Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.
Important Information: This story is canon-compliant up to—but not including—the infamously-disappointing epilogue of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.
Harry Potter and the Labyrinth
23:11 (GMT), June 13, 1997
Somewhere in the Austrian Alps
A series of interlocking wards failed simultaneously, and the internal arcane energies locked into the bindings tore free with a spectacular earth-shaking explosion of swirling light and blazing sparks. All around the world, a rather limited printing run of maps suddenly blurred, and then resolved...with one added icon.
08:05 (Local), October 25, 2004
Office 201, Auror Headquarters, Ministry of Magic, London, UK
Harry knew something was up the moment he stepped off the elevator—the office was too quiet, too tense, too...something. A brief look toward the bullpen confirmed his suspicions; the third shift Aurors were still hanging around, whispering quietly to the first shift personnel who had just come in. A few sidelong glances toward Harry and some significant and not-very-subtle looks toward Harry's halfway-open office door—the door that Harry had locked on his way out the previous evening—told Harry that he was not going to like what he found inside.
His instincts and clever deductions were proven correct the moment he pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside. Franz Huber, the Austrian pencil-pusher that Harry had nearly cursed the day before, was sitting in one of the two chairs against the side wall of the office, next to Kingsley Shacklebolt. Huber looked somewhat smug, like Malfoy whenever he managed to sic Snape on Harry; Kingsley's expression was unreadable. Percy Weasley was sitting behind Harry's heavy oak desk, in Harry's chair, looking with obvious distaste at the rather untidy piles of files, warrants, and intelligence reports.
"Good morning, Head Auror Potter," Percy said imperiously, somehow looking down his nose at Harry despite the fact that Harry was standing and he was seated. "We've been waiting; you are over five minutes late, but I suppose you can be forgiven...this time. Why don't you take a seat?"
Harry's eyes flashed as Percy gestured to the small, uncomfortable chair in front of the desk, which Harry normally used to interrogate wayward employees and guests. Only the fact that Harry liked the rest of the Weasleys a great deal kept Harry from cursing the bastard right then and there.
"I would, Madame Umb—sorry, I mean Weasley," Harry said cheerfully. Kingsley's cough sounded suspiciously like a barely-stifled snort of amusement. "But, you see Percy, you seem to have mistaken my seat for your own."
Percy's eyes narrowed and his face reddened as Harry continued, his voice growing colder with every word. "Your office is on the first floor, remember? If you like, I can have a few of my Aurors escort you back there, in case you get lost." Get the fuck out of my office, you pompous prick.
Harry's implication was not lost on anyone in the room; everyone knew that when it came down to it, most of the Aurors were personally loyal to Harry...which made him a fairly powerful political force, even without his his Boy-Who-Lived fame. The tension in the room ratcheted up; Harry had preemptively turned what would have been a merely adversarial meeting into a hostile confrontation. Fuck it, we were going there anyway.
"Head Auror Potter," Kingsley rumbled in his deep baritone. "I understand you have already met Herr Huber, from the Austrian Ministry of Magic?"
"Head Auror Potter?" Harry repeated, incredulous. Is that how this is going to be, Kingsley? So be it. "Yes, Minister Shacklebolt,"Harry bit off coldly, "Fritz and I met yesterday, sir."
Kingsley winced. Yeah, I'm sorry too. Guess we're not quite the pals I thought we were, Shack. The Minister opened his mouth—probably to apologize, or try to smooth things over—but he was interrupted by Huber.
"Mein name is Franz, Head Auror Potter," Huber corrected mechanically, speaking for the first time. "I believe zat I told you zat yesterday."
Harry glared at Kingsley in accusation. I hunt and kill dark wizards for you, and this is what you bring me? The Minister, though knowing that the moment for smoothing things over had passed, at least had the grace to look apologetic before continuing.
