One week. In one week, Harry Potter had to make his decision. Harry was a lot of things: The Boy-Who-Lived, a twenty year old veteran, slayer of the Dark Lord, and Probationary Auror. As he slumped into a chair in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, the home he inherited upon the death of his godfather, he added another thing to the list: bloody tired. Not just in the physical sense, although he could definitely use some rest. He raised his eyes, without batting an eye when a rather old house elf appeared at his side, firewhisky in hand. "Thank you, Kreacher. You're a lifesaver," Harry commended him. Filling a rather elegant glass that Kreacher had brought with him, Harry pondered his decision.

One week is not a long time. Three years ago, Harry would have killed for this one week to be over. Now he wasn't so sure. He'd always wanted to be an Auror, and in a week, his probation was up. It would be then that he would make his choice: sign the contract and become an official Auror, or decline and seek a job elsewhere. In truth, he was well off and didn't really need a career, but he could only imagine how boring his life would be if he didn't decide on a career. He also suspected his parents would give him a thick ear when he reached the next great adventure if he didn't make something of his life.

He was well qualified for anything. Hogwarts may have been the greatest wizarding school in Europe for a very long time, but in the last few decades standards had been declining. It was this factor, plus the paranoia of his godfather, who had almost been sentenced to Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit, that had led to him being taught at home by the scholarly Remus Lupin, a good friend of his godfather.

This decision likely saved his life, as Remus Lupin was a very qualified man and, if not for the fact that he was a werewolf, would have been a teacher. Harry's education had started much earlier, and been much more pragmatic, than a Hogwarts education. With his diligent work ethic, Harry had been up to OWL standard by the time he was thirteen, and had taken his OWLs at the Ministry. Three years later, Harry had taken his NEWTS, and it was a good thing, as the Ministry had virtually collapsed shortly after.

Remus had focused Harry's education around things that would help him survive. As a result, Harry knew virtually nothing about Herbology, Divination, Care of Magical Creatures, and History of Magic, the latter one being much to Remus' consternation.

On the other hand, Harry excelled at what he needed. He was far beyond average in Defence, Charms, Transfiguration, and Arithmancy. He was skilled in Potions and Ancient Runes, and average in his other classes. Hogwarts opened at the age of eleven because puberty was typically when those with magical cores began to develop and grow, and therefore that is when it was prudent to begin magical lessons. Harry, however, had learned the theory of magic of the core classes beforehand. While most of the magical children were enjoying their last few years before Hogwarts, Harry had a strict study schedule— though Sirius, ever the Marauder, had insisted on some free fun time.

All of these factors led Harry to one conclusion: he could do pretty much anything that interested him. The problem was deciding what did interest him. With a sigh, he took a swill of firewhisky, at this point being used to the bitter burning of it. Sirius would be proud, Harry mused, his eyes now traveling over the far wall, viewing a portrait of Sirius, Remus, and him. He must have been about twelve in that picture. With a frown, Harry refilled his glass.

The picture of Sirius brought a memory to mind, though, and for once, Harry didn't curse his subconscious.

"So, Harry, you passed your OWLs," Sirius paused, shooting a glance at Remus. "What do you think you'll do? After the war, I mean."

This question caught Harry off guard. After learning his destiny, foretold by a literal prophecy, had been to kill a Dark Lord or be killed by him, he hadn't really considered the future. Harry frowned, "What do you want to do, Sirius?"

Sirius smiled, as if expecting the deflection, "I think I want to travel, Harry. The world is large, and beautiful. I'm young and handsome," he paused again to glare at Remus as the man tried to hastily silence his snigger, "Why waste this godly physique sitting in a boring office?"

With a wry smirk Harry countered, "Whatever you say, Sirius. Honestly though, I'm not sure what I want to do. I've not thought much besides for fighting Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Maybe I could be an Auror; that sounds fun."

"So you can be stuck in the office while I'm off having fun. Sounds fine to me, kid," Sirius teased.

"I must say, that is an admirable attitude, Harry. The Ministry and Auror Office could certainly use someone with your talents, especially once the war is over," Remus jumped in with the kind of pride that only a teacher felt.

Harry smiled. He may not have his mother or father, but he couldn't say he didn't have a family.

Harry's frown deepened. Sirius had been killed in the middle of the war and Remus had fallen at the Battle of Little Hangleton on his seventeenth birthday. The pain was still sharp, though Harry wasn't as much of a wreck as he was before.

