A Thousand Fibres

Chapter Three

The parchment was stuck up on the board of the common room when the team came back from Quidditch practice, a late evening. The seventh year students who wished to discuss their career plans, or who needed some more help to choose or obtain a job, were asked to make an appointment with their Head of House before the Easter Break.

Harry suppressed a panicked memory of Umbridge, taking notes behind him, "hem hemming" her way through his interview during his fifth year. He had met more unpleasant people than Umbridge, but the woman made a lasting impression on her preys. He had to give her that - if nothing else.

He shook his head. Professor McGonagall had defended him then. She had promised him that he would enter the Auror program if he wished to. And his grades were good enough for that - Harry had thrown himself into his studies in the summer following fifth year. Lots of things had changed with the battle at the Ministry. Harry had had to come to terms with so many unpleasant things then. Studying had kept his mind busy and had reassured him a little. As long as he was studying, he was becoming better at magic. Everything new he learned was a step toward victory - toward survival. Ron had teased him more than once about his Hermione-like obsession for learning. Harry had shrugged off the teasing and kept on studying, occasionally letting Ron distract him to take part in some entertaining activity. "You need to relax too," Ron had pointed out. "There's no point in making your bloody head explode with information."

Harry supposed he should go see his Head of House to ask what kind of steps he needed to take. He didn't have a parent who could take care of that for him. He didn't doubt the Weasleys could, if he asked them, but he didn't like to take much of their time. They had done so much for him already, and they had Ron and Ginny to take care of.

"Still going to enter the Auror program?" Neville asked, startling him.

Harry nodded, ignoring the growing uneasy feeling the notion provoked in him.

It had begun after the winter holidays - sometimes, he would envision himself as an Auror, and instead of the pride or the envy such daydreams had always inspired in him, he felt vaguely... trapped would be a good word for it, he decided.

He supposed everyone went through that. It was a big change in their lives, after all. They were leaving school, beginning a career and a new life. All the seventh year students had doubts, whether they voiced them or not.

The uneasiness would fade with time, he hoped. He had never really had a chance to think about his future, to picture himself doing grownup things - having a job, a place of his own. He had been too focussed on the present, on surviving the school year, to think much about his future.

Now that the future was there, he would just need to adjust.

He had had to adjust to bigger changes before, after all.

* * *

"So, do you think you'll be accepted as Auror?" Neville asked, almost shyly, the following evening.

Since Bellatrix's death, Neville always seemed shy when talking to Harry about his plans for the future. Sometimes, Harry wondered whether this was because the Longbottoms had been Aurors, or if it was because of the shared guilt he and Neville had felt when Bellatrix had died.

They had never known which of their wands had been responsible for the woman's death. The Aurors had decided that it was the violent impact caused by the combination of the two spells that had killed her. So, they had *both* killed her, and it seemed very fitting to Harry, and possibly also to Neville.

Harry shrugged. "I don't know."

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione threw in, from the chair across him. She was scribbling furiously on her parchment, a book opened in front of her. A view so familiar Harry couldn't believe that soon, he wouldn't see her work like that, every day.

"Good God, seven years," he thought. Seven years of friendship, of living together, studying together, eating together, fighting and laughing together.

And soon, they would go their separate ways, and not live under the same roof anymore.

"After all, if *Harry* isn't allowed in, I don't know who will be," Ginny concurred.

"There's history between the Ministry and me," Harry pointed out, a little awed at the blind faith they seemed to have regarding his future.

Too bad he couldn't be as sure as they were.

"But the people who hated your guts are gone now," Ron said. "Dad says you won't have any trouble. Minister Bones likes you, and you saved her niece's life, remember."

Harry frowned a little. "She saved mine, too," he pointed out.

"Still," said Hermione, "You'll be taken. I really wouldn't worry about it."

At that point of the discussion, Dean, who had been sitting nearby, began to swear and ran from the room. They could hear him yell, "I'm late, she's going to *kill* me!"

