AN: I don't really care for warnings. I think you are all intelligent enough to judge for yourselves. Nevertheless, just to be sure, I'll make an exception. You should be warned that this chapter contains a rape scene (though probably not in the way you will expect) and there will be torture in this story. Just so you know.

A bad day at work

Revenge is a dish best served cold – Old Pashtun saying

Harry Potter learned something essential about himself very soon after the war. It was something that led him to perform a series of actions resulting in the dubious life he currently had. A life he talked about with absolutely no one. Not even his closest friends.

What Harry learned, was that he was a man who cherished his grudges. He didn't easily forgive or forget, and maybe it was a good thing that no one expected him to. After all, he'd suffered hard during the war. When a particularly harsh comment about a Death Eater slipped from him, at least no one frowned. He was the Golden Boy after all. He was allowed his bitterness.

After the last bloody fight was fought during the Final Battle, after counting and burying the many victims and consoling the surviving relatives, Harry found there was very little left in him. Apart from grief. And hatred. It would not have made Dumbledore proud, but it wasn't any other way.

Harry had tried to understand, to justify, to absolve the crimes committed by Voldemort and his Death Eaters– and had failed miserably. His parents. Sirius. Hedwig. Dobby. Fred. Remus. Tonks. After the last battle the list of victims had grown and grown and Harry had felt as if he was suffocating every time a new name was added to the list. Harry was aware that after a while, his grief slowly morphed into a fury that wouldn't go away. The passing of time hadn't been able to soften the edges of his need for revenge. So Harry made do, in his own, very special way. In secret, he found a goal to direct his anger at. And no one was ever any the wiser.

HP

Harry knew the moment he opened his eyes that going for a drink with his colleagues the other night had probably been a bad idea. His brain felt like mushy scrambled eggs, no doubt looked like it too. He groaned miserably and forced one eye open to check the time. A quickly muttered tempus charm taught him that it was a quarter past eight. That surely didn't help his spirits rise. He would be late for work, he realized with a sinking feeling.

He rolled out of bed and whimpered at the pounding in his head and the ringing in his ears. He would need to deal with his hangover first, that much was clear. Where had Hermione put those hangover potions again? Insufferable woman kept rearranging his place. He really needed to get it through to her that he was perfectly able to clean the house on his own.

He just made it to the kitchen, but by then the battle in his stomach was decided and it was not in his favor. Harry ran as fast as he could and retched, as he lost last night's dinner in the sink. The smell and the sight of the vomit was enough to make him want to puke all over again and he groaned, trying to keep the dry heaves at bay. What a great start of the day, he thought, surely Ron would laugh his ass off if he could see me right now.

Well, if it were any excuse at all, there had been cause to celebrate. The Auror department at the Ministry where Harry worked, was on the edge of an important breakthrough in the case of Thorfinn Rowle. Thorfinn was one of the Death Eaters that had been on the run ever since the Final Battle, now three years ago, and all this time they hadn't been able to catch him. Turned out Rowle wasn't as stupid as he had seemed. He'd started this game of hide and seek with the Auror department, leaving triumphant notes, rubbing it in their faces that they would never find him. Dumb luck, Harry had always called it, and it finally seemed they were at a turning point. Rowle's luck was indeed running out: he was spotted a few days ago in a muggle neighborhood just outside of London. Minister Shacklebolt had received a tip from an informant – a Squib who was living in the area - that had directed them to the exact whereabouts of Rowle. He was currently hiding in the house of a muggle family of three: a mother, a father and their little daughter. Most likely they were being held hostage. Immediately a team of highly qualified Aurors was put together to raid the house. Harry had volunteered, but Shacklebolt didn't want to hear about it. Harry had already worked around the clock on this case; he needed his rest, was Kingsley's opinion. Harry had tried, unsuccessfully, to hide his disappointment. He'd put everything he had into this case. To be able to catch the bastard personally would have been the icing on the cake. His colleagues had been on the same page as Harry. They'd all been so worked up and high on adrenaline, they hadn't wanted to go home either. So Ron had suggested going to a pub to toast to a successful raid and to shake off the tension of the day.

Harry was regretting that decision quite a lot now, even when it had sounded like a good idea at the time. He rumbled through the kitchen closet and found the potion he was looking for. He sniffed it, scrunched up his nose at the foul smell and took a swig.

