"I need to talk to you," Hermione said the second Harry's backside hit the seat of his chair at the teacher's table.

"Can I have my tea first?" It was a rhetorical question, and Harry knew it even as he asked it.

"Did you know that students can get all the way to their N.E. without learning enough restraint not to hex people?"

Harry reached past her for the teapot and filled his cup. "I hadn't really thought about it, but having spent six years in the same classes as Crabbe and Goyle, I can't say I'm surprised."

"I'm not joking," Hermione hissed.

"Neither am I." He blew on his tea to cool it. "I suppose if they got really out of hand, they'd be suspended or expelled."

"Draco wasn't," Hermione reminded him. "He went full Death Eater while a student of this school, which I'd call comprehensively out of hand."

"Not full Death Eater. He couldn't kill Dumbledore, could he? And the teachers wanted to keep an eye on him. Pass the kippers, will you?"

Hermione set the platter in front of him with a thump that made the fish bounce. "It's disgraceful. This is supposed to be an educational institution. It's the only school in Britain for witches and wizards. And we're not educating them in the most important thing!"

"We are, though." Although he didn't have high hopes of enjoying them in anything like peace, Harry piled kippers on his plate and put an egg on top. "We're educating them to be in control of their magic and not do things like, I don't know, accidentally inflating annoying aunts."

"And how are they going to get on after school if they fling hexes when they're vexed?" Hermione, being Hermione, passed him the baked beans without being asked, even if she did set them down with another thump.

Harry shrugged. "Badly, and not for long, but that's their look-out." He heaped beans over the egg, and picked up his knife and fork. "I'm doing my best to drill it into the heads of my students that malicious magic has consequences, but there's always unpleasant people, aren't there? And some of them are witches and wizards."

"You sound like — someone." She gave the last word heavy meaning, and being Hermione and about as subtle as the Whomping Willow, waggled her eyebrows at him as well.

Harry paused, heaped fork halfway to his mouth, and raised his eyebrows at her. "He told you the same thing?"

Hermione nodded. "And frankly, if you share an educational philosophy with him, you should rethink your position."

"Well, what do you expect any of us to do about it, apart from detentions and lectures on responsibility?"

She explained, at length, which put paid to the idea of breakfast in peace but at least spared Harry the need to say anything except the occasional grunt of agreement — which he could do with his mouth full.

"So you see, an emphasis on personal responsibility and instruction in empathy as a quality to aspire to," she finished, as Harry mopped up the last of the eggy beans with a piece of toast, "would work wonders for —"

"Absolutely," he said firmly. "I will definitely adapt my lessons to include that. Alright?"

"Thanks, Harry. I knew I could count on you!" Hermione gave him a broad smile that made Harry think uneasily that he should have paid more attention to the rest of the conversation, snatched a piece of toast, and dashed off.

Setting aside whatever problems Hermione's latest crusade might cause, Harry poured himself another cup of tea and surveyed the Great Hall. There was a student with a Ravenclaw collar on his robes at the Hufflepuff table, and after a moment he put a name to the face. Michael Rowland. The one with natural talent. He was leaning over the table, talking to Maisie Wilkins, who didn't think she was significantly evil, and Colin Aitkins, whose speed in raising his hand in class almost rivalled Hermione's.

"The Tiresome Trio." Ron took the seat Hermione had vacated. "Oh, kippers!"

"The what?"

Ron nodded in the direction of Mike, Colin, and Maisie. "Hermione's Trying Triad. Pinching potions ingredients, out after hours. She has a plan to deal with them."

"Oh, Merlin," Harry said, and Ron chuckled.

"I said we'd help her with it."

"Oh, Merlin." Harry turned to stare at him. "What's the plan, then? That you've committed us to helping with?"

"A quest." Ron shovelled food on to his plate: sausages, eggs, black sausage, fried tomato. "The Quidditch Key."

"The what?"

"It's a magical key that attracts the Golden Snitch." Only years of listening to Ron talk with his mouth full enabled Harry decipher the sentence. "Only, not really. Really it's just an old key."

Harry closed his eyes for a moment. "You know, I really miss the days when Hermione had only one grand obsession on the go at a time."

Ron snorted. "Multitasking, it's all the rage in Muggle circles these days, according to Dad. What else is she on about, then? Apart from the obvious."

"Remedial morality. Teaching students to be … I'm not entirely sure. Nicer."

"She's just still annoyed about all the times we got her detention," Ron said wisely.

