August 31st, 2002
"Harry...?"
Someone is calling his name. That at least he knows—that it's his name. He knows little else—where, when, why. Everything is blurred.
"Harry!"
The pieces of a puzzle start to jump into place. The case. Bodies. Staying up late. Going out. Justin. Justin is supposed to come first thing in the morning on Monday. Is it Monday already?
"Master?"
No, it's not. He's good; he just needs to let Robards know as soon as he can. Justin's flamingo Patronus didn't arrive until 4 AM. Apparently, he's in Dubai. Harry thinks how lovely it was of Prongs to wait until the recipient of his message woke up.
Since there was nothing else to do, he went on a bender, and now he's dying.
"Master?"
He opens his eyes reluctantly. His head is pounding, and his throat is even more scratchy than usual in the morning. He looks around; he passed out on the couch again, under a single blanket. "Kreacher?" he asks weakly.
"Someone is at the Floo," Kreacher informs him way too loudly for his current state.
"Who?" Harry glances towards the fireplace where the earnest face of Neville Longbottom is waiting.
"Can I come through?"
"Yeah," Harry rasps, and luckily doesn't have to do anything because Kreacher is already unlocking the Floo and bringing him coffee and a hungover potion. Harry downs the latter before attempting to get up.
His movements are a bit stilted. He remembers now, though only in flashes. He ended up in a club on Berwick with a bunch of women. He made out with one of them, the redhead. They were going to get out of there, but he met a bloke at the bar. Tall, dark-skinned bloke, he reminded him a little bit of Ben. And he was nice like Ben, at least at the beginning. They went to the bathroom, and Harry ended up sucking him off. He thinks that back when he was drunk, he was kind of into it, into the way the guy manhandled him. Grabbed his face. Pushed him down. Now it just feels humiliating, too messed up even for him and not hot in the slightest. But he was drunk and way too agreeable, and the arsehole probably thought it was fine. Or didn't care. Harry got too used to good sex manners—that's Ash's fault. Apparently, not every man is Ash. They didn't even use a condom; his mouth tastes funny, and no wonder his throat is sore. What a glorious thing to wake up to.
There's something profoundly wrong about thinking this in front of Neville Longbottom. Neville, who probably only fucks Hannah missionary style, in the bedroom, with a purpose of procreation. Neville, who is now watching him with concern, looking a little dumbfounded. Nothing to see here. Just your friendly neighbourhood slut coming back from a binge. It's just stress management. Let's forget about it.
"Are you okay, Harry?" Neville asks hesitantly. For him, he looks quite agitated.
"Yeah, yeah. You want something to drink, Nev?" Harry finally stands up unsteadily. Neville is still staring at him rather insistently. Harry hopes he doesn't have anything on his face or in his hair. Like dried cum. "Not that I don't appreciate the visit, but what's up?"
"There's the event at Hogwarts today. You said you'd come. Not that you have to, but Minerva sent you a reminder last week and asked me to Floo you in case you forgot."
Right. The quidditch thing. He did agree to come in a moment of insanity—back when he was feeling like an overexcited puppy about everything, he even thought of asking McGonagall to let him use some abandoned part of Hogwarts as a laboratory. Now it feels like it was ages ago. Now there's a triple murder to focus on.
"That's today," he exclaims weakly. It's neither a question nor a statement.
"In forty-five minutes," Neville clarifies, sounding slightly apologetic.
"Forty-five, huh?" Harry repeats absently before getting a grip on himself. "Kreacher—"
But Kreacher's awesome mind reading is still going strong, and he's already carrying a tray with tea, probably prepared exactly to Neville's liking.
"I'm gonna take a quick shower," Harry announces, finally abandoning his couch. He halts mid-step. "Do I need to wear robes?"
"Huh?" Neville apparently got distracted by the takeout menus on the coffee table.
"Can I just wear jeans and a t-shirt?" Harry repeats.
