The door flew open as if by magic—or, more accurately, as if an annoyed twentysomething wizard had kicked it open. Harry Potter squeezed his way through the doorway and into his front hall, his hands maintaining a tenuous grasp on a cardboard box containing photographs (both magical and non-), mementos (ditto), and the other assorted knickknacks one generally keeps on one's desk in one's office—until, of course, one no longer has an office, much less a desk in it. The box had grown exceedingly heavy as Harry had trudged up his front walkway, but while he could easily have transported it, and the three waiting for him in his car, using magic, given the mood he was in, carrying them manually seemed infinitely preferable. With any luck, he'd work off enough of his anger to keep him from blowing a hole in the nearest wall with his wand. If not, he'd have to wheedle Hermione into helping him fix it; after seven years at Hogwarts, two in Auror training, and three as a full-fledged Auror, Harry had learned that he was far better at blowing things apart than putting them back together.

In turn, Harry wrestled the other three boxes into his house, depositing them one after the other in the living room, then pulled his key out of the front lock and slammed the door closed. The manual labor hadn't worked. He still wanted to break something. He closed his eyes and drew on every lesson in self-control and discipline that Dumbledore and McGonagall had drilled into him. He consciously willed his breathing down to a normal rate, then reached even deeper inside himself and did the same with his heartbeat. He probed down to his glands and, with some concentration, cut off the flow of adrenaline to his bloodstream, then dealt with the chemical already there. Within ten minutes, Harry was calm again; to make sure he stayed that way, he deliberately left the boxes in the living room to unpack later and went to the kitchen to get some food.

There was still a slice left of Mrs. Weasley's meat pie. Despite the fact that he was now twenty-two years old, an Auror (ex-Au—no, he thought, leave that one alone), and rich by both wizard and Muggle standards, Harry had a strong suspicion that Mrs. Weasley still saw him and Ron as little boys. She regularly sent Harry "care packages" of food and homemade sweaters, invited him over for dinner almost every Sunday, and urged more leftovers on him than he could possibly eat when he took her up on those invitations.

Of course, he thought wryly, it also could be that she knows what happens when Ron and I set foot in a kitchen. Some of the concoctions in Snape's Potions classes were more appetizing than the disasters I've come up with, and Ron's even worse.

With both Mrs. Weasley and Ron in his mind, Harry's thoughts naturally drifted to Ginny. It had been a few months since he'd heard from her, but when last they had communicated, she was loving her job in Japan, and had hinted that she'd be bringing a surprise home the next time she visited her parents—a surprise named Shiro Watanabe. Harry grinned at Mrs. Weasley's probable reaction; despite the fact that Harry and Ginny had called things quits for good four years before, he knew that Mrs. Weasley still hoped that Harry would marry into the family.

She just doesn't understand, Harry thought as he transferred the pie to a plate, popped it into the microwave (not even Mr. Weasley would try to put metal in a microwave), and set the nuker for two minutes. She's been my mother in everything but blood since I was twelve years old. She's given me more than I can ever repay, even if she'd accept payment. What further hold does she think she needs on me? I like Gin, but she and I are never going to be anything but friends. Besides, Ginny's a long trip even by broomstick, and she likes her job too much to transfer back.

Well, at least she HAS a job.

Unlike Ron.

And, now, unlike me.

The pie was done; Harry gingerly removed the plate from the nuker and hot-potatoed it to the kitchen table, then blew on his slightly-singed fingers to cool them. He poured himself a glass of wine and sat down to his "luxurious" lunch.

But as he took a bite of the rich meat pie, he thought, Beats Ministry food any day. If Mrs. Weasley opened a cookshop, the Weasleys would be billionaires five times over.

Well, he wouldn't have to worry about Ministry food anymore, that was for sure. I'm not sorry I quit, he thought fiercely. It doesn't really matter who's in charge of the Ministry; there's something about the job that makes whoever holds it, even Kingsley, more concerned about keeping it, rather than doing what's right. It's not that old saying about how power corrupts; it doesn't. Professor Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard in living memory, and he was absolutely incorruptible.

His eyes filled with sudden tears that had nothing to do with his scorched tongue. Six years, and he still missed Dumbledore as though the aged wizard had died the day before. Anguish gave way to anger at the memory, and it tied in neatly with his anger at the Ministry, for the two had one thing in common.

Draco Malfoy.

Harry dumped the plate and goblet into the sink before he got an urge to throw them against the wall and stalked off towards the hall stairs. Malfoy had set in motion the chain of events that had culminated with Dumbledore's death at the hands of Severus Snape, and he had been the subject of the argument with Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt that had led to Harry's resignation as an Auror. And what galled Harry the most was that Snape had been acting under Dumbledore's orders, and Malfoy Voldemort's, but while Snape had died a horrible death, killed by Voldemort's snake, no one had seemed very interested in punishing any of the Malfoys after the war was over.

Draco claimed that Voldemort would have killed his parents if he hadn't tried to kill Dumbledore, before Snape did it, Harry thought sourly as he mounted the stairs, and then his mother gave me some cover during the final war. None of the three of them ever showed the slightest remorse over any of the things they'd done, but everyone either forgot or forgave them, anyway. And now, because I can't and won't do either, I'm out of a job!

His bedroom at last. He threw himself down hard on the bed, then pounded the mattress once with his fists to further vent his spleen. If Malfoy had been there, Harry wouldn't have needed his wand; one look would have reduced the ex-Slytherin to smoldering ashes on the spot.

He's up to something, I know he is, Harry thought, staring at the ceiling. With his parents dead, he's got that whole fortune to play with—and I've never known Malfoy when he didn't have something underhanded going on. That accident must have been a dream come true for him………

Harry sat up suddenly. Maybe it wasn't an accident………

He threw himself back down again, shaking his head at his silliness. You know better than that, Potter. There were only two times when Malfoy was ready and willing to fight you straight-on without Crabbe or Goyle backing him up: the time you said something about his mother, and the time you said something TO his mother. He loved her; even he wouldn't have killed her just to get his inheritance a little sooner.

Merlin's beard, what I wouldn't give to nail him for something! Any excuse…

Any excuse……

That's all Malfoy really is, isn't he? An excuse.

He propped himself up on his elbows and told himself, Let's be honest, Potter. You haven't been happy working for the Ministry in over two years. You've been wanting to quit for months. You're too used to being a leader; it's just not in you to work for someone else. If it hadn't been Malfoy, something else would have made you quit by the end of the year.

So where does that leave me? Washed up?

He sat up, and thought, Okay, enough with the self-pity. Hermione's always nagging me to think things through. It's not like I don't have options; I'm only twenty-two. If I want to, I can still trade on my name to get me at least considered for any kind of job I'd want—but that would just go back to taking orders from other people, and I've proved that I'm no good at that. What skills do I have? Besides Quidditch, I mean.

Well, after three years as an Auror, I'm in top condition. I'm good at fighting, both with wands and hand-to-hand. I know how to do an investigation………hmm……now there's a thought………

Deep within Harry's mind, the smallest seed of an idea had sprouted.