Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.
Important Information: This story is canon-compliant up to—but not including—the infamously-disappointing epilogue of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.
Harry Potter and the Labyrinth
08:34 (Local), May 3, 1945
Somewhere in the Austrian Alps
The sun sparkled off snow and ice, throwing a glittering array of light into the crisp, cool air. The spring thaw was just beginning; soon, these mountains would host a veritable river of snow-melt, and life would begin to sprout all over again.
In the midst of this sparkling renewal, Albus Dumbledore's grim countenance stood out. The stone-faced wizard cast one final greater ward, sealing off the entrance to the dark cave. Apparently, it had been setting off the detection monitors for some time now, but every single unit dispatched to investigate had failed to return. Only now, armed with the Elder Wand, had Dumbledore finally been able to definitively locate and lock down the disturbance. He did not have it within himself to investigate further, knowing that whatever was to be found inside would only tear at his heart; he could not bear to see what twisted workings had been wrought by the dark madness of his old friend's once-brilliant mind.
All that remained was to eradicate any records of this place—an easy task, given the chaos of the war's end—and render it unplottable, and it would hopefully lay undisturbed forever.
17:31 (Local), October 24, 2004
Office 201, Auror Headquarters, Ministry of Magic, London, UK
"Sir?" Whitby called from the half-open doorway into Harry's office. Harry looked up, his attention drawn more by Whitby's nervous tone than the interruption. Whitby, who must have just come on for the second shift, was never this uneasy around Harry, especially since the Dolohov takedown a few nights previous...which must mean that he was delivering bad news, and he wasn't sure how Harry would take it. It was the tone that Whitby used when he spoke to Head Auror Potter, rather than to "just Harry."
"What's up, Kevin?" Harry asked genially, trying to get the younger man to go back to seeing him as his field partner, rather than his commanding officer—it made talking to him easier. Come to think of it, it's a lot like an interrogation. "Come on in. Everything good?"
"Well, sir..." Whitby started. Damn, it didn't work. "There's some pencil-pusher on his way here. I only know because I heard the Senior Undersecretary giving him directions in the Atrium."
Shit. No wonder the kid is worried. Anyone coming via Percy was pretty much guaranteed to ruin Harry's day, especially considering the fact that Harry had already put in an extra half hour and was desperately looking forward to getting out of the office; rather than his typical "get home and pass out" routine, he had been invited to dinner at Hogwarts by Hermione and Neville, both of whom he hadn't seen for several months. Meeting up for dinner with the surviving members of the DA one week before Halloween was a bit of a tradition that they had started in October of 1999, when Harry had taken the night off from the Academy to see Hermione and the rest of his friends back at Hogwarts. Whitby knew that Harry was anxious to get out of the office, and also knew that Harry's intense irritation at any delay would inevitably trickle down to his subordinates who would have to put up with his moodiness. Some of the people who knew him well had said that he'd gotten better about it since his infamously temperamental fifth year at Hogwarts...but not by much. Even in the few short months since Whitby had graduated the academy and been assigned to Auror Headquarters, he had seen some epic-level losses of temper from the Head Auror.
"Thanks, Kevin," Harry sighed, rubbing a hand over his face and finding that he was badly in need of a good shave. Probably not the best first impression for whatever self-important bureaucrat Percy had sent his way, but then again, Harry didn't really care. "Go ahead and get back to the bullpen. You're with Toes tonight. Don't let him trick you into buying him any meals if you end up on a stakeout, he tries that with all the rookies."
Whitby scampered off, excited about the prospect of working with someone other than Dawlish. Harry didn't blame him; Danny "Toes" Proudfoot was more fun to be around on his worst day than John Dawlish was on his best, and he was also the third squad's resident forensic specialist, so Whitby would get to learn a few cool tricks, too. Harry liked to make sure that the rookies got some experience with each specialty, so that if a squad was a man down, any given Auror could potentially fill the open slot with some degree of competence. It was one of the many simple but extremely helpful changes he had made to the training rotation as soon as he had taken the Head Auror position.
