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omi_ohmySo... I wrote this for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hd_remix, and it was certainly an interesting challenge to remix someone else's fic! Somehow it ended up being long - very long considering that it was a remix of a drabble. I think it marks new territory in many ways for me: I do enjoy trying out new things with each fic, and this one seemed to call for a move into slightly kinkier territory (although so far holding firm to my vague desire to see what happens if I avoid writing actual buttsex for a year). Anyway, if you haven't read it already, I hope you enjoy it.
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
omi_ohmy
Title: A Year in Training (originally posted here athd_remix)
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, a tiny bit of Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: D/s overtones
Summary: Harry is finally living his dream and training as an Auror, but nothing seems to be going right: he’s just so angry all the time. And Draco Malfoy’s presence on the programme really isn’t helping with that, either. Remix of Tension bytwilight_tones.
Word Count: ~25,400
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. The original drabble Tension is the work oftwilight_tones.
Author's notes: There was so much packed into the original 300-word drabble that it took me a long time to unravel this story. I hope I’ve done it justice (and that it’s OK that I’ve stretched Harry’s professional status slightly). I’ve told a version of the wider story from Harry’s POV – one of many possibilities. Many thanks tobirdsofshore and evilgiraff for prereading and betaing, and for helping me make this so much better than it would have been otherwise.
A Year in Training
It wasn’t a big hill, but it was satisfying to climb anyway. Auror training was still weeks away, and this was one of their first chances to be alone together. Harry pulled Ginny up, her hair flying round her face in the warm summer breeze. They sat at the top, pointing out the houses they recognised in the village below, then settling into a companionable silence. Harry didn’t know what training was going to be like, but at that moment he finally felt happy. Away from the Burrow he could relax, and he hadn’t seen much of Ginny while she’d been finishing her last year at school.
Lying with his head in her lap, Harry looked up and smiled.
“You’re not a schoolgirl any more,” he said, thinking of just what a bit more freedom and a room of his own would mean for them.
“Hmm.” Ginny seemed distracted, but then she looked down at Harry and gave him a small half-smile. “No, I’m not. All grown up now.”
Birds moved through the sky, high overhead. In the distance, the faint drone of a Muggle aeroplane could be heard, its silver body flashing in the sun.
“Harry.” Ginny’s voice interrupted Harry’s quiet tracking of the plane, and he looked back at her, hair pushed behind her ears, biting her lip and looking serious.
“Ginny,” Harry replied, as solemnly as he could.
“Don't do that.” Ginny ran a hand across Harry's head. “Don't mock me, when all I want to do is talk.” Above them, the sky was clear and blue, thin clouds high up and bright in the summer sun. Harry closed his eyes, content to feel her fingers in his hair, and relaxing into the warmth of the day.
“It's too nice a day to talk,” said Harry. “Or think. I just want to lie here and fall asleep.”
“I'm serious.” The hand stopped moving, and then Harry found his head pushed off Ginny's lap. Sitting up to see what was wrong he saw that Ginny had drawn her knees up to her chin, and was hugging herself close. He tried to read the emotions playing across her face, but there was too much there. She was tense though, he could see that.
“You are, aren't you?”
She nodded, reminding him of how shy she had been when she was younger.
“I– I've been thinking,” she said. “It's been– since the war—”
“I thought we weren't going to mention it?” said Harry. “Just for one day. It's so beautiful today.”
“I can't do that. I can't just switch it off, like you can—”
“I don't forget about it! It's always there. I just– can't we just enjoy the sunshine, for once?”
Ginny shook her head. “This isn't about the sunshine, or about the war, Harry.” She paused, and reached out to take his hand. He offered it, quietly. “This is about us.”
“Us?”
“Us.” She took a deep breath. “You– you were my hero, for so very long. Before I'd even met you,” she said with a soft smile. Fear prickled at the edge of Harry's thoughts. It took him a moment to work out why: she sounded so sad.
“Ginny, are you—”
“Shhh, let me finish, please.” She squeezed his hand. “This isn't easy to say and I just want to get it all out.” Harry's heart started a dizzying fall at her words. “When we got together it was wonderful. Like I'd been invisible, and suddenly you could see me. And then you pushed me away and left me behind. I– I know why you did it, but it hurt, it did. It was as if... even though you could see me, I was still somehow a precious thing to put away. So maybe you didn't really see me, after all.”
“Gin—” If he could just get her to stop talking, then she couldn’t say anything more.
“And that year was hard, Harry. Hogwarts wasn't a nice place to be. And then... Lavender—” she shuddered, and bit down on thin lips, as she remembered, “—and Fred.” She gave the sad little smile she always did when she thought of her brother. “You came back, and this time you were everyone's hero. I know how much you've been through, I do, and how much you still carry with you. How much we needed this, us, at first.”
“But....”
“But.” There was a finality to the way she said the word.
They sat opposite each other, not talking. Harry let go of Ginny's hand, and she hugged her legs again. A thousand things sped through Harry's mind: the way Ginny threw her head back to laugh, showing all her teeth as she did; Voldemort's final spell rebounding; the way Ginny kept him from feeling he was drowning in everything that had happened; the gentle touches and words they'd shared; and his parents smiling at him from the mirror of Erised. Just out of reach.
“All I want is for us to be happy,” he said.
“I know. Me too,” said Ginny.
“But that doesn’t mean with me, does it?” He knew he shouldn't ask, he knew how desperate it sounded, but he had to. He needed to hear the answer.
“I'm sorry, Harry, but no.” The words stung. Harry pressed his hand to his eyes, then pushed it back, through his hair. “Your version of happiness is peace and quiet,” she said. “I can see that, I can understand why. I bet you wanted—” she broke off. “I bet you wanted what my family have. Had,” she quietly amended. Harry couldn't say anything, because, yes, he'd dreamed about a home, and soft white arms, and a family.
“Well, I want something different.” Harry looked up. Ginny's eyes were on the far horizon. “I want freedom, and wide new skies. I don't want to be precious and hidden, and I don't want to be tied to anyone. Not even you.” She took a deep breath. “Right now, I just want to fly.”
“Fly?”
“I've been offered a position with the Holyhead Harpies. Reserve Chaser.”
Harry just stared at her. “Since when?”
“Since they saw me fly, at school, OK?”
“So you're dumping me to go and play Quidditch?”
“No!” She tried to hold his hand again, but this time Harry pushed her away. “It's not like that.”
“If they hadn't made the offer, would we be having this conversation today?”
Ginny's silence was answer enough for Harry. He had made his way back down the hill alone, and nothing had really got any better since that day.
:::::
The Auror training building was a squat grey building like any other in central London, although it actually bordered wizarding London at its back. It looked anonymous enough, and was free of any identifying plaques or signs. The upper floors housed the tiny bedrooms the trainees were allocated. The rooms were arranged in corridors, small kitchens and bathrooms in the middle, staircases at either end. There was also a canteen and a sad-looking common room, along with a floor of offices for their teachers. Some were part-time Aurors, some devoted all their time to training the next generation.
A couple of large training rooms, used for more large-scale exercises and simulations, and smaller teaching rooms were located on the underground floors. Stealth and Tracking (John Williamson), Concealment and Disguise (Lara Twist), Poisons and Antidotes (Kevin Savage), Practical Defence (Hestia Jones), Knowledge and Theory of the Dark Arts (Sarah Proudfoot), Advanced Charms (Bertram Aubrey): Harry had read through the list of classes and teachers over and over, excited to see what each was like. He knew that there were further courses, added in later years, in things like Team Ops, Individual Ops and Strategy, but what they’d be covering as first-years sounded like more than enough to get started.
The training building didn’t exactly have the warmth of Hogwarts, and the one common room they’d been shown on their tour at the beginning of the year was empty – “Oh, most people just head out to the Leaky or Apparate home or to see their friends,” the older trainee showing them round had said – but it was a place with a more serious purpose in mind, and Harry found it all exciting to think about. For the first time in years he would be finally following his own path, no destiny or prophecy hanging over his head: just getting a chance to pursue a long-held dream.
The first time he sat in the small office of his mentor, Hestia Jones, Harry couldn’t quite escape the nagging feeling that he knew her somehow. But then he’d met more Aurors than the average eighteen-year old, so he tried instead to focus on looking interested, and not as if he’d spent the past three weeks hiding from his friends as he went over and over his conversation with Ginny on the hill.
