Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not my mine; if it were this would be a novel I'd be making millions from.

A/N: The title of this story comes from a song by the Norwegian band Immortal.

One

Harry Potter did not like his job. The hours were good and the benefits top notch, but he derived no satisfaction from hunting down petty thieves and filling out mountains of paperwork. Here was the hero of Wizarding Britain, filling out reports and forms like any good bureaucrat. The stacks of paper covered his desk like snow covered mountains, glaciers that never shrunk, only grew. There was no evidence of this "global warming" Hermione was always talking about in his office.

"Hey, Harry, how about some lunch?"

An hour alone with his ever present redheaded companion was something to look forward to everyday. They'd talk about the same things whilst eating the same food. It had been this way for seven years now. Seven years he had spent in this small office with Ron Weasley.

"Sure, I'd love to," said Harry, forcing some enthusiasm into his voice. "But how about we try something different? Maybe head into Diagon Alley and see if anything catches our fancy?"

"But, Harry," he replied, a look of shock plastered onto his face. "Pizza? Besides, it's not like there's anything but those rundown pureblood restaurants, anyway. Who'd want to go there?"

I would, Harry wanted to say. Take your pizza, take your Muggle London. With so many Muggle-born finding a way to integrate their worlds with the magical, large swaths of the London formerly known as Muggle had become de facto centers of magical populations. Too much so. He'd never forget the fear the sudden disappearance of Piccadilly Circus caused among the Muggles. Not to mention its just as sudden reappearance, as if it had never left, except for the fact that now every building was a vibrant shade of pink.

They left the office after Harry grudgingly nodded his assent. They walked through the corridors of the Ministry of Magic, all scrubbed white walls and prefabricated constructs. Another nod to the Muggles he supposed; even with magic it was cheaper to mass produce furniture. He had a strong suspicion their furniture came from Asia as well.

The pizza place they frequented was only a block away, so they took their time getting there, enjoying the sounds and smells of London so different from their small, harshly lit office in the bowels of the Ministry. They entered the pizza place, nodding at the woman behind the counter who immediately set to work on the pizza they ordered three times a week for the past three years. Greeting a number of other people they routinely saw, they made their way over to a dimly lit corner booth that practically had their name on it. Settled in, the silence stretched between the pair, a heavy and oppressive weight laying on them, waiting to be moved.

"So, Harry," Ron said, as they took their seats, "what's been with you?"

Harry rubbed at a new mar in the finish he had not noticed the day before. Even this booth, this inanimate object had new and exciting things happen to it. "Nothing, Ron. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know, you just seem more…" Words were never Ron's strong suit, Harry noted as he watched him struggle for the right phrase. "Quiet." He finished lamely.

"Nothing to say."

"What do you mean, there's nothing to say? We've always plenty to talk about. Like for instance, the Cannons match last night…"

Harry raised a hand. "Enough, Ron. That's not what I meant."

"What do you mean then?"

"I don't know, Ron." Harry replied, continuing to fixate on the imperfection in the otherwise smooth and clean faux wood surface.

Ron looked at the spot on the table, "Does that thing have you hypnotized? Maybe somebody cursed it? They know this is where we sit and they want to snare us in some sort of trap!"

Harry snorted in response. What'd he give to chase a dark wizard again. But they didn't exist in England anymore. Not since the fall of Voldemort and the quelling of the subsequent Pureblood Uprising. But that had been twenty years ago.

"Look, pizza!" This daily occurrence never failed to excite Ron. Harry wished he could be excited by this too.

Ron tore into his food with gusto, while Harry ate a more sedate pace, too accustomed to the taste of the same crust, cheese, and toppings—pepperoni for Harry, Ron seemed to have some sort of schedule which he picked his toppings by, a schedule that Harry had not been able to figure out—to take any sort of pleasure in his food.

"So," Ron asked as he grabbed his fourth slice of pizza, Harry having barely finished his first, "do you think they'll have anything for us to do when we get back? Maybe some kind of developing situation that requires our assistance?"

Harry looked down at the mark on the table again, before absentmindedly reaching for another piece of pizza. "I doubt it, Ron. But maybe if we're lucky they'll have us go to some school and give a talk about the old days."