"Got her detention, half the truly mad stuff was her idea in the first place!"

Ron grinned at him. "Don't tell Hermione. She's convinced she was the responsible rule-following good influence on us."

Harry laughed, and stood up. "You alright with this morning's classes? Only I thought I'd call in on Kingsley."

Ron's eyebrows went up. "About … ?"

"The knife," Harry said. "And I thought I'd take a look at the records while I'm there, too. Refresh my memory on who I trained with, or worked with, who went on to …"

"Chose a working environment with an abundance of sea air and stunning views? Good idea." Ron speared a sausage on his fork and took a bite from the end. "'ule ou' 'n'one 'e o' 'eville 'or'e'd 'ith."

Even with years of fluency in 'Ron Weasley', it took Harry a moment to work that out. "Oh! Rule out anyone you or Neville worked with?"

Ron nodded, and swallowed. "I'm sure I've never seen that particular signature before, and Neville says the same."

Harry nodded. "I'll be back by lunch."

"Good," Ron said cheerfully. "Because we've got Boggarts with the first years this afternoon and you know Aitkins is going to to have read everything in the Library on them in preparation."

Reflecting that he'd almost rather deal with the Minster for Magic than Colin Aitkins in an enquiring mood, Harry went back to their rooms and Floo'd through to the Ministry's employee entrance.

"Potter," he said at the reception desk.

"Yes, I know—" the young wizard behind the desk said.

Harry interrupted him. "To see the Minister, if he can fit me in."

"Oh." It was a dilemma, Harry could see that written clearly on the young man's face. He didn't need to use Legilimency to read his thoughts. This is Harry Potter, the Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived … but no-one can just walk in to see the Minister … but this is Harry Potter!

The receptionist made a hopeful effort to resolve his problem. "You have an appointment?"

Dashing his hopes, Harry shook his head. "I only need five minutes. Can you let his office know I'm on my way up?"

"I — that is, I don't think —"

Harry took pity on him. "They can tell me 'no' when I get there, alright? Just tell them I'm coming. And yes, I know the way."

They didn't tell him 'no', of course, although he was kept cooling his heels in the Minister's outer office for half-an-hour before Kingsley Shacklebolt flung open his door.

"Harry!"

Harry stood up, holding out his hand, which Kingsley promptly seized in both his huge ones. "Hello, sir."

"Come in, come in." Kingsley ushered him into the inner office and shut the door behind them. "Please tell me you've come to say that you've broken the Hogwarts Defence Against the Dark Arts jinx and you're ready to come back to work." He gestured to a chair. "Sit, please."

Harry sat down. "No such luck, I'm afraid. I was talking to Andy the other day and he said there was a decided up-tick in reports. Is it really that bad?"

"Oh, no, no." Kingsley waved away the idea. "Neighbours flinging hexes over the fence over whose tree shades whose yard, you know the sort of stuff. Robards wants to make an Azkaban case out of everything that crosses his desk to make himself look good for when he takes a run at my job, and the fresh crop of recruits are straight out of training and filing reports on everything." He smiled. "So I'd like you back as soon as possible to show the greenhorns the ropes."

"I'll do my best," Harry said. "But actually, I'm here to ask for a favour. I need an item that's kept in our vaults, for a while. It's V.E.S ninety seven." He paused. "Bellatrix Lestrange's knife."

Kingsley leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together. "Am I allowed to ask why?"

"I want to get it examined by a freelance curse-breaker," Harry said, which was true. "He's very private — a recluse, really — and he only agreed to look at it if I brought it to him. Myself."

"And would I know this freelance curse-breaker?" Kingsley asked.

"Possibly," Harry hedged. "But he, you know, doesn't want his involvement known."

Kingsley chuckled. "A shy curse-breaker, now I have heard it all!" He took off his hat, ran a hand over his smooth head, and dropped the hat on his desk. "Never stand between a curse-breaker and a camera, that's one piece of advice I was given when I got this job that was actually useful."

"He's, um. An unusual character."

"And you trust him?" Kingsley's dark eyes were shrewd. "That's a powerful artifact, Harry."

"I do. And I won't let it out of my sight." Harry paused, and thought of contingencies. "Or Ron's. We're both on temporary leave, so we're both still technically Aurors —"

Kingsley nodded. "So it will remain in Ministry custody. Alright. But Harry, if you lose it …"

Harry thought of some curse-breakings he'd seen, and winced. "What if it ends up destroyed?"

