As the wizard in charge of hiring explained when Harry tried to turn in his application, Harry would be a target, his partners would be targets, the whole ministry would be a target…like it wasn't already.
And if he got injured in the line of duty, it would explode across the media, and the department didn't need that sort of press. George offered him a spot at the shop, doing anything he wanted, but Harry refused.
I told everyone he'd turned hermit because of the masses of women that went into heat when he entered a bar, but it wasn't true.
Well, they —the wizarding world's "current issues" magazine, as I had to explain to Harry—featured this bloody awful picture of Hermione and me clawing through the rubble and uncovering Harry's hand.
Guess that's what happens when you grow up on a movie set with a bunch of other kids.
And Rupert Grint's going to have a lot of projects for his magical friends to support this year.
I turned in my broom too, until Harry whirled right back around, grabbed the broom out of the team manager's hands and told me that if I quit because of him, he'd move out.
We recognized it from the faint scars that still read, "I must not tell lies," and Hermione clasped it and cried while I frantically unburied the rest of him.
The photo still gets circulated now and again as a symbol for whatever spin the media wants to discuss at the moment and every time it makes mum burst into tears. I can deal with it okay…except for the one time nobody will let me forget when I tore up every one of those damn magazines at a newsstand in Diagon Alley, ignoring the cries of the squat bloke who worked there. George was there; he should have stopped me instead of pointing out that second batch.
So he couldn't get a job and therefore had no coworkers to spend time with during the day.
Our friends, though, have jobs and went out and dated.
After Harry recovered from that, he was hit with the Cruciatus five times and nicked with other nasty curses thirteen.