AN: We disclaim any ownership of Harry Potter. This story is post-Hogwarts and takes place three years after the end of the War.

Please enjoy the story!

Chapter One

Hogsmeade Village had hardly changed in the three years since Harry Potter had attended Hogwarts. Stepping upon the hardened, crisp snow reminded him of all the Hogsmeade weekends he had enjoyed with Ron and Hermione. Harry had to smile faintly at the postcard picture of the cozy village.

"Harry, wait up!" Ron called behind him. "Bloody snow," he heard Ron shiver. "I like the raids that happen indoors much better."

"Well, if you're so cold, why don't you hurry up?" Harry turned briefly to glance at his rosy-cheeked friend and Auror partner. The Ministry of Magic had stationed a squad of Aurors, Harry and Ron included, at Hogsmeade after another Dementor sighting. Typical, thought Harry, that the Ministry would still putter around, coughing and wheezing, not getting anything done right, even after Voldemort was gone. A pack of Dementors had attacked the little village not more than six months ago and a squad of Aurors had driven them away, but the creatures had returned with a ferocity that surprised even the Ministry. And now here were Harry and Ron, called into the new squad that would attempt to chase them away. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the new Minister, had a word with the squad, telling them that time was not an issue. "Take half a bloody year," he had said, "but get it done this time."

"I've never seen anything like it," Harry murmured as Ron caught up with him. "They're here yesterday and the next day they disappear." He remembered the Dementors in his third year, which had guarded Hogwarts closely in the aftermath of Sirius' escape, staying in place for days. But these were Dementors released from Azkaban by the Ministry itself, which had not foreseen the terrible consequence of releasing monsters who need constant feeding into the Wizarding world.

"I guess they're in hiding," Ron commented. "Strange. I'm surprised they're not rushing at us and trying to suck out our souls."

Harry continued to walk through the picturesque Hogsmeade, passing by Honeydukes and Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop. He glanced out into a field that was covered in feathery snow, left unhardened as no one dared to walk to the Shrieking Shack, stooping at the top of a hill. Harry clutched his wand tighter as he noted a faint mist creeping out from the cracks of the Shack. Suddenly alert, he hurried toward the Shack, just as Ron became aware of his abrupt demeanor and struggled to keep up.

Harry had only dashed a few feet into the musty, cold room when he found himself face to face with a Dementor. Its skeleton body, shrouded in a putrid black cloak, did not fail to scare him, as it had done the first time he'd encountered the foul being. He sucked in a shaky breath, laced with the chill of wintriness. The Dementor opened its long mouth, sucking in the only happy memories that had sprung to Harry's mind in preparation for the Patronus Charm. He tried to remember memories at Hogwarts with Ron and Hermione, despite the unnerving black hole that was feeding on his happiest recollections. Harry found himself remembering the expression on Fred Weasley's face, laughter at a joke he'd just made, stilled as death struck him and froze his smiling lips in place. The rows of dead and dying upon the floor of the Great Hall—the streaks of blood upon Snape's face as he lay on the filthy floor of the Shrieking Shack—the young, crumpled body of Colin Creevey—and finally—

"Expecto Patronum!" Harry shouted. The moment the words left his mouth, he knew the spell was powerless. The tip of his wand emitted a tiny puff of mist and did nothing else. The Dementor's mouth hovered closer, becoming oval and long, splitting the face in two halves.

Then suddenly, another figure burst into the Shack behind Harry and without much hesitation, screamed, "Expecto Patronum!" producing a Jack Russell terrier that drove back the creature. The Dementor howled and plunged into the secret passage which led to the Whomping Willow, followed by Ron's terrier. Harry turned to his friend, smiling weakly at him.

"Blimey," Ron started, huffing slightly from his run. "I guess those things are hiding. And here I thought we'd just drop by and Patronus them away in a couple of hours."

Harry nodded. "We should let the rest of the Aurors know that we've spotted one."

