19th of April – 2000.

Alone in the hours before dawn, Arthur worked in the shadows.

These were his hours.

The long hours of his crusade.

Arthur poured over papers and read every report. The apartment was empty and silent around him. Arthur didn't mind, the silence meant less distractions. It was just him, the clock and his work.

After almost a year, he had a good picture of them. Hogwarts Class of '87. They were all on the way out when he was on the way in. Four of a kind. Inseparable in school and in interests.

Liall and Lizette Newton. Pure Blood. Slytherin. The ringleaders. While never directly involved, the House of Newton had rather indiscreetly bankrolled the Dark Lord's cause in the 60s and 70s. When the Dark Lord fell in '81, the Newton's promptly contributed a huge sum of money towards the fund for the Rehabilitation for Victims of the Imperius Curse. Nothing more was ever said of the matter.

Christopher Xander. Half Blood. Slytherin The Xander's were a fairly of middling wealth from Wales. While Christopher's blood status had instantly put him at a disadvantage, he compensated with cunning intellect. The Xander's had heard nothing from their Son since '94.

Emily Fraser. Pure Blood. Ravenclaw. The Fraser's were based near Bradford, Yorkshire. Never successful in the Wizard World, the family had made their wealth in less-than-legal dealings with Muggles. Construction, logistics, gambling, even mucky mags. The Fraser's had a finger in every dirty pie north of Sheffield. A Scandal in late 70s had forced the family to flee. Emily had remained at Hogwarts. After school she'd just dropped off the radar. Another ghost in the system.

After almost a year, Arthur felt as if he really knew them. After almost a year, Arthur could remember their birthdays, their OWL results, even what Quidditch team they supported. After almost a year, they felt more real to Arthur than his own colleagues.

They haunted his mind both waking and sleeping. They lingered in his thoughts. Their faces were almost more familiar than his own.

Liall already down.

Lizette, Christopher and Emily still to go.

After almost a year, no one even remembered Battersea anymore. No one except Arthur, who kept the picture of their victims in the pocket next to his heart. Sometimes he looked at it before he went to sleep. Sometimes tears stained his pillow.

Arthur's grim crusade.

Arthur's grim war.

Arthur Grimm's war.

The alarm went at six-o-clock. Arthur sighed and packed away his files. He showered and shaved and even considered neatening his hair. After all, today was an important day. Perhaps the most important day since Liall Newton's ugly faced had been splashed across the front page of the Daily Prophet.

Arthur caught the Tube in to work. He slept until the very instant before the doors opened at his stop. He'd had a year of practice.

"Another restless night Boss?" Asked the beggar outside the Tube stop.

Arthur shrugged and tossed some Muggle money into the waiting hat.

"You know how it is."

The beggar nodded gratefully, "That's mighty good of you that is."

Arthur continued down the street.

It truly was the least he could do.

Arthur took the visitors entrance into the Ministry. He'd taken to wearing his nametag. At least on the nametag it listed him as an Auror. After a year of parchment-work, Arthur didn't much feel like one.

The buzz in the Ministry was palpable as Arthur crossed the entrance hall. A group of witches stood tittering beneath the renewed golden fountain.

"Has he arrived yet?" One witch excitedly asked another.

"You wouldn't be talking about me would you?"

The witches turned in unison. They looked at Arthur as if he'd descended from outer space before breaking out into nervous laughter. When Arthur's back was turned he could hear the whispers. Every once in a while, it was good to remind them that he was still here.

If the entrance hall was buzzing, then the Auror office was a positive hive. Everywhere, those who prided themselves on being serious Dark Wizard catchers were fluttering about, adjusting quills and straightening robes.

Arthur ignored them and went to his desk. Over the past year, he'd gotten significantly better at organising it. Though that hadn't made the piles of parchment dumped onto it diminish. A stray paper aeroplane knocked over his ink pot.

Arthur swore under his breath.

Malcom no longer leaned over Arthur's workspace. Instead, he cautiously kept the span of the desk between them as if Arthur was some sort of venomous animal that might strike at Malcom if he got too close.

Malcom fiddled with a sort of bracelet around his wrist, "Think he's arrived yet?"

Arthur, already immersed in the endless busywork, didn't bother looking at Malcom, "No. But I hope he hurries up. I've seen car accidents less chaotic than this place."

