A/N: All the characters you recognise belong to JK Rowling. I hope I have been respectful of the original canon material.

This story started life as a forum challenge over on hpff.

Inspired by StarFeather's 'Auror's Tale' challenge, the task was to write an Auror story featuring Harry Potter, which had to include mystery, action and romance.

I owe thanks to several people: To Kenny (StarFeather over on hpff), who first set the challenge, Hermyluna2 who has always been very supportive and a good sounding board, Wrexscar for letting me borrow 'his' Sally-Anne, and most of all my patient, encouraging and terrifyingly efficient beta, Cordelia McGonagall, whose advice and suggestions have been unfailingly useful. All mistakes are mine alone.

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Beneath the government offices of Whitehall and the foundations of medieval abbeys, Saxon churches, and Roman temples, the Tube, and the lost rivers of London, is the Ministry of Magic. It is the place where the forefathers of the wizard race hid the Veil and other mysteries besides, and it is where many things may be found for those who know where to look.

For those who do not know where to look, however—or perhaps have only a vague idea and imprecise instructions—it can be more problematic. Especially if those who do not know where to look have no business being there in the first place.

The two shadowy figures who, in the darkest hours of a cold night in late winter had bypassed the security charms guarding the Muggle research section of the Ministry archives, were not supposed to be there and did not know where to find what they were looking for. One figure was a great deal larger than the other, but it was the smaller of the two who was, with every indication of impatience, issuing instructions in a sibilant whisper. A sphere of orange light hovered between them, casting a sickly glow just bright enough to make out the text written on the documents before them.

The larger figure was grumbling, "Bloody books. Bloody stupid, mouldy old things!" With careless annoyance, he tossed papers and volumes off the shelves and on to the table, from where many of them slid, disregarded, to the floor.

"Read them!" hissed the smaller figure. "Read what they is saying!"

The large figure paused in his efforts. "Read?" he asked. "Half this stuff isn't even written in bloody English. You read it." He thrust an armful of papers at his small companion.

"Stupid wizard!" it cried shrilly. "Wizards read wizard writing!"

In resentful silence, the search continued without apparent success, and after some time, the pair were joined by two men. One was tall and thin and sniffed a lot; the second leaned against a table, gasping.

"We have it!" said the tall man, lifting before him something about the size of a shoe box, wrapped in a cloth. "Have you found the book?" He cast a glance around at the chaotic mess of papers and stiffened. "Have you no respect? Move aside! I will find it myself."

No one argued with this suggestion; indeed the biggest of the four people in the room gave an audible sigh of relief. With care, the tall man put his parcel down on a table and began systematically to sift through the disordered papers, ignoring the impatient tutting of his diminutive colleague. After several minutes, he uttered a grunt of satisfaction, holding a thin volume up. "Ah, here it is!"

The man leaning on the table had caught his breath. His speech was heavily accented and hoarse. "We are here too long. It is time to go."

The tall man began to collect the papers strewn in untidy drifts on the floor and table but the breathless man interrupted him. "No time for that! We leave now!"

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Chapter One: Some One Intent on Mischief.

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Inside a modest house set discreetly behind thick, high hedges in the flat Cambridgeshire landscape, Harry Potter sat at the table in his untidy living room and aimed a spoonful of porridge towards his youngest son. "Brrrm, brrrm! Look at the flying motorbike!"

"No," said Albus, pressing his lips together in a determined line.

"Lovely porridge," Harry encouraged. "Yum, yum! Look, Daddy loves porridge." He ate the spoonful himself, finding it surprisingly palatable, and dipped the spoon back in the bowl. "The motorbike wants to go into the tunnel. Open the tunnel for the motorbike, Albus!"

Albus looked at him, stony faced and unmoved.

Absent-mindedly Harry ate another spoonful. "Gin, do you think we should be worried about Albus?"

She looked up at him from where she was nursing Lily on the sofa. "Worried? Why?"

"Well, he should be talking by now, shouldn't he? The only thing he ever says is no."

Ginny pursed her lips and studied her younger son. "I think he can talk, he just chooses not to. He doesn't need to. James does it all for him."

"Anyway, I've eaten all my breakfast, Daddy!" piped up James, as if to prove the point. "Can I play with my Lego now, Daddy? Please, Daddy?"