But even as he and Ron made their way to the other side of Hogsmeade, where the other Aurors were hunting for Dementors, Harry couldn't help but feel troubled. Since mastering the Patronus Charm in his third year, he had hardly ever had trouble in being able to produce it. Sure, he had gruesome memories of the Second Wizarding War—as it was now called—but he must still have some happy memories that would push past the ghastly ones. At least, he thought so.

"Hey, Ron?" Harry asked tentatively. "You didn't have any problems with your Patronus, did you? You thought of a happy memory and it worked?"

Ron gave him a strange look. "Well, yeah, mate. That's how it works, right?"

"Yeah," Harry replied. "Just wondering."

"I mean, I thought of some bad memories too," Ron continued, "but the moment I saw that thing, the Charm just rolled off the tongue. Not much thought."

Ron looked as though he wanted to question Harry further, but they were nearing the Auror squad and Harry's face had closed, shutting off any more possible discussion. Harry realized that telling Ron or the Aurors about his difficulties could result in him being taken off the squad. Being on a mission to drive off Dementors and being unable to produce a Patronus were two things that did not go hand in hand. Besides, Harry thought, this may have been a one-time thing. Given more time, Harry may have just as easily produced that Patronus.

"Any news?" John Dawlish asked as Harry and Ron approached. The man had aged following the War, and despite several encounters in which he was Cornelius Fudge's bodyguard and otherwise attempted to incapacitate Dumbledore, Dawlish remained an important Auror in the Ministry of Magic and the leader of this mission.

"We found a Dementor in the Shrieking Shack," Harry said grimly. "Ron cast a Patronus to drive it away and the creature headed through the passageway to the Whomping Willow."

Dawlish pursed his lips. "The Dementors may be closer to Hogwarts than to Hogsmeade then, especially if more are hiding in the Shrieking Shack."

Ron spoke up, "They might not even be after Hogsmeade. I mean, Hogwarts is filled to the brim with young, happy kids. What more could the Dementors want?"

The rest of the Aurors looked at Ron appraisingly. John Dawlish smiled dismally. "Good point, Weasley. The Dementors are most likely just prowling around Hogsmeade because they can't find a way into Hogwarts. It's the school that'll be in deeper danger."

While Dawlish was considering a course of action, Harry was lost in his thoughts again. He decided that if they went to Hogwarts, he would attempt his Patronus without Dementors to regain his ability. Or rather, to try again, as he was sure that the ability was still there.

"Alright," Dawlish interrupted his thoughts. "We're going to Hogwarts. Shacklebolt is probably right. The last thing we need is a sloppy mission like the one six months ago. We'll take as much time as we need."

* * *

The moment the Aurors arrived at Hogwarts, they realized that an upheaval had just occurred. Students were running madly about the first floor, most of them coming out of the passages from the Dungeons. Many had soaking robes and some were attempting drying spells upon their books and belongings. As no professors were nearby, Harry grabbed the nearest student, a young Slytherin girl, perhaps in second year, and asked her what was going on.

While a look of recognition flashed upon her face, she nonetheless trembled and stuttered out, "The Dungeons—I don't know how it happened—water everywhere—all my stuff—" and she could say nothing more. Harry glanced at the other Aurors and it appeared that they'd decided to see the damage for themselves. He and Ron followed, glancing at one another with looks of surprise and apprehension.

The hallways before the Dungeons were flooded with murky water and it appeared that it was still coming in streams from deep in the Dungeons. Just then, Professor Flitwick appeared from the Slytherin common room, shaking his small head and muttering to himself.

"Professor Flitwick!" Harry called. The short man was startled out of a reverie and smiled gloomily at Harry and Ron, eyeing the other Aurors with suspicion.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley," he squeaked. "What a pleasant surprise! Quite unfortunate timing, but—"

Ron interrupted him, "What happened here, Professor?"

Professor Flitwick looked bleaker still at the question. His mustache twitched as he said, "It appears as though the Gryffindors have pulled a prank on the Slytherins by caving in the Dungeons. I always believed those rooms to be too close to the lake, and there I go, being proven correct." But he looked anything but happy at being proven right.

