Chapter Text
Harry Potter lives on borrowed time, and that thought never leaves him. He was meant to die as a baby, but he didn’t. Then, he was meant to die at seventeen, but again, he didn’t. There are other moments when he could have perished, such as in the Chamber of Secrets, slowly succumbing to basilisk venom. There had been times when he fell from his broom or duelled with dark wizards when Harry thought, “This is it,” only to witness the sunrise the following day and realise he had to continue. He has to put one foot in front of the other despite the horror he leaves behind because he is Harry Potter. He is the Boy Who Lived, and he is the Chosen One. It gives him an eerie outlook on life, knowing he survived when countless others died in his stead. It’s a thought that never leaves him.
At Hogwarts, Harry found himself on the path to becoming an Auror. It wasn’t necessarily what he wanted to do - he did it simply because it was expected of him. It helped that Defence Against the Dark Arts was a captivating subject, brimming with fascinating magic, and it felt right to channel his interest to protect the people he loved. Harry often repeats their names whenever he feels lost.
Ron and Hermione. They always came first. Neville, Dean, Seamus. His friends from his first year at Hogwarts to his last. He follows their names with the Weasleys and the guardians who gave him purpose: Sirius, Remus, Dumbledore, Hagrid, and even Snape. He thinks of the Quidditch team, Dumbledore’s Army, and the Order of the Phoenix. Cedric. Colin. Harry thinks of his parents and everyone else who died in the Battle of Hogwarts.
“Well, you’ve done it again, mate,” Ron sighed as he dropped the copy of the Daily Prophet onto the table. The headline read: Hero Harry Potter Captures 30th Death Eater as Lead Auror. The subtitle praised him for his service and extended congratulations on his 23rd birthday. Ron slumped into the chair, flicking remnants of Floo powder from his shoulders. Harry rolled his eyes and passed him a cup of pumpkin juice. It wasn’t coffee, as he found the Ministry’s coffee laughable, but it raised his blood sugar and made each morning a little less bleak.
“All I have to do is breathe these days.”
“It’s your birthday.” Ron shrugged. He accepted the pumpkin juice and chugged it like he had been in the desert without water for three days. Harry watched him from the corner of his eye, suppressing a smirk. Ron noticed the look. “Don’t start. Hermione’s got me up all night helping her study for the ‘SQE.’ I’ve hardly any energy to make breakfast, let alone go shopping. I keep tellin’ her there’s no use in going to Muggle schools when she’s already part of the Ministry’s perfectly good law programme, and she looks at me like I’m the mental one. I swear she’s lost it – though she’s still coming to your party tonight.”
Harry braced for the usual morning rant. He found Hermione’s passion endearing as she fiercely defended those who struggled to speak up for themselves. He knew her advocacy for magical creatures, Muggle-Borns, and Half-Bloods would send ripples through the wizarding world, and her knowledge from Muggle universities would aid her battle.
As Ron settled, Harry nodded and ‘hmmed’ appropriately. A part of him simply wanted to work and forget about his birthday; it was yet another reminder of the time he was not meant to have. Harry already had his case file open on his desk. He had compiled witness logs and sightings overnight and had a fair idea of where Augustus Rookwood might be hiding.
Rookwood stood as a stark reminder of the events from nearly six years ago. Harry’s heart twisted every time he looked at his face. The image before him sneered, as if it knew who he was looking at, not just some enchanted camera. Harry hated him. He hated that he took Fred from the Weasleys. He hated that he got away.
Under normal circumstances, Harry would work with Ron, as they were assigned as partners. However, for this case, he approached Gawain Robards, the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, to reassign Ron. Concealing evidence – including pictures, clippings, and maps – from Ron was a challenge, especially since they worked in adjacent cubicles. Once Ron learned that Harry was pursuing his brother’s murderer, he would be furious. Yet, Harry understood that Ron would only be a liability to the investigation, putting himself at risk of being hurt or worse.
He quickly shut the file before Ron could look up from his cup.
“Speaking of,” Ron continued, oblivious, “Happy Birthday, Harry.”
“Thanks, Ron.” Harry shoved the file into a locked drawer. He took a swig from his cup, ears burning. “Listen, I, err-”
“Mr. Potter,” Robards interrupted. His Auror robes swished as he paused at their cubicle. Ron immediately straightened in his seat and wiped drops of pumpkin juice from his chin.
“Sir,” they both greeted simultaneously.
“Are you ready to go?”
Ron frowned. “Go? Go where?”
Robards turned to Ron. He smiled politely and said, “I am assessing Mr. Potter’s skills as a Lead Auror. I hope you don’t mind me borrowing your partner today, Mr. Weasley.”
Harry eyed Ron’s reaction. A subtle pink rose to his cheeks, but nothing suggested he knew what they were doing – or who they were going after. Harry hated being deceitful, but he hated Rookwood more. He couldn’t keep Fred safe six years ago, but he could protect Ron now.
