Disclaimer in chapter 1.
Chapter X: The Door Opens.
The Boy who Lived had been gathering intel on the Slytherins for the last week, hoping to discern their tactics and find weaknesses that he could exploit. He even moved his workout to the nighttime, directly after their Quidditch practice. There was something inherently comfortable about laying on the roof of the school, covered in his invisibility cloak and watching the Slytherin practice through his modified omnioculars. He spent most of his nights reading through various Quidditch books, looking for loopholes in the rules that he could exploit if an opportunity arose.
There was no such thing as bad intelligence, Harry had been instructed. There was false intelligence, there was mundane intelligence and there was pointless intelligence, but all were usable under the right circumstances. A false rumor, once verified as false, had the potential to mislead their enemies. Mundane intelligence could be used during interrogations, mostly to give the interrogator an aura of omniscience. Why not tell him something that you believe he already knows? Pointless intelligence was simply stored away, and Harry was assured that if ever there was a use for pointless intelligence, he would know when the moment came.
The Slytherin beaters, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, only covered two of the chasers during practices. Perhaps they had been at odds with the third chaser, a tall and lanky boy with sandy blonde hair and a permanent sneer on his face. His name was Julian Vaisey. Usable. The keeper did not appear to like any of his teammates with the notable exception of the lead chaser, Christopher Warrington. Pointless. Mr. Warrington was easily the best chaser on the team in terms of skill and speed, and he seemed to enjoy taking the quaffle from one end of the pitch to the other by himself. He had dropped the quaffle on several occasions, rather than passing it to an open teammate. Usable. The Slytherin keeper blocked nearly 80 per cent of shots taken on average, with the notable exception of shots from the lower right. His blocked shot percentage dropped to around 30 per cent at that angle. Usable. Slytherin had only one reserve chaser, and he spent all of his practice time snogging his girlfriend in the stands. Usable.
He had already disseminated his findings to his own team, who were hesitant at first to use the information for their own gain. It felt too much like cheating for their tastes. Harry assured them that it was not illegal, he had read over every single applicable rule and there was nothing in it about spying on their practices. Nothing they would do on the field would be against the rules, exactly. Harry had this to say on the subject: "This is Quidditch. Our Captain has repeatedly told us that the objective of this game is to win by any legal means, and I intend to follow orders." A few strange glances were shot at him, but nobody wanted to disagree with the Boy who Lived.
The crowd cheered as the Gryffindor team made its way onto the field, flying low and then circling the pitch in usual fashion. The rivalry between their team and Slytherin was legendary, and nearly every student in the school was in the stands for this game.
Harry flew out last, right behind Ron. His blood cooled as he joined formation and completed their customary pre-game victory lap, preparing for their kickoff. Familiar faces stood out in the crowd, they were all cheering for his team, and for him. It was disconcerting.
He had never flown competitively like this, and he'd only ever had matches with his own team mates. It was time to see if all his preparation would pay off.
"And they're off!!" The commentator shouted as Madam Hooch tossed the Quaffle skyward. Almost immediately after the kickoff, a well-aimed bludger sailed towards Julian Vaisley as he sped towards the quaffle. It caught him square in the back, knocking him sideways on his broom and causing all but the Slytherin stands to cheer loudly. As expected, the beaters were unwilling to protect him from the iron balls.
Ron whooped as his sister flew in low and scored the first goal for Gryffindor. No sooner had the goal been announced then two bludgers simultaneously smashed into Vaisley, knocking him out and sending him falling slowly towards the ground. The Slytherin beaters actually smirked at this, as if Gryffindor did them a favor just then. The stands were in an uproar. The reserve chaser for Slytherin came out, his eyes wide with fear. He was not expecting to play today. Good.
"And it looks like the reserve chaser has to take the field for Slytherin. It's almost unheard of, to see them replacing a player before the other team..." The voice rang out over the pitch as the reserve player flew up to the rest of his team.
"Warrington has the quaffle, he's racing down the pitch towards the Gryffindor keeper..." The chasers were in a sloppy hawkshead, great for quick passes between the chasers. The beaters zeroed in on Warrington, however, and when a bludger sailed towards his face he performed a sloth-grip roll and lost the quaffle in the process.