Harry had been aimless after their deaths. After a year, he had decided to join up with the Aurors, and after the initial year in the Auror Academy, worked as a probationary Auror. He had been shadowing several different Senior Aurors from different departments and learning the trade.

Harry couldn't help but feel like going through all that training and then declining the job was a betrayal of everyone who had helped him get there. Sirius had worked tirelessly to find contacts in the Ministry to spread his name around, while Remus had upped the ante on his training and had researched and implemented a regimen not dissimilar to the Auror Academy one.

Was it wrong to be tired of fighting? Harry wasn't a natural-born killer, but he was a killer. The first time he had taken a life it had not been clean, and Harry was traumatized for a month afterwards. He had thereafter hardened himself, but he never lost his humanity as many people in that time had. There was always pain after he had been forced to kill. How many orphans had he created? He didn't know, and still the question sometimes haunted him at night.

No, Harry was done with bloodshed. He had killed the Dark Lord himself. He had seen the results of a Death Eater attack on Godric's Hollow, and it was there that he had found the corpse of his first and only girlfriend, barely recognizable. Harry had seen more action, pain, and misery than most of the Senior Aurors in the Office. He'd done his part.

Harry hadn't fought Voldemort because of some ambiguous, Macbeth styled prophecy. Remus had insisted he learn some classic muggle literature, and Macbeth had been one of Harry's favorites, at least in the irony of how similar to his own situation it was. Harry had fought because he believed, with every fibre of his being, that it was right; he fought because he wanted people to be able to leave their homes without fearing for their lives; he fought because he never wanted anyone else to grow up without their parents like he had.

As Harry decided that he wasn't going to be an Auror, he felt as if a massive weight had been removed from his shoulders. He had known all along that it wasn't right for him but he had just stubbornly refused it. His eyes glared accusingly at the picture of Sirius. The old dog's probably laughing at me.

With an eager swig of his firewhisky, Harry began brainstorming for a new career. That weight suddenly replaced itself, as he realized that he really didn't know anyone outside of the Auror Office or Ministry itself. He thought about some kind of Ministry career, but Harry had never been a square, and he suspected that if he did become one, he'd never hear the end of it from Sirius when he did pass on.

Harry tried to think of anything Sirius had mentioned about his plans after Hogwarts. Unfortunately, Sirius had simply joined the Order of the Phoenix, deciding that he didn't necessarily need a career when there was a war on. This had resulted in the war ending and Sirius not having any job, though he did have the Black fortune, so he never did need one. He'd spent the rest of his life looking after Harry and dying for him. As the familiar guilt rose within Harry, he did the typical thing: pushed it down and took another long drink from his glass.

A brilliant thought came to mind, despite — or perhaps because of — the pleasant buzz he was now feeling: Remus! Remus has been a scholarly man and had been an encyclopedia. He had informed Harry about many of the careers and ways of going about them. Remus himself had always wanted to be an educator, but he never got the opportunity as he was a werewolf and it would be impossible to hide that fact in a school. Harry knew he would be an awful teacher simply because he wasn't interested in it. Not unlike his godfather, Harry wanted adventure.

The only thing he had done besides for Auror training recently that was exciting was some Inter-Ministry Quidditch. He had found, much to his delight, that he was a talented Seeker and had quickly endeared himself to a few professional selectors. He'd declined all of the offers though: he had been firmly interested in duty and he didn't want the fame that came with being a professional Quidditch player. However, Harry found his priorities changing, and he knew that his fame probably couldn't grow any more than it already had— his name was in the Prophet all the time, often with unsavoury things. With the Quidditch season ending soon, teams may still be recruiting, so Harry decided to keep his options open on that.

He did have a hereditary seat on the Wizengamot as the Head of House Potter, but he knew that politics wasn't in it for him. He'd have to put an ad out in the Daily Prophet to hire someone to represent him sooner or later. This would give him a vote on the Wizengamot without actually having to attend sessions.

Deciding to take another approach, Harry thought about his talents. He was very skilled in Defence, Charms, Transfiguration and Arithmancy. Unfortunately, he was drawing blanks. Blaming the alcohol, he finished his drink and headed up to bed. He had a week to think about it.

Early the next morning, Harry Potter entered the Auror Office, hoping for a light day so he could continue his planning. Unfortunately, fate intervened, and as soon as he entered the office, Senior Auror Dance called him over. "Potter. Today you're with me, it's a good thing you got here, I was about to leave without you. We just got a tip about a few illegal potion ring's headquarters, we don't have time to dally. Are you ready?"