“Now then, Harry, I thought it would be a good idea for us to have a little chat, before the year gets started properly. First of all, please do call me Hestia. You’re an adult now, and I think we should all just call each other by our names, OK?” He smiled, and she smiled back. This was certainly different from school. It reminded him more of the Order. “You’re going to be busy and tired, because we will work you hard, but I hope that these three years speed by. I’m sure that you’re going to make a great Auror.”
Harry nodded, having heard these sentiments from just about every person on the training programme already. Robards had turned up and given them his Head Auror speech, full of hints of Dark magic, mysteries and glory, which had done little to help Harry’s mood. The words had sounded hollow. Robards had patted Harry on the back afterwards, and all the trainees stared as he told Harry that he would be treated like anyone else, and how pleased they were that he’d decided to take up the training. Harry cringed just thinking about it.
He realised that Hestia was waiting for a response. “I’m, er, I’m going to try my best,” he said. “I’ve wanted to be an Auror for years now.”
“Yes, so I understand.” Hestia smiled, then hesitated, picking up the parchment with all of Harry’s details recorded in small, neat script. “I feel I should say this, because it doesn’t feel right not to mention it: I don’t know if you remember, Harry, but I– I met your aunt and uncle last year.”
Oh. The empty feeling that Harry was trying so hard to ignore grew a little more, inside of him. Of course, that’s where he knew her from, she was in the Order – he hadn’t realised she was an Auror, at the time – and she’d helped them move to the safe house.
“I remember. It– they—” He didn’t know what he could say that would ever sum up his time with the Dursleys.
“No need to explain,” said Hestia, with a wave of her hand. “Believe me, I saw quite enough.”
An awkward silence filled the room. This was moving into territory that Harry made an effort to ignore: he didn’t really like to think about the Dursleys, let alone talk about them. He hadn’t thought of them as family for years now.
:::::
“Harry!” Ron came bounding in, not bothering to knock. They might not be sharing a room any more, but he still treated the tiny space as if they were. He sat in Harry’s chair – the only one in the room – spinning it slightly from side to side as he talked. “You’d never guess who my mentor is. It’s only Savage. Kevin Savage! Isn’t that great?”
Envy made Harry’s shoulders tighten, but he managed to summon what he hoped looked like a smile, and sat back on his bed. “Brilliant! So did he show you his Animagus form?” A few of the trainees had been talking the night before – Harry and Neville, along with two girls he vaguely remembered from Hogwarts, Su Li and Megan Jones, crowded into Ron’s room and drinking Firewhisky out of mugs – about how Savage’s was supposed to be a Siberian tiger.
“No, I still don’t know if it’s a tiger or not. But he told me that he’d worked with Charlie before, and that he could see that I’d be fine. Oh, Harry, it was so good. He even gave me some Firewhiskey to drink.”
Harry listened to Ron as he described just how cool Savage was. As if a bit of metal through your eyebrow was the only qualification for being a good Auror. The words ran into each other, and Harry wondered when he’d stopped caring so much.
“—and he said that he’s only ever had a 100% pass rate amongst the trainees he’s mentored.” Ron stopped, and pushed Harry with his foot. “Are you listening?”
“What? Yes, of course. 100% pass rate, brilliant.”
“So who’d you get?”
Harry thought of his mentor, rosy-cheeked and calm. “Hestia Jones. She seemed OK,” he said, deciding to omit the whole she-knows-the-Dursleys bit. He just wanted to get stuck into the course and not think about the past. Not his family, not the war, and certainly not Ginny. Something of his thoughts must have crossed across his face though, because Ron scooted the chair closer to the bed and tilted his head, as if considering something.
“Cheer up, mate, we’re finally here! Although,” Ron grinned, “I never thought that Auror training would be a chance to have a break from actually chasing Dark wizards.”
A smile worked its way onto Harry’s face.
“This is our chance to let our hair down.” Ron coughed. “So to speak.”
“I know, I know,” said Harry. “I’m just– I’m not quite in the mood for partying right now?”
“Why not—“ Ron broke off as he remembered, and he somehow managed to look embarrassed and uncomfortable all at the same time. Face heated, he mumbled, “You hadn’t really seen her for a year—“
Harry glared at Ron. “Yes, I know all the reasons your sister decided to dump me, thanks, Ron.” He knew how sharp and angry he sounded, but he couldn’t help it: Ron’s words had managed to release all the feelings of resentment he’d been trying so hard to ignore. “She was quite clear about them. I don’t really want to go through them all again, if you don’t mind.”
“I didn’t mean to—“
“What you would you know? You and Hermione are all happy-ever-after.”
Ron looked stung, and Harry felt even worse. What was he doing, having a go at Ron? He sighed. It was just typical: he finally got to where he’d wanted to be for years, and it had all turned to shit. He wasn’t even managing to be a good friend. He was surprised when Ron spoke again.
“I was going to say that Nev and I were going for a drink at the Leaky—“
“I don’t think I’m really up to it.” Harry couldn’t bear the idea of everyone crowding around, having fun as if there weren’t any missing faces in the room. He also didn’t want to have to face anyone’s questions about him and Ginny. He picked up the Quidditch magazine that he’d been reading before Ron had burst in, and traced his finger over the lettering on the cover. Ron stayed in the chair, but looked the other way. Harry wasn’t sure if he was going to spring up and leave, and he realised that he didn’t want Ron to go.
“I’m sorry, I’m just not feeling too sociable at the moment.” He paused. “I’m sure I’ll cheer up soon enough, though. Once we start our training sessions.” He offered up a hopeful smile, and was gratified to see one on Ron’s face in return.
“Well, they’re not meeting up until later, so I can stay here and chat for a while,” said Ron. “What have you got there? Quidditch Weekly?”
“It’s got reviews for all the new brooms—“ Before Harry could finish, Ron had leapt off the chair: not out of the door, but to sit next to Harry and snatch the magazine from his hands.
“Let’s see then.”
Harry relaxed into the company of his friend, and decided that everything was going to be OK, after all.
:::::
Everything flared red as a Stunner flew overhead. Automatically, he ducked and scanned the training room for a caster. It was spelled to semi-darkness, crates stacked high and shadows everywhere. Harry edged back round the boxes at his left. This was good: the witch or wizard had foolishly revealed their location. Deciding to take a risk, he moved out again, this time noting the direction of origin the next time a Stunner lit the room red.
“Diffindo!” he called out, aiming his wand at the tall tower of boxes in the far-right corner. A box near the base exploded, spraying wood and clouds of herbs around it. With a series of crashes as the crates hit the neighbouring piles, the tower collapsed. Dust obscured Harry's vision even further, but as it cleared, he looked around the room once more to check for movement, then came out from spot behind the boxes, aiming to move a little closer.
He heard it rather than saw it – the curse travelling towards him from the left-hand side of the room. It sent a brief shock through his body as he was hit, but then everything went black.
Harry opened his eyes to see Hestia Jones, Draco Malfoy and Ron standing over him. Draco Malfoy – the surprise extra trainee who had appeared on their second day of training.
Ron's hair was filled with dust and pale flakes of dried... sage, judging by the smell. Ron rubbed one shoulder and winced. So he'd been halfway right, at least. He felt his shoulders sag as he realised that by this stage, that wouldn't matter. “One mistake is all it takes,” as they were so often told.
“You know what I'm going to say, don't you?” Hestia managed to look both stern and understanding, and as usual the combination made Harry's guts twist. If only he could hate her, as he'd hated Snape. But then that was a dark path to start down, because thoughts of Snape filled him with regret, sharp and hollow. It just mingled with the general disappointment of failure, again: he had done badly in his last five training simulations in a row. Six, including this one.
“Constant vigilance, I know.” Harry said, as he sat up properly. Moody's words had been repeated endlessly in their Practical Defence and Stealth and Tracking classes over the past ten weeks – Williamson, in particular, fond of booming the words out in his sessions – and he was sick of them. He'd lived with constant vigilance for so long, sometimes he dreamed of not having to check over his shoulder, or be suspicious of every person he met. But if he wanted to be an Auror, this is what he had to do. He took a steadying breath, and made sure his voice was level when he spoke. “I really only thought there was one person in here.”