Ron finished his slice, the last of his half, and looked out the window, a thousand miles away. "I hope so. That'd be nice."

They sat quietly for a few minutes, lost in their respective thoughts. Another four or five hours, depending on who wanted to talk to them and how much work had to be done, awaited them, and both of them had other places they'd much rather be. Hermione would have dinner made, Ron hoped.

Harry wiped his hands and mouth on a crumpled napkin. "Come on, we should get back."

The walk back to the Ministry was a quiet one, neither looking at the other, their attention ostensibly on the traffic, but Harry couldn't help but dread, with every fiber of his being, walking through those doors and back to their office deep below the ground.

They passed through the shiny sliding doors—the telephone booth had been replaced twenty years ago in order to better accommodate the small number of Muggles who frequented the Ministry—and made their way down to the third floor, Auror Offices, seemingly nodding, shaking hands, and saying hello all the way down. Employees young and old, new and nearing retirement, knew Harry and Ron. The Minister made sure of that.

They passed through the doors to the Auror Department, making their way over to their door off to one side of the otherwise bright and harshly lit room, away from the noise of new Aurors attempting to impress their superiors with whatever it was they did these days. Harry hadn't been allowed near them since he had brought up the possibility of training some of the best in more advanced combat techniques. He had been assured the training they received was more than adequate, and despite his protestations, was quietly shunted aside for someone more obsequious to take the reins of the department. Ron had turned down the offer to stay with Harry, leading to Colin Creevey's appointment. His adeptness with a camera did not seem to translate over to his wandwork.

The door to their office was open and a voice from inside greeted them, beckoning them inside. They took the proffered seats and faced their visitor: Minister of Magic, Gregory McDougle, who was perched on the edge of Harry's desk. He put down a picture of Harry and his family upon their entrance.

"Hello, boys!" He greeted them, cheerfully. "How are you two on this fine day?"

The grumbled response that could have either indicated a reasonably fine day or an upset stomach. The Minister seemed to accept it as the former.

The Minister picked up a folder from the desk. "I know how you two love small talk," he afforded himself a small smile at his joke, "but I'm afraid I'll have to make this quick. I have an assignment for you two." He handed the folder to Harry, and crossed his hands over his lap, waiting.

Harry's eyes grew wider as soon as he opened the folder. It contained only two sheets of parchment: one gave a brief summary of the situation, the other an objective. He scanned the contents, and finding them hard to believe, passed them wordlessly to Ron, sitting back in his chair in disbelief. Ron seemed to quiver in excitement next to him.

The Minister waited a few moments before proceeding. "So, what do you think?"

Ron didn't even look up from the folder before answering. "We'll take it!" He hesitated, clearing his throat, assuming a more collected disposition. "I mean, it sounds interesting. Right, Harry?"

"Interesting is a good way to put it." He looked away from Ron and back at McDougle. "This is real, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so."

Harry fell silent. Mulling it over. There hadn't been a new "threat to the hard won peace and stability", as the Ministry denoted it, in almost a decade. Why now? And why them?

"Why us, Minister?" asked Ron.

McDougle paused, choosing his words carefully. "There is no one else I, and the entire Wizarding population of Britain and Associated Territories, can trust more than the two of you in this task. Are you up to it?"

"Of course…"

"Just a minute, Ron," said Harry, raising a hand to still him. "A few questions first."

"Of course."

"First, is this," he said, pointing at the first sheet of parchment, "all we know? That someone is trying to organize Purebloods into a cohesive group?"

"Yes. Unfortunately, we lack any trustworthy sources that are placed in these communities."

"I believe I mentioned something about this a number of years ago, Minister."

McDougle smoothed his pants and stood, adopting a more rigid posture than he had when the conversation first started. "Hindsight is 20/20, Auror Potter."

Harry nodded his assent. "Of course, sir. You've heard my policy suggestions many times already."

"I have indeed, Auror Potter. Now, are you two willing to take the case? I can see Auror Weasley is." Ron's nod seemed to spur him on. "You wouldn't want to hold the two of you back anymore, now would you?"

