Harry James Potter

Date: Mid November, 2020, before Emma Burgess’ trial

With: @kngslyshckleblt​

Unlike his Ministry officials who seemed to revel in nothing more than catching Harry in his office during random times of day, In this regard, Kingsley was an abnormality. The meeting, which had been coordinated between their secretaries, had been created three days ago, is one Harry considers both essential and exciting. The circumstances behind it aren’t the most pleasant, but Kingsley has been a role model of his for as long as he could remember. First as a member of the Order of the Phoenix, then as Head Auror, and most recently Minister of Magic. Despite the reservations he’s held for him since denouncing Hermione, he still has a great level of respect for him. Harry could only hope he feels the same way. 

Plus, Harry’s relationship with Kingsley extended beyond their personal friendship. The two of them worked together, too. As Head Auror, Harry never thought that he’d have to deal with Ministry politics, but being back in the Office exposed him to both petty arguments and bigger rising tensions between the departments and parties he shared the stately building with. Harry still wasn’t sure how Kinglsey viewed him as an Auror. Although he may have mentioned once or twice that his successor seemed to be good at his job, Harry’s activities in the field weren’t the same as the new work he took on at his desk. 

Outside of the door, there’s a bit of muffled talking before the heavy brass knob turns with ease. When Kingsley finally walks into the office that used to belong to him, Harry is quick to stand and extend a friendly hand. “Kingsley,” he greets, trying to put on his warmest smile, “how are you?”

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“It is a sound of warning, not one of question.” It’s a statement of fact, not an explanation, and he offers it with a bittersweet smile afterwards, “– though I offer an apology if I am indeed distracting you from some pertinent paperwork.” He sits down on the guest chair, the cushion is hardly worn out like it is in Terry’s office. This was previously an office seldom used, but since his ‘demotion’ Harry was hardly seen outside of it. The Wizengamot’s decision may have been a little harsh; the saviour of the wizarding world hardly deserved being chained to a desk but Terry believed it was for Harry’s own good. Sometimes you have to protect people from themselves. “It’s uncanny to see you like this. At your desk, actually doing paperwork. It’s refreshing.” Terry comments, trying to make light of the situation and looking on and studying the auror as he continues to skim over the documents, “It used to be quite the task tracking you down before for a conversation. Always on a mission. Your secretary became a seasoned professional at turning away officials from my department, and others too, no doubt. Now I knock, and you’re here. It’s good to see you, Harry.” Terry smiles warmly.

Now that he has the Chosen One’s attention he begins, “Violet Burke may have alerted you to the fact that you have a wizard in your custody, and rightfully so, that I require to be released.”  It’s customary for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to inform International Magical Cooperation when a foreign wizard is in custody for some wrong-doing. While it’s generally Terry’s job to clean up the messes created by the lack of communication, today the tables are turned. “Henri Boucher, a supposed Magizoologist here on an ICOW-sanctioned program who we now know is a spy for the French Ministry of Magic.” The parallels to Newt Scamander’s run-in with the French Ministry of Magic in the 1920′s does not escape him, and perhaps in a less serious setting, Terry would bring it up - being the history-loving wizard that he is. “My department has been aware of the espionage for quite some time now, we just didn’t know who. And now that we do, arresting one may send the rest into hiding which is something we cannot afford.” Terry leans back, a small smile forming in his lips, “– - so I propose we work together, with our departments, to manage the spies and feed them information we want going back to their countries while protecting our interests here. Auror Burke and I have discussed specifics, she is to continue her investigation off the books and release one Magizoologist back into the wild. With your blessing, of course.” Terry pauses momentarily, “That is one matter, and another is the upcoming Techno-Fair. We require adequate security at the event, especially with all the Muggle technology present.”

