The rain fell in relentless torrents, drenching the Auror training yard and turning the cobblestones into a slick, black mirror. Harry stood motionless, the icy droplets dropping down his face, seeping through his robes and chilling him to the bone. Once, he had despised the rain for its ability to penetrate every crevice, rendering the world gray and forlorn. Now, he found a strange solace in it, as if the cold sting against his skin was a remedy for the tumult in his mind. The storm's steady drumming seemed to drown out the clamor of his thoughts, offering a fleeting sense of clarity amidst the chaos.
Rivers of black water pooled around his feet, flowing sluggishly down the sloped yard and disappearing into the grates with a faint, melancholic gurgle. Harry's mind wandered back to the night before, when Ginny's voice had cut through the dim, flickering light of his bedroom like a cold blade. "This isn't working, Harry," she had said, her voice trembling despite her efforts to remain steady. Her eyes, filled with a deep sadness, searched his face for any sign of understanding. He had tried to ignore the finality in her tone, the silent acknowledgment of a fracture he could not mend with mere words. Desperation had driven him to pull her close, enfolding her in his embrace, hoping that the warmth of his arms could somehow dispel the chill of her resolve. Her body had stiffened against him, but he had not let go. He could not. Not yet.
"Ginny," he whispered, burying his face in her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of flowers and Quidditch leather. "We can fix this."
But she had pulled back, breaking free from his grasp. When he looked into her eyes, he saw a hardness there, a hardness that told him she meant what she said.."No, Harry, we can't," she said, her voice breaking. "You're not even here with me anymore. You're losing yourself. Every day, you're slipping further away, and I don't know how to reach you anymore."
The rain fell harder now, drumming against the stones with a hollow, relentless rhythm. It didn't bother him. He remained lost in his thoughts.
Harry's heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to argue with her, to tell her she was wrong, that he wasn't distracted, that she was his priority, that he loved her more than anything in the world. But the words wouldn't come.
Ginny wasn't finished.
"You're distracted, Harry. It's like you're not even the same person anymore. You're a puppet, and I'm just waiting for the next master to come along and pull your strings. First, it was Dumbledore, and now it's the Ministry. You're just doing what they want, not what you want, not what we want."
"That's not true," Harry wanted to say. The words formed in his mind, but they clung to his throat like a bitter draught. He wanted to scream, to plead, to whisper anything. "I'm trying to make things right," he thought, the desperate plea swirling in his mind. "I'm trying to make sure everything we fought for wasn't in vain." But no sound escaped his lips. His mouth moved, but it might as well have been sewn shut, suffocating.
The rain lashed at him, cold and biting, as he stood alone in the yard. The training dummies loomed like specters in the mist, their worn faces expressionless, indifferent to the storm raging around them.
Ginny's eyes were now blazing with a fire that he had never seen directed at him. "At what cost Harry?" she demanded, it was as if she read his inner thoughts. Harry flinched as if he had been struck. "At the cost of us? At the cost of yourself?" Her voice, trembling with anger, each sentence peeling away his defenses. "You're so caught up in being 'The Chosen One' that you've forgotten what it means to just be Harry."
The training yard seemed to close in around him, the walls pressing closer, the rain chilling like the cold breath of the Dementors he had once feared. The world shrank to the sound of Ginny's voice and the steady, insistent drumbeat of the rain.
"Do you feel the same?"
The words had struck him like a curse, leaving him reeling, searching for something, anything to say to make her stay. He stood there, speechless, watching as Ginny's resolve solidified.
Ginny stepped closer, her voice softening, but the intensity in her eyes did not waver. "I need more than this, Harry," she said, her tone laced. "I need more than a boyfriend who's always one step away from another battle, another mission. I need someone who's present, someone who's real." She paused. "I'm sorry, Harry. I really am." Ginny's voice was barely a whisper now, her eyes filled with tears. "But I can't do this anymore."
The outdoor yard was a desolate place, an expanse of cobblestones and puddles, surrounded by the high, crumbling walls of the training facility. There was no beauty in it, no warmth; only the cold, wet reality of what his life had become. The walls were lined with ancient, rusting weapons and the charred remnants of countless duels fought and forgotten.
It reminded him of the abandoned castles described in the history books, where once proud lords had lived and ruled, now left to rot as their banners frayed and their names faded into obscurity. Here, in this forsaken place, he felt more a part of the ruin than of the legacy it was supposed to represent.
His thoughts drifted, as they often did, to the names and faces of those who had walked these grounds before him. The portraits of Aurors, long dead, seemed to gaze down at him from the crumbling walls, their eyes hollow, as if they too had been worn away by the endless fight. Their faces, some young and full of hope, others old and weary, stared out from beneath heavy, dust-laden frames. He could almost hear their whispers, carried on the wind that swept through the yard, mixing with the rain.
