Chapter 2: Harry

~|Twelve Months After the War|~


Dear Mr Harry Potter,

We are pleased to inform you of your successful completion of the Practical Application of Law Enforcement Standards training program. Congratulations on your exemplary performance.

Given that this accomplishment is the third and final component of your training, we are similarly delighted to announce your eligibility for graduation. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has always sought strong, law-abiding members to join our own exceptional force, and it is with great pleasure that we hence offer you a position with…

Harry closed his eyes. For a long, long moment, he simply sat. The smoothness of the parchment in his hand – heavy; of good quality – was as grounding as it was surreal.

Surreal… and foreboding.

With a sigh, Harry lowered the letter to the dining table before him. His head followed its motion, replacing the parchment as his face fell into his hands. Heavy. Tired. So, so tired. The ticking of the wall clock behind him was achingly consistent, studiously resilient. How could anything manage to persist for so long?

Twelve months, it had been. Twelve months since the end of Voldemort, since the Wizarding world had begun to rat out any of his remaining followers and wipe them clean of their corruption like mould from grimy floors. The Ministry had tottered to straighten from its Tower of Piza lean, had similarly wiped clear its own blemishes, and was just beginning to pick up its pace to run as a ministry should.

Hogwarts had been restored. The students had resumed their attendance. It had almost returned to normal, or so Harry had been told by Hermione. He'd not returned after the initial clean up.

Witches calmed. Wizards settled. Residents of their world had begun to wander the streets once more without glancing fearfully over their shoulders, and Muggleborns had finally taken to stepping outside without cringing.

All was well – or at least getting better. It was better.

Harry should have been happy. The Ministry would always be something of a lost cause simply for the politics that wrought havoc within its halls, but that was only to be expected. Hogwarts had returned to its old-fashioned ways in a manner that was as comforting as it was exasperating. And the survivors of the war…

Harry sighed, scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. The survivors were doing better. They all were. Every single one of them was healing. And Harry was doing his best to heal alongside them. How had he not even noticed just how much there was to fix, how much pain and scarring and – and wrongness there was to remedy? In the heat of flight, battle, and horror for the sight of death, Harry hadn't even suspected, but the aftermath…

He hadn't realised it would be so hard.

Becoming an Auror was the logical decision. Harry was practically made for it, his instructors said. He had a history of fighting, had the urge to fight more, and that innate skill, that drive, would be nothing but an asset to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Harry knew it was the right place for him to go, the place for him to be.

And yet.

Blinking his eyes open, Harry slid his hands down his face until the propped under his chin. He stared at the parchment resting before him, half folded back upon itself but not quite hiding the slanted, black-inked script within. It meant so much, those words. So much possibility, so much commitment. It bespoke direction, and doing something. It meant he was useful.

And Harry didn't want it. As he stared at Martha Estinburgh's professional handwriting, he understood what had been plaguing his subconsciousness since the moment he'd all but accidentally defeated Voldemort.

I don't want this. I don't want to fight anymore.

It seemed such a waste, to throw away twelve months of training. It seemed a disservice to Ron, who had trained alongside him, to Hermione, who studied her way to qualifications to be something. It was a wrongdoing to the instructors themselves, to the entire Wizarding world, and to everyone Harry hadn't been able to save in the war.

Melancholy settled upon Harry's shoulders as it often had in the past week. Hell, had it only been a week? Only one week since he'd completed his training and withdrawn into isolation to bided his time for the results? It felt like so much longer, and yet infinitely shorter, too. Harry needed more time – to think, to decide, to know for sure.

Time for thought was not idly afforded, however, and even as Harry came to his realisation, the sound of a clatter echoed from the floor above. Harry glanced upwards at the darkened ceiling of the dingy kitchen; Grimmauld Place had grown no cleaner for his habitation in the past months, even if Kreacher had done his best to scrub every inch of it, as he never had when Sirius was alive. The smell of dampness remained, the streaks of something – some darkness, most likely an exploded meal – stained the walls, and the mismatched chairs of the central table creaked and leaned as much as they sat stoutly, waiting to be filled.

Harry barely saw it anymore. He'd spent a lot of time in that kitchen in the past week. Almost all of his time, in fact, when he wasn't wandering through the upstairs rooms.

A screech and another clatter sounded, and Harry exhaled in a sigh. An owl, then. He could hazard a guess who it belonged to even before the hummingbird flap of wings descended the stairwell to the kitchen.

"Hey, Pig," Harry said, gaze resting wearily upon the tiny own as it struggled to fly in a straight with its delivery. "You got here faster than I'd expected. I'm surprised he didn't just fire-call."

Pig cheeped merrily as he all but crashed into the dining table. A flurry of feathers erupted before he was rolling his little grey body towards Harry, dragging the red-enveloped letter after him. Harry untangled him before he could hurt himself.

The Howler exploded almost before he'd fully tugged it loose from its twine. "HARRY! MATE, I PASSED! BLOODY HELL, I PASSED! I WASN'T SURE I'D MANAGE FOR A WHILE THERE, WAS SURE I FAILED THAT BIT ON PROTOCOL QUESTIONS, BUT I ACTUALLY DID IT –"

Harry scratched at Pig's head as he listened with half an ear – or as much 'half an ear' as one could manage while being bellowed at. He listened, and he couldn't find it within himself to care. It wasn't that he wasn't happy for Ron, because he was. It was just that the enthusiasm Ron clearly couldn't contain so juxtaposed his own mindset as to be jarring. It almost hurt, and more than just his ears.

Harry hadn't seen Ron for almost the entire week after their training had concluded. He felt guilty for that, but… he'd needed time. Whether Ron had somehow sensed as much, or that he'd simply settled for spending time with 'the boys and girls' they'd trained with, Harry wasn't sure, but he was grateful for it nonetheless. Harry had needed time. Time to realise he needed more of it.