Neville actually rolls his eyes. "You know you could show up in a Death Eater mask, Harry, and no one would say a word." Today of all days, that's not the best reminder. "Well, maybe not this one," he adds with unusual firmness, pointing to his chest. Harry looks down at himself and can't help but bark a laugh. At least now he knows why he's being stared at. He's pretty proud of this one; he sneaked it from Ollie's closet right after getting a tattoo, if he remembers correctly. He doesn't think it will be missed; Ollie has a quirky t-shirt for every occasion, and this one truly spoke to Harry, with its bold pink words, 'Therapy is expensive,' above the smaller ones, 'Dick is free.' It feels wonderfully appropriate—he brought the idea to life perfectly last night by skipping his session and finding a hookup instead.
"Are you saying that this is worse than a Death Eater mask?" he mocks sternly, feeling a slight sting of panic but pushing it down. This feels right and way more him than however people tend to view him. He's never really been golden boy material. He's too insecure and way too messed up to pretend to be some kind of paragon of virtue. He's good at what he does; he will admit that. He's good in a crisis. But he's always been more of a walking disaster than anything else. It feels good to not hide it. It tastes like freedom.
Neville actually grins, even if it's a little embarrassed, and shakes his head. He refrains from commenting and just says, "I can't be late," so Harry salutes and hurries upstairs.
He sends a Patronus to Robards before jumping in the shower, warning him to have someone at the ministry at dawn on Monday to greet the Finch-Fletchleys, and he's ready fifteen minutes later to not get Neville in trouble, not bothering with robes but at least putting on a blazer. They Floo to Neville's office and start trekking towards the quidditch pitch.
At some point Neville looks around fretfully. They take another few steps before he decides to speak up, and Harry notices that he's waited until they reached the area without any portraits.
There's not even any preamble to it; he just barrels ahead. "A-a-are you gay?"
And not for the first time, Harry asks himself a question: 'How fucked am I going to be if this is leaked to the press?' He decides that even if that happens, he'd rather go on a gay crusade than try to weasel out of this one. Hopefully, the Auror Department wouldn't mind. He just joined. "I kind of like everyone," he admits truthfully.
"Oh. Cool," Neville squeals, then clears his throat after realising how high his voice went.
He's the first magical person Harry told. He told muggles—Zoe, guys he briefly connected with due to the mutual sexual interest, their acquiescences, his cousin, almost—but never any wizards. He needs to talk to Ron and Hermione pronto. They at least should know before the Daily Prophet does. If the press actually finds out. Maybe they wouldn't care.
Yeah, right.
The quidditch pitch looks smaller than he remembers, but seems to fit way more people. Which makes sense—it's not just Hogwarts students this time. Harry thinks it works similarly to a career expo for quidditch players; there are both currently enrolled students—the term hasn't started properly yet—and alumni interested in pursuing sports, foreigners, headhunters, sports managers, and some professional players as guests of honour. There are going to be some broom-flying displays, some mingling, and then an opening exhibition game. Harry doesn't really see the point of playing if the score doesn't matter, but he's not planning on staying long enough to see it anyway. Right now he just follows Neville and hopes nobody will ambush him.
He can see familiar faces when they walk down onto the pitch. Ginny is here, talking to Philbert Deverill, manager of Puddlemere United. Harry's pretty sure that Oliver Wood was recently pulled out of reserve and onto the main squad. And yup, here he is, along with, as Harry suspects, the rest of his teammates. He thinks he catches Ludo Bagman at some point and shakes his head incredulously—he thought the guy went completely underground. The first person to get ahold of him is the young captain of Montrose Magpies. They chatter about quidditch for a while—Harry's not really interested—and then about the ministry—neither of them is interested—and then Harry exclaims that he noticed Professor McGonagall. Minerva looks rattled and isn't very helpful; she just tells him to feel free to visit her office once the intermission starts. He realises that he lost Neville at some point, and he's being circled by Selma Baxter, so he makes a swift escape, only to be accosted by the keeper of Appleby Arrows, who repeats several times how honoured they would be should he want to play for them. Harry explains politely every time that he's an auror, then greets Cameron loudly when he sees him in the company of Lee Jordan. Now these are reporters he can talk to. Sometimes, unofficially.