"You're losing yourself," Ginny's voice whispered through the storm, as if carried on the very wind that tore at his robes. The rain was a cold comfort, washing away the tears he could not shed, drowning the guilt that had settled in his chest like a stone.
But there was no washing away the truth. He had been running, chasing after shadows of a life that had already ended. The battles had been fought, the Dark Lord defeated, yet here he was, still fighting, still searching for something that had long since slipped through his fingers.
The outside training yard was empty, a vast, cold expanse under the iron-gray sky. There were no other Aurors out here today, no one to see his defeat. No not in this weather. He was alone, as he had always feared he would be.
The cold crept deeper into his bones, the chill of the rain matching the emptiness inside him. He could not go back, could not change the path he had chosen, but as he stood there, soaked and shivering, he wondered if perhaps he had lost himself somewhere along the way.
The faces in the portraits seemed to watch him still, their eyes lifeless yet full of a judgment he could not escape. Harry looked away, unable to bear the weight of their silent accusations. He had wanted to be a hero, to make a difference, but what good was heroism when it left nothing but ruin in its wake?
His heart was heavy as he turned away from the yard, his feet moving without thought, carrying him toward the facility's entrance. The storm raged on, but the sound of the rain was a distant thing now, muffled by the pounding in his head.
The boy who had come here months ago, full of hope and determination, was gone. In his place was a man who had seen too much, who had lost too much, and who now carried the burden of a legacy he wasn't sure he wanted.
Harry pushed the door open and stepped inside, leaving the rain and the echoes of his thoughts behind. The training would begin again, the fight would continue, but as he walked through the dimly lit corridors, he couldn't help but wonder if he was fight for something real, or if he was just another lost soul, wandering through the ruins of his own making.
Even after months of coming here, the sheer size of the place still unsettled him. Probablyd designed that way by some twisted Auror long since dead to make you feel small, he mused.
The first time he had seen it, Harry had been struck by how different it was from anything he had known. The Burrow was cozy, a place of warmth and laughter, and even Grimmauld Place, with all its dark history, had the feel of a home clinging desperately to life. But this… this was a fortress. Built not for comfort, but for war, for training those who would stand on the front lines against the darkness that threatened their world.
He remembered that day clearly, the sky had been clear then, the sun with a bathing hue contrasting against the coldness of the facilities bones. His breath had caught in his throat as he approached, a mix of awe and trepidation filling his chest. The outdoor yard had been bustling with activity, Aurors and trainees moving about with purpose, their faces set with determination. It was a place of discipline, of order, a world apart from the chaos that had defined his life until then. And yet, despite the sense of foreboding that clung to the air, he had felt a spark of hope. This was where he would find a new purpose, a new fight.
Now, the facility seemed even larger, more imposing. The hope he had felt that first day had long since withered, replaced by a grim understanding of what it meant to be here, day after day. The walls no longer inspired awe; they were a cage, a constant reminder of the battles that were never truly over.
The facility had not changed, but he had. The idealism that had brought him here had been worn away within moments. Each day was a struggle, not just against the enemies they faced, but against the creeping sense of futility that threatened to engulf him. The training had been rigorous, designed to push every trainee to their limits, to prepare them for the worst the world could throw at them. And it had. He had faced horrors here, in the simulations, that had left scars, not on his body, but on his soul.
The vast interior of the Auror training facility stretched out before him, a dim, cavernous space where the echoes of shouts and spellfire reverberated against the stone walls. The inner training yard, large enough to hold a Quidditch pitch, was a hive of activity. Trainees moved in clusters, wands drawn, their eyes sharp with concentration as they cast and deflected curses. The air was thick with the bitter scent of burnt magic, mingling with the tang of sweat and fear. Scorch marks marred the ground and walls, each one a dark reminder of the power these young witches and wizards were learning to wield, and the consequences when control slipped.
The heavy iron doors at the far end of the yard clanged shut as a new group of recruits filed in, their faces drawn with the weariness of too many sleepless nights and too many drills. Harry watched them with a mixture of pity and detachment. They were green, like him, most of them fresh out of Hogwarts, or another wizarding school, or dragged in from other posts where their talents had been deemed better suited to the Auror ranks. He remembered when he had been like them, full of purpose and certainty. That was before the battles, before the losses, before the bitter truths had set in.
To his right, a group of trainees had gathered around a flickering projection, the ghostly image of a wanted Dark wizard twisting and turning before their eyes. The figure's face was obscured by a mask, his identity hidden, but the menace in his stance was unmistakable. The recruits huddled close, their voices low, but not low enough to escape Harry's ears.
"They say the Ministry's running out of options," one trainee murmured, his voice tinged with unease. "Heard they're even trying to broker a deal with the centaurs now. They've got no choice."
"Who do you think they'll send?" another asked, the question hanging in the air like a curse.
"Who do you think?" a third trainee replied, bitterness dripping from every word. "Potter. It's always Potter. Like he's the bloody answer to everything."