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“It’s refreshing to one of us but not to both. I’m glad you’re getting some entertainment out of it, though.” As much as Harry can try to deny it, he’s aware that this is for his safety. The “demotion” was as much as moving a rung down the ladder as it is moving up. The Ministry sees him as an even more valuable commodity than he ever had been and it’s all too obvious to him. There are few people in the Ministry who are daring enough to openly express their disagreement with the final verdict, but Harry knew better than to believe that all in the Ministry were are indignant and vocal as his department. Those who work in the Auror Office live in their own ecosystem and only has so much time their schedule to worry about other people think. It hasn’t always been like this: the Office used to be much more open to collaboration and in tune with the Ministry, but they’ve become more insular (Harry and his colleagues prefer to use the term close-knit but alas). Their internal tendencies only increased after they had lost two of their own and Harry had been punished in the wake. Harry doesn’t feel any need to apologize: he can’t control his department’s demeanors and besides, the only person he truly answers to is Hermione, who would never do so much as let him go. 

Harry puts down his quill and listens somewhat patiently to Terry’s explanation. As usual, he collects all of the facts in his head. Espionage is familiar to him in more ways than one--capturing domestic spies is a part of every Auror’s job, as well as doing a bit of digging through the dirt on their own. Still, he works with international affairs much less than Terry, despite once being sent across nations’ borders as frequently as his peers. Harry didn’t get recognized abroad nearly as often he did on his home soil, making those missions humbling and his favorite sort. 

“I appreciate you asking for my permission,” he responds, voice measured. He has only worked with other departments a handful of times, passing on the time-sucking collaborative proposals to his inferiors while he took on the terrors happening on English ground. “However, it’d be best if we discuss how off the books you’re both planning to go.” He says. “While these practices may have worked under Shacklebolt, we can’t work under the same procedures with the public as critical as it is right now. At the very least, we’ll have to write it up and send it to Hermione for her to disperse as she chooses,” Harry explains. Then, the Technofair arises. “Already on it. I’ve sent a team to create a detailed outline that I’ll later revise. We should have more than enough Aurors present to make sure your event functions smoothly. However, I won’t be able to be there myself. Those are the Ministry’s rules, not mine.”

Draco couldn’t remember ever being more nervous in the lead-up to a social situation – or more regretful to be entering into said situation without his wife at his side. Barely twenty minutes ago Astoria had vomited blood, said “Oh, damn,” and retired to her room – a not uncommon occurrence, alas, but one that chose particularly bad timing today. Draco would almost have suspected her of faking it to get out of the imminent meeting, but that was the sort of thing his mother would do (without the spitting, of course; Narcissa would never): claim an ailment that could not be gainsaid and go lie down to avoid unpleasant company. Poor witches who grew-up in Knockturn Alley had more direct ways of dealing with unwanted social obligations – and besides, Astoria had no reason to be anxious about a visit from Harry Potter. Draco, on the other hand…

He slipped his hands into his pockets to stop himself from picking at the embroidery along the cuffs of his sleeves and tried to give his son an encouraging smile. Scorpius looked every bit as nervous as Draco felt, but where Draco’s discomfort was all thin, tangled, icy dismay, Scorpius was at least as eager as he was uncertain, bouncing impatiently onto the balls of his feet and fussing with his hair. Draco caught himself fussing at his own hair, too, and scowled at himself. He shoved his hands into his pockets for the second time – and then bell rang and he pulled them back out quickly, not wanting Potter to think he was holding a concealed wand. He laced his fingers together in front of him so tightly the already-pallid knuckles went bloodlessly ice-white and waited, breath catching in his throat, for the elf to lead Potter and his son into the sunny Rose Parlor…

“Potter,” he blurted more than said when the two wizards entered, and all but tripped over the hem of his robe in his haste to step forward and offer his hand – but thought better of the gesture at the last minutes, resulting in a jerky, abortive little spasm of motion instead. “And Albus, hello again.” The smile he turned on the younger, shorter of the two Potters was less of a rictus grimace and more like something that actually came close to approaching a proper grin. He’d only met Scorpius’s best friend in passing moments at the train station, or in Diagon Alley, or when dropping Scorpius off for a visit at Albus’s home, but his son had written him so many letters about the other boy and spent so much of his holidays home talking about him – and his other friend, Rose Granger-Weasley, and thank Merlin her parents weren’t here too at least – that Draco almost felt like he was friends with the boy, too. “Welcome to our home.”

