A ROUGH MORNING
◦ *˳༄ ❨ chapter i. ❩ ━━━━ February, 2003

◦ *˳ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ˳* ◦

    EVERY time someone peered into the Auror Office on the dull, gray Monday morning our story starts, it was to find the department unusually stagnant. Normally, the floor would be teeming with Aurors bustling about from one cubicle to another, discussing theories and barking orders; the fireplaces lining the far left side of the office would be flaring up frequently as the Aurors flew in and out of the Ministry, chasing down a runaway Death Eater, or else hurrying off to investigate a new crime scene or ten.

    Nearly five years had passed since the end of the Second Wizarding War, and the Aurors were still cleaning up after the devastation that had been unleashed upon their world by Lord Voldemort and his followers. And this fact in itself meant that there never was a moment of quiet within the famed Auror Office.

    And yet, the morning of February the 3rd had, surprisingly enough, dawned rather boring for a change. At least, it had been boring until —

    "POTTER!"

    The young man, snoozing over a pile over paperwork as he was, started, causing his elbow to knock over a cup of stale coffee. Swearing under his breath, he vanished the spilt coffee with a wave of his wand and glanced around. Confused green eyes met amused blue ones as a voice bellowed from the other end of the room, "IN HERE."

    The idle chatter buzzing around the Auror Office died almost instantaneously. Several heads poked around the gray cubicles that littered the office, curiosity thick in the air as the young Auror clambered to his feet. Annoyed, he thought the rest of them should've had something better to do — catching dark wizards or hunting down missing people, for instance — than gleaning amusement from the possibility of their fellow Auror being berated by the Head Auror.

    Perhaps the simpler explanation was that because the day had been so slow, everyone was now intrigued by something as ordinary as an Auror having evoked the wrath of the Head Auror, who was well known for his incendiary temper.

    Believing that, however, would be pure naivety.

    The man lounging in the cubicle nearby grinned even wider, if possible, and ran a hand through his red hair which clashed horrendously against the bright orange shirt he'd worn that morning. His blue eyes twinkled amusedly as he whispered, "Warned you, didn't I?"

    "Shut up," mumbled the dark haired wizard, or the Boy-Who-Lived as they still sometimes called him; or the One-Who-Vanquished-The-Dark-Lord, as the Daily Prophet preferred; or, as Ron sometimes referred to him, the Man-Who-Hated-Hyphenated-Titles. Harry was quite certain he disliked the notion of titles itself, hyphenated or not. But he especially hated them when they were meant for him.

    Harry grabbed his wand and stuffed it down his left sleeve. "This isn't funny."

    "No," agreed Ron Weasley, still grinning, "it's bloody hilarious."

    The man in the cubicle behind Harry's let out a loud snort.

    Harry scowled and threw a dirty look over his shoulder. Seamus Finnigan sniggered and returned to the files he was pretending to peruse.

    Running a hand through his hair, Harry began to make his way towards the far end of the office, where a set of double mahogany doors led to the corridor where the offices of the higher ups could be found.

    Several Aurors glanced up at him as he walked by, making little effort to hide curious looks and knowing smirks, some more gleeful than others. He ignored them all very pointedly.

    Harry bit down on his lip. He was almost certain he knew what this was all about. But even as he racked his brain for a suitable excuse, he knew the Head Auror would see right through him and his excuses. The old man was far too shrewd for his own good, according to Harry's in-no-way-biased opinion. Harry didn't think he'd been in the wrong, and the consequences of his actions fully supported this view, but when had that ever stopped the Head Auror or the other senior Aurors from reprimanding him?

    He was still mulling over his words when, all too soon, the dark wooden door of the Head Auror's office loomed into his view. With a sinking heart, Harry knocked sharply twice before pushing the door open.

    "Sir?" he said as he poked his head inside, "You asked to see me?"

    Gawain Robards, the Head Auror, was sitting behind his desk, looking much as he always did: grim and exhausted. Ron liked to suggest it was a sign that Robards was getting on in his years and would soon retire, though Harry doubted they'd ever see the blessed day anytime soon.

    Harry noted the black traveling cloak fastened over Robard's left shoulder, and he vaguely wondered where the Head Auror had been or was headed. But all such thoughts dissipated in an instant when he registered the rather murderous glint in Robard's pouchy eyes as they trained on Harry.

    "Come in, and shut the door behind you, Potter," said Robards, "And mind you do it properly. Don't leave it hanging halfway there."

    Harry turned and pushed the door until he heard a small click.

    As he approached him, Robards pointed to a seat — the more uncomfortable one, Harry noted glumly — and said, "Sit."