The name was spat out with a venom that caught Harry off guard. He had grown used to being both revered and resented, but it still stung to hear the contempt so openly expressed. He had never asked for this role, never wanted to be the one everyone looked to for solutions. Yet here he was, once again thrust into the center of a conflict that seemed to have no end.
"Can you blame them?" another voice joined in, this one edged with resignation. "In this mess of a world, it's either Potter's way or the old ways... Death Eaters and Dark Marks. Not much of a choice, is it?"
"Doesn't matter," the bitter trainee sneered. "You can't negotiate with beasts and monsters. Even Potter can't fix that."
"Careful what you say," someone else interjected, a warning laced in their tone. "Not all of them are monsters. My brother-in-law's a werewolf, and he's been working at St. Mungo's for years now, making healing potions. He's saved more lives than you ever will."
"Oh, really?" the sneering trainee shot back. "And what happens when the full moon comes around? Is he still mixing potions or is he out in the woods chasing deer?"
"Better that than you chasing your own tail, you ignorant git," the defender of werewolves retorted, his voice rising in anger. "At least he's doing something that matters."
The tension in the air crackled. Harry felt it pulling at him. This wasn't just a place of training, no that is to simple. This place was designed to be a crucible, a place where fear and prejudice mixed with hope and determination, creating a volatile brew that could explode at any moment. "You cant make change in polarisation," the senior Aurors had lectured, "you must have empathy for your enemies." Dumbledore would have loved the way they talked, loved their mission. Fat lot of good that did.
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remain still, to stay out of the argument. This was not the time or place for him to intervene. These trainees had to find their own way through the anger, just as he had. Though he doubted if they could. The resentment in their voices gnawed at him, a reminder that even here, among those who were supposed to be on the same side, the old divisions ran deep.
The trainees fell silent as one of the instructors approached, his stern gaze sweeping over them like a hawk searching for prey. The argument was forgotten, at least for now, as they turned their attention back to the flickering image of the Dark wizard. But the tension remained.
Harry watched them for a moment longer, then turned away. The real war was out there, beyond these walls, in a world that was darker and more dangerous than they could possibly imagine. And he knew, deep down, that not all of them would survive it.
Harry began to move through the training yard, the damp stone beneath his feet echoing the weight in his heart.
As he walked, his gaze fell upon a familiar figure, one that made him pause. Willis Creevey, his face pale and drawn, stood at the edge of the yard, his wand gripped tightly in his trembling hand. There was something in Willis's stance, the way his shoulders hunched as if bearing an invisible burden, that struck a chord in Harry. Willis was a few years older than him, but the lines etched into his face made him look much older. The months since the Battle of Hogwarts had not been kind to him.
The memory of Colin, Willis's younger brother, flashed through Harry's mind. Colin had been so full of life, so eager to prove himself, and in the end, he had fallen, another name on the long list of those who had sacrificed everything. Harry wondered if that same memory haunted Willis now, as he struggled with the Shield Charm. The shimmer of the spell flickered before sputtering out entirely, leaving only a faint glow in the air, like a dying ember.
Harry's steps slowed, his instinct to help rising unbidden. He had seen that struggle before, had felt it himself in those early days when every spell seemed just out of reach. He could feel the urge to step in, to guide Willis through the motions, to offer the words of encouragement that might make all the difference. But he remembered Robards' warning, his voice hard and unyielding.
"This week is about independent practice, Potter. They need to learn to persevere on their own, just as you did. No matter how much it pains you to watch them struggle."
The memory of Robards' face was irritating, sure it was etched with the marks of a lifetime spent in the service of the Ministry, but what good had the Ministry been when he was fighting. There was no softness in Robards face, no room for pity or leniency. The old Auror had seen too much, lost too much, to allow sentiment to cloud his judgment. And while Harry knew that Robards was probably right, they all had to learn, in their own way, in their own time. What right did they have to stick blindly to a system that hadn't prevented Voldemort. Willis's wand tremble once more, the Shield Charm flickering into life for a brief, hopeful moment before failing again.
Harry's hand dropped to his side. He turned away, unable to watch any longer, the guilt chewing at him like a dull ache.
It was then that he caught the murmur of voices, low and urgent, from two senior Aurors standing nearby. Their conversation was meant to be private, but in the temporary stillness of the yard, every word reached Harry's ears.
"The Americans are breathing down our necks," one muttered. "Muttering about another Dark Lord rising. As if we haven't bled enough already."
The man was ugly, no doubt he use to be beautiful, he had the haul-marks, but his face was now a twisted mess.
"Bloody Yanks," the other spat, though the tremor in his voice betrayed his own fears. "They see a Dark Lord in every shadow. But it makes you think, doesn't it? What if they're right? What if we've missed something?"