He caught a glimpse of Scorpius bobbing his head in agreement beside him. “Yes,” Scorpius agreed, his voice tight with nerves, “hullo Al, Mr. Potter. Welcome.”

Harry supposes that he shouldn’t be surprised to see a house elf open the door as opposed to the man of the hour himself. A more hopeful version of himself would have mustered the energy to be surprised. However, Harry knows better. Saving Draco and his father from Azkaban did not mean that the family had completely reformed to match post-war wizarding culture. Harry had spent years after the war tracking down Death Eaters, picking up bits and pieces of how they were managing to scrape by after their defeat with his own eyes. The major takeaway was quite simple: many of them hadn’t changed, save for expressing their blood purity views amongst the public. As all three of his children’s potions professor, he could only hope that Draco had taken more steps towards understanding the new Wizarding dynamics than his peers had. At least Albus seemed to take to his teachings well, according to his owls. 

He watches the way his son strides confidently into the Rose Parlor. It’s a reminder of how close his son is intertwined with Malfoy’s-- they shared everything as if the objects in question belonged to both of them. Scorpius had probably described his house in full detail to Albus at some point or another. He’s gotten to peek at Albus’ gargantuan letters to his best friend a few times before, amazed by the length and the fact that Albus had grown enough to the point that his mind worked at such a speech and complexity that he had so much to say. Besides, in a way, Harry was content with the idea that his middle child had someone he felt he could trust with so much information. He hoped that his son would be like this as long as possible, for even the most hopeful wix would turn into cynics, especially in today’s environment. At the age of 40, who did Harry trust besides the people he has known his entire life? However, his friends from Hogwarts had had their loyalties tested many times over. They had emerged on the right side of the coin every time. He can’t say the same for Scorpius’ family, no matter how chivalrous he is. And he is, Harry’s sure of it. He holds nothing against the youngest Malfoy. After all, he knows better than anyone else that people don’t get to choose their families. 

“Malfoy,” Harry greets him curtly, lifting an outstretched hand in greeting. However, that hand drops at the sight of his son running towards Scorpius. He feels as if he’s watching himself and Hermione as children, running towards each other in the Great Hall after their first summer apart. But this is not the Hogwarts. This is the place the very same girl in that vision was dragged down into the basement and tortured until scar tissue emerged. The two boys are screaming, though, and he manages to catch them running out of the room and into the backyard, where a familiar set of three hoops rises out of the ground. “Albus!” He calls after him, but it’s too late. The boys are gone, a house elf running off after them. There’s no more distractions anymore, not even Astoria, who hasn’t made an appearance yet. Now it’s just him and Malfoy. In the silence, Harry’s unwilling to make eye contact. The moment for introductions has already passed. Instead, he stares outside, all too aware of his wand in his pocket. “I see you’ve kept your love for quidditch alive. Albus says your son’s a natural on the pitch.”

DATE: March 17, 2002

WITH: @deanxthomas​

He doesn’t want to break Dean’s heart in the office. 

To be fair, the chance that Dean will feel remotely moved in any sort of way over the event that happened two days ago is slim to none. What stirs Dean’s feelings seems to be the same as every other Auror they work with: innocent deaths, furiously mysterious  occurrences, and ex Death Eaters being brought into Wizengamot. Harry’s engagement to his girlfriend from when they were both at Hogwarts is not one of the above events, though it’s not like people frequently discuss their personal lives with their colleagues. Those at the Auror Office are no exclusion to this rule. So, instead, he finds himself asking Dean if they can quickly talk outside of the Ministry after work, although this is just as awkward. Standing a block away from the busted red phone booth that stood as the Ministry’s entrance from the streets of muggle London, Harry shifts. He had had to travel to the muggle world for a mission earlier that afternoon, leaving him dressed in a casual black long sleeve shirt and dark jeans. At least he doesn’t have to worry about looking the part. 