"Mr. Potter," he hears and sighs internally.
"I'm not joining your team," he warns in advance.
Gwenog Jones raises her eyebrows. "I would hope not. It's an all-female team."
Harry gets a little red, but bravely smiles through it. "Well, good for you. Sorry, you were saying?" He sends her a charming grin.
"Do you have any news on what happened in Cardiff?"
Harry goes rigid. "And how do you know about it?" Sweet Merlin, the bodies barely cooled off.
Gwenog bristles. "I'm Welsh!"
Great. Someone could have warned him that all Welsh people know each other. "The details are confidential. Sorry, but you will find out more from the media when the ministry decides to go public," he dismisses her.
Her expression is still solemn despite his rudeness. "Just... is it one of ours?" she asks quietly.
Some of Harry's defensiveness melts. "I don't know," he confesses sincerely, shrugging helplessly. She nods absently. "If you're looking for potential players, I know for a fact that Ginny Weasley is the type to put in the work," he adds, changing the subject completely.
Gwenog gives him a knowing look before excusing herself. Harry glares at Cameron when he catches his gaze. "You're not getting anything out of me," he hisses admonishingly.
Cam huffs. "I already know about Cardiff."
Harry blinks. "The press isn't supposed to know," he grinds out. Does everybody know?
"That's why nothing has been published," Cameron says calmly, glancing briefly at Lee. Harry is still frowning, so he looks around furtively. "Come on," he whispers before leading them both towards the organisers' stand. "Look, Harry, this is a small community. Casper Sherringham is dating Lily from our team. And his sister, Kim, works in DMLE. You haven't told anyone?" he asks casually.
"Of course not," Harry bristles but rubs his face tiredly. He knows how these things work. He even vaguely remembers Kim. She shares an office with Hermione.
"Well, not everybody's Harry Potter," Lee quips for the first time. Harry thinks he's being mean, but his expression is warm and open. He rolls his eyes.
It was a good choice—everyone is down on the pitch, and the stands are pretty deserted. They go sit in the second row.
"Just don't make our work harder by spreading misinformation," Harry surrenders. "And I'm still not giving you any details."
"Harry, we're the good sort of reporters."
Harry moves his gaze from Cameron to Lee. He likes them both, really, but he still doesn't believe there's such a thing as a good sort of reporter.
"I'm not asking for the details," Cameron emphasises. "But if you need specific information, I have access to a huge archive from the war. Mostly what happened, when, where, and to whom. Hours worth of interviews. The newspaper clippings from 1998 could have been used as toilet paper, and after the war people were too reeling to ask every question out there. A lot came up during the trials, but not all of it."
Harry blinks slowly. "What sort of information?"
He must sound quite menacing, because Cameron hurries with an explanation: "Everything that could be used to bring justice was shared with the ministry before the trials. I worked with Shacklebolt on this, okay? Right after I started the Tribune. It's just knowledge that's left. Things that would have been lost to time otherwise. Memories, anecdotes, and speculation, all gathered in one place. You couldn't have been everywhere at once, Harry."
"If I remember correctly, you weren't there at all," Harry points out with more accusation than he was intending.
Cameron frowns. "Not everyone fights with a wand. I chose to fight by searching for the truth and promoting awareness."
Harry glances at Lee and sees he looks just as sceptical as Harry feels. He receives a knowing once-over, which makes him turn slightly red. He knows for a fact that Lee is quite good at using his wand. For battle purposes, of course. He shakes his head inwardly to get rid of a mental picture.
"So, where is this archive you have access to?" he asks with a long-suffering sigh.
Cameron looks fully ready to argue his case. "My house."
Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. "And who else has access to it?"
"I'm not an idiot, Harry. Nobody. The place is warded. Lee and everyone else from the editorial team need to be with me to get in."
Lee nods to confirm, but Harry doesn't drop it. "You live alone?"
"With my brother, but he's a muggle. Our parents died... almost two decades ago now."
Harry feels slightly chastised. "Sorry," he mumbles, but still asks, "Older? Younger?"