"Hello in there!" a nasal, heavily-German-accented but still somehow mechanically-precise voice yodeled—not said, not called, but literally somehow yodeled. Harry hadn't realized that it was possible for a yodel to sound like it had been measured out by an automaton, but this guy somehow managed it. This is going to be a bloody nightmare. "Is this Head Auror Potter's office?"
Then again, perhaps Whitby's rapid departure had also been influenced by noticing the "visitor" walking towards Harry's office, and not wanting anything to do with the inevitable fireworks.
"That's what it says on the door, Fritz," Harry gritted out, suppressing a groan. He already had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, reminding him distinctly of Halloween in his fourth year at Hogwarts—specifically, when the Goblet of Fire blazed scarlet for the fourth time, just Dumbledore called his name. "In big, bold letters."
The door opened all the way to reveal a tall, thin, blond-haired, blue-eyed walking stereotype. The man—who looked to be roughly thirty years of age—looked like he had walked straight out of a recruiting poster for the Luftwaffe. His uniform robes were immaculate, his hair was tidy, and his assorted pins, patches, and designations made him look all kinds of official. In short, he looked every bit the bureaucrat that Harry had expected. I bet old Percy needed a change of underwear as soon as he saw this fruitcake.
"I do not understand," the man said, in perfectly meticulous—though still heavily-accented—English. "I think you must be mistaken. You see, my name is Franz, not Fritz." Trust a bloody German to not get a joke. "I am Franz Huber, Chefunterstaatssekretär für die Kanzler von Zauberkunst, from ze Austrian—" Eh, Austrian, German, close enough, really. "—Ministry of Magic. I have come on behalf of my government to make you a proposition, Head Auror Potter, and you come highly recommended from my counterpart in your government, Senior Undersecretary Percival Weasley. I trust zat you are familiar with him and his work."
Harry grunted, before refining his reply—it couldn't hurt to at least try to be polite; maybe that would speed things up and get this ponce out of his office faster. "What's your proposition, Herr Huber?" He didn't quite manage to keep the impatience out of his tone—after all, he really wanted to get out of the office for the day—and even the apparently-socially-retarded not-quite-German picked up on it.
"Ah, I see zat you are in a hurry," Franz observed, his tone still flat and impersonal. "I shall endeavor to be efficient, then." Harry barely suppressed a snort, having trouble imagining this ridiculous pencil-pusher being anything but the picture of efficiency. "You see, quite recently, there has been an uptick in chatter from certain...darker elements...of ze wizarding communities of continental Europe, especially in Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and western Russia. In particular, there is an area in ze mountains of North Tyrol zat has apparently been steadily increasing in magical activity—on frequencies exceeding our capability to monitor, no less—for ze last several years."
"The last several years?" Harry asked, incredulous. "Why are you just starting to notice this now? More importantly, I don't see what any of this has to do with me."
"I shall arrive at that information shortly, Head Auror Potter," Franz said sternly. "Ze answer to your query is zat ze area in question has been...disavowed, for lack of a better term...by all of ze neighboring magical governments, ever since ze fall of Grindelwald. Nobody can seem to find any record of why zat is ze case. For ze last sixty years, each individual government has simply been operating under ze belief that one of ze others owned—and therefore vas responsible for monitoring—zat area. During a recent conference, ze topic came up, and it became clear zat none of ze relevant magical governments had any clue vat vas happening there."
"Still not seeing how this involves me," Harry said flatly, though the bad feeling was spreading from the pit of his stomach to his spine. He had an inkling of how this might go, and he didn't like it.