Harry gritted his teeth, glancing uneasily at Ron. "Of course not, sir. Now I have one more question…"

"No, Mr. Potter. The only question that matters anymore is if you will take the job, or if I need to speak with Creevey about this."

Harry looked at Ron, seeing in his face the knowledge that he could not deny his friend this opportunity. Regardless of how he felt, he knew he owed Ron the chance to get his career back on track.

"You've come to the right place, sir."

"Excellent!" He said, immediately readopting the friendly air he had at the beginning of the conversation. "Why don't you two take off for the day. I except you here early tomorrow so we can go over a quick briefing and get you two out in the field and protecting England." He shook their hands and walked to the door. "Good day, you two."

The door shut behind the Minister and Ron turned to face Harry, his excitement plain to see.

"It's about damn time they started giving us the important stuff to do again. What do you think, Harry? Are we on our way back up?"

Harry demurred. "I don't know, Ron. Doesn't it seem a little odd that after all this time, they're giving us something as big as hunting down a new dark threat? It's been what, two, three years since our last one?"

"Almost five, actually. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that Minister McDougle wants us to do our best to take out this person before he begins to pose a real threat to our lives and liberty. Isn't this what we've been waiting for?"

Harry took one look at Ron's face, more alive than it had been in years, and knew he had no choice but to go along for the ride. "Of course it is, Ron. Now what do you say we take the Minister up on his offer to skive off early? Term starts again in a few weeks, and you might not get too many more chances to see Bill and Susan if this turns into a long term thing."

"Yeah, I think I will. What about you?"

"I'm going to go pick up a few things from the store and then head home."

"Alright then. I'll see you tomorrow, mate." Ron disapparated. One perk to being a Ministry figurehead were the small freedoms afforded you. Ron and Harry had the only office in the entire building—as far as they knew—you could disapparated directly from.

The warm summer air of August met him as he appeared in Diagon Alley, facing his favorite post-work detour. The DragOn Inn was a small, wooden building nestled right on the corner of Diagon and Knockturn Alleys. Its worn exterior hid the plush confines wherein the remnants of Pureblood society found refuge. Harry was a regular here.

"What'll it be tonight, Harry?" asked Daphne Greengass, owner, operator, and usual bartender. Her family had escaped the first wave of the Ministry's Repossession and Redistribution, using what was left of their wealth to open the DragOn. Adapting a menu which featured mostly Muggle liquor and drinks, she operated in conjunction with the Ministry's efforts to introduce Muggle society into the Wizarding world. Not surprisingly, wizards enjoyed alcohol no matter what form it took.

"Just give me the usual, Daph. Maybe an extra splash of gin tonight."

"In addition to your usual 'extra splash?'"

Harry laughed at that. "But of course."

Harry was one of those who enjoyed alcohol no matter who made it. As long as it was in a glass in front of him, he was happy. He was not an alcoholic per se—but all alcoholics have a tendency to say that—a couple of drinks before he arrived home usually took the edge off. He could almost see the idyllic life he was supposed to have. They had married right after the war, just like they were supposed to. But everything went downhill five years ago. Isabella was the only bright spot in his life, but it felt like with each passing day their connection grew more and more tenuous.

"What's the matter, Harry? How can the hero of the Wizarding World look so down day-in and day-out?"

"Heh. I don't know, Daph. I wish I did, but I don't."

She gave him a sympathetic look. "Want another? This one's on the house."

"I can't refuse an offer like that."

Harry looked around the tavern as Daphne made his drink. Various chairs and booths were filled by members of the Old Families. He recognized Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini off in one dark corner, gaunt and clothed in thin robes that may or may not have been bought secondhand. He recognized a group of Black-relatives in a large table in the middle, empty and full tankards alike scattered along its length. In the last booth sat an all too familiar face. Draco Malfoy was with some women he didn't recognize and who was most definitely not his wife. He hadn't seen Draco and Luna in quite some time, but as far he knew they were still married. Probably didn't mean anything, but Harry's finely tuned Auror instincts picked up something odd about the fact that Draco Malfoy was locked in a passionate kiss with someone was not his wife.