"And he loses it! Picked up by Gryffindor's Katie Bell, passed to Demelza Robins... The shot... 10 points for Gryffindor!"
Harry had not caught sight of the snitch yet, instead he followed Draco Malfoy around as he searched for the snitch in a messy diamond search pattern. He led Harry on a short game of chase, but quickly tired of it as Harry had a far superior broom and more experience with tailing someone.
As Gryffindor scored yet again against an increasingly frustrated keeper, the Slytherin beaters took the opportunity to fire two bludgers at Ron. The first one missed entirely, but the second one hit his left arm as Warrington tossed the quaffle through the left hoop. Harry was sure he saw his Captain's shoulder dislocate, but Ron didn't even grunt in pain. He rolled with his one good arm to keep from spinning out of control and glared at his two beaters, who shrugged sheepishly.
"10 points for Slytherin, and a solid hit on the Gryffindor keeper! He just shrugs it off, as usual. It'll take more than a few bludgers to keep Ron Weasley away from his hoops!" The commentator shamelessly cheered on his favored team.
After two more quaffles got past their Keeper, the Slytherin chasers formed up and rushed towards the Gryffindor goals, Warrington trailing with the quaffle in hand. They looked angry. Harry banked sharply away from the other Seeker and raced after the chasers towards the hoops.
"Has Potter seen the snitch?!" The commentator shouted as the commotion built to a dull roar. The Gryffindor spectators stood as one and cheered.
The three Slytherin chasers closed in on Ron, led by the reserve chaser, who rammed straight into the Gryffindor Keeper mercilessly. The second chaser closed in on a clear collision course. A bludger sailed towards Warrington, who performed a textbook sloth grip roll to avoid it. "Oooh, and Weasley is hit hard!"
Harry's mind was a blur of inner monologue and scenarios. Ron was going to be put out of action, leaving the hoops open. He was also the Captain, and only the Captain could call a time out. Gryffindor would be slaughtered with no Keeper... He had found a suitable loophole in the Quidditch rulebook, but would Madam Hooch let it slide? There was only one way to find out.
Mere moments after his failed shot on Warrington, Andrew Kirke's bat was rather violently ripped from his hand by his own Seeker.
Harry tore downward, beater's bat in hand, and reached the recently pounded bludger just as the second Slytherin chaser rammed into Ron. The crowd winced as Ron fell gracelessly from his broom and began his slow, unconscious ascent to the pitch. The hoops were now wide open for Warrington, who nearly clipped Katie Bell as he flew around her towards the goalposts.
With a measured swing, the Boy who Lived sent the bludger flying in exactly the wrong direction. The iron ball was now on a collision course with the Slytherin stands. Several frightened cries rang out as Madam Hooch flew towards impending chaos with her wand extended. She blew her whistle to signal a time out only moments before Warrington sent the Quaffle neatly through the unguarded hoops. A smile tugged at the corners of Harry's mouth as both teams flew towards the ground, thoroughly confused. The bludger crashed into the Slytherin stands, sending splinters in every direction as Madam Hooch got control of the misguided ball.
Ron hit the ground gracelessly, but slow enough that he wouldn't be damaged. Madam Hooch flew towards the ground with a darkened, angry expression on her face. She landed straight in front of Harry and pointed at him with the bludger. "Mister Potter! I expected foul play from the Slytherins, but never in my life have I seen a more blatant display of bumphing!"
Harry shook his head seriously. Never break the rules when you can get away with bending them. "Negative. Bumphing applies only to beaters who purposefully hit their bludger into the crowd. I am a seeker."
Madam Hooch's mouth, which had most likely been on the verge of spewing some rather choice epithets, hung open for a moment before she could regain her composure. He chose that moment to make the journey to his fallen friend. Warrington shouted something unintelligible as the Boy who Lived spun and ran over to the unconscious Gryffindor Keeper.
After several hearty slaps and a quick shake, Ron woke with a start. He sat bolt upright and practically shouted, "Bloody wankers, what happened? Did we lose?!" His voice tinged on panic as he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the sleeve of his Quidditch robes. He was still favoring his dislocated shoulder.
"Negative. A time out was called before points were scored. Let me set that dislocation." Harry said in a monotone. "We don't have much time."
