June crept into July and nothing much changed. That is, Harry was stressed (and frustrated) and his magic was haywire and he still felt restless with the repeated pull to Godric's Hollow. The two main contributors to his stress were Fucking Finch-Fletchley and Draco. Though Pansy Parkinson suddenly stepped in as a strong third contender to turn his life into a shitfest.
Justin was being non-forthcoming in his promises of more information: 'they won't tell me anything, I don't think they trust me...' he'd whinge. Harry knew he hadn't left his house. After tracking him for two months, it could be categorically concluded that the man was incredibly boring. And no matter how much prodding they did into his history, it came up with nothing. No affiliations, no suggestions of nefarious connections, nothing. He was an upper-class Muggleborn with no connections in the Wizarding World before he went to Hogwarts. But Harry knew that from school. Even his bank account was clean, nothing usual beyond his monthly wage, the usual bills and weekly shopping, occasional purchases for himself but nothing unusual, and 500 Galleons being set aside as savings into a tax-free overseas bank account every month, the equivalent amount of £2500 from his Muggle trust fund also went into the same account. Not illegal in itself even if some considered it underhand. It was enough to sow doubts and suggest that perhaps he'd been telling the truth. Though Bill Weasley had promised to do some further digging.
The situation with Draco also stayed frustratingly stagnant. At least they didn't talk about sex again but they still shared a bed once or twice a week, he met Harry after his runs when he got soaked, door handles fell off regularly. Kreacher had acquired the new job of frequently repairing door handles, plasterwork, and occasional pieces of furniture which Harry's magic had a habit of destroying when they were in close proximity for any length of time. Both were ardently ignoring that situation and Harry was just going for longer and longer runs.
Kreacher, in comparison to Harry's tormented soul, was horrendously happy. He taken to singing as he set the table. Singing... Harry let it slide. And as he sat at the head of the table with Draco to his right and Teddy on his left and took a sip of the chilled white wine, savouring the refreshing delicacy with his dinner, he became certain that Kreacher was also delving into a hidden Black wine cellar and producing the best wine for Draco because he was sure it was never this good when it was just him.
Then July brought another complication into his life in the form of a letter just before his twenty-second birthday. And that was when Harry had Pansy Parkinson distinctly adding to his stress.
On Monday, 28th July 2002, three days before Harry's twenty-second birthday, Harry had sighed heavily as he surveyed his overflowing in-tray with distaste.
He disliked Monday mornings intensely.
He absentmindedly scratched Hercules's ear as the dog rested his head on Harry's knee under his desk. Considering Hercules had been a runt, he had grown considerably in the past few months and was now surprisingly large, it meant there wasn't room for the enormous, clumsy puppy in the footwell, but it had started when Hercules was tiny and neither of them seemed to have grown out of the habit.
He glared at the paperwork. For a few weeks, he'd a growing suspicion that Raquel, was to blame and she waited until he left on Friday evenings and then dumped all the stuff she hadn't dealt with back in his in-tray. Harry's mistrust had grown sufficiently for him to set up a surveillance spell before the weekend. Sure enough, when he checked that morning, his suspicions were confirmed. That meant giving her yet another warning. Still, this was strike three.
Bloody Raquel...
He lifted a pile of internal memos and post from his in-tray to start the tedious job of sifting through it. When he pulled the first letter out of its envelope, he got a shock of his life. He received a letter from the Department of Genealogy in the Ministry of Magic that read:
Dear Assistant-Head Auror Harry James Potter, O.M. & O.C.,
You may be aware that the current Minister of Magic, Mr Kingsley Shacklebolt, has ordered an investigation into what it means to be one of the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight' families and a reassessment of egalitarian stance on blood purity which is required for inclusion on the list. It has been agreed that 'blood purity' should not be and cannot be the key criterion for inclusion, especially as many of the old families certainly had Muggle ancestry at some moment in their history. Rather, consideration should also be made of ancestral line of the family as well as family's contribution to the wizarding world...
