be living a half life, walking through it like a zombie. Nothing like the mentor he was to him years ago.
Remus eyed the beer bottles littering the table. "I doubt I'm the only one."
Harry shrugged.
"How ya been Remus? I haven't seen you in a while."
"No, you haven't." It almost sounded like an accusation as the older man stood, brushing the soot off his worn, damp robes.
Harry looked at him, lassitude etched in every feature of his face. "Yeah, I know. Sorry. Been busy lately." He sighed the sigh of the weary.
"Anything new with you?" Remus hung his robe up by the door and sat down on the chair, deep eyes assessing Harry. He always was an observant one, even when three sheets to the wind. "Still with that Muggle, what was his name… Roger?"
"No… it wouldn't work out… I quit."
"Quit what? The dating scene?"
"Well, yeah, pretty much. But… I quit the Auror Program."
"Really?" Remus didn't seem surprised. "Why?"
"I couldn't get anything done and they won't acknowledge that the Death Eaters are rallying again. Scrimgeour seems to be taking a page from Fudge's 'How to Be a Useless Minister' handbook. It was pissing me off, so I told Kingsley off and quit." He leaned forward, running his hands through his messy hair. "I'm not sure it was the best idea."
"I'll make some coffee."
"Yeah, thanks."
Remus rose and entered the kitchen, moving plates and cups caked with who knew what to clear off some counter space. "Haven't been home much?" he asked his friend.
"Ah no, sorry for the state of my kitchen. Like I said, been busy." He reclined back in the couch as Remus busied himself with making coffee. Soon he returned with two steaming cups.
"Thanks," Harry said as he took a deep drink from the cup. "I needed that."
"So, what happened?"
Harry went into the events leading up to his resignation with quick, sure clarity. Remus learned about the Death Eater problem, though he already knew some of Harry's assumptions from previous conversations. Harry told him how he was being thwarted in what he considered the most effective way to hunt down and bring in the men behind the latest attacks and how, just like back in school, the Ministry was ignoring everything and even hiding from the public the fact that the attacks even happened. The cover up was all done in the name of keeping the people calm and giving them something to believe in, to hold on to.
"I think someone in the Ministry isn't on our side." He finally surmised. "I can't believe in such incompetence. Someone's pulling the strings and I've no idea who it is."
"Well, I have some information you might be interested in… it was actually the reason I stopped by tonight."
"What? Not for my gracious hospitality?" Harry smirked at the sorry state of his apartment.
Remus laughed, "Um, no, but thanks again for the coffee."
Harry grinned and lifted his chin in acknowledgement. "So, what do you got?"
"I overheard some people talking about you in Diagon Alley, one of the side streets. The place was packed with people and I only overheard a part of the conversation, but it didn't sound good. They were aware you quit and they had dealt with some woman, didn't sound good for her. The one who was supplying the information was given a new assignment. When I tried to see who was talking, they were gone."
"They were interested that I quit, huh. Hmm..." He mulled over this new information and the bright green flames of his fireplace flared up again.
"Potter, you there?" It was Kingsley Shacklebolt.
Harry sighed, looking over at Remus as he went to the fireplace.
"Yeah, Kingsley. It's late."
"Yep, but I know you'll want to know this. Can you get to a club in London called Rain as soon as possible?"
"Sure. Ah Kingsley… I really did resign."
"I know, Potter. But this… you'll want to know this."
"Okay, I'll be right there."
The flames died and Harry went to put on his robes. He lifted the red Auror robes and stopped, realizing he gave that up, and returned to pull on his own darker set.
"Harry."
"What, Remus?"
"You might want to know something… Rain is Draco Malfoy's wizarding club."
"What? How do you know? I thought he ran away to France after the trials were over." Harry's words were edged with steel. He had little love for any Malfoys.
"Well, I still keep my ears to the ground and I still have a few contacts filtering me interesting pieces of information. Want me to come?"
"Sure. You good to Apparate?"
"Yeah," he said, taking one last swig of coffee.
The two men vanished.
~~~
A fine fog had settled over this part of London. The alley was spotted with a few people; those adorned with the red robes of the Auror, some onlookers, and finely dressed men in Muggle clothing. As Harry and Remus walked up the street, everything became clearer, the fog thinned. Malfoy stood off to the side with some henchman of his talking with Ted Riley, an Auror with a buzz cut that Harry didn't know that well. Kingsley and some other Aurors that Harry knew were surrounding a prone body.
"Hey, Potter," a few of the men and women called out to him as he walked up. They didn’t sound happy.
"What's up?" He asked as Kingsley strode towards him.
Kingsley sighed, "Harry, I just wanted you to be here, since she's your friend."
"What? What are you talking about?" He pushed his way over to the body and looked down. What he saw clutched at this heart, threatening to still it forever. The woman's chest still rose and fell, so she wasn't dead, but her eyes were glassy, empty.
The eyes of his best friend, Hermione Granger.
Chapter 2: She couldn't scream while I held her close.