"Oh, that's fine. Her husband's hardly in a position to complain, is he? Especially since all his property, including anything he might have inherited from his wife, is forfeit. The only other possible claimants are her own family — which I think boils down to Teddy Lupin, who's unlikely to object."

Harry grinned. "That simplifies matters."

"Try not to destroy it, though." Kingsley reached for a quill and a piece of parchment and scrawled something on it. "If it can be avoided. Here. Take this to the secure vault and they'll hand it over."

Harry took the parchment. "Thanks. I'll let you get on with, um …" He stood up. "Ministering."

Kingsley laughed. "That's something I haven't heard it called before." He waited until Harry's hand was on the doorknob. "Harry. Is there something you should be telling me?"

Damn. He turned slowly. "Um, yes. I suppose there is."

Kingsley sighed. He picked up his hat and settled it back on his head. "Go on, then."

"I think you should tighten up security at Azkaban."

The Minister for Magic went very still. "You have specific information?"

"No, not specific. A … suspicion. I'm trying to run it down."

"Is it Lestrange? Is that why you want the knife?"

Harry shook his head. "That's not why I want the knife. I don't know anything about Lestrange. I just … it's a hunch. A feeling."

Kingsley ran his hand over his face. "I'll look into it. And you, Harry, you'll keep me informed. If your hunch, your suspicion, turns into anything more concrete, I'm your first Floo."

"Got it, sir," Harry said, and made his escape.

Stuffing the precious parchment in his pocket, Harry headed next to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

He was hoping to find Andy again, but the older man's cubicle was empty. Harry sighed. Nothing for it. He'd have to go through the personnel files himself.

First order of business, work out where they actually are.

He'd fought a Basilisk, dealt with a dragon, and faced down Voldemort more than once. It's ridiculous to be intimidated by a file room.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door.

If the left side is verified incidents … and near the door is suspected, not verified … and artifacts are up the back …

He turned in a slow circle. Nope. Still no clue where to start.

"Potter! What are you doing here?" Gawain Robards said behind him.

"Hello, sir," Harry said, as cheerfully and innocently as he could. He glanced over his shoulder, trying for casual and completely unalarmed. "Just looking something up."

Robards scowled at him. "You can't be in here, Potter. You're on leave!"

"I'll just be a moment …"

"Out!" Robards said, emphasising the word with an overly-dramatic finger stabbed towards the exit. "Just because you've got the press wrapped around your little finger, Potter, doesn't mean you get to ignore the rules in here."

"Perhaps you can help me, sir." Harry didn't move towards the exit. "Where exactly is the rule that an Auror on leave can't have access to the file room?"

Robards narrowed his eyes. "Don't get smart with me, son. Where exactly are we standing?"

"In the file room?" Harry hazarded.

"Which is?"

You know, I never really saw his resemblance to Dolores Umbridge until this very moment. "In the Auror's office."

"Which is?" Robards repeated.

Harry sighed. Oh, bugger it. "It's going to be a lot faster if you just tell me what you want me to say, sir. And I know you must be very busy."

"This is the Department of Magical Law Enforcement!" Robards said. "Law enforcement, not the Department of Magical Take-It-Or-Leave-It-Guidelines. Don't think I don't know how you and Weasley play fast-and-loose with procedures! You should both be sent back to training, and if you don't watch your step, you will be!"

"If I'm an Auror who can be sent back to training, then I have a perfect right to be here, sir. Don't I? And if I don't have a right to be here, you can't really discipline me as an Auror, can you?" Harry wrinkled his forehead in confected confusion. "I have got that right, haven't I, sir?"

"Out, Potter!"

For a moment, Harry really considered flat-out refusing and seeing if Robards would test his strength by trying to evict him by force. No.

I'll want to work here again, after all.

"Of course," he said politely, and made his escape.

Robards watched him with narrowed eyes all the way to the lift, so Harry had no opportunity to detour and ask one of his colleagues to do the leg-work for him later. He got in, and had just braced himself for the jerk-and-lurch that would start his trip to the Ministry's Vault when running footsteps pounded towards the lift and a small figure squeezed through the closing doors.

"Wotcher," said Bernice Berringer, grinning up at him. The diminutive Auror was a little too tall to be mistaken for a part-goblin, but only a little, and her hair changed colour so often half the office was convinced she was a secret Metamorphmagus. Harry, with a little more experience of the Muggle world than most of them, had long suspected hair dye. The fact that today's brilliant shade of blue was not only the exact same vivid colour as her eyes, but also showed a quarter-inch of blonde at the roots, confirmed it.