"Yuck," Harry groaned, as a shiver shook his frame. At least he knew that hangover potions tended to kick in almost immediately. By the time he had filled a glass with tap water, his headache had practically vanished, the soreness in his muscles was gone and he was feeling quite hungry. Nevertheless, since he didn't trust his stomach yet, and also because he was running late for work, he decided to cut down on breakfast and only have a simple glass of water. He would have time to eat later, at the office. Harry gulped down the water, and then went to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth as best he could, though he knew his breath would smell off the potion for at least a few more hours. Harry returned to the kitchen and, after a moment of consideration, stuffed a vial of Invigoration Draught in his pocket, in case he needed a boost for his energy levels that day. He swiftly continued with his daily routine: he rinsed his glass out in the sink, made his lunch box and went to fetch his cloak and wand in the hallway. When he passed the door that led to the cellar, he halted and quickly checked if the concealment charms were still in place, like he did every day. He smirked in satisfaction. They were. He was, in fact, a little proud at his spellwork. Even Hermione hadn't noticed there was something amiss with that particular door, even though she tended to be annoyingly observant at times. When he thought about what was behind the door, the smile slid off his face. Merlin forbid if anyone ever found out what he had hidden there. People might tolerate a lot from the Golden Boy, but even he knew there were limits.

Harry took a deep and steadying breath. For the second time that morning, he cast a tempus charm. It was a quarter to nine. Time to leave for work. He draped his cloak over his arm (he wouldn't be needing it anyway, since he would be working inside all day) and stepped over to the fireplace. With a clearly pronounced "Ministry for Magic, the Atrium" he threw some Floo Powder in the air and vanished in an outburst of green flames.

HP

A few seconds later Harry tumbled out of one of the grates. He looked down and muttered a swift curse. As usual his robes were a mess and he quickly proceeded with dusting off the ashes. How Floo Powder ever managed to become a common and accepted way to travel, he would never understand. Personally, he found it rather degrading to throw ashes on yourself. The witch or wizard that had invented it, must have had an extremely bad day. In any case, he or she should have been stopped directly after "Hey, I think I have a great idea to make traveling easier…". Stopped and shipped right off to St. Mungo's, in Harry's opinion.

Harry was in a bad mood by the time he spotted Ron. He was standing near the golden fountain, halfway into the Atrium and he had a sheepish smile on his face. Harry couldn't help but grin back at his friend.

"Late as well?" he asked, when he had caught up with him. Ron laughed out loud at this and clapped him on the shoulder. Harry cringed slightly.

"Harry, you should know better! I will never be late for work as long as I'm married to Hermione Granger," he joked, "No, I was waiting for you, mate."

Harry punched his friend on the shoulder rather hard and replied: "Gosh, you didn't have to do that. That's so sweet. Why were you waiting for me?"

"Well, I noticed you weren't in the office yet. You were late, so I figured…"

"What?"

Ron snickered. "Harry, you look like death warmed over. Got a bit carried away yesterday, didn't you?"

Harry glared at him and punched Ron's shoulder again, right in the same spot.

"Ouch!" Ron hissed, as he rubbed his painful shoulder, "Not the shiniest person alive in the morning, are you?"

"I did not get carried away," Harry stated clearly, though if he were honest he really couldn't remember.

"Right," Ron muttered angrily, "Keep your hands to yourself, will you? And take a sip from this."

Ron held out a tiny brown bottle to him, which Harry eyed distrustfully.

"What is it?"

"It's hangover potion. The best, according to Hermione. She practically forced me to make you drink this before you entered the office."

Harry groaned. "You didn't tell her about last night, did you?"

If Hermione knew just how drunk Harry had been the other night, he could expect another of those long-winded speeches she gave lately. He really couldn't use that right now.

Ron grinned. "Tell her what exactly?"

Harry threw Ron a sour look.

"Well, I didn't tell her about you and Zach, that's for sure. That was embarrassing."

Harry felt his eyes widen. Surely he didn't…? But then he'd remember, wouldn't he?

"Erm… Me and Zach?" he probed, unsurely.

Ron took one look at him and started laughing.

"Merlin, you really don't remember anything, do you?"

"Cut the crap, Ron," Harry growled, "What about me and Zach?"

"You really don't remember?" Ron teased, "Zacharius Smith, from the office?"

"I'm perfectly aware who Zach is! What happened?"

Harry and Ron had arrived at the lift. They held off on conversation for a while, because the lift was too crowded with ministry employees, and Harry considered what he and Ron were talking about hardly appropriate. Once they were out of the lift, Harry grabbed Ron by his robe.

