Anomie

Chapter Thirteen: Seeking

Harry tried to attribute his goosebumps to the sleek leather chair that pressed against his arms, but the lie was too blatant for even his fib-accustomed mind to accept. The team manager's loud voice carried the Floo conversation he was having with his wayward eldest son; there was potion addiction involved, and the Daily Prophet was sure to learn of the scandal eventually.

He swivelled from side to side and gazed aimlessly out the false window portraying a heavy spring rain. The inhabitants of the portraits on the walls were whispering and tiptoeing out of the room...perhaps one of them wanted to inform the Prophet. But how would the information-grubbing reporters pay a painting for its services?

It wouldn't matter, he realized. The Prophet would have the story of Harry's firing on its front page.

The article would start with Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived (this would also be the first line of his obituary), whose Quidditch career has been in dire straits for some years, has been booted out of the sport. It would draw parallels between his failure at Quidditch and his failure in other areas. There would be an editorial column questioning his worth as a human being. Letters would be written in his support, Howlers would be delivered to his home, and within months interest in his affairs would peter until his next public humiliation.

To distract himself, Harry thought about what he'd be doing that night: drinking with Ron, who hadn't been around much since the attempt on his life, so obsessed was he with finding his would-be murderer. The anonymity of a crowded bar would be a welcome relief to Harry.

The manager opened the door and clicked it shut behind him. Harry didn't turn around, but he did find the courage to look him in the eye for a split-second as he sat down across the desk.

'Sorry to keep you waiting,' said the manager. The apology sounded like a distracted formality, so much so that Harry would have been less offended without it.

'No trouble at all, sir,' said Harry. He decided that he would be the embodiment of politeness at this meeting; the Prophet would hoard the minimum entertainment value possible from his troubles.

The manager, a chubby man with a thick moustache that bobbed as he spoke, turned to business at once. 'I'm sure you know your performance in the past few years has been sub-par. Frankly, Potter, it's not what we paid for. You're not the draw you used to be, and your abilities don't justify keeping you on the team. We've got a good shot at winning the League this year - but not with you as Seeker.'

'I understand, sir.' He didn't care as much as he'd thought he would.

'Well, your career isn't over yet,' said the manager reassuringly. Perhaps he was glad Harry wasn't ranting and raving. But it was the yet that caught Harry's attention - the inevitability of his departure from Quidditch, and soon. He smiled mirthlessly.

The manager must have thought the smile was genuine, for he said, 'There now, that's the right attitude! There's a team that wants you - not the same calibre, mind, but...'

The manager pushed a small piece of parchment across the table. Harry picked it up and flipped it. There was a salary - half what he made now, but that was no bother - and then there was the team name. Harry's mouth fell at first in disbelief, but before the manager could stutter some empty kind words, he broke out into a full-fledged grin.

It struck Harry that he should be bothered by getting more enjoyment out of the mocking twists in his life than anything else these days.

'The Chudley Cannons,' Harry declared, wondering what Ron would think - no, he knew what Ron would think. He would pretend to be thrilled and pat Harry on the back and ask when his poster would come out, and inwardly he'd wish his favourite team had a better Seeker.

***

Harry reverted to disappointment as he cleaned out his locker. Next week, his training with the Chudley Cannons, the butt of every Quidditch joke for generations, would begin in earnest. And then, in a year or two, even the Cannons wouldn't want him anymore.

For the first time in a very long time, he wondered what he would do with the rest of his life - not just the rest of the day or the rest of the week, but after he didn't have Quidditch as a way to fill up his empty hours. He could easily get a job at the Ministry - some backroom, paper-pushing task that didn't pay as much as the interest on his gold at Gringotts. But why bother?

Ginny wanted to have children. Harry could stay home and take care of them. The idea left his heart empty. He'd pushed it to the back of their agenda again and again over the years, but he knew it wasn't fair to Ginny to pretend that he was just waiting for the right time.