"He's been coming here with her for the last week or two," said Daphne, answering his unasked question while sliding his martini across the bar. "I have no idea who she is, but she has a bit of an accent, so I'm assuming she's probably from the continent."

"Strange."

"Back off, Harry. I know Luna is your friend, but if you want my advice, don't go messing around in their personal life. I don't imagine you would want any trying to upset yours, would you?"

"You know me too well." She also knew the reasons he stops by after work virtually everyday since discovering it almost four years ago.

"I do, Harry. Which is why I'm telling you to drop it. Let come what may."

He sighed. "I suppose you're right."

"Of course I am." She looked at his empty glass. Noticing his gaze, she continued, "I'm not making you another one. Go home to your family, Harry."

He could picture himself running this place with Daphne. They had become close over the last couple of years, and though neither of them would admit it, there was a camaraderie there they shared with no other person. Making drinks with Daphne would probably be a lot more fun than making small talk with Ministry people.

"I'll be seeing you, Daph."

"Night, Harry," she answered, putting her hand on his arm. "And damn it, make sure you…"

He disappeared with a pop.

"…go outside before you apparate." She smiled, sadly. "Oh, Harry, what are we going to do with you?"

It was Ron Weasley's favorite time of the day: dinner. Not only because there was food in front of his face, but because his favorite people were there beside him. Except for Harry, of course. Harry and his family had stopped coming to dinner a few years ago, though. He was sure there was a good reason for this, but Harry never said why. He didn't say much these days.

"Hey, Dad, want to play a game of chess before dinner?" asked Bill, Ron's eldest. He had been named in honor of the uncle who had died before he was born, and despite being Ron's son, some strange coincidence seemed to have led to his son inheriting his namesake's good looks and easygoing manner. The chess was all Ron.

"Not if you want to eat you won't," came Hermione's voice from the kitchen. "Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes, once I get the gravy to thicken."

Ron grinned at his son. "Go set up the board in the living room, we'll play when we're done eating."

A little girl with bright, curly red hair sat down in the chair to Ron's right. She looked down at the table and didn't say a word. Ron just looked at her. This continued for almost a minute before she burst out, "Fine! I'll go wash my hands!"

"Good girl." He turned towards the kitchen. "Need any help in there, Hermione?"

"No, no, I'm fine." Plates, cutlery, and dishes piled high with food came floating out of the entry to the kitchen.

"Wow, Hermione, this looks great. Kids, get in here!"

Hermione sat down across from him as their two children raced into the room at top flight speed. It was only some quick wandwork from Hermione that saved the table, and all that was on it, from being toppled over. Ron smiled as he surveyed the proceedings. It was nights like this that made it all worth it. Even when work was monotonous and unfulfilling, when Harry was at his most bitter and reticent, coming home after a long day was like starting all over again. Ron was sure Harry felt the same way about his family.

The family ate with gusto, the children having inherited this ability from their father and Hermione having quickly learned if she didn't eat with a degree of celerity she wouldn't be eating much at all.

There was never much time for conversation during a Weasley meal, and outside of short exchanges concerning everybody's day, were almost silent except for the clicking of plates and utensils. Dinner was gone in short order, and dessert disappeared without a trace. Some people might think them uncouth or undisciplined, but Ron wouldn't have it any other way, he thought as he surveyed his family. A couple of flicks from Hermione's wand sent the dishes into the kitchen to be washed; the family moved into the living room.

Ron and William played chess. Hermione and Susan practiced basic wand movements and incantations. Ron smiled fondly at his daughter, who would be starting Hogwarts in a few weeks time. He turned back to the game in time to notice William's checkmate. It had only been a year ago that Ron still had to intentionally botch a few moves to make sure the games stayed close, but his son's mastery of the game had grown by leaps and bounds over the past year. Now, letting his attention wander, as it had this evening, meant almost certain defeat.

"Good game, son," said Ron, extending his hand for a solemn handshake, their postgame ritual. The grin shared at this juncture was part of the ritual as well.