"Twin."
Harry looks up. "Really? And only you ended up having magic?"
Cameron smiles wistfully. "Yeah. I know it's weird. But Christian's safe. He's a doctor. Not interested in old war stories in the slightest."
Harry nods reluctantly. "It should still be..." he stops mid-word.
"What? In the ministry? I didn't think you of all people would trust the government with sensitive information," Lee mocks good-naturedly.
Harry scowls, even if the comment is spot on. His wariness is quite legendary. "You just said it's just stories," Harry points out.
"People's personal stories. That's always sensitive information," Cameron argues.
Harry gives up. Cam's hands are as good as any and better than most. Now that he thinks about it, it could be useful. They got one thing right—not every incident was officially registered and has an existing paper trail. In his line of work, it could be a goldmine. "Thanks. That's good to know."
Can nods. "If someone needs to look into that time, it's there," he emphasises.
They completely missed the whole performance. Harry sighs and slowly gets up. "I'm gonna go talk to McGonagall."
"Say hi to Minnie from us." Lee grins. "Maybe I'll catch you later, Harry?"
The way he says it, Harry has a strong suspicion of what he's planning on doing with him once he catches him. He tilts his head with a blank expression, then suddenly brightens. "If you can," he drawls coyly. Lee is exceptionally fit, his tooth gap is charmingly quirky, and Harry isn't done making mistakes yet. "Bye, Cam." Not waiting for an answer, he pulls out an Invisibility Cloak, which he always has with him when he's forced to attend public events, puts a finger to his lips in a silencing gesture, and disappears from sight right in front of their bemused eyes.
Cameron waits politely for Harry to be most likely gone before bursting into frantic whispers. He can hear them from the stairs but doesn't bother to eavesdrop. He brushes between people, noticing Verity promoting Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, Professor Flitwick arranging extra seats for the game, and multiple students already in their Hogwarts robes. He gets to the castle without drawing attention to himself. The school itself is quite empty, and wandering through the corridors on his own feels strangely nostalgic. The gargoyle lets him in even though he's still invisible. He only takes his hood off after he knocks and is called inside.
Professor McGonagall gives him a stern look. "It's like no time has passed at all, Mr. Potter."
Harry gives her a half-smile, taking the cloak fully off. "Old habits and all that."
"Thank you for showing up, though I've been told you've been as unfriendly as ever." She sounds delighted.
Harry sits in front of her desk and leans in conspiratorially. "Do you have spies all over the school?"
McGonagall huffs. "But of course. Now tell me how the Auror Department has been treating you."
Just yesterday morning, the answer would have been 'good,' but. "It's a dream come true," he deadpans and finds himself under a scrutinising glare.
"Nobody's ever told you that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?"
Harry looks up ostensively and fixes his eyes straight on Severus Snape's portrait. "Did you know about this?" he asks with fake seriousness. Snape looks completely unamused.
"What's wrong, Harry?" Minerva asks with genuine concern.
Harry waves his hand dismissively. "You probably already know, but just in case you don't, it's confidential. I'm fine, though," he lies easily. Snape scoffs from his portrait.
"Is it connected to whatever you needed my help with?" she prods gently.
Harry shakes his head quickly. "No, this is something else, and, to be honest, I don't know if I'm actually going to require assistance. It's about having a safe space to experiment. I thought about Hogwarts at first, but now I'm thinking about setting something up at Grimmauld Place. I'm not using it for anything else anyway—"
"Do we really want to risk Potter blowing up the castle?" Snape drawls. Harry shoots him an ugly look. Dumbledore is curiously silent; he looks like he's sleeping.
"But for now," Harry speaks over him. "Do you know Adalbert Dallwitz? He's a German alchemist."
"What do you need him for, my boy?" Of course he was eavesdropping and not sleeping. Minerva looks confused, though, so Harry reluctantly turns towards his old headmaster.
