this story is about what happened before, during, and after "The Bodyguard," from Harry's POV. so yes, there will be some new 'moments' from "The Bodyguard" that didn't make it into the final of that work. there will be angst, fluff, smut, and everything in-between. and lots of Teddy.

harry/ginny does feature prominently in the first half-dozen chapters of this work. later, you will see harry/OCs. but, the only smut in this work is harry/hermione. so if you're looking for Hinny smut, this is not the place for you.

canon is my playground and I am a demented toddler. I'm running fast and loose with a lot of the werewolf stuff, and with the Ministry restructuring under Kingsley's reign. if you really feel the need to go out of your way to "correct" me, I suggest you make a cup of tea and eat a biscuit instead, and reevaluate how to spend your time.

a lot of the "angst" in this story is less to do with a particular relationship, and more to do with a young war veteran figuring out who he is, and how he's in love with his best friend. but if you don't like angst, don't read this. and if, at any point, you don't like this story, or the way I'm writing Harry, please use the "back" or "close" buttons that your browser provides to you free of charge. yelling at me about it is not going to keep me from writing it lol

I'm covering a lot of ground in this one — 20+ years. think of this work as a series of moments or events that spoke the most to me, rather than a strict day-by-day narrative.

updates will be weekly on Sundays. maybe more frequent depending on how many chapters I end up writing... we'll see.

this work is illustrated by the incomparable Ada_Lovelaced and all images are available on their insta as well as mine ( emmy_award_writes). flood them with love and blood sacrifices.

Chapter One - 1999

The night air, violet and damp, pooled around Harry's face as he looked out across the sweeping, crested field. If he squinted, he could still see the lingering white fluff of late-season clovers among the grass, and if he breathed deeply, as he did now, he could taste the bitter mud of a fresh badger den just a stone's throw away.

His lungs flooded cold, and as he exhaled, his breath clouded, lush and grey, spilling out of his mouth like smoke. He watched it for a moment, thinking of cave dirt and oily scales and tangy gold, then inhaled again, letting the air fill him from his feet to his throat. He wanted to choke on it, to overflow.

The coffee was hot and nutty, better than anything he usually kept in the house. He gulped it, grateful for the way it burned, felt the heat zip up to his eyes and rattle his skull. Awake, he reminded himself. You're awake.

Cold for September, Mrs. Weasley had said, and she was right. Harry could feel it seeping through his trainers, curling around his ankles. He could cast a Warming Charm, but he didn't. He stood there, waiting, cataloguing the air as it slid underneath his jeans and up his legs, along his wrists and into his elbows. Far off, somewhere near the distant woods, a fox screamed, and a tremble edged along his spine. Clenching his jaw, he let the movement travel up his neck and down his shoulders, thinking that this was the most of anything he'd felt in weeks.

Does it look the same? he wondered, sipping his coffee, casting his gaze over the slump of the field, the back door of the Burrow. Did anything change?

He hardly knew, now, the difference between before and after. Even his memories of the cupboard under the stairs felt faded and dull, like scenes from a film about someone else's life. And when he thought of Hogwarts, he thought of hot chocolate, burnt coffee, a pain in his hand, Shepherd's Pie. He thought of whispers, shadows, the heat of the fire, grass and mud grinding under his body as he fell to earth. Her eyes, cloudy with concentration, the line of her neck as she bent over a stack of parchment. Her fingers, catching on his sleeve. Her mouth, twitching into a smile.

Behind him, the back door opened. Amber light beamed onto the frosted grass, and the air flooded with laughter, conversation, plates clinking against the wooden table. He watched his own shadow erupt into being, languid and thin as it stretched across the ground and into the darkness.

"Harry? It's time for dessert."

He looked over his shoulder at Ron. Ron, who saw a man standing in the yard with a cup of coffee in hand with no idea that the man in question had hardly slept in days. "Yeah."

It was good of Mrs. Weasley to indulge him. She normally didn't serve the coffee until well after dessert, and she didn't bat an eye at his request that it be the caffeinated sort. "Get some air," she'd said, giving him a pat on the shoulder as the others laughed at whatever story Ginny was telling. "Big day tomorrow."

He drained the rest of his cup, even though it seared his throat, and headed inside. Ron closed the door behind him, and Harry fought the urge to lean against it, to wait until it gave way. He took another breath, slow, measured, and let the damp heat of the Burrow wash over him.

At the head of the table, Mr. Weasley, with Bill to his right and Percy to his left. Next to Bill, Fleur, then George; next to George, Ginny, her face alight and her hands twitching as she set the scene. Next to Percy, Ron. And next to Ron—

She glanced at him, just for a moment. Her gaze traveled, in that instant, from his face, to his hands, to his feet, and back to his face. But now, a crease between her brows, and as he met her eyes, he felt a jolt of very real fear. What had she seen?

But then she turned away, brushing her hair over her shoulder so that it hid her face, and something inside him eased. Harry slid his mug onto the nearest counter, quietly enough that no one noticed, put on a smile, and sat down beside Ginny.