Harry was utterly ignorant of the investigation. Though, thinking about it, he vaguely remembered Mione saying something about such things. The letter continued:
We are delighted to inform you that the Department of Genealogy has been investigating your familial history. As you are probably aware, the Potter family is one of the oldest wizarding lines, dating back to Ignatus Peverell (1214-1292) and Linfred of Stinchcombe (1203-1289). In fact, although no longer a factor, the bloodline of the Potters was indeed one of the exceptionally rare 100% Pureblood lines until James Fleamont Potter married Lily Evans (Muggleborn) in 1979.
We believe your family's exclusion from the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight' was due to political manoeuvrings and differences in the 1930s when Henry Potter's beliefs did not fit with those of the Minister for Magic at that time. Therefore, it has been decreed that the Potters' rightful place amongst the Sacred Twenty-Eight should be invested, as should your great-grandfather's familial position on the Wizengamot, which now passes to you as the sole heir of the Potter family.
Harry rolled his eyes, Kingsley had been trying to persuade him to take an honouree place on the Wizengamot ever since he's argued for fairness at the Malfoys's trial. He said the Wizengamot needed people like Harry to police those who got carried away by the power of their position. So, now the cunning sod had managed it this way...
Our research has also uncovered that your ancestor, Ralston Potter (1589-1652), was a member of the old Wizarding aristocracy and was a titled peer. Your familial history does not show when this title was endowed as it seems your ancestors were non-plussed by their Dukedom, preferring to pursue a humbler existence. Our investigations have uncovered through your family's long-standing ties with Godric's Hollow and tracing the unaccounted peerage title of the local area, that you are rightfully addressed as Lord Harry James Potter, Duke of Beaumont.
Therefore, as of 00hrs, 31st July 2002, you will inherit both your hereditary title of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Potter and your position on the Wizengamot...
Harry's eyes nearly popped out of his head and he snapped his mouth shut. And, honestly, had the Ministry learnt nothing, he didn't care about this crap and he certainly didn't want it, thank you very much. Lord Harry Potter, he sneered to himself. It was fucking laughable!
Then he saw the name at the bottom of the letter and released a sharp snort of derision. He grabbed up an internal memo and scribbled: Ha. Ha. Parkinson. Good one! Have you nothing better to do with your time? H. Potter. And sent it flying off to the Department of Genealogy.
He leant under the desk and scratched Hercules's ear again.
An internal memo landed on his desk as he made his way through a pile of reports that had come to him from Robards.
To the Most High, Noble and Potent Prince His Grace Harry, Duke of Beaumont,
If you could spare me fifteen-minutes of your harried time, I would be more than willing to run through the formalities of our diligent research and legally hand to you receipt of your worthy titles in preparation for your forthcoming birthday.
Yours sincerely,
Pansy Parkinson
Assistant Researcher
Department of Genealogy
Harry rolled his eyes again. Honestly, was this some kind of petty revenge on the part of Pansy? Had she really spent the past four years plotting something so absurd and to what gain? Was she hoping that he would suddenly swan around the Ministry, lording it over everyone, only to be scorned upon when it was proven a prank? How fucking typically vindictive, he thought.
He scrawled another note, it simply said: Piss off, Parkinson. I'm too busy for your petty jokes. H.P.
And that was that.
Or so he thought.
Harry should have known that his life was never that simple.
He sighed again and tried to push aside any potential for a familiar bad mood evoked by Pansy and her stupid geneo-shit letter... Lord fucking Potter, he snorted to himself. As if!
He dismissed her letter as a hoax and flipped open the folder in front of him, the Rauliff case. He frowned and decided to allocate the case to Mara's team, they were better suited to what looked like it was going to be a straightforward thuggish case of intimidation and extortion.
There was a knock on his door. He had requested a meeting with Raquel to confront her about not completing her admin tasks. He sighed impatiently, distinctly not looking forward to another half-hour of lies and crocodile tears.
'Come in,' Harry called, not looking up as he flipped open the folder on the house fires and re-read the details. There was still the unanswered question of how Triple-F and his gang had gained the information on where many of these secret locations were.
He heard the door close and muttered 'just a mo...', his hand hovering mid-air to signify for Raquel not to interrupt, there was something there that caught his eye, just a footnote about links to Justin and the Sacred Twenty-Eight that made his brow furrow, surely he was Muggleborn? The detail was tantalisingly out of reach, it needed more research.