He could tell the truth that he's been corresponding with a young alchemist from the US—though she called herself a technomancer, which meaning is still not fully clear to Harry—and she advised him to consult this specific person. But Dallwitz is a recluse, apparently, and has been completely ignoring his owls, so Harry has been mostly going blind, without even a workplace, not to mention that his enthusiasm has been dampened ever since yesterday's events.
So he goes for shock value. "I've been thinking about getting a mastery in alchemy."
They all hear a choking sound, and Harry briefly wonders if portraits can suffocate. "If you wanted to get our attention, Potter, you could have stripped naked and started juggling. Though that would probably be less surprising."
"Don't bring me into your fantasies," Harry shoots back. He thinks he hears Minerva snort. He hopes it's true.
"With Adalbert?" Dumbledore is the only one who stays focused on the main part of the conversation, even though the corners of his mouth rise slightly. "He's not known to be easy to work with."
"No, I know. I just need to ask him something. I singled out some magical properties from a couple of metals—common ones—but I'm lacking theory, so I'm kind of stuck on the next step."
He's almost forgotten what it's like to be on the other end of those piercing eyes. "Are you animating?" Dumbledore asks somberly.
"Excuse me?"
"What are you using? The Phoenix Method?"
That's as good a guess as any. "Yeah."
"That's one way to do it." Harry purposefully doesn't ask about other ways. "Then you must be animating the metal for it to reveal itself."
That's why he hates wizards. This is not an explanation at all. It's a riddle. "Muggles call it ionisation," he mumbles, hoping they're talking about the same thing.
Dumbledore seems to be sizing him up, as if assessing his worthiness, before he instructs firmly, "You must keep animating. That's the next step."
Harry stares at him, unable to believe that this is his advice. Just keep heating things up and... what, casually have a nuclear fission reaction in his basement? Pass.
"What kind of nonsense is that?" Snape asks loudly. "Don't listen to him, Potter, and don't attempt to animate anything." He doesn't seem to have any counter advice. He's just triggered by the word; he probably thinks Harry will be going around raising dead bodies next.
"That sounds like a safety hazard," Harry mutters. "If I could just—"
"Adalbert retired in the early nineties," Dumbledore interrupts him. "It started to look suspicious as he's renowned among the muggles as well and already in his hundreds. He moved to a remote village in Ecuador. It shouldn't be impossible to get in touch with him. Minerva, be a dear and send Adalbert an official Hogwarts letter. He won't ignore it; he's always been fond. He borrowed my yellow outer robe at the conference back in 1951 and never returned it. You can remind him of that. If you're convinced that you need his assistance, Harry."
Yeah, Harry feels it's a good idea to consult a nuclear chemist before attempting nuclear chemistry. He's odd like that. "Thanks," he mumbles. "I'll at least try to figure out a low-risk way to do it before jumping right in."
"You're going to kill yourself. Albus, tell him not to," Snape demands, sounding frenzied. Harry's almost touched.
"I've always known you will go far, Harry," Dumbledore announces brightly.
"Oh, that's right, you did. At dying. That checks," Snape snarks.
"Severus!" McGonagall bristles.
"I'm actually not very good at that," Harry mentions under his breath.
"He looks perfectly healthy to me," Dumbledore points out calmly.
Snape's eyes widen with disbelief. "What are you talking about? He looks hungover!"
Oops. Busted. "I've been going to therapy," Harry offers shyly. He doesn't crave Snape's approval. He really doesn't, but there's still a happy jolt in his chest when the Potion Master's expression softens slightly.
"Ah, mind. It is the most mysterious of creations," Dumbledore quips, and Snape's eyes narrow. He looks nearly apoplectic when he turns around, walks deeper into his portrait, and disappears. They all hear a door slamming. Where did he find a door? There's none in the closest paintings. Dumbledore, having done well at riling his colleague up, closes his eyes and goes right back to his nap.
Harry deflates. "Are they always like that?"
McGonagall looks so resigned she doesn't even answer. "I will let you know once the gentleman in question replies. If you want to utilise Hogwarts for practicing purposes, I'm sure it can be arranged. Just please be careful, Harry."
