Fatigue
The Justice Committee’s hearing on Azkaban reform was a rather dull affair compared to the exhilarating day Draco spent at Grimmauld Place. He was forced to bring his charge up to speed on what the Wizengamot did and the operations of the body, spending much of the night in close proximity to the Boy-Who-Lived. He was different than Draco expected, tense and twitchy at times as though he had forgotten how to interact with other humans. The wild look Draco received at drawing his wand and the startling rush for cover unnerved him.
However, he needed the Golden Boy and everything his name lent. Besides, after a while they became more comfortable, the brunet even smiling at Draco’s quips and insults. Those thin cheeks ghosting upward revealing teeth nearly as white as the rest of his Vitamin D deficient body. Potter, who for so much of Draco’s interactions with him would come to Hogwarts golden tan after a summer spent in the sun, seemed drained and half empty in his seclusion.
Draco wasn’t overly worried about his general sanity, even if it was a bit touch-and-go at the beginning. Potter seemed quick to pick up the basics Draco was teaching him and would even break into his lecture with a proposed point or question that was remarkably intuitive. Potter would get this pleased little wiggle when he offered his scant praise behind the veil of slights, seemingly unaware that his magic would burst out in waves at the marginally positive feedback.
As a general rule, Draco was more sensitive to magic than the average user, but the breadth of pulsating energy that Potter exuded nearly overwhelmed him. There were points where Draco wasn’t sure if he could finish a sentence when a wave hit him. Thankfully, conflict was kept to a minimum so the outbursts were never malicious, but he shuddered to think of that power being directed at someone in anger or fear. He desperately hoped that Potter had some kind of outlet to release his considerable strength on so it wouldn’t bottle up. though there was nothing to suggest that there was. Honestly, Grimmauld was barely passable as a functioning estate of a presumed noble lord. Draco hoped his scared straight act with that house elf pushed him to be more thorough in the future.
In the end, he directed Kreacher to consult with Fitzie about proper attire for a lord (from this century) not trusting the homeless-looking saviour. He also extracted a promise close to a vow that his hair would be in good order the next time they met which Draco scheduled for tomorrow. He had to act fast or all this planning would be for naught with the second reading quickly approaching.
Smiling pleasantly at MWs streaming out of the committee room, Draco tallied again those who he was nearly certain were onside, those he knew were opposed, and those who worried him. The wobblers, the fence sitters. Theo had done an able job checking in on their confirmed votes, subtly but sometimes aggressively reminding them how they were going to vote. Nerves began gnawing at his stomach. It was going to be very close. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing this vote, literally would not consider it. The crush he would feel . . . .
Attempting to ignore his concerns and follow the pack out towards the Public Lobby, Draco’s arm was suddenly grabbed by a sharp, claw-like hand wrapped in lace gloves. A slightly unbalanced looking witch pulled him aside, her bony face tremoring minutely, wicked eyes madly pinning Draco against the wall. She was the embodiment of every child’s nightmare of a witch, silver hair wrapped up beneath a black taffeta pillbox hat, a netted veil obscuring part of her face. Her prominent spine poked out from her black dress, a small hunch belaying her age.
“Lord Malfoy,” she clipped out, eyelids fluttering in a slightly deranged way that reminded Draco uncomfortably of his Aunt Bella.
He plastered on his warmest smile and gently clasped his hand in hers. “Lady Audley, you’re looking wonderful as always.”
Suspicious eyes regarded him at his comment but she quickly moved on. “You know I have worked with Malfoys in this chamber since your grandfather Abraxas held the lordship, but I have not seen much of you,” she scolded.
Ah, neglecting old allies, foolish of him. “I’ve been meaning to run in to you in the Member’s Dining Room but unfortunately our paths haven’t crossed yet. Of course, I am very glad to see you so involved, you put my efforts to shame.”
The unwavering focus did not seem appeased by his efforts. Titania Audley had a bit of a reputation for eccentricities but held an iron grip on her family’s position in the hereditary bench. “I’m going to be putting forward a bill to legalize dementor hunting,” she pronounced with a cocked eyebrow.
Draco didn’t have to effect surprise, but he did have to moderate his response. “Oh?”