"The Department of International Magical Cooperation has been working with the Austrian Ministry," the Minister said. "It turns out that Auror recruitment in most of the countries on the continent has been in a slump for several years, and the Austrians have run into a bit of a situation which may require more expertise than they currently have available within their own ranks."
"And that, Head Auror Potter, is where you come in," Percy interrupted. His expression of intense irritation had been replaced by one of smug triumph when Kingsley pulled rank on Harry, and now he was practically glowing. "Effective immediately, you are hereby assigned as Tactical Field Commander for International Magical Task Force 42, which is being stood up to investigate this specific case of potentially dark magic."
"Velcome aboard, TFC Potter," Huber said. "I vill be acting as Staff Kommandant for IMTF 42, as vell as ze liaison to ze Austrian and British magical governments."
Harry was, by this point, barely controlling his anger. His hand twitched, aching to draw his wand; only a supreme effort of will—on the level of throwing off Voldemort's Imperius Curse—was keeping him from blasting the smug smirk off of Percy Weasley's stupid, pompous face. He had enough presence of mind, though, to vaguely recall something that might get him out of this. Specifically, neither Percy nor Kingsley actually had the authority to reassign him; that authority rested solely with Harry's direct superior: Arthur Weasley.
"That's very interesting, Senior Undersecretary," Harry ground out through his clenched teeth. "Considering the fact that I don't see written orders to that effect signed by my immediate superior. You know, the Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He's a great guy, you probably don't know him, but his name is Arthur Weasley. Great family, too. They probably wouldn't like you very much, though."
Percy stiffened, and Harry had the satisfaction of watching Percy's face turn a brilliant shade of crimson. After briefly becoming a Weasley again during the Battle of Hogwarts, Percy had quickly returned to his old habits, and was once again at odds with the rest of his family. Now it was Percy whose hand was twitching for a wand, though he could not possibly be dumb enough to draw down on a man who made his living blowing away dark wizards. Harry's moment of triumph crumbled, though, when the Minister stood and silently handed Harry a single sheet of parchment. Shacklebolt looked horribly guilty, and Harry put it all together before he even read the first line.
As expected, it was a set of written orders, signed by one Percival Ignatius Weasley, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic and Acting Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Godfuckingdammit.
"So, Minister," Harry murmured. Shacklebolt winced again. "Arthur wouldn't sign off on this, so you fired him and gave the whole department to Weatherby. You should get a bowler hat to go with this pile of sh—sorry, fudge."
Shacklebolt's head jerked back, as though he had been punched in the face. "Harry—"
"Don't worry, Minister," Harry hissed. "I'll do this fucking assignment, because apparently it's worth a good man's job. But when—sorry, if I get back, you and I are going to have a very short fucking conversation about my future in the Ministry."
Shacklebolt opened his mouth to object, but he was once again interrupted by Franz's nerve-gratingly nasal voice.
"Ze details of your assignment are in a file on ze desk, TFC Potter," Huber piped in, ignoring the byplay. "I expect you to report to ze Austrian Ministry in Vienna with the assigned personnel by zero eight hundred tomorrow morning...and do try to be on time. Lateness shall not be tolerated in my command."
With that, Franz Huber stood, bowed slightly to Percy and Kingsley, and squeezed past Harry (who had still not moved from his spot a few feet into the room) and out through the door. Percy stood as well, and followed Huber. Kingsley stayed behind.
"Harry, I'm sorry it went this way," the Minister began, his nerve beginning to fail him for the first time since he had last seen Voldemort in battle. Harry's glare had not abated; in fact, it seemed to have increased in intensity with only one person to focus on. "I told Arthur that he could have his job back tomorrow, but he refused."
"Well, imagine that," Harry snapped. "Will Percy remain as the Director of the DMLE? I know how those temporary assignments have a way of becoming not temporary."
"I don't know," Shacklebolt sighed, rubbing a weary hand over his face. Harry was almost sympathetic, knowing that only a huge amount of pressure could have driven Kingsley to this...but the fact that Harry was the one in the hot seat kept him focused on being angry at the man.
