A/N: The original chapter went from 930-ish words to almost 2,000. Hopefully it reads better.
He hated gossip.
A symphony of whispers rose and fell, then rose again whenever some bystander spotted the unfashionably thick spectacles of The-Boy-Who-Lived as he ambled through the crowd. The uncharacteristically subdued atmosphere of Diagon Alley had come alive with hushed words, the sotto voices filling the streets with a buzzing not unlike that of an angry beehive. Glittering eyes peeked from beneath pointed hats and weathered caps as hands rose to discretely cover smirking mouths. Lips parted to snidely comment that, while they had never been so reckless as to find themselves caught in a fight with a dragon or a demented Dark Lord, at least they knew how to keep their relationships intact.
The unfortunate target of the malicious rumors seemed completely oblivious to what was going on around him. Whatever the crowd thought the weary soul had or had not done was inconsequential to the man. Once the sharp tongues of the magical world started wagging, it was difficult to dissuade them. It had been little over a week since the news had made the cover of one of the Wizarding World's top magazines, but it was only a matter of time until something else came along to occupy the idle minds of the people around him. Until then, he'd have to grit his teeth and deal with it.
It wasn't as if the idea of turning around and asking the nosy strangers around him just what they found so amusing about the situation hadn't occurred to him before. He'd been sorely tempted to do so when a group of matronly ladies had huddled together during lunch the previous day as he had stepped into the Ministry of Magic. But a confrontation was completely out of the question. Harry Potter had made a name for himself inside the office. His ability to remain cool and collected while under pressure had just landed him the position of head Auror in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. If he caved in to his need for silence and whirled around to shout at the witches and wizards milling about the cobbled streets outside, he'd be throwing away years of hard work and dedication for a sense of relief that would only last seconds.
Living under scrutiny once more would be nothing short of torture, but he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him react to the wild rumors. Harry would bite his tongue and play blind while they circled like sharks, but what the wizarding world used as entertainment would have no effect on the life he was trying to rebuild. If it wasn't a threat to society, they could say whatever the hell they wanted to say behind his back. If it didn't force him to wield his badge and take out his wand in defense, whatever happened outside of the Ministry's walls was of no concern to him.
With a smile that didn't quite make it to the emerald eyes on his face, Harry reached out to take his coffee out of the hands of the young witch who'd served it for him. The warm drink was the first of the many that would follow as he struggled to prevent his tired eyes from drooping during the workday. He removed a few coins from the pocket of his robes, making sure to leave a little extra as a tip to the nervous girl who'd tended to his coffee, and placed them on the counter before walking out of the shop he'd been frequenting for half a decade.
If he ignored the shifting of people as they turned to stare at him, the world outside was breathtakingly beautiful. A picturesque blue sky bathed Diagon with its glow, and a cool late-December breeze flitted through the streets, making the signs above them sway in soothing rhythms. He paused beneath the shadow of a building and drank in the sights. They were a welcome change from the forlorn atmosphere of Grimmauld Place and the oppressive gloom of his office. The Ministry had, for security reasons, removed all windows from the Departments. A handful of skylights were still present, but they did little to alleviate the dreary feel of the cubicles. Harry drew in a deep breath at the thought, letting the chilly air seep into his lungs as he remembered that air inside the DMLE carried that peculiar scent that wafted about in overcrowded places, and exhaled.
Harry shook his head, reached up to make sure that the bowl hat atop his head was still properly centered and began the tediously long walk back to The Leaky Cauldron. How could the people be more interested in gossip than the lovely weather around them? They had been encapsulated by snow and rain for weeks, and his personal life was still somehow more enjoyable to these people than finally being able to stroll outside. With a twitch in the corner of his mouth, nodded at Dean Thomas as he walked past the Weasley's shop, careful not to make eye contact with the redheads peering at him through the display windows.
He was painfully aware of the fact that his failings amused the world to no end. Something about his inability to succeed in some areas of his life as an adult made the envious purr with unfeigned delight. In all honesty, he'd gotten used to it. He'd been plagued by naysayers for most of his life. He'd even begun to find their interest in his life and the wild rumors they concocted every now and then amusing. At least until recently. Now, the unsolicited attention just irked him. He felt like a wounded animal; and instead of offering some compassion they leered while he went through his death throes. It was hard to pretend that his life could ever be normal again, that the ache in his chest would be able to heal, when everyone's eyes were on him.