"Now, tell me," he ordered.

Ron eyed him and scrunched up his nose. "Take your hangover potion first. You smell foul."

Harry sniffed himself, trying to be inconspicuous about it.

"I do not," he decided, "and I already took it this morning."

"Well, then the potion must have obviously gone bad," Ron concluded, "Would you just stop whining and take it already!"

Harry sighed, grabbed the tiny bottle and took a swig from it.

"There. Satisfied? Now, back to last night. Zach?"

Ron didn't seem to be able to reign in a chuckle. It was an infuriating sound.

"You know, you would make such a cute couple if you didn't hate each other's guts so much," Ron beamed at him as he put a hand on Harry's schouder.

"Ron..." Harry started threateningly. Ron laughed out loud and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

"You can stop looking like you're about to give birth to a litter of puppies, Harry. You didn't kiss him, don't worry. You got into a fair amount of hugging, that's true. But mostly it was the singing that got on everyone's nerves."

Harry blinked stupidly.

"You don't remember the singing, later in the evening?"

"Erm. No..."

Ron nodded, grinning. "Yeah, he was pretty great actually. After a few Firewhiskeys he started this really ridiculous song about Rowle, about how we would catch him and then the whole department would let him have it up his arse."

Harry's eyebrows knitted together at that and he offered Ron a strange look, which effectively wiped off the smile on his face.

"Well, it was funny yesterday," Ron muttered defensively.

"I'm sure it was," Harry reacted, shaking his head.

"You thought so too," Ron replied, "You should have seen yourself, suddenly best palls with Zach, smacking him on the back. And singing with him. Loud. And very out of key, if I might add. Got us kicked out of the pub eventually, Harry."

Harry thought he might remember something along those lines. He grinned. "I did, didn't I?"

They had arrived at the office and Harry held his wand against the magical detector to make his presence known.

"You've already registered?" he asked. Ron nodded and went over to his desk. Harry just had time to put his lunch box away when Kingsley strode over to them. He seemed to be in a foul mood, and Harry braced himself, already expecting to be reprimanded.

"Finally made it in, did you?" Kingsley asked in a clipped voice, "Come along, we've got work to do. Team briefing in the Staff Room."

Harry felt his cheeks redden and quickly grabbed a quill and paper, as he and Ron obediently followed Kingsley.

"What's this about?" Ron asked gingerly, "Something happened?"

Kingsley threw him a serious look over his shoulder, as he continued to walk to the briefing room.

"You can be damn sure something happened," he muttered, "Rowle got away again, that bastard."

Harry balled his hands into fists and he found he had a hard time breathing normally. The room got misty again. This was going to be bad, he knew. He cursed internally.

HP

"I'll cut to the chase," Kingsley started, "Yesterday night at half past nine, as you all know, a team of seven Aurors raided the house where Rowle was supposedly hiding. I am sorry to inform you that the mission failed. It seems Rowle was prepared. By the time they entered the building, the target was already gone. The muggle family was found dead."

Kingsley's statement was met by grim silence. Harry concentrated on breathing in and out.

"What's more…" Kingsley continued, slightly faltering for a second before finding his voice again, "Rowle apparently set up a trap for us. A suffocating charm, it seems. Three men were already inside. There was nothing we could do. I… deeply regret their losses."

There were gasps, grunts and curses. Harry found his voice again, but just barely. His vision started to blur.

"Who?" he rasped.

Kingsley looked at him, a harsh expression on his face, the corners of his mouth turned down as if they would never turn up again.

"Bones, Dawlish and Williamson."

"Susan? Susan Bones?"

"Merlin… Remember her whole family got slaughtered by Voldemort in sixth year?"

"Yeah, she fought so hard during the Final Battle… Fuck, she told me just a week ago that she was trying to get pregnant..."

"Yeah, I heard that. With… with Longbottom, wasn't she? Dear Merlin, he'll be devastated…"

Ron and Harry hadn't said a word. All they could do was stare as they tried to comprehend what had happened. Three of their colleagues down.

Susan, who was their age and had survived the war against all odds, the only remaining member of her family. And now she wasn't even that.

And Dawlish, who had been an Auror for as long as Harry and Ron could remember. A quiet and effective man, who knew his business and could be lethal when he needed to. No more.

Tyler Williamson, barely nineteen. Had just finished his Auror training and was so proud to be on the team. Mocked openly about his mother who was afraid something might happen to him.