“No, sir.” Ron shot Harry a sidelong glance.
“Very well, though I hope giving you the lead on this new case will fill the lack. You can report your findings to Mr. Potter when we return.” Robards passed an envelope to Ron, who immediately brightened upon accepting the file. While Robards tried to show no favouritism, he often overlooked Ron for Harry. Harry knew he would jump at any opportunity to be a Lead Auror.
Harry stood and smoothed his robes. He bid farewell to Ron, hoping he would be able to return and give him and the rest of the Weasleys the closure they deserved. Ron barely noticed him leaving, already engrossed in the latest reports.
Harry did not often get time with Robards, though he suspected he had more opportunity than others as the ‘Chosen One’ and the likely next head of office when Robards retired. Everyone expected this of him. He vanquished Voldemort at seventeen and survived the killing curse twice.
You’re on borrowed time, the voice at the back of his head teased. It should have been you, not Fred.
As Harry stepped out of Headquarters, he could feel the warmth in his cheeks intensifying. His presence in the hall ignited whispers that trailed behind him and Robards like an unwelcome shadow, their hushed tones filled with curiosity, disbelief, and awe.
“It’s Harry Potter!”
“Did you see this morning’s Prophet? Harry Potter-”
“-Harry Potter-”
His name echoed amid the cacophony of sound. Eyes followed them as they headed for the Apparition stations. Many gestured emphatically, waving, cheering, and bowing. Those close enough to him outstretched their hands, running their fingers over his robes as if they believed him to be a ghost. Photographers fortunate enough to be in the area pulled out their cameras. The bright flashes left spots in his vision. He hated it.
All the while, his inner voice repeated, It should have been you, not Lupin. It should have been you, not Sirius. It should have been you, not Cedric. You’re on borrowed time. It should have been you, not Dumbledore. Not Snape. Not Colin Creevey. Not Fred. Not Tonks. Teddy is an orphan because of you. They’re cheering for someone on borrowed time. Do they know you were a Horcrux?
Harry clenched his jaw as they arrived at an open station. Turning, he caught a glimpse of silver-blond hair and familiar grey eyes. Malfoy’s lips parted as their gazes met, but Harry didn’t linger long enough to let the shock sink in. Robards reached for his shoulder, and Harry pulled him into a side-along Apparition.
They landed, and a chill ran down Harry’s spine, every hair on his neck standing on end. In a split second, he managed to cast Protego just as a lethal spell hurtled toward him. The violent impact of dark magic collided with his protective shield, inches away from his face, sending vibrations through his body. The acrid stench of ozone assaulted Harry’s senses. He ducked beneath another vicious curse.
Robards flicked away another spell, its force colliding violently with the ceiling of the decrepit manor. The aged fresco painting shattered, cascading down moments before the crumbling beams gave way. Harry lunged at Robards, raising his wand as the roof imploded above them. A torrent of wood, plaster, and stone plummeted, yet Harry’s magical defences held strong, shielding them from harm.
They couldn’t stop moving.
“Stupefy!” Harry shouted, pointing his wand at the retreating figure as they ducked behind a wall. Heart racing, he peered around the corner, his breath caught in his throat as a bolt of green light hurtled toward him. With a startled gasp, he stumbled back, adrenaline surging through him, and retaliated with, “Expelliarmus!”
Robards regained his feet and knelt beside Harry. He was covered in dust – Harry could only assume he was, too – but remained unscathed. Without uttering a word, he gestured for Harry to navigate the remaining corridors and attempt to attack Rookwood from behind. Harry gritted his teeth and nodded. He relinquished his position to Robards and jogged through the manor.
The dark corridors reminded him too much of the Malfoy Manor, bringing to mind his sighting of Draco Malfoy. It wasn’t particularly unusual to see Malfoy at the Ministry. His father had ultimately been arrested – by Robards, no less – and sent to Azkaban. When Harry was out of training, he patrolled Azkaban for a term. He was relieved that this occurred after the Ministry had sent the dementors away. While he had never attempted to confront Lucius, seeing him there felt right.
Draco, on the other hand, was spared from the arrests. Harry had vouched for him and his mother, which was enough to keep them out of Azkaban. It seemed only fair to protect Narcissa as she had done the same for him by lying directly to Voldemort’s face. He had never liked Malfoy, but he came to understand him and the pressure he faced day after day. He, like Harry, had struggled with the weight of expectations. Adults expected him to obey Voldemort, just as they expected Harry to defeat him. Ultimately, Malfoy broke free and came to Harry’s aid when he needed it most. He had deceived the Death Eaters, claiming he didn’t recognise Harry when they brought him to Malfoy Manor, and ultimately stood with Hogwarts.