Ron nodded, gritting his teeth in preparation; the Boy who Lived grabbed his arm and quickly jerked down. A wet popping sound accompanied the muted yell that the Gryffindor Captain made. With a quick charm from Harry, Ron felt the pain and tension in his shoulder ebb to almost nothing.
"That's all I can do on such short notice. Here is your broom." Harry wandlessly summoned Ron's broom and handed it to him. Grabbing hold of his friend, he hoisted him to a standing position and performed a wandless cheering charm.
Ron brightened up considerably, but still had questions, "How-"
Harry cut him off before he could start. "We still have a game to win. Don't lose consciousness this time." He nodded and made his way back to Madam Hooch, who was involved in a rather heated argument with the Slytherin Captain.
"You can't be serious! You saw him deliberately hit that bludger into the stands, you called a time out and cost us ten points, and now you're saying that he's getting away with it? I don't care if he's Merlin, you can't give him any special treatment on the pitch!" Warrington spat, his brow furrowed angrily.
Madam Hooch looked on the verge of stunning all parties involved. "It's not special treatment! Technically, though I'd rather he was ejected from the game, Mister Potter didn't break any rules! Now get back on your brooms, all of you, before I call this game off!"
Harry was already in the air, searching for the snitch when Madam Hooch blew her whistle again, signaling play to continue. Malfoy trailed him uncertainly, his neck bending in odd directions as he searched frantically for the golden snitch.
The Boy who Lived spotted it first, glittering as it spun lazy circles around the Slytherin goalposts. Malfoy was in the way, so he immediately dived under him and raced towards his quarry. He had the snitch in his hand before Malfoy had closed half the distance, and the roar of hundreds of cheering students filled the air. "Potter got the snitch! Potter caught the golden snitch! Gryffindor wins!"
Before being swept away by his teammates, he glanced at the scoreboard. Gryffindor 190, Slytherin 10.
An arm draped over the shoulders of the Boy who Lived. "You know Harry, I heard about how you got that time out. Probably saved the game! I thought the Slytherins had underhanded tricks, but you're on a whole different level, mate! Good to have you on the team, real good." Ron was flushed and laughing, trying to form the words properly as he hung on Harry to keep from falling. His butterbeer addiction seemed to be getting the better of him tonight.
Harry nodded. "You instructed us to win without breaking the rules. I am just glad I was able to perform my duties satisfactorily."
Squinting, Ron poked him in the chest and said, "Wha? I see your mouth moving, but I can't hear any sound coming out..." With a final poke, Ron went limp. Harry caught him quickly and laid him down on the couch next to Hermione, who let out an exasperated sigh.
"Performing your duties satisfactorily, Harry? Honestly, you sound like you're reading a script sometimes." The bushy-haired Gryffindor patted the seat between her and Ron's feet, inviting him to sit.
He nodded in compliance and sat rigidly. "A script? Please clarify your meaning."
Hermione giggled, setting down the butterbeer she'd been nursing for the last half hour. "I mean it shouldn't be a duty, that's all. You should play because you like to play, not because someone tells you to." She peered at him over the brown bottle. "Don't you do anything just for the fun of it?"
Harry thought for a moment. He'd never had the luxury of free time, exactly. It was training, eating or sleeping ever since he could remember. He liked to fly when he couldn't sleep; it helped to calm him down. It was always training, though. It was always about personal boundaries to power through, barriers to break, always pushing forward, always improving himself. For some reason, the question frustrated him. Did he really do anything just for fun? Did he even know what it meant to have fun? For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt as if he'd missed out on something vital during his years of endless training.
He violently repressed that train of thought. Why was wasting time so important to these noncoms? Improving himself was necessary; every moment wasted was another moment his enemies gained. He needed to be in top form, every minute of every day. His life depended on it.
"I don't know, Hermione." He answered, hoping it was the truth.
"Edwards, package." The far-off drone of the Postmaster was audible in Harry's dormitory. Winter holiday was only three days in and already he felt like he was slipping back into his role. He was back at base where he felt immeasurably more comfortable. Resting silently in his room after an exceptionally hard session of weights, he caught up on the latest advances in transfiguration as muscle regenerator potions coursed through his system. He was away from civilians; away from the life his Godfather had signed him up for during the summer. Already he felt sharper and stronger. Harder.
