The morning brought Harry to a new routine, and once he went through the butterbeer, newspapers, coffee, and breakfast, he summoned Kreacher to check the spot outside, just in case he missed something.

"The spells went bad," Kreacher said, frowning. "All at once, Master. It's not good."

Harry frowned down at his wand, and then conjured a couple of threes and dogs, and there seemed nothing wrong with spells. But he wasn't an expert, and Kreacher shared his opinion.

"It's not the same. Kreacher will be checking the house, just in case. Master should check himself and the wand."

"Just in case," he repeated.

At first, he wanted to go to the ministry, to see if can talk someone into giving him a file on the Kent incident, but he figured it would be too soon to start doing that sort of thing. It might have been a coincidence, for sure, but Harry had long ago stopped having any faith in those when it came to him

On the other hand, it made no sense to get all worried and paranoid before he checked for all the obvious causes. It was no secret to Harry that the fact that he was a wizard alone made him arrogant by default, and even though he thought he would have noticed if something so integral to him, like his magic, went awry, he would have noticed.

But Voldemort hadn't noticed his soul dying, and that got him to the place he last expected. Harry had no plans to follow his footsteps any time soon.

"Ollivander, then," he muttered to himself, put on his grey raincoat, and went to business.

The brief imprisonment in the cruel hands of the Dark Lord left marks on the old wandmaker that would never go away. Even though Ollivander got up as soon as Harry stepped into his shop, and even though his eyes lit up warmly at the sight of him, the crinkles around his eyes and mouth held caution and tiredness to them

He still had long, unruly, grey hair, and intense grey eyes, but where it once added to his mystique in a sort of intentional manner, now it made him look like a paranoid lunatic.

For Harry the thought meant that he was in good company.

"Alright, Mr Ollivander?" he said and shook the old man's offered hand.

"Quite, quite." He got back behind the counter, gently took the wand that laid there and hid it under it, out of view. "Back aches, but the sun still rises in the morning."

The moment of silence stretched into the awkward area before Ollivander cleared his throat. "Business, then, I suppose. It's always business these days."

"These, and any," Harry agreed, and pulled out his wand, handing it over to Ollivander. "A bunch of enchantments I've set up at home failed in a sort of violent way, and I want to make sure it doesn't happen again."

Ollivander nodded, accepting the wand with reverence, as he always did. "Reasonable. Just as pain alerts us to physical damage, so does wand to the magical one. Have you seen the healer?"

"I wanted to check if it's the wand first," Harry replied. "Go over some theory, as well?"

"Such as?" he asked, as he put Harry's wand on the piece of cloth and leaned so close to it his nose almost touched it, whispering to it under his breath.

"I wondered if the charms died once the wand they were cast with was broken or something."

"Active ones, for sure, but not the magic you talked about. They are tied either to the caster or to themselves."

Harry nodded. "Like the Hogwarts ones, right?"

"Just so," he said, pulling out his own wand, and prodding Harry's at seemingly random spots. "Were you to, Merlin forbid, to die, the magic would just peacefully drift into everything, though, and you said it happened so violently."

"Yeah. Backlash."

"It is not really my area, but the usual culprits are improper casting, foreign meddling, or end of lifespan."

"End of lifespan?" Harry asked as Ollivander finished with his wand and straightened up.

"Indeed. Animate a book to levitate to the shelf, and it will be in effect so long as it is not back at the shelf. Remove it after, and it will not attempt to do the same again, that would be a different animation altogether."

"It was the protective sort, those don't really have lifespan, do they?"

Ollivander handed him his wand back. "It seems perfectly in order. And no, not really, though one must remember all things die, even magic. Degradation is known to happen."

Harry shook his head. He had that much confidence in his casting. "And the less usual culprits?"

Ollivander gave a modest shrug. "Lots of causes that start with unexpected. Unexpected correlation with other magic or sources of, some strange muggle interference perhaps? As I said, I'm hardly an expert."

"Thanks, anyways," Harry said, giving a loud sigh. He learned nothing that he didn't expect to, but it didn't hurt to try, and in his experience old wizards always had different angles to look at things. "Let me know if there's any trouble, alright?"

"Of course, Mr Potter."

It was hard for Harry to imagine how bad things would need to be for him to actually set foot in St Mungo, and Madam Pomfrey wouldn't let him go for days so he found himself at Ernie Macmillan's office.

It was on the last floor of the building closest to the Gringotts, which was owned by his family for centuries. Even though Harry knew Ernie's actual line of work tended more towards the potions and experimental side of the business, he knew he was no slouch when it came to healing, having spent almost a decade at St mungo.

Being lost in his thoughts, he almost barged directly into his office, but the secretary, a small, mid age witch with thick glasses and thicker eyebrows came into his way, and told him to wait.

"When will he be free?"

"Just a couple of minutes, Mr Potter, he's with a client," she said. "I notified him about your presence already."