Harry yawned and rubbed the scar on his forehead, realising with dismay that he had just smeared porridge into his hair. "I suppose so, James. Go on then."

Ginny unlatched Lily from her breast and switched sides. "Mum says Ron was the same. He let the twins do all his talking for him until he was nearly four." The letter box rattled. "That will be the Prophet," she said. "Have you got a hand free, Harry?"

Harry wiped porridge from his fingers and pulled his wand out of his pocket. "Accio, Prophet!" The paper swept through from the doormat and landed in the bowl in front of him. He groaned and fished it out, dabbing at the back page. "Sorry, Gin," he said, "there's porridge all over the Quidditch results."

"Anyway, Mummy," said James, looking up from his toy box. "Daddy's got porridge on the Quidditch."

"So he has, pet," agreed Ginny. "Anything in it, Harry?"

He glanced at the front page. "The Confederacy Liberatum people have had another demonstration, apparently. Listen to this. The demonstration in Knockturn Alley was addressed by the activist known as 'Amo', who reiterated the group's demands of universal equality for magical and non-magical folk and an end to discrimination. The gathering was sparsely attended and concluded earlier than planned when a pig destined for Mrs Miggins' pie shop escaped and ate part of the speaker's hat. That lot are bonkers. Do you know, a few months ago they used a flock of cormorants to shower their daft leaflets all over Azkaban? Bonkers," he repeated. He scanned further down the page and did a double-take. "Oh bloody hell," he murmured. "They've only gone and bloody done it!"

"Oh bloody hell," repeated James. "Bonkers."

Ginny tucked a struggling Lily over her shoulder and patted her back. "Don't say that, James, darling."

"Why, Mummy?"

"Because it's a bad word. Done what, Harry?"

"Here," Harry said, "I'll take Lily. Have a read." He passed the newspaper over and took Lily, bouncing her on his knee. She gurgled and burped.

Believing himself unobserved, Albus proceeded to feed himself the remainder of his breakfast. Harry pretended not to notice.

"Bloody hell. Why is bonkers a bad word, Daddy?" asked James.

"Ah, you'd better ask Mummy."

Ginny gave him a baleful glance and read the headline aloud. "Azkaban announces amnesty. Early release of prisoners confirmed. Our sources have established that two more prisoners were released from Azkaban prison last week on compassionate grounds, due to ill health. Both men are said to be in the final weeks of life. Those released are believed to be Antonin Dolohov and Myklos Z –Z ‒something. Zmyslony? This release follows the freeing of former Death Eater - I can't read this, it's smudged. E- something, P-something. Pringle, maybe? 'last month."

"Mummy, why—"

"James, darling, Mummy and Daddy are trying to talk." She looked up. "Did you know about this, Harry?"

"I'd heard a rumour," he admitted. "But I didn't think they'd actually do it. Azkaban is in crisis. It desperately needs a new governor. It's overcrowded and morale is terribly low."

"I hope they know what they're doing," said Ginny. She tapped the paper with the back of her hand. "They say these are low risk, but—Dolohov? They should have let him rot in his cell. I've never heard of the other one."

"Well," said Harry, leaning over and pointing at a grainy picture that scowled out from the page. "This Myklos Zmyslony. I don't know much about him, but he was notorious back in the day. He was an accomplished ward-breaker and the leader of a gang that broke into the Securus goblin bank in Rome. They managed to escape with millions of Galleons-worth of Vatican gold. It was pure luck that he was caught trying to rob the Ministry vault at Gringotts in 1970. He very nearly succeeded. He's been in Azkaban for well over thirty years."

They both looked over at the sound of a sharp rap, to see a handsome tawny owl perched on the sill. Ginny got up to open the window, and took the letter from the bird's leg. "It's for you," she said. "From the Ministry," and tossed it over to him. She gave the owl a piece of cold toast, and it flew away, flapping up into the overcast late-winter sky for a few seconds then flickering out of sight. She closed the window, shutting out the damp morning chill.

Harry unrolled the letter. "It's from Kingsley." He sighed. "He wants me to go in to work today. There's a Situation, apparently. Sorry, Gin, I'll have to go." He handed Lily back and dropped a kiss on both heads. Then he kissed Albus and James too, and went to find his Auror robes and some Floo powder.