"Don't be daft," the first Auror hissed back. "We've got Potter, don't we? If there was anything stirring, he'd sense it. It's not like last time. We're ready now."
Harry's fingers twitched around his wand. They looked to him for answers, for protection, for hope. But standing there, watching Willis struggle and listening to the hushed fears of seasoned Aurors, he felt trapped. What hope did any of them have when they had to fight within arbitrary rules. A shudder ran down his back. Was this how the "dark" lords felt? Chained.
The call echoed across the training hall, sharp and unyielding. "Potter, you're up."
Harry stepped forward, his robes clinging to his body, heavy with rainwater. His hair, plastered against his forehead, dripped steadily onto the stone floor. The cold from the outside clung to him, seeping into his bones, but there was no time to shake it off. The obstacle course loomed ahead, a maze of shifting stone and concealed dangers. It was a place where hesitation could cost you, where the line between victory and defeat was as thin as a wand's edge.
"Wet through, are you, Potter?" the senior Auror remarked, a faint smirk on his lips. "This'll be a bit tougher then, won't it?"
Harry forced a nod, though he could already feel the dampness slowing him down. The sodden fabric of his robes clung to his limbs, every movement hampered by the extra weight. His wand felt slick in his hand, the water making his grip uncertain. He pushed the discomfort aside, steeling himself. There was no room for weakness here.
With a deep breath, he plunged into the course. A flash of red sliced through the air, grazing his ear with a sharp sizzle. The heat of the spell mixed with the cold rainwater on his skin, sending a jolt through his senses. His body reacted on instinct, muscles honed by war taking over where his mind faltered. But the cold had dulled his reflexes, and he stumbled on the slick stone, the ground unforgiving as he rolled to avoid another hex.
"Damn it," Harry muttered under his breath, tasting the sharp tang of blood where he'd bitten his cheek. He pushed himself to his feet, the weight of his drenched robes pulling at him, each movement more laborious than the last. His heart pounded in his chest, in rhythm with the pulse of magic that crackled through the air.
The course shifted around him, walls sliding into new configurations. A barrage of spells erupted from hidden turrets, the air thick with the sharp scent of spent magic. Harry ducked beneath a Stinging Hex, but his robes caught on a jagged piece of stone, throwing him off balance. He barely avoided a Confundus Charm that fizzled past, its chaotic energy dissipating against the wall behind him.
Each step was a struggle. The wet fabric dragging him down, sapping his strength. As he leaped over a low barrier a Bludgeoning Curse hammered into his hastily conjured shield with enough force to send him staggering back. The impact reverberated through his arm, his muscles straining against the added resistance.
His breath came in short, harsh bursts, the effort of pushing forward. He pressed on, refusing to yield, but the course seemed to sense his weariness, the challenges becoming more relentless with each passing second. Vines conjured from the stone snapped at him, their tendrils slick with moisture, making them harder to incinerate. Harry's wand flicked in a quick arc, setting them alight, but the flames sputtered in the damp air, the ashes clinging to his robes.
A sudden rush of air was his only warning. Harry dropped into a crouch, but the weight of his robe dragged against the floor, slowing his movement just enough that a Disarming Charm grazed his arm. His wand nearly slipping from his grip. He gritted his teeth, forcing his hand to tighten around the slick wood as he countered with an Expelliarmus of his own. The red beam of light struck true, disabling the turret with a crackle and a shower of sparks.
The obstacle course was a test of endurance, of resolve, and he was determined not to let it break him. As he rounded the next corner, he braced himself for the next challenge, knowing that each step was a victory against the himself as much as against the course itself.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. An enchanted civilian dummy, created to simulate the chaotic behavior of a bystander caught in the crossfire, stumbled directly into the path of a stray hex. It moved clumsily, like a marionette with its strings tangled, its painted face frozen in an expression of terror.
"No!" The shout tore from Harry's throat before he could stop it. He sprang forward, his body moving before his mind could catch up. Logic would have told him to cast a Shield Charm, to deflect the hex before it could reach the dummy, but his instincts, honed by years of war and loss, drove him to intercept the hex with his own body.
Pain exploded through his shoulder, searing and intense, like molten iron being poured into his flesh. Harry staggered, his vision blurring as the world tilted around him. He could feel the hex burning through his skin, spreading its poison deep into his muscles. His breath hitched, the pain threatening to overwhelm him, but he forced himself to stand, to stay upright.
"Potter."
The voice cut through the haze. Auror Williamson, Head of the Auror Training Academy, stormed toward him, her steps echoing across the stone floor with a deliberate, menacing rhythm. She was a tall, imposing figure, her presence commanding attention. Her iron-gray hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her face, actually quite beautiful, was set in a scowl that could curdle milk. Most striking was the vicious scar that cleaved her left cheek, a jagged, lightning-bolt gash that started at her temple and forked down to her jawline. It pulsed an eerie, faint blue as if the magic that had inflicted it still lingered beneath the surface.