Since then, Harry and Malfoy did their best to ignore one another. They owed each other nothing, not even friendship. A few kind acts didn’t erase the years of bullying. So, when Malfoy arrived at the Ministry, fostering the connections his father had used to keep, Harry looked the other way. (Though, if Harry even heard a rumour of Malfoy stepping out of line, he would turn on him quicker than a Snitch.) To his knowledge, Malfoy had taken a career in Curse Breaking – although he was affiliated with a potions-based sect partnered with St. Mungo’s, which kept him distanced from Bill Weasley’s department at Gringotts Bank. Harry had occasionally seen Malfoy restocking the potions supply in the Auror Headquarters.
The crack of spells brought Harry back to reality. It wasn’t only Rookwood; several Death Eaters concealed themselves behind silver masks and long black cloaks. His heart raced. Robards had skillfully directed their focus onto him. They remained unaware of Harry slipping past them, stealthily navigating through the shadows and doing his utmost to move quietly.
Rookwood and his cronies loomed before him, and seething fury churned within Harry’s gut. It reminded him of the rage he had felt through his connection with Voldemort, urging him to seek revenge on his enemies. He could do it – use an Unforgivable. Harry could cast the Cruciatus Curse and mean it. He could return to the Ministry and tell Ron that Rookwood got what he deserved. Harry could kill him outright. With enough spells, he could hide the Unforgivable from detection. Anyone inspecting his wand would be none the wiser. Harry half suspected they wouldn’t even give a damn, anyway.
This man killed Fred Weasley and so many others. He could do it. He knew the spell.
Down the hall, Robards cried out in pain. Harry inwardly cursed his delay. He could not kill Rookwood, but he could see him face justice.
“Levicorpus!” cried Harry. Rookwood flew into the air, colliding headfirst with a beam before crashing into the clearing where he lay still. The remaining three turned on Harry. He deflected an onslaught of spells but quickly lost ground. Stumbling back, he found no help from Robards across the hall.
Harry wished he had Ron by his side. Their strengths and weaknesses complemented one another, allowing them to fight as one. It had been that way since their first year at Hogwarts. They didn’t need to speak to understand what the other needed – they simply knew. Their synergy had proven invaluable during moments like these. Without him, Harry felt vulnerable.
Borrowed time, nagged the voice at the back of his head.
Harry knew he was a skilled wizard. His education at Hogwarts, time spent hunting for Horcruxes, and training at the Ministry had only made him stronger and more formidable. A fight like this could easily end in defeat for someone less experienced. It could still turn out that way for Harry, but he had a chance of winning, too.
Borrowed time.
“Bombarda maxima!” shouted one of the Death Eaters. The charm struck his shield with enough force to send Harry off his feet and exploded against the surrounding walls. The foundations of the manor shook. The remaining walls swayed. His protection faltered, and two curses collided with his stomach.
At the same time, Harry bellowed, “Confringo!”
The Death Eaters screamed as they flew backwards, their robes alight. Heat suffused the room as the fire ignited and spread. The wallpaper bubbled before bursting into flames, filling the air with ash and smoke. The manor continued to rumble and shake, collapsing in the wake of Harry’s curse.
Harry could not grasp the danger. The foreign magic took hold of his body. His ears felt as if filled with water; something dripped from them onto his neck, hot and sticky. With each cough, blood splattered onto the ground and dribbled down his chin. Harry was quite sure his nose also bled.
Pain, unlike anything he had experienced before, consumed him. He could feel his bones cracking, muscles ripping, intestines twisting, lungs bleeding—
Too much.
It was too much!
Fire engulfed him, and he couldn’t tell if it was real. His vision blurred. The floor swayed beneath him, and he fell onto his side.
If he could just die, already–
“Potter!”
Someone grasped him by the shoulders. Harry tried to shake off the touch but quickly lost sensation in his limbs. He retched as blood flooded the back of his throat. His head tipped back, his neck too weak to support it. He was vaguely aware of the sensation of Apparition – but it might have been the spell. He already felt crammed into a jar too small for his body.
Pulverised. Broken.
“Somebody help me!”
Commotion. Discordant voices. Screams.
His mother screamed when she died. She had screamed his name and marked the start of his borrowed time.
Bones snapping.
Harry bet he could count them all as they broke. How many bones were in the human body? He had regrown a couple of bones once. It was a dreadful process, though this was worse.
Burning. Searing. Grinding. Stabbing.
I’m supposed to be dead.
“Stay with me, Potter!”
Ron. Hermione. Neville. Dean. Seamus.
“Please,” he said. Blinded and dying, every part of him screamed for the sweet release of death, for the pain to end. He reached out to the closest person, hoping to make someone understand. Arthur. Molly. Bill. Charlie. Percy. Fred. George. Ginny. “Just let me die-”
Dumbledore. Snape. Cedric.
Tonks. Professor Lupin. Dobby. Hedwig.
Sirius.
“Just let me-”