"If I survive this absurd death trap, and come back to find that he's still the Director, I swear I'll do everything I can to make sure I'm not the only Auror who walks," Harry swore, letting a little more anger seep into his voice. "And you know they'll follow."
"I'm sorry, Harry" Shacklebolt said quietly, after a long moment of silence.
"Not as sorry as I am," Harry replied sarcastically, not in any mood to be conciliatory. "Now, Minister, with all due respect, please leave me to my work. Apparently, I've got a lot to do. Sir."
10:05 (Local), October 25, 2004
Office 201, Auror Headquarters, Ministry of Magic, London, UK
"Dawlish, Robards, Williamson!" Harry's sonorous-amplified voiced boomed from within his office. "My office, now!"
Moments later, the three Aurors bustled into the room, looking apprehensive. The details of Harry's argument with Percy, Shacklebolt, and Huber had been heard by most of the office, and had quickly circulated to those who hadn't been nearby. They all knew that Harry hadn't left his office since then, which meant that he hadn't had a chance to go blow up half of the target range...which meant that he was probably still in a very dangerous mood.
"Robards," Harry said, looking up from a series of high-altitude photographs of what appeared to be a mountain range. "You were briefly Head Auror, after Scrimgeour left and before I came in. If I remember correctly, you did not enjoy it very much."
"That's correct, sir," Robards responded quickly and truthfully, hoping this wasn't going where he thought. Gawain Robards had hated being Head Auror—like Alastor Moody, he preferred working cases rather than engaging in the Ministry's political games (especially since the pay increase from Senior Auror to Head Auror only amounted to a few extra galleons per month), even though he was getting old enough that field work was starting to become fairly difficult. The fact that Harry managed to make his way into the field was an aberration for Head Aurors, and was made possible only by the fact that he was significantly more powerful than any of his subordinates, so he could make a legitimate case for leading from the front. "It was pretty terrible."
"I'm happy you think so," Harry said sarcastically. "Congratulations, you've been promoted to Acting Head Auror."
"Fuck," Robards swore. Being Head Auror was bad enough, but being a lame-duck Acting Head Auror and working directly under Percy Weasley? He would have preferred a posting at Nurmengard. "Can I quit?"
"No," Harry replied sternly, knowing that Robards had not really been joking—the man just had enough loyalty to the rest of the Aurors that he'd stick around if it meant that they wouldn't get stuck with a bad leader, but he really didn't want the job. "Suck it up. If you're lucky, Percy will fire you and replace you with a ladder-climber. Then you'll get a severance package along with your pension."
"Gotta love the Ministry," Robards muttered. "Fuck."
"What about us?" Adam Williamson asked fearfully. The pony-tailed wizard knew that Harry tended to deliver good news first...and if that was the good news (he knew that if he had been promoted, he would have actually quit, and the rest of the office be damned), then he didn't really want to hear what was in store for himself and Dawlish.
"Bad news," Harry said sympathetically, and handed them each a thin file. Dawlish and Williamson looked at each other, paling immediately. "Percy reassigned you both to IMTF 42. I'm the field commander, and that Austrian twat is our staff commander. The basic details of your assignment are in that file. My file was thicker, but if you read between the lines in yours...well, you'll realize that the bottom line is that this is not going to be a clean job. Thanks for volunteering, lads," Harry concluded in an obviously-fake cheerful tone.
Dawlish and Williamson had fought in both of Voldemort's wars; they were not new to the idea of being killed in the line of duty. However, that was when an enemy force was ravaging their own homeland. They were not going to be enthusiastic about risking their lives for...what, exactly? The rumors that had been flying around—based on the loud arguments in Harry's office yesterday and this morning—suggested that they were investigating something extremely dangerous in some random patch of ground that nobody really seemed to care about.
"Fuck," Dawlish and Williamson swore, in exactly the same tone that Robards had used only moments before. They looked at each other and nodded grimly—both men would be leaving work early today to go to Gringotts and update their wills.