“Clearly. Harry, this isn't the first time.” Hestia shook her head, and sighed. She paused for a moment before saying anything else, seeming to weigh up the options. “We're going to have to run a few more of these simulations to get your skills up.”
Frustration grew into awkwardness: Harry didn't want to talk about this in front of Malfoy, of all people. He wanted a quiet chat in her office, but he sensed that the time for those had passed, at some point after the fourth or fifth time he'd not managed anything near a successful attempt in any of the weekly Practical Defence simulations.
“I know.” Harry shook his head to Ron's offer of a hand up, and he stood, wishing to be anywhere other than in this training room. Hestia watched him, her gaze sharp as he brushed down his robes.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Hestia didn't need to speak loudly to be heard. She never did.
Harry's stomach dropped. She wasn't really going to make him do this here, was she? Now? He glanced round the room. Ron looked torn between wanting to stay for Harry, and wanting to run away. Malfoy was perched on the edge of a crate and brushing his robes down, pretending not to listen. Vain git. But then Hestia cleared her throat, and Harry realised she was still waiting for an answer. Oh well: in for a Knut, in for a Galleon.
“I didn't know there were two people in the room with me,” he said again. It was mortifying, actually, how obvious his mistake was, and the realisation didn't really do anything to make this any easier. He forced himself to maintain eye contact with Hestia. “I– I assumed it was just me.”
“You didn't use any magic to check for other people,” a voice called out from behind Ron. It was Malfoy, who was looking intently at Harry, frowning. “I've noticed, you seem to rely on your senses more than magic.”
Annoyance prickled through Harry at Malfoy’s criticism. It didn’t matter if it was true or not, he just didn’t want Malfoy to be involved in this discussion. Harry bit his lip on the inside, determined that he wouldn’t say anything yet, and his eyes returned to Hestia, to see how she responded.
“I know this is hard to hear, Harry, but this is Auror training, not school, and you should be able to listen to your fellow trainees,” said Hestia. And suddenly Harry understood why this wasn't a cosy chat in her office: she wanted this, she wanted Malfoy to say this. She was Malfoy’s mentor too, and Harry got the impression that she liked him. For some reason. “Draco has a point: in a group you always rely on other trainees for things like magical reconnaissance, and focus on the action yourself. You can be a valuable member of a team, but to be a competent Auror, you need to be able to handle a situation like this on your own.”
Harry felt a sting behind his eyes, because he knew that she was right. He just... he'd always been part of a team, he'd always had people around him to help, and he found that if he tried to remember every little detail and step in the stupid Auror handbook, he'd never actually do anything. He hung his head, not trusting himself not to say something he shouldn't.
The disappointment of failing yet another simulation burned, and he was in no mood for conversation. He endured the rest of Hestia's talk on being a 'team player', face heated from it being witnessed by Ron and Malfoy. After Hestia left, an awkward silence filled the room until Harry hurried away before Ron could suggest a post-training drink. Harry would rather go flying, to be honest: he needed to clear his head awhile, not make it even more muddled. There was no flying though, not in London. Too busy, too many Muggles.
Harry focused on marching out of the building as fast as he could. He made for one of the quieter side exits, hoping not to bump into anyone he knew. Shoving the door open harder than he would do normally helped his mood a little. It was cold outside, but he sucked the cool air into his lungs as if he'd been deprived of oxygen. The ache of it also helped, as did kicking a wall. Harry went to his favourite place to mope: his room at the training centre was no good, only giving the semblance of privacy.
So much for being the big hero.
:::::
Walking through the gloomy rooms of Grimmauld Place, Harry wallowed in the sense of decay around him. It was good to have this space to explore. He never thought it would happen, but he’d got used to more than a cupboard, and wanted rooms to walk through, space to call home. The Trainee accommodation was spartan and impersonal, the Common Room cold and unused. He missed Gryffindor Tower, and he missed the bustle of the Burrow. Looking around him though, he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to live here, with the stiff formality of the rooms and the distinct Pureblood vibes, but at least it was his, and an escape from everything else.
He knew that Kreacher had tried to make it shine with the pride of its former years, but it still remained the rather oppressive house of a Pureblood family. Being in the house didn’t inspire any feelings of peace, far from it. Harry came here on bad days not to calm down, but so that he could be as angry as he felt inside. Harry looked at Sirius’s old room and he hated it. He hated Sirius for dying and leaving him alone, and he hated himself for having led Sirius to his doom. He hated the stupid Black family for being so stuck up, and on particularly bad days Harry enjoyed nothing more than having a screaming row with the hideous portrait in the hall.
Today though, Harry stopped at the tapestry of the family tree. He laughed to himself: all these generations of Blacks, and now there were no more. His eyes rested on the name Draco Malfoy. Stupid perfect trainee Malfoy. Well, Harry also remembered stupid ‘my father says’ Marked Malfoy even if everyone else on the course seemed impressed enough by his super-Auror skills to have forgotten him.
A horrible seed of unease grew in Harry, because although no one hexed Malfoy on sight, no one ever squashed into his room to talk to him late at night, or made him cups of tea when he was studying. But yet they still all listened when he spoke in class, and talked incessantly about his tracking skills, or his ability to name more than a hundred poisons. So Harry ignored the small voice that said maybe Malfoy didn’t have it that easy, and that it wasn’t simply a case of Malfoy preferring his own company. The thought that Malfoy was alone actually filled Harry with a vindictive sense of satisfaction which he tried not to dwell on, as it also left him feeling a little ashamed. He hated that he could resent another person so much, but he did, there was no getting away from it. Why should life be easy for Malfoy?
Harry’s thoughts returned to his training. How had Neville coped with being seen as a bumbling idiot for so long? No one would say it now, and he seemed to have witches throwing themselves at him, if the snogs at the back of the Leaky were anything to go by, but Harry wondered sometimes if Neville had felt like this at school. This horrible mix of rage and shame and disappointment, all tight in his gut.
The loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall was Harry’s only company as he made his way back to the front door. With Kreacher at Hogwarts for now, and Harry living in the Auror trainee accommodation for the next three years, any decisions about the house would keep: he had other things to think about now.
Turning once he was out on the street, Harry looked up at number twelve, with its tall windows and many floors, and tried to picture it as the family home he’d once hoped it would be, with his own horde of red-haired children. All he could see though, was the house that Sirius had hated, and the tension of Order meetings. The bare trees and rain-slicked pavements just added to the feeling of gloom. Without looking back again, Harry walked off down the street, back to his miserable little room with the other trainees.
:::::
Harry was standing by The Burrow’s kitchen window, looking at the rising light of a bleak winter’s dawn while he waited for the kettle to boil, when Ginny walked in, still rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“Oh,” she said, stopping by the door.
“Yeah,” said Harry. He could hear the bubbling of the water beginning to boil. “I couldn’t not come for Christmas.”
“I know. Thanks.” Ginny wrapped her arms around herself. “For mum: I know it matters to her, a lot.” The sound of the kettle’s whistle made Ginny jump, and Harry moved the kettle off the stove.
“Tea?”
Ginny nodded, and sat down at the table, her hands pulling down the sleeves of her pyjama top. Harry focused on getting the tea made. It was only when he sat down that he realised how strange this was.
“How’s training? Ron raves about his and Neville’s mentor – what’s his name, Savage? – in his owls.”
Of course Ron owled Ginny. But it still felt like a betrayal.“It’s OK.”
Ginny’s smile faltered as it became apparent that Harry wasn’t going to say anything more. She took a sip from her tea.
Above them, the sounds of someone waking up could be heard: muffled footsteps, pipes clanging and old timber creaking. In comparison the silence in the room grew oppressive, and Harry felt compelled to fill the silence. “I mean… it’s different from lessons at school, or even when Ron and Hermione and I were hunting the Horcruxes. It’s… it’s hard work.”
A nod was Ginny’s only response, and Harry didn’t miss the tiny amount of hurt in her eyes at the mention of the Horcrux hunt. It had shut her out of his life just as much as Quidditch had shut him out of hers.
Harry stared at his tea, trying to think of something to say. “How’s life with the Harpies?”
