Scratch! Scratch!
…..and Perseus Millon was waiting for...uh no wait! Scratch that out - he really wasn’t waiting, he…
The long, black eagle feather quill scratched another line, and then finally the piece of parchment, battered and worn out with incessant scratching, lay crumpled up in a corner of his desk. Automatically, another fresh one took up its place.
“Quick Quotes Quill,” he chuckled. Rita Skeeter could probably have written an entire book on him if she could only have seen that he was using one of her favorite stationery items for official work. He was half-sure something about spicing up government records would hit the bookstores this fall. Still, for tedious tasks like the present one, the Quick Quotes Quill was quite handy.
He ran his fingers through his untidy mop of black hair, already ruffled from incessantly running his fingers through it for the past five hours.
The old-fashioned clock on the rear wall chimed loudly as if to remind the occupant that it was time for any normal person, as abnormal a person though he was, to go home. He looked up wearily at the time and sighed. It was past two o’clock and once again, he realized that he was the only Alpha-level employee working this late. All other “Alphies,” as they had been nicknamed, were long since gone. Rubbing his emerald green eyes, he slowly began to pack up his things to go home.
Home. It was incredible how the word filled him with such loneliness and foreboding now when it had originally been his heart’s most coveted desire—a warm and loving place to call his own.
Home was an idea that he had cherished since he had been a young boy. Of course, then the thought of having a place to really call home had been something close to miracle. Still, he had believed that someday he would have a life that could be counted as normal, a life he could live happily and peacefully. Little did he know, it was not meant to be.
His life had been like none other. Though no one would volunteer to live like him, there had been many who had wanted to wrest this life from him, in order to enjoy the glory they had assumed was his. He was, if current circumstances were taken into account, meant to live his life like a recluse. In fact, if he was being honest, he probably shouldn’t have lived past seventeen. However, miraculously, he had, but it meant living with the burden of his cursed life forever.
Shaking his head, Harry got up and made his way through the door of his office to the Atrium. Even though he had been working there for three years, he was still quite awed by its vastness.
Harry vividly remembered when he had set foot in this place for the first time. He had been scared stiff then, and, though an entire age seemed to have passed since that time, he still felt a little lost and apprehensive whenever he stepped into the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic.
As he stood there mulling over the past, Harry failed to see a tall and muscular blond coming his way. The man moved with a steady, yet stooping gait. He had, after all, a wooden right leg in place of the original one, a souvenir from the historical fight with the Death Eaters on a perilous night, ten years ago.
To the wizarding world, his name would have still been feared and hated, if Harry Potter had not proved himself to be the Messiah of them all. For this, Aaron Dolohov was indebted to Harry forever.
Even after all these years, Aaron had never stopped believing in him. Over the years, he had become a friend, and then, gradually, his only confidante. Nevertheless, sometimes Aaron wished that he could have been a real friend to Harry, like Ronald Weasley or her.
The way Aaron saw it, Harry needed someone who could bring back a smile to his lips, a skip in his step, someone who was capable of easing the agony in his heart.
To the world, Harry Potter seemed to be the perfect symbol of equanimity. Brave and intelligent, he seemed born for shouldering the mantle of a leader, but Aaron knew better. The man was simply not interested in power. He had never sought it, and to date, Harry had shied away, albeit subtly, from anything that had even the remotest connection to supremacy.
So now, as Aaron limped toward him, he found the man still as beleaguered as ever, still hurting from the aftermath of the great battle at Hogwarts. What was ironic was that he, Aaron Dolohov, had a happy and content life. It was as content a life as the son of a Death Eater could possibly hope to have. In these tolerant times, even he had a respectable job and a reputation to be proud of. However, Harry, who was entitled to the better half of it all, had only loneliness to keep him company.
Aaron knew that what Harry really needed was acceptance. The only person capable of making him realize this, however, was very far away. Because he, Harry, had not wanted her life enshrouded by his ominous presence, they had parted ways forever, through an unspoken agreement.
And now, as Aaron watched his savior, he comprehended that unless Harry and Hermione resolved their differences, Harry could never be at peace with himself.
Just as he was preparing to speak, Harry turned around suddenly, and Aaron saw the face of a young man that harbored the spirit of one who had died a thousand deaths.
“Hello Aaron. I wasn’t aware that you were on night-shift, too.”
“Shouldn’t that be my line, Mr. Potter?”
“Ah, well, I’m not. I’m just so caught up in the Transylvanian project, I…” Harry broke off at the withering look from Aaron. “Are you referring to yesterday’s party? Look, I…” Harry’s voice trailed off.
“...completely forgot that it was my birthday, and that Gwen was planning on a surprise party for me,” finished Aaron with a trace of exasperation in his voice.
“Yeah, well,” Harry grinned sheepishly. “At least she sent me my birthday cake, and let me tell you, it was brilliant. Thank her again from me, will you?”
“Hmm, will do. So, how’s the Transylvanian project coming along? Got it all lined up?”
“I think we went through all that trouble for nothing. This Count Millon is not exactly a you-know-what. The man was just pretending to be one. Turned out to be a hideout for all of the stolen Cherubim Glasses.”
“Oh, my! You mean to tell me that this Count what’s-his-name was just pretending to be a Vampire Malignant and that he was, in fact, trying to cheat people using those Cherubs?”
Harry nodded in agreement. “We ended up looking like Umbridge’s minions there.”
“But Cherubs are under the Class A banned object category. I thought Jeremiah Pent had them destroyed permanently.”
“Well, yes, Aaron. I guess this place escaped his purge. Anyway, that’s hardly the point. It’s all taken care of now. What I think is weird is -”
“ - how the cherubs got to Transylvania in the first place when all channels of locomotion were being watched by the Ministry?” finished Aaron.
“Aaron, are you using Legilimency?” asked Harry.
“I wish I could, Harry, but I know how much you hate it. Anyway,” he added in a graver tone, “what do you think could be the real reason for all this? Do you think that it is just to deflect Ministry officials from unearthing something more malevolent?”
“You know, I was thinking along the same lines too,” said Harry. “Count Millon could just be a puppet meant for distracting the Ministry so that the real thing could be accomplished without any hindrance.”
“Oh, yes! I know now what kept you so distracted that you forgot your own birthday,” snickered Aaron.
“Come on! I just missed one party. There will be plenty more to come. This isn’t the end, is it?
“You would never admit it even if I told you it were, Harry,” said Aaron. “But you and I both know that she is the only one you need right now.”
A shadow came over Harry’s face as he realized whom Aaron was referring to. Although he would rather fight a dragon than admit it, he knew that somewhere deep down, he probably felt it, too. It was just that he could never cope with the idea of disappointing Hermione Granger.
It was unavoidable; he knew he was simply going to hurt her if he saw her again. Hence, it was better that he lived his life alone.
He would be haunted forever by the souls of those who willingly gave up their lives for him. The shadows of the dead would follow him to his grave. He deserved that and according to him, it was the least he could do to honor their sacrifice.