"Lewis, post. McGready, post." The 90-year-old Postmaster continued down the hall slowly, handing out the day's post. It didn't matter to Harry. In all his years living here, he'd never received post. Anything sent by owl to Harry Potter would end up in an underground room far away, where it would be systematically destroyed.
"And here's a new one. Potter, you've got post." The old man sounded genuinely surprised with that. It surprised Harry, too. The only way to get something to him was to send it to Sirius Black and ask him to send it to Harry specifically. Nobody had ever done that before now.
Harry took the letter curiously, noting the rather loopy and elegant scrawl across the front. "Thank you." He told the Postmaster as he turned the envelope over and broke the seal.
Dear Harry,
How is your winter break going? It's pretty boring here at the Burrow. My dad and mum want to know if you and your Godfather would like to come over for dinner on the 24th. If you don't want to, it's all right. I mean, I'd like it if you came, but I don't want you to feel pressured or anything. Just think about it, okay?
Also, I don't know if you get the Daily Prophet, but there's something in it that you might want to read before you go out in public again. I'm really sorry about this, I didn't tell a soul.
Sincerely,
Ginny
Enclosed along with the letter were several pages of the Daily Prophet, including the front. There, above the fold, in bold black print were the words, "THE NEW FACE OF JUSTICE." Under that was a huge picture of his face, looking as stony and serious as he usually did and blinking occasionally. Where had it been taken? He couldn't see much of the background. Harry felt his stomach drop uncomfortably in his chest as he kept reading:
First he defeated the darkest wizard since Grindelwald at the tender age of 1, and then disappeared for a decade and a half. He reappeared long enough to defeat the Dark Lord Voldemort once and for all, and then vanished into the shadows again like a phantom. Now, mere months later, he is linked to a singular act of heroism in Kenya with the defeat of the terrible Nundu. Each of these events were so incredible in and of themselves, the fact that a single wizard performed all three seems laughable. It also brings up a burning question that this reporter can't help but wonder: how many times has he stepped in to save the day, only to slip away unnoticed?
As members of the wizarding world, we have a responsibility and privilege to recognize and honor a hero like Harry Potter. Since his birth, he has shouldered a mantle of responsibility that would crush most adult wizards. He has thus far shouldered it silently. He has never asked us for anything in return, never once received an official reward or medal for his many triumphs.
Harry Potter has proven time and again that he is the savior of our world, the protector of our ways and the new face of Justice. My fellow witches and wizards, it is time for us to stand as one and show our gratitude to this boy. A boy young enough to be bound by the laws of underage magic use, yet more deserving of our respect and admiration than perhaps any wizard alive today.
For the next month, I will be accepting submissions to my column that deal with the Boy who Lived in an intimate way. If Harry Potter has touched your life personally, I want you to tell me about it in no more than 1,500 words. All witches and wizards whose submissions are printed in my column will receive 65 galleons for the use of their story. The Daily Prophet has also opened a fund in his name with Gringott's bank, as an alternate way of showing gratitude for our hero. If you wish to donate, you need only transfer the money from your account to the Harry Potter Fund.
And to Harry Potter, if you're reading this: from the very bottom of my heart, I thank you for your noble sacrifices in the name of Justice. You are, and shall remain, my hero.
Julia Peverell, freelance reporter.
Harry's mind was spinning. He did appreciate the reporter's gratitude, of course, but his ability to operate covertly relied entirely on his ability to remain under the radar. People knew of him, but they never knew what he was capable of and most wouldn't recognize his face in a crowd without his scar. Would this jeopardize him?
Uncertainty grew in him as his Godfather appeared in the doorway. "Harry, we've got to talk." He said, his eyes falling on the Daily Prophet in Harry's hand. "And I think you know exactly what this is about. Come with me."
Sirius' office contained the now-familiar face of Mad-Eye Moody, who squinted with his good eye at Harry when he saluted.