As the hour was getting late, the family flipped on the TV to watch a replay of the Cannons' match from earlier. William rolled his eyes and went up to his room, his disdain for the Cannons' plain to see. The love for bad—underdog, that is—Quidditch teams was not something William had acquired. Susan fell asleep during the closing minutes of the match and Hermione took her upstairs while Ron watched the postgame and heard the assurances for the umpteenth time that the Cannons were progressing and were so very close to being a winning squad again. Nodding his head along with these promises, he knew one of these seasons his patience and dedication would pay off.

"So, are you going to tell me what happened at work today?" asked Hermione, sitting down next to him.

He turned off the TV. "Harry and I received a new assignment."

Hermione dropped the glass of water she was holding, not even noticing as it fell. "But it's been what, two years? It seemed the Ministry was done with you two."

"Over four years, actually. Not since Harry's, you know…" Neither of them had to be reminded of the outburst which had jeopardized not only their advancement, but their careers themselves. But that didn't matter anymore.

Ron cleared his throat. "Anyway, none of that is important. What's important is the here and now and the here and now is to protect the Wizarding World from a new Dark Lord."

Hermione's mouth was agape.

Ron put his hand on Hermione's leg, "I know it seems bad, but more likely than not it's just some psychopath with only a manifesto and no ability or support."

"Then why do you and Harry need to be involved in this?"

He grinned. "Because when the Wizarding World is in need of protection from dark wizards, who else are you supposed to turn to?"

Hermione still didn't look pleased. "Are you sure Harry isn't going to screw this up?"

Ron was shocked. Harry was their oldest and dearest friend. "Hermione…"

She took a deep breath. "That's not what I mean. It's just that ever since James died, it seems he hasn't been right. I was talking to Ginny the other day and she said he's spending more and more time away from home."

"There's nothing wrong with Harry. He's just been getting a little restless lately, as have I. With a new challenge, he'll be right as rain in no time."

"I hope so, Ron. Sometimes, I wonder about Harry and sometimes is more frequent as the days go by."

"I'm sure of it."

Hermione stood, her foot sitting in the pool of spilled water going unnoticed, "I hope you're right, Ron. For your sake and Harry's."

Ron stayed up late into the night. He was unsure of most, if not all, of the things that went on in his life, but he was sure of one simple fact, something that had been true since he was eleven years old and riding the Hogwarts' Express for the first time: Harry would always come through for him.

Harry appeared on his front stoop, stumbling slightly upon landing. The alcohol always caught up with him during apparition. He entered the house quietly, hoping that his wife and daughter were already in bed. The fact that all of the lights were on and it was only seven-thirty did nothing to deter him from this hope. It's not that he didn't want to see them; he just wanted to be left alone.

"Dad's home!" This was not to be.

He stepped into the living room, bending down to wrap his arms around the small girl who had rushed from the couch to meet him. Isabella Potter resembled her father, with her glossy black hair and green eyes, in much the way her brother had resembled their mother.

"Hey, Izzy, how are you?"

"Great! Me and mom went to the store today to get Hogwarts stuff. Want to see my new wand? Or how about my cauldron? It's black and shiny and awesome."

Harry laughed. "Why don't you bring your new wand down? I'd like to see that." He watched her run up the stairs before turning to his wife. "Why'd you go to Finch-Fletchley's? Diagon is the one that needs the business, not that department store."

Ginny sighed. "Things at Finch-Fletchley's are cheaper and all in one place. After Ollivander's closed, there was really no reason not to get one of those German wands. They're better than any of the wandmakers left in Britain and cheaper as well. If you want to buy things in Diagon, then you can take her next time."

Harry took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Whatever, it's not important."

Harry leaned against the doorframe, looking anywhere but at Ginny. Ginny sat on the couch, looking nowhere but at Harry. A silence stretched between the two of them, a silence that it had its roots so many years in the past.

"Here it is!" said Isabella, handing the wand to her father as she reentered the room. "Isn't it great?"

He took the wand from her daughter's hands, giving it a small flick. Bright, luminescent butterflies filled the room, bobbing slowly up and down in the air around their heads. Each one gave off a warm glow of red, blue, or yellow in the dimly lit living room. Isabella stood in awe, her face bathed in the soft light, entranced by her father's creations. Ginny sat on the sofa, watching the two of them with a small smile on her face.

"Can you show me how to do that?"