Williamson's eyes, hard as flint, narrowed as she took in the scene. "What in Merlin's name was that, Potter?" Her words were sharp, each one landing like a slap. "You think this is some kind of game?"
Harry straightened, ignoring the protest of his battered body. His eyes met Williamson's, green against steel. "I was protecting the civilian, ma'am."
Williamson's lips curled into something that might have been a sneer. "And in doing so, you exposed yourself to unnecessary risk," she spat. "Tell me, Potter, do you see yourself as some kind of martyr? Or are you simply too thick to realize that your life isn't yours to throw away anymore?" She leaned in, her voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "The Ministry needs its golden boy alive and gleaming. Dead heroes don't sign peace treaties or calm a restless public."
She lifted a finger and tapped the bridge of his nose with deliberate slowness. "You," she murmured, "are," she let the word linger like a death sentence, "a symbol."
The word fell like a curse, wrapping itself around Harry's chest and squeezing until he could hardly breathe. He had never asked for this, never wanted to be more than just Harry.
"Ma'am, with all due respect," Harry began, his voice low but firm, "I can't just stand by and watch others get hurt. Not even in a training scenario."
For a fleeting moment, something flickered in Williamson's eyes... understanding, perhaps, or the ghost of a regret. "It was just a practice dummy, Potter."
"Isn't an Auror's duty to protect others, regardless of the personal risk?" Harry pressed, his frustration evident in his tone. "How could I just stand by and-"
"Enough, Potter." Williamson's hand sliced through the air, silencing him instantly. The sharp motion exposed a twisted scar running down her forearm, a memento of a battle fought long ago, the skin puckered and pale where the dark magic had struck. "You need to understand your role. You're not just any Auror trainee. You are the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One. Your image is as crucial as your skill set. Perhaps more so."
For a moment, Williamson's mask slipped, her expression softened, a crack in the steel armor she wore so well. "I understand, Potter, I truly do. More than you can imagine." Her gaze drifted over the training yard, her eyes clouding with memories. Had she been like Harry? Had she cared more for others than herself? He doubted it, you don't survive as an Auror if you care about the individual.
She carried on, "but times have changed. The threats we face... they aren't as clear-cut as they once were. It's not just dark wizards anymore. It's politics, prejudice, and the reshaping of our world."
She turned back to Harry, her eyes sharp once more. "That's why we need you. Not just as an Auror, but as a beacon. A symbol of what we fought for, of what we're still fighting for."
"The Minister himself has taken a keen interest in your progress, Potter. Do you grasp what that means? The eyes of the entire wizarding world are on you. Your actions here don't just reflect on you; they reflect on all of us."
A storm brewed within Harry, dark and turbulent. He raked a hand through his damp hair, the motion quick and agitated as he tried to grasp the thoughts swirling in his mind. The walls of the training facility seemed to close in, creeping ever closer, mocking his growing anxiety. The air thickened, pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe. His pulse quickened, the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears, as the room seemed to cackle, mocking his rising dread.
"I didn't sign up to be a poster boy," he muttered, the words escaping like prisoners fleeing their jailer. "I became an Auror to make a difference, not to be paraded around like some-"
"That attitude won't serve you, Potter," Williamson interrupted, her tone cutting. She stepped back, her presence expanding to fill the space between them like a physical force. "Whether you like it or not, you have responsibilities that go far beyond any other Auror. People look to you for hope, for reassurance. You can't afford to be reckless."
Harry's protest died on his lips, smothered by Williamson's stern gaze. "Before I forget," she continued, her tone softening a fraction, "you're to report to Auror Headquarters in an hour. There's some sort of PR event with the new head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
Exhaustion crashed over Harry, a wave so overwhelming it nearly pulled him under. His shoulders sagged. "What about the team bonding drinks?" he asked, though the answer lurked in the shadows of his mind, a creature of disappointment and isolation. The thought of sitting with his fellow trainees, just another face in the crowd, was a small comfort he could feel slipping beyond his grasp.
"That's for the others," Williamson replied, her voice as rough as dragonhide. "You have... other obligations."
She turned to leave, her crimson robes flaring like the last embers of a dying fire. As she moved away, Harry's eyes caught the golden pin on her collar, a majestic eagle clutching a wand, the mark of a veteran from the First Wizarding War. The slight limp in her step, barely noticeable but present, was a testament to a curse inflicted by some unnamed dark lord, or maybe it was a house witch, nobody did really elaborate on their losses.
"Auror Williamson," Harry called out, the words tumbling out before he could think better of them. She stopped, her back a rigid line as she turned to face him once more. "I understand the importance of my role, but... are we losing sight of what we're really fighting for?"
"We all make sacrifices, Potter. The real challenge is to remember why we make them."
With that, she turned away again, her figure fading into the shadows of the training hall. Harrys eyes scanned the training yard that sprawled out before him, a place of chaos masquerading as order. A battlefield in all but name.