As if they had witnessed a Phoenix rising from its ashes, the doe-eyed stares were inevitably drawn to him wherever he went. And it was terribly unsettling to be looked at in that fashion. Their gazes were so direct, so penetrating that he momentarily struggled to focus on the warm cup of liquid in his hand and the blue cobblestones beneath his feet. Things were made considerably worse by the fact that they moved out of his way whenever he got too close, as if he had been afflicted by some horrible disease and it was on display for everyone to see. His mind raced in all sorts of worrisome directions at the thought, and he paused to pull the neck of the tell-tale brown coat of the Auror's department closer to his nape and a frame that had whittled down much like a bar of soap after constant use over the course of three months.
What bothered Harry the most about his predicament was that it was not all that uncommon. The crowd was making a fuss over something had had become commonplace in society. Not that it mattered to them. He was the famous Harry Potter. It was all anyone cared about. Every issue that had surfaced in his life had inevitably been sensationalized by the press. So, the once-lauded hero of the magical world was now being cross-examined over an incident that he refused to discuss with anyone. There would be no guest appearances in radio shows, no interviews to sate the raving curiosity of the masses. Whatever had happened between him and his wife would stay between them. He was intent on concentrating on his job, and with little else to tear him away from his Department, Harry's personal office had transformed into his second home.
His behavior was a bit obsessive. It would undoubtedly cause him some harm, but he found himself caring very little about the possibility of doing damage to a body already peppered with scars. At the thought his gloved hand rose, fingers sliding idly beneath his overgrown hair to trace the lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead. The damaged tissue hadn't hurt in years, but he'd been suffering from nearly constant and crippling headaches for three months. They didn't seem to have any intentions of leaving, either. Stress and exhaustion had mixed into a potent cocktail that constantly stabbed at his temples. Walking usually eased the ache, but not even coffee seemed to help that morning.
As he rubbed the side of his skull with two fingers, Harry suddenly wondered what the crowd expected of him. Knowing what to say and how to behave in front of curious strangers had always been beyond him. Hermione was good at it. Ginny was good at it. He was only slightly above Ron when it came to dealing with people. How the hell was he supposed to act after newspapers and magazines had plastered his face all over their front covers? Sure, the information on him was incorrect, but how was he supposed to combat gossip? Because he was thoroughly convinced that the attention he was receiving had very little to do with how the DMLE had just successfully completed their first joint forces operations with America and a lot to do with his wife moving out of their house.
The vivid memory of his wife, still attired in her green Harpies uniform, making her way out of the home they had shared settled like a stone inside his stomach. Something must've shown in his face after the flash, because a second later the alleyway pulsed with renewed excitement over his presence. Merlin, he was just twenty-five. He was twenty-five and it felt as if the world had stopped doing whatever it usually did to occupy itself and bared its sharpened teeth in his direction. He was no stranger to salacious rumors or speculation, but their rekindled interest in him chaffed like leather against a bleeding blister.
A strange wave of vulnerability washed over him. It was as if a mask had been ripped from his face and all the emotions he'd been bottling up inside him had been revealed to the people around him. Startled, he lengthened his stride and quickened his pace. The Leaky Cauldron was only a dozen feet away, but it roughly felt like the distance between London and Sydney. Sweat made the hair beneath his hat stick to his cool skin. His stomach threatened to empty itself, but he swallowed down the thick lump at his throat. Unwilling to show any outward signs of despair despite his current state, Harry lifted the coffee mug to his dry lips with surprisingly steady fingers and took a fortifying sip. Suffering from an anxiety attack while out in the open was not a good look for a man in his position.
It was over, and he could do nothing about it.
He had desperately tried to make the relationship work. They had sat down and discussed different possibilities for over two years, hoping that a minor change here and a minor change there would fortify the ailing union. He hadn't realized, of course. It was only after his wife had confessed her unhappiness that he'd noticed how unsatisfied she'd been with the marriage. He had managed to convince her to give them another shot, that what they still felt could salvage the wreckage left behind by different needs and clashing schedules. And he'd done his best to be better for her. To try harder. It hadn't worked, though. Now word had finally spread through the grapevine.
Harry Potter was no longer a married man.
A/N: I have no idea what I'm doing, but that's half the fun, right?