Hermione shook her head disapprovingly, and went back to her book. Ron moaned, "And I still don't have definite plans."

"I thought you wanted to work for Tom at the Leaky Cauldron, until you decided what you wanted to do?" Harry said. At least, that was what Ron had told him last time they had discussed it.

"Yes, but it wasn't supposed to come to that."

"Meaning?"

"I was sure I'd have a plan by now, so I could gracefully back out of the deal, and, you know, work on something else. Find a real career."

"I'm sorry, I can't help you there," Harry said. "I really have no idea what kind of work a wizard does. Aside from what I saw in your family, but-"

"But I don't want to become another one of my brothers," Ron finished.

Harry nodded that he understood. And he did, in a way. He wouldn't have wanted to walk in anybody's footsteps either, in Ron's place.

Still... "If I may just say one thing?" he said, aware of Ron's rather volatile temper whenever his family was mentioned.

Ron grunted.

"Don't rule out their work just because they do it?" Harry said. "I mean, if one of them does something you really want to do too, it would be sad to waste an opportunity, you know?"

Ron looked startled, then shrugged. "But I don't think I'd like any of their jobs," he said.

"That settles that," Harry admitted, a little unsure. More than once, he had seen Ron look envious of Bill's tales of his job. Hermione's eyes met his, and he knew they were thinking about the same thing. Ron needed financial security. It would probably be a huge factor in his decision process. And the possibilities offered by Gringotts were very interesting, if one had the abilities needed.

Once Ron was focussed on his own assignment, Hermione smiled at Harry, and he had the feeling that she wouldn't rest until she had convinced Ron to work for the bank.

The rest of the evening passed in a companionable silence. For once, it was only the three of them. Harry enjoyed his friends' company. More often than not, now, he feared disturbing Ron and Hermione during a private moment. He knew they wanted time alone, and he didn't want to begrudge them of that. It had become rare to see the three of them gathered around a table in the common room.

Harry smiled. These were the moments he wanted to remember later. Comfortably settled in the common room, surrounded by books and notes (okay, he could gladly have skipped the books and the notes bit), all of them working to reach the same goal (survive the NEWTs), asking questions and answering them in turns, laughing and helping each other out.

This was what he wanted to keep from Hogwarts.

* * *

Harry didn't know what to expect from his meeting with Professor McGonagall. It was supposed to be a moment to facilitate the transition from student to worker, Hermione had said. Their Head of House would help with the administrative tasks required to enter an apprenticeship, or to fill in the paperwork to apply for certain jobs.

It rankled that everyone was so full of projects - from holiday plans to work opportunities.

Not that he hadn't received offers, but they all seemed half-hearted. It was public knowledge that he planned to become an Auror, so Harry supposed that all these job offers were just a way of saying, "We know you'll never work for us, but we just thought we'd ask anyway." Nothing had really stuck his fancy - train Trolls, for crying out loud... - and so, here he was, sitting in front of Professor McGonagall as she peered at his results.

"Well, Mr Potter, I'm sure you'll do well enough on your NEWTs to enter the Auror program - assuming that is still what you wish to do?"

He forced a smile. The uneasiness hadn't relented a bit at the thought of his future, but what could he say? It was not as if he had any back up plan.

"Er," he said, and Professor McGonagall took it as an agreement.

"Good," she said.

He frowned inwardly. It was too bad, he reflected, that he couldn't really talk to his Head of House about anything - and certainly not about something so vague he couldn't even explain it to himself. Not that he didn't trust her, but she just didn't seem very receptive. He never really felt listened to when he spoke with her.

Besides, there was still that promise she had made to him, during the disaster that had been his fifth year.

He didn't want to disappoint her - he didn't want to disappoint anyone.

Professor McGonagall smiled and handed him a stack of parchments. "Here are the forms you need to fill to enter the Auror program. Send them to the Ministry when you have completed them, and they'll contact you."

Harry swallowed, heart in his throat. "Thanks, Professor."

He tried to smile, the uneasiness as strong as it had ever been, and got up.