"- KNOW THAT YOU'LL DEFINITELY HAVE PASSED IF I HAVE, SO MAKE SURE YOU SEND ME A LETTER BACK WITH PIG, ALRIGHT? WE'RE GOING OUT FOR DRINKS TONIGHT, WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT!"

The Howler crumpled in upon itself as soon as its message was relayed, and then it erupted. In a burst of flame that caused Pig to hiccup and bounce nearly a foot into the air, it showered to the table top in a sprinkle of ashes.

Harry sighed. Again. He felt like he'd been doing a lot of that lately.

"Horrid Weasley boy," muttered a grumble from behind him. "No sense of decency, to be firing such muck and filth and noise into poor Kreacher's kitchen."

"Technically it's my kitchen," Harry said, not even glancing towards the old house elf who was the only real company he'd had for days. He returned to scratching a thoroughly frazzled Pig behind his neck. "Which means that I can receive letters from whoever I'd like."

Kreacher grumbled something else before Harry heard the slap of his bare feet patter to his side. Chin still resting in his hand, Harry glanced sidelong and down towards him.

The elf was old. Far, far too old, and likely should have retired about half a century ago if house elves even abided by such protocols. Hermione had told Harry countless times that, "As the proprietor of Grimmauld Place and thus Kreacher's owner, you have to be the one to set him free."

She'd said 'owner' as one would 'slaver', and Harry couldn't blame her. Not entirely, anyway. She was rather forceful with her opinions on house elves, always had been, and it rubbed off after a time. She'd picked S.P.E.W right back up after the war.

Harry would have even abided by Hermione's suggestion, except that upon the one occasion he'd voiced his thoughts to Kreacher, the house elf had burst into tears and clung to his leg for three straight hours afterwards. Harry wasn't eager for a repeat performance; not even at the risk of Hermione's disapproving eye that was triggered whenever she stepped into the house.

"Master will be sending that bird away, yes?" Kreacher asked, turning his pointed nose towards where Pig melted blissfully beneath Harry's ministrations.

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Just as soon as I write a reply."

As if magically conjured – and likely so, if not expressly by Harry himself – Kreachers knobbly hands reached up towards the table with parchment, quill, and ink in his grasp. Harry took them obligingly, offering Pig a last nudge to the head and smiling slightly for the contented burp the owl offered in gratitude.

Maybe Harry should get another owl. He might have even considered it if it didn't feel so wrong to do so. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, at the silent acceptance that he likely wouldn't get over some things from the war, Harry bowed his head over the parchment.

He wrote a letter. Paused, and then he wrote another. Sealing them both with a Charm before pocketing his briefly extracted wand, Harry handed them to Pig with a murmured apology. "Sorry, but if you could take this first one to the Ministry before you go back to Ron, that'd be great."

Pig chirruped with his unshakeable merriment and sprung into the air. He sagged slightly, then twirled in an arcing spin before shooting off up the stairwell like a flung hex. The clatter of his exit – he'd likely collided with something – was all that signalled his successful departure.

Harry was skirting the table even before Pig had fully disappeared, barely hearing Kreacher's mutters behind him. "Master is leaving?"

"Yeah," Harry said, climbing the stairs.

"Master is going to see his friends?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Master is going to see the Estinburgh witch, then?"

How Kreacher even knew Martha's name Harry didn't know, but he didn't much care. "No, not that either. I'm…" He paused at the head of the stairwell, glancing back towards where the ancient elf trailed after him. "I think I'll go for a run."

Kreacher squinted up at him with something that Harry had only discovered in the past year of living with him was less of a glare and more a product of his failing eyesight. "Master runs too much."

Harry shrugged. "I like it," he admitted. "It helps me think."

"Master thinks too much," Kreacher muttered, and the way he turned his gaze down to his feet suggested he spoke more to himself than to Harry.

Harry shrugged again regardless. He'd been sincere in his words; if Auror training had taught him anything, it was that running felt good. Maybe not so much working out in a gym with the rest of the trainees – being shorter than most of them usually made for disadvantaged sparring – but running… that felt good. He'd never had a chance to simply run before. Not without fleeing from something or someone.

Better than the burn of thigh muscles and the jarring slap of feet upon concrete, however, was the feeling of freedom. The temporary escape. That was what Harry needed.

He turned from Kreacher as the thought beckoned him. He was striding from the stairs to Kreacher's continued grumbles. "Master should be having something for lunch."

"I just had breakfast," Harry called in reply.

"'Just had breakfast' more than five hours ago, Kreacher is thinking."

"Was it really?" Harry said with only the barest hint of interest. Losing time didn't bother him so much anymore; it had happened too often of late. "Huh. Go figure."

He passed down the dark, eternally gloomy hallway. He didn't glance into the empty living room, the empty dining hall, didn't spare a moment for Walburga Black's curtained portrait. The door swung open for him as though it was expecting his leave, and Harry was running before he hit the pavement.

Running. Running away. If only for a moment, Harry would escape the weight of a war that had never quite left him. He would think. He would ponder. He would ground himself in his decision, in the words he'd sent back to Martha Estinburgh.

The war had changed the world for so, so many people. Some for good, for beautiful, for comfortable, and some… Some were still deciding. Before Harry, a world of duty and responsibility awaited him. Commitment, and more wars to fight, if of a different kind, spread down a stretching future beckoning to be embraced.

But not this time. Not by Harry.


~Written for The House Competition Round 4~

House: Ravenclaw

Category: Short Story

Prompt: Receiving a letter

Word Count: 2228