"Surely you could just patch it up?" Harry prompted. A school full of very capable professors should be able to fix this in an instant.

Flitwick looked no less grim. "Of course, of course. It's the meaning behind the hoax that has me worried. I found students from my own House rejoicing in the act, and those from Hufflepuff as well. This seems to have been a school-wide attack on the Slytherins."

Ron and Harry snorted, believing nothing to be wrong if the Slytherins finally got what they deserved. Flitwick wished them a good day and went on his way. Dawlish then approached Harry and spoke, "Potter, I believe that you should extend our circumstances to the Headmistress and explain our stay here. I realize you have greater connection with her than most of us."

Harry nodded, realizing that a break from his thoughts of Dementors and the downstairs commotion might be beneficial. He gave Ron a smile and nodded at the other Aurors, before turning and heading toward the gargoyle at the Headmistress' office. He found himself amused at the flooding of the Dungeons, wondering how the rest of the Houses had pulled it off. He'd never known that the lake was that close to the Slytherins' quarters.

The gargoyle in front of the staircase peered at him. Harry suddenly realized that he didn't know the new password. Last time he'd seen the gargoyle, it was sprawled on the floor, broken in pieces. He shook himself to suppress thoughts from the Battle at Hogwarts.

"Potter!" He heard the distinct voice of McGonagall behind him. "What are you standing there for?"

Harry smiled. "Well, there's a bit to explain, actually."

"Very well," she said, then turned to the gargoyle and said, "Pumpkin treacle." Immediately, the gargoyle let them pass up the staircase. McGonagall and Harry treaded up the stairs, their cloaks billowing behind them. When Harry was finally seated in the armchair before the Headmistress' office desk, he finally began his explanation. He told her about their Auror mission and how it had now moved to Hogwarts, and how in all likelihood, it would take longer than a few weeks to solve.

"As you know, Potter," McGonagall began, "You are all welcome to stay at Hogwarts and find a solution to this problem. Especially if it involves danger toward our students. You say the Dementor was on its way to the Whomping Willow?"

"We can only suppose that the Dementors are hiding because they can't directly enter Hogwarts. I'm sure the danger is small. We just have to drive them away, that's all." Though he said this nonchalantly, nothing kept the crawl of fear at his neck that he could not defend himself with a Patronus any longer.

"Very well, Potter, you may all settle in the professors' sleeping quarters. I must leave you to attend to an ill-timed hoax upon the Slytherin Dungeons. I'm sure that by now you've heard," she said tartly as she stood up. She shook her head as she headed toward the door, muttering, "I'm almost ashamed to call myself a Gryffindor."

Harry glanced at the portraits of the Headmasters and Headmistresses, arranged upon the walls, and caught Dumbledore's eye, who never ceased to give him a feeling of comfort and nostalgia. Then, he looked for the portrait of Snape, whom he still regarded with a note of animosity and pride. Nothing could erase the seven years of hatred that Snape had put him through; but nothing could also erase Snape's life memories which Harry had watched before offering himself up to Voldemort. The unreturned love of Lily Evans and the lifelong pursuit Snape took to keep Harry alive, just to fulfill Lily's last wish. But Harry couldn't find the portrait of Snape. Among the many figures that winked at him, he couldn't catch sight of the telltale greasy black hair and blank, cold eyes.

"Professor McGonagall," Harry started, just as the Headmistress was stepping through the door. She glanced back at him with impatience, prompting, "Yes?"

"Where's Snape's portrait?" Harry asked, unsure why this mattered so much to him.

"He was never given one," McGonagall answered shortly. "There was much controversy of Snape's allegiance following the War. Now if you'll excuse, I really must attend to the Dungeons." She left without another word.

Controversy about his allegiance? Harry thought, affronted. It was questionable up until the Battle of Hogwarts, but Snape had died in vain, giving Harry Dumbledore's last instructions as to how to end the blasted War. Snape had remained Dumbledore's spy until his death and the little recognition he was given posthumously was gnawing at Harry's conscience.

