The final conflict of the Second Wizarding War came to a close on the triumph and tragedy of the Battle of Hogwarts. The Dark Lord Voldemort and his evil forces fell against the mighty defenses and outstanding courage of the Chosen One and his resilient allies. As a result of the eradication of the Elder Wand and the Golden Trio marked as legendary war heroes, reconstruction of the wizarding society began in full swing- strengthened by the hopes of witches and wizards behind it. The-Boy-Who-Lived became the renowned savior of the Wizarding World, his name more famous and adored than it ever was before. Trying as his life may have been he could concentrate his efforts into picking up wizarding society in Great Britain and set it back on its feet. Or so everyone had expected. The majority of people who had widely assumed this expectation were shocked when their hero wordlessly packed his belongings and disappeared from all aspects of public life, perhaps the wizarding world few people knew him on a personal level for the public only saw his image.
What they had failed to see were the years of pain, grief, and torment hidden behind those green eyes. Years of constantly battling the Dark Lord and his servants, losing loved ones in his life one by one, and constantly out on the run had always been a burden, but one not entirely processed until the war concluded. As a consequence, the temporary peace that followed quieted things down, with no battles left to take on the Chosen One allowed himself the time for reflection of the past seven years. It all came crashing down on him with the force of a tidal wave.
Seven years later…..
Disillusioned
Harry Potter let out a long yawn, running his fingers through the tousled locks of his messy, dark hair already wondering if it was too early for a refreshing nap. Bags sagged under a pair of tired green orbs mirroring the minimal amount of sleep he was lucky enough to get. Rising at six-thirty like clockwork every morning of the week to practice dueling and take notes on defense against the Dark Arts meant that by evening his energy to utilize critical thinking and mind were in steep free fall. Rarely interacting beyond a few select people and having not ridden a broom in six years made his capacity for doing all priorities throughout the day wither fast. He finished signing his signature on a financial statement his estate manager had sent a month ago with an uncharacteristic flourish of his hand, carefully placing it in the single spot on his desk that was not covered in piles of ink-stained parchment and dozens of unopened letters. Setting the quill down, he stood up and stretched his arms in the manner of a lazy cat.
Deciding that a steaming cup of earl grey was in order, he swept out from the shadowed depths of his office to find a good book to read in the state of the art library Potter Manor had proudly maintained for centuries. He was the first Potter to live in the manor in twenty years after giving in to the desperate desire for isolation.
In the wake of defeating Voldemort his fame skyrocketed to heights he could never have imagined- foreign dignitaries around the wizarding world requesting, almost demanding to meet him. Whereas he was used to being shamelessly stared at, mobs of people would carelessly surround him during visits to Diagon Alley. Hollers for his autograph, arms reaching just to touch the body of their savior. Reporters would join in too, thrusting cameras in his face to snap pictures of his astonished expression, blinded by the flashes with no thought for how suffocated he was by all this. He became public property. There was no place left except the Burrow where he could count on not being approached by curious on-goers to ask if they could see his lightning scar, did he really feel the Killing Curse when it struck him? What was the expression of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named when fading into dust? He had always resented being dogged by unwanted fame from day one but this…. this was insanity.
Once the dust had settled, officials of the wizarding community dove into investigations analyzing the damage done to the ministry, a grant providing money to rebuild the remains of Hogwarts passed in the Wizengamot. Many survivors who fled the country from Death Eater attacks during the war returned to destroyed homes and were in dire need of help. Fenrir Greyback remained at large and wreaked hell in the rural areas of Great Britain, evading all attempts to capture him and his pack. Even some of Voldemort's supporters disappeared off the map, aurors sent to take them into custody could not find a trace. All that aside, there was so much to do to prevent the ministry from collapsing and piecing the wizarding community back together. The scars Voldemort left had cut deep and ugly, the healing process would take years at least.