"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" They both shouted in unison. Moody chuckled and nodded. "I read your article, boy, and I think it's a shame they haven't beaten this reporter publicly yet. I'll see what my department can do about that. Sirius, I left a note in your safe for you, open it when you're alone. I'm sure I'll see you around, Harry." With a tip of his mangy leather hat, he stumped towards the floo and vanished in a flash of green flame.
Sirius sat down at his desk, muttering about how long it had taken him to set the charms around his safe. After a few minutes of shuffling papers, he buried his head in his hands and said, "You have to know that it's not your fault, Harry. We've paid the Daily Prophet a small fortune to keep your name out of their rag, nobody saw this coming..."
Harry's Godfather rambled for a long while, then shook his head and stood again. "The damage is done, all we can do now is try to contain the damage as best we can and find out who allowed this to happen. Heads are going to roll, rest assured.
"I know this isn't what you wanted to hear, and you've certainly told me as much, but it's too dangerous for you to be seen right now. You still have enemies; some of them are bound to be looking for you. As such, they've forced my hand. Effective immediately, you are suspended from active duty for an undefined period of time, Harry. I'm ... sorry."
Harry had his suspicions, but actually hearing the words... it was too much. He just wanted to go out and do his job like he always did, and some reporter caused the loss of the best thing he had?
Another thought filtered through his head immediately. Hogwarts was a mission. Would he be suspended from that as well? "What about-"
Sirius knew full well what he'd ask. "You will still attend Hogwarts, if you wish, though you won't be getting paid for it. I wouldn't take that away from you."
Harry left Sirius' office with a knot in his stomach that threatened to suffocate him. He needed some time to decompress.
On Christmas Eve at precisely 1800, Harry and Sirius arrived at the Burrow and knocked sharply on the worn oak door. It opened almost immediately to reveal a plump woman with a wide, warm smile on her face and a ladle in her hand. "Come in! Remus said he had some business to attend to, but he'd be coming later." She ushered them through the kitchen, which was positively scorching due to the sheer number of cooking fires, and into the living room. "Have a seat, dears, and relax. Dinner's almost ready!" With another smile, she hurried back into the kitchen to finish up.
Harry looked around curiously. This house had so much ... stuff. Clocks, antiques, pictures by the bagful, furniture, decorations, it was all rather overwhelming. Harry had a bed, a small dresser that contained 3 pairs of combat utilities, 2 civilian outfits and a small footlocker for his personal effects. He didn't have many effects, either. He had picture of his parents with his Godfather and Remus, his father's invisibility cloak, his broom, a small two-way mirror and three books. Everything he owned had its purpose, and that was the way he liked it. The Weasley's had many things that looked to be completely useless. It certainly served to clutter up the area, but there had to be another purpose that he just couldn't see yet.
Dinner was called, and a stampede of people rushed down from their rooms. Ginny was there, as were Ron and Hermione and two twin boys who looked exactly the same. An older boy with long red hair and a fang earring sat down across from him. From Ron's descriptions, this was Bill. "I've heard loads about you, of course. Good to finally shake your hand, Mr. Potter." He shook his hand firmly as plates packed full of food floated towards the table.
After an incredibly filling dinner accompanied by huge bouts of laughter and Ginny's sidelong glances, the Boy who Lived found himself sitting in a large, lumpy circle relaxing to the sound of friendly conversation. "So Harry, how've you been keeping up this holiday?" Arthur Weasley asked. His cheeks were quite flushed, indicating a moderate level of intoxication.
Harry thought for a moment. He had standing orders to keep his suspension a secret, but he couldn't exactly tell them he'd done absolutely nothing of consequence since he left Hogwarts and he couldn't lie to his superior officer... "I've been training hard, Minister."
It wasn't a lie at all; he'd been pushing himself progressively harder as each day wore into another one. He needed to keep himself exhausted to avoid thinking about the fact that he wasn't allowed to go on any missions.
The Minister of Magic laughed jovially, "No need to get all formal on me, Harry. Please, call me Arthur." He paused, lost in apparent thought. "Have I ever told you how much I appreciate what you do? Especially that brilliant piece of work in the Chamber of Secrets several years back. You do have a tendency to stay out of the public eye, but I know how much you've done for this country, for the entire Wizarding World. You've saved my daughter's life twice, and I can't even publicly give you the medals you've earned... It vexes me, being unable to reward a fine gentleman like yourself. Those articles in the Daily Prophet are quite a read; it's high time you received some real recognition for your actions!" With another hearty chuckle, Mr. Weasley clapped Harry on the back. The room was deafeningly quiet; every eye was now focused on them.