At the mention of a car, Malcom lost some of the colour in his face, "Have you now?"

Arthur was halfway through his first stack when the man of the hour arrived.

Gawain pointed his wand at his throat. Instantly, his reedy voice boomed across the office.

"Excuse me ladies and gentlemen, I know you're all very busy."

Arthur reluctantly swivelled in his chair, "Hear we bloody go."

Luckily, neither Gawain nor the rest of the office had Arthur's remark. They were all transfixed on the man with jet black hair who stood next to Gawain.

"But I thought I'd introduce, though he needs no introduction," a few chuckles broke through the air, "the newest member of the Auror office. Mr Harry Potter!"

The cheers and clapping which followed threatened to give Arthur a headache. Gawain graciously shook Potter's hand and then cast an arm around his shoulder to lead him around the office. For a split-second, Potter's gaze fell on Arthur. Arthur offered only a mocking salute before turning back to his papers and his signatures.

The excitement gradually withered away once they'd all had a chance to shake Potter's hand and some semblance of calm finally descended on the Auror office. Arthur got so lost amid his quill strokes and parchment that, when a shadow fell across his desk, Arthur almost well and truly told Malcom to piss off. Instead, when Arthur looked up, he saw an expression somewhere between distaste and panic on Gawain's face.

"This, Mr Potter, is typically where our new hires start out." Gawain made a jerking gesture to a nearby empty desk and then spoke very quickly, "But I'm sure we can find you a spot anywhere."

To Arthur's surprise, Potter nodded and placed his things on the empty desk.

"Here will do fine Mr Robards."

Gawain looked stricken. He coughed and risked another glance at Arthur. Arthur looked back impassively.

"Ah well…yes I best leave you to it."

Most irritatingly, Malcom stuck a hand over Arthur's desk, "Very nice to meet you Mr Potter. I'm Malcom Hearb. You can call me Malcom."

Potter shook Malcom's hand. Malcom cleared his throat and looked down at Arthur, "This hear is Arthur Grimm."

Arthur held up a hand in greeting, "We met, about a year ago. Sorry lads I'm a bit busy over here."

Potter took a seat but eyed Arthur curiously, "Would that still be Battersea then?"

What colour remained in Malcom's face swiftly drained away. Arthur gave Potter a tight smile.

"The man who did it is dead. As far as the department's concerned it's all wound up."

Potter's eyes fixed on him, "But that's not what you think."

"Give the boy a prize."

Malcom cleared his throat again and made a hasty exit while Potter unpacked his things onto his new desk. Arthur kept his own eyes on his work. He fell into the endless rhythm of flipping pages and marking down signatures.

Empty, mind-numbing, soul-crushing work. But Arthur's mind remained on the war. The private war. The silent war.

His war.

And then six bells chimed. Arthur rubbed the grit from his eyes and peered around the emptying office. Gawain nodded curtly at him and scurried away. Vortimer's door was shut. Arthur clearly wasn't the only person working late.

In the hallway, a hand tapped on his shoulder. Potter's voice sounded from behind him.

"Got time for a word?"

"That depends. Up for a pint?"

Potter nodded, "Sure."

"Great. Cause you're buying."

By the time they reached his local, it was dark out. The rain continued to pour relentlessly from the starless sky. Some of the other regulars gave Arthur a hand of greeting as he led Potter inside.

Arthur savoured the first mouthful of beer. He felt the edge of the day's work recede. Potter eyed his own beer as if unsure of its merits. Arthur took the cigarettes from his pocket.

"Fancy a ciggy?"

Potter shook his head, "Don't smoke."

Arthur put the pack away, "Me neither. Not anymore. Figured it was polite to offer."

They sat at the bar in silence and watched the evening crowd trickle in and out. On the television, some or other football match was underway. Arthur took care to always wear neutral colours. Wearing the wrong colours in his neighbourhood was a mistake you only made once. Arthur was halfway through his beer before Potter spoke.

"You do a lot of admin work these days?"

Arthur wiped his mouth and grinned, "If you're going to ask me then ask."

Potter put his beer aside, "What really happened to Liall Newton?"

Arthur drained his glass, "You've read the papers haven't you?"

Frown lines creased Potter's forehead, "You think I still read the Daily Prophet? Come on, tell me what really happened. Why did they drop the Battersea investigation?"