“Oh, it’s great!” A genuine smile lit Ginny’s face, and instantly, Harry missed having it in his life. But he tried hard not to show how he felt. “I’m learning so much, and I’ve already played in one match, when Wilda was off sick.” Enthusiasm filled Ginny’s words as she talked about the team, and Harry shrank into himself. Her happiness was hard to bear, and Harry was filled with bitterness. It shamed him that he couldn’t be happy for her, but the break-up was still fresh for him, and he resented how quickly she seemed to have moved on. It made him question how real their relationship had ever been.
When Molly appeared in the kitchen and the conversation turned to Ginny’s plans for moving out officially, Harry slunk out of the room.
He remained quiet over the week’s stay, trying not to notice Ginny laughing and relaxed and seemingly unaffected by their break up. But what he couldn’t admit – barely to himself, let alone anyone else – was that a great deal of his quiet mood was also because she was so happy with her Quidditch team. He was envious of her passion, for having found a place she truly fitted in. Harry had thought that he’d be the one raving about how he spent his days, but the more he heard Ron talking about bloody Savage (Savage! He was ridiculous, although if Harry had been called Kevin maybe he would have stuck to ‘Savage’, too), or Hermione going on about wizarding law, the more he felt on the outside. He just didn’t care as much as they did. He wondered sometimes what was wrong with him, but he tried not to dwell on it: mostly he tried not to think about anything at all.
:::::
“I can’t do it!” Harry threw the book down in disgust.
“Watch it, mate,” said Ron, looking mildly shocked. “Imagine what Hermione would say if she saw you flinging books around like that.” Harry noticed though that Ron didn’t move from where he was sprawled across Harry’s bed, leafing through the January issue of The Quibbler. He smiled: lazy git. Their rooms were next to each other, and they often sat together in one of the rooms like this. It gave Harry, and, he suspected Ron too, a warm feeling of familiarity.
“Yes, well, she’s not here. Unlike some people, I don’t spend all my time imagining that she is.”
Ron refused to rise to the bait, his stare just becoming a little harder until Harry relented.
“Oh, OK. Sorry. But I still can’t do it.”
“You can’t expect everything to come easily.”
“I know. But I’ve been trying to get this spell right all week, and all I’ve managed so far is a shadow.”
Ron looked at the space it had occupied. “It did look….” He paused. “Well, a bit like Nev’s gran, to be honest.”
“I know! Nothing like me. Or even a person, really.” As soon as Harry had found out about the Doppelganger Charm, a variation of the Copying charm, only legal for Aurors to cast, he had wanted to learn it. Unfortunately, his efforts so far had been less than successful. If he was honest with himself, getting this right was about more than just learning a cool spell. After a pretty dismal first term, he felt he had something to prove.
Each time he met with Hestia, she was... understanding. More and more so. And he hated it. First it had been “Well, not everyone masters the art of concealment on their first attempt, Harry,” and then “I realise you must find this hard, I know you’ve not had the most supportive of environments, in the past” and he just knew that his aunt and uncle had made it clear how they felt about magic. He shuddered to think of how Vernon must have spoken to Hestia and the other Order members he’d met. Harry felt trapped, but she was always so nice about everything, what could he do?
And then, of course, there was Malfoy. The last time Harry had seen him before training started was at the trials, where he’d been pale and lost-looking. Harry had testified about the night that Dumbledore had died, how Malfoy had lowered his wand, and about how Malfoy had failed to identify him at the manor. So Harry, unlike many others, had not been surprised that his sentencing had been lenient.
When Malfoy had walked into the main teaching room for the first time, it had still been a bit of a shock. Malfoy now wore his hair short, and dressed in Muggle clothes. Rumours flew around about him: he'd been disowned, or his parents were in hiding, or he had been living as a Muggle, or he'd been in St Mungo's for unspecified reasons, or he was some Death Eater double-agent. Harry knew that actually he’d been performing some form of community service, but he didn’t say anything. Malfoy ignored them all: the whispers, the glances, the names. The fire in his eyes just burned a little brighter, and he seemed focused entirely on the training.
And then, in the most galling development of all, it appeared that the more Harry tried, the more mistakes he seemed to make, while Malfoy out-performed everyone. He barely spoke to anyone, and would just turn up each and every day, and do brilliantly. Harry had overheard Su and Megan talking about him, insinuating that Malfoy was cheating or buying his way through the course, but you just had to look at him, wand in hand, tracing a line of fire through the air or turning out a perfect antidote to some poison or another, to know that he was just good at everything.
Harry tried to put thoughts of Malfoy out of his mind. Just because he came top of everything didn’t mean anything. He looked at the mirror set up in the corner of his room, and focused on his reflection, trying to take in every detail of his appearance, then he closed his eyes and pointed his wand beside him, concentrating hard on his sense of his own physical presence in the room. The Gemino Curse simply made a copy, but this version, copying a person, was a little more complex and shadowy in its application. It was impossible for the copy to be made permanent, and it was only at best like a shadow, no matter how substantial it looked. But still, to copy yourself? There were, Harry had discovered, plenty of areas were the boundary between what was considered Light and Dark was blurred.
His next attempt did look a little more like him, but vanished almost immediately into the air, like a ghost who didn’t want to be there.
“That was a bit better,” said Ron, from behind his paper.
“Why aren’t you doing anything?” asked Harry. “It’s a bit… unnerving having you sitting there like that.”
“Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but I, er, I’ve already cast the Doppelganger Charm.”
“You have? Let’s see then.”
Ron stood, pulling his wand out, pointing it at himself and tracing the complicated star-like shape necessary for the spell. “Gemino Hominum,” he whispered, and another Ron appeared next to him, flickering for a second before stabilising so that there were two identical figures standing with a look of concentration on their faces. Ron – the real one – frowned, and flicked his wand to the side, and his doppelganger walked across the room. The effort of casting the spell was obvious as Ron let out a long huff of breath as the spell ended.
Harry stared at the space the Ron-copy had been in. Silence settled between them as Harry registered that his friend had mastered the most complex charm on the syllabus for the whole year, and he hadn’t. Some part of him had been hoping that they would muddle through together, laugh off their failure and get there together in the end. But now… now he had a feeling that he was one of only a few who still hadn’t mastered it.
“I– that’s amazing,” he said. “A bit creepy, too.”
Ron shrugged. “It would be dead useful out in the field though. What I want to know is what’s the counter-spell?”
“Counter-spell?”
“Well, there must be a charm to reveal if someone’s real or not. Otherwise it would be banned, I reckon.”
Harry felt a bit lost. Ron was miles ahead of him on this. Sighing, he took one more look at the spell book lying on the floor and closed his eyes again. This time, Harry only managed to conjure a vaguely Harry-like outline, and he was grateful for the way it disappeared instantly.
“Maybe you should get some pointers from, er, someone.” Ron was perched on the end of Harry’s bed.
“Someone?” Harry asked, but he knew who Ron was going to name. Ron suddenly became interested in fetching the book from where Harry had left it on the floor. As he straightened up he caught Harry’s eye.
“Oh, you know who I’m going to say! I saw him, practising the spell, over and over again, and he helped me with it, OK? He doesn’t say much, but he’s OK.”
“OK?” Harry couldn’t believe his ears. It seemed like only the other day that Ron had been calling Malfoy “that pointy git” and on the days he got letters from home “that bloody Death Eater.”
“You’re the one that spoke at his trial.”
“I know but… that was only fair. Didn’t mean I wanted to have to train with him. Or go ask him for tips, thank you very much. I haven’t forgotten what he was like in school. Have you?”
“He’s not like he was, you know. There’s none of that bloody awful crowing he used to do, for one. And I saw him talking to Nev the other day, and neither of them had wands drawn.”
Neville didn’t talk much about his last year at school, but when he did it had sounded pretty grim. And now he was all friendly with Malfoy? Harry didn’t understand. Rather than reply, he turned round and tried to cast the spell again, the words coming out more forcefully than strictly necessary. Sometime after his fourth or fifth attempt he realised that Ron had left the room.
Harry kept trying but it was obvious that he wasn’t getting anywhere, the shapes as formless and insubstantial as ever. Seeing that Ron had left his paper behind, Harry decided that reading The Quibbler would be much more interesting. The disappointment he felt in giving up, yet again, merely folded up into all the layers of disappointment he already carried with him.