"Do come see me if you need help filling these in," she advised as he reached for the door handle.

"Yeah. Thanks," he repeated, and fled the office.

* * *

Harry spent the rest of his day flying on the deserted Quidditch pitch, trying breathtaking manoeuvres in an effort to keep his mind off his current problems.

It was all a little ridiculous, he thought.

He had faced Dementors, and Voldemort, and that part of his life was over. Professor Dumbledore seemed content to let him live his life as he wished. Voldemort couldn't control his life anymore - no more hiding, no more secrecy and no more fighting.

Then why did he feel so trapped?

Why did he feel like he was engaging on a road where he would only meet trouble?

He had wanted that. It was a prestigious job, someone had to do it, he would certainly be good at it, and he admired a lot of the Aurors he knew.

Doubting was normal, he reminded himself. He was leaving the familiar territory of Hogwarts to go into the world. Everyone would be nervous - in fact, pretty much everyone was nervous.

He landed, dismounted his broom, still as unsure, but tired enough that he was guaranteed to sleep anyway.

He took a shower and went back to the Tower.

* * *

He was crouching behind bushes, spying on two wizards. They were speaking in hushed tones, and Harry couldn't hear what they were saying. It was unnerving. His partner - a tall, tanned man - gestured for Harry to remain where he was, and walked silently nearer the two wizards.

Harry clutched his wand, ready for a fight, should one arise.

He was so focused on the two men and his partner, that he didn't hear the man creeping behind him until it was too late. The cold metal against his throat was the first sign he got that something was very wrong.

"Hush," a male voice said.

Harry didn't dare move, or give a sign to show he had understood.

The man behind him reached over, took his wand from his slack hand, and dragged him backwards.

Then, everything turned to hell. One of the two wizards Harry had been spying on caught the movement, and curses began to fly, from behind him, from the two wizards, from his partner. The rest of the fight was a blur to him, too rushed to fully comprehend.

All he knew was that it had taken two minutes for the situation to deteriorate, and go from a routine assignment to a life and death situation. Now, his partner was dead, his unseeing eyes open, the bodies of three dark wizards laying around them.

Again, Harry awoke with a gasp.

* * *

Harry spent the rest of the week in a daze, not even registering the usual sneers from the Slytherins when he stumbled in DADA class and narrowly missed being hit with a stunner. Really, after seven years, their insults had become old. Couldn't they find anything new? Were they as bored as he was with this show?

Even Snape, towering and sneering above Harry's seat - say what you will about the man, he at least kept renewing his stock of insults - failed to bring him out of his distracted state.

All he could see was the dead face of a man he didn't know, a man who probably didn't even exist.

Harry was sufficiently self aware to know that that nightmare was just a way of showing him that he was scared of the future, scared to screw up and cause people to die, scared to kill again.

Each time Hermione asked him if he had filled the paperwork yet, he felt a ball of something unpleasant in the pit of his stomach. Each time he looked at the parchments, he felt an urge to run away screaming - or at the very least to burn them and ignore the problem for a while. He could, at best, answer two questions at a time. Then he gave up and put the forms aside, picking them up the next day to answer a couple more questions.

"Procrastinating again?" Hermione asked tartly, one evening, as she entered the common room, holding Ron's hand.

Harry shrugged. "No, I filled the form in," he answered, a little defensively. "I just need to sign it."

"Harry, they won't reject you, if that's what you're worried about," she said.

Harry shook his head. "I know."

"Then what the hell?" Ron interjected. "It's a great job, and everyone knows you'll be good at it."

Harry sighed inwardly. Why, why was everyone so sure that becoming an Auror was what he was meant to do? He had only mentioned the possibility to Professor McGonagall because he needed to say something. And yes, he knew Aurors who were cool, and gifted, and good in a fight. Still, did it mean he was made for that job?

Hermione and Ron sat on either side of him. Hermione took Harry's quill and dipped it in the ink, before putting it in his hand.