Arthur shrugged, "As far as they're concerned they got their man. No point wasting resources on a case that's been solved."

"It hasn't been solved though."

"Know that for a fact do you?"

"No. But you do."

Arthur tossed a fiver at the barman and asked for another pint. He glanced at Potter. There was nothing but earnest interest on his face.

"Right, I'll level. I was there when Newton died. Why Newton was still there I don't know, maybe he was trying to torch evidence. Anyway, I had a little look around his house. Found a bomb."

Potter coughed, "How do you know it was a bomb?"

"I've seen enough to know what they look like. And this one was proper. Newton was thick as pig-shit. No way he was smart enough to cook that thing up himself. He had help."

"And you've taken this to Robards?"

The image of Gawain gawking at Newton's corpse flashed across Arthur's vision, "In a manner of speaking. But they had a prime suspect and there've been no more attacks. As far as they're concerned its done. Now there's bigger fish to fry."

And there always were. This one who had supported the Dark Lord. That one who had been a snatcher. This family that had ratted out Muggle-borns. That official who had turned one too many blind eyes.

And in the chaos of the post-war wizarding world, the deaths of random Muggles in Battersea seemed mighty small indeed.

Indignation flashed across Potter's face, "Is five deaths not enough to motivate them?"

Arthur took a sip of his refilled glass. It didn't taste as good as the first.

"As someone once said to me 'They're just Muggles'. Who cares? They kill each other all the bloody time anyway."

"But you still care."

Arthur put his glass down, "What do you want here? I'm got another year, two tops, before they kick me out. You'd be better off chucking your lot in with Malcom. Way I hear it, he's on the way up. Robards made it quite clear to me that I ain't going anywhere but out the door."

Potter took a moment to respond.

"What's the point of being an Auror if you don't catch those who deserve it?"

"You're thinking of an ideal world. And in an ideal world, we would've won the bloody house cup in '92."

Potter couldn't help but laugh.

"You still on that?"

"Course I am. Worked my arse off getting points from McGonagall only for you and your cronies to get two hundred bloody points at the eleventh hour. Blisteringly biased it was. I bet you don't even remember me."

Potter gave an apologetic shrug, "Didn't associate with Slytherins much if I could help it."

"Hardly blame you. That valentine you got in '93 gave us enough ammo to rip you a new one for the next five years."

Potter buried his face in his palms, "You were there for that?"

" 'His Eyes are as Green as Fresh Pickled Toad' " Arthur sang, "Wouldn't have bloody missed it for the world. What happened to her anyway? That funny looking Weasley girl?"

Potter frowned at him, "Her name's Ginny. We've been dating for two years actually."

Arthur didn't know what to do except awkwardly clear his throat, "Blimey."

Arthur didn't speak and instead kept his eyes on the television.

Chelsea: Three; Leicester: Nil.

And then Arthur wasn't in the pub. He was standing with a rifle in his hands, looking at faded graffiti plastered alongside the Shankill Road.

Paras: Thirteen; Londonderry: Nil.

And Arthur could see it again. Smell it again. Taste it again.

The fear. The hatred. The paranoia.

Catholics and Protestants.

Loyalists and Nationalists.

Civilians and Terrorists.

And them, boys out of school, stuck in the middle of hundreds of years of bad history and worse memories.

Arthur blinked the vision away and listened to the sounds of the pub around him. Potter looked to be in contemplation. Arthur was well into his second beer when Potter spoke.

"You said something similar. When we first met. You didn't know that Snape had died. It was in every paper. Prophet, Quibbler, even the small ones. No way you could've missed it."

"I was out of country."

"Where?"

"Hazard a guess."

It was Potter's turn to stare into the past, "I remember, I must've been very young…but I walked past the TV room and saw something on the news. Something about an explosion in Ireland. I didn't think much of it at the time."

The pub seemed quieter around them.

"Nobody does. It was Britain's dirty little secret across the water. The war in the backyard. I was over there fighting one war and then I come back and I learn that everyone here was fighting a war of their own. Crazy bloody world."

Potter looked at him, "Do you think you made a difference?"

Arthur reached into his coat and handed the picture to Potter. Potter took it and looked at the dead faces. Arthur couldn't meet his eyes when spoke.

"No. But I want to."