"My thoughts exactly," Harry agreed. "If it makes you feel any better, I'll be leading from the front on this one."
"Gotta say, sir, it really doesn't," Dawlish grumped sourly. "Seeing as how we already knew you were leading from the front, since you always do."
"It can't be that bad," Robards declared hopefully. "I mean, what are the odds that some random patch of ground in the middle of the mountains actually has anything dangerous?"
Harry, Dawlish, and Williamson all groaned at the same time, and Robards winced as he realized what he had just said. Aurors are cops, and cops—especially those who literally deal with magic and the supernatural on a daily basis—are a superstitious lot. The three unlucky men glared at Robards, who shrugged apologetically.
"If there wasn't before, there is now," Williamson muttered darkly. "Thanks, asshole."
"I guess the undoubtedly-rampant rumors missed the detail about several IMTF teams—just like the one I've been voluntold to lead—that have failed to return from this exact assignment over the last six years," Harry responded dryly. "By now, the continental Ministries will have given it up for a bad job, so their Auror offices will just send their expendable dregs and political black sheep; meanwhile, Percy Weasley gets to cross off me and two Senior Aurors who might someday be political opponents, albeit reluctant ones, by sending us all on a suicide mission."
"Fuck," Robards whispered. "That's...fuck."
"Percy Fucking Weasley is murdering us, but since it's being done in the name of international magical cooperation, it's okay," Dawlish said sarcastically. "Welcome to the fucking Ministry of Magic."
"Yeah, pretty much" Harry, shaking off his comradely gloom and assuming a commanding tone. "But that's the job, so quit bitching. Robards, you and I are briefing the rest of the office regarding the handover in an hour; you have until then to prepare for your new job. Dawlish and Williamson, take the rest of the day off to get your shit together, and be at the Austrian Ministry of Magic in Vienna tomorrow morning at eight. Don't be late."
23:11 (GMT), June 13, 1997
Restaurante Patagonia Sur, Buenos Aires, Argentina
A spoon clattered down into a soup bowl.
The elderly wizard's head snapped down to his front left pocket, and seemingly of its own accord, his hand dug into his pocket. Moments later, his eyes locked onto a silver pin that had sat idle for over five decades. Ever since it had shut down on the morning after his Lord's apparent defeat, he had never, ever left it outside of his arm's reach. Before the infamous duel, his Lord had summoned his closest, most loyal, most powerful lieutenants, and supplied each of them with the details of die Letzte Hoffnung, a silver pin, and a map. And now the pin had reactivated; in the palm of his hand, before his very eyes, the triangle, circle, and line etched themselves back onto the pin's mirror-finished surface, forming his Lord's infamous symbol.
"I'd better go find zat map," he murmured to himself, getting up from the table. The waitress started to object—he hadn't even received the main course that he had ordered—but he tossed an over-large wad of bills onto the table, forestalling any conflict. He had much work to do, and likely precious little time.
17:05 (Local), October 25, 2004
The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, UK
With a resounding crack (Harry could apparate silently, but he generally felt it was more polite to announce himself on a social call like this), Harry appeared at the top of the hill overlooking the Burrow, the Weasley homestead. A short walk later, he had reached the front door, unimpeded by the impressively violent defensive wards that he and Bill Weasley had designed and raised five years ago.
Before he could knock, the door was flung open and a large reddish-orange blur shot out. For a brief, frantic instant, Harry battled with his own combat-honed reflexes, and barely managed to stop himself from drawing his wand and blowing up Molly Weasley as she collided with Harry and drew him into a bone-crushing embrace.
"Harry James Potter!" Molly half-squealed, half-screamed, still hugging him tightly. "How good of you to stop by!"
"Now, Molly, let the poor lad breathe," a genial voice called from inside the house. "It'd be a shame if you crushed him to death before you could stuff him full of this excellent dinner."