"Vell, you see, once it became clear that ze area had been essentially lawless for six decades, an international task force vas set up to investigate ze area," Franz continued. "Unfortunately, each team zat vas sent to investigate...has not returned. It has been decided zat in the spirit of international magical cooperation, you shall—"
"Let me stop you right fucking there, mate," Harry snapped, already well beyond mere irritation and moving rapidly towards incandescent rage. Someone was trying to rope him into some political bullshit, and he wanted nothing to do with it. "I don't know if you've realized this, but I happen to be an Auror for the British Ministry of Magic—my jurisdiction only includes the UK and, to a lesser extent, the Commonwealth nations. I have no authority in Austria, and more importantly for this discussion, the Austrian Ministry of Magic has no authority over me. I don't know or care who decided what, but the only thing I shall do, is what I'm ordered to do by the Director of the DMLE or the Minister of Magic. Percy Weasley only has the authority to make staff decisions, and this is clearly operational, and he's not in my direct chain of command anyway. We've got plenty of problems of our own here in Britain, I don't have time to be your goddamn spell-fodder for the sake of some publicity stunt."
This was clearly not what Franz was hoping to hear. As far as the Austrian bureaucrat was concerned, Harry Potter was signed, sealed, and delivered from the moment Percy pointed Franz to his office. "But Head Auror Potter," he stammered, "you see, ze Austrian Ministry of Magic has invested me with ze power to compel you—"
That finally crossed the line. Harry Potter had spent the better part of his life being ordered about by people with (at least nominal) authority over him, from the Dursleys, to Dumbledore, to the Ministry...but he drew the line when people who had no standing to dictate his actions started trying to impose their will upon him. Harry thought it was one of the reasons he had always been able to throw off the Imperius Curse so easily—when it came down to it, anyone trying to subvert his own will was in for a fight. Franz Huber was no exception.
Harry abruptly stood, somehow managing to avoid scattering papers and files all over the place. His wand was leveled directly between Franz's eyes before Harry even registered the fact that he had drawn it. Harry spoke, softly and slowly—almost as though he was channeling the late Severus Snape—and his tone (and the ominously-glowing tip of his wand) brooked no argument. The very air was literally distorting, in the manner of heat rising from scorching pavement, solely from the strength of the anger in Harry's words.
"Get out of my office," Harry snarled, not caring that Franz was getting more and more obviously terrified with each passing word. "Get the fuck out of my office, and if you come back here saying that Percy Fucking Weasley or the Austrian fucking Ministry is giving you the power to compel me to do anything, you will find yourself in a dueling circle, and we will duel to kill. Have I made myself clear?"
Wide-eyed, pale, and gasping in fear, Franz Huber fled from Harry's office. A thunderous silence boomed from the bullpen, punctuated only by the Austrian's receding footfalls on the tiled floor and the suddenly-deafening ticking of the clock above the coffee mess. Slowly, the rest of the Aurors in the office began picking up their normal activity, pretending that nothing had happened—until Harry left, of course; then, the whole office would devolve into shameless gossip. Harry barely took notice; his eyes and full attention were riveted to the wand in his hand. Ever since he had begun carrying more than one wand, his quick-draw had always been his holly and phoenix feather wand. It was just reflex—as far as Harry was concerned, that was his wand, and the others were just for special circumstances. Except...
...Except for this time. Now, he was staring at the smooth, dark gray wood of the Elder Wand.
23:11 (Local), June 13, 1997
Astronomy Tower of Hogwarts, Scotland, UK
"Expelliarmus!"
The headmaster's wand was pulled from his hand. Draco Malfoy—having never been a particularly good Seeker—failed to catch it out of mid-air, and it clattered to the stone floor.
Several very tense moments passed, while Harry Potter silently struggled against the headmaster's Full-Body Bind, until a green flash lit up the starless night. In an instant, Albus Dumbledore was no more, and the spell broke, freeing Harry to chase after the headmaster's murderer.
18:33 (Local), October 24, 2004
Entrance Hall of Hogwarts, Scotland, UK
Having looked at his ever-handy Marauder's Map, Harry already knew who was waiting for him inside. Therefore, he wasn't particularly surprised when a joyful chorus of "Harry's here!" assaulted his ears the instant he passed through the threshold. He was apparently the final one to arrive, as the whole group began to move toward the seventh floor once he joined them.