Harry's sadness deepened. He wouldn't bring children he couldn't love into the world. It was bad enough looking into the faces of his wife and friends and being unable to summon the deep-rooted love he was supposed to have for them.

It would be better if...

He started but was unable to finish the thought. It probably would be better for everyone else, but what remained of Harry's soul - or perhaps that part of his - recoiled in fear.

'Potter!'

A shudder ran through him at the unexpected interruption, but Harry recovered quickly. He turned and saw Brookes fixing him with a frightened stare. 'Brookes?'

'You're not leaving the team, are you?'

'Yeah, I am.'

He closed the locker door with a clang and slung his bag over his shoulder. 'Tell the others goodbye for me, would you?' His ex-teammates go out to celebrate dumping him.

'You...you can't leave! The team needs you!'

Brookes's voice was high and panicked. Harry looked at him closely for the first time, having no idea where the sudden camaraderie was coming from.

'It wasn't my decision,' he stated with a frown of suspicion. 'You lot will do fine without me.'

'Maybe the manager can be reasoned with!' squeaked Brookes. He was waving his arms in odd directions, and his eyes were wide with terror the likes of which Harry hadn't seen since the old days.

With a sigh, Harry decided that whatever was wrong with Brookes, whom he'd never see again, wasn't something he needed to worry about. 'I don't think so. Don't worry, I'll be fine. I'm signing up with the Cannons. Good luck on your season. Maybe I'll see you in the British Cup finals,' he added with a self-deprecating laugh.

Brookes didn't even acknowledge Harry's joke. 'But...but...'

Before the flustered Brookes could come up with anything to say, Harry slipped out of the room for the last time. He was already reabsorbed with disillusionment about his own lack of a purpose or any prospect for happiness.

Harry was resigned. He deserved this punishment. He made his choice years ago, and all he had the right to do was live with it.

***

Shortly Past Eight in the Evening:

The odd look the security guard gave her as she went in didn't do Rue's nerves any good. As an Auror, Rue had every right to be at Ministry Headquarters late at night with her head held high. She kept telling herself that as she boarded the lift - she had never been there all alone before. Five minutes into her clandestine let's-save-Voldemort-and-not-tell-Fairfax plan, she was already getting the jitters.

She pressed the button for Level One. The elevator didn't stop along the way, and Rue reached her destination sooner than she was ready for. Taking a deep breath and trying not to look conspicuous - not that there was anyone around to see her - she stepped out of the lift and made her way to the Archives.

It was a long walk. When Rue reached the entrance, she tapped her wand to open it - only to find that it was already open. Strange, she thought to herself, who else would be in here at this time of night?

She had forgotten how huge it was inside. How was she going to find what she was looking for? There wouldn't be an archivist around so late! If only she had paid attention during the day-long course on how to use the Hall of Records!

'Lumos,' whispered Rue; she'd never find anything in the dark. She wandered deeper into the stacks of parchment and file folders and looked at the signs at the top of each aisle. This could take forever, she realized in despair, worrying about how Voldemort was suffering as she stumbled around.

Then, as she turned the corner, the light from her wand fell on a figure barely a foot to Rue's right, and she screeched as he said, 'Hello.'

Taking deep gasps of air to relieve her terror, Rue asked, 'Who are you? What are you doing here?'

The man - he was just a little taller than Rue, with bleach-white hair and a pale face - was smiling pleasantly, and Rue dropped out of her duelling stance. 'I work here, miss,' he told her genially. He held out his hand. 'Everyone calls me Phi.'

Rue took his small white hand, but before she could introduce herself, he said, 'You're Rue Moreland, aren't you? I've read all the Auror profiles. You graduated from training recently.'

Her hand stopped shaking his in surprise and apprehension. 'You've read my profile?'

'Yes. I'm a little obsessed with Aurors,' he said with a short laugh. 'It's an exciting job - like living in a mystery novel. I work here, so I just flip through things in my spare time.'