Wincing from the sound and impact, and gasping from the lack of air, Harry managed to extricate himself from Molly's clutches. He was blushing as he turned toward Arthur; Molly had always been an extremely physically-affectionate woman, but having his head practically shoved into her ample bosom was a bit much. Arthur chuckled and smiled knowingly from the doorway.
Harry had not come to the Burrow looking for a free meal, but he knew that Molly would be insulted if he didn't stay. Plus, he was a stereotypical bachelor, so most of his dinners were take-away or something he could slap on toast—there was no way he was going to turn down an actual home-cooked supper, especially considering the fact that he was preparing to go on what appeared to be a suicide mission into unknown territory. By unspoken agreement, the real subject of Harry's visit went unspoken until dinner was over, so the meal was dominated mostly by small-talk. Apparently, Ginny and her husband, Michael Corner, had been over the previous night; Molly made no attempt to hide her opinion that Ginny and Harry should have ended up together, but aside from some good-natured motherly fussing and a nearly painfully-full stomach, dinner was a pleasant affair.
Finally, Molly shooed Harry and Arthur into the sitting room.
"Anything to drink, before I go clean up?" she asked. "I know how much you love Madame Rosemerta's butterbeer, Harry, and we have some if you want it."
"Thank you, Molly," Harry said tiredly. "But I think this is a firewhisky sort of conversation."
Arthur, having seen the expressions that passed over Harry's face when Molly wasn't looking, was already pouring a generous amount of Ogden's Finest into two tumblers. He gave Molly a significant glance (one that said "this is a man-to-man sort of conversation"), and Molly retreated back to the kitchen. Arthur handed Harry a glass, and after a clink, both men took not-insignificant sips from their drinks.
"I wanted to apologi—" Harry began, before Arthur cut him off.
"No, none of that, Harry," Arthur interjected firmly. "It wasn't you who put me up against a wall. Honestly, I thought Kingsley was a better man than that, but watching him compromise himself was not enough reason for me to do the same. I'd rather be forced to retire as an honorable man, than keep working as a dishonorable one. Especially for you; this country owes you better treatment than that."
Not for the first time, Harry was moved by Arthur Weasley's words. Much of the magical community of Britain did not respect Arthur because of his obsession with all things technological. However, those who actually knew Arthur Weasley knew him for the steadfast bastion of morality and kindness that he was. In Harry's opinion, very few wizards could match Arthur Weasley's quality.
"In that case," Harry rejoined, nodding to concede the point (even though he still felt guilty), "I suppose that my thanks will have to suffice. Thank you, Arthur."
"You are welcome, Harry," Arthur replied warmly. The two were silent for a few moments, taking advantage of the calm before the storm—both knew that the rest of the conversation would be upsetting. Soon, both were looking at empty glasses, and Arthur refilled both before taking a deep breath and continuing the discussion.
"Who was it, in the end?" Arthur asked. He knew that there was no way Harry would have been able to avoid the assignment. There were simply too many people in the Ministry who would be willing or even eager to climb over Arthur to get the Director of the DMLE position, so it was almost guaranteed that Kingsley had found someone to sign off on those orders. There was one name, in particular, that Arthur desperately did not want to hear.
The sympathy written all over Harry's face was answer enough. "I'm sorry, Arthur," Harry admitted reluctantly. "It was Percy."
Arthur closed his eyes and exhaled sharply through his nose. He wasn't surprised—he could imagine the scene all too easily—but it hurt nonetheless. He drained his full tumbler in one swallow, and he didn't bother blinking back the tears when he opened his eyes again.
"This may seem absurd to you, Harry," Arthur uttered slowly, his words slightly slurred (understandable, after two glasses of Ogden's Finest in rapid succession). "Especially since he went cold toward us again after Fred's funeral, but...Percy is my son, Harry. I wanted...I hoped that he would turn around, and come back to us. Molly was so proud that I resigned over those orders, Harry, and the fact that Percy jumped at the chance is going to break Molly's heart."