Training sequences flared within tight circles, where bursts of magic clashed mid-air with sharp, crackling force. Trainees dodged and countered with relentless energy, their robes whipping around them as the enchanted dummies advanced, swinging their heavy wooden arms without pause.
Advanced trainees were locked in fierce duels, their wands flashing as they exchanged hexes and counter-curses in rapid succession. Others navigated the central obstacle courses, their every move scrutinized by stern-faced instructors, who watched with critical eyes, noting every flaw, every misstep.
At the far edge of the yard, where the shadows were deepest, cauldrons simmered, their contents bubbling over as apprentices hastily added ingredients. The air was thick with the pungent scents of fresh herbs and scorched metal, frankly a sensory overload.
Harry's gaze drifted to his fellow trainees. He spotted Ron Weasley, whose laughter rang out, a bright burst of sound that pierced through the noise, drawing attention. "Blimey, Neville! Where'd you learn that one?" Ron's voice was an anchor in the storm, momentarily grounding the frenzy around them, a beacon of camaraderie amidst the relentless testing of their limits.
Neville Longbottom stood with confidence, his round face flushed with exertion and quiet pride. "Gran's been giving me lessons," he replied, twirling his wand with a flourish. "Says if I'm going to be an Auror, I'd better make the family proud." There was a strength in Neville's voice, a glimpse of the leader he was slowly becoming. No longer the timid boy who once struggled with even the simplest spells.
Harry watched them, a pang of something bittersweet tugging at his heart. They were moving forward, growing stronger, finding their places in this new reality. And Harry... Harry was still searching for his, in a world that seemed intent on keeping him on a pedestal.
"Your gran's terrifying," Ron said with a grin, shaking his head in mock fear. "Brilliant, but terrifying."
Nearby, Susan Bones, no doubt returning from tending to an injured trainee, fired a stinging hex at Neville, her movements precise, deliberate. "Less chatter, more spellwork," she chided, though the faintest hint of a smile softened her words.
"Yes, ma'am," Ron replied with an exaggerated salute, his grin widening. "Merlin's beard, you're the spitting image of your aunt."
Susan's smile flickered, a shadow crossing her face before she squared her shoulders, her expression becoming unreadable. "I'll take that as a compliment," she murmured, turning back to her practice.
The murdered Madam Bones. Her murder still hadn't been solved, though no doubt the savage criminal was dead. Probably a high-ranking Voldemort plaything trying to impress. Susan was like him, like Harry. She, at first glance, wasn't an Auror. She was a healer through and through. Caring, empathetic, compassionate. But just like Harry, duty calls, and foot steps must be followed when evil takes your loved ones.
Harry watched them. There was storm of conflicting emotions raging within him. Pride in their progress mingled with a pang of envy, a yearning for the easy camaraderie they once shared, a bond that now felt as though it were slipping through his fingers.
"Alright there, Harry?" Neville's voice broke through his thoughts, his eyes narrowing, no doubt in concern at Harry's distant expression.
Harry forced a smile. "Yeah, just mulling over that new defensive formation Williamson showed us."
Ron groaned, clutching his side theatrically as if in pain. "Don't remind me. I'll be feeling that for days."
Laughter erupted around Harry as the others returned to their training, but Harry felt his grip tighten on his wand.
He exhaled heavily, turning away from the noise of the training yard and heading for the locker room, seeking refuge in its solitude. The quiet closed in around him, broken only by the soft rustling of fabric as he began to undress. Each motion was deliberate, an attempt to exert some semblance of control.
As he peeled off his drenched robes, the cool air of the locker room pricked goosebumps on his skin. He winced as the movement pulled at a fresh bruise blooming on his shoulder where a hex had struck. His fingers traced the outline of the mark, just one more addition to the intricate map etched across his body.
His body was a ledger of pain and survival. His fingertips brushed over the raised scar on his forearm, a relic from Aunt Petunia's frying pan.
His eyes drifted over his torso, lingering on the faint crisscrossed lines etched into his ribs, a present from Uncle Vernon's belt. Then he caught the poorly set bump on his left wrist, a break that had been left untreated because the Dursleys refused to take him to a hospital. The slightly crooked angle of his pinky finger, evidence of yet another injury left to heal on its own. The jagged scar on his shin from when Dudley had pushed him down the stairs. A cluster of small, round burns on his thigh where Uncle Vernon had...
There were other marks too, smaller but no less telling. The circular scar on his thigh where Aunt Marge's dog, Ripper, had bitten deep. Faint burns on his fingers from years of cooking meals he wasn't allowed to eat. A small, jagged line near his hairline, usually hidden beneath his unruly hair, from the time he was shoved into the cupboard door.
And of course, the lightning bolt on his forehead- the scar that had started it all.