Everyone expected Harry to be at the frontlines of the rebuilding efforts and from his perch on top of the pedestal of hope to usher in this brand new chapter. Why he had thought, why did it always have to be him? It just always had to be him. There were plenty of highly competent wizards and witches out there who could do the rebuild better than him. As if the exhausting stress of these new expectations dumped in his lap weren't enough, the nightmares were horrific. The war may be officially over, but war still carried on in his head. Every night when falling asleep he relived Voldemort' snake-like face, Bellatrix's maniacal laughter, Sirius and Dumbledore's death, his death it was a replay screening all seven nights of the week. It got worse as the months wore on, escalating to suffering bouts of random panic attacks that scared Hermione who lived in the bedroom beside him. Not wanting anyone to worry, he spent all his time laying in bed barely eating or moving, his existence brought down to a ghost. The breaking point arrived when apparating into a thicket of trees a mile from the Burrow, curling up in a ball, and howling out his distress, exhaustion, frustrations, and sadness praying for sweet release from this torment. That was it. He couldn't take it anymore, he was going to lose his mind if this went on.
For once Hermione and Ron's support were not enough, he was a living shell of whom he once was. His two best friends tried, but they couldn't come close to putting him together again. He wasn't the only one of three to suffer the after effects- Hermione drowned herself in work. Work, eat, barely sleep, repeat became her coping mechanism. Ron, who at first drank in his newfound fame and got paid to tell stories of his war experience to anyone who paid to listen loved the attention. No longer was he the sidekick overshadowed by his scarred friend. Like most euphoric highs though it fizzled out four months into his book tour and he became a consistent customer at The Three Broomsticks for its homemade ales and hard liquor. Surprisingly, Hermione and him stayed together as a couple and what a pair they made- the workaholic and the alcoholic.
Seven years. Seven long, mind-numbing years since the boy now turned man ran away and cut off all contact from his loved ones and cherished friends. Originally it seemed a hard decision to make when contemplating the long-term consequences and harsh ramifications that could occur, it weighed heavily over his heart. Yet, packing his things and sneaking from the Burrow in the dead of night had given him an excited rush of adrenaline. It was for the better anyway he was convinced. Did it make him a bad person that he felt little remorse?
"Laurits?" He called up the grand staircase cautiously, as if his butler was planning to spring an unwanted surprise party on him. "Laurits where are you?"
"Up here Lord er- sir" Came the immediate response. A middle-aged man dressed in a polished black suit and spiffy white tie clambered down the marble steps, a small limp forcing him to shift weight onto his left leg for support. Laurits Meyer had served in a various notoriety of noble households during the tenure of his career and knew all there was to know on how things were properly run in a manor. When first hired, he'd insisted nonstop on calling Harry "Lord Potter" despite the latter's insistence to call him by his first name. Eventually, they compromised on calling Harry "sir" as the middle ground solution.
"On your way to town, could you stop by the owlery to deliver that financial document from a month ago?"
"Will do, sir. Shall I forward a message to that young architect from Lancashire to carry on with inspecting 12 Grimmauld Place as planned?"
"Yes but remind him to only update parts that need fixing, Grimmauld will stay as it is." Kreacher would be pleased seeing as the grouchy house elf routinely returned to the depressing Black family home each night to clean and sleep when his tasks at Potter Manor were done.
"And the Potter Manor, sir?" The butler inquisitively raised an eyebrow at a tiny crack running along the side of the stairs.
"Leave it for now. Any updates here will be supervised by me, I have no wish to remodel the architecture." Laurits bowed lightly in his direction then departed for the village. As he walked to the northeastern side of the manor he started having thoughts about updating the outdated utilities remaining.
The ancestral home of House Potter was a massive decadent manor with a bold exterior designed in Elizabethan architecture. Inside, it had a dark gothic appearance in contrast to the lighter colors of the exterior. The floors and stairs were made of black marble and high vaulted ceilings. Surrounded by hundreds of acres of land the manor was a sight to behold inside and out, belonging to a bygone era. No one save the uppercrest pureblood families lived in buildings such as this anymore. Harry's first stop minutes after fleeing the Burrow was 12 Grimmauld Place. From there, events occurred in rapid succession- under the legalities of the final will of his godfather Sirius he is entitled to Grimmauld, the vaults containing House Blacks' fortune and treasures, and the title of Lord Black passed down to him. Kreacher had gotten him in touch with the ancient former estate manager to the Blacks who after reading the documents of the last true heir to the Black name declared that according to the will there is no room for contention. All was in lawful order, he would be granted the seats House Black maintained in the Wizengamot. From there, he reclaimed his birthright which included the title and lordship of Potter, the manor, the entirety of his grandparents incredible fortune that had been laying in Gringotts, and the reinstatement of their seats on the Wizengamot. Owning the seats of two ancient houses gave him remarkable political power but he had no interest in that arena. Anytime the Wizengamot voted, he sent a notice abstaining from voting in response.