“They won’t let us hunt anything else,” she cried, enraged at the audacity. “I figure this is as good a creature as any and the Ministry doesn’t seem too keen on them right now.” She stared at him unblinking as he tried to collect his thoughts.
“Excellent points,” he said smoothly. “The Ministry has seemed reluctant to allow permits for hunting, and if not dementors then what?”
“My thoughts exactly,” she huffed. “Can’t hunt muggles, or centaurs; they’ve stopped the House Elf Games. Uh, what would my ancestors say? My great-uncle adored merfolk spearing season.”
Draco patted her hand comfortingly. “I can see why. A lovely summer sport.”
She nodded back emphatically, a tear developing in her eye. “They must let this through, yes?”
“It’s certainly worthy of consideration,” Draco pacified her solemnly. “By the way, have you given much thought to my bill?”
She lightened considerably at the WIRE Act’s mention. “Lord Malfoy, I thought it inspired. We need growth to keep us lively.”
“I’m so glad you feel that way,” Draco sighed in relief. “Will you, eh, be attending session on Friday?”
“Don’t worry young lord,” she cackled lowly. “I’ll be around to vote to advance.” She tottered off after brushing aside his thanks, the tension slowly leaving him. He hadn’t seen that woman since he was probably ten years old, and she scared him as much now as she had then. He was pleased not to have to commit to any dementor hunting bill. Honestly, how would one even go about that? Actually, he didn’t want to think about the potential dark artefacts at Lady Audley’s disposal. Better not to know.
Theo materialized beside him once she was firmly out of sight. “Sorry old boy, there was no way I was getting caught by her and whatever her latest scheme is.”
“Thanks ever so,” Draco responded sardonically, the two of them making their way toward Confederation Hall.
“So, what was the old bat arguing for this time?” This overcurious excitement of Theo’s was not particularly attractive, Draco decided. It made his face look too small on that tall body. Best kind of friends, you know, leave you to drown but then want all the gory details afterwards.
Indulging him, Draco whispered, “Dementor hunting.”
“All the Knights of the Table,” Theo murmured, whether in fear or awe wasn’t clear. “A fan though I am of the hereditary system, there are always those who strive to make us look deranged.”
Draco snorted in agreement. “I got her vote though so I can’t say I’m upset.”
“Well, now I’m a fan of the batty ones again.” Theo had this quiet almost submissive demeanor that Draco was convinced was an act, or if not a defense mechanism. He was far sharper than most knew, put off by the studious researcher façade he exhibited. Though, that part of his personality existed too, so maybe not a façade. Anyway, it annoyed Draco how thick people could be. Theo never let him go off on the imbeciles because he liked being underestimated. Still, they had been friends for almost twenty years and Draco grew indignant when people (besides himself) disparaged the introvert.
The two lords walked comfortably with one another, quietly taking in the action of a Ministry workday. Without discussing it, they looked over at the schedule planner posted next to the doors to the General Gallery. “Any interest in the debate on . . . ‘Creation of a Welsh Language Appreciation Day’?” Draco asked with a quizzical look. At Theo’s grimace, Draco drew them away from the Gallery entrance. “Let’s hit the Writing Lounge, come on. We can cut through the Public Lobby so we don’t get roped into this discussion.”
“By the way, how’s the Potter project going?” Theo murmured.
“He’s a handful, no surprise.” Draco chewed on his lip subtly, thinking back as he constantly has been on his trip to Grimmauld Place. “His emotions are all out of control but . . . I think he can do alright.”
Theo hummed noncommittally. “Being away from humanity that long can’t be good for anyone’s psyche. I know we may need him yet, but be careful Draco.” Theo stopped them and put his hand on Draco’s shoulder. “You’re in a much better place than I thought you’d be, to be honest. He could always rile you up.”
At Draco’s pout, Theo laughed. “Fine, you would rile each other up.”
“This is business, Theo. I can handle it,” Draco said, trying hard not to sound petulant. “Besides, he could be more than a one-use tool. He actually has some plans, some not bad ideas he could pursue as Lord Black.”
Theo just adopted a pained look. Sounding resigned, he patted Draco’s shoulder twice. “I have faith in you, but promise me you won’t get hypnotized by those famous green eyes.” Draco opened his mouth to protest, but Theo waived him down. “No, no. Don’t forget I was there too for all those years you would glare across the Great Hall at each other. Don’t tell me I’m crazy.”