Harry felt anger rising in his chest against his will. It wasn't that he was ungrateful. The Minister of Magic had every right to want to confer medals to recipients, it was in his job description after all, and he had every right to want to thank him for saving his only daughter's life. Twice. But those articles, now published every single issue, told the world about his missions. Most of them were at least partially true, and all of them expressed the author's profound gratitude, but that was hardly the point. His missions were still classified, but not even the Ministry of Magic could stop these people from disseminating top secret information. Each story was a personal account; therefore it was not covered by the statute of secrecy like his after-action reports were. The reporter who began this self-proclaimed crusade even dropped by Sirius' office to ask for permission to interview him. As if he'd give anything to a woman who may well have cost him his job, his entire life up to this point. He clenched his teeth together tightly and let the torrents of rage wash silently through him.
He couldn't say anything about why he didn't appreciate Ms. Peverell's efforts; it would draw suspicion from people without the requisite security clearance. With a heavy sigh, Harry said in a tight monotone, "Thank you, Sir."
Harry caught Ginny staring at her dad with a mortified expression on her freckled face. "Dad, I don't think now is a good time to talk about this..." She trailed off, uncertain whether she should ask him to stop or clap a hand over his mouth.
Arthur Weasley squinted at his daughter, trying to discern the reasoning behind her interruption. "Why not, Ginny?" He asked plainly.
Ginny opened her mouth to respond but shut it again, not knowing a delicate way of saying what needed to be said. She couldn't tell her father, of course, but she knew that Harry was extremely angry. She could almost FEEL the heat from his eyes as he stared at the ground. "Well... I thought you were going to bring out some dessert?" She finished feebly.
Arthur blinked blankly. "I said that? I can't recall, but I'd be more than happy to bring out some of your mother's world-famous homemade fudge!" With a short grunt as he hefted himself to his feet, the Minister of Magic shuffled happily into the kitchen to retrieve a few squares of fudge.
Molly looked at Harry sympathetically. "You look tired, dear, perhaps you'd best be getting to bed..."
Harry took the invitation to leave with a grateful nod. "Thank you for dinner, it was delicious, Ms. Weasley." He turned to his friends, "I'll see you back at school."
In a flash of green powder, the Boy who Lived was on his way back to base. Arthur came out of the kitchen followed by several floating plates of fudge. Squinting, he looked around the somber room. "Where did Harry go?"
Ginny buried her head in her hands. "Way to go, Dad..." She muttered as a dish of fudge hovered around her head, trying in vain to get her attention.
Harry appeared back at base and immediately ran to his room to retrieve his training portkey. It led to a small clearing in a forest about as far away from civilization as any place on earth. He didn't even know which country the forest was in. It was meant expressly for his training, he was the only person who had unlimited access to it. His breathing was ragged, but it wasn't from running. He was trying desperately to contain his magic, which was rushing violently through him in almost greedy anticipation.
Dropping to his knees in front of his bed, he put a hand on the ground and pulled a small metal box up through the stone where he kept it. His body was beginning to tremble from the strain of containing his rage. He'd never been this angry before, if he didn't get out of here soon he might hurt someone... He couldn't afford that.
The box dropped out of his shaking hands and broke open on the floor. Harry dove for the small metal tab and clasped his hands around it, feeling the familiar tug behind his navel.
When the trip stopped, he pushed himself up and looked around the grassy field where he'd spent countless hours practicing. Nobody was here. Good.
He tucked the metal tag into his pocket for safekeeping as he took deep, heaving breaths. This reporter, despite seemingly good intentions, had successfully ruined his life. Taken away the only life that Harry had ever known, everything he knew to be important. And why? He didn't have a clue, and that filled him with more fury than he'd ever known.
With a click, his limiters fell to the grass. As the world came into sharp focus, Harry braced himself and let go of the stranglehold he kept on his magic. Searing heat coursed through his veins, it was too much, too fast... He couldn't stop it...
Harry screamed as the world around him erupted.