The rousing round of greetings took nearly ten minutes, by which time Harry—always a fairly incisive person, and now with instincts and a keen eye honed by Auror service—had already noticed something important about the group: despite their scars, lingering curse effects, and maimed bodies, every single person there had left the war behind. They were all professors, researchers, Quidditch players, journalists, farmers...the list went on and on, and despite the group's well-above-average Defense OWLs and NEWTs, Harry was the only person there who had turned fighting into his career; for him, the war had never really ended, it had only changed. That realization made his hand twitch...was that really all he was ever going to do? All he was ever going to be?
After that minor epiphany, the rest of the night—which Harry had been so looking forward to—seemed to drag on. Everyone was talking about their husbands, wives, children...their families. When the subject shifted to work and livelihoods, everyone dutifully took turns expressing awe at Harry's recent takedown of yet another would-be Dark Lord (many wondering aloud why the hell there were always so many in such a small country)...and then quickly moved on, unwilling to spend much more time on the topic of what had essentially been a cold-blooded execution. Apparently, Harry's life wasn't very well-suited to polite dinner conversation. The setting probably didn't help; they were holding their party in the Room of Requirement, which—much like Harry himself—served as a subtle reminder of the war they would rather forget.
Hermione, who had always been the most perceptive (if sometimes a bit socially awkward) of the group, did not take long to notice Harry's growing discomfort. Neville, always the most sensitive of the male Gryffindors, probably would have seen it as well, except that he was distracted by tending to the every whim of his very pregnant wife. Currently, he was rubbing Hannah's feet while simultaneously levitating chocolate-covered strawberries to her.
"What's wrong, Harry?" Hermione asked quietly, as the party crowd began to separate into smaller groups. Her dark, intelligent eyes held no small amount of concern; she had only grown more astute from wheedling information out of her transfiguration students all day (having taken McGonagall's old teaching position, when McGonagall became the headmistress), and Harry knew that it was hopeless to try to hide what was bothering him...at least from Hermione, who knew him better than virtually anyone alive. "Out with it."
Harry sighed. He had always been reticent to spill the beans about anything that was troubling him, but the ever-increasing strain of simply being around a bunch of people who didn't want to think about him at all (piled on top of an already-bad day) had really gotten to him, and this was Hermione—if anyone could be trusted to be discreet, it was her.
"The people here," he began. "You can't tell me you don't see it, hear it, feel it. They look at me, and all they can think about is the war. They hear about me shooting down some rabid dark wizard, and they think it's all I'm really good for. As far as they're concerned, that's all I am...some dirty, dangerous killer who happens to be their dirty, dangerous killer. And don't even get me started on work..."
Of course, having already gotten himself started on work, he quickly outlined the stress he had been under as Head Auror, as well as Percy Weasley's ever-increasing, always-irritating efforts to control him...including that afternoon's episode, which had almost left Franz Huber splattered all over Harry's office.
Hermione frowned, worry lines creasing her forehead. "It sounds to me like—"
"It sounds to me like you need a vacation, mate," a familiar voice interrupted cheerfully. "You ought to come to a few Quidditch matches, or visit a few beaches or something. You work yourself too bloody hard."
Ron, whom Harry had seen a few weeks previously at an England vs. Ireland Quidditch match, seemed fairly content; he had taken an offer from his beloved Chudley Cannons for a Keeper position after declining to take his NEWTs, to Hermione's irritation, and Harry's amusement. Harry was positive that not taking the NEWTs had been a major factor in Ron's and Hermione's inevitable and yet remarkably amicable breakup. He had confided to Harry that he would probably play for five or six more years, and then take Ludo Bagman's old position in the Ministry—Arthur had moved up several pegs after the war (ending up as the Director of the DMLE, based on his surprisingly impressive war record), and nepotism was alive and well; Harry had no doubt that the job was Ron's for the taking, especially considering his long-time association with the ever-famous Harry Potter—which aligned nicely with his and Lavender's family plans. They had gotten married about two years after the end of the war, and Harry had of course stood as Ron's best man; however, both knew that they were slowly drifting apart. They would always be lifelong friends, but adulthood had put strenuous demands on both of them, and they had little time to spend together.