Theo plowed on, graciously ignoring the slight pink hue that dusted the blonde’s cheeks. “If he has plans then we can tackle them as they come. Right now, we’re focused on your bill.” Scratching a hand through his dark locks, Theo scanned the room for any potential eavesdroppers before resuming their walk towards the exit. “I hope you can put the Potter temper to good use; it’s obvious you’re going to induce it. I just don’t want you to end up like one of his victims.”
Draco shot him an alarmed look. “What do you mean, victims?”
“Surely, you’ve heard the stories? He wasn’t exactly considered stable when he was with the Aurors, though that’s all unofficial. Being saved by him could easily result in you ending up in the same position as the perpetrator.”
“My Lords!” a voice called out to them across the Public Lobby.
“Oh bollocks,” Theo grumbled. A rapidly approaching witch waived them down in their brief sojourn through the area the public (or the rabble as Lucius would have said) were allowed to mingle. “At least she remembered to use the correct form of address.”
Honey blonde curls only reached as far as Draco’s shoulder, unhelpfully reminding him of a certain brooding dark haired wizard of a similar height. Sharp eyes pinned the two lords in place as if daring them to run off to the safety of the Writing Lounge. There was nothing particularly striking about Betsy Hart-Holloway, a fact that made her all the more dangerous. She had a knack for appearing out of thin air to grill the unlucky pol that found themselves in her sights.
Those unfortunate sods today happened to be Draco and Theo. “Why is it, Lord Malfoy, that no information has been released about the manner of creation of your proposed district?” The question came out like a shot, the journalist’s hand positioned over a ream of parchment.
Draco pursed his lips. At this point there was no need to try to play nice with her, it was clear from her columns that she was dead set against the proposal. However, Draco couldn’t really afford to antagonize her anymore – she was quickly becoming the most read columnist in circulation. He magnanimously pushed aside his natural instincts to snipe at her and tried for a bit of graciousness.
“Ms. Hart-Holloway I presume? I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced.” He offered her a slight grin hoping to soften her up.
She remained unimpressed. “Well, since we both know whom the other is, I think we can dispense with that. What will be the implementation method? And how will the construction site ensure minimal impact to the muggle population?”
Draco felt a muscle in his cheek twitch, his smile hardening. “The method the Wizengamot decides to employ is something to be agreed upon in committee and not for public release at this time. However,” he paused, hoping to draw her attention. “I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
If there’s one thing a reporter detests, it’s potentially missing a scoop that’s right there waiting for them. “With the help of Madam Stoneleigh—a great asset in this endeavor—we have located a suitable spot in Birmingham. There’s something called a ‘carpark’ on Lionel Street just by one of the canals.” At Betsy’s suspicious look, Draco shrugged. “Apparently, it’s a vacant lot for those frightening autolomeals the muggles seem so fond of. Regardless, there will be no displacement Ms. Hart-Holloway.”
Undeterred by his answers (which he thought perfectly adequate), she continued her investigative onslaught. “What will your formal involvement be Lord Malfoy—”
“Yet to be determined.”
“Will you retain any rights in the property after magical construction halts?
“Again, these are questions for which I don’t know the answer yet as the legislation has not been finalized—”
“The lot you propose to build on, will the government be forced to purchase that from your personal holdings?”
“The lot is being pursued as a joint venture between myself and Madam Stoneleigh but I am more than willing to let Wizengamot spearhead the purchasing negotiation if they move quickly enough to pass the WIRE Act.”
“You expect the government to buy the land off you to achieve this project?”
“What I expect is that when the bill passes everything will be in place to begin construction at once. I won't let delays occur because of lack of preparation—"
“Do you really think there’s public support for a scheme that enriches yourself, a former Death Eater, at the expense of government coffers?”
Draco seethed, fingernails digging into his palms. “Ms. Holloway, I don’t think—”
“You don’t think taxpayers deserve to know which political cronies are getting rich off scatterbrained schemes concocted by the insulated elite?” Draco’s eyebrow twitched. “And it’s Hart-Holloway.”
“And here I thought we had dispensed with introductions,” Draco sneered. “I think,” he said raising his voice, “that the public’s right to know is separate from your own vapid curiosity!” With that, he stormed off, not letting himself see a satisfied smirk on her face.