'Hmmm... maybe....' he muttered to himself and he circled the information in red using wandless magic. Merlin, he needed more time so he could look into these things properly.
His visitor cleared her throat softly and he looked up into a pair of brown eyes.
'Parkinson!' he said in surprise.
Bloody hell, she'd changed! She no longer wore her hair in a sharp bob, instead, it hung limply and shapelessly around her pale face. She looked too thin, harrowed by life, her eyes dull, her black trouser suit swamping her tiny frame, white blouse as starched and blank as the expression on face that was so unreadable. He didn't remember her being so small at school, he'd thought of her as more pug-like.
'Your Grace...'
He had to credit the woman, she kept a perfectly straight face, there wasn't even a twinkle in her eye. In fact, he decided Pansy looked slightly worried as she held a bundle of scrolls against her body, almost like a protective barrier.
He raised an eyebrow in query at her presence in his office.
'Er, birthday salutations and congratulations, your Grace...'
'Pansy, if you call me that one more time, I swear, I'll hex you through that door and straight back to the bloody sixth floor quicker than you've ever knocked back one of your infamous hangover potions. I told you, I haven't got time for this crap!'
She took a step back. 'It's not crap! It's my job. I can prove it to you...'
Harry was surprised. If anything, the woman looked scared.
'I have to prove it to you...' she muttered and he wondered if she was going to burst into tears.
'Merlin,' he muttered. 'Sit down, you look like you need a cup of tea.' He looked her up and down again, 'and some breakfast.' He pressed the intercom on his desk, 'Raquel, can you get me a coffee, usual, and a...'
Tea? he mouthed, trying to remember Pansy's preference from their school-days. He was fairly certain she'd always shared a pot of tea with Draco.
Pansy just nodded.
'...a tea, white, no sugar, and two Danish pastries, please. I'm going to delay our meeting; something has cropped up.'
'Yes, Mr Potter, certainly, sir.'
He rolled his eyes.
'What do you mean have to prove it to me?' he asked as Hercules wandered out from under his desk and sniffed at Pansy's legs.
She watched the large dog with wide eyes, slightly fearful, and didn't answer.
'Don't mind him,' Harry said. 'He's a big softy and just wants you to scratch behind his ears.'
Pansy was still clutching her paperwork, but she tentatively reached out and scratched the top of Hercules's head. Hercules put his head in her lap.
'Traitor!' Harry muttered.
'What!' Pansy hissed, recoiling from his words sharply.
'Hercules,' he said with a grin as Hercules gave him a reproachful look. He was puzzled though, by this timid, jumpy Pansy who needed to prove his ancestry to him and thought he'd just called her a traitor. 'Do I need Mione up here?' he asked.
'Why?' Again, that slightly fearful look.
'Shit, Pansy! What's going on? You look like someone's stuffed a Fanged Puffstein in your knickers before you came in here to talk to me.'
There was a knock on the door and Raquel busied in with two drinks and the pastries from the Costa around the corner from the Ministry. She fluttered her eyelashes at Harry and it made him want to gag when she bent over the desk towards him with her blouse buttons undone so much that she gave a clear view of her amble breasts. Harry turned away but not before he saw her give Pansy a clearly derisory look which was totally unacceptable and utterly inappropriate.
'Ask Ms Granger to pop in, would you,' he snapped. 'And then I don't want disturbing.'
He sighed and cleared away his paperwork on his desk, indicating to Pansy to put her paperwork down and help herself to her tea.
The intercom buzzed and Harry distinctly wanted to rip out the device and throw it across the office as Raquel's tinny voice buzzed through the speaker. 'Ms Granger's in a meeting with the Minister...'
'Well, leave a message then,' he said patronisingly, wanting her to use a bit of bloody common-sense.
'Yes, sir.'
He ground his teeth and looked up into Pansy brown eyes. He knew he was being silently studied but there was little clue as to which way the verdict was lying.
'You don't like her,' Pansy said quietly.
'They keep giving me incompetent harlots who want to rub their boobs in my face, did you notice the little display?'
She nodded.
