A Mother's Love • [Drarry]

Harry - Survivor's Guilt

Start writing your story

September 1999

When Harry was seven, he was called into the Headteacher's office for the first time. He can't quite remember what it was for now, not when that was only the first of many, but he remembers the office very clearly.

The shelves were filled with books, very old and regal looking. They would've probably seemed more impressive if there wasn't a layer of dust on them, as though they'd not been handled very often. Nestled between them, in every spare crevice and any bare surface, were things. Baubles, knick-knacks, a hoard of trinkets that were, even to Harry's young eyes, expensive and very much breakable. There was no dust on those, not even a single speck.

Harry knows now that the Headteacher enjoyed feigning superiority, that he found a sense of validation in material things. He once smacked the back of Harry's hands for even looking at one too long. It was a peacock figurine, clear with specks of green and blue running through it.

Gawain Robards, on the other hand, was a man with little time to or interest in decorating his office. The desk is sturdy, but plain and slightly worn. There are shelves of books left by his predecessors and drawers of paperwork that seems to be never-ending. By all means, the traces of the man himself were sparse.

He's sat before Harry, large frame taking up all the space his leather chair has to offer. His shoulders are tense, set in a way as though prepared for a fight.

It sets Harry on edge, and he finds himself hiding his hands beneath the edge of the desk, though he knows it's silly. Auror Robards would not be using corporal punishment on him, much less smacking his hands as though he's a child. He takes a breath.

"Trainee Potter," Robards says. "How has training been going? Auror Savage been going easy on you?"

"No, Sir." Savage, one of the more senior Aurors left on the force, has taken over training since Robards has been re-appointed Head Auror.

"Eh," The man grunts. "We'll see." He shifts, chair creaking beneath him. "I'll be honest, Potter; I've not called you in here to check on your progress."

Harry swallows. "No, Sir, I didn't think so."

"If I had it my way, you wouldn't be going through any training. Defeating You-Know-Who oughta qualify you just fine, in my opinion. Still, Kingsley could only do so much against that new head of the DMLE. It's lucky he was able to argue it down to just a year of training with no NEWTs." He shakes his head and mutters, "Stubborn, cantankerous shrew."

Harry stays silent, still unsure of why he's here but feelings of unease growing every moment.

"Well, that's why you're here. Partially, at least. She finally succeeded in reinstating the previous requirements to become an Auror." He says it so casually, despite the tension lining his face, that it takes a moment for Harry to register.

"I thought Sh—Minister Shacklebolt had intended for the reduced entry requirements to be temporary anyway."

Robards' frown dips further, corners of his mouth turning into something like pity. "Yes, Harry. Temporary, but followed through to completion."

Harry's brows furrow, lunch quickly sinking like lead in his stomach.

"She's managed to get them reinstated now. I don't know how she managed it, but it's going to be announced officially tomorrow and I thought you at least deserved a heads up."

He blinks, something inside feeling terribly wrong. Or perhaps, he muses, terribly right. After all, it was only a matter of time before things stopped going his way. Things going wrong has always been his norm. This brief period of ease, or at least ease by his standards, has been more unusual than when he was fighting for his life. It was never meant to last.