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The period after the war was one of uneasy recovery and painful regression. Whole bloodlines had been exterminated, the ministry completely decimated with few wanting or willing to return to its remains, and the toll of a nearly successful genocide in what had been a seemingly enlightened society.
What to do now, with the public grief, the remaining Deatheaters, the liquidated government, and most trickily, the disease of complicity that had gone and infested one person to the next? Tom may have been dead and cold, but his inferno would not be extinguished fully for the next several years, not when the touch of the Dark Arts had slithered its way into all of society’s crevices.
But recovery came. The hard work of emergency officials like Kingsley Shacklebolt (not to mention the influx of aid from various European governments and the Americans) began to chip away at those dark cracks. The workforce made its return, at first slow, but soon pouring in as hope for a new, brighter future replaced the disparity of the war. The colorful lights and bulging shops came to be once more in Diagon Alley. A new and improved Hogwarts emerged from the rubble, gritty but firm; the same as before, but so different. And with a large war dedication beside the Black Lake.
And in all of this, there was Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived, not just once but twice, and no longer a boy. He woke with stubble on his cheeks and a creak in his back, manhood concealed no longer. The centaurs would not let him leave their forest unharmed now, but it wasn’t like he would be traipsing through, anyway. No, instead he found that without the threat of Voldemort and the prophecy hanging over his head, he was free to do what he wished.
For a while, that was being an Auror. It was tiring, haunting work and probably cut an additional ten years off his lifespan. And now, approaching the summer of 2008, at nearly twenty-eight years old, Harry Potter found himself directionless and unsure.
“Quit,” advised Ginny, three months away from twenty-seven. After the Big Buzz of ’02 (and the subsequent Pixie Cut of ’03), she’d been growing her hair out, and it now was piled in a big red blob on the top of her head as she sat at their kitchen counter.
Harry, wearing an apron reading Snog the Spellcaster (Ginny’s gift to him for his twenty-second birthday), slid a plate of eggs and sausages in front of her. “It’s not that simple! Everyone’s always thought that I would be an Auror, and that was the only career I was even interested in or looked at during school. I can’t think of anything else I’d want to do.”
“Really, quit,” she repeated. She stood and came over to him, resting her hands on his hips. “You don’t have to do anything else. We’ve got enough between your inheritance and my Quidditch. You can be like Ron, get a part-time you like, maybe, then you two geezers can fuck off and be boyfriends together,”
“I do love Ron,” Harry agreed.
“You do love Ron.” She went on her tip-toes and pressed her lips against his cheek. Her hair glowed in the early morning sunlight. “I want you to be happy. We all want you to be happy. Don’t let other people’s expectations ruin your happiness. If you don’t want to be an Auror anymore, you don’t need to be. You’ve done far more than your share to protect us.”
Which Harry thought was really quite sweet to say. But it wasn’t until three weeks later, when an owl arrived at their window, that he let himself absorb them.
Ginny was away training with the English national team (he was dearly proud of her, though unsurprised) and Harry found himself sprawled on the couch with their cat, exhausted from the day’s work. The outlawing of dementors made it so that Aurors like Harry had to take the torch and guard the wicked of Azkaban. The last three days had included three twelve-hour shifts doing just that, enduring hours of taunting and screaming in that dim, dull prison. If anything could convince him to quit, it was that. But he couldn’t, really.
And then there came a tap-tap-tap at the window. He heaved himself from the couch with a groan and went to relieve what he discovered to be an elegant brown owl of its letter. Even as he fished a few sickles out of his pocket to give to the owl, he didn’t tear his eyes away from the official Hogwarts stamp on the exterior.
“Sorry,” Harry said to the cat–Fizgig–who hissed at him as he returned, displeased at the movement. He ripped open the letter, heart beating a little bit faster.
Dear Mr. Potter,
I hope this letter finds you well. I hear you have been doing excellent things in the Auror Department. I was very pleased with your recent discovery and arrest of Wulfric Mulciber. But that is not the point of my letter. To cut to the chase, you may have heard that our Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, Professor Elphabine Jilly, has decided to pursue a study in Croatia this coming September. You were the first person to pop into my mind for replacement. I recall the praise from your fellows in Dumbledore’s Army and I know you have the mental, physical, and personal skills to do the job. Please respond as quickly as you are able to make a decision, for you will be required to attend a rudimentary teaching course beginning June 14th through August 14th. Should you be interested in the position, I will provide more details in a secondary owl. Please send Ms. Weasley my regards on her fantastic performance against Wasps last Saturday.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress
He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and reread the letter. Then a third time. And a fourth. His heart raced. Besides the Mandrakes playing on the radio quietly in the kitchen, he could only hear the blood thumping in his ears.