She didn't react to his presence, and within a few moments, he realized what story she was telling — Kiki and the rogue Bludger, and how it imploded Miranda's latest romantic encounter. He leaned back, nodding along — he'd heard this one twice already — as he draped his arm over the back of her chair.

"— and she pulls herself out of the mud, looks Kiki dead in the face, and says, 'You owe me a drink!'"

The table erupted into laughter, and Ginny beamed. It was still something the Weasleys were getting used to — laughing without feeling guilty for it. Without feeling like they were betraying Fred, or his memory. Learning that they were allowed to laugh at something without him there.

His hand fell to Ginny's shoulder, and his thumb rubbed the line of it through her sweater. She shivered, turned to him with wide eyes. "Merlin, your hands are freezing!"

"Sorry," he said, noting that half the table was listening, watching. His hand retreated.

"Treacle tart!" Mrs. Weasley declared, appearing in the doorway surrounded by a cloud of floating pastries. She was smiling, her cheeks rosy, and it occurred to Harry that this was the happiest she'd looked in months. "Some meringue for Percy and Bill, and a nice chocolate cake for Ron."

The desserts floated down onto the table, and Ron was grinning. He caught Harry's eye. "She's trying to fatten you up, mate. Right before training and all."

"You're lucky," Harry replied. "Stuck behind a desk, don't have to worry about how many sit-ups you can do."

"Absolutely. Just how I want it."

"I'd take it any day," Mrs. Weasley chimed in, starting to dole out slices. "Worlds safer than running after Dark wizards." She gave Harry a very pointed look.

He sighed through his nose and felt Ginny tense beside him. This was familiar ground. And the last he'd checked, Ginny hadn't changed her mind.

But it was a nice evening, and Mrs. Weasley didn't have as much of a fight in her. She let it pass, and continued handing out pieces of pudding. Harry poked at his treacle tart. As he stared down at the glossy pastry, sitting happy in its puddle of double cream, he suddenly felt bone-tired, more exhausted than he had been in weeks.

While he ate, he listened as the conversation turned into the direction he'd expected.

"What's the deal with these new identity cards?" Ron was saying to Percy and, he supposed, to Arthur. "We just, what, carry them around?"

Percy nodded. A few bits of meringue were stuck to his top lip. "It's only for a little while, until they've finished the new security protocols."

Lie, thought Harry, spooning more cream into his mouth. He had a feeling those ID cards would be around for a few years to come.

"You can't blame them," said Mr. Weasley. His nose was shining in the warmth. "Not after You-Know-Who's best and brightest wormed their way to the top. Wands alone aren't good enough, not anymore." Not when they could be taken, he didn't say.

"But what's a card going to do in the face of Polyjuice, the Imperius, a Confundus?" Ron pressed. "Not much."

"They're charmed," said Mr. Weasley. "They're like miniature Dark Detectors. First sign of something skew-whiff, they burn hot and start smoking like mad."

"And they're impossible to forge," Percy added. "But that hasn't stopped people trying."

"Kingsley hasn't wasted any time." This from Hermione, who was frowning at Mr. Weasley, thoughtful. "Those can't have been in development for very long."

Mr. Weasley shrugged. "It gives people a sense of safety. And that's worth more than almost anything else."

Harry watched as Hermione returned to her pudding, and he could tell that she was still thinking. He could almost see the questions forming in her head — some of them likely mirrored his own. We'll always be the paranoid ones, she'd said to him on that beach in Melbourne. The ones looking over our shoulders.

And then, he noticed something else — that between her and Ron, there was a very careful, a very pointed, gap. He'd become so used to seeing Ron's arm pressed against hers whenever they sat at this table. But not now, not tonight.

"It's very exciting," Mrs. Weasley was saying as they all lingered near the hearth. Her eyes were glowing with so much emotion that Harry could barely meet her gaze. "You get to have your fresh start."

"Yes," said Harry, because even if she disagreed with him becoming an Auror, a job was a job, and a life was a life. "We'll see if I even make it through the first week."

"Don't be silly." She pulled him into a hug, pressed a kiss to his cheek. She was warm, and she smelled of vanilla and nutmeg. "They're lucky to have you."

He shook hands with Mr. Weasley, Bill, Percy, accepted a punch on the arm from George. Ron gave him a hug, just as they always did now, Hermione hovering behind him. For a brief moment, Harry thought of that moment after the Battle, the three of them standing outside the Great Hall, clinging to one another and shaking. He could remember the way Ron's shoulder had dug into his arm, the puff of Hermione's breath against his chest.

"See you tomorrow, mate." Ron clapped him on the back, stepped away. "Bright and early."

"Yeah." Harry met Hermione's gaze. She was smiling, but he could see that her mind was elsewhere. She stepped closer, and he met her halfway — they kissed each other on the cheek, and he felt just the smallest, burning edge of her mouth. He fought the urge to lean in.