>> Part 2
hd_remix, and it was certainly an interesting challenge to remix someone else's fic! Somehow it ended up being long - very long considering that it was a remix of a drabble. I think it marks new territory in many ways for me: I do enjoy trying out new things with each fic, and this one seemed to call for a move into slightly kinkier territory (although so far holding firm to my vague desire to see what happens if I avoid writing actual buttsex for a year). Anyway, if you haven't read it already, I hope you enjoy it.Author/Artist:
omi_ohmyTitle: A Year in Training (originally posted here at
hd_remix)Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, a tiny bit of Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: D/s overtones
Summary: Harry is finally living his dream and training as an Auror, but nothing seems to be going right: he’s just so angry all the time. And Draco Malfoy’s presence on the programme really isn’t helping with that, either. Remix of Tension by
twilight_tones.Word Count: ~25,400
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. The original drabble Tension is the work of
twilight_tones.Author's notes: There was so much packed into the original 300-word drabble that it took me a long time to unravel this story. I hope I’ve done it justice (and that it’s OK that I’ve stretched Harry’s professional status slightly). I’ve told a version of the wider story from Harry’s POV – one of many possibilities. Many thanks to
birdsofshore and evilgiraff for prereading and betaing, and for helping me make this so much better than it would have been otherwise.A Year in Training
It wasn’t a big hill, but it was satisfying to climb anyway. Auror training was still weeks away, and this was one of their first chances to be alone together. Harry pulled Ginny up, her hair flying round her face in the warm summer breeze. They sat at the top, pointing out the houses they recognised in the village below, then settling into a companionable silence. Harry didn’t know what training was going to be like, but at that moment he finally felt happy. Away from the Burrow he could relax, and he hadn’t seen much of Ginny while she’d been finishing her last year at school.
Lying with his head in her lap, Harry looked up and smiled.
“You’re not a schoolgirl any more,” he said, thinking of just what a bit more freedom and a room of his own would mean for them.
“Hmm.” Ginny seemed distracted, but then she looked down at Harry and gave him a small half-smile. “No, I’m not. All grown up now.”
Birds moved through the sky, high overhead. In the distance, the faint drone of a Muggle aeroplane could be heard, its silver body flashing in the sun.
“Harry.” Ginny’s voice interrupted Harry’s quiet tracking of the plane, and he looked back at her, hair pushed behind her ears, biting her lip and looking serious.
“Ginny,” Harry replied, as solemnly as he could.
“Don't do that.” Ginny ran a hand across Harry's head. “Don't mock me, when all I want to do is talk.” Above them, the sky was clear and blue, thin clouds high up and bright in the summer sun. Harry closed his eyes, content to feel her fingers in his hair, and relaxing into the warmth of the day.
“It's too nice a day to talk,” said Harry. “Or think. I just want to lie here and fall asleep.”
“I'm serious.” The hand stopped moving, and then Harry found his head pushed off Ginny's lap. Sitting up to see what was wrong he saw that Ginny had drawn her knees up to her chin, and was hugging herself close. He tried to read the emotions playing across her face, but there was too much there. She was tense though, he could see that.
“You are, aren't you?”
She nodded, reminding him of how shy she had been when she was younger.
“I– I've been thinking,” she said. “It's been– since the war—”
“I thought we weren't going to mention it?” said Harry. “Just for one day. It's so beautiful today.”
“I can't do that. I can't just switch it off, like you can—”
“I don't forget about it! It's always there. I just– can't we just enjoy the sunshine, for once?”
Ginny shook her head. “This isn't about the sunshine, or about the war, Harry.” She paused, and reached out to take his hand. He offered it, quietly. “This is about us.”
“Us?”
“Us.” She took a deep breath. “You– you were my hero, for so very long. Before I'd even met you,” she said with a soft smile. Fear prickled at the edge of Harry's thoughts. It took him a moment to work out why: she sounded so sad.
“Ginny, are you—”
“Shhh, let me finish, please.” She squeezed his hand. “This isn't easy to say and I just want to get it all out.” Harry's heart started a dizzying fall at her words. “When we got together it was wonderful. Like I'd been invisible, and suddenly you could see me. And then you pushed me away and left me behind. I– I know why you did it, but it hurt, it did. It was as if... even though you could see me, I was still somehow a precious thing to put away. So maybe you didn't really see me, after all.”
“Gin—” If he could just get her to stop talking, then she couldn’t say anything more.
“And that year was hard, Harry. Hogwarts wasn't a nice place to be. And then... Lavender—” she shuddered, and bit down on thin lips, as she remembered, “—and Fred.” She gave the sad little smile she always did when she thought of her brother. “You came back, and this time you were everyone's hero. I know how much you've been through, I do, and how much you still carry with you. How much we needed this, us, at first.”
“But....”
“But.” There was a finality to the way she said the word.
They sat opposite each other, not talking. Harry let go of Ginny's hand, and she hugged her legs again. A thousand things sped through Harry's mind: the way Ginny threw her head back to laugh, showing all her teeth as she did; Voldemort's final spell rebounding; the way Ginny kept him from feeling he was drowning in everything that had happened; the gentle touches and words they'd shared; and his parents smiling at him from the mirror of Erised. Just out of reach.
“All I want is for us to be happy,” he said.
“I know. Me too,” said Ginny.
“But that doesn’t mean with me, does it?” He knew he shouldn't ask, he knew how desperate it sounded, but he had to. He needed to hear the answer.
“I'm sorry, Harry, but no.” The words stung. Harry pressed his hand to his eyes, then pushed it back, through his hair. “Your version of happiness is peace and quiet,” she said. “I can see that, I can understand why. I bet you wanted—” she broke off. “I bet you wanted what my family have. Had,” she quietly amended. Harry couldn't say anything, because, yes, he'd dreamed about a home, and soft white arms, and a family.
“Well, I want something different.” Harry looked up. Ginny's eyes were on the far horizon. “I want freedom, and wide new skies. I don't want to be precious and hidden, and I don't want to be tied to anyone. Not even you.” She took a deep breath. “Right now, I just want to fly.”
“Fly?”
“I've been offered a position with the Holyhead Harpies. Reserve Chaser.”
Harry just stared at her. “Since when?”
“Since they saw me fly, at school, OK?”
“So you're dumping me to go and play Quidditch?”
“No!” She tried to hold his hand again, but this time Harry pushed her away. “It's not like that.”
“If they hadn't made the offer, would we be having this conversation today?”
Ginny's silence was answer enough for Harry. He had made his way back down the hill alone, and nothing had really got any better since that day.
:::::
The Auror training building was a squat grey building like any other in central London, although it actually bordered wizarding London at its back. It looked anonymous enough, and was free of any identifying plaques or signs. The upper floors housed the tiny bedrooms the trainees were allocated. The rooms were arranged in corridors, small kitchens and bathrooms in the middle, staircases at either end. There was also a canteen and a sad-looking common room, along with a floor of offices for their teachers. Some were part-time Aurors, some devoted all their time to training the next generation.
A couple of large training rooms, used for more large-scale exercises and simulations, and smaller teaching rooms were located on the underground floors. Stealth and Tracking (John Williamson), Concealment and Disguise (Lara Twist), Poisons and Antidotes (Kevin Savage), Practical Defence (Hestia Jones), Knowledge and Theory of the Dark Arts (Sarah Proudfoot), Advanced Charms (Bertram Aubrey): Harry had read through the list of classes and teachers over and over, excited to see what each was like. He knew that there were further courses, added in later years, in things like Team Ops, Individual Ops and Strategy, but what they’d be covering as first-years sounded like more than enough to get started.
The training building didn’t exactly have the warmth of Hogwarts, and the one common room they’d been shown on their tour at the beginning of the year was empty – “Oh, most people just head out to the Leaky or Apparate home or to see their friends,” the older trainee showing them round had said – but it was a place with a more serious purpose in mind, and Harry found it all exciting to think about. For the first time in years he would be finally following his own path, no destiny or prophecy hanging over his head: just getting a chance to pursue a long-held dream.
The first time he sat in the small office of his mentor, Hestia Jones, Harry couldn’t quite escape the nagging feeling that he knew her somehow. But then he’d met more Aurors than the average eighteen-year old, so he tried instead to focus on looking interested, and not as if he’d spent the past three weeks hiding from his friends as he went over and over his conversation with Ginny on the hill.