Harry stiffened. He'd been on a few raids such as this, and the dumb bastards usually never had a mite of common sense. It could, and often did, go tits up very easily. Nevertheless, Harry was technically an Auror, if not for much longer, "Yes, sir."

Dance nodded, "Good man. Senior Auror Scott will be with us. His shadow appears to be late. We have to go."

Harry groaned internally. John Dance was a dedicated Auror and had fought bravely in the war, but he was also very obsessive. He reminded him of a more tame Alastor Moody. It was a shame that Moody perished in the war. Moody had been responsible for some of Harry's combat training.

Harry had to practically sprint to keep up with Dance and Scott as they rushed through the Ministry to the Apparition point. As they reached it, however, Dance stopped, "Potter, this deal is going down in an old ramshackle barn near Ottery St. Catchpole. I want you to get to high ground. For all the cleverness these bastards have, they almost never look up."

Harry nodded again, allowing the fear to build up in him and sharpen his senses as Dance grabbed him and he was Side-Along Apparated to the barn. Using a silently casted Ascendio, Harry landed neatly on a rafter, eyes widening as it shook precariously. After waiting a moment to ensure it was stable, Harry disillusioned himself. The charm was so powerful he couldn't even see himself, which was not dissimilar to when he wore his Invisibility Cloak. From his vantage point he saw Auror Dance getting into position. Auror Scott left through the main entrance, intending to catch any who tried to run out of the front.

Looking around with a trained eye, Harry scanned the barn. It was cluttered with old muggle tools and some crates with a dirt floor. Before he could continue his perusal, he felt his protean charmed galleon heat up in his pocket. Withdrawing it, he saw small text on the other side, reading: In position, Wait for my signal.

Almost as soon as he'd read that, he heard several loud cracks as a group of individuals appeared. Three muscular men circled a thin, wiry man. The thin one pulled a small item out of his pocket and, with a tap of his wand, enlarged it. Harry recognized a potion crate with a grim acceptance. This was definitely an illegal trade-off, and Harry knew the protocol.

Another set of cracks sounded through the barn, and four more men appeared. Their leader was far taller and more muscular than the potions dealer. Harry's eyes widened in shock and, after a moment, eager fury. The leader was Walden Macnair, the final death eater left uncaptured. This followed by another twinge of fear. Why is the last remaining death eater buying some potions?

He tightened his grip on his wand, a grim smile settling over his face. After all this time, he felt that closure was upon them. "You know the deal, Macnair. You hand over the galleons, I make sure it's legitimate, and then I hand over the potions. Got it?" the potions dealer asserted, and Harry had to credit him for his bravery; Macnair was far more intimidating than the little man.

"Yeah, alright," Macnair confirmed reluctantly. As they were speaking, Harry felt the emergency Alarm charmed coin heat. It was clear that Dance or Scott had decided Macnair was enough to call in all available Aurors.

A deafening chorus of Apparition snaps sounded, and Harry knew the barn was surrounded. Just as well, he thought as he felt the Anti-Portkey and Anti-Apparition wards set. Scott's voice rang out, "Drop your wands and lay face down; the barn is surrounded."

Harry watched from his vantage point as every criminal in the barn attempted to Apparate. After realizing there was no hope, all hell broke loose. Macnair's band broke towards the back wall of the barn, and Macnair shot a Blasting Curse at the wall. Harry's quick reflexes allowed him to raise a shield over the wall, deflecting the Curse back at the Death Eater. At its deflected angle, however, it hit the floor behind him, throwing him and his lucky friends forward. The unlucky ones, two of them, had been too close and were torn apart by the force of the explosion. Macnair was strong, and his Curse had meant to tear down the wall.

Harry was horrified, but quick reflexes had been drilled into him during the War and in the Academy. He quickly shot off several stunners, incapacitating the discombobulated Macnair and his last accomplices. The rest of the Aurors had done good work on the Potioneer and his allies. Harry jumped from the rafter, using a Slowing Charm on himself to soften his fall. He surveyed the scene with a detached manner. Two of Macnair's allies where virtually unrecognizable, such was the force of the blasting curse. Blood and gore surrounded their remains. It was a gruesome sight, however, and Harry knew his subconscious would not let him forget it soon. Macnair had been thrown forward and had landed in an awkward angle while his last remaining ally had been flung into the far wall with immense force. Harry wasn't even sure he was alive, and he wasn't sure he wanted to find out.