    Harry did as he was told and took in the sight of the Head Auror. Gawain Robards was a tall, bony faced man with deeply weather-beaten skin. The Irishman also had startlingly blue eyes that always reminded Harry, with an accompanying twitch in his chest, of a certain former Headmaster of Hogwarts.

    "Do you know why you're here?" asked Robards in a falsely calm voice.

    Harry bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying anything that would set off Robards' temper. Taking in a deep breath, he tentatively shook his head.

    Robards raised an eyebrow. "No?"

    Harry swallowed. "Something about what happened Tuesday?"

    "Something?"

    "The. . . misunderstanding between me and–"

    "Misunderstanding?" Robards interjected, still watching him with a steely expression and keeping his voice deceptively even.

    Harry gritted his teeth. "The fight between me and Auror Cresswell."

    "That," Robards snapped, "is correct."

    Harry sighed and slumped slightly in his chair. There was no way Robards was letting him off easy this time, not when he, Harry, had hexed a Senior Auror mid-mission.

    "What do you have to say for that absurd debacle?"

    What Harry wanted to say was that his actions — which included disagreeing vocally with his superior's tactics while on a mission to haul in an annoyingly evasive Death Eater, launching into a duel with said superior, Axel Cresswell, then promptly socking his opponent at the first chance he got (all in front of other Aurors who, according to Ron and Seamus, had placed hefty bets on the outcome long before the actual fight broke out) — were mostly justified. Had Cresswell had his way, their team of Aurors would either still be lying in wait outside the abandoned building the Death Eater had inhabited, or the aforementioned Death Eater would have given them the slip whilst they bickered over who went forward and who remained as backup.

    Harry had known then, just as he did now, that knocking out Cresswell was not a good idea. But at the time, during the raid two days ago, they were wasting time arguing formation tactics. This, at least, he, Ron, and a dozen other Aurors were agreed upon. So yes, he had punched his senior (Cresswell, sadly, was far better than Harry at dueling, and Harry was no idiot to try and beat Cresswell at his own game). The rest of that evening was a blur of darkness and adrenaline as the remaining Aurors devised a new, quicker strategy to invade the abandoned building in southern Sheffield. Harry had barely registered what was going on around him then, but he did clearly recall the moment the mission came to its abrupt, and successful, end.

    "It worked!" exclaimed Harry, his own temper starting to get the better of him now. "We caught Rowle, didn't we? The new plan worked! Rowle was alone in there, and he was already hurt from Savage's ambush last week. There was no way he was going to outrun so many Aurors. . . Cresswell was just being overcautious. And–"

    "Overcautious? Is safety of no concern to you at all?"

    "But no one was hurt! There wasn't any risk of us being injured anyway. I saw a chance, and I–"

    "And you decided to abandon all protocol on a whim? Knock out the Auror in charge? Potentially endanger the lives of your fellow Aurors? All because you and your pals came up with a stupid plan?"

    "That's not what–" began Harry, but Robards raised a hand to silence him.

    "Do you think you're above the law, Potter? That the normal rules don't apply to you when you're out in the field?"

    "No, but–"

    "Then listen to me very closely, boy," snarled Robards, his voice deep and low, and Harry fell silent in spite of the overwhelming urge to defend himself. "I don't care if you survived a killing curse or ten. You defeating a Dark Lord means nothing to me, not here, not when you're working under me. I don't care if your name's Harry bloody Potter or if you're celebrated by every magical person around Britain. You will follow my orders."

    Instinctively, Harry's free hand wrapped itself around his right, feeling the wiry scars there.

    A long moment passed, with both Aurors silently seething in their seats.

    Harry desperately wanted to set the record straight. He hadn't asked any of the others to follow him, Ron, Audrey, and Justin into the building. The other Aurors had done that of their own accord, so why was he, Harry, to take the entire blame? And as to why they'd done it. . .  well, Cresswell's strategy of lying in wait for Rowle to make the first move didn't settle well with most of them, if not all.

    But Harry said none of that. He knew better than to voice those opinions. What he did say instead was, "Of course. . . sir. I'll, uh, be more mindful–"

    "More?" Robards laughed mirthlessly, "You need to learn to be mindful in the first place, Potter."

    Harry bit down on the corner of his lips harder, and tasted metal on his tongue.

    "Fine. I'll be mindful next time," he intoned. "I won't. . . endanger the others, as you say. I'll follow the protocols set in place." He paused, then added for good measure, "And I'll do whatever Cresswell asks of me."

    "Is that right?" retorted Robards, a disbelieving lilt to his otherwise even tone.

    "Yes."

    "Well then, good luck with that, boy."