"Hi, Bernie," Harry said politely. "How are you?"

"Goo—" The word was cut off as the lift began to move and she was thrown against the wall. She chuckled, and righted herself. "Bugger. Always takes me by surprise. Saw you getting a right royal bollocking from Robards."

Harry shrugged. "Not the first, won't be the last."

Bernie poked him in the stomach with her finger. "You want to be careful, Harry-me-lad. He can't sack you, but he could make your life an endless wasteland of desolation and despair."

Feeling a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite the foul mood Robards had put him in, Harry raised his eyebrows. "Putting me on permanent night shift when I get back?"

"Worse," Bernie said darkly. She leaned closer and lowered her voice. "Permanent filing. So watch your step."

"I will." The lift stopped and the doors opened. "See you, Bernie —"

She stepped out with him, grabbed his arm and dragged him into the nearest alcove. This being the entrance to the Ministry Vault, there were plenty to choose from. Being Bernie, she picked one occupied by a large and prickly plant, with serrated leaves at just the right height to completely clear the top of her head and jab Harry in the face. "Speaking of filing … what were you after, in there?"

"Just a quick inquiry." Bernie was a good Auror, by all accounts, quick with a spell when needed and completely fearless, but Harry had never worked with her himself, and that made it hard for him to know how much he could trust her.

"Bollocks," Bernie said. "You've never even seen the inside of the file room before today as far as I know, and I'm Bernice Berringer. I know things, that's what I do. So what's the dealio?" When Harry hesitated, she poked him in the stomach again. "I'm offering to help, you big lummox. To throw myself on the grenade of paperwork for you. To risk death, dismemberment, paper-cuts and eye-crossing, unendurable boredom. Try to at least look grateful."

"I need a list of Aurors I trained with, or have worked with in the field," Harry said at last. Really, it's not like I have a lot of other options. "To check against my memory. Only those who didn't work with Ron Weasley or Neville Longbottom."

Bernie fixed him with a bright blue gaze. "You've seen a spell," she said flatly.

Oh yes, that's the other thing they say about Bernie. Quick with a spell, completely fearless, and sharp enough to cut herself. "Yes," Harry admitted. "And I can't put my finger on where I've seen the same handwriting."

She raised her eyebrows. "Have we got a rotten apple, then? No, don't answer that, if I was supposed to know someone official would have told me, right? I don't want to know. Unless I need to know?"

"You don't," Harry assured her.

"Okay. Cool. Copacetic. How will I get the list to you?"

"Just owl it to me," Harry said. "At Hogwarts."

"In code?" Bernie asked hopefully.

Harry shook his head. "No need for code. Just the names."

"I could do a code anyway. I know a really good one. You take a book, see, and you both have the same book, and you pick a page and —"

"No code," Harry said firmly, visions of spending a week deciphering Bernie's message rising before his eyes. "Please, Bernie. No code."

She deflated a bit. "Fine. No code. If my owl is intercepted by the enemy and your secret plans are foiled because he, she or it can read the message, don't blame me."

"Unless you blab about what you're doing and for who, that's not very likely, is it?" Harry pointed out.

"You never know," Bernie said ominously. "The walls have ears, and eyes too, sometimes. There are portents, portentous portents."

"Are there really?"

She grinned up at him, gloom gone in an instant. "No. Haven't seen a sniff of a portent since You-Know-Who went You-Know-Where. I just like the word. Alright, Mum's the word, loose lips crash broomsticks, silence is golden, etcetera, etcetera, ad infinitum and so on and so forth." She pushed him back out of the alcove, earning him another painful swipe from the plant leaves. "Now, shoo, make yourself scarce, scarper, vamoose. We mustn't be seen together or Ridiculous Robards will know!"

She herself did exactly as she'd advised him to, scampering back into the lift.

Feeling a little as if he'd been waylaid and attacked by a human version of one of the Hogwarts Library's temperamental and territorial thesauruses, Harry made his way to the vault's entrance, presented Kingsley's scrawled authorisation, and waited for Bellatrix Lestrange's cursed knife.

.

.

.

Author's Note: Gawain Robards was the Head of the Auror's Office when Scrimgeour was Minister. I couldn't find any information on whether he survived in the position after the Second Wizarding War, and his irritating character is entirely non-canonical.