He’s not really sure what he’s going to tell Dean. He has spent every free hour since the engagement at Ginny’s side, which, frankly, is just as much as they usually do. There hasn’t been much time to plan anything beyond a simple outline. Besides, Harry’s far from being an over thinker. Telling Dean the news before the rest of the Wizarding World is more of a customary courtesy, designed to ensure that their working relationship doesn’t become more complicated than it needs to be. Besides, when it comes to anything work related these days, Harry mind becomes akin to Murphy’s Law. He’s always ready prepare for the worst, and when the worst doesn’t happen (and this is mostly the case), then the outcome turns out even better than expected. Harry’s maths skills are rusty, but the chance of his fellow Auror punching him in the nose in the middle of a busy London street is highly unlikely. “Dean,” he warmly greets as the man in question emerges, “thanks for coming. How are you?” 

As the Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts, one of the many duties that fell under his purview was lining up guest speakers and making arrangements between interested parties and the professors. It was a balancing act of schedules and attitudes which explained why from year to year the speakers in classes differed, some making a solo appearance and simply never being invited back, to others who could only make sparse appearances but made quite the impression. Harry Potter was one of these guest speakers, so whenever he was able to get him into the classroom, he eagerly took the opportunity. Getting to see him always got the students intrigued in their studies - if only for the day - and it served as a great morale booster. These days, with some of the students stuck at the school indefinitely, and spirits among others were grim, it was just the thing they needed right now. 

When the day came, Neville had found himself buried in paperwork ( a persistent state these days ). The Longbottom had lulled himself into a sense of safety within the walls of his classroom, believing the sanctity alone would keep himself. Then, he hears the clearing of the throat and he looks up, tensing for just a moment until he see’s the man at his door. “Auror Potter” he returned, a friendly smile crossing his lips as he stood up to greet Hogwarts honored guest of the day, though he liked to consider the alumni more than that. There was a bond between them, more than a shared birthday, and deeper than any words could ever accurately describe. They were unwilling soldiers in a war they didn’t create, but one they had to end. They’d both made it out alive, but with a shared ghost they could never shake, even if they could pretend they didn’t. At his apology, Neville glances at his watch, a rather mundane thing simply made for keeping him on time, a task of which it was failing at if the Potter was correct.

As the professor fiddled with his watch, he listened as his former classmate advocated for his former house, and the wizard couldn’t help but laugh. “I think as both the Head of Gryffindor, and a former of member of the house, I think if I just gave Gryffindor points left and right I might be accused of nepotism, Harry.” the professor announced, a smirk wide on his lip as he stepped out from behind his desk. “Though, I think I can forgive you for your tardiness, only this once.” Of course, between the two of them, it would have been obvious this too was a teasing gesture. Neville would have invited Harry Potter back for a guest lecture nearly any time, though, perhaps not for his class, but that was another matter entirely. “It’s been too long, Harry. How are you?”

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Auror Potter. The words ring in his ears, electric. He has heard people refer to him using his final title more times than he can count. However, hearing Neville murmur the same words (or rather, the Neville he knew back then would have murmured. The Neville he knew now had a soft voice that couldn’t be mistaken for a lack of confidence) stirred something inside of Harry. They aren’t the same people than they were during this Hogwarts days. Neville had stayed in the first place Harry called home while Harry moved on from his past, or at least as much as he could have. The duo are so old that Harry has not one, two, but three children, the oldest of which had called Neville his “favorite professor” in his last letter. Of course, Neville has always stayed close to the Potter family and encouraged to visit his and Ginny’s house as much as possible, but Hogwarts’ environment is another kind of familiar to him, although just as welcomed. 

“Come on, Neville,” Harry chides. “Dumbledore most certainly practiced nepotism and we never looked down on him for it.” Harry was much too involved with his busy world to ever wonder what it was like to never win a House Cup while attending the famed wizarding school. Still, despite the fact that it was somewhat likely that Harry would have gratuitously rewarded points to his former house if he was in Neville’s position, he laughs with his friend. If Harry hadn’t been chosen by Voldemort, Neville would have carried out Harry’s role as well as he did, it not better. Perhaps their lives could have been switched-- while Harry was often bored by herbology, he could have been a professor while Neville came in for guest lectures. However, Neville is content with his life as an educator in a way that Harry would have not been. While he loves Hogwarts, there were too many haunting events that happened here for him to stay year after year. 