“Now then, Harry, I thought it would be a good idea for us to have a little chat, before the year gets started properly. First of all, please do call me Hestia. You’re an adult now, and I think we should all just call each other by our names, OK?” He smiled, and she smiled back. This was certainly different from school. It reminded him more of the Order. “You’re going to be busy and tired, because we will work you hard, but I hope that these three years speed by. I’m sure that you’re going to make a great Auror.”
Harry nodded, having heard these sentiments from just about every person on the training programme already. Robards had turned up and given them his Head Auror speech, full of hints of Dark magic, mysteries and glory, which had done little to help Harry’s mood. The words had sounded hollow. Robards had patted Harry on the back afterwards, and all the trainees stared as he told Harry that he would be treated like anyone else, and how pleased they were that he’d decided to take up the training. Harry cringed just thinking about it.
He realised that Hestia was waiting for a response. “I’m, er, I’m going to try my best,” he said. “I’ve wanted to be an Auror for years now.”
“Yes, so I understand.” Hestia smiled, then hesitated, picking up the parchment with all of Harry’s details recorded in small, neat script. “I feel I should say this, because it doesn’t feel right not to mention it: I don’t know if you remember, Harry, but I– I met your aunt and uncle last year.”
Oh. The empty feeling that Harry was trying so hard to ignore grew a little more, inside of him. Of course, that’s where he knew her from, she was in the Order – he hadn’t realised she was an Auror, at the time – and she’d helped them move to the safe house.
“I remember. It– they—” He didn’t know what he could say that would ever sum up his time with the Dursleys.
“No need to explain,” said Hestia, with a wave of her hand. “Believe me, I saw quite enough.”
An awkward silence filled the room. This was moving into territory that Harry made an effort to ignore: he didn’t really like to think about the Dursleys, let alone talk about them. He hadn’t thought of them as family for years now.
:::::
“Harry!” Ron came bounding in, not bothering to knock. They might not be sharing a room any more, but he still treated the tiny space as if they were. He sat in Harry’s chair – the only one in the room – spinning it slightly from side to side as he talked. “You’d never guess who my mentor is. It’s only Savage. Kevin Savage! Isn’t that great?”
Envy made Harry’s shoulders tighten, but he managed to summon what he hoped looked like a smile, and sat back on his bed. “Brilliant! So did he show you his Animagus form?” A few of the trainees had been talking the night before – Harry and Neville, along with two girls he vaguely remembered from Hogwarts, Su Li and Megan Jones, crowded into Ron’s room and drinking Firewhisky out of mugs – about how Savage’s was supposed to be a Siberian tiger.
“No, I still don’t know if it’s a tiger or not. But he told me that he’d worked with Charlie before, and that he could see that I’d be fine. Oh, Harry, it was so good. He even gave me some Firewhiskey to drink.”
Harry listened to Ron as he described just how cool Savage was. As if a bit of metal through your eyebrow was the only qualification for being a good Auror. The words ran into each other, and Harry wondered when he’d stopped caring so much.
“—and he said that he’s only ever had a 100% pass rate amongst the trainees he’s mentored.” Ron stopped, and pushed Harry with his foot. “Are you listening?”
“What? Yes, of course. 100% pass rate, brilliant.”
“So who’d you get?”
Harry thought of his mentor, rosy-cheeked and calm. “Hestia Jones. She seemed OK,” he said, deciding to omit the whole she-knows-the-Dursleys bit. He just wanted to get stuck into the course and not think about the past. Not his family, not the war, and certainly not Ginny. Something of his thoughts must have crossed across his face though, because Ron scooted the chair closer to the bed and tilted his head, as if considering something.
“Cheer up, mate, we’re finally here! Although,” Ron grinned, “I never thought that Auror training would be a chance to have a break from actually chasing Dark wizards.”
A smile worked its way onto Harry’s face.
“This is our chance to let our hair down.” Ron coughed. “So to speak.”
“I know, I know,” said Harry. “I’m just– I’m not quite in the mood for partying right now?”
“Why not—“ Ron broke off as he remembered, and he somehow managed to look embarrassed and uncomfortable all at the same time. Face heated, he mumbled, “You hadn’t really seen her for a year—“
Harry glared at Ron. “Yes, I know all the reasons your sister decided to dump me, thanks, Ron.” He knew how sharp and angry he sounded, but he couldn’t help it: Ron’s words had managed to release all the feelings of resentment he’d been trying so hard to ignore. “She was quite clear about them. I don’t really want to go through them all again, if you don’t mind.”
“I didn’t mean to—“
“What you would you know? You and Hermione are all happy-ever-after.”
Ron looked stung, and Harry felt even worse. What was he doing, having a go at Ron? He sighed. It was just typical: he finally got to where he’d wanted to be for years, and it had all turned to shit. He wasn’t even managing to be a good friend. He was surprised when Ron spoke again.
“I was going to say that Nev and I were going for a drink at the Leaky—“
“I don’t think I’m really up to it.” Harry couldn’t bear the idea of everyone crowding around, having fun as if there weren’t any missing faces in the room. He also didn’t want to have to face anyone’s questions about him and Ginny. He picked up the Quidditch magazine that he’d been reading before Ron had burst in, and traced his finger over the lettering on the cover. Ron stayed in the chair, but looked the other way. Harry wasn’t sure if he was going to spring up and leave, and he realised that he didn’t want Ron to go.
“I’m sorry, I’m just not feeling too sociable at the moment.” He paused. “I’m sure I’ll cheer up soon enough, though. Once we start our training sessions.” He offered up a hopeful smile, and was gratified to see one on Ron’s face in return.
“Well, they’re not meeting up until later, so I can stay here and chat for a while,” said Ron. “What have you got there? Quidditch Weekly?”
“It’s got reviews for all the new brooms—“ Before Harry could finish, Ron had leapt off the chair: not out of the door, but to sit next to Harry and snatch the magazine from his hands.
“Let’s see then.”
Harry relaxed into the company of his friend, and decided that everything was going to be OK, after all.
:::::
Everything flared red as a Stunner flew overhead. Automatically, he ducked and scanned the training room for a caster. It was spelled to semi-darkness, crates stacked high and shadows everywhere. Harry edged back round the boxes at his left. This was good: the witch or wizard had foolishly revealed their location. Deciding to take a risk, he moved out again, this time noting the direction of origin the next time a Stunner lit the room red.
“Diffindo!” he called out, aiming his wand at the tall tower of boxes in the far-right corner. A box near the base exploded, spraying wood and clouds of herbs around it. With a series of crashes as the crates hit the neighbouring piles, the tower collapsed. Dust obscured Harry's vision even further, but as it cleared, he looked around the room once more to check for movement, then came out from spot behind the boxes, aiming to move a little closer.
He heard it rather than saw it – the curse travelling towards him from the left-hand side of the room. It sent a brief shock through his body as he was hit, but then everything went black.
Harry opened his eyes to see Hestia Jones, Draco Malfoy and Ron standing over him. Draco Malfoy – the surprise extra trainee who had appeared on their second day of training.
Ron's hair was filled with dust and pale flakes of dried... sage, judging by the smell. Ron rubbed one shoulder and winced. So he'd been halfway right, at least. He felt his shoulders sag as he realised that by this stage, that wouldn't matter. “One mistake is all it takes,” as they were so often told.
“You know what I'm going to say, don't you?” Hestia managed to look both stern and understanding, and as usual the combination made Harry's guts twist. If only he could hate her, as he'd hated Snape. But then that was a dark path to start down, because thoughts of Snape filled him with regret, sharp and hollow. It just mingled with the general disappointment of failure, again: he had done badly in his last five training simulations in a row. Six, including this one.
“Constant vigilance, I know.” Harry said, as he sat up properly. Moody's words had been repeated endlessly in their Practical Defence and Stealth and Tracking classes over the past ten weeks – Williamson, in particular, fond of booming the words out in his sessions – and he was sick of them. He'd lived with constant vigilance for so long, sometimes he dreamed of not having to check over his shoulder, or be suspicious of every person he met. But if he wanted to be an Auror, this is what he had to do. He took a steadying breath, and made sure his voice was level when he spoke. “I really only thought there was one person in here.”