Harry's reflection gazed back at him from the scratched and tarnished mirror above the sink, a face both familiar and strangely foreign. The brilliant eyes that met his own were too weary, too burdened for the youthful features they inhabited, as though time had etched invisible lines. His fingertip brushed the lightning bolt scar, survival had been too steep, it had hollowed out something vital within him? The ghosts of a childhood spent unloved and unwanted lingered still, casting long shadows over the adoration that now surrounded him daily. He was young, yet all he saw in the mirror was a man aged.
He probably would have been handsome.
A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he leaned against the cool metal of the lockers. The weight of the world seemed to bear down on him, heavier than the cramped cupboard under the stairs ever had. In these rare moments of solitude, he could let the mask of the hero slip away, but the demons that had plagued him long before Voldemort's return were always waiting in the shadows.
"Do you feel the same?"
The creak of the locker room door shattered his introspection, instinct pulling him from the depths of his thoughts. His hand flew to his wand, muscles coiled and ready, only to relax when Ron appeared in the doorway, eyes wide with surprise.
"Blimey, Harry! It's just me," Ron exclaimed, raising his hands in mock surrender.
Harry lowered his wand, a flush of embarrassment rising to his cheeks. "Sorry, Ron. Reflex."
Ron's expression softened, a shared understanding passing between them. They had all been through too much not to recognize the signs. "No worries, mate. You coming for drinks tonight? The whole group's going. Even Seamus promised to bring some of that firewhisky he's been brewing."
Harry turned away, slipping into his clean robes. The fabric settled over him like a second skin, concealing the map of scars that told stories only he could decipher. "Not tonight," he muttered, his voice muffled. "Got some PR thing at the Ministry, Williamsons orders."
Ron's disappointment was almost tangible, his usual cheer dimmed. He never could hide his feelings. "Again? Merlin's beard, Harry, you can't keep letting them run you into the ground like this." He paused. "You're allowed to have a life, you know. Or have you forgotten what that's like?" Ron's eyes flickered to Harry's pristine Auror robes, then down to his own, still bearing a scorch mark from a misfired hex. For a moment, the words hung between them, weighted with unspoken resentment and concern. For a moment, the ghost of their old rivalry, of Ron's lingering insecurities, flickered. Have it, harry wanted to scream. You can have my god dayum life. I dont want it.
But, Harry forced a smile. "I know. Maybe next time, yeah?"
Ron nodded. "Alright, but we're holding you to that. And Harry?" he added, his tone shifting to something more serious, "You know you can talk to us, right? About anything. We've got your back."
"Thanks, Ron, I appreciate it."
Ron's hand landed on his shoulder, the gesture firm and reassuring. Yet beneath the comfort lay a current of unease, a growing distance neither could fully acknowledge. "We've got your back, you know. Me, Hermione, all of us. You don't have to do everything alone."
Harry nodded, a fleeting warmth flickering in his chest at Ron's words. But it guttered out quickly, leaving only cold ash behind. "Thanks, Ron. I just... sometimes I wonder if this is what I fought for, you know? To be a symbol instead of just... me."
For once, Ron was quiet, his usual light-hearted demeanor giving way to something more serious, more contemplative, something solemn. "You've always been more than just you, Harry. But that doesn't mean you have to lose yourself. Maybe it's about finding a balance."
A thick silence fell between them. Was this what it was going to be like now? Without Ginny. The silence wouldn't do. His thoughts were to dark for that.
Ron's hand lingered. "Mate... Dad says things are getting tense at the Ministry. Some are pushing for more integration with magical beings, others want tighter regulations." His voice dropped to a near whisper, as if the very walls might eavesdrop. "I think they're hoping your presence at these events will smooth things over."
Harry's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath the skin. "And what does your dad think?"
A shadow passed over Ron's face, more cynical. "He's caught in the middle, like always. Says the goblins are particularly restless lately. Something about trade restrictions." He shrugged. "You know how it is."
Harry nodded, another invisible burden settling on his shoulders. "I'll keep an ear out at the event. Thanks for the heads up."
As Ron turned to leave, he offered one last piece of advice, his tone caught between encouragement and something that might have been envy. "You'll be fine, Harry. You always are."
"Thanks, Ron," Harry replied, his voice catching slightly in his throat. The words felt hollow.
Harry's thumb traced the length of his wand, a habit born of anxiety and vigilance. It caught on an imperfection, a small crack barely visible unless you knew where to look. The memory of its shattering during the Battle of Hogwarts flashed in his mind, followed by its miraculous repair by the Elder Wand.
"Still holding together?" Ron asked, noticing Harry's scrutiny.
Harry ran his thumb over the crack, a frown creasing his brow. "Yeah," Harry replied, tucking the wand away. "For now.'"