When Harry stepped out of his own hearth and into his dark sitting room, he looked around at the sparse, simple furnishings, his gaze lingering on the photo of Teddy grinning out of his stroller. His chubby fist waved, and his hair flickered from ginger to red and finally to blue, his wide mouth caught on a squeal. Harry put on one lamp, then another, and Ginny stepped out of the hearth.

She tugged off her scarf and shot him a look.

"What could I do?" he asked her. "Ron brought it up."

She huffed. "You could've taken the offer from Puddlemere. Or from Ballycastle. There's no one making you be an Auror."

"Gin." A weight, tugging at his shoulders. "Can we… I'm exhausted."

Ginny looked at him, and something in her seemed to soften. "Yeah." She came over, brushed a kiss to his cheek, took his hand. "Gosh, they're still a bit cold."

He smiled. "Not for lack of trying." He put one hand to her hip, the other to her shoulder, and she shivered.

"Why did you…" She licked her lips.

"I needed some air." Harry shrugged. "It can get stuffy, when we're all in there."

He could hear the unsaid reproof. It never bothered you before. You used to hunch inside the Burrow like a mole in its den. But maybe their truce was holding, because she nodded, folding into him with a sigh. "It's feeling better now," she said into his chest. "More like it used to."

Harry nodded, his chin grazing her hair. "I think so, too."

Later, as he lay in bed and listened to the gentle snores curling out of Ginny's mouth, Harry began to wonder, in earnest, what it would be like to enter the Ministry as an ally, rather than an enemy. He'd been there a few times, but only to testify, and he'd taken a Floo directly to the courtroom for the sake of safety. He hadn't been in the Atrium, or on any of the other floors. There had to be a few Undesirable No. 1's still floating around, stuck to errant walls and filing cabinets, stuffed into old folders and caught beneath rubbish bins. Remnants that had escaped the broad sweep of Kingsley's new regime.

Maybe he would come face-to-face with his old self, maybe he would meet the boy soldier's grim look, shake his head and say, "I know, I can't believe it, either. I'm working for the enemy." Just the thought made Harry smile, and he turned onto his side, punched his pillow, ignored the little clock telling him it was ten past two. If he did find one of those posters, he'd bring it back for Teddy, have it framed.

Harry slugged a gulp of coffee and turned the next page of the Prophet. His eyes were buzzing, gritty, but the few hours of sleep he'd managed to snatch had done some good. He felt steadier on his feet, which was for the best, considering he needed his wits about him this week.

"Chicken for dinner?" Ginny said as she polished off her cereal.

He nodded. "Sure."

"And we've got that leftover couscous," she went on. "Maybe some green beans?"

"Whatever."

She nodded, hopped down off her stool. "I'd better run, Coach Rainer's got a real twig up her arse these days." She swooped in, gave him a kiss. "See you later?"

The Floo in the sitting room had just quieted when it roared back to life. Ron appeared a few moments later, already wearing his muted yellow trainee robes. They clashed beautifully with his hair, and his collar was crooked. "Morning."

"Morning. You just missed your sister."

Ron waved a hand. "She'll live."

Harry had already poured him a coffee and slid it across the miniscule worktop that doubled as their kitchen table. "Get some sleep?"

"Yeah." Ron shrugged. "It's weird, but I don't really get nervous about stuff like this anymore. You know?"

Harry nodded. "To be fair, the last time we went to the Ministry together—"

Ron grinned. "Wild, isn't it?" He fussed at his hair, which was cut shorter than usual. "Part of me thinks they're going to frogmarch us into the cells."

"If they are, they've gone to a lot of effort just to get us in the building." Harry sipped his coffee, letting his gaze slide over the various news items. "We both know the Ministry never likes to put in more work than they need to."

"I dunno, mate. Seems like Kingsley's been turning a leaf. Might get more than what we bargained for."

Harry flashed him a smile. "And what exactly did we bargain for?" He knew Ron, knew he'd want nothing more than a free pass and an easy paycheck.

Ron was grinning as he shrugged. "You know. A career. Changing the world."

Harry laughed then, just for a moment. "Oh, is that what we're doing?"

"Weeding out corruption, standing up to injustice, making a world for the betterment of Wizardkind." Ron had Kingsley's most famous speech nearly word-for-word. Harry could remember how the three of them had shaken their heads when they first heard it, rueful, knowing too well that some things were just too big of an ask. "You know," Ron added, still grinning, "the small stuff."

"Sure, yeah, since it's only our first day." He frowned down at a line item about a shipment of Pygmy Puffs going missing, then glanced at the clock. "We should probably head out soon. Where's Hermione?"

Ron shook his head. "Already there, mate. She left at seven."

Of course she did. Harry downed the rest of his coffee and took his new robes off the hook by the doorway. "Your collar's gone wonky, by the way."

"You're one to talk," Ron huffed.

Harry had done his best with what he had — he knew there were some creases in his shirt, and his slacks were too short. Ginny, ever the rebel against her mother's domestic hand, knew next to nothing of household spells, and it hadn't been an issue until the previous evening, when he'd discovered that, of course, they didn't own an iron. After doing his best to steam his shirt using his wand, he'd placed an owl order at Flourish and Blotts for a handful of housecraft books that came at Andromeda's highest recommendation. Figures, he'd thought, that I'd have to spend my free time buried in even more damn books.

