This is a work of fan fiction (sadly fiction, although I would live there if I could) using (awesome) characters from the Harry Potter world, which is trademarked by J. K. Rowling. All characters in this work were created and are owned by J.K. Rowling, and I wish I could claim ownership over them or the world of Harry Potter, but I can't, so I won't.
CHAPTER ONE
The Man who failed at Living
Mr and Mrs Potter, of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, were proud to say that they were perfectly happy, thank you very much. Well, at least Mrs Potter was. Mr Potter on the other hand was more likely to claim contentedness. Or at the very least, Mr Potter could be heard on occasion proclaiming that "this was as good as it gets". Mrs Potter often didn't know whether to take that as a compliment or not, but frequently chose the former as the latter would require far too much stress and upheaval for her liking.
Mr Potter was an Auror working for the Ministry of Magic, which mostly involved tracking down petty criminals and somewhat shady characters since the 'Big Bads' had either fallen or fled in the aftermath of the Second Wizarding War. He was averagely sized, well-toned man with just the right amount of neck, and he had never been able to grow much in the way of moustaches. Mrs Potter was also averagely sized, though her lithe Quidditch honed body had rounded somewhat in the years since retiring from the sport professionally. Her once vivid red hair had dimmed somewhat and was strewn with liberal amounts of grey – a fact she wholeheartedly blamed on her husband. The Potters had no children and it was most assuredly not because of a lack of trying; Mrs Potter assured their friends of this on a regular basis.
Mrs Potter had everything she wanted. Mr Potter had a secret. His greatest fear was that somebody – especially Mrs Potter – would discover it. He didn't think he would bear it if anyone (she) found out about his unhappiness. At least not until he had discovered the source of it for himself; what could be done about it anyway until he knew precisely what the problem was? In fact, Mr Potter pretended he was perfectly happy, because unhappiness was as unWeasleyish as it was possible to be. Not while everything was seemingly idyllic in their lives – "what could be the matter with him?" they would say, astonished at his lack of gratitude for his situation.
When Mr and Mrs Potter woke up on the dull, grey Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that stressful and upheaval-inducing things would soon be happening within their very own home. Mr Potter sighed as he picked out his most exciting pair of socks for work (the only item available for customisation) and Mrs Potter gossiped away happily as she planned for her day training the newest Holyhead Harpies recruits.
Neither of them noticed a head peek briefly out of the fireplace before retreating swiftly from whence it came.
At half past eight, Mr Potter picked up his wand, pecked Mrs Potter on the cheek and steeled himself for another day of mind-numbing paperwork followed by a brief chase around some hamlet in Northern England chasing some semi-acquaintance of Mundungus Fletcher, before heading to the Floo. He stepped into the grate and took a last look at the scene before him. Grimly, he shouted "Ministry of Magic!" before disappearing in swirl of green flames.
It was in the Atrium of the Ministry that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar – an unusual amount of dread churning through his insides at the thought of continuing on his journey to the office he shared with Ron Weasley. It wasn't the thought of Ron that was the problem, he thought idly was he rode the lift down to Level Two (Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services). No, it was the job he realised abruptly. At Hogwarts, the dream being an Auror had seemed the pinnacle of excitement and daring, the obvious next step in his life-long fight against evil and the Dark Arts. Upon experiencing the reality however, Mr Potter was forced to accept that his prior involvement in said fight with evil was far more interesting and adventure filled than any job the Ministry could provide for him – even that period in the tent he had tried unsuccessfully to push out of his brain altogether.
This wasn't the only source of his dissatisfaction with the job though; he knew that really, when it came down to it, he just wasn't all that interested in fighting evil anymore. Mr Potter sincerely felt that his contribution to that aspect of the world was paid in full – overpaid if anything. It was something he had realised shortly after completing his training, but he had felt that the thrill of the chase and the satisfaction in seeing a hard job well done would be enough to ensure his interest for many years to come. That, sadly, was proving to not be the case.
The cool voice announced his arrival at Level Two and upon stepping out, Mr Potter was surprised to find he had half decided to actually do something about his situation, when his attention was abruptly and rather rudely diverted by a group of Unspeakables whispering ominously (although Mr Potter wasn't entirely sure that Unspeakables could communicate in a way that wasn't ominous, so it wasn't absolute proof that their topic was of a dire nature) and heading straight towards him, jostling him as they passed by and into the lift.
"Potter, that's right, that's who they've chosen_"
"_yes, his wife, Ginevra_"
Mr Potter stopped dead. Anger flooded him. He glared back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.
He walked steadily onto his office, and sat rather crossly down in his chair. The Unspeakables had undoubtedly seen him leaving the lift and had sought to rile him up for whatever reason. Probably they had a bet on in the ongoing pool on when Mr Potter was likely to snap and destroy his office again – his temper was notoriously short these days – and were attempting to induce such an event to garner a win. Mr Potter satisfied himself, for the most part, with this explanation and settled down for a morning of filling in form after form, concerning the latest arrests of criminals whose crimes included the rather serious charge of Floo tampering to the somewhat less impressive Knut counterfeiting.