“Clearly. Harry, this isn't the first time.” Hestia shook her head, and sighed. She paused for a moment before saying anything else, seeming to weigh up the options. “We're going to have to run a few more of these simulations to get your skills up.”
Frustration grew into awkwardness: Harry didn't want to talk about this in front of Malfoy, of all people. He wanted a quiet chat in her office, but he sensed that the time for those had passed, at some point after the fourth or fifth time he'd not managed anything near a successful attempt in any of the weekly Practical Defence simulations.
“I know.” Harry shook his head to Ron's offer of a hand up, and he stood, wishing to be anywhere other than in this training room. Hestia watched him, her gaze sharp as he brushed down his robes.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Hestia didn't need to speak loudly to be heard. She never did.
Harry's stomach dropped. She wasn't really going to make him do this here, was she? Now? He glanced round the room. Ron looked torn between wanting to stay for Harry, and wanting to run away. Malfoy was perched on the edge of a crate and brushing his robes down, pretending not to listen. Vain git. But then Hestia cleared her throat, and Harry realised she was still waiting for an answer. Oh well: in for a Knut, in for a Galleon.
“I didn't know there were two people in the room with me,” he said again. It was mortifying, actually, how obvious his mistake was, and the realisation didn't really do anything to make this any easier. He forced himself to maintain eye contact with Hestia. “I– I assumed it was just me.”
“You didn't use any magic to check for other people,” a voice called out from behind Ron. It was Malfoy, who was looking intently at Harry, frowning. “I've noticed, you seem to rely on your senses more than magic.”
Annoyance prickled through Harry at Malfoy’s criticism. It didn’t matter if it was true or not, he just didn’t want Malfoy to be involved in this discussion. Harry bit his lip on the inside, determined that he wouldn’t say anything yet, and his eyes returned to Hestia, to see how she responded.
“I know this is hard to hear, Harry, but this is Auror training, not school, and you should be able to listen to your fellow trainees,” said Hestia. And suddenly Harry understood why this wasn't a cosy chat in her office: she wanted this, she wanted Malfoy to say this. She was Malfoy’s mentor too, and Harry got the impression that she liked him. For some reason. “Draco has a point: in a group you always rely on other trainees for things like magical reconnaissance, and focus on the action yourself. You can be a valuable member of a team, but to be a competent Auror, you need to be able to handle a situation like this on your own.”
Harry felt a sting behind his eyes, because he knew that she was right. He just... he'd always been part of a team, he'd always had people around him to help, and he found that if he tried to remember every little detail and step in the stupid Auror handbook, he'd never actually do anything. He hung his head, not trusting himself not to say something he shouldn't.
The disappointment of failing yet another simulation burned, and he was in no mood for conversation. He endured the rest of Hestia's talk on being a 'team player', face heated from it being witnessed by Ron and Malfoy. After Hestia left, an awkward silence filled the room until Harry hurried away before Ron could suggest a post-training drink. Harry would rather go flying, to be honest: he needed to clear his head awhile, not make it even more muddled. There was no flying though, not in London. Too busy, too many Muggles.
Harry focused on marching out of the building as fast as he could. He made for one of the quieter side exits, hoping not to bump into anyone he knew. Shoving the door open harder than he would do normally helped his mood a little. It was cold outside, but he sucked the cool air into his lungs as if he'd been deprived of oxygen. The ache of it also helped, as did kicking a wall. Harry went to his favourite place to mope: his room at the training centre was no good, only giving the semblance of privacy.
So much for being the big hero.
:::::
Walking through the gloomy rooms of Grimmauld Place, Harry wallowed in the sense of decay around him. It was good to have this space to explore. He never thought it would happen, but he’d got used to more than a cupboard, and wanted rooms to walk through, space to call home. The Trainee accommodation was spartan and impersonal, the Common Room cold and unused. He missed Gryffindor Tower, and he missed the bustle of the Burrow. Looking around him though, he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to live here, with the stiff formality of the rooms and the distinct Pureblood vibes, but at least it was his, and an escape from everything else.
He knew that Kreacher had tried to make it shine with the pride of its former years, but it still remained the rather oppressive house of a Pureblood family. Being in the house didn’t inspire any feelings of peace, far from it. Harry came here on bad days not to calm down, but so that he could be as angry as he felt inside. Harry looked at Sirius’s old room and he hated it. He hated Sirius for dying and leaving him alone, and he hated himself for having led Sirius to his doom. He hated the stupid Black family for being so stuck up, and on particularly bad days Harry enjoyed nothing more than having a screaming row with the hideous portrait in the hall.
Today though, Harry stopped at the tapestry of the family tree. He laughed to himself: all these generations of Blacks, and now there were no more. His eyes rested on the name Draco Malfoy. Stupid perfect trainee Malfoy. Well, Harry also remembered stupid ‘my father says’ Marked Malfoy even if everyone else on the course seemed impressed enough by his super-Auror skills to have forgotten him.
A horrible seed of unease grew in Harry, because although no one hexed Malfoy on sight, no one ever squashed into his room to talk to him late at night, or made him cups of tea when he was studying. But yet they still all listened when he spoke in class, and talked incessantly about his tracking skills, or his ability to name more than a hundred poisons. So Harry ignored the small voice that said maybe Malfoy didn’t have it that easy, and that it wasn’t simply a case of Malfoy preferring his own company. The thought that Malfoy was alone actually filled Harry with a vindictive sense of satisfaction which he tried not to dwell on, as it also left him feeling a little ashamed. He hated that he could resent another person so much, but he did, there was no getting away from it. Why should life be easy for Malfoy?
Harry’s thoughts returned to his training. How had Neville coped with being seen as a bumbling idiot for so long? No one would say it now, and he seemed to have witches throwing themselves at him, if the snogs at the back of the Leaky were anything to go by, but Harry wondered sometimes if Neville had felt like this at school. This horrible mix of rage and shame and disappointment, all tight in his gut.
The loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall was Harry’s only company as he made his way back to the front door. With Kreacher at Hogwarts for now, and Harry living in the Auror trainee accommodation for the next three years, any decisions about the house would keep: he had other things to think about now.
Turning once he was out on the street, Harry looked up at number twelve, with its tall windows and many floors, and tried to picture it as the family home he’d once hoped it would be, with his own horde of red-haired children. All he could see though, was the house that Sirius had hated, and the tension of Order meetings. The bare trees and rain-slicked pavements just added to the feeling of gloom. Without looking back again, Harry walked off down the street, back to his miserable little room with the other trainees.
:::::
Harry was standing by The Burrow’s kitchen window, looking at the rising light of a bleak winter’s dawn while he waited for the kettle to boil, when Ginny walked in, still rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“Oh,” she said, stopping by the door.
“Yeah,” said Harry. He could hear the bubbling of the water beginning to boil. “I couldn’t not come for Christmas.”
“I know. Thanks.” Ginny wrapped her arms around herself. “For mum: I know it matters to her, a lot.” The sound of the kettle’s whistle made Ginny jump, and Harry moved the kettle off the stove.
“Tea?”
Ginny nodded, and sat down at the table, her hands pulling down the sleeves of her pyjama top. Harry focused on getting the tea made. It was only when he sat down that he realised how strange this was.
“How’s training? Ron raves about his and Neville’s mentor – what’s his name, Savage? – in his owls.”
Of course Ron owled Ginny. But it still felt like a betrayal.“It’s OK.”
Ginny’s smile faltered as it became apparent that Harry wasn’t going to say anything more. She took a sip from her tea.
Above them, the sounds of someone waking up could be heard: muffled footsteps, pipes clanging and old timber creaking. In comparison the silence in the room grew oppressive, and Harry felt compelled to fill the silence. “I mean… it’s different from lessons at school, or even when Ron and Hermione and I were hunting the Horcruxes. It’s… it’s hard work.”
A nod was Ginny’s only response, and Harry didn’t miss the tiny amount of hurt in her eyes at the mention of the Horcrux hunt. It had shut her out of his life just as much as Quidditch had shut him out of hers.
Harry stared at his tea, trying to think of something to say. “How’s life with the Harpies?”