The nearest Ministry transport was a quarter of a mile away, hidden in a disused corner shop with greying lottery signs still plastered in the window. Harry liked Shepherd's Bush, especially the bit they lived in. He could hear the doves in the early morning, and the wind in the trees at night, but he could still catch a bus, could still walk to the nearest bakery, the nearest Sainsbury's, the nearest coffee shop. And he liked hearing the accents, liquid and lilting — Portuguese, Mandarin, Punjabi, Ethiopian. A part of him wished that Teddy could grow up here, in the thick of life, where he could hear every bit of the world and taste it, too.

"Early winter this year," said Ron, flicking a Warming Charm over himself when none of the Muggles were looking. The wind had picked up.

"Yeah," said Harry, his mind churning ahead to Christmas. Would it be at the Burrow, or Andromeda's? Maybe he could convince Andromeda to bring Teddy—

The door to the empty shop was never locked, since the Muggles couldn't see it, so he and Ron walked straight in. The portal was an easy one, a trick of a lever in the ancient lift. As the corner shop dissolved from sight, Harry caught a glimpse of a few other Ministry employees approaching from the other end of the street. If they'd noticed the Chosen One in his brand new crimson robes, they gave no indication of it.

Before him, the Ministry materialized in all its shiny, ruthless black. He and Ron stepped out onto the tile, seamlessly entering the tide of workers pouring into the Atrium. A few heads turned at the sight of him, and Harry's stomach churned even as he kept his gaze straight ahead. It still felt wrong, like fighting against a reflex, to approach that damned fountain without his wand in hand.

A line of MLEP were waiting past the Floos, stemming the tide of the morning commute, and the back of Harry's neck prickled. But he knew why they were there — to scan ID cards.

"Morning," Ron said to the nearest one. "We're trainees, so we haven't got—"

The officer nodded and ushered them to the right. "Wait there. Your superiors will come and fetch you."

"Great, thanks." Undeterred by the brush-off, Ron gave the officer a nod. He and Harry dutifully joined the trickle of trainees and found themselves in an empty chamber with unlit iron sconces, surrounded by a small crowd of the other recent Hogwarts graduates. Half of them turned to stare at him and Ron, but one of them, thankfully, was a friendly face.

"Morning, tossers." Seamus came up to them, grinning fit to burst. Like Harry, he was wearing the crimson robes of the DMLE. He shook Ron's hand, then Harry's, and said in an undertone, "Give it five minutes, it'll pass."

"So you took the job," said Ron, grinning as well. "Thought you'd keep knocking around Dublin until someone kicked you out."

"Ah, well." Seamus gave a rueful sort of shrug. "They made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

"On the day of your daughter's wedding?" said Harry, before he remembered that Ron wouldn't get the reference. But he was saved by the appearance of a few Deputy Departmental Heads, bright and obvious in their impeccable robes.

"See you at lunch," Ron muttered to them both, and he went off to join the DMGS trainees.

"DMLE," said a bright-eyed, club-nosed witch. Harry could tell by the set of her jaw and the scar through her eyebrow that she brooked no nonsense. "This way, please."

Seamus and Harry fell into step with the half-dozen others as they were led down a hall, around a corner, and down a short flight of stairs. They stepped out into a massive, dully-lit room, and it looked like—

"Is it an obstacle course?" said Seamus, frowning.

Harry noted a track, several sets of free weights, a pile of mats, enormous nets suspended mid-air between rock-climbing walls, and a few pits of what seemed to be water, churning and frothing like the sea. It looked like a breeding ground for Olympians, not—

"Damn." Seamus let out a low whistle. "They don't expect much, do they?"

"Recruits," said the woman, her voice carrying effortlessly over the group. "My name is Felicia Jones, and I'm the Deputy Head of the DMLE. I will oversee your training and integration with the Department." She waved her wand, and a fleet of portfolios lifted themselves off the nearest cart. "You all will be participating in the same strength training and general knowledge courses, but those of you with a designated specialty will be assigned to experts in your chosen fields. You will find your individual training schedules in the folders, and before we continue, we must…" Here, Deputy Head Jones looked grim. "Get your ID cards."

The camera's flash burned Harry's eyes, and it brought back memories of Colin. In spite of himself, he smiled, remembering how annoying and embarrassing it had all been, remembering the ceaseless, eager light in Colin's face. When he looked down at his brand new ID card, and at his own scowling face, a perverse echo of Undesirable No. 1, he could not deny a feeling of apprehension. The Ministry was changing, had already changed so much. Harry wondered how much they could get away with before it all fell apart.

The recruits were shown to their lockers, each of which came with self-cleaning laundry bins and a constant supply of any toiletry under the sun.

Seamus cut Harry a look as the other recruits oohed and aahed over their shampoos. "Do they expect us to live here?" he muttered.

Harry said nothing, but the back of his neck was prickling again. Was it like this? he had to wonder. Was it like this before Kingsley?