After leaving the office, Harry told the Aurors about McGonagall's approval and their sleeping quarters. Night was already descending upon Hogwarts and Harry was both mentally and physically exhausted. Ron seemed to have forgotten their short conversation about Dementors and asked no more about it, but as Harry fussed around his four-poster bed, unpacking the few belongings he'd brought, the Dementors were the only things on his mind. Harry paused, drew his wand, and gathered up his thoughts. He tried to remember his parents as they looked in the Mirror of Erised, tried to see their smiling faces, but all that came to mind were the ghost memories that had come out of the Resurrection Stone on his way to the Forbidden Forrest, on his way to die at Voldemort's hand. He then remembered the bright green light of the Killing Curse as Voldemort claimed his life.

Harry cursed under his breath, seeing that this only lead to morbid thoughts, and tried again. He remembered the faces of Lupin and Tonks, enamored with their child Teddy, and the way they'd embraced as a family. But invariably these thoughts dredged up the faces of Lupin and Tonks, dead on the floor of the Great Hall, so still and calm that one might misguidedly think they were sleeping; and Teddy growing up without either parent—

"Dammit!" Harry cursed again. He realized that any happy thought he recollected would be overshadowed by memories of the War. He had had no problems like this in other Auror duties because no other spell required that the caster be happy. Harry dropped onto the four-poster bed and placed his head in his hands, digging through his messy hair. This was just getting worse, Harry thought. But he didn't know of any way, magical or otherwise, to dig up the happy memories without letting the War stamp them out. He blew out the candles by his bedside and crawled into bed, leaving his glasses and wand by the nightstand. He lay awake for a long time, sifting through the recollections of War, and the defenselessness he now felt when thinking about Dementors.

Toward dawn he had fallen into a fitful sleep, but not before a single thought crossed his mind, as weightless and wispy as morning fog.

Felix Felicis.

* * *

Harry awoke with the pressing need to speak with Horace Slughorn, the current Potions Master of Hogwarts. He dressed quickly and had breakfast with the other Aurors in the Great Hall, exchanging a few words with Ron but otherwise not letting him know about his sudden desperate plan. He then descended into the Dungeons and approached the door to the Potions classroom. It was still early, so there would be no students yet. He attempted to compose himself and remembered that Slughorn would surely accept him, believing he had been so great at Potions.

But as Harry opened the door to the classroom, another figure emerged from the room, slamming straight into Harry. Harry was knocked off balance for a moment, then stared at whom he'd run into.

"I see that in three years, you still haven't learned to walk properly," came the drawl. Malfoy was clutching his head, wincing, and glaring at Harry through slit gray eyes. Harry looked momentarily surprised to see him, but a more urgent dilemma forced him to ignore Malfoy.

Despite a nagging feeling at the back of his head, Harry pushed past Malfoy to stride into the room. Malfoy just strolled back into the classroom and scowled at Harry. "What do you want, Potter? Returned to Hogwarts for some cheerful memories? I don't think you had too many of those in this classroom."

"I don't have the time to deal with you, Malfoy," Harry muttered, then glanced around the dimly lit room impatiently. He noticed that the Dungeons were still recovering from yesterday's hoax. It appeared that though the room was in some order, many of the potion ingredients were missing and the jars broken. Harry finally asked, "Where's Slughorn? I need to speak with the Potions Master."

"Slughorn is no longer the Potions Master," Malfoy replied coolly.

Harry paused and stared at him for a moment. "Oh, and you expect me to believe that you are?"

Malfoy gave him a pointed look and crossed his arms. Harry raised his eyebrows, realizing that he was serious.

"I don't believe that in the three years since Hogwarts ended you were appointed as the Potions Master," Harry muttered. "What, they couldn't find anyone else?"

Malfoy's eyes immediately flashed in rage. "How is that unbelievable? Longbottom got the Herbology job—"

"He's twice the wizard you'll ever be! He deserves that job more than anyone else." Harry paused, wondering why he hadn't heard about this. He hadn't even seen Malfoy eating at the staff table, where Harry had eaten this morning. If Malfoy had really been there, Harry must have really been out of it. "I don't suppose you've done anything else remarkable since school?"