Theo trailed behind him into the Writing Lounge, tapping the fist of one hand into the palm of another. “Before you say anything, Theo, I know that was stupid.” His tall friend gave him a look like yeah, you think?
Throwing himself carelessly into a chair by a desk carousel, Draco attempted to slow his breathing. He didn’t even bother admiring the ceiling high bookshelves and intricate wall sconces like he normally would. The sulk was starting to set in. “Is she always like that?” he half-whined.
“Yes,” Theo said bluntly. “So, you better get used to it. She’s going to antagonize you, try not to fan the flames.”
“I know, I know,” Draco relented. His eyes shuttered, lost in a mood. “I just have a feeling every time I see her, I’m going to want to burn off those curls . . . one by one.”
A passing MW stopped in his tracks, seemingly close enough to overhear. Theo glanced nervously over at him as Draco continued on, oblivious. “I swear, she gets in my way I’m going to curse her head down to sunken skull the size of my fist and use it for a door stop.”
The passing MW’s widened in a panic and he fled as fast as one could without running. Theo patted Draco’s hand and hoped no one else had eavesdropped. “Alright, let’s just try to not have you arrested . . . again.”
“Potter.” Harry looked up dully from his post stamp of an office space. “I want you on the Mandelson arrest this afternoon.” Gawain Robards is not a tall man, but the Welshman was corded with strength even as his russet hair began to betray him by slipping to silver.
Harry made a noncommittal shrug to placate the boss. Everything seems to be in a fog these days. A morning blending into evening. Reports running together in a haze of parchment across his desk. Mild admonishment from the Head Auror, then suddenly . . . the week is over. Repeat.
Helen Dewers tapped him on the shoulder after Robards stomped away. “Alright Potter, you’re with me.” Her light Scottish burr hummed through the air, a pleasant change from the cacophony that was the Auror Department. “We have Dawlish and Harding as our backup; should be an easy gig. We leave in half an hour.”
She tossed a file at him. “Refresh yourself with this. If you’re feeling at all inquisitive, I may even let you question the guy.” Harry blinked up at her, bleary-eyed. Helen deflated at the lack of enthusiasm. “Come on kid,” she said lowly. “At least act like you want to be here.”
But did he want to? Coming out of the war, taking this job offer seemed the next logical step. What everyone expected him to do. He took down Voldemort, now time to assist in the cleanup. After all, not every major Death Eater was captured at the Battle of Hogwarts. Did it matter that he missed a year of school? Never graduated? No. You can be a teenage dropout if you’re the Chosen One. The Saviour.
So, he sleepwalked his way into an Auror position. He barely received any additional training, just a new set of robes. It was partially a combination of the belief that the Harry Potter wouldn’t need coaching on how to handle dark wizards and the utter disarray the Ministry found itself in after the collapse of the puppet regime. One person managed to penetrate the persistent nightmare that was Harry’s life: Helen Dewers.
The feisty Scot was old enough to be his parent and she took to mothering him in a gruff manner he had come to love. She didn’t let him slack off or hide behind his name. Harry knew how to spot patterns in the briefing materials and spells to uncover traces of a perpetrator because of her.
She kept him on track when Robards would just shake his head. His most productive times came when he was running from the other aspects of his life. Helen would set him an assignment and he could stop thinking about the flood of letters from well-wishers that just wouldn’t stop; the wooden way he told Ginny that this just wasn’t going to work; the quiet tears that followed; and the crushing expectations that seemed to haunt his footsteps.
Now, he wondered if it was enough. What kind of life is it to live one distraction to another? And the more depressing thought, had Harry really ever lived a life worth having? The best times of he could remember were those at Hogwarts where he was only in mild mortal danger.
Shaking out of his rumination, he scanned the file trying to reacquaint himself with the case. This was Helen’s investigation; he had only helped out where needed. It wasn’t a terribly complicated scheme the suspect was running. Parker Mandelson helped people get visas. Very wealthy people, usually with something to hide from a foreign government. For a healthy fee, Mandelson would funnel money, or exert pressure, to the right Ministry employee and voila! Welcome to the United Kingdom weary traveler!