Their physical training schedule was pretty ruthless, but it would not begin until the next day. Harry looked down at the little blocks on his calendar and, weirdly, missed Oliver Wood. Then came the first of many lectures, all about the history of magical law enforcement in Britain, and a brief introduction to the DMLE's departmental structure. Filing expense reports seemed like a special kind of torture.

When they broke for lunch at one o'clock, Harry and Seamus went into the canteen along with all the others. It looked like any other canteen, Harry supposed, except for the floating trays and the bits of magic scattered across the tables.

"Food's better than I thought it'd be," Ron said, stuffing a forkful of mash into his mouth. "At least it's cheap."

"A ringing endorsement," said Hermione, her attention on the contents of a wide, creased folder with the stamp of the DRCMC. She'd hardly touched her food.

"It's probably better to bring," Harry said, glancing at the few seasoned employees who still ate in the canteen. He saw leftovers, sandwiches, even a takeaway or two, and a strange ripple of nausea curled through his belly. This is your future. Packed lunch, office gossip, meetings that never end.

He stood up. "Cup of tea?"

"Yeah," said Ron. "Thanks, mate."

"Please." Hermione did not look up.

The activity of making three cups of tea was enough to distract him from the way his ears were ringing, the way his stomach was flipping. He'd known, mostly, what it would mean to take a job at the Ministry — politics, conflict, a spotlight. But what he hadn't expected was the mundanity. It was comforting, in its own way, but terrifying.

Who am I going to be in ten years? he thought, stirring in the milk. In twenty? Will I still want to be here, doing the same thing every day?

When Harry walked back to their table, levitating the mugs in front of him, he became aware of the gazes and faces that followed him, sticking to him like glue. His neck burned with the realization that this was going to be the way it was, at least for a little while. He almost wished that these people would come up to him and say whatever it was they wanted to say. Then he realized it didn't help that he'd levitated the mugs without using his wand.

"Cheers." Ron took a healthy slurp of tea. "So how was it? Your first morning?"

"Not bad." Harry sipped his tea and realized he'd taken Hermione's by mistake. He reached out, nudged her hand away from the third mug, and slid his own mug across the table. "You won't like that, there isn't any sugar. Is it just me," he went on, to Ron: "or do they really love having things in triplicate?"

Ron snorted. "Anything to keep the pen-pushers busy, mate."

"Record-keeping is very important," said Hermione, her voice somewhat stiff. She was still looking down at her file.

"Are they giving you an Auror?" said Ron, ignoring her. "Pairing you up with someone?"

Harry nodded. "Tiberius Hunt. Ever heard of him?"

"Nah," said Ron, but, somewhat to Harry's surprise, Hermione looked up.

"Hunt?" Hermione frowned at him. "Really?"

"Yeah," Harry replied. "Why?"

"Nothing," she said, in that way she had of immediately putting up his guard. "He's a bit of a bulldog, that's all."

"A bulldog. What's that mean?"

But she was already returning to her file. "He won't give you a free pass just because you're Harry Potter. So don't expect one."

"I never do," Harry replied, feeling a prickle of irritation.

Tiberius Hunt was beady-eyed, missing a hunk of his left cheek, and bald as a chestnut. He squinted at Harry, unimpressed, as they faced each other in one of the endless sparring rooms. Harry met his gaze, wondering why he hadn't seen this man before. But then again, there was plenty of the Ministry that had remained hidden from his eyes.

"Well." Hunt's voice was reedy, but curt. "You're supposed to show me what you can do. How would you like to begin?"

"However you'd like, sir," Harry replied.

Hunt's eyes glittered at the impertinence. "As you wish." He turned away, walked ten paces, then turned around and fired an Impedimenta at Harry's chest.

Their duel was short, brutal, efficient. Hunt hauled Harry to his feet and barked, "Again."

So it went, for nearly half an hour, until Harry was panting and sweaty, his mind humming, his body livid with energy and deflected magic. He'd come close to beating Hunt more than once, but until now, he hadn't realized how rusty he was. Tom Riddle should have tried today, he thought. He would have won.

"Not bad." Hunt sheathed his wand and cast Harry an appraising look. "With a firm hand, you might have lived up to your own title."

Harry knew it was a test, but that did not stop the thread of annoyance going down his back.

"I know Williams," Hunt went on. "Your examiner at Hogwarts. He said you could perform a corporeal Patronus at age fifteen."

"Yes, sir."

"Go on, then."

Harry took a breath, and it steadied him. Not that he needed it — he'd found that there wasn't anything steady about his Patronus, these days. He raised his wand. "Expecto Patronum."

He'd cast the charm a half-dozen times in the past year and a half, but he still found himself unprepared for the figure that erupted in the air before him. His heart roared as he watched the otter, impassive. It chattered and darted, swimming an invisible current. A pointed silence had fallen.

"Intriguing." The word was saccharine, like Hunt had scented blood and was ready to pounce. "If I remember correctly, it had a different form at the time of your OWLs. Or perhaps," he added, silken, "the paperwork was incorrect."

