WORK
Think before you act.
The very first thing Harry's professor said in auror training, before even introductions or directions. The professor even had the nerve to throw a glare in Harry's direction as if the first time he was in combat, Harry would decide it a good idea to resurrect Voldemort or something else ridiculous.
Fortunately, in the three long years since he'd been a reckless, impulsive teenager, Harry had grown up. Or so he'd like to think- at least he no longer got himself into bar fights with random muggles, fighting the urge to pull his wand from his pocket as he got the shit beaten out of him while other men egged his opponent on. That was in what Hermione had dubbed the "Healing Stage", which Harry dismissed as utter bull.
He hadn't been doing "healing" about his "great loss" in the six months after. He'd been drinking cheap fire-whisky and sleeping with whatever girl was desperate to get a slice of fame that day. The nights blended into each other but had no sense of routine, frenzied and strange. Then he'd basically been smacked upside the head by his friends and forced to get his life back on track, courtesy of a 5 year auror training program.
If thinking before you acted was such a great thing, then why did Wembledon constantly train them on drills of instinct? Harry mused, just in time to throw up his hands to cover his face, as there was currently a large metal ball flying at it.
"Potter!" Darius Wembledon's peeved face appeared from around the corner of the training room, flushed with anger. "I told you, pay attention! It's all about instincts here!"
"I thought it was about thinking before you acted," Harry said cooly, flicking the metal ball away from his face, where it was currently hovering uncertainly. "Sir." He added hastily.
Wembledon sneered at him. "Potter, it's not always the same. In combat, you need to have killer impulses, so that you do not get killed. Do you understand me, Potter?"
Harry placed the ball on the floor, seething inside his head. "Yes. Sir." He said, a rude emphasis on the sir.
"Good," Darius motioned to the ten metal balls on the floor. "Half an hour more in here, grab a shower, and come down for community assignments." With that, Wembledon swished out of the room, leaving only the lingering scent of ink and sweat, robes flowing.
Heaving a sigh, Harry pointed his wand at the balls and stood at the ready.
By the time forty-five minutes have gone by, Harry is sitting in a comfortable chair next to Ron, who looks about as exhausted as him. He gives him a brief nod, and as is typical with their friendship, several words pass between them, ending with- "Dear god, I hope I don't draw geriatrics".
Community assignments are a typical auror process, involving a lot of bullshit and little organization. The ministry had begun forcing the training aurors into the community to help with garbage cleaning and such, as if it would stop Death Eaters all together. Harry and Ron privately made fun of the process, but Kingsley was quite involved in it, and obviously, Wembledon fucking loved it, as long as it kept his team miserable and "built character".
Harry sighed, leaning over to whisper in Ron's ear: "A galleon says I draw the pet place again." All three years of his auror training, Harry had been forced to work in an ugly animal shelter. He spent four hours a day there, and ultimately came out of the experience no richer, simply wondering why his deceased godfather was paying tens of thousands per year for this bullshit.
Ron shook his head slightly. "They withdrew that one. Too many people got greenworms after. Remember that bloke from accounting? Nasty, nasty case of it. His whole face-" Ron motioned slightly to his crotch. "His prick- all green."
Harry winced at the mere thought. Wembledon's droning reached a peak, and Harry twisted around in his seat to see him holding a pointed wizards hat in one hand.
"We're going by the alphabet," He said in a monotone.
Ron snorted quietly. "When had that man ever done anything not by the alphabet? I bet he fucks organizes his fridge. Apricots, bananas, cucumbers, ding-dongs..."
"Ding dongs don't go in the fridge, Ron. Neither do apricots. For that matter, I think bananas and cucumbers can also be-"
"Shut up."
"Okay."
Harry watched affectionately, seeing his friends step up one by one, from Eric Abrahams, a tall man with purple hair to Abigail Parker, a shy girl from Virginia with freckles on her neck. When his name was shouted by the frazzled Wembledon, he rose slowly, stepping to across the board room to the man impatiently tapping his foot.
"Faster, Potter!" Wembledon hissed, thrusting the hat out at him. Harry casually fishes around in the hat, eventually plucking the coldest, farthest down folded piece and waltzing back to his seat.
"What do you have, Potter?" Wembledon calls from across the wooden floor.
Harry unfolds the piece of paper nervously, fingers shaking.
Margot's Foster Home, 185 Eragern Way- 4 weeks, begin Monday
Harry sighs. He's got the crap card, the job carrying around a load of stinking kids until his sentence is over. He glumly holds up the sheet.
Ron nearly shits himself giggling.
Harry has found love in the routine of his Friday nights, shared with Ron and Hermione. It's so simplistic and beautiful, schemed up by Hermione herself- three movies. One shitty one to laugh at, one classic to reminisce at, and one new one to ooo and aaah at. Tonight, Hermione had brought Twilight (Ron groaned), Mulan, and 500 Days of Summer. Settling in for the night, Harry caught Hermione looking at Ron sideways, through her curtain of hair.
He knew that typical Hermione flirt so well- the tucking her hair behind her ear, in her little white sundress, smiling shyly in the dark and slowly easing her hand to touch Ron's. For a split second Harry wished it could be that easy- a few flirty touches with a childhood friend and boom, there you are. Soulmates.