    "Thank you. I'll be off then, sir?" said Harry coolly, getting to his feet and hoping to put as much distance between himself and the Head Auror as possible. "A few more sightings of Macnair have been reported over the weekend. I'll just finish up the report from–"

    "There's no need for that, Potter. You're off the Macnair case," snapped Robards. He reached for a file on his desk and flung it blindly at Harry, who caught it with deft fingers. Robards pointed at the file and said, "You're responsible for that now."

    Harry gave Robards an inquisitive look before flipping through the case he'd been assigned.

    He soon realized what case Robards had unearthed for him, and his face fell.

    "You – you're not seriously putting me onto this. . ."

    "Think I'm a funny man, do you?" asked Robards, his nostrils flaring, "Here to jape and lift your spirits? Feed that bloody ego of yours? Thought I was going to give you a medal for your stupidity, huh? Just say a few words, warn you to not put a toe out of line, then send you off on your merry way? Not bloody likely."

    Harry stared at the Head Auror. When the man didn't so much as blink, Harry glanced at the file in his hand again. He read the reports once more, as if to make sure he hadn't misunderstood what was happening.

    He had not.

    "This is the Whitechapel case," Harry announced unnecessarily.

    Robards seem to think so too, for he raised a bushy brow and grunted, "I know."

    "It's been closed for years."

    "Two, yes."

    "It wasn't resolved."

    "Obviously not, seeing as I just assigned it to you."

    "Goshawk and Connie were in charge of this."

    "Why are you spewing facts about the case, boy?"

    "Why are you assigning me to this?" Harry asked bluntly, desperation flooding his voice despite his best efforts.

    "Why?" repeated Robards, his eyes flashing menacingly, "You seem intent on not following orders and jeopardizing missions, that's why. You can't seem to learn a lesson either, Potter, no matter what I do. Don't think I don't know that our little chit chat just now has had no influence on you whatsoever. So instead of breaking my head over you anymore — because God knows, if I've done it once, I've done it a thousand times. Besides, I happen to have other things, apart from your highness, that need my attention, you know? So I'm caving in and allowing you free reign. Do whatever you want, Potter. Break the rules. Piss off Cresswell. Be as creative as you wish out on the field, so long as you bring in the person behind those murders."

    Robards finished ranting and drew in a long, heaving breath, then he leaned back into his chair and watched Harry's dumbfounded expression with obvious glee.

    "There's nothing to go off of in this case. . ." Harry trailed off, shaking his head. "There's no leads, no clues, no witnesses, no evidence. Nothing. It's a dead end. What am I supposed to do? Wait until something turns up?"

    Robards was positively beaming at him now, and Harry could not remember ever seeing the man even smiling. "You're in luck now, aren't you Potter? Even when things go wrong and you get reprimanded for pulling off dumb stints like ignoring safety protocols and endangering the other Aurors, you still get lucky, don't you, Golden Boy?"

    Harry could feel his face burning, heat climbing down his neck now.

    Robards sighed deeply and let the faux smile slip away at long last. "There's been another murder in London. Diagon Alley, to be precise. Looks like the work of whoever's behind the Whitechapel murders. This time," Robards paused, and Harry thought that, perhaps due to the graveness of the situation, the usually impassive Head Auror almost looked worried now, "there may be a witness: a girl. She was found unconscious a few feet from the body. Connie Burton's with her in room 4. Go talk to the girl and see what you can get out of her."

    Harry stared at the older man. Surely, this was some elaborate joke?

    But Robards' stony expression suggested that it was no joke at all. In fact, Harry could hardly remember when he had last seen the Head Auror looking so solemn, almost pensive. Certainly not since the end of the Death Eater trials two years ago. The sight of Robards' obvious seriousness only fueled Harry's agitation.

    It filled him with equal parts rage and exasperation to even think that he was now expected to work on a case that was sure to lead nowhere. What did Robards hope to achieve with this? To have Harry plead forgiveness for his rash actions? Make him realize the error of his ways, or else his place in the Auror Office? Or was Robards, like old Proudfoot and Cresswell, simply taking the opportunity to provoke him? Harry knew the Head Auror would never stoop so low, yet thinking it did slightly appease his mounting temper.

    Eventually, once he'd managed to get his anger under (considerable) control, Harry managed to ask, "If that's all?"

    Robards stayed silent for a beat, then he nodded.

    Harry was swift to leave the room and was nearly at the door when Robards grunted, "And after that interview, go and ask around Diagon Alley to see if anyone saw anything out of place. Report back to me by 4."

    Harry glanced over his shoulder, one hand on the doorknob. "Will do."