Later in the night Harry sat in a wingback armchair by the window reading a thick book on a history of foreign magical rituals he found perusing in the library. He was thinking deeply but felt too tired. Snatching a round glass and bottle of firewhisky from the drink table, pouring a liberal amount into the glass and he gulped a mouthful down. Another. Another, it went on. The sound of footsteps nearing the entryway snapped him out of his binge drinking, setting the glass on his knee and glancing to regard Laurits.
"Good evening sir, I collected your mail I think there's something you should see." The normally expressionless butler held the latest copy of the Daily Prophet, looking at him in a grave manner.
"Is it another character assassination?" Harry snorted, the alcohol having gone to his head. "Honestly, at this rate you'd think the Prophet would've hired some halfway decent correspondents by now and rid themselves of Skeeter."
"Well-"
"Lemme guess," he sarcastically drawled. "Something along the lines of The Boy-Who-Lived was spotted being carted into St. Mungo's for seeing the ghosts of his past"
"I wish that were the case sir, unfortunately things have gone downhill from the progress that has been made since the end of the war." Harry didn't move to take the paper. Laurits sighed, having a feeling this is how it would go. "Please, I strongly admonish you to at least skim this paragraph."
Adjusting his glasses, his eyes widened considerably at the bold headline.
He threw his head back and doubled over in laughter, beside himself. "Those pureblood-obsessed coots seriously think they can pull this rubbish off?"
"Apparently so, it states in the third paragraph that they have garnered the number of votes needed to pass it into law." Laurits tossed a log into the fireplace. "Once that law is passed, it effectively makes all magical employment place a higher importance of pure bloods over the muggleborn witches and wizards. The complimentary law attached to this legislation also dictates the marriage status of half bloods to wed available purebloods of age."
A dozen thoughts bombarded the last Potter all at once.
"Why do they even have enough political might to do this, almost all the families of the Sacred Twenty-Eight allied with Voldemort? They should be locked up in Azkaban."
"Because the young Death Eaters from those families and the half bloods who fought alongside the Dark One were given light sentences that did not cost them their seats in the Wizengamot nor their fortunes."
"Right, that still doesn't explain why. Those seats are a section of the voters, but there are others who can vote against it with enough votes to override their proposed legislation." The imaginary thought of snide, arrogant Malfoy and his scummy ilk sharing smirks as they penned the legislation to completion left a sour taste in his mouth.
"Many were either killed in the war, others have changed sides now that magical birth rates are dipping. The public's attentions were so focused on the murders caused by Greyback, the pureblood faction in Wizengamot made a play to sneak legislation on the floor while the wizarding community was distracted. However, an employee who works for the ministry caught wind of it and alerted the public. There 's going to be a great many people at the front steps of the ministry tomorrow before the final votes are cast. Now as you can see, this has warped into a huge controversial showdown."
Harry's head bowed, troubled by the startling news. He'd known that defeating Voldemort would not forcibly change the minds of those prejudiced against muggleborns but clearly the message wasn't strong enough to put down those biased ignorants who prevented their world from making progress. If that group was now making a power grab, who was there to stop them?
No! Harshly scolding himself. Do not fall any further into the rabbit hole. Someone else will deal with this issue.
"Sir-"
"No Laurits, I know what you're going to say" Cutting the older wizard off. They've been around this block one and too many times. "We've been over this before. I'm not going to involve myself. I'm not going back."
" Actually I was not going to say what I have been telling on a regular basis over the years sir." The butler cleared his throat and folded his hands in respect. " I was only going to recommend some modest meddling in this controversy."
" What do you mean by that? Are you suggesting I donate money?"
"Not at all, I think you could send a strong message to those prejudiced blokes. You'd send it directly to them, nobody is expecting you to do a thing about this since no one has seen nor heard from you in years."
Harry mulled the suggestion over, tapping his pointer finger on his firewhiskey glass impulsively. He suddenly had a feeling in his chest – it was like a small flame being lit.
End of Chapter 1
Please don't be shy, send me a review! This is my first Harry Potter fanfic and since I am trying to improve my writing skills as well as my story creating skills I welcome constructive criticism. I hope for those of you who took time out of your day to read this enjoyed it.