"Ronald, language!" Hermione scolded automatically. Ron rolled his eyes, winked at Harry, and then scurried off at his wife's sudden call from across the room. It suddenly struck Harry that each husband at the party was constantly being dragged around by his wife, and he had to work to suppress a chuckle—after all, he and Hermione were having a fairly serious discussion.
Hermione, though, was not so easily distracted. "As I was saying, Harry, I have definitely noticed some things about you recently, and it seems like this latest incident is the next step."
"Hmm?" Harry murmured, arching his eyebrow.
"Losing your temper, Harry," she clarified. "When you lose your temper, it's a bit like being drunk—your inhibitions are lowered, and so you do what a more visceral, primal part of you wants to do. In this case, you drew your wand. And not just your wand...you drew the wand."
Part of Harry thought that she was reading too much into it—she had always been of the opinion that Harry should hide the Elder Wand and then obliviate himself—but the rest of him remembered how shocked he had been that afternoon to find it in his hand, practically begging to be let loose against that idiotic—but otherwise innocent—bureaucrat. Harry had forced himself to take a detour to the Auror target range to let off some steam with the Elder Wand (the target dummies hadn't stood a chance, and the range attendant had been left gaping in awe at the destruction Harry had wrought), knowing that it wasn't a good idea for a powerful Auror with hair-trigger reflexes to walk around with that much rage bottled up inside.
"So?" Harry asked evenly, wondering where she was going with this.
"So?!" Hermione practically shrieked. "They call it the Deathstick for a reason, Harry!" Luckily, Harry had silently cast a muffliato charm around them as soon as Ron had left; otherwise, the attention of the remaining partygoers would have been drawn instantly. It wasn't common knowledge that Harry possessed the Elder Wand (otherwise he'd be the target of constant assassination attempts—well, more than he already was), as Harry had systematically memory-charmed most of the witnesses to the final confrontation with Voldemort, simply editing their memories of the taunts and insults the two wizards had thrown at each other before casting. It had taken all night, several Pepper-Up Potions, and a great deal of assistance from the remaining Hogwarts house-elves, but by the morning after the Battle of Hogwarts, only Ron and Hermione knew that he had the Elder Wand. Things were much safer that way.
"Yes, Hermione," Harry reiterated drily. "So?"
"So," Hermione declared, "it is proof that the Elder Wand is dark, Harry. It is clearly affecting you...maybe it exacerbates whatever negative feelings you have, or something, almost like the locket horcrux. You have to get rid of it. Or tell Ollivander about it...he knows all there is to know about wands, so maybe he knows something about this."
"Ollivander didn't know anything in particular about the Elder Wand when Voldemort was torturing him for information, so he won't know anything now—he's just a guy who makes wands," Harry said, not mentioning that Ollivander had received a visit from Harry shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts. Harry had pumped the old wandmaker for information, and then promptly memory-charmed the conversation away. "Plus, Albus Dumbledore carried the Elder Wand for five decades, and he used it every single day without turning evil. I'm pretty sure that if it didn't corrupt him in that amount of time, it won't have corrupted me after a few years of extremely occasional use."
"I don't know about that, Harry," she responded slowly, clearly choosing her words carefully. "In the last few years...well, everyone has noticed it, even though only Ron and I know about the wand..."
"Spit it out, Hermione," Harry almost commanded.