And now they were all dead.

"How are the other four? Are they all right?" someone asked.

"Yes," Kingsley confirmed, "Auror Savage managed to take the charm down eventually. They were able to search the house safely after that. No one else was harmed."

"Did they find any clues as to where that fucker could have gone?" Zack asked harshly, teeth gritted together. In normal circumstances, Harry was sure Kingsley would have called Zack on the curse he used. But these weren't normal circumstances.

"I'm afraid not," Kingsley was sorry to say, "They found the bodies of the three muggles in their beds. There weren't any visible signs of a struggle. It seems they died by the same suffocating charm that killed our colleagues."

"They were still alive?" Zack uttered, disgusted, "Our colleagues set off the curse that killed the muggles?"

"It seems like it."

It was the first time Harry had seen Kingsley so defeated.

Silence reigned again, until Ron asked: "What's that?"

Everyone looked at what Ron was pointing at. There was a small camera on the table Kingsley was leaning against. Harry knew what it meant as Kingsley picked up the device.

"Yes, Rowle left us a message again," he sighed.

"It's a muggle device," Zack explained to Ron, who had his face scrunched up, but Ron shrugged it off. Harry knew that Ron wasn't that daft that he didn't know what a camera was.

Harry looked back up at Kingsley.

"Did you already see it?" he asked. The man nodded gravely.

"Over and over again," he sighed, and he suddenly looked very old. Not a good sign, Harry knew.

"I want you all to analyze it and look for clues, tips,… Anything that might help us find him," Kingsley stated. He held out the camera and Harry took it apprehensively.

"It's bad, isn't it?" Harry asked. Kingsley nodded again.

Harry nervously switched on the camera. Instantly Rowle's pockmarked, yellowish face filled the screen. It looked like he was adjusting the camera; Harry couldn't be sure. But Rowle's hands were frozen in mid-air, just above the play-button.

His colleagues had gathered behind him to look over his shoulder. Harry's finger hovered over the small button on the camera. He was aware that what they were about to see wouldn't be pleasant, but it was their job to search for clues about Rowle's whereabouts. He didn't like it, but he didn't have any choice, so he gingerly pressed 'play'. The first thing they heard was the unnerving sound of Rowle's loud, labored breathing. It made Harry's skin crawl, seeing that sick bastard grin at the camera, like he was thrilled to play that old, tiresome game of hide and seek again.

"Hello there," he seemed to almost gloat, "Pleasure, really. This is for all you dull fuckers at the Auror department. Look very closely, because this is what happens when you don't catch me. Enjoy the show."

Rowle backed away and a small living room came into view. An antique-looking cupboard, a table with six chairs around it, a grandmother clock against the wall. Harry didn't really register it, as his stomach twisted in knots at what was about to come.

Rowle beckoned at someone who was just outside of the camera's reach. A girl stepped into view. She couldn't have been older than twelve. She was naked.

"I'm not going to watch this," William Chaplin said and he got op from his chair. William was the oldest member of the group. He had just become a grandparent. Nobody made a comment when he stood and left the room. If only they could do the same. The team watched with growing horror as Rowle raped the girl. Harry couldn't stand it, he closed his eyes. He should have known: hearing the comments of his colleagues was even worse.

"I think I'm going to throw up". That was Ron.

"That sick fuck…". Zack.

"Is… is she moaning?" – Liam.

"He must have Imperiused her," Zack muttered quietly.

"Look at the mother. He Stupefied her. Merlin, her face…"

"Shit, do we have to watch this?"

"You can leave," Kingsley said. Harry heard muffled footsteps and then another person left the room. He really should be doing the same. Before he knew it, he'd stood up from his chair.

"Harry?" Ron asked, his voice worried. Harry opened his eyes, forcing himself to stare straight at the wall.

"Bathroom," he muttered before he, too, fled the room.

HP

Though Harry may have gotten rid of his stomach's contents, he hadn't been able to get rid of his fury. It was boiling inside him and he noticed anxiously that he could barely keep it in. Watching the girl getting raped, hearing about his colleagues, it had brought the same old tantrum back to him.

His parents. Sirius. Remus and Tonks. All his fault. Voldemort's.

Harry realized he had never given much thought about using Voldemort's name. Everyone else had always jumped a mile, but not Harry. How ironic it was that, now the war was finally over, Harry had gotten quite apprehensive of the name. He couldn't seem to keep his composure when Voldemort was mentioned. Ron had already commented on it once. Harry knew he would need to do something about it. This couldn't go on like this.