Anyway, Helen had compiled enough in the last three months to convince a judge to issue an arrest warrant for him, stringing him up on charges of bribery, fraud and tax evasion. “Potter,” Helen barked. “We’re moving now.”
Stretching himself out, Harry sucked in a breath and widened his eyes attempting to bounce out of his stupor. He needed to be alert. Anything could happen in an active zone. He checked that his wand was properly holstered, making sure the quick release didn’t catch. Throwing on scarlet robes, he fell in line behind the other Aurors. Should be routine, she said.
Should be routine.
Well, nothing is ever easy.
Mandelson’s office is on Diagon, where else? The building, while small, doesn’t quite rise to the level of shabby. Cool as can be, the four Aurors strolled through the front door, diamond pattern with Helen in the front. Harry takes the back, scanning the lobby and checking the corners. It’s nearly empty for a midweek afternoon, just a secretary and one other person. The potential client (the likeliest possibility) sat perched on a chair to Harry’s left and stiffened at the sight of law enforcement flooding the room.
He was dressed in a white robe and keffiyeh, eyes shifting above his dark beard. Possibly of Saudi or Gulf state origin, Harry guessed filing away the information to reference later. The secretary held his hand out to the client, presumably to try to reassure him that there was no trouble. It seemed to do little to assuage him.
“Is Mr. Mandelson here?” Helen asked.
“What is the meaning of this?” the man asked, feigning outrage.
“Raf, what are you shouting about?” a voice from the backroom called. Pushing aside a door, an incredulous Parker Mandelson stepped out and surveyed his reception room. Thin features and thick dark hair set off a sharply intelligent gaze. Sparing a glance to the man waiting near the door, Mandelson straightened his back and folded his hands together in front of him. “And what can I do for the Aurors today?”
“Mr. Mandelson?” With the affirmative nod, Helen continued. “I’m afraid we have a warrant for your arrest.” A bored looking Mandelson merely held out his hand for a copy of the warrant which Helen duly provided. As he examined the page, Harry kept tracking his eyes across the room. The client. The secretary. Mandelson. The door.
Mandelson frowned at the charges. “Oh dear,” he muttered, flipping to the next page.
Harry was tense. Mandelson’s response was too calm for him. Too composed. Mandelson. The secretary. The client. The door. The fingers on Harry’s wand hand began to drum together. The door. The client . . .
“Let me caution you, Mr. Mandelson, that statements you make here may be given in evidence against you.” He acknowledged the warning, the secretary, Raf, nervously wringing his hands together. “Do you have your wand on you?”
“Hmm? No, it’s in the office. Shall I fetch it?”
The secretary. Mandelson . . .
“No, sir, I don’t think that’s necessary. I assume your assistant can secure it?”
The client. No, there! The secretary—
“Stupify!” Harry yelled, his wand flashing into his grip in a second. Altogether, the four Aurors dropped into a crouch drawing their wands. Harry’s spell went wide, blasting apart a grandfather clock to the right of Raf. Stupify shouldn’t be that destructive, he thought dimly as he executed a barrel roll towards cover.
Raf and the client had now both drawn wands, Mandelson stood dumbly in the middle of the chaos with a confused look on his face. Harry was vaguely aware of shouting across the small space, none of the words cutting through.
Mandelson’s arm dropped to his side. No, came a panicked thought. “Captivo!” he cast. Reacting on pure adrenaline, he fired at Mandelson’s wand hand. A conjured manacle raced towards the offending hand. Quick as an arrow, it clenched around Mandelson’s wrist and should have pinned it down, incapacitating the suspect.
Instead, as the room watched in horror, the manacle flew on, wrenching the hand off with it before pinning itself to the opposite wall. The horrified scream Mandelson let out at the sight of his wrist ending in a bloody stump punctured its way through the haze Harry’s head swam in. An enraged roar ripped out of Raf who started casting spell after spell at Harry.
Ducking and dodging, Harry found himself exchanging curses with both the client and the secretary. Where were the others? he thought. Maybe the client injured them. Raf was clearly infuriated but blind with rage, which made the client a more dangerous target.
Coming to a split decision, Harry ducked under an Incarcerous tossed his way. “Exulso!”
The desk in front of Raf exploded into shards of wood. Raf went down covering his face, but there was the telltale flash of red that meant some of the improvised shrapnel had hit its mark.