Ron gave one final nod before the locker room door clicked shut, leaving Harry alone once more. He finished dressing with mechanical precision, his mind drifting far from the present moment. They would never understand. They could have lives. They could be happy. That wasn't on the cards for Harrys. He would be the last Potter. At the door, he paused, drawing in a deep breath to centre himself before stepping back into a world that demanded more than he felt capable of giving.
As he made his way to the exit of the training facility, Harry's gaze drifted once more to his fellow trainees, a sea of faces both familiar and strange. Ron Weasley's laughter again cut through the noise. "Blimey, Neville! Another one? Where'd you learn that?"
Once again, Neville stood tall.
"Wait, wait let me guess," Ron began before Neville could answer "Another one of Gran's."
"Yerp" he replied, a smirk playing on his lips.
As Harry approached the exit of the training facility, his attention was drawn to Willas Creevey, who was still visibly wrestling with a basic Shield Charm. The young trainee's frustration crackling in the air like the smoldering remnants of a dragon's breath. Willas's wand movements were erratic and desperate, each failed attempt visibly eroding his confidence. The charm seemed to taunt him, flickering in and out of existence.
Harry's footsteps slowed to a halt. He took a moment to observe Willas's struggle, his own frustration mingling with empathy. Ignoring the clock ticking relentlessly towards his Ministry appointment, and the direct orders not to help, he walked over.
"Here," Harry said, his voice low. He watched Willas's attempts with a critical eye, noting the slight missteps in his technique. "You're overextending on the final flick," he pointed out, guiding Willas's wand hand. "And your pronunciation of 'Protego' is slightly off. It's pro-TEH-go, not pro-TEE-go.
Harry demonstrated the Shield Charm, his wand movements smooth and assured. The charm materialized with a shimmering brilliance, a translucent barrier forming in front of him. The spell held steady, its glow casting a reassuring light across his face.
"Watch closely," Harry instructed. "It's not just about the intent." Harry caught Willas' gaze before elaborating "I mean sure, it's about intent and feeling the magic flow through you."
He raised his wand with practiced ease, the intricate motions smooth and precise. His eyes, sharp with focus, tracked the path of his movements as he demonstrated. "But the wand movement for this shield is crucial," he continued, guiding the wand through a series of deliberate gestures. "Like this."
He flicked his wrist. "You see," he explained, "it's not just the spell itself but how you channel your magic through these movements. The connection between your intent and the wand movement is what makes the spell effective."
Willas's eyes widened, hope kindling in their depths. Under Harry's guidance, his trembling hands steadied. Willas attempted the charm once more. The shield flickered into existence, weak at first, but it gradually solidified into a solid, shimmering barrier. A genuine smile spread across Willas's face, rare and bright.
"Thank you," Willas breathed, relief evident in every syllable. "I didn't think I could get it right."
Harry nodded. This was why he had chosen to be an Auror. To protect. To guide. To make a difference. Yet, the warmth of the interaction was swiftly overshadowed by a cold, disapproving stare from Auror Williamson.
Her stare cut through the room, a clear signal of her displeasure with Harry's defiance of his seniors orders. An audible scoff escaped his throat, the strict adherence to rules and hierarchy only seemed to imprison him. It frankly was limiting his ability to act on his genuine desire to help.
As Harry turned to leave, Willas's voice, hesitant yet yearning, stopped him cold. "Harry, do you ever feel... like you don't really belong here? Like you're just... out of place? Do you... do you feel the same?"
The question hit Harry with the force of a Stunning Spell, reverberating through his very core. It echoed the doubts Ginny had voiced to him the night before, her fiery hair mirroring the intensity of her concern. The same insecurities that haunted his sleepless nights and troubled dreams seemed to crystallize in Willas's words.
Harry's mouth opened, but like last night, no sound emerged. The truth clawed at his throat, desperate to escape, to be acknowledged.
"I... I have to go," Harry managed to croak out, "Ministry business."
He fled, unable to bear the weight of Willas's beady eyes. The controlled chaos of the training facility gave way to the untamed commotion of Muggle London. The environment assaulted his senses - the angry blare of horns, the indistinct chatter of a hundred conversations, the distant wail of sirens. It was a different kind of magic, raw and unpredictable.
The earlier rain had given way to the crisp London air that bit at his cheeks, its coldness relaxing. Harry drew in a deep breath, letting the chill penetrate his lungs. The cool air was bracing. The distant chime of Big Ben rang through the streets, its rhythmic toll grounding.
He looked back at the facility, its true nature hidden behind the façade of a disused Victorian factory, its brick walls dark and silent under the pale light of the waning afternoon, that couldn't quiet break the clouds. To the untrained eye, it was just another relic of the past, forgotten and forsaken, but Harry knew better. Within those walls lay secrets and struggles, a world apart from the bustling streets just beyond.
For a moment, he hesitated, caught between the past and the present. Harry turned away, the echoes of Willas still lingering.
The wind murmured as the city swallowed him whole.
"Do you feel the same?"