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Twenty minutes later, he arrived in the Ministry and walked to Kingsley's office picking dried flakes of cereal from his hair. Percy Weasley was busy with his quill and a stack of papers. A little to one side of his desk a large and splendid door bore the title 'Minister For Magic' painted upon it in important gold letters.

"The Minister has asked to see me, Percy?"

Percy looked up as if he had only just noticed Harry's presence. "One moment, Auror Potter, I will tell him you're here." Percy's manner was even more stiff and formal than usual, but Harry did not pay much attention. Percy knocked and peered round the door for a moment. He re-emerged. "The Minister can see you right away." He held the door open while Harry entered.

Kingsley was seated behind his huge mahogany desk. Harry was surprised to find his father-in law there too, sitting in a chair opposite.

"Ah, Harry!" Arthur beamed, getting to his feet and shaking Harry's hand. "How is my gorgeous daughter this morning? And my exceptionally gifted grandchildren?"

"Hi, Dad," said Harry, "they're good. Covered in porridge, but good. Lily's nearly walking. Albus still won't talk. James never stops. How are you and Molly? Have you seen much of Ron and Hermione?"

"Ron, yes," said Arthur. "In fact, he's here today, but"—his face dropped—"not Hermione—or the children really. Haven't seen Hermione since Christmas, in fact. Have you seen them?"

"Ah, no," said Harry. "Ron brought Rosie over for tea a couple of weeks ago, but he said Hermione was too busy to come."

The crease between Arthur's eyebrows deepened. "Between you and me, Harry, we're a bit worried. Perhaps you could speak to Ron later?"

Kingsley waved Harry into the remaining seat. "If you've finished catching up with your family news? Thank you for coming in, Harry, I know you were supposed to be having a day off."

A copy of the Prophet lay on Kingsley's desk and Harry picked it up. He pointed at the article on the front page. "Is this about the released prisoners?"

"Not directly." Kingsley's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Maybe he was being fanciful, but Harry had the impression that beneath the serene façade, Kingsley was furious. His tone, however, was as calm and measured as usual. "The decision to release Dolohov was not mine. He has always been regarded as rather, ah, volatile."

"Surely, as Minister for Magic, you can veto these decisions?"

"In theory, yes. If I am consulted. Which, in this case, I was not. Although in fairness, Azkaban has far worse problems than the early release of terminally ill and frail prisoners."

"Oh? Is there something I should know about?"

"Nothing you aren't already aware of, I'm sure. You must have read Hermione's report?"

"Hm," Harry mumbled evasively.

"In any case I did not ask you to come in today to discuss that. There is another matter closer to home." Kingsley twisted his earring. "We've had a break-in."

Shocked, Harry stared at him. "What? Here at the Ministry? I haven't heard anything!"

"Neither had I," said Arthur, "until Kingsley called me in here."

The Minister folded his arms and leaned back in his chair looking at them, his gaze inscrutable. "We had rather the whole world didn't know the Ministry is not exactly the impregnable fortress it should be, and nothing of particular importance seems to have been taken. Although I say that with some caution, as no one seems to know very much about the only thing we have positively identified as being missing."

Harry waited for more. Arthur looked perplexed and asked, "So what is missing? Which department was broken into?"

"Departments, plural. One break-in was in the archives and the other in the Department of Mysteries. The Time Room to be exact."

"The Department of Mysteries!" said Harry. "But how? Surely security is good down there!"

Kingsley's lips tightened. "Not good enough, clearly. The protections haven't been updated for years. Having said that, they were powerful, if rather old-fashioned. There is only one person I know of with the expertise and initiative to bypass them so efficiently. He was released from Azkaban a week ago."

Harry groaned and put his head in his hands. "It's one thing after another, isn't it? The Ministry is falling apart."

Kingsley did not disagree. "There is a lot of work to do, certainly, and I'm afraid much of it will fall on your shoulders. But for the time being, we need to deal with what is before us." He stood up, shaking out his glossy indigo robes. "Let's go and talk to Hector."

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Even though Harry had to visit the Department of Mysteries from time to time, he still got goose pimples as he moved through the familiar corridors. After nearly thirteen years, the image of Sirius falling behind the Veil and the look of shock on his godfather's wasted face as it happened was never far from his thoughts and featured often in his dreams. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to think about the more immediate problem as he followed Arthur and Kingsley into the lift that rattled and juddered down into the deepest level of the Ministry.