Ron returns the glance, the gesture, intertwining pinkies with her easily and fluidly, so un-Ron-like that Harry wants to burst out laughing. But somehow, he doesn't. Somehow, he loads the first movie, 500 Days of Summer, and settles on the couch, a few feet away from them.
But it feels like miles without someone's head on his shoulder and someone's hand on his waist and someone's kisses on his neck.
The weekend passes, simple and sweet- spent mostly at the Burrow and at the shared apartment of Ron and Hermione, excusing a few lonely moments at home where he casts a longing glance to where Ginny used to lie. Sun in her red hair and that perfect crooked smile playing across her face.
There had been no question, he had loved her very much. But then they drifted apart, as people so often do. Harry still had a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach that it hadn't been the only reason. So when she told him awkwardly one morning over coffee and bagels that she loved Neville- he let her go graciously, with best wishes. The two were still friends, good friends, and Ron had assured him that Ginny still loved him in his typical Ron-like way.
But honestly, it's all okay, because Harry has a re-run of Friends and a bucket of ice cream and it's Sunday night and he gets to start a new part of his job tomorrow and he's actually excited for a new chance- a new opportunity.
Monday morning and Harry is outside of an old brick building, peering at the address on the paper and squinting at the one on the building. Once he deems them a match (185 Eragern Way) Harry sighs, runs his fingers through his air, sticking it up even more, and rings the bell with her pointer finger.
Almost instantly after he rings the bell, a grinning woman pulls open the door, balancing a toddler on one hip and cradling a baby in the other arm. She's pretty, with olive eyes and mouse hair that curls gently around her neck and shoulders, and looks to be in her early thirties.
"Ah," She says, eagerly shaking his hand, slightly displacing the baby, who whimpers slightly. "You must be Harry. Don't bother with last names here, I'm Heather. Come in, yes?"
With that, she pushes the door open with one hip and walks inside to a blue entry hall. Harry reluctantly follows, accidently trodding on several toy cars and dolls. Wincing, he follows Heather into a large living space, colored cream but with marked walls and crowed with children of all different colors and sizes.
"I'll just introduce you to our kids," Heather says, placing down the toddler and burping the baby over her shoulder. She points to each child in turn as she introduces them. "Jennie," The baby, maybe 3 months at most, gurgles at the attention. "Parker is the little one there, Sophie is the blond girl over there," Sophie looks to be about ten and is immersed in a video game with a black boy who looks the same age. "The boy she's playing with is Topher, we have a newborn named Jack sleeping upstairs, and two teenagers, Theo, and Matilda." Theo is pale with dark hair and pauses in his reading to smile at Harry, while Matilda is black haired, beautiful in a clean sort of way and barely looks up from her analysis of her knobby knees.
Harry, sensing that the kids are sizing him up, tentatively shifts from one foot to the next. Suddenly Heather turns her head to him and chirps: "So, tea? Take Jennie, Mattie." She passes the baby off to Matilda and motions for Harry to follow her into the kitchen.
She sits after putting the kettle on, and awkwardly he falls into a chair. Heather's face turns harsh suddenly, and the lines around her eyes become more prominent.
"Harry- please don't fuck around with these kids."
Surprised at her sudden change in tone and cursing, he leans back, further from her face.
"I'm sorry to be harsh, but these kids..." Heather sighs. "I know they look strong, and in some ways they are. But those little hearts have been stomped on. These seven kids have nobody but each other to cling to. And me. And possibly you."
Harry shifts in his chair, flushing. This is a lot of responsibility for a mere community project, the required sentence before he is allowed to get out of school and go into the world. "Okay. But just to be clear, can you go over my duties...?"
Heather's face clears up, as if realizing that he won't screw her over. "Sure, hon. We just kind of applied for someone to cheer up the kids. Hang out with, someone closer to their age. Give them someone to trust, y'know?" Harry nodded. He understood what growing up alone was like.
Heather gave him a confidential tone. "Some of the kids can be hard to crack. Sophie and Topher are basically inseparable and it's difficult to be with them one on one, and Matilda kind of puts up a mask between herself and the world, relying on Theo to speak for her. The kids all have their own issues and problems, but I'm sure you can figure them out after spending some time with them. But just-" She looks at him now, slight pain in her olive colored eyes. Harry is reminded suddenly and sharply of Mrs. Weasley and it pains him into staring at the tile floor. "Theo. Careful about him." And as soon as the serious tone comes, it is gone and Heather swishes out of the room, calling back only to say: "You'll stay until after dinner of course?"
She's gone and Harry is left sitting in the kitchen, wondering how on earth he got into this situation and how on earth he's going to last a month in this crazy pseudo halfway house. He's still wondering when he realizes that he should probably actually leave the room and do his fucking job.
AUTHORS NOTE: Why yes, this does contain slash. Why yes, I did restart this fic. Why no, I'm not trying to ditch this. Why yes, this will be 100 chapters. Why yes, they will all be over 2000 words. Why yes, I might die writing this. Why yes, it is Harry/Draco slash. Happy reading, and once again- stick with it and review, pl0x.