Harry laughed. "Maybe in a few years." He handed the wand back to his daughter. "Why don't you take this back up to your room and put it away? You wouldn't want to lose it."

Isabella rolled her eyes. "Like I'd ever lose my wand."

"Have I ever told you about the time Mum lost hers?"

Ginny rose and put a stop to the prospective story despite Isabella's protestations. With a glare in Harry's direction, she and Isabella left the room and headed up the stairs. Harry crossed the room, his shoeless feet relishing in the feeling of the plush carpeting, and settled down into the overstuffed sofa Ginny's parents had given them on their wedding day. After a few charms to change the color—they got away with that one by saying their son had spilled a piece of chocolate cake on it even though no such thing occurred—and keep the absurd levels of padding soft into perpetuity, it had served them well over the years.

Recalling a sandwich he had left in the fridge the other day, he summoned it into the living room and settled deeper into the sofa, savoring the slightly soggy bread and wilted lettuce that comes along with a sandwich that has seen its prime come and go. The sandwich was a lot like his marriage, Harry thought, as he continued to methodically consume it. Ginny had long gone slightly soggy and wilted. Ginny chose that moment to return from seeing Isabella off to bed, forcing Harry to hide the smile threatening to appear on his face.

"So…" Ginny struggled to articulate something meaningful. "How was your day at work?" she finished, lamely.

"You know, same old, same old." Harry took another bite of his sandwich. "Ron and I received a new assignment today."

Ginny sat there, staring at him, mouth agape. Harry casually finished his meal—leaving the crust, he never ate the crust, choosing instead to banish them back to whichever hell from whence they came—and turned back to his wife. "Pretty cool, eh?"

She quickly recovered after that. "Pretty cool? That's all you have to say, after nearly five years behind a desk? Pretty cool? This is great news! Do you know what you and Ron are doing yet?"

Harry shook his head. "Not yet. We're getting briefed tomorrow. I'm not sure when we leave yet."

"Leave? You mean it's not going to be a local thing?"

"I'm not sure yet, but McDougle made it sound like we'd have to do some traveling for this one."

"The Minster approached you this?" Ginny seemed amazed. "But why would he give this to you two? It seems pretty important, doesn't it?"

"Are you suggesting Ron and I aren't up to the task? It's not like we didn't defeat the greatest threat to the Wizarding World in the past 400 years or anything."

"No, of course not. But you'd think Gregory would want to give it to Aurors who haven't been out of the field for so long."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Gregory?"

Ginny looked defiant. "What exactly are you getting at here?"

"Nothing, nothing."

It had been twelve years ago when they had first met. McDougle was still a young Auror mentee, Harry's pride and joy; sure he would have him ready to take over the Department once Harry was promoted. Of course, much as many of the events in Harry's life had failed to go according to plan, this one had as well. Gregory McDougle, the most promising Auror Harry had seen in the eight years he had worked there, had been hand-picked by George Bertram, the first Muggle-born Head of the Wizengamot and after the assassination of Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, to run for Minister himself. He had won. He had met Ginny at his inaugural ball and from that day forth Harry had been unable to shake the niggling feeling there was something more between the two of them.

"You will be around to see Isabella off to Hogwarts at least, won't you?"

"I don't know…"

"Harry, it's been five years. You can't stay away from 9 ¾ forever."

Harry, instead of responding to Ginny, extricated himself from the trappings of their sofa and walked over to the stairs. He paused, hand on the railing, foot on the bottom step. "Watch me."

Ginny's voice trailed after him. "Is this how you honor James' memory? By hiding? It's been five years, Harry. You don't do yourself any favors allowing yourself to be haunted by the ghost of your dead son." She came to stand at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him. "Isabella wants you there, Harry. And I do too."

"I'm going to bed."

He walked down the hall, slipping quietly into the bedroom across from his own. He closed the door, muffling Ginny's voice and putting an end to any further discussion. He crossed over to the nightstand, taking a picture of their family into his arms, the only picture in the past five years to contain their family, whole and complete. He replaced it on the nightstand, laid down on the bed, and through tear glazed eyes, gazed at that photo until he surrendered to the blissful quiet of sleep late into the night.