The Time Room did not appear to have changed in any way in the intervening years. Harry remembered the noise of all the ticking clocks, insistent and itchy, like a irritation creeping under the skin. At the far end of the room still stood the huge bell jar, as tall as a man, illuminating everything with a sharp, dazzling light. In the middle of the chamber, a fragile looking elderly man was wringing his hands in distress and muttering under his breath.

"Hector," said Kingsley, "I have brought the head of the Aurors' Department down to speak with you."

"Have we a new head?" said the old man. He peered up at them. "Arthur? You aren't an Auror!"

"Not me, Hector," said Arthur gently. "Harry, here." He pushed Harry forward.

Hector squinted at him. "Oh yes, you're Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. So you're an Auror now. What are you going to do about this, then?" He waved his hand around.

"They have taken something from here?"

"Of course they have," said Hector impatiently. "Why else would you be here? Look!" He pointed. Harry's gaze followed the direction of Hector's shaking finger and landed on an empty space amid the clutter on one of the crowded tables.

"So what exactly did they take?"

"Well—" Hector's voice trembled in anguish. "The Eversio machine of course!"

"The Eversy‒what?"

Hector looked at him with annoyance. "Are you sure you are qualified for this job? The Eversio machine. I suppose you might know it as the Antikythera machine?" He shook his head at Harry's uncomprehending expression and turned a watery gaze to Kingsley. "What do they teach them at school these days?"

Harry resolved not to ask again. Perhaps he would have a word with Hermione later if he could get hold of her. He decided to try a different tack. "Why have they taken it then? Er, what does the, er . . . machine do? It is some sort of clock presumably?"

Hector tutted. "Well we don't know, do we? Obviously! It's a mystery. The Muggles have a fragmentary one they keep in a museum. I understand they believe it to be some sort of astronomical device." He gave a derisive laugh. "But this one is complete! When I had an apprentice"—he looked accusingly at Kingsley—"he spent a great deal of time working on it. But since Erasmus left, no-one has touched it." Hector's voice took on a note of complaint. "I'm an old man. I should have been given a new apprentice. I'm tired."

Harry was tired too, and his head was starting to ache.

"Well," said Kingsley, "whoever took it, they knew exactly what they were after and why. I just wish we knew, too. It makes me very uneasy, not knowing."

Harry shared that unease. "I assure you, Hector, we will leave no stone unturned in our endeavours to catch the culprits," he said, aware that he sounded rather self-important. For a horrible moment he had reminded himself of Percy. He turned to the Minister. "So what about the other break-in? In the archives. What did they take from there?"

"It appears no-one knows what was taken, if indeed, anything was. We'll go and take look now." Kingsley shook Hector's hand. "Thank you, Hector. I'm sure Harry will be back to speak to you again soon." He looked expectantly at Harry who muttered a hasty agreement.

The three of them took the lift up to the third level of the Ministry. "So," said Harry, "how can they not know what was taken from the archives?"

"It is a rather little-used section of the department. That is why I wanted Arthur here too." Kingsley opened a door and ushered them through. "It was in the Muggle research section. Specifically, a collection of documents deposited at the end of the seventeenth century. The material has been left in a great deal of disorder and no-one knows what has been taken, because no-one seems to know what was there in the first place. The system of cataloguing here is . . . shall we say . . . incomplete? Arthur, you were probably more familiar with it. I want to know if you notice anything missing."

He led them through another door into a long room lined with shelves and cabinets stuffed with books and ledgers, piles of papers, stacks of files and rolls of parchment.

The three of them looked about the room. One end was in complete disarray. Books, papers, and parchment rolls were scattered over the desks and floor. A few loose sheets zig-zagged gently down from a shelf as their entry stirred the air.

Arthur shook his head in hopeless bewilderment. "To be honest, Kingsley, I hardly ever even came down here. The only person I can recall who ever used that material was . . . well, you know. She was so capable, I generally left her to it." His voice dropped. "I wondered what had happened to her after ‒" he looked askance at Harry who tried to appear uninterested.

Arthur spoke quietly to Kingsley, and Harry had to strain to hear. "She must have been terribly upset when Sirius died. It seems unfair for us to have abandoned her just because she was a Muggle. But I even went to her flat a few weeks later, and someone else was living there. She had left no forwarding address."