Sounds slowly came back to him, and he heard shuffling around him as the Aurors started rounding up the arrested. He turned numbly as Auror Dance laughed, clapping him on the back. Harry wanted to say he could never understand how men like him could enjoy that, but he did. There's a power in battle, in the adrenaline flowing through your veins. A primordial beast within him was released every time he killed. It was a beast that delighted in the power it held over life and death itself. Harry shook his head in disgust and allowed the Senior Aurors to wrap up their business.

The last death eater had been caught, and Harry knew there would be much celebration. It was likely that Head Auror Robards would open up a tab at their local pub. An auspicious day; it was a shame that all Harry wanted to do was vomit.

Yet again he had been made to murder, to take another life. He wondered if it would ever end.

Harry's prediction had been right and, after much celebration at the Office, Robards opened up a tab at The Silver Hand, a local pub near the Ministry. Most everyone had cleared out, but Harry remained at his desk, staring at a sheet of paperwork he knew he'd have to get around to. He hated that he loved battle. The thrill of it sometimes consumed him. This recent one wasn't even a real battle, that he knew, but it was still enough to get his blood roaring. Seeing the blood and gore brought back memories he'd fought hard to suppress.

Before he could continue down that road, he heard a snapping. Startled, Harry looked up to see Head Auror Gawain Robards staring down at him with an understanding look. "You hate it, don't you, Potter?"

"Hate what, exactly, sir?" Harry queried, bemused.

"Fighting. I reckon you've seen enough of it in your lifetime, eh? Understandable, of course. Potter, I've been an Auror for a long time. I know what you're feeling, don't think I haven't felt it."

Harry was surprised. Robards was a very quiet man, though when he spoke everyone listened. For him to initiate a personal conversation was rare. It felt immensely good to have someone who understood him. "Sometimes I feel like I'm still in the bloody War, sir. I'm tired."

Robards nodded, "I figured you would be. Well, Potter, as I'm sure you well know, your probation ends in less than a week. Then you're free. Unfortunately, I didn't just come to sympathize. Minister Weasley is delighted with the capture of the last death eater, and is calling an immediate press conference. He wants you to do the opening briefing."

Harry couldn't stop himself from groaning. Minister Weasley was a good man and his family had been firmly on the side of the light. After the war, there was virtually no other surviving Department Head competent enough to become Minister for Magic, so Arthur Weasley had practically inherited the position. He had proven to be surprisingly skilled at the job, and had been a very progressive leader.

Robards chuckled, "Yeah, I know. I hate them too, but he wants you."

Harry stood angrily, "Yeah, because of my name. Hell, I could've just done a damned tap dance while the rest of the Aurors caught him and he'd still want me to do the briefing."

Robards chuckle had turned into a laugh and after a few seconds he spoke, "Now that I'd pay money to see. Anyways, the conference is in half an hour, Weasley wants to see you in his office in fifteen."

Harry just nodded.

Arthur Weasley was a very energetic man despite being the Minister of Magic. Harry had always assumed that the job sucked the life out of people. As he entered the surprisingly plain office, the Minister had eagerly jumped from his seat.

"Mr. Potter, it's wonderful to see you! Wonderful work today, you've finally closed the war. That dark chapter is finally behind us," Arthur was in serious danger of rambling.

Harry raised his hand modestly, "It was nothing, sir. The other Aurors did most of the work."

Arthur's smile widened, "Nonsense, Harry. Both your Team Leader and the Head Auror described your work today in glowing terms. I appreciate the modesty, but don't be afraid of taking credit where it's due. Oh, and please call me Arthur when we're not on official business. Anyways, son, are you ready to head to the briefing?"

Harry wished he had the man's energy, "Of course, Arthur," he lied.

Arthur grinned knowingly.

Ten minutes later, Arthur and Harry were in a small chamber behind the Wizengamot, listening to the proceedings. The Chief Warlock, Amos Diggory, was introducing Arthur.

"...And may I now welcome our Minister of Magic to give a few words. I'm sure we'd all like to know what this emergency briefing will be about."

Arthur nodded to Harry, "That's my cue. Be ready for when I call you."

Harry looked like a man heading to the gallows, but Arthur ignored it as he opened the door. Harry faintly heard polite clapping as the Minister began his introductions, but he ignored it. Harry decided his free time now would be best spent considering his career options.