“Thanks for your forgiveness. If only Wizengamot felt the same way.” As an auror, Harry frequently testifies at the judicial body, though he rarely arrives on time. “It’s been much of the same. Still putting down threats as usual.” He keeps it short; Neville doesn’t need to know that Harry’s plate is so full it would pile to the Hogwarts’ high ceilings. “How are you doing? I hope the kids aren’t giving you too much trouble.”

It was unreal to her when she had started her Auror training that she was going to be trained by the Chosen one himself. Her father only had good things to say about the man, and still did. As she started working fully and on her own, he was a good boss.

She felt that she might get away with things not everyone would have let her. It was all to get the job done. It was far from the first time she had been told off by others, and yet Potter trusted her with something that was highly important and needed to be dealt with swift and with discretion. It was some names on this list that was high up the food chain.

Sorting through her papers as she waited for her boss, she had some Aurors beneath her that she had at her disposal. Not everyone liked being told what to do by her, but they had learnt to deal with it. Thinking a pureblood witch would be the best way in. It seemed the higher-ups in this office also agreed.

Looking up as the door opened she gave her boss a nod “Oh you know Boss, the usual,” she looked over her papers.

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“Right. Let’s get started then.” Harry knows that he should sit down now. When he was Violet’s age (which is to say that above all, talking to her makes him feel older than he really is), the Auror Office was an overly formal setting for a place where most workers spent their time in the field. If Harry hadn’t reformed the department, him and Violet would definitely not meeting in this room. Harry would be shaking her hand before sitting down and waiting for her to address her as Auror Potter. Since then, however, his workplace has changed, allowing him the freedom to keep his fidgety self upright and pace around as he pleases. For Harry, who had noticed that he was prone to moving around a bit more than usual these days, he’s thankful for the change he fought so hard to usher in. 

Violet had been partially selected for her personal connection to the case and her skills, but most of it had been because she’s a pureblooded witch. Blood is, no matter how hard others tried, irreplaceable. While one’s blood status means nothing to Harry, it may have meant something to Veritas. It’s embarrassing how little the Auror Office had been able to gather on the group. It’s a good thing few were aware of how hard his team has been working. Leaning against one of the walls, a paper in hand, he says, “I heard you had a conversation with Terry Boot. I’m glad to see that you reached out, but you need to fill me in on meetings like those.” It’s a soft reminder, and a rare one at that. It is extremely unusual to see the Veritas team collaborate with others. “What happened?”

DATE: July 23, 2020

WITH: @recanteddeatheater​​

In the dead of summer on a heat-dried Saturday afternoon, two Potters arrived at the very place Harry was once convinced he would lose his life. Despite being a two and a half hour drive away from Malfoy Manor, Harry had lived much of his life in the home he made with his wife feeling that his Hogwarts rival and concerning parents were much too close for comfort. This sense of dread had only intensified upon learning via owl that Albus’ new best friend was none other but Scorpius Malfoy. Unlike James, who had stuck to his Gryffindor peers when it came to choosing friends, Albus had only one close companion and it was Malfoy’s son. The situation was an unfortunate one at best. 

At the conclusion of each school year, Albus became persistent in asking Harry and Ginny to spend time with Scorpius at his house. Harry may have been a notoriously flexible parent, but he rightfully drew the line at letting his son congregate with former Death Eaters. Harry and Ginny had tried every tactic-- explaining to their son everything that had happened to Harry, Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione there, explaining everything that could go wrong without their protection, and even telling him that he would be grounded if he attempted to go without parental permission. Which, at the time, Harry and his wife were sure that permission would never be granted. 

However, due to Albus’ pestering, the couple had gone back on their usually unbroken word and told Albus he could go as long as Harry went to inspect the manor first. Of course, the correspondence between him and Astoria made it sound like it was more of a friendly gathering, but both parties knew it was quite the opposite. As Albus reached up to knock on the door, Harry was quick to stop him. “Let me do it, Al.” He said, his free hand gripping his wand as the other reached for the knocker, half expecting a hex. But alas, Harry retracted without any pain, and so the duo waited, expectant with different reasons rapidly filling their minds.