Malfoy glared. "I suppose someone who's constantly on the Daily Prophet with headlines like, 'Harry Potter Defeats a Gang of Werewolves in Cornwall' and 'Harry Potter Vanquishes a Banshee in Durham' would only expect the same from everyone else?"

Harry shrugged. "I just haven't heard anything about you." In fact, he had barely given Malfoy a single thought since the War ended. He was a little surprised that Malfoy had paid such close attention to the news.

"So why are you here?" Malfoy finally redirected the conversation, his voice drawling again. "If you needed the Potions Master so badly, you really showed it. Brushing past me and insulting me like that."

Harry had the decency to turn a little pink. He had expected to simply ask Slughorn about the potion and be on his merry way to defeating the Dementors. Now that he knew Malfoy was the Potions Master, things would be a little more complicated. He wasn't even sure if Malfoy would help him now.

"I, er… need a potion," Harry began. "I thought maybe you'd have an extra stock of it. I just need a vial or so."

Malfoy rolled his eyes impatiently. "Well, what potion is it? I don't have all day, Potter. I do have a job, as we've just established."

Harry glanced at the work benches and cauldrons, unwilling to stare at Malfoy and face his reaction. "I need Felix Felicis."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy drop his arms and give him an incredulous look. "You're not serious. Liquid luck? Haven't you had enough luck in your life already, Potter?"

This only angered Harry, whose frustrations after a sleepless, desperate night had been building. "Are you saying it's luck that all my life, I had to watch my friends get killed? Year after year, face that bastard, and barely escape alive? I don't need this potion so I can have a perfect day lounging in the sun with my cares thrown to the wind! I need this because it's my only option!"

Malfoy sneered at him. "I honestly don't give a damn about your life struggles, Potter. In case you haven't noticed, the Dungeons got flooded yesterday because of your precious Gryffindors! All my potion supplies—destroyed. You Gryffindors are so brave, making a mess and leaving it to the adults to clean up."

"I had nothing to do with that prank," Harry replied angrily. "But I can't say I feel sorry for you, Slytherins, always getting everything handed to you on a silver platter. And for once you get put in your place—I can't really feel the remorse."

"For once!" Malfoy echoed, his hand fisting around his wand. "If you knew anything about the way this school has changed, you'd know this wasn't a onetime thing. This has been going on for months. You Gryffindors just can't accept that the War is over and people have repented. You have to dig at us until we have no more pride—"

Harry, whose rage had been building into more argument, was immediately stumped by this. His tense body suddenly unwound and he scowled. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Malfoy."

But Malfoy didn't look like he was going to explain. He muttered, "Figures," and composed himself, calming down and plastering on that cold and blank mask that was trademark of Snape. "I'm not giving you that potion, Potter. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. As I said, all my supplies and ingredients have been destroyed by the flood and I'm sure you know that Felix Felicis requires some rare materials."

Harry opened his mouth to say something else, but Malfoy cut him off, "My students will be here shortly. Consider yourself dismissed."

Dismissed, Harry thought. Like a house-elf or a student. Giving Malfoy the most disgusted glare he could muster, Harry left the classroom, slamming the door behind him. Harry wasn't entirely sure what to do now. He felt so confident that Slughorn would help him, but now that Malfoy was the Potions Master, their bickering wouldn't stop even if the Dementors had invaded Hogwarts itself.

Harry considered his options again. He could talk to Ron, who most likely wouldn't understand him. He could tell the Aurors, but Dawlish would be impatient and look at him as though Harry didn't know how to tie his own shoes. Then Harry thought of the one person he'd really like to talk to, who would've known exactly what to say and do…who was gone.

Remus Lupin. The one who'd taught him to cast a Patronus to begin with.

Sorrow washed over Harry, but he ignored it and continued down the hall, winding his way to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, getting an idea. He was sure that he could still produce the Charm. He just needed to try again, but in the company of a Dementor. And there was only one thing that could mimic a Dementor, short of facing a real one.

A boggart.

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