Another flare of irritation, stronger than the first. "There was no mistake," Harry said, the words strange in his own ears. "My Patronus changed its form after I… after the Battle."

It was nearly a lie — he had no idea, in truth, when the shift had occurred. But the events of the Battle of Hogwarts were so widely circulated that it made the perfect excuse. Everyone knew he had been dead, just for a minute. Surely, he thought, that would be enough to change any number of things about a wizard.

Hunt seemed to buy it. "I see." He cleared his throat, pulled out a small notebook. "At any rate, the efficacy is all that matters. You will be accompanying me to Azkaban, and the form makes no difference to a Dementor." He scribbled a few things. "You understand, Potter, that there will be no exceptions made for you, regardless of your… past experiences?"

"Yes," Harry bit out. For a moment, he was back in that infernal dungeon, lifting his chin to a bully in a flagrant bid for detention. "I don't expect anyone to make any. I'm here to learn, same as anyone else."

Hunt gave a nod, his attention still on his notebook. "Rough hours, this job. Especially before you pass your exams. Will that… present a problem?"

An ugly swoop, somewhere near his stomach. He thought of Teddy, and how much he'd grown in the past month. He thought of Ginny, and the pull of her mouth when she was disappointed. "No."

Hunt nodded again. "Good. And there are no guarantees, you realize." He glanced up at Harry, shrewd as a shark. "Those who do not pass will find occupation elsewhere — accounts, the typing pool, the technician team. The very lucky ones will be taken by the MLEP."

"I understand, sir."

Hunt watched him for a moment, as if he were deciding something. Then he shut his notebook and slid it into his pocket. "Good. We're done here for today." He turned and left, tossing out, "I'll see you at two o'clock tomorrow, sharp. Brush up on the Authorization Code from 1956. It's not on your booklist."

"Yes, sir," said Harry, but the door was already swinging shut.

The locker room was empty, and he guessed that the others were still off with their specialists. Harry had nothing to change into, but he was sweaty, so he stripped, tossed his clothing into his laundry bin, and headed for the showers.

The fixtures were plain but functional. He was reminded of the Quidditch showers at Hogwarts, then shied away from the deluge of memories that threatened to break free. He scrubbed down, rinsed his hair, let the water pound against his shoulders, then tied a towel around his hips and went back out to the lockers.

Someone was waiting for him.

Harry gave Kingsley a nod. "Minister."

Kingsley was smiling. "I see you're off to a strong start already." He sat down on one of the benches. "How was Hunt?"

"Determined," said Harry, poking around in his locker. It occurred to him that this was the first time Kingsley had seen him without a shirt on — the scar from the locket, settled and purplish under the light, stood out in stark relief against his skin. That, and the half-dozen other scars from the War. He wondered if Kingsley noticed. "I don't think he likes me much."

Kingsley was still smiling. His lush, elegant violet robes suited him. "He does not like anyone much. Don't take it too personally."

"How come I've never heard of him?" said Harry. He shoved a hand through his hair, drying it instantly. Even without a mirror, he knew it looked like a thistle.

"He's been abroad," Kingsley replied, though Harry did not miss the hesitation. "He might tell you himself, one day."

Already, thought Harry. Already, we are talking in twists and circles and secrets.

"But he's a good Auror," Kingsley went on. "You are in very capable hands."

"I don't doubt it," said Harry. He pulled out his clothing, and was astonished to find it freshly laundered and warm. "He told me to look up something called the Authorization Code from 1956. Do you know what that is?"

"Sure." Kingsley stood up and began to stroll around the room. "Do you need a copy?"

"Yeah."

"Go to the Records Department, down the hall from my office. First door on the left." He shot Harry a glance. "Did he tell you what he was working on?"

Now buttoning his shirt, Harry shook his head. "No."

Kingsley's brow flickered. "I see." He resumed his stroll. "You'll learn soon enough."

Harry straightened his collar and rolled his eyes. Kingsley could be just as bad as Dumbledore, sometimes. "Has this always been down here?" he said. "The… facility?"

"Yes," Kingsley replied. "In one form or another. But I will admit I made some updates."

"It's like you're training an army." Harry kept his voice pointedly light. Is that what we are, now? he wanted to ask. Soldiers?

Kingsley's face showed nothing. He still wore the shade of a smile. "You really ought to get some new clothes," he said, gesturing to Harry's ill-fitting slacks.

"I know," Harry replied, closing his locker.

And so it went. The rest of his first week at the Ministry passed in a brutal, heavy blur that pounded the edges of his skull and pushed his patience to its limit.

Werewolves — that's what Hunt was working on. The Authorization Code of 1956 was the last amendment passed regarding werewolf rights in the UK, and much of its subliminal language outlined the rights of those unwillingly turned. The ones who were minors when they were bitten, the ones who were subdued, under the influence, injured to the point of passivity—

Harry had stared at the miserable little words, his heart ice-cold in his chest. He could think only of Remus, Remus and the boy sleeping soundly beneath Andromeda's roof. But worse was the other implication of the amendment, that lay in its murkier, hidden areas — the unspoken reality that there were those who were willingly turned, who had volunteered themselves and their bodies for the good of the cause.