He's careful, alright. He feels a small spark of excitement back now that there's a small chance to move forward, but he's been neglecting his research lately with everything that's been going on. There's a letter on his coffee table from Yelena Lawless, the American alchemist—or is she actually Russian?—waiting for his reply. He's glad that there's progress, but as of right now, the case sits too heavily on his mind.
He spends another couple of minutes on small talk with Minerva before she needs to go back to the pitch, so he leaves her office. He puts his Invisibility Cloak back on and walks through the castle, even more deserted than before now that everyone went to watch the game. He's torn between going home and taking a trip down memory lane when someone touches his shoulder from behind. He jumps.
"Got ya."
Harry turns and stares right into Lee Jordan's amused eyes. Yeah, okay.
Some time later, Harry turns his back on Lee, who is zipping his pants, and pulls out a cigarette. They're in the staircase leading to the Astronomy Tower—just out of sight even if someone was flying by. Harry takes the last few steps to get outside before he lights up. He takes in the whole grounds with a single look, hearing Lee following him up, still panting slightly. After Dumbledore's cryptic remarks earlier, he feels kind of vindictive about defiling the place of his death.
"Don't go bragging about it, yeah?" he mutters, leaning against the ledge and not caring that he probably sounds like an asshole. Would people even care about his sex life? He certainly hopes not, but he learnt better a long time ago.
Lee snorts. "Come on, Harry, I'm not going to go to the Prophet with this."
"Why would you go to the Prophet? You've got your own newspaper," Harry points out nonchalantly, indicating for him to keep his hands to himself now that they're out in the open when Lee's fingers brush his hip. It wouldn't be the end of the world if someone found out, but he'd still rather avoid the headache altogether.
"We're not going to publish it in the Tribune either. Don't be absurd," Lee reassures him, pointedly copying his pose at the considerable distance.
Harry thinks he's probably telling the truth. It's Lee Jordan; he remembers when he was twelve and swooning over his spider. He needs to stop treating everyone like a potential enemy. "But think of how many issues it would sell. 'My afternoon delight with Harry Potter,'" he suggests smartly.
Lee barks a laugh. "Let's say, once you do want to share with the world, you give us an exclusive, and we're square," he proposes with his face glowing, visibly still high on endorphins.
Harry takes another drag, staring ahead and tasting the inside of his mouth, last night suddenly flashing in front of his eyes. He doesn't know what kind of expression he makes, but Lee's smile falters.
"Are you okay, Harry?" he asks seriously.
"Yeah," Harry's brain replies automatically.
Lee looks supremely unimpressed. "Let's try again. Are you okay, Harry?"
He's silent for a long moment. "I will be," he says eventually. "I've done worse things than hook up with a stranger," he adds thoughtlessly.
"I'm not a stranger," Lee points out, concern clear on his face.
Harry blinks, realising what he said. "No, of course you're not."
"If you needed anything—"
"Let's go," Harry interrupts him with forced brightness.
He has no doubt that Lee wants to help and has no intention of monetising their liaison. He's just concerned, like everybody else would be, at such a glaring indication that Harry Potter is Not Well. It makes people anxious, like him not being perfect breaks some basic rule of the universe. He can't even be messed up in peace.
"Which was are you—?" Lee starts once they're back in the corridor, but Harry hides beneath the Cloak by the time he finishes the sentence. He looks confused for a moment before he hangs his head and slowly shuffles towards the Great Hall.
Harry doesn't know how he found him before, but he's glad that he apparently can't pinpoint his exact location or is just too polite to do it. He breathes deeply under the cloak for a few minutes before collecting himself and heading towards the one-eyed witch statue, cursing whoever implemented the Apparition ban at Hogwarts. He has no wish to talk to anyone else on his way back.
September 2nd, 2002
As per Robards' request, Harry spends the whole morning, ever since Justin showed up at the ministry, at home in front of the computer, researching similar crimes in the muggle world. And there are plenty—turns out muggles really like to kill each other creatively. By the time he comes back to the office, he feels he knows way too much. The atmosphere is even grimmer than it was before. He walks over to Lydia.