After a couple of minutes of back and forth in the waiting room Ernie stepped out, escorting a large, bald man who looked more like a bodyguard than the client, and once done with him, he approached Harry.

Ernie was a large man himself, with a full head of curly brown hair and a warm smile that reached his eyes and that made him look just fresh out of Hogwarts. "Sorry about the wait, I couldn't ditch Blishwick."

"It's alright, I'm not in a rush," Harry said. The name was familiar, though he couldn't remember from where. "Trouble?"

Ernie waved it away. "The ministry's been monitoring independent researchers a bit more closely these days, and that's how it looks like, not that Blishwick can tell bezoar from remembrall."

"Dabbling into dark magic, eh?"

"Price of progress," Ernie said and motioned Harry to follow him in the office, where he sat in a comfy looking armchair, far more than the wooden chair opposite of it. Ernie flicked his wand and it turned into the same armchair. When Harry gave him a questioning look, he chuckled. "Can't stand that asshole. That's as much as I can get away with."

"So which one is the actual thing? Or are they both just magic?"

"This one is, I bought them in France." Ernie frowned. "It's supposed to have one of those fancy charms on them that allows you to order it around, but these two must've been deaf. I thought about returning them, but then I sat in one and forgot about it."

Harry chuckled. It was a comfy armchair though. "Anyway, sorry to barge in like this, but I don't really trust healers at Mungo and I need something looked at."

As he explained the problem, Ernie's face turned serious, and he nodded at all the appropriate places, noting some things down, not interrupting until Harry was done. After, he made Harry lay down onto a floating bed that descended from seemingly nowhere.

"You have been drinking." It wasn't quite an accusation, more of a gentle reproach. "Potions, some, but nothing that could do serious damage. You should take care of yourself, either way."

"I'm not paying you to mother me, Ernie."

He chuckled. "It's my duty to at least mention it. It's all on you after that. I'll still have you take a bezoar, after, just to be sure. I've heard some butterbeer batches are tossed together in the Knockturn alley, and Merlin knows what they mix into it there."

"So what's the research about?" he asked as Ernie went on with the exam. "Something interesting?"

Ernie's face darkened and Harry couldn't tell if it was because of the result of his spell or because of the research. "I've actually been approached by the DOM to look into something."

"Let me guess—you can't go into details."

"Yeah," he said with a weak smile. "But I can tell you that the DOM is being pressured by the ICW, and not only the British one."

"A big one then."

"You can get up now." The instruments on Ernie sprung into life, some quills noting down whatever it was that instruments said. "You're fine at first glance, perhaps a bit underweight." He hesitated and bit his lip. "I know you're no longer at the Auror corps but can you get a file or two for me?"

"Sure," Harry agreed. "Whose?"

The quills dropped dead, one lingering in the air a tad longer than the rest, before throwing itself through the opened window. Harry and Ernie exchanged glances. "The fuck was that?"

"Beats me." Ernie shook his head, as if convincing himself he wasn't dreaming. "Must've gotten tired, the poor thing." He then read through the reports. "All good here as well. Some lingering spell damage but it's inactive."

"What does that mean?"

"Don't worry, it's common among Aurors, and the crowd that gets into trouble often."

Harry grinned. "And I'm both."

"Look, about those files." Ernie turned serious once again. "I've asked the DOM and they told me I'm paranoid, but something is definitely going on, and I'm worried it's global-wise. I'll owl you the specifics, okay?"

"Sure," Harry said, a sort of drowning feeling in his stomach. He was fine, which meant that his enchantments had gone awry due to something else, and as the information piled up, he couldn't help but wonder if they all had stuff in common.

But there was another feeling as well, the one he didn't want to acknowledge. As a single bubble in the glass of water, it raised, swiftly and undeniable. It was excitement.

In the part of the Hogsmeade that Harry had never set foot at, a house raised high, higher than all others in the village, its look reminding Harry of a black rook Ron used so many times to wreak havoc on his backline.

Even at a distance, he could feel layers of charms reinforcing its walls, and it wasn't a friendly sort of magic either. Looming above him, the headquarters of the Free Wand Society seemed to tell him to turn away, to run for his life, but if they thought that would work, they hardly knew Harry.

He had to blink when he approached. There were two guards standing in front of double doors, and Harry didn't think he had ever seen them anywhere that wasn't Gringotts. They're straight, Ron had said, but now Harry had his doubts.

"Gentlemen," Harry said with a wide smile. They didn't return the favor. "Am I outside of working hours?"

The doors were closed, but Harry could hear the sounds of life behind, voices, furniture scratching the floor, laughter, and more.

"No working hours," the one said, with a thick head and no neck, and Harry dubbed him Goyle in his head. "Need anything? Owl us."

Harry didn't let his smile drop. "Looking for work, is all."