“Oh, it’s great!” A genuine smile lit Ginny’s face, and instantly, Harry missed having it in his life. But he tried hard not to show how he felt. “I’m learning so much, and I’ve already played in one match, when Wilda was off sick.” Enthusiasm filled Ginny’s words as she talked about the team, and Harry shrank into himself. Her happiness was hard to bear, and Harry was filled with bitterness. It shamed him that he couldn’t be happy for her, but the break-up was still fresh for him, and he resented how quickly she seemed to have moved on. It made him question how real their relationship had ever been.
When Molly appeared in the kitchen and the conversation turned to Ginny’s plans for moving out officially, Harry slunk out of the room.
He remained quiet over the week’s stay, trying not to notice Ginny laughing and relaxed and seemingly unaffected by their break up. But what he couldn’t admit – barely to himself, let alone anyone else – was that a great deal of his quiet mood was also because she was so happy with her Quidditch team. He was envious of her passion, for having found a place she truly fitted in. Harry had thought that he’d be the one raving about how he spent his days, but the more he heard Ron talking about bloody Savage (Savage! He was ridiculous, although if Harry had been called Kevin maybe he would have stuck to ‘Savage’, too), or Hermione going on about wizarding law, the more he felt on the outside. He just didn’t care as much as they did. He wondered sometimes what was wrong with him, but he tried not to dwell on it: mostly he tried not to think about anything at all.
:::::
“I can’t do it!” Harry threw the book down in disgust.
“Watch it, mate,” said Ron, looking mildly shocked. “Imagine what Hermione would say if she saw you flinging books around like that.” Harry noticed though that Ron didn’t move from where he was sprawled across Harry’s bed, leafing through the January issue of The Quibbler. He smiled: lazy git. Their rooms were next to each other, and they often sat together in one of the rooms like this. It gave Harry, and, he suspected Ron too, a warm feeling of familiarity.
“Yes, well, she’s not here. Unlike some people, I don’t spend all my time imagining that she is.”
Ron refused to rise to the bait, his stare just becoming a little harder until Harry relented.
“Oh, OK. Sorry. But I still can’t do it.”
“You can’t expect everything to come easily.”
“I know. But I’ve been trying to get this spell right all week, and all I’ve managed so far is a shadow.”
Ron looked at the space it had occupied. “It did look….” He paused. “Well, a bit like Nev’s gran, to be honest.”
“I know! Nothing like me. Or even a person, really.” As soon as Harry had found out about the Doppelganger Charm, a variation of the Copying charm, only legal for Aurors to cast, he had wanted to learn it. Unfortunately, his efforts so far had been less than successful. If he was honest with himself, getting this right was about more than just learning a cool spell. After a pretty dismal first term, he felt he had something to prove.
Each time he met with Hestia, she was... understanding. More and more so. And he hated it. First it had been “Well, not everyone masters the art of concealment on their first attempt, Harry,” and then “I realise you must find this hard, I know you’ve not had the most supportive of environments, in the past” and he just knew that his aunt and uncle had made it clear how they felt about magic. He shuddered to think of how Vernon must have spoken to Hestia and the other Order members he’d met. Harry felt trapped, but she was always so nice about everything, what could he do?
And then, of course, there was Malfoy. The last time Harry had seen him before training started was at the trials, where he’d been pale and lost-looking. Harry had testified about the night that Dumbledore had died, how Malfoy had lowered his wand, and about how Malfoy had failed to identify him at the manor. So Harry, unlike many others, had not been surprised that his sentencing had been lenient.
When Malfoy had walked into the main teaching room for the first time, it had still been a bit of a shock. Malfoy now wore his hair short, and dressed in Muggle clothes. Rumours flew around about him: he'd been disowned, or his parents were in hiding, or he had been living as a Muggle, or he'd been in St Mungo's for unspecified reasons, or he was some Death Eater double-agent. Harry knew that actually he’d been performing some form of community service, but he didn’t say anything. Malfoy ignored them all: the whispers, the glances, the names. The fire in his eyes just burned a little brighter, and he seemed focused entirely on the training.
And then, in the most galling development of all, it appeared that the more Harry tried, the more mistakes he seemed to make, while Malfoy out-performed everyone. He barely spoke to anyone, and would just turn up each and every day, and do brilliantly. Harry had overheard Su and Megan talking about him, insinuating that Malfoy was cheating or buying his way through the course, but you just had to look at him, wand in hand, tracing a line of fire through the air or turning out a perfect antidote to some poison or another, to know that he was just good at everything.
Harry tried to put thoughts of Malfoy out of his mind. Just because he came top of everything didn’t mean anything. He looked at the mirror set up in the corner of his room, and focused on his reflection, trying to take in every detail of his appearance, then he closed his eyes and pointed his wand beside him, concentrating hard on his sense of his own physical presence in the room. The Gemino Curse simply made a copy, but this version, copying a person, was a little more complex and shadowy in its application. It was impossible for the copy to be made permanent, and it was only at best like a shadow, no matter how substantial it looked. But still, to copy yourself? There were, Harry had discovered, plenty of areas were the boundary between what was considered Light and Dark was blurred.
His next attempt did look a little more like him, but vanished almost immediately into the air, like a ghost who didn’t want to be there.
“That was a bit better,” said Ron, from behind his paper.
“Why aren’t you doing anything?” asked Harry. “It’s a bit… unnerving having you sitting there like that.”
“Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but I, er, I’ve already cast the Doppelganger Charm.”
“You have? Let’s see then.”
Ron stood, pulling his wand out, pointing it at himself and tracing the complicated star-like shape necessary for the spell. “Gemino Hominum,” he whispered, and another Ron appeared next to him, flickering for a second before stabilising so that there were two identical figures standing with a look of concentration on their faces. Ron – the real one – frowned, and flicked his wand to the side, and his doppelganger walked across the room. The effort of casting the spell was obvious as Ron let out a long huff of breath as the spell ended.
Harry stared at the space the Ron-copy had been in. Silence settled between them as Harry registered that his friend had mastered the most complex charm on the syllabus for the whole year, and he hadn’t. Some part of him had been hoping that they would muddle through together, laugh off their failure and get there together in the end. But now… now he had a feeling that he was one of only a few who still hadn’t mastered it.
“I– that’s amazing,” he said. “A bit creepy, too.”
Ron shrugged. “It would be dead useful out in the field though. What I want to know is what’s the counter-spell?”
“Counter-spell?”
“Well, there must be a charm to reveal if someone’s real or not. Otherwise it would be banned, I reckon.”
Harry felt a bit lost. Ron was miles ahead of him on this. Sighing, he took one more look at the spell book lying on the floor and closed his eyes again. This time, Harry only managed to conjure a vaguely Harry-like outline, and he was grateful for the way it disappeared instantly.
“Maybe you should get some pointers from, er, someone.” Ron was perched on the end of Harry’s bed.
“Someone?” Harry asked, but he knew who Ron was going to name. Ron suddenly became interested in fetching the book from where Harry had left it on the floor. As he straightened up he caught Harry’s eye.
“Oh, you know who I’m going to say! I saw him, practising the spell, over and over again, and he helped me with it, OK? He doesn’t say much, but he’s OK.”
“OK?” Harry couldn’t believe his ears. It seemed like only the other day that Ron had been calling Malfoy “that pointy git” and on the days he got letters from home “that bloody Death Eater.”
“You’re the one that spoke at his trial.”
“I know but… that was only fair. Didn’t mean I wanted to have to train with him. Or go ask him for tips, thank you very much. I haven’t forgotten what he was like in school. Have you?”
“He’s not like he was, you know. There’s none of that bloody awful crowing he used to do, for one. And I saw him talking to Nev the other day, and neither of them had wands drawn.”
Neville didn’t talk much about his last year at school, but when he did it had sounded pretty grim. And now he was all friendly with Malfoy? Harry didn’t understand. Rather than reply, he turned round and tried to cast the spell again, the words coming out more forcefully than strictly necessary. Sometime after his fourth or fifth attempt he realised that Ron had left the room.
Harry kept trying but it was obvious that he wasn’t getting anywhere, the shapes as formless and insubstantial as ever. Seeing that Ron had left his paper behind, Harry decided that reading The Quibbler would be much more interesting. The disappointment he felt in giving up, yet again, merely folded up into all the layers of disappointment he already carried with him.
>> Part 2