DATE: November 8, 2020

WITH: @aurorburke​

Unless this past week has gone terribly wrong, the meeting is expected to go as usual. On Harry’s calendar, the weekly planning session he has with Auror Burke is simply listed as last meeting before going home. The Auror Office knows better than to question it. After all, Harry is known to be notoriously private about anything faintly connected to his family, even going so far as shutting a conversational junior Auror down when asked where he lived. He could admit that that particular instance was a bit harsh, but when it comes to protecting his family, Harry is unbudging. This is perhaps the only time he utilizes that generally respected privacy to his advantage. From his perspective, the mention of home is strategically placed to ward off any nosy colleagues. 

The office at the end of the hall is mostly abandoned due to the fact that there is a popular rumor that a man who was being questioned in the 1800s had died and became a ghost. It’s funny how some of the bravest people Harry knows are scared of a mere spirit. He still makes a point of visiting Nearly Headless Nick whenever he visits his old school. Besides, in all of the times Harry and Violet have spent sifting through data and organizing their next plans to sink Vertias’ operation for good, he has never seen any ghosts appear. Today, he makes his way to the room first, clearing the dusty table with the nonchalant sweep of his hand. Slinging his heavy black trench coat over one of wobbly wooden chairs, his back hunches over the table to pick up a piece of paper left from their last discussion. The team Harry has assembled to track down Veritas is small, extremely selective, and secretive. While the Auror Office knows it exists to some degree, not many people are aware of much more than that. Admittedly, even Harry feels out of touch sometimes-- his mission to capture the Puritans occupies more space on his over-stuffed plate, leading the younger Auror Burke to take care of the day-to-day operations, update him on the team’s progress, and pitch future plans once a week. He’s about to flip the page over when he hears the doorknob turn. “Auror Burke,” he says, straightening, “do you have anything new for me?”

DATE: November 8, 2020

WITH: @acciolongbottom​

According to the antique watch Harry almost always kept on his wrist, he had approximately one hour before he was expected to guest lecture a NEWT level Defense Against the Dark Arts class on dementors. The reason why Harry would opt for the word ‘approximately’ over ‘exactly’ 60 minutes is because having stars for watch hands and poor eyesight doesn’t make the best combination for telling time. Still, as he slips into Neville’s classroom a minute early or two minutes late, he knows that he wouldn’t swap the dented and scratched object for the world. He can remember the day Ginny’s mum had gifted him her late brother’s timepiece. And while Harry knew he couldn’t replace Fabian (in fact, Harry was well aware that he could never replace all of the lives that were lost in the two wizarding wars), he tried his hardest to become the best son-in-law he could be. However, no matter how much effort he put in, he could never be and never tried to be the son she had lost. 

Harry’s somber thoughts break at the sight of Neville. Seeing his friend in professor’s robes serves as a reminder that he had, like many other members of Dumbledore’s Army, been able to move past the war. James had told Harry at the beginning of the school year that although he loathed herbology and found the subject quite mundane compared to quidditch practice, he only studied to please ‘Professor Longbottom,’ a title that was equal parts amusing and admirable. Like many other young professors, he had looked to Neville for guidance when he had first began his guest lectures. However, after some helpful advice and practice, Harry had brushed off his DA skills and became quite the educator, even if learning had taken a back seat while he was at Hogwarts. 

Closing the intricate but heavy wooden door behind him, Harry clears his throat. “Professor Longbottom,” he says, wearing a small but genuine smile. “I’m sorry I’m not on time, but now that I’ve made it, it would be nice if you gave 10 points to Gryffindor for my appearance.” While Harry’s priorities had grown and the House Cup had understandably meant less and less to him with every year he was at Hogwarts, Dumbledore had been no stranger for giving Harry only mercy and generosity when it came to rewarding points to his house. “I heard this year’s NEWT DADA class is made up of forty percent Gryffindors-- I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”