Two out of three down. Trying to remain unpredictable, Harry threw up a perfunctory Protego and dove to the side. From a prone position, he guessed the location of the client. “Gunesten.”
A wall of sparks appeared by the client like something out of a pyrotechnic show at a hair band concert. Hoping that was enough to momentarily blind the client, he prepared to stun him. And Merlin was Harry distracted because before he could get his shot off, his trusted holly wand was yanked from his hand and tossed clattering into the corner.
“Potter!” Helen shouted, her bob mussed up and eyes flashing. “Enough!”
An hour later, Harry is back at the Ministry, his head laying on the desk of the Head Auror. He kept his eyes closed and focused on his breathing, and the sharp pain where his glasses dig into the bridge of his nose. That physical pain is at least distracting him from the hole in his stomach that feels ever more like guilt.
The slam of the door makes him jerk his head up. “Damnit Potter you’re not a Hit-Wizard! Aurors have more to do than maim suspects!” Robards roared. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
Actually yes, Harry thinks. It was made perfectly clear to me in the first dressing down I got from Helen. And then from the second one I got from Dawlish. But he doesn’t say that, just watches in silence as his boss’s boss rants about what an irresponsible idiot he’s been.
Turns out Mandelson told the truth, he wasn’t armed. He wasn’t reaching for his wand. Raf says he wasn’t reaching for his wand either, apparently. Allegedly. This was after they finished pulling wood splinters out of him though so it’s unclear how truthful the statement is.
“Lucky for you, though that’s a stretch of the phrase I don’t want to even think about, they’ve managed to reattach Mandelson’s hand. His level of mobility will be determined later. I guess it was a tricky procedure seeing as it was wrenched off rather than a clean break.” Harry just pales a little more.
Robards settles himself heavily behind his desk. “Dawlish was only bruised so he should be back to work without an issue.” That was another thing that came out after Harry was disarmed. He hadn’t just been dueling two people. He had been exchanging spells with all of them.
They all blended together. Even thinking back on the scene not an hour later, he can’t remember red robes. Can’t remember the voices calling out for him to stop. Voices he should recognize. People he’s worked with now for over a year.
He’s already heard the whispers; it started with Harding.
Madman.
“As for Mr. Arif, his blindness I am told is temporary. You gave him the equivalent of a sunburn on his cornea. Should clear up soon. This hardly satisfies the Kuwaiti embassy though, you understand?”
Harry nodded silently. Arif turned out to be a consulary agent sent by the Kuwaiti government. He was trying to track down a Kuwaiti national who had disappeared after reaching London, going to Mandelson to see if the man acquired a visa through him.
“Luckily, they at least know your name in the Gulf. Otherwise you would be in a world of trouble; more than you are now anyway.” Harry was just tired now. Tired always, tired of this life, tired of being Harry Potter. Being unable to walk the streets without the twitchy feeling of an imminent attack,
“Listen now,” Robards said, his jaw clenched. “I’m going to have to suspend you. Now don’t argue!” As though Harry had even attempted to. “Even if Dewers manages to get a conviction Mandelson, there’s still a hell of civil suit he could file.”
Robards put his head in his hands. “I can see it now,” he mumbled miserably through his fingers. “Negligent hiring. Negligent retention.”
Madman.
Freak.
“You know what,” Harry said quietly, speaking for the first time. “I think I’m done.”
The Head Auror gave him a puzzled look. “Done? What do you mean.”
Harry cocked his head slightly. “I don’t want to be suspended,” he said in a detached way that frightened him. “I want to be done.” He stood up, not even bothering to look at his boss. “Done with being an Auror. Done with this.”
He finally made eye contact with the stunned Robards. “If there are any issues, owl me. Maybe I’ll respond,” he adds as an afterthought. He turns to walk out the door, test to see if that dead feeling inside that’s been following him around will lessen when he leaves this office. He’s not optimistic, just curious. “Oh,” he calls back to a slack-jawed Robards. “Sorry about the lawsuit.”
With that he leaves, his eyelids heavy. I could take a nap when I get home, he thinks absentmindedly. He steadfastly ignores every other person in the building who tries to make eye contact. Stepping out of the employee exits into the wet London afternoon, he breathes.