Harry didn't really know what to say to that. Honestly, if Percy had been anything but a Weasley, Harry probably would have challenged him to a duel, which, for a wizard of Harry's power, skill, and combat experience, would be effectively the same as just murdering the sniveling bureaucrat in the street (except, of course, that it would be perfectly legal). He simply shrugged and took a long, slow sip of his firewhisky, while Arthur eschewed his glass entirely and began taking swigs directly from the bottle.
Having delivered his family-shredding news (and not having anything helpful to say...what do you say to a good man trying to deal with a terrible disappointment for a son?), Harry now felt as though he had worn out his welcome, and stood up to leave. As he opened the door to the hallway, he turned back to the increasingly-drunk Weasley patriarch.
"I'm sorry, Arthur," he repeated, feeling cold and useless. "I never wanted...I wish it hadn't been him."
"Me too, son," Arthur replied dimly, clearly paying more attention to the bottle at this point, and thus missing the way Harry's eyes widened in shock at his words. "Try to make it home, Harry—we've already lost Fred, and now Percy, too, in a way...I don't know that we could survive outliving you, too."
Molly, perhaps having a sixth sense for her husband's disheartened condition, swept past Harry into the sitting room, pausing only to briefly hug Harry. Suddenly feeling as though he was intruding on a private moment—and wanting to be anywhere else when Arthur told Molly about Percy—Harry swiftly departed. He needed to get to bed early anyway; after all, tomorrow was going to be a busy day.
22:58 (GMT), June 15, 1997
The New Belmoral Hotel, San Ignacio, Belize
Eight men and five women stood silently around a large circular table. A muggle observer might peg them as being in their late fifties to early seventies, but a magical observer—knowing from the wands placed on the table in front of each that they were witches and wizards—would likely guess that their ages ranged from the mid-eighties to early hundreds. The oldest-looking wizard quietly placed a shiny silver pin on the table next to his wand, and the other dozen copied him. A moment later, he repeated the action, this time with a rolled-up map. Again, the others copied him.
The old man glanced around and nodded, apparently satisfied.
"So," he began in a deep, gravelly voice. His once-thick German accent had faded somewhat, but one look at his intense blue eyes showed that his fanaticism had not. "We are all still alive. We have all heard the call. We must all now prepare for die letzte Hoffnung."
"...die letzte Hoffnung..." the group chorused.
"Our Lord awaits!" the speaker continued, his voice rising in volume and his accent making itself heard. "It is now our time to reward our Lord's conviction with our continued faith!"
"...die letzte Hoffnung!" the group chanted, much louder. The electric lights in the hotel room flickered from the power of the assembled wizards and witches, caught up as they were in the revitalized ecstasy and glory of their youth.
"On the stroke of midnight ending this day, we, our Lord's most faithful, shall return to the fatherland!" the speaker roared, red-faced, as spittle flew from his lips and his eyes blazed with almost religious fervor.
"DIE LETZE HOFFNUNG!"
Author's Note
die letzte Hoffnung= the Final Hope (via Google Translator—if it's wrong, feel free to correct me). Kind of Hitler-y, but less mass-murder-y and more "man I hope this works"-y...but still pretty Hitler-y.
There is going to be a very un-Rowling-like amount of dirty language in this story—remember, Harry is an Auror, and Aurors are cops/soldiers—that's how they speak, especially during stressful situations. Toss in the fact that Harry is fairly angry most of the time, and the Aurors are generally pretty disgruntled, and you'll be hard pressed to find a time when there aren't some "sentence enhancers" being thrown around. Expect occasional casual F-bombs.
As of 9/9/2014, I've edited the title of this story to "Harry Potter and the Labyrinth." This story has seen fairly poor view numbers, and I suspect that the shitty title may have been partly to blame (in addition to people being reluctant to start reading an in-progress story).
Review!