The cause being anarchy, as he'd learned. Or something close enough to it. The complete overthrow of Wizarding Britain, and the installment of the Empire of the Wolf. Harry had to admire it. The dedication, the conviction. He remembered feeling the same way, once, about a cause. And in a way, he could not blame the werewolves for their anger.

Harry had discovered that it was something he still had a lot of — the anger. It came out roaring when his feet pounded into the track, when he burst out of the water firing hex after hex, when he heaved himself up the last stretch of the rock wall, his legs burning, his chest boiling. Heat and rage poured through him, cold and pure, and once or twice, Harry had closed his eyes for a second and wondered what would happen if he just let go.

"Bloody hell," Ron said to him on Friday morning of their first week. He was grinning. "You look pretty chewed over, mate."

"I know." Harry finished his coffee, ignoring the burn as it went down his throat. In spite of the exercise, in spite of Hunt dueling him until he broke, in spite of the lectures and the piles of reading, he hadn't slept more than a few hours each night. Exhaustion clung to him like a cloak, a second shadow, dragging at his heels wherever he went. Ron, in contrast, was pink and happy, flushed with the success of his first week at the Ministry. He looked older, but in a way that was flattering, more serious. Harry still felt like the bruised and battered sixteen year-old who'd just crawled out of the cave with his dying Headmaster clinging to his shoulders.

Hermione had yet to join them on their morning commute. She got to the Ministry nearly an hour before they did, and was always buried in work by the time they arrived. This did not surprise Harry, but it did irritate him, though he didn't know why. It wasn't like they were in school anymore, where their lives rotated around the fixed axes of meals and practices and lessons, where they spent time together because it was impossible not to. They didn't have to see each other, not really, not if they didn't want to.

The obligation, the strings tying them together, had snapped and fallen away along with the last of Voldemort's cold life. Harry would look at his friends across the canteen table, his ears ringing with Ministry-speak, and wonder why they were still there.

On Wednesday, when Ron had left the table to get more chips, Harry had met Hermione's gaze and said, "I made a Godfather reference in front of him and Seamus the other day. I think it went about a foot over Ron's head."

Hermione had given him a funny little smile, the first he'd seen all day, and her eyebrow quirked. "When did you watch The Godfather?"

"Few weeks ago," Harry had said with a shrug. "It was on one of those late-night channels." The TV in his place was more of a fail-safe for Teddy, but Harry found himself watching it sometimes, especially the trashy stuff, the old stuff. Ginny watched with him, on occasion, but she still found it strange. Harry just liked finally being able to watch TV whenever he wanted, even if it was crap.

Hermione's expression had flickered into something serious, something concerned. "How late?"

About two, he hadn't said. It had been a particularly bad night, but the gunfire had put him to sleep. He'd missed the ending and slept straight through until six, when he'd woken up with a crick in his neck and an early rain hitting the sitting room windows. "Not that late," he'd hedged, and Ron had returned to the table, saving him from further questioning.

"Any plans for the weekend?" Ron said to him now. The corner shop was within sight.

Harry shrugged. "Seeing Teddy tomorrow. And apparently I need to get some new clothes, according to your sister." And the Minister, he didn't say.

Ron winced in sympathy. "She taking you to Diagon?"

"Maybe. I didn't ask."

"It's easier if you don't."

Harry didn't realize the scope of the situation until his arms were full of shirts and he had about a dozen ties dangling around his neck. What seemed like half of Diagon had halted and was watching him, fascinated and, he guessed, repulsed, as he was marched around Gladrags like a human clothes-horse.

"Gin," he tried as she turned the corner of the next rack. "Gin—"

"We should've done this sooner. I didn't even stop to think, before we went back to Hogwarts, but of course you haven't got anything, not anything that fits properly—"

Harry tried to take a breath. "Gin—"

"Have you ever been shopping before?" She wasn't even looking at him — her attention was honed in on the nearest assortment of cardigans. "I mean really shopping, not—"

"Ginny, I—" He bit back the words and forced himself to swallow. She turned to him, her eyes wide with rebuke. She didn't seem to notice the small crowd that had formed a dozen feet away. "Ginny, I think I'd like to go somewhere else."

Ginny frowned.

"This is nice," he said, stepping closer so they couldn't be overheard. "Really nice, Ginny, but I think it's too—"

"Oh." She shifted away from the cardigans and nodded. "I see."

"Paisley," he said, somewhat lamely. "The… paisley."

To his relief, she smiled. "It's okay, Harry, I understand."

"You wouldn't mind?" he said. "If I went by myself?"

Something flashed in her eyes, but Ginny nodded. "No, yeah, that's… that's fine." Another small smile. "We could go out to dinner after."

Shit. Harry felt the weight of all the shirts then, pulling him down to earth. His arms ached. "Gin, I… remember? I said I'd watch Teddy, since Andromeda—"

"Oh, yeah, of course." She recovered quickly, leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "I'll grab drinks with the girls or something."

