Summary: "'If you were seen popping in and out of the Ministry from time to time, for instance, that would give the right impression,' said Scrimgeour. 'And of course, while you were there, you would have ample opportunity to speak to Gawain Robards, my successor as Head of the Auror office. Dolores Umbridge has told me that you cherish an ambition to become an Auror. Well, that could be arranged very easily….'"

Who is Gawain Robards? Rowling has offered no information about him beyond his name and profession. Here is documented his rite of passage. This is the story of a man who had lost hope in the world, in humanity, in himself, and his unexpected means of finding it again with some subtle, almost undetectable, help from the Boy Who Lived. Picks up the night following the Battle for Hogwarts in the Deathly Hallows, tracking Harry's recovery and unusual assimilation into the Auror ranks from a rather different point of view. Post-war canon.

Prologue

The woman absentmindedly pushed a lock of blond hair back from her eyes as she bent to slide the covered plate into the oven to keep warm. Her husband always said she didn't need to do this for him. That he could easily heat it for himself when he got home. But it was a habit of love, and so she would continue to do it.

She straightened from the oven, and her back protested. God, but everything hurt these days. Collecting the copper kettle from the atop the cooker, she made her way to the sink, turned on the tap, and looked out the window across the moors as it filled. The night was clear and the moon was near full; the frost coating the shrubs stretching out along the rugged terrain glowed like silver. It was a beautiful view. But it did not contain sight of her husband. Turning away, she placed the kettle on the hob and lit the burner.

An insistent little kick demanded her attention, and she stroked her belly lovingly. "Shush, little one. Your daddy will be home soon."

She hoped so, anyway. He had been working long hours, lately, her husband. She worried for him when he was away. Not that she would tell him that, of course. She knew he didn't want her worrying in her condition (such silly creatures men were). But there was nothing for it— worry she did. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Truth be told, she really had very little concept in her mind of what her husband did at work. Off he went every morning, often not returning until late in the night, utterly exhausted, sometimes with cuts and bruises. He would tell her of his day, of course. But she couldn't imagine it. Not really. But the general idea she gleaned was "danger."

And so she worried. She would never ask him to stop, mind. He loved his job. Loved the excitement and that every day was different. And he had purpose—he truly believed that what he did mattered. Who was she to begrudge him that?

She reached into a cabinet and pulled down a packet of ginger tea; it was the only thing that helped with the acid indigestion. Absentmindedly, she hummed a lullaby to the little baby who had yet to enter the world and yet was already so very loved.

The kettle whistled, and she turned off the hob, filling the waiting mug with boiling water. She leaned against the kitchen counter and closed her eyes. She held the cup of tea to her lips and blew on the surface to cool it, relishing in the warm and spicy smell of the ginger as it steeped. Still the hand stroked the bulge at her belly tenderly.

She wondered if her baby would have the powers her husband did. Magic. Such a strange and simple word for something so extraordinary. Her husband said she would be magical. That it was rare for a baby to be born to a magical parent not to possess magic.

Secretly, she hoped the baby would not. She hoped that if she did not, this would keep her safer. The world her husband lived in sounded dangerous and frightening and not at all one a mother would wish for her child. Another thought she would never tell her husband. He already spoke excitedly of teaching their child spells and to ride a flying broomstick. Right. Because that sounds like a safe activity for a child, she thought wryly.

A crack split the night air outside. It was a familiar sound that heralded her husband's return each night. She smiled to herself and relaxed the tension in her shoulders that she had not realised was there.

She went to the oven to pull out the supper that she had prepared for him and turned as the kitchen door creaked open, a contented smile on her face.

But it was not her husband who came in through the door. There was a clatter as the plate of food slipped from her fingers.

A note to the reader: It is currently 5 November, 2020, and I have just reawakened this story after several years on hiatus. I just finished my other story, A Lonely Path, and it seems to be time I return and complete Gawain's tale too. To begin, I'll be editing my initial chapters, and then I plan on seeing it through to the end.

I started conceptualising this story in 2008, shortly after the publication of The Deathly Hallows. "Whoa!" you might say. "That was a long time ago. What has taken you so long?" An excellent question, to which, I can only say with a shrug, "Real life?"

I mention this for two reasons. The first is to warn you that, when real life gets busy, I am slow to post and do not update as regularly as most would like. Like most, I have other more important responsibilities in life, and I cannot apologise for that. But if you have patience, I do assure you I intend to finish this story too.

The other reason I mention it is I would like you to be aware that, while I consider this story to be "canon," it may deviate from information that Rowling released in other forms after publication of the original series. I know there are a lot of other sources of information out there now, that were not available to me back when I first started writing this story. There may be fragments from Pottermore or from interviews with JKR, for example, that do not align with my plotline. But my main goal in this story is to offer a realistic continuation to the original seven Harry Potter books themselves.

This story was my first foray into the world of fan fiction. Prior to this, I had neither been a writer, nor a reader, of fan fiction at all. I still don't actually read much fan fiction. I am picky about the types of stories I like—I find I have to believe that the character would act in the way the author is saying they would, or I have a hard time getting into it. I enjoy imagining what-ifs and what-happens-nexts while reading. But it is a fine line between this and reading characterisations from what I consider perfect works of art get butchered. As such, I intentionally told this tale from the point of view of a character Rowling has told us next to nothing about in the hope that I can minimise any transgressions from the "truth" that is the original Harry Potter series.

My main goal in writing is to stay true to the characters that those before me have created with their far superior imaginations. I have only you, the reader, to tell me if I have succeeded in that respect. I very much hope that you will let me know if I seem to have missed the mark. Please feel free to drop me a line and tell me what you think or to correct any lapse in loyalty to the original books you may find.

Thanks for reading,
Baguette