The incident played on his mind however, and he found it a lot harder to concentrate on Knuts that afternoon. When he left his office at five o'clock, he was still so distracted that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.
"Sorry," he gasped, feeling somewhat chagrined – and winded – at having someone lurking directly in front his office door. It was a few seconds before Mr Potter realised that the man was wearing an Unspeakables uniform. He didn't seem apologetic about his inconvenient lurking, or about the fact that Mr Potter was still clutching his stomach, OR about the fact that he had provided the very sharp elbow that had wedged itself underneath Mr Potter's ribcage. On the contrary, he face curled inwards into a rather sinister smile and he said in a silky voice that made Mr Potter's insides do a little wiggle in reminiscence of his old Potions professor,
"Don't be sorry for the inevitable, Mr Potter, be sorry for that which is seemingly immutable but may have once been entirely different. Even one as… narrow as you should rejoice this day, as the means to alter those unassailable facts has been discovered. It just so happens that it is this very subject that has brought me to your door."
Mr Potter stared at him for a long moment, his mind working furiously through it all before shrugging both mentally and physically, and walking off.
"Perhaps it is not yet the moment Mr Potter. I will remain vigilant in anticipation of the shift – it cannot be too far in our future after all."
Mr Potter continued on his way, without looking back. He had been verbally accosted by an Unspeakable. He also thought he had been offered an opportunity to change things about his life. Given the tone of his thoughts only that very morning, he was rattled. Hurrying to the Floos in the Atrium, hoping for something but not sure quite what, he failed to notice the same group who had jostled him at the lift, following his every moment with great interest from the shadows.
As he arrived in the kitchen at Grimmauld place, the first thing he saw – and it didn't improve his mood – was Ginny's training gear spread across the entire length of the table. Given that the table seated fifteen on a good day, this was no mean feat.
"Ginny!" shouted Mr Potter loudly.
He didn't hear his wife making a move and as he eyed the remnants of her day laid before him, he decided it wasn't going to move without some effort on his part. Pulling himself together, shuffled around the protruding broomsticks and waved his wand negligently, causing the whole lot to pile up at the very end of the table where it remained, teetering precariously.
Sighing deeply, Mr Potter moved to the kettle and filled it, gazing out at the small yard and musing over the unusual occurrences that had befallen him that day. It wasn't that nefarious plots were unfamiliar to him, it was just that one hadn't arisen in over fifteen years. More quickly than he would ever admit to his wife, he decided that he would keep the events to himself for the time being. It wasn't as if any of it made sense, or was even likely to be important. No, it was all better left alone and forgotten.
The piercing whistle of the kettle snapped him abruptly out of his reverie and at that very moment, Mrs Potter entered the kitchen and tutted loudly at the pile of equipment still creaking in its place and agreed that a brew would be just the thing. Why this should irritate Mr Potter was unclear, but irritate him it did. Mrs Potter had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about their Seeker's problems with performing the Wronski Feint and how the team manager had hinted that she might receive a pay rise if the rest of the season went as well as it had been going. When the last of the food had been packaged away for lunches and the dishes had been done, he went in to the living room and turned on the Wizarding Wireless Network.
It was the usual mindless drivel interspersed with Celestina Warbeck he had come to expect from his evening forays into wizarding entertainment, but it was comforting nonetheless. Perhaps the simple routine of sitting and listening was what was comforting, rather than the questionable content of the audio he mused, rolling his glass of Firewhisky and stretching his neck.
Mrs Potter entered then with a contented hum and placed her feet directly in front of Mr Potter's face, thereby blocking his glass's path from hand to mouth. Wiggling her toes, she indicated what her current needs were and groaning internally, he took the rather pungent pair in his hands and proceeded to knead out the tension gathered from a hard day's flying. What he wouldn't have given to have been in her place, he thought has he ran his thumbs firmly along the arch of each foot in turn. Endless sky and wind whipping through his hair – utter freedom while he was anchored to his desk, without even a real window. He couldn't blame her for his own choices of course, but he couldn't help but feel jealous of her vocation while at the same time regretting his own.
Rubbing more firmly and making a conscious effort to concentrate on the task at hand, Mr Potter wondered when he had begun to resent his wife. Both the act of rubbing her admittedly deserving feet and her very company was causing him more and more discomfort as the years went by. He thought hard, but couldn't recall a recent occasion when he had simply enjoyed being. Both with his wife and on his own, he spent more time than not wallowing in regrets and cooking up half-baked plans to change every single thing about his life.
A low purr of pleasure issued from his wife's lips as he increased the pressure and looking into her eyes, he saw a familiar expression of beckoning to the bedroom.
Right then, at that very moment, he decided. Something would have to change.