Harry decided to think about what he wanted in terms of excitement and adventure. Did he want to travel, and if so, what kind of career would possibly provide that? Harry knew that professional Quidditch players traveled often, but he couldn't really think of many others. Magizoologists tended to travel a lot, but Harry had no experience there. He knew that curse breakers tended to travel all over the world as well, and that sounded extremely exciting. However, Harry wasn't certain that Gringotts would hire him after the events of the War.

Before he could think of an answer to his own question, he heard his name and silence, so he assumed it was his cue. He pushed the door open and walked into the chamber, immediately taking in the neat and orderly legislative body, many faces showing anticipation. As Harry approached the stage, he realized he had a problem: he had no idea how much the Minister had told them, and had no idea where to begin his speech.

Mercifully, the Minister seemed to expect this, and whispered in his ear as he passed him, "You get to make the announcement and explain the situation. Cheers."

Harry plastered on his cheerful Boy-Who-Lived face. This face had saved him an incredibly amount of awkwardness after the war. He had been expected to attend several Ministry events, and he was a practiced, if somewhat reluctant, hand at it.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the Wizengamot. Today at approximately one o'clock, myself and a team of Aurors were tipped off about an illegal potions deal. It is my pleasure to announce to you all that one of the captured individuals involved in this activity was Walden Macnair, the last remaining death eater to have evaded justice," Harry paused as a shocked silence enveloped the room. After a second or two, pandemonium broke loose. There were shouts of questions and massive applause. Harry also couldn't ignore the snapping of the magic cameras. He knew this would be in the papers with his name all over it.

After around ten seconds, he raised one hand to silence the room, "There were two fatalities and two injuries on their side, while no Ministry staff were hurt. I must confess, a massive weight has been lifted off my chest. The War is now over, and that dark chapter of our history is now closed," Harry paused to grin at Arthur. "I'm sure you all know how pleased I am at this result, and I am sure you all feel the same. Many thanks to everyone involved."

He lowered his hands and stepped back, allowing Arthur to step forward again. Harry simply zoned out as Arthur began to pontificate— no matter how normal the guy was, he was still a politician. It had to run in their blood or something.

He really did feel like a weight was lifted from his chest. The war was over.

Harry once again sat at the table at Grimmauld Place nursing a glass of red wine this time. Sirius had expanded his drinking tastes in his later years and Harry had the benefit of a full cellar of different drinks.

After the press conference, Arthur had invited him to the Ministry ball that would be held to celebrate true ending of the War. Harry didn't really want to go, but it was bound to be more fun than anything else he'd do this week, and Harry figured he'd get some free drinks while he was there. There were also bound to be many beautiful women around the place. Harry knew Sirius would be sorely disappointed in Harry's love life, or lack thereof.

Harry leaned back in his chair. He decided to accept Arthur on his offer to attend the ball. Harry despised these events, as reporters would try and crowd him, but he was tired of being alone. Ever since the war, Harry hadn't truly had human company. He had his fellow Aurors, of course, but they could never understand. They weren't there in the final days, most of them. The Aurors that had been had either died or retired. His curse, that of destiny, had burned him out.

He removed his wand from his pocket, placing it on the table in front of him. He studied the bumps and holes of the long, fifteen-inch wand, something he had done many times before. He was sick of destiny, sick of merely surviving.

There is a difference between living and surviving, he mused, and I want to live.

Author's Note:

Alright, so, I feel like I have a bit of explaining to do here. I said (on my bio) that I wouldn't start posting until I completed the story, but this is a bit of a different case here. I wanted a bit of interaction, because I've left a few paths open and drafted different plot structures based on what career path Harry goes down. For example, Professional Quidditch (which isn't a surprise, I was pretty blatant about that being one of the options.)

I have two further chapters completed for Quidditch Harry if I go down that route. Alternatively, I have a further chapter written for my second chosen career (which is more unique, and I did mention it, but you'd have to have read carefully.) Whichever one I don't point I will just reconfigure to be it's own story, as I do like both of those ideas.

Anyways, the reason I posted this is because I wanted to ask: If you like this chapter, what kind of career would you be interested in seeing Harry pursue? Auror is obviously off the books, though I may write an Auror Harry story later.

Regardless of what I pick, the chapters probably won't start coming out for a a week or two, as I completely intend to finish the story I decide to stick with before posting. That being said, I have a lot of free time on my hands now and can work several hours a day on my story.

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!