Kingsley stroked his chin thoughtfully, but said nothing.

Arthur looked curious. "Do you know something, Kingsley?"

Kingsley tapped his knuckle against his lips. "See that the door to the department is sealed, will you. Arthur? And don't let anyone else in until we have assessed the situation properly."

The lack of an answer did not escape either Arthur or Harry. Arthur raised his eyebrows, but said nothing beyond: "I'll get to it right away, Kingsley," before heading towards the head archivist's desk.

Harry and Kingsley left Arthur in charge of securing the area and went back up to the Minister's office.

"What was that about?" said Harry, shutting the door behind them and leaning on the frame, his arms folded. "Who were you talking about, and what did she have to do with Sirius?"

"Her name was Julia Fenwick." Kingsley sat down at his desk, and nudged his computer mouse. The screen flashed into life. He hesitated for a few seconds then tapped something in to the keyboard. He looked up at Harry. "Email," he said. "Much more efficient than owls."

Harry was astonished. "I thought Muggle technology didn't work around magic!"

"We're a resourceful race, on the whole," said Kingsley. He flicked a little tangle of silver wires that rested at the side of his laptop screen. "Wizard magic and Muggle electricity are not entirely incompatible—with a little modification." He grinned at Harry, his teeth bright against his brown skin. "I'll be in touch."

The dismissal was clear and Harry left, shaking his head in frustration. Deep in contemplation, he began to make his way back to the entrance lobby.

"Harry! Hey, Harry wait up!"

Surprised from his thoughts, he looked around to see Ron gesticulating at him from some yards away. He waited until Ron caught up, panting slightly.

"Hey, mate, how are you doing?"

"Oh not so bad, Ron. How's yourself?"

"Ah. Have you got a few minutes, Harry? Do you fancy a drink?"

Harry glanced at his watch. "It's a bit early, but sure, I don't have to rush off. Fancy the Leaky Cauldron?"

Ron looked relieved. "Good plan, let's go!"

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The lighting in the pub was dim, but not so much so that Harry did not notice Ron was looking tired and anxious. His gangly frame had developed something of a droop and he had several days growth of ginger stubble on his chin. He flopped onto a stool while Harry went to the bar and bought two pints of beer.

"Come on, Ron," he said, putting the glasses on the table and sitting down opposite his friend. "Something's up, isn't it? What's the matter?"

Ron took a long gulp of his beer, draining half the glass. "I needed that," he said with a sigh. "It's not me. It's Hermione."

Harry racked his brains in an attempt to remember when he had last seen her. Sometime before Christmas, he thought, guiltily. "Hermione! What's up with her?"

"Bloody hell, Harry, I don't know! She's been, well . . . miserable, ever since Hugo was born. And I don't know why, Harry, there's no reason for it. We're all right for money, everything should be fine. But she just isn't happy. She won't even let my mum look after the kids to give her a break. It's as if she can't let anyone else help." He paused, and his tone changed slightly, becoming rather wooden and detached. "The emotional challenges and loss of self and identity have been difficult for her to cope with. She may have difficulty in adjusting to the changes in her body and relationships, and the loss of control over her own life that comes with the responsibility of having a family. She is afraid of losing control, but too proud to ask for help. All her energy goes into caring for the children but she is isolated and neglects herself. She feels she can't live up to her own expectations of herself as the perfect mother."

He stopped and gazed anxiously at Harry, who blinked in surprise. "Blimey, Ron, that's very insightful. I wouldn't have expected that sort of clinical analysis from you."

Ron's long face dropped further. "That's because it's not mine. I'm just repeating what Fleur says."

Harry almost laughed. "Can't you speak to her mum?"

"We don't get on. Jean doesn't like me very much."

"Do you want me to talk to Hermione?" Harry asked. "Although she never listens to me either, you know."

"Would you, Harry?" Ron's expression brightened. "I'm at my wits' end. I don't know what to do."

"Leave it with me," said Harry. "I'll pop round in the next few days. I wanted a word with her about something else anyway."

"You're a good mate," said Ron getting to his feet and slapping Harry on the shoulder. "Maybe she'll talk to you."

Harry doubted it, but added a diplomatic visit to Hermione to an extensive mental list of things he really did not want to do. Then, feeling rather unsettled, he went home.

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