'Aren't some files in here classified?' she asked him.

'Yes.'

He kept smiling, seemingly not understanding Rue's implication. 'Do you look at them?'

'Oh no!' he said - a little too quickly, in Rue's opinion. Grinning as if they were sharing a joke, he added, 'There's plenty of unclassified information to keep me occupied.'

She pursed her lips. His story was plausible enough, but her instincts pressed her to continue questioning him. 'So is that what you're doing here tonight? Flipping through things?'

'Er...' mumbled Phi, slumping and avoiding her eyes. 'Not...not exactly. I'm helping someone with...something.'

It was a suspiciously vague response, but the gleam of the light of her wand on his watch reminded Rue that Voldemort was suffering unbearably while she questioned this strange little man, and whatever he was up to wasn't her business. 'You said you work here? Maybe you could help me find something.'

His previous discomfort evaporated, and she was a little disturbed by how happy he was made by her request. 'Of course! Something for a case?'

Rue chewed her lip. 'Er, no, not really.'

Phi raised an eyebrow, and Rue realized that she probably seemed as suspicious to him as he did to her. It wasn't like this Phi person would run to tell Fairfax, so Rue told him, 'I'm looking for Harry Potter's address.'

'Oh!' Phi was more openly scrutinizing of her, but he said, 'Addresses are this way. I'll take you there.'

As he started walking, Rue realized that his legs were in braces, and he moved very slowly. She was torn between being polite and taking all night to get wherever they were going and being rude and asking him to just tell her the aisle number.

After a few long minutes, as she was about to take the rude course of action, Phi said, 'Here we are.' He indicated a long shelf with cards lined up down the rows.

Phi took out his wand and tapped it on the nearest shelf. 'Harry Potter, please.' The card flew into his hand. 'Thank you,' he replied, and Rue wondered why he would bother being polite to the card catalogue.

He held the card in his hand and looked at it. 'So you need to find Harry Potter?'

Now Rue was getting frustrated. She almost wished she hadn't run into Phi at all. 'Yes,' she replied, tamping down her annoyance. She held out her hand insistently for the card.

He didn't give it to her. 'Did you need to see him tonight?' he asked. Perhaps because he noticed Rue's irritation at the question, Phi added, 'Because he's not at home.'

Rue's hand fell to her side. She watched Phi's expression cautiously - he seemed genuine, but she couldn't imagine how he could know that much. 'Why do you say that?'

Phi had the same uncomfortable look as when Rue had asked him why he was there. 'Er, well, he's out with my boss. Well, he's not my boss exactly, but he's this Auror I'm helping with a case, sort of. They're at a Muggle pub in London.'

'Do you know where?'

'Yes. I could give you the address, if you like - if it's an emergency,' Phi emphasized with seriousness.

'It is, really!' she assured him.

He didn't seem to need more proof than that. He brightened. 'All right, here.'

He turned to the card catalogue and muttered a name she didn't catch. It flipped another card in his direction, and he politely thanked it again. 'Here's the bar's address, and here's Potter's address in case he's gone home already.' He handed her the two cards.

Rue breathed a sigh of relief. In retrospect, she was really lucky to have run into him - the older Aurors weren't exaggerating when they said the archivists knew everything. 'Thanks a lot!'

'No problem, but could you do me a favour before you go?' Phi asked, quickly and anxiously.

He'd saved her loads of time, so she figured she owed him one, as long as it didn't take too much time. 'Sure.'

His hands gripped his pockets, and he looked down as he asked, 'Could you not tell anyone you saw me here? The case I'm working on is supposed to be secret, you see.'

'Sure,' Rue agreed. She didn't care about whatever case he was digging into with whatever Auror. Saving Voldemort was her mission. 'And could you not tell anyone you saw me here either?'

Phi grinned. 'That sounds fair. Good luck with whatever you're doing.'

'You too,' answered Rue, already heading for the door.