As he read through the detailed reports of his co-workers, trying to find a new starting point, something that would betray Rowle's current whereabouts, Harry's mind drifted off again. He couldn't stop thinking about the girl. An innocent victim, yet again. They hadn't been able to help her. It was so frustrating.

"Harry, are you all right?"

Kingsley had come up to his desk. It hadn't escaped Harry's notice that he did that a lot lately and he wondered at the reason. Harry just shook his head. He knew Kingsley would see right through him if he lied. Over the years he had learned the hard way that it could be dangerous for an Auror to act as if you've got your emotions under control when in fact you hadn't. It took only a moment of distraction for an enemy to take advantage off. Harry noticed vaguely that Kingsley was sending him a sympathetic look.

"Listen, maybe you should go home early," he suggested, "We can manage…"

But Harry was already shaking his head.

"And leave my colleagues behind with this? I don't think so," Harry replied fervently. The man nodded, but he didnt look any less concerned.

"If you're sure…"

"Of course."

As the day passed and Harry managed to drag himself through it, his thoughts wandered to his cellar. If only he could make it through three more hours…two… one… Then he'd be able to descend to his cellar and… And then it would be better. Not good, but better.

Harry didn't know how he reached the end of the day. Harry and Ron didn't waste a moment to pack their things when it was time. It was very unlike them to leave early, but neither of them seemed to really care. They walked back to the Atrium in a dazed silence.

"What a horrible, horrible day," Ron muttered eventually, and rubbed his face. He threw a sideways glance at his friend and seemed to hesitate a moment before asking: "You want to grab a Butterbeer before we head home, Harry? You sure look like you could use it."

Harry just shook his head.

"No, thanks, I'm think I'm just going to go home."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to cover up the brief excitement that rippled through him, thinking of home. He needed to keep his emotions in check, but his tiredness was getting to him.

"You sure you're okay?"

Harry rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, just a bit tired. It was… Well, you had the same day as I did. You know what it was."

Ron nodded. "Horrible," he said again.

"I'll see you tomorrow then," Harry muttered as he quickly stepped into the fireplace to floo back home.

"Tomorrow," Ron confirmed. And then Harry was gone.

HP

When Harry stepped into the living room at Grimmauld place, he briefly considered getting a good glass of Firewhiskey. He decided against it, reminding himself that he would need his wits for what he was about to do… again. He hung up his robe on the coat rack and retrieved his wand. He looked at it for a few seconds, then put it back. He didn't need it. He had a better wand now.

When he walked over to the cellar door, a brief spark of hope flared through him. He hoped, against all odds, that the world would seem like a better place when he left that cellar again in a few more hours. He took a deep breath and took down the concealment charms. He muttered the codes, repeated them and then, finally, the door unlocked itself with an almost sighing click. Harry pulled it open and descended down the stairs. It was a bit drafty, as always.

Harry kept his eyes on the ground as he switched on the lights. He went over to the iron cabinet against the wall and pulled open the top drawer. Harry didn't have to look for it. He knew it was right there, where it belonged. The Elder Wand. Harry smiled a little. After the Final Battle, and despite what he'd promised Dumbledore, Harry had gone looking for it, as he had gone looking for a few other things that had somehow become his world, as it turned out. He picked up the wand, weighing it in his hand.

Then his eye fell on the small leather satchel in the drawer. He took it out and opened the satchel. The Resurrection Stone fell easily into his hand. It felt warm. Harry sighed in contentment.

He turned around to face the glass casket he'd created two and a half years ago, when he'd- quite literally- dug up another important thing from his past. The soft light fell on the mangled body within the casket. It was small and wrinkled and looked innocent, but no one would ever think to compare this creature to a baby. Voldemort.

Harry knew it was daft, but he couldn't keep his lips from turning up into a somewhat baffled smile, like he was greeting an old, almost forgotten friend. In the end, it wasn't exactly the revenge he had dreamed off, but it was good enough. With the Resurrection Stone in his possession, he got to kill Voldemort over and over again, as much as he liked. And right now, he really liked to kill Voldemort again.

He turned the stone in his hand, thrice. The little monster came to life. It almost sounded helpless with its' pitiful cries, and that, right there, pushed Harry over the edge of his bitter anger. He raised his wand.

"Crucio," he said.

THE END