"Harry, really. It's just a form," she said gently.

He took the quill from her, and signed his name, feeling strangely empty.

"There, all set," Ron said.

Harry smiled. "Yeah," he said. "All set."

The next day, he sent Hedwig with the parchment to the Ministry.

* * *

He was back in the park. The same two wizards were whispering, a few meters away from him. Again, his partner motioned for Harry to remain where he was, and again, Harry nodded. He knew something was wrong, he just couldn't tell what it was yet.

And suddenly, he felt a slight brush of air, and he jumped on his feet, whirling around and shouting, "Expelliarmus!"

He had turned his back on the scene behind him, though. He only realized his mistake when he heard screams, which was surprising, as "do not turn your back on an enemy, ever" had been a rule Moody had drummed into him during a whole summer.

He turned to face his enemies, a small corner of his mind noticing that Robbie - that was the name of his partner, he now knew, Robert Farnsworth - was dead, before cursing the two dark wizards. One of them fled while Harry was fighting his accomplice, who fell backwards when a vicious disorienting spell hit him in the head.

And it was over, all over again.

* * *

After two hours of tossing and turning, unable to rid himself of Robbie's dead eyes and his surprised face, unable to fall back asleep, Harry got out of bed, dressed and put on his invisibility cloak. It had been a long time since he had done that, he thought as he sneaked out of the dormitory and walked noiselessly in the corridors.

He knew what Sirius would have said to that. "You need to have more fun, kiddo. Who will give Filch grief if you don't?"

"I don't care much about that, Sirius," Harry thought.

Harry still felt responsible for his godfather's death, and the guilt had been a heavy burden to carry during the past two years. He could understand and accept that others had made mistakes too and that Sirius may have died anyway - why did you have to be so reckless, Sirius? he asked silently into the night air. Why did *you* have to be so stubborn? was his answer. But what had happened, was that Harry had done what he deemed fit, while everyone else tried to warn him about making that very mistake. That was the reality Harry had to live with. Sirius hadn't lived old, he hadn't died in an Order mission, he had died because Harry had trusted a false vision and put himself in danger.

Sirius's face had been surprised, when he had stumbled backwards and fallen through the veil.

As surprised as Robbie's, and Harry suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

"I'm not ready for this," he thought. "Not ready at all."

There would be other moments like this in his future, if he went on to work as an Auror.

Moments where people, friends or foes, would die on him, either at his wand or caught in the crossfire.

Breathing was becoming increasingly difficult as he pictured himself, ten years from now, more covered in scars than he already was, haunted by the faces of all those he had killed.

He didn't think he could do it again, not even once.

Not after Cedric and Sirius's surprise when death took them, not after the sound of Bellatrix's bones breaking against the wall.

He stumbled, and realised that he had been running.

He tried to get his bearings, to catch his breath, but he couldn't slow his breathing. He tried to walk more slowly and he turned at the corner, swallowing back a wave of panic.

And bumped into Snape.

"Mister Potter," Snape said in his usual oily tone, the one he used when about to take a good thousand points from Gryffindor.

Harry tried to apologise, but he didn't have enough air in his lungs to manage that. He tried to calm himself, and waited to see what the teacher would do now.

He vaguely saw Snape take in his appearance, but his vision was becoming blurry at the edges.

There was a muffled, "Idiot boy," and he felt himself seized by the shoulders, and dragged along the corridor and into a room.

Had Harry been able to see that he was in Snape's private rooms, he would probably have been mortified - as well as curious. As it was, he was merely grateful when the professor guided him to a couch just as his legs gave out.

Still trying to breathe, he heard the professor open a drawer, and a vial was put in his hand. "Drink, Potter," Snape said.

Harry did.

The potion had a horrible taste - acrid and bitter - but then, what potion didn't? It worked almost instantly and the mist surrounding him dissolved. He sat there, panting slightly, feeling drained.

"What?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"Calming draught," Snape said in a precise tone. "And I suggest you lie down now, as it is quite-"

Harry heard no more.