She decided that Phi was a weird fellow, but he was also helpful and nice. Maybe she'd been too hasty in judging him. Archivists were supposed to be eccentric.

***

Harry stared into the amber liquid in the glass intensely, not thinking about much at all. He was relaxed, but not enough for his liking. Ginny still occasionally popped into his mind, and so did the orange robes of the Cannons. He wondered how long it would take Ron to get back from the loo; drinking alone was awkward.

As Harry tipped the drink back and forth in his hand, lazily watching the contents sway, he barely caught sight of a woman moving to sit beside him in Ron's barstool. For a gut-gripping moment, he thought it was Ginny. But his brain registered that the woman's hair wasn't the right shade of red even before his eyes alighted on her face.

No, she certainly wasn't Ginny. She was an (attractive) Muggle woman who didn't have the slightest idea who he was, thank Merlin.

Harry relaxed and took a gulp of his drink, at the same time making the presence of his wedding ring clear in case she got any ideas. He knew that certain disreputable sources liked to claim he was unfaithful to his wife, but he could honestly claim that he'd never touched another woman.

'Seat's taken,' he told the Muggle woman, thinking that she probably wasn't used to having her presence rejected by a man drinking alone.

'Are you Harry Potter?'

Harry's stomach plummeted as his fogged brain deduced the possibilities. She was either a reporter or...a reporter. 'Who wants to know?'

There was something wrong with the scene right away; she wasn't as forceful as a reporter would have been, and a reporter wouldn't have bothered confirming his name - they seemed able to taste him in the air somehow. She even looked nervous as she said, 'My name is Rue Moreland, sir. I'm...'

He was certain now that she wasn't a reporter; she would have her spiel down if she were. She acted more like a terrified fan - but he didn't have many admirers these days. 'I'm sorry,' she said abruptly. 'I need to talk to you alone. It's very important.'

Harry raised an eyebrow. 'Care to tell me why?'

She swallowed and looked down at her feet. 'Um, yes, sir. It's an emergency. I'm an Auror -'

'An Auror?' Harry interrupted. Feeling much kinder toward her now, he gently asked, 'You sure you don't want to talk to my friend Ron Weasley? He'll be back in a minute.'

'No!' she insisted, suddenly wide-eyed and fearful at the mention of Ron. 'I...I need to talk to you. I'm sorry, I know I'm botching this, I'm just really nervous about meeting you, and -'

Harry had no idea what this was about, but he couldn't help but sympathize with someone who so clearly wished she could sink into the floor. Was she old enough to be an Auror?

'Okay, okay,' he agreed with a laugh, sliding off his stool. 'Let's get some air.'

They walked outside; there was a brisk wind in the street, and it was almost as crowded as the pub. To Harry's surprise, the girl - Rue, was it? - took charge. 'This way,' she told him. They bobbed and weaved through the crowd. She seemed to know where she was going, and soon enough they were in a quiet, dark alley.

Rue was calmer now. She faced Harry, his back to one wall and hers to the other, and told him, 'It's about Voldemort.'

Most of Harry's brain froze, but one part noted that he ought to have seen this coming. Why else would an Auror want to talk to him? 'What about him?' asked Harry, all seriousness.

'He's sick. We think he might be dying. He needs to see a Healer, but we're being blocked from talking to management about it. You're the only other person who could...'

His heart was pounding with terror. The concerns of the day didn't matter anymore. There had been a time when Harry was kept awake at night by worrying about this exact conversation, but that fear had fallen away after so many years with no news.

Now he could be faced with the ultimate, horrible, inevitable choice - one he was not ready to make.

But there was still the Auror girl, looking up at him with hope and expectation. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at Harry that way, and it lit a small ember of hope in his heart. He knew that he couldn't forestall the inevitable forever, but maybe for a while longer. The Auror wouldn't be here if there was no chance at all of saving You-Know-Who.

Harry forced a weak smile onto his face to reassure her. 'Let's go see him.'