Harry walked out of Diagon, just managing to dodge an overenthusiastic Prophet reporter, and once he was back on Charing Cross, he took a great, heaving breath of air. Rain was coming, but he had some time. So he bypassed the Tube station and made his way to Oxford Street on foot.

The walk cleared his head, dislodged the leftover hum of anxiety that seemed to tail him these days, hovering like an overenthusiastic bee. Even after all these years, Harry was still unaccustomed to the level of attention he drew whenever he walked through Diagon. But he wasn't alone — it happened to all three of them, even to some of the other people who had fought at Hogwarts. He knew that Hermione did most of her shopping in the Muggle world now, and Ron only went to Diagon if he really needed to. Maybe it made sense, not wanting to be there, not being able to see himself in any of the clothing. Not being able to breathe.

But he loved Muggle London, all of its grit and mess and heat and noise. It lulled him with its promises of anonymity, of freedom. When he wandered into the men's department at John Lewis, he felt strangely relaxed.

"Hi!" The sales associate was blonde and chipper, only a few years older than him. "Can I help you?"

Harry flashed a self-deprecating smile. "Yeah, actually." He didn't even know his measurements. "I need some new… well, everything."

Her eyes widened, and Harry could almost see the pound signs glittering in her gaze. "Right away, sir."

"New job, then?" she said later, when he stepped out of the stalls wearing a suit. Her name was Dianne, and she was lovely.

"Yeah," he said, fidgeting with his belt. "Something like that."

But he didn't stop at shirts and slacks. He bought ties, jeans, sweaters, coats, pajamas, athletic wear, even a few pairs of shoes. And when he hesitated by a pile of very overpriced graphic t-shirts, he couldn't stop himself from reaching for a faded Rolling Stones mouth, suddenly reminded of an old photo he'd found of Sirius and his dad.

When Dianne rang up the final total, Harry only let himself feel the shock for about five seconds. Then, he busied himself writing a check from his Muggle bank account.

Dianne glanced at him, then at the enormous pile of bags and boxes on the counter. "We actually do offer delivery, sir, if you live in London."

He shook his head and smiled as he handed over the check. Without him or Ginny there to disable the charms, a Muggle would never be able to locate his residence. "That's all right, thanks. I can manage."

Harry wheeled his packages out to the lift, then, when the doors slid shut, he shrank them all and slid them into his pocket. He walked out of John Lewis and wandered into a toy shop.

An hour later, Andromeda opened her front door with a wide smile, warm, cinnamon air spilling out around her. "Don't you look smart?"

"New clothes," he told her, leaning in and kissing her on the cheek. She squeezed his arm, and Harry felt himself smile in return. "Where's the monster?"

"'Arry!" roared Teddy, careening around the corner and running full-tilt into Harry's legs.

Harry stumbled dramatically, then swooped down and grabbed him, swinging Teddy into his arms. Teddy gurgled with laughter, his fingers digging into Harry's cheeks — Harry took note of the changes, namely the forest-green hair and the two different colored irises. Teddy's abilities were improving every day.

"Did you just go shopping, then?" said Andromeda, closing the door.

"Yeah, Oxford Street." If she was surprised by the Muggle location, she didn't show it. He pulled out the box of Legos, and Teddy gaped at it in delight.

Andromeda rolled her eyes, fond. "He'll never sleep now."

"Who needs sleep?" said Harry, giving Teddy a kiss on the head. "Teddy and I are going to build ourselves a city."

"Of course you are." She reached for her purse, her scarf. "Be good, both of you. Harry, his tea's on the stove, and he needs a bath."

Harry nodded. "No problem. Have fun!"

Andromeda held up a warning finger. "No fires, please."

"We promise!" cried Teddy, then he grudgingly accepted a kiss from his grandmother.

Later, after the Legos had been built and the fish sticks and baked beans had all been gobbled up, the night settled around them, and Harry's exhaustion began to prickle at his eyelids.

"Story," said Teddy, giving him a little push on the chest. His damp hair, jet-black in the dim light, clung to his forehead. "Story, 'Arry."

Harry smiled. They were lying on the bed in the spare room, since Teddy was going through a phase of refusing to sleep in his cot. "All right, Ted."

He reached for the current favorite, a little Wizarding novel about goblins and fairies, and within ten minutes, Teddy had slumped across his chest. His hair tickled Harry's nose as he breathed deeply, his hand tucked under his plush, ruddy cheek. Harry looked down at the boy, so much bigger now, and felt a part of himself ache in a way that had nothing to do with his training.

I should get back, he thought, though he did not move. The bed really was comfortable — he'd forgotten. I should get back, Ginny will be wondering…

Sleep came upon him like a jaguar — one quick pounce, a flash of claws, and he fell into a deep, surrendering slumber. He did not stir for anything, not even when Andromeda crept into the room. He did not notice when she pulled a blanket over the pair of them, pressed a kiss to each of their foreheads, and put out the light, closing the door behind her.