'I just want someone efficient, who won't take any nonsense, and who doesn't want to sit on my cock every time they walk in here.' He tapped his coffee cup with a finger to bring the temperature down several degrees and took a sip of his coffee. He immediately grimaced, stopping short of spitting it back out. 'And who remembers I take my coffee black.' He wandlessly banished the cup and its contents and sighed. 'Go on, then, convince me this isn't a hoax.'
'It's not a hoax, your Gra...'
He raised an eyebrow.
'...Potter.' She finished hurriedly. 'At the age twenty-two, wizards inherit any familial titles, formal positions in the wizarding world, and any outstanding inheritance trusts...' Pansy grimaced slightly and Harry assumed that something had happened recently in her own life to make her react in such a way. He was intrigued.
He watched as Pansy carefully tore away a piece of the cinnamon roll, holding it delicately between her thumb and index finger before placing it in her mouth. Her eyes fluttered shut briefly.
His own pastry remained untouched; he was too confused by this very different and vulnerable Pansy.
She looked between the scrolls and her sticky fingers in despair.
'Just finish your pastry and point me in the direction of the right scroll,' he said, taking pity on the woman.
'The top one is a family tree, tracing your family history back to the twelfth century,' Pansy said as she meticulously pulled off another piece of cinnamon roll.
He unrolled and smoothed the scroll out across his desk.
'You did all this?'
'Yes, it's my job.'
Again, he noticed the sense of fear or perhaps insecurity. He looked at her, studying her, trying to understand. 'That must have been fun for you. It sounds like they're purposely torturing you down there to make you research an old enemy's family tree.'
'You're not my enemy, Harry,' Pansy said quietly. 'I was just scared and naïve...'
Harry looked at her quizzically. 'Do you enjoy your job, Pansy?' he asked, concerned. Gut instinct was dancing on his stomach and waving hideously loud alarm bells in his face.
'I enjoyed this, astonishingly,' she said with a small smile.
'Hmmm,' he said thoughtfully.
'Well, your family is actually quite interesting. I was surprised. Did you know that Linfred of Stinchcombe was credited with inventing Skele-gro and Pepperup Potion and your grandfather, Fleamont Potter invented "Sleekeazy's Hair Potion"?'
'Yes,' he said. 'Minerva filled in the gaps in my family history as I grew up and was able to understand.'
'You knew!' Pansy exclaimed; the surprise clear. 'You never...'
'Not mine to boast about,' he said, guessing what Pansy was referring to. It was true, because Minnie was his life, he felt no ties to the Potter name or claims on their past successes. It was too removed from who he was growing up. Besides, Minnie would never let something like that become material to boast about.
Pansy looked ashamed, 'We always underestimated you, Harry. We never gave you enough credit. I'm sorry...'
Harry smiled although Pansy didn't share his amusement. 'It was a long time ago now,' he said, with the distinct feeling that she had definitely moved on from those days. 'Do you enjoy research?' he asked.
'Sometimes it's rewarding, little details like finding out that it was from Linfred of Stinchcombe who you got your surname; he was known locally as 'The Potterer'. Theoretically, you should be Harry Stinchcombe.'
He wrinkled his nose. 'Glad I'm not...' For the first time since she'd had stepped in his office Pansy smiled and relaxed a little.
'Normally they give me the shit jobs, I think they thought this would be a dead-end, purely some political exercise for Minister Shacklebolt, or maybe it amused them that, as you astutely said, they could make me research you as some kind of punishment.'
He was taken aback by that word. 'Punishment?' he echoed.
'Don't be idealistic, Harry. Everyone knows about my painful pronouncement at school and we both know I've blotted my copy book with that. I'll never be allowed to live that moment down.'
'What else are they doing to you, down in the basements of this place, where no one can see?'
'What do you mean?' Pansy looked scared again.
'Hmmm,' he said, his gaze never leaving her face as the Auror training stepped in. She's suffering from anxiety, she's nervously fidgeting with Hercules, she's close to panic.
There was a knock on his door and Pansy visibly jumped.
Raquel pushed the door open.
'GET OUT!' he snapped.
'But Auror Potter, Madame Gide, the Head of the Department of Genealogy, is here, she's looking for Ms Parkinson.'
***