    "Better take Weasley with you. His brother's got that place in Diagon Alley, doesn't he? Heard he's got a good reputation about him. People might be more willing to talk if you're with a Weasley."

    "Alright."

    "But don't go off galavanting around London for a pint or lunch, or whatever else it is lads your age do these days."

    Harry glowered at him.

    Robards fixed Harry with a sharp look, then pointed to the door. "Mind how you go, Potter."

    Harry was careful to not let the door shut completely behind him as he walked away and was certain the Head Auror could be heard calling him a few markedly distasteful names as he retreated down the hall.

✦

    "ARE you sure it's the Whitechapel case?" Ron repeated for what seemed like the hundredth time, "The Whitechapel case?"

    Harry scoffed. "Know of any other Whitechapel cases, do you?"

    Ron shook his head slowly and said nothing, but his sympathy lasted all of ten seconds before he guffawed.

    Harry spared Ron one irate look before turning back to the files before him. He was rifling through the previous reports and notes on the Whitechapel murders, all of them at least two years old by now. He was hoping to reacquaint himself with the case before stepping in to question the supposed witness. To his immense annoyance, however, all the records on the Whitechapel murders had been penned by Rowan Goshawk, a Senior Auror whose chicken scratch handwriting was making his head spin.

    And they say my handwriting is illegible, thought Harry bitterly as he pushed aside a missing persons report from four years ago.

    Nevertheless, from what he had managed to read so far, he gathered that the case he'd been handed referred to a series of disappearances, accidents, and deaths that had all occured in and around London's Whitechapel district. Many incidents included witches and wizards, but a few were about Muggles who'd died under mysterious circumstances or else seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

    It was all, Harry noted with a sinking feeling, speculation. There was nothing in these files to suggest that the disappearances and death were connected in any capacity; there was absolutely no proof, no evidence, not even a shoddy eye witness to imply something more sinister lay behind these occurrences. In fact, the only common connection that existed between the incidents was that they all remained unsolved and with no legitimate evidence or proof of anything.

    With a groan of frustration, Harry closed the files and pushed them aside. He ran a hand through his hair, attempted only half heartedly to make it seem less of a mess, then gave up.

    "Where are you off to?" inquired Ron as Harry got to his feet again.

    "Holding rooms."

    "Why?"

    Harry threw Ron a scathing look.

    Ron blinked back, utterly nonplussed. "What?" he asked lazily.

    Harry pulled on his coat and huffed, "There's apparently a witness for the Whitechapel cases. I have to go get her statement and all."

    "There's been another murder then?" breathed Ron, his eyes suddenly wide.

    "Dunno," said Harry, "Could be a missing persons case, for all I know."

    "Still, that's. . ." Ron exhaled sharply. "Blimey, mate."

    Harry shrugged.

    "We'll head down to Diagon Alley when I'm done with the interview?" he asked Ron, who nodded eagerly. When he'd first returned and told Ron all about his meeting with Robards, Ron had been far too ecstatic at the opportunity to leave the Ministry for a few hours, even if it meant trudging along with Harry and conducting preliminary interviews.

    "We can check out the Wheezes too! I've been wanting to go see those Combusting Capsules George's been rattling on about."

    "We're not going on a social call," said Harry, and he half meant it too.

    "Yeah, yeah," Ron waved a hand, "Want to stop by the Leaky Cauldron for lunch? It's Monday, so they'll have Shepherd's Pie on the menu! I can ask George to reserve a table for us. Reckon we won't have much time to wait in lines and all."

    "Sure," replied Harry, trying and failing at feeling better about the new turn of events. Even the prospect of a good lunch couldn't lift his spirits just now. "And can you let George know he can't bring powdered Skrewt shells into the country? They're a Class B substance and banned for commercial import. I checked with the International Magical Trading Standards Body yesterday."

    "Tell him yourself," yawned Ron, returning to the stack of paperwork resting on his own desk as Harry passed his cubicle, "'M not stupid enough to get involved in anything to do with George's shop. I want to live and see next week."

✧ ✦ ✧

A/N.
woohoo here's chapter 1 at long last!!
I'm kind of happy with it? I know it's just a bunch of conversation, but I think it works well to introduce the Whitechapel cases and show how Harry ends up on it. I didn't want to waste too much time setting things up, so we're jumping right into it.

To recap: basically, Harry acted rashly in one of his missions as an Auror (which, he definitely would have done during his first few years as an Auror), and so to seemingly reprimand him, the Head Auror assigns Harry to work on a bunch of mysterious cases, all of which originate in the Whitechapel district.

Thank you for reading this chapter of OCTOBER SKIES! Do leave a vote, and let me know what you thought of this chapter :)