“Blimey,” Harry said to himself, his stomach having effectively dropped to his feet. He paced around the kitchen. Harry…a professor at Hogwarts? Teaching? In a position of authority? McGonagall must be going senile , he thought. But on further reflection, he had done quite well with Dumbledore’s Army, even if Hermione had done most of the work.
If only Ginny was here, she’d know what to do. But he did know what she would say. Her words from a few weeks ago came floating back into his mind. He took a deep breath. Not three minutes later, their owl, a small grey thing delightfully named Twit, was soaring off into the evening. If Harry didn’t know any better, he might’ve thought the stars were twinkling a bit brighter and a bit bluer that night, like the eyes of a man long gone.
Harry Potter’s name would never truly leave the papers, and unsurprisingly, a large section on the front page of the next Monday’s Daily Prophet edition was dedicated to his career switch. The stern and greying Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Philomena Flint, was sorry to see him go but wished him well as he handed in his resignation papers, and even gave him a letter of recommendation. And Ginny, returned from training, had discovered the news only three days before the publishing, and while briefly peeved at his secret-keeping (“This is big news, Harry! I want to hear about it before Galinda from down the street!”), she, with the help of Mrs. Weasley, treated him with a big celebratory dinner at the Burrow, and a much more intimate treat later in the evening.
So it was 2:02 a.m. on June 14th and Harry Potter could not sleep. He had his long-term girlfriend (and there may or may not have been a sparkling emerald ring hidden in his sock drawer) breathing softly at his side, Fizgig curled at the foot of the bed, and the soft ticking of Ginny’s Uncle Bilius’s grandfather clock by the cracked window. And he could not sleep.
Harry gave up. He sat up fully, and with a yawn, awkwardly smushed his glasses back over his eyes. Careful not to disturb Ginny, he slipped away from the warm quilts and trotted downstairs into their kitchen. Ugh. His mind hadn’t been racing like this since he was an irresponsible teenager at Hogwarts. Being an Auror may have been physically and mentally taxing, but at least it was familiar. Survival was something he’d practiced his whole life; from his grey-shaded toddlerhood–which according to the therapist Hermione forced him to see, may have been slightly abnormal–throughout his perilous years at school. For Godric’s sake, he offered himself up to die to the most evil wizard of the damn century! How could he be more nervous about this stupid job?
“I must be going soft in my old age,” Harry murmured to Fizgig, who had slunk downstairs with him. He peered out the kitchen window at the moon. Most of it was visible, shining high in the dark sky. Stars scattered everywhere and Harry felt a soreness in his chest. It would be a full moon in four days.
“Waning gibbon?” Ginny appeared next to him, face fixed in a yawn. She wore her usual pajamas: a peeling white Gobstones Club 1965 t-shirt and her huge purple granny panties. She nudged her way into his arms, wrapping them around her.
“I think waxing gibbous,”
“It really is a mystery how I failed my Astronomy O.W.L.” Ginny laughed and Harry knew immediately he would need to fish that ring out soon. Her pale skin was smooth and fae-like in the moonlight, her brown eyes turned pools of amber. Harry thought someone could have told him that her millions of freckles were tiny stars and he would’ve believed them.
He kissed her temple. “Sorry, I thought I didn’t wake you,”
“’S okay, it wasn’t you.” She glared down at Fizgig, who was pawing at Harry’s calf. “Spoiled cat. And he likes you more than me, even though I buy all his treats and cater to his every need…Can’t sleep?”
Harry sighed, his back clicking. “It’s like my stomach won’t settle. It keeps swirling around…I’m nervous, I think. Which is stupid. I rode a dragon one time, remember?”
“That was my favorite Daily Prophet headline out of the whole year. And that’s not stupid.” Ginny turned and placed a warm palm on his jaw. “I get that feeling before every match. And how long have I been playing? My whole life. It might be easy, it might not. But you’re going to do your best, which, historically, is great . And if it doesn’t work out, you’re only committed for a year, then you can do something else.”
She kissed his chin and gave him a rakish look. “Now come back to bed. I have an idea to put you to sleep.” Which worked, as Ginny’s ideas typically did, immediately.