Harry Potter had accomplished many things in his twenty-two years. He survived the killing curse, defeated Voldemort, reformed magical creature policies, became a top Auror, and weeded out several dozen corrupt Ministry officials. He had done a lot for the Wizarding World. So much, in fact, that wizards and witches began to depend on him. Every problem they encountered, they would call for him. Every. Single. One.

Wannabe dark lord? Ring up Harry Potter. Rebel forces attacking? Hey, Harry's on speed dial; he'll help! Cat stuck in a tree? Harry-bloody-Potter at your service. It was filling up his entire timetable. His schedule currently looked something like this: Wake up. Get called down to the Ministry. Eat breakfast. Receive SOS call from Aurors. Head over to Hermione and Ron's place. Run from mob of fans. Get called down to the ministry. And so on. It was getting so very annoying. He even had a bleeding modified cell phone so people could contact him. And speak of the devil, the phone began to ring.

He rolled his eyes and flipped it open, "What, what is it this time?"

"Mr. Harry Potter sir, there seems to be some possibly dangerous material in the Department of Mysteries left over from the battle during your 5th year."

It was slightly disturbing that his first thought was, "Which battle?"

"We need your delicate handling and expertise to remove it," the person continued.

"Call the janitors," he shot back. "You should have cleaned it up ages ago! It's been 7 years!"

Slightly embarrassed, the voice admitted, "We never got around to it."

He briefly wondered why the Ministry would overlook something so important and reminded himself that to do otherwise would require actual work.

"Oh, alright," Harry said crossly and hung up.

Melinda Timorous was a very nervous witch, Harry soon discovered. She had a habit of mumbling to his shoes and fidgeting with her robes. Melinda also stuttered so much that her words were practically indecipherable. Luckily, Harry was adept at speaking with these kinds of people. Even after all those years, the Boy-Who-Lived propaganda never really wore off. He repeated in monotone again, "You called me up at six in the morning to clean up sand. Without using magic."

Melinda flushed beet-red and started tugging on her mousy brown bangs, "Y-yes. Sand from T-time Turners is highly h-hazardous. Magic of any k-kind can set it off."

Harry acquiesced reluctantly and grabbed a mop. He mopped furiously, his knuckles white on the handle. All the while, he muttered blasphemous comments under his breath such as, "I knew the Ministry needed me to clean up their messes, but this is ridiculous!" He was surrounded by powdery sand that stretched as far as he could see. Yellow tapes cheerfully declared "Caution. Clean-up in Process." Melinda wisely stayed well behind them.

There went his plans to meet with Ron and Hermione. Third time this month he had to blow them off, nothing new. He paused in his mopping for a breather. Then he felt it. A tickle in his nose. Oh no. Harry tried desperately to suppress it. Not now, not here! But there was no use denying it.

Crap.

"Aaaaachoo!"

Harry sneezed, the sound echoing in the large room. There was a pregnant pause, like the calm before the storm. The moment broke, and all the sand swirled into a huge cloud - with him in the center. It coalesced into a vortex and sucked him in with a small "pop." Before the darknes took him, Harry briefly thought nostalgically of Voldemort. Maniac was probably laughing his arse off from hell. "Ha ha Harry," he imagined him saying. "I died in a super-cool, ultra-dramatic battle to the death. You *snicker* died from cleaning."

Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, Savior of the Wizarding World. Done in by cleaning. Daily Prophet was going to have a field day with this.

Decided to put this up; it was sitting in Document Manager for too long. Reviews make the world go round. And writers writing faster. Even a smiley face would help!

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