"You've been getting...colder," Hermione replied, avoiding his eyes. "It seems like every time anyone sees you or talks to you, you're just coming back from killing some dark wizard or other. You don't really smile any more, you don't play even Quidditch any more—"
"Hermione," Harry said firmly, becoming quite irritated that his moderately-therapeutic conversation had been co-opted into yet another lecture about the Elder Wand turning him into an evil killing machine. "Look around at the DA, or at magical Britain as a whole—after the Battle of Hogwarts, they just decided that the war was over, and stopped fighting. 'War's over, everyone, time to live happily ever after!'" he mocked in a false happy voice, before turning serious again. "You know your history, Hermione; tell me, what happened after World War Two?"
"Well, obviously there was a great deal of rebuilding, exemplified by the United States with the Marshall Plan—"
"The Cold War, Hermione," Harry interrupted, knowing that if he gave her any chance at all, this would turn into an exhaustive history lesson about postwar economic policies or something; it would probably be enlightening (if boring), but he was trying to make a point, not learn something. "The Nazis were gone, and the other major nations had built up so much military power that they couldn't trust each other...so they fought shadow wars for almost five decades. Voldemort is gone, and now every bloody dark wizard in Europe with delusions of grandeur has decided that he's going to be the next Dark Lord. Who is going to stop them, Hermione? You? Those journalists and potion-brewers and healers and farmers standing over there, chatting about their kids and their new picket fences? The idiot Ministry, or the blissfully ignorant population? No, of course not—why bother, when you've all got a bloody Boy-Who-Lived with a bloody stupid "saving-people-thing" to fight it for you? You ever wonder why every significant takedown in the last several years seems to have been led by me? The war never ended, Hermione. I'm just the only one still fighting it."
Hermione was shocked into silence, a rare condition for her. She knew, intellectually, that there were still darker elements in the world, but—apparently like the rest of magical Britain—she had allowed herself to simply not think about them, almost instinctively preferring the protective comfort of pretending that once Voldemort was gone, all would be right with the world. But there Harry was, evidently using his Head Auror position to be practically a one-man Order of the Phoenix. It was a sobering thought; no wonder he had been so distant lately.
"It's a cold war, Hermione," Harry said flatly, standing up and dispelling the muffliato from earlier. The party was winding down, and Harry had an early start tomorrow morning. He hadn't meant for this conversation to turn into an argument—or an accusation, or whatever it had been—but now he was just tired and wanted to leave. "If I've gotten any colder myself, then it was just to level the bloody playing field."
With that, Harry strode from the Room of Requirement, not bothering to say any goodbyes. After all, he reasoned, nobody there really wanted to talk to him anyway.
23:11 (GMT), June 13, 1997
Tower 11, Cell 38, Nurmengard Prison, Zugspitze Peak, Germany
The ancient, skeletal prisoner felt a brief twinge, and he knew that one of his many hidden monitors must have been still functioning for all these years. That particular signal indicated that the Elder Wand had passed to a new master. That could mean only one thing: Albus Dumbledore—his old friend and the only wizard who could ever truly threaten him—was dead. Now, all he had to do was...keep waiting. It shouldn't be much longer.
Author's Note
As you've no doubt noticed by now, my astute reader, there will be flashbacks from time to time. You should also know that when I wrote that sentence, I laughed so hard that I almost choked to death on my popsicle. Hehe, puns. Love 'em.
"Chefunterstaatssekretär für die Kanzler von Zauberkunst" translates—via Google Translator (so if it's a shitty translation, try not to be too offended)—roughly to...predictably..."Chief Secretary for the Chancellor of Sorcery." Basically, he's Percy Weasley...except German (well, almost). And did you notice how he speaks almost entirely in passive voice? Politician. Blegh.
The first chapter was sort of an introduction, hence its brevity. I think that most of the chapters will be roughly this length.
As of 9/9/2014, I've edited the title of this story to "Harry Potter and the Labyrinth." This story has seen fairly poor view numbers, and I suspect that the shitty title may have been partly to blame (in addition to people being reluctant to start reading an in-progress story).
Review!