The other one, an even taller fellow, with broad shoulders and even broader mustaches that had to be magic, took a step forward, suddenly a wand in his hand. "Do you need your ears cleared? Because that's all you're gonna get if you don't get lost."

Definitely Crabbe.

His buddy chuckled as he took a step to the side. So not completely untrained, or at least used to work in pairs. It was clear they neither recognized him nor took him as a threat, judging by the fact Goyle hadn't his wand out.

"I hear just fine."

Crabbe took a couple of swift steps forward, face marred with anger, his wandless meaty fist raising, but that was what Harry was waiting for, his patience wearing thin. He decked Crabbe just beneath his nose, pushed him towards Goyle who fumbled for his wand.

But Harry had no intention of letting him do so. Crabbe raised his wand. Foolish, really, at this range without apparating further away, and Harry batted his wand hand at side, ducked the wild swing, and bloodied Crabbe's nose something fierce. He grabbed his wand hand, pulled him close, and got a couple of knees in his stomach, til he let go of it.

The wand was no fit, made of dark wood and short, but Harry had worked with worse. He gave it a test swing, and deflected whatever it was Goyle hurled at him. Another swish and Goyle went on his knees, suddenly vomiting, and Harry slowly walked forward, stunning him at point blank range.

Before he could turn around, he heard Crabbe's hard breathing as he tried to regain his feet.

"You, know, I actually might be hearing better now," he said conversationally. Crabbe was back on his feet now, facing him, but his eyes were narrowed, hand making motions as if he still had his wand there. "Is there anyone in there I can talk to regarding that work I mentioned earlier?"

"Might be," Crabbe said. "Wand?"

Harry tossed it at him, and it surprised Crabbe, but he didn't wait back to attack straight away. Harry could see the cogs turning behind those silly mustaches. "Name?"

"Harry Potter."

Giving one last wary glance towards Goyle who was laying face-first in his own vomit, Crabbe seemed to make his mind with a slow, little nod, a sort of you give to yourself, and motioned Harry to follow him.

They entered a wide, circular room that had the feel of a lounging room to Harry, filled with people on couches, and chairs, many small groups conversing. At the far end, there was a bar, and next to it elevator, a grim, old man standing guard.

Harry hesitated, just for a second, for this man had that air about him that told Harry he was less of a pushover than Crabbe and Goyle. As they approached, the old man casually folded his hands in front of him, leaning at the elevator's wall, no wand at sight.

"Ruddoc?" the old man said and it took Harry a moment to realize he was talking to Crabbe.

"Harry Potter, looking for a boss."

The old man squinted his eyes at Harry, gathering a feel of him, sizing him up. Harry knew the drill, he had done it himself so many times, and whatever you get in those few seconds so often meant the difference between winning and losing, and so he relaxed, giving him the same smile he had earlier given to Crabbe and Goyle. If he did it wrong, he would be going home with more than one broken bone.

A tense moment passed, and the old man gave him a smile back, as amiable and empty as the veil itself. "Owls are beneath you, eh, Potter?"

"I like to look people in the eyes when I talk to them."

He nodded, the sort that didn't mean he agreed. "And we like be owled first, else the security gets all shifty."

"You mean you?"

The old man laughed. "Do you reckon I'm shifty? I might be at that. Do you have some shiny ministry warrant that says you can do all this?"

It was Harry's turn to laugh. "Hardly. I've a shiny, freshly polished wand that says so. Besides, I'm not with the ministry anymore."

"That a fact?"

Harry shrugged. "I'm told it's all over the papers."

"We don't get the Prophet here."

Their talk has attracted a couple more wands around them, and even though they tried to get by pretending they were about their usual business, Harry could tell they're ready for violence. Strange thing was Harry didn't mind that much, if anything it made him all that much ready. Impossible odds? Harry knew all about those.

"How about you tell your boss up there you have a chance to snatch Harry Potter for yourself and let them decide?"

The old man's smile widened just a fraction. "I might, I might, and she might like that as well. Still, there are rules for a reason."

"I never cared much about those," Harry said. He didn't need to bring his wand out, he had his history to talk for him, and the times of Dumbledores and Voldemorts were long past. "But if you like, we can pretend I owled you first, and this all was just one big misunderstanding."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" He straightened up, took a slow step forward, and Harry doubted he could sucker punch him the way he did Crabbe. He barely resisted the urge to try. "Seems you're in luck, then. So would I."

Harry simply nodded, and the man called for the elevator. They waited for it in a tense silence.

After a short ride, no doubt to the top of the rook, it stopped, and the doors opened in the middle of the room. Elegant, Harry thought, and spacey, with far too much green and silver, but that came as little surprise when he saw two women behind the desk, crouched over some forgotten parchment as they regarded him with a cold calculating look.

One was short, and black-haired, the other tall and blonde, and Harry knew them both. It was Pansy Parkinson and Narcissa Malfoy.