"What's up?" he asks quietly.
"Have you found anything?" she answers with another question, turning towards him inside the small cubicle.
Harry shrugs. "That can give us an actual edge? No. But maybe something will click at some point."
Lydia nods forlornly. "The muggles questioned your friend and his dad. There are no new leads regarding the case, but the muggles think so because they found some suspicious money trails—did you know that the older Finch-Fletchley has been investing through Gringotts? And not only him; the victims did as well, even though according to our data, they were neither wizards nor in-the-know. Apparently it doesn't look so bad when the money is coming out of the wizarding world, but when it's disappearing into the wizarding world, the muggles take issue. Also, they're looking into Justin being effectively gone for eight years—not everyone is convinced by the standard private school explanation. The Finch-Fletchleys did okay, but there's still some talk about obliviating everybody involved and taking over."
Harry wants to slam his face into her desk. "We can't do that. We can't investigate a muggle case and keep obliviating muggles who stumble upon it. It's madness."
"Tell that to Robards." Lydia stares at him intently. "Are you sure this is a muggle case?"
She sounds like, should he confirm, she would believe him, which is new in itself. But that's when he clams up, because no, he's not sure. He doesn't think he's sure of anything anymore.
Lydia reads his silence correctly. Harry straightens up and sees his boss heading towards them. "Chief," he says quietly.
Robards cuts to the chase. "Denshaw spoke to all residents. Just like muggles said, no one saw or heard anything. Nothing suspicious enough to warrant more drastic methods of extracting information. The samples from the bodies have been examined by both the healers and Unspeakables—no sign of magic whatsoever." He looks frustrated at this development, as if he expected them to find something when nobody else before did.
"There are ways to bury residue," points out Gabriel, who wanders over after Robards.
Or, Harry thinks, no magic used leaves no magical residue. Clearly it's too simple of a solution for them.
"Potter, the minister wants to speak with you," Robards adds offhandedly. If he's disgruntled by that fact, he hides it well.
Harry sighs and gets up, feeling the others' stares following him when he walks out the door. He takes the elevator one floor below, and soon he's knocking on the minister's door, closely watched by his secretary.
"Ah! Harry. Good, good, good. What a pickle, huh?" Kingsley starts good-naturedly.
He's always had a gift for understatements.
"I wanted to ask your advice." If Harry had been a little bit more ambitious, he would already be halfway to ruling the world, all with the Minister of Magic coming to him for counsel. "We want to call together a team for the Cardiff case. You've had a moment to get the feel of the department. Any suggestions on who should be on it and why would be appreciated."
Harry blinks slowly. "So we're going to keep investigating?" he asks point-blank. Kingsley gives him an uncomprehending look, so Harry elaborates and lays out for him all the arguments he has for them possibly poaching on the muggles' territory.
The minister listens carefully and even nods, then sighs heavily when Harry's finished. "I don't see any other way forward, Harry. Nobody will agree to just leave it for muggles to figure out. Some in the DMLE even demand to do them out of it completely. This is the best compromise we can count on."
Something in the way he says it grabs Harry's attention. "It's what you want. For us to work together with muggles," he suddenly realises.
Kingsley doesn't look embarrassed at being caught. "It might sound crude considering the nature of the case, but let's at least make the most of it. It's a good opportunity to solidify a working relationship. Things have been shaky between us and the muggle government since the war ended."
It sounds lovely, cooperation and all that, but something still doesn't sit well with Harry. "That's not how it's supposed to work. If a wizard kills wizards, it's our case. If a wizard kills muggles, it's our case too. But if a muggle kills other muggles, it's none of our business. I'm not saying to drop it completely. We definitely should keep an eye on what's happening, but appointing a team at this point seems a bit excessive. There must be some..." Harry breaks uncertainly.
Kingsley grins. "Come on, finish the thought," he eggs him on.
Harry gives him an evil look. "There must be some rules defining our scope of competence here."
"My, my, Harry Potter preaching about the rules. I never thought I'd see the day."
"Shut up," Harry huffs sullenly but can't help but crack a laugh.
"The rule is, 'If we're not sure, we assume yes.'"
Harry nods, capitulating. He has to admit that it's a better solution than obliviating all the cops. "How are you going to work around them stumbling upon our world? It's already happening since they spoke to Finch-Fletchleys."
"That can be easily done. Don't worry about it," Kingsley assures him easily before pulling a scroll of parchment out of his desk. "We need three junior aurors. Truman will take the lead in this one, with Williamson backing him up if it turns out too big for him."
Harry thinks about Gabriel—newly promoted to senior rank, muggleborn, his first big case; he can understand this choice. Even if he's not the strongest magically or the best in combat, he's smart enough to make up for it. But Williamson? Harry's always thought him lazy and not very capable of thinking outside of the box. Why not Langley? She's muggleborn too.
He realises that Kingsley is staring at him expectantly, clearly waiting for his input. Three juniors, right. "Travers, Patel, Denshaw." He briefly considers Berrycloth, but she's not very good with people. He doesn't suspect her of being patient enough to deal with muggles. "Romsey, Langarm," he adds quickly.
"That's six," Kingsley points out.
"Because now you're going to tell me why the first three are out," Harry retorts astutely and then frowns. If the leader of the wizarding world can't count to five, they have a problem.
Turns out things are not that dire, because when he reads upside down what Kingsley is writing, there's his own name at the top. Right.
"Patel—I assume you meant Ashish?—is taking over the potion ingredients smuggling case. Langarm is too young," he shoots down the first two right off the bat. Harry makes a face; Langarm is a year younger than him and has been working for longer. "I have a problem with Travers," Kingsley admits thoughtfully.
Of course he does. Everyone has a problem with her. The problem is called 'not being easily put into a box.'
"Why am I on this case?" he asks purposefully, his voice hard.
Kingsley raises a calming hand. "Now before you get all ruffled up, it's not because of your name. We need people skilled in blending in among the muggles."
"Lydia," Harry says without a shadow of a doubt.
"I don't know, Harry. She's a pureblood—"
"You need to decide whether it's about actual proficiency or about politics," Harry interrupts him harshly. "I know for a fact that Lydia has been actively educating herself, while many muggleborns haven't had anything to do with the muggle world since the time when their parents got everything done for them."
Kingsley sighs and nods with reluctance. "Okay, Denshaw is a must. She already proved that she's quick on her feet and can work with muggles flawlessly." Harry agrees silently and watches the minister writing, 'Alison Denshaw' right below his own name, and then adds, 'Lydia Travers/Graham Romsey.' It's better than nothing.
"While we're on the topic, I'm going to need you to take a test in the Department of Magical Education," Kingsley says offhandedly.
Harry blinks. "Huh?"
"Robards said you don't have a NEWT in Muggle Studies. It's not mandatory for auror training, but there is a supplementary course that aurors without a NEWT need to take before they're allowed to work around muggles. It doesn't happen that often, so it rarely comes up. Technically, you shouldn't have been at the crime scene on Friday without certification, but that's easily rectified. I assumed you didn't want to take the whole course, and we should only sign you up for a test."
For a moment Harry is tempted to take the course to see what nonsense the ministry spouts about muggles, but he's busy enough without it. The whole thing already sounds like a huge waste of time. "I'll take a test," he decides with a sigh. "Just tell me when."
"Robards will." Kingsley browses through his papers for a long moment. "Okay, Harry, I think that's it. I have bruised egos to flatter." He scowls, getting up.
Harry feels truly bad for him when he leaves the office. He doesn't know how he can stand it. If someone expected him to bring pompous wizards from the edge of hysteria, he would shoot himself with an Avada.
Okay. So he needs to take Gabriel, Alison, and Lydia and actually bring in some results on a potentially muggle case. He focuses on turning his mindset to it simply being a murder—someone was murdered; of course he wants to find the culprit. He will use every tool in his repertoire.
There's no going back now. Robards wants them on it because he believes there's magic at play. Shacklebolt